The mood of the fort becomes very strange. Worry about the killer remains—dwarves still talk in whispers about who or what it might be—and they also speculate about if we're really going to end up heading down the Shaft that was dug too deep long ago. Yet there’s also an undercurrent of elation: we will have new runes to make our weapons better and brighter, and despite the terrible toll retrieving and forging with the almergris has wrought, every dwarf now has a weapon against the darkness.
Not that I have very much time to sit around reading the moods of my fellow runeknights. I’m too busy carrying out the Runethane’s orders: writing my runic dictionary.
It’s not a difficult task, really. All I have to do is cross reference the runes on my mace with those on the tablets, make a note of every one that’s different, and shape them like I would any other rune. Then I painstakingly write down everything I understand about each one.
This last part has a strange feeling to it. It’s like I’m remembering something I learned long ago, so long ago that I’ve forgotten where I learned it from. I’ve had this feeling before down here, about regular runes, yet this time it’s more intense, as if the memories are not from a mere ten years ago, but many hundreds, or thousands, or even more.
It’s a disturbing feeling: one that makes me wonder where exactly this ability comes from. Are these truly new runes, or simply forgotten ones?
The more immediate problem is the length of my runic dictionary. I told the Runethane I knew several more scripts of light runes, so he’ll be expecting hundreds. Trouble is, less than a hundred of the runes on my mace of light—which I still haven’t chosen a name for—are original. So am I to make up more? How? Write another poem is the obvious answer, yet to make sure they are all correct I will have to apply it to another craft, which means working with more almergris, which I really do not want to do.
It would also take up time and energy I want to spend on figuring out who the killer is.
Fjalar and Galar. Neither, which, or both? And why this sudden change in behavior? Does it hold the key to the mystery?
For many, many years—perhaps more than a century—the twins have kept their position low. They’ve been avoiding responsibility, all so they could focus on their experiments.
Maybe their experiments have come to fruition. That glass—they discovered something with it. Some key that sent them onto the final stage of their plan—but what plan? Why are they killing, if they are the killers, or one is?
It’s too hot to think properly down here in the forging pit, so I lay down the wires I’ve been twisting into shape and walk up the steps to sit at the edge. I rub my temples to try and get the gears of my mind turning properly.
To start, what could blood get a dwarf? Nutrition and healing is one possibility. That’s how bats live, after all, and they’re closer in form to dwarves than, say, salamanders or dragons are. Yet I can’t understand how the killer could take in an entire dwarf’s worth of blood—which according to Jaemes comes to nearly a gallon.
So healing seems to be out—though that would have the unfortunate effect of demolishing my idea that Fjalar is the killer because he needed to drink blood to heal his wounds.
What else could blood be useful for? Forging is one possibility I dismissed before, since blood is widely considered to be not great for quenching, iron-extraction, or anything else, yet maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to count it out. Galar is clearly a prodigy when it comes to runework. If anyone can figure out how to employ something as seemingly devoid of potential as blood in their crafts, it’s him.
His trident didn't seem to utilize blood though. Just runes of light very cleverly arranged.
I rub my temples harder, in tight and slightly painful circular motions. What other clues am I forgetting? How about Fjalar’s ruby amulet? Could the blood have been stored in there? Surely that would be impossible—though there are runes that can shrink and condense things.
But then again, to what purpose?
How about those containers we found under Galar’s bed? They were red inside and smelled like blood, so whatever Nthazes says I still think there’s a very high chance they once contained the stuff. Even if the killer turns out to be neither Fjalar nor Galar, he must still be hiding the blood in the fort somewhere, and some kind of metal cylinder like the ones we found would certainly do the job well enough.
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And then how does he use it? I’m back to the crucial question: why blood? Why dwarven blood, especially? Surely animal blood would work fine for a few preliminary experiments.
Unless those have already been carried out. How could I discover whether or not that’s the case? The chamberlain keeps the records of the fort’s imports: I could ask him, though I doubt he’ll tell me. Or maybe I could gain access to them some other way, through stealth or guile. Volunteer to be his assistant—if I get closer to the Runethane by impressing him with these new runes, that could be a possibility.
It’s one possible next step for our investigation. I just wish it would progress faster, for I’m sure the next killing will happen sooner rather than later.
The very moment this thought crosses my exhausted mind, a deep chime rings out. It’s just like the one that announced the first killing—except with my improved runic ears equipped, I understand that it doesn’t just sound of metal on metal, but contains deep notes of sorrow and fear.
I listen for another chime. If one more comes, it’s not a killing, but the darkness roiling up.
None comes. Other dwarves begin to climb out their forging pits, eyes wide with worry. The question on our minds: who is it this time?
A few minutes later, a small group of senior runeknights crashes into the forging hall. Their leader shouts loudly:
“To the Runethane’s hall! There’s been another killing!”
“Who?” someone shouts.
“Kelthok and Ntharek. Killed in their beds in the infirmary!”
Cries of dismay echo.
“Another thing: the human has been arrested! Now get in formation and hurry down!”
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We’re hurrying down the halls, their stone illuminated in blinding white from our weapons, which are uncovered in defense against the shadow. My skin feels cold all over.
Jaemes, arrested? Surely he can’t be the killer. Can he? No, no. I shake my head violently: that’s impossible. He’s helped us so much, and he is no dwarf, and no human magician either, just a scholar—a bookworm, not a murderer.
Was he just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? If the murders were done in the infirmary, and he’d just recently been in there looking over the sick, I can see why he might jump to the top of the list of suspects.
But that doesn’t make sense either: the Runethane is adamant that the killings are caused by the darkness, not anything corporeal. Unless it wasn’t the Runethane that ordered his arrest. Perhaps no one ordered it, and he’s just been set upon and beaten bloody by some desperate group of runeknights.
I won’t know until we’re in the hall. We make another turn and the high doors gleam before us. The chamberlain, his face grim and gray even in the blinding illumination, opens them and we hurry into the dark hall.
“Form ranks!”
Cathez’s voice. We obey, lining up as we always do by degree. I shut my eyes fully—there’s no use squinting and straining when I can get a better picture of what’s going on with my runic ears.
I can hear the shape of Jaemes standing in front of the Runethane’s throne. He’s not beaten or in shackles, but standing tall and defiant. Beside the throne are two long lumps that must be the covered bodies of the deceased.
The Runethane’s voice booms out:
“Cathez, is everyone here? Every last one?”
“Hraroth is still coming up with the last of those who were on duty.”
“We shall wait for them.”
Mutters run through our ranks. Everyone is to come up here, even those on duty? What of the Shaft? What of our eternal guard against the darkness?
What in hell is going on?
About fifteen minutes later, the doors are opened again and the rest of the fort’s dwarves, led by Hraroth, march through. I can hear how many there are: the whole fort really has come into the hall, then. These are senior runeknights too—the light is bright even past my eyelids. I close them tighter so I can sense perfectly what’s going on.
“Is this everyone?” the Runethane asks of Hraroth, who is now at the front next to Cathez.
“Yes. I obeyed your orders directly, my Runethane.”
“Good. Everyone must hear what is to be said now. Firstly, though, we must deal with the matter of the murders. Cathez, inform everyone.”
Cathez turns to us and clears his throat.
“Jothol, who you all know was blinded by his efforts with the almergris, reported to Nathel, the dwarf on care duty, that Kelthok and Ntharek had become very quiet. Nathel checked the pair, and found that they were both dead. They had been killed in the same manner we’ve all become familiar with. Each had a hole in his neck, and had been completely drained of blood and fluid. More thoroughly even than the other victims were. After Nathel informed me of this news, I had the alarm rung.”
“At which point,” says the Runethane, “I ordered Jaemes before me. For some while I’ve been harboring certain suspicions about him.”
Confused whispering breaks out.
“Silence!” the Runethane snaps. “We will see what he has to say.” He glowers at Jaemes. “Well, human? What have you got to say for yourself?”