“The Runethane listened to your concerns—our concerns,” says Cathez. “Be assured that he has considered them.”

“What did he say?” someone yells.

"He says that he understands why many of you are so apprehensive."

Cathez pauses.

"However, the forging is to go ahead as ordered. There are to be no more delays."

"He's happy for half the fort to get blinded then?" shouts Lothan.

"You know that is an exaggeration," says Cathez. "He does acknowledge there may be some casualties."

"There have been five serious burns already, and one dwarf has been blinded. Those numbers will increase five-fold if this continues. Does he consider that acceptable?"

"He does.”

Outrage ensues. The hall erupts into shouting and jostling as more than a hundred armored dwarves crowd forward brandishing their weapons. Cathez stands still in the face of them, even when the angriest make it to within a few feet.

Not every dwarf is crowding forward, though. I glance back and see that several dozen remain in place with expressions of disapproval writ clear on their faces.

Lothan’s friends pull him to his feet and shove him forward to the front of the angry crowd. I cannot see clearly, but I get a vague impression from my runic ears and also my gut that now his face is mere inches from Cathez’s.

“How could he find that acceptable!” he shouts. “How?”

“Our vigil against the darkness has always resulted in death and injury. This is a continuation of that, no more and no less.”

“Is that what you truly believe? Is it?”

“It does not matter what I believe. It is the Runethane’s decision and it is final.”

“It will do terrible harm to the fort. Does he not realize this? Junior runeknights become seniors when those seniors fall—without them the fort will have no protection!”

“He acknowledges the risk.”

“Why does he not see his own foolishness?”

“Calm yourself, Lothan! You know better than to call your Runethane a fool.”

“If he acts a fool then he is one, and I will call him so.”

“He has calculations beyond what you are privy to.”

“Beyond what we are privy to?”

“What calculations?” someone shouts.

“Tell us!”

Lothan limps another inch closer to Cathez. “Is the rumor true, then?” he growls.

“There are many rumors spreading around the fort,” says Cathez. “Which one?”

“Don’t play coy, commander! You know which one. The one that says we’re all to go marching down the Shaft two by two to our deaths!”

Cathez pauses. The jostling and shouting of the crowd stills.

“Well?” Lothan demands.

“Commander Hraroth and I have discussed the prospect of an expedition with the Runethane, yes.”

More outrage; the crowd shoves forward. I force myself through to try and get a better look. I see Lothan collide with Cathez, slip and fall. Cathez batters back the runeknights surging past Lothan.

“Silence!” he yells. “You are soldiers and you will have discipline!”

The crowd’s advance slows but does not halt. Two of Lothan’s friends haul him back to his feet and pull him toward Cathez once more.

“You have discussed this new madness, have you?” he spits. “So the rumor is true?”

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“We have discussed the possibility, that is all. No decision has been made yet.”

“And which way do you think the Runethane will decide?” one of Lothan’s friends asks.

“I could not say.”

“And in which direction do you lean?” asks Lothan.

“Personally I think such an expedition would be a great risk.”

“A great risk? One that is too great, or perhaps one that is worth it no matter the cost?”

Cathez folds his arms. “I presume that you are against such an expedition.”

“What do you fucking think?” spits Lothan.

“Then I will make your opinion known to the Runethane.” He steps back. “And all of you?”

The loudest shouting yet breaks out. I cannot understand a single word, but can still tell what they’re saying. I add my own voice to the clamor:

“Against! Against!”

Cathez holds up his hand for silence and slowly the shouting calms.

“Very well,” he says. “I shall make your opinions known to the Runethane.”

“But you make no guarantees, I suppose,” Lothan says acidly.

“I’m afraid I cannot. Now, all of you: I suggest you get to forging your weapons of light. I recommend that you improve your runic ears if you can first; the Runethane would see nothing wrong with that. However, that is the only craft you should make before you create your weapon. The decree is that everyone must have a weapon of light ready to wield, and while you do not have one, it is my duty to inform you that you are in violation of that decree.”

His expression softens somewhat. “Good luck.”

He turns and leaves. Glowers follow him; in my opinion this is not entirely fair. He has a terrible job, caught between the Runethane and the runeknights. He’s trying to keep both happy as best he can, but that seems to be impossible.

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The toll is proving to be a cruel one. Over the next several weeks a couple dozen dwarves end up with injuries severe enough to warrant a stay in the infirmary. Most get burns to the hands; several end up with flesh blackened right down to the finger bones. A couple have their hands rendered entirely useless.

A few end up with burns to their chests, face, shoulders and upper legs when too much almergris liquifies their crafts and splashes molten titanium or steel all over them. I’m surprised at the ferocity of the stuff when I hear these stories—it never got so bad when I used it—it really does seem that the almergris can sense weakness, and increases its violence accordingly.

Three more are blinded: two fully in both eyes and one partly in one eye, fully in the other. They make the same mistake as the first victim of the almergris: they take off their blindfolds to see why the reagent isn’t lighting.

There is one death: an eighth degree runeknight makes the same mistake I almost did and places his enruned craft in the furnace for heat-treating. Except for him there isn’t just a flash—the entire mass of steel blasts itself apart.

A splinter of steel all but bisects his head.

Most have now finished their crafts, however there’s still a few lower degrees who can’t quite manage to make their runes light up properly. They try again and again, yet mess up the rhyme and rhythm of their poems, or make mistakes in the runes themselves—only minor ones, but runes of light are sensitive to such errors.

There are two other runeknights who haven’t finished yet either: Galar and Fjalar.

The latter has healed from his injuries, devastating though they were, and despite the fact that the others so grievously injured by the white jelly are still barely able to limp. Now he forges in a pit at the opposite side of the hall to his brother. One time I wander by it and glance in to see what he’s doing, but unlike his brother’s craft, it doesn’t look to be anything out of the ordinary. Just a mace, slightly smaller than average.

As for Galar, he informs me that his trident is nearly done. He’s too excited to talk much, however, so I don’t get anything interesting out of him.

I spend a lot of time trying to piece together the remains of the glass craft we found in Galar’s room. So far I haven’t been able to make much progress, even with Nthazes helping me. All we can tell is that it was meant to store liquid taken from another place. Highly suspicious, yet it could also be a coincidence. There’s nothing to suggest the liquid was meant to be blood, and no runes suggesting that the liquid was meant to be condensed somehow either.

Such a small vial could not fit all the blood from even one arm of one dwarf, let along every milliliter of fluid from five.

----------------------------------------

After one more blinding and four more serious burns, every dwarf in the fort finally has their weapon of light. I’m in the meal hall, picking through my food, when I hear that it’s time to present our weapons to one of the first degrees. Nthazes is in here with me, and I ask him what to expect:

“There’s no need to be worried. Even if it’s the Runethane, he judges fairly. Harshly, but fairly. After all, we can’t have inferior weapons down in the Shaft when the darkness boils up.”

“I won’t get thrown down a degree if he thinks it unworthy?”

Nthazes scratches his head. “I don’t think that’s possible, though I suppose you are a special case. You say you’re fifth degree, and your weapons and armor certainly seem that level to me, but you didn't bring down any certificate or anything to prove that.”

“No. The situation was... Complicated.”

“Yes, well, maybe if the Runethane or Commander Hraroth is in a bad mood they’ll decide to make you a degree lower than fifth. But I doubt that’ll happen. Unless your craft is a real mess. Is it?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you sure? You don’t seem so proud of it. I wish you’d show me.”

“It’s just... Strange. Shocking.”

He frowns. “Yes, you said that, but in what way?”

“I can’t explain easily.”

If there’s one dwarf in the fort that I should show my weapon to, it’s Nthazes, yet I somehow can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe I’m worried he’ll think me a liar if I tell him about my strange abilities. Or maybe I’m worried that I won’t have the courage to tell him of my abilities, make up some excuse, and end up becoming a liar myself.

“Hmm. Well, all right then.” His expression darkens. “I’ll be seeing it anyway, if the Runethane has his way with the expedition.”

“Do you really think we’ll be going down?” I say nervously.

He lowers his voice to the slightest of whispers: “Unless we can find the killer before he makes his decision, yes.”