I stare gloomily into my mug of beer. Present it to him personally. Meet the Runethane face-to-face, and watch as he reads over my runes with a critical eye—an immensely skilled eye that can pick out any irregularity or oddness in my strokes with ease. One that’ll see I don’t know as much about these runes as the quality of my poem suggests. My expression reflected in the dark liquid is one of intense worry. I look aged—creases on my forehead make me look like a dwarf of sixty rather than one of thirty.
A dwarf of sixty with no amulet of unaging, that is. There’s a project that’s gone right down the mineshaft: not that I’ll ever have much use for it anyway, since within the month my body will likely be lying cold and dead in the darkness a mile below my feet.
I sigh, drain the mug, and begin to scoff down my food as quickly as I can. My fingers ache—the past few sessions have been intense as I race to finish the dictionary before Hraroth returns to voice more of the Runethane’s displeasure.
Someone taps me on my shoulder. It’s Nthazes. I turn to him; he puts a finger over his lips.
“Keep quiet,” he whispers.
“What is it?” I whisper back.
“One of Belthur’s allies is going to be on guard duty at Jaemes’ chambers. I persuaded him to smuggle in a letter with his food.”
“Really?”
“Really. You know him best, so you ought to write it.”
“Thank you!”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I’m not quite sure what to write though.”
“Anything. Just maybe don’t mention certain things in too clear a way.”
“Yes. I never know when Hraroth’s going to appear behind my back.”
“He’s talked to you?”
“Trying to get me to hurry up.”
“I see. The Runethane really wants those runes now, then.”
“Yes.”
“At any rate, write the letter and hand it to me.”
“Thank you for this. I’ll have it ready soon.”
“Again, it’s no trouble. I was suspicious of him when he first came down, but I’ve grown to like him. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
I bring down a fresh piece of paper when I head to the forges—from Jaemes' stock, still lying in the meal hall. I don’t think he’d mind me using them.
Down in the forging pit, I place it on the anvil, and stare at the white-yellow blankness for several minutes, sorting through my thoughts and feelings and planning out how best to order them. I’ve never written a letter before—and for some reason it’s starting to seem a great deal harder than writing a runic poem is.
Eventually I settle on this:
To my friend, Jaemes
I am sorry for what has happened to you. I am certain, even if others aren’t, that all of your actions have been for the good of the fort. For one thing, you had no reason to be in the infirmary putting yourself at risk of the darkness, apart from your genuine feeling that you wanted to help us.
Things progress quickly. The reforging is going even worse than the original forging with almergris went. There have been three more blindings and a dozen more serious burns. The Runethane is hurrying me, for he wants his dictionary as soon as possible. Worst of all, I hear that the lift mechanism above the Shaft is being cleaned and repaired.
Yes, that’s where we’re going. It’s what all this has been leading up to, though I’m sure you’ve been clever enough to work that out for yourself. The Runethane told us all it was you who gave him the idea, but I don’t blame you for it, and I doubt anyone else does either. I’m sure it would have occurred to him eventually anyway.
We’re all going down, every one of us. I imagine your door will be blocked off. I’ll try to make sure you get enough food and water to last, maybe bring you extra if I can.
I feel guilty. I made certain errors of judgment. I should have persuaded you to keep your head down or, better yet, to bring your time down here to an end. The surface world is where you belong, not this underground nightmare.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
The Runethane seems to value my runes, and he had respect for my craft as well. There’s a small chance I can persuade him to commute your sentence to exile. It’s a very small chance, but I will try my utmost. Be sure of this.
Don’t give in to despair. My brother did that. Have hope that things will take a turn for the better, as they have done for me in the past.
Yours faithfully,
A friend
I blot the paper and read over it as the ink dries. It’s far from my most eloquent work—in particular I don’t think my feelings of guilt come across strongly enough—but it’s hard to do that without mentioning our investigations.
Dissatisfied, I fold it up and place it inside my breastplate. It won’t do for Hraroth to see it lying on the anvil if he comes down.
He doesn’t come down this session, though. Neither does he on the next: I guess he must be busy with the preparations. The input of a first degree runeknight will be invaluable when it comes to repairing the massive winch mechanism dangling above the Shaft. The kind of runes needed to keep such a huge and complex piece of machinery intact over the centuries—or more likely millennia—must be advanced ones indeed. Rewriting where the rust has got to them will take great skill.
There’s been more senior runeknights than usual coming and going from the forges, and not only to fix up their armor and improve their weapons. Massive lengths of steel have been carried down here—if they’re for weapons, they’re for the weapons of giants. And since we don’t have any giants down here, I assume they’re for the winching machine.
We really are going down. Hour by hour the realization sinks in further. The voices raised in protest at the order grow quieter and finally vanish. There is no opposing this, we can all see that. We are rolling down the path to oblivion as surely as a stone rolls down a mountainside. The momentum of events is unstoppable.
I get the letter to Nthazes. A hundred or three hundred or so hours pass—I really can't tell how long. Then, one session, one of Belthur’s friends arrives at my forging pit. He hurries down and pulls out the letter from a satchel at his waist. I flinch. He holds it up.
“Yes?” I ask nervously, cold sweat beading on my brow—perhaps this isn’t one of Belthur’s friends, and my letter has made it to those most loyal to the Runethane.
“Have this for you,” he says, and turns the letter over. On its reverse is a new one—a reply from Jaemes.
“Thank you!” I say.
“You’re welcome.” He hesitates, as if he’s debating about whether to say something else.
“What is it?”
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I was just going to remind you to stay on the right side. But I know you don’t need any reminding.”
“On the right side? What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Goodbye, see you in the Shaft.”
He hurries away. I puzzle over his remarks for a second, then I remember the importance that what’s in my hand could hold and rush back to the anvil. I unfold the paper and lean over it, hiding it from outside view. Then I begin to read:
To my friend,
I am glad of your support, however you have no reason to feel sorry for me. I knew the risks I was taking when I opposed the Runethane, and believe me, nothing you might have said would’ve ever persuaded me not to take them. As I’ve mentioned to both you and the Runethane before, I am a scholar and that means it is my duty to pursue the truth of the world. That remit is not, I have always believed, restricted merely to academic pursuits, most of which, if I am honest, are of no help to anyone. I’m glad that over the past year I’ve been able to put my intelligence to real use, even if my efforts have ended up far less appreciated than I’d hoped.
You were careful not to mention our investigations in the previous letter. This was a very understandable precaution. However we have reached, as us humans say, the endgame, and in order to win we must take risks. So I shall tell you my hypothesis for the killings. I cannot claim that it’s correct, nor even that I have much faith in it. I’ve procrastinated terribly on writing this letter, so unsure am I that there is any truth whatsoever in what I am about to say.
I suspect the twins, working together, are the killers. Their motive is likely revenge for being forced to work separately. The two commanders are the ones who made that decision, however for the moment they’re too well protected to be attacked directly. Therefore, the killers have been murdering others in order to improve their weapons for the final blow.
Their weapons function as reverse syringes. They’re connected via some kind of rune-forged portal to a storage barrel, likely hidden under their chambers. Throughout the history of dwarfkind many weapons of blood have been forged, all of them deadly: this is restricted knowledge throughout most of the dwarven realms, but I’ve had access to it.
They will strike after you go down the Shaft. In the chaos of battle there will be plenty of opportunity for them to do so. Be careful especially of Galar—light creates heat also. His weapon may not be what it seems.
Thus finishes my hypothesis. As I say, I’m not sure it’s correct, but it’s the best I can come up with. I can see only one hole in the logic: there was surely no reason for Fjalar to kill the dwarf lying next to him up in the caverns. It seems a foolish risk to have taken.
That’s all I have to say. Do not feel responsible for what has happened to me; any responsibility lies with me and me alone. And do not attempt, under any circumstances, to free me. You will likely fail, and that is something you cannot afford to do. Only you and Nthazes can stop the killers.
And I repeat: my hypothesis may not be correct, either in part or in whole. Use your own judgment. Uncover more evidence if you can, though I know time is running out.
Good luck. You dwarves worship no Gods, but all the same, may their blessings be upon you.
Yours faithfully,
Jaemes Anders Halsmith, Professor Emeritus of the Tythal University of Sapient Researches, Head of the Department of Dwarfkind
Post-Script: Burn this letter
I read the letter two more times to memorize every single detail, then scrunch it up and toss it into the furnace. It flashes into flame and ash in an instant. A few wisps of smoke drift out the furnace’s mouth and dissipate.