I sip down water—not beer, for I need to concentrate as best I can. Each sentence I dismantle, each word I mull over. I’m glad he had his helmet off, handily revealing to me his emotions. Unless he was faking them, of course, which he may well have been. If what he said about his arguments with Fjalar being only partly real is true, that proves he’s plenty capable of deception.

Is that another hint that he may be the killer? Yet surely if he was the killer he wouldn’t risk talking to me. Unless he’s trying to mislead me somehow...

I go through the conversation again, searching for possible double meanings. I can’t find any. Maybe I’ll write it down—when I’m in the forges, so as not to raise suspicion—and show it to Jaemes. He’s better at this kind of thing than I am for sure.

Then again, he’s not a dwarf, and didn't get to observe Galar’s demeanor directly. The best person for this job is me. In my mind I draw up a chart:

Reasons that point to Galar being the killer:

He’s skilled with runes. He was spreading and encouraging rumors which caused confusion. He was present when Utlock was killed. He doesn’t get along with others. He warned me in the past to not go around asking suspicious questions.

Reasons that point to Galar not being the killer:

He has no obvious motive for disturbing the fort—he likes his forging, why put that at risk? He’s happy to talk to me even though he can probably guess I suspect him. According to Nthazes, he and Fjalar aren’t completely in-dwarven—they aren’t actively cruel like I remember Vanerak being.

I sigh. A lot of ideas, and no solid evidence either way. Maybe Nthazes and I can ambush him like we did Belthur—but he’s always in the forges. And the killer won’t keep his murder weapon anywhere other than on his person, so searching his belongings would be no use either.

Or would it? Not all evidence needs to be as obvious as a weapon. An idea strikes me: he is always experimenting, he has been down here for a very long time, and yet he has no more storage chests in the forges than anyone else. So where might all his past experiments be? Unless he melted them down, which I suppose is a possibility, they’ll be in his chambers.

His chambers! I nearly hit myself. Of course, we should search their chambers! We should search everyone’s. Belthur and his friends are giving us plenty of time and cover. In fact we could even enlist their help. No one brought absolutely everything down to the meal hall—apart from me, who had little enough to begin with—or there wouldn’t be room to walk in here.

I take a celebratory swig of beer. Of course we’re not guaranteed to find anything useful, but there’s definitely a chance.

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I prepare my salterite as always, crushing it into strangely twisting, quietly wailing shards, and begin to de-rune my gauntlets. The anti-reagent scorches and pits the metal, sending foul smoke curling upward. No matter how quickly I rub it off, there’s always damage to the metal that needs to be sanded away.

I’ve just finished my right gauntlet and am about to start on my left when I hear the ring of a bell. I rush up out of the forging pit. Cathez is standing at the doors. Loudly he orders us down to the Runethane’s hall.

Whispers ripple through the crowd as we gather to march out. Has there been another killing? Another double killing? The prevailing idea is that the almergris is ready, and this proves nearly to be the case. Artificial darkness curls around us as we wait for the Runethane to speak in his cold, wide hall. It seems emptier—I feel strongly the absence of the thirty-five dead.

“The almergris is progressing well,” he says. “In preparation for the forging, it has been recommended to me by your commanders that you learn something about it.”

So Cathez and Hraroth haven’t been able to convince him that making everyone forge weapons of light is a bad idea.

“First, you must remember that light is a powerful but double-edged weapon. It can destroy shadow; it can also blind all seeing from your eyes, permanently. If you do not have confidence in your runic ears, this is an opportunity for you to forge a new pair. Talk to Commander Cathez; he will allow you the materials you need.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Materials aren’t the issue, I want to say. Skill is the factor here. The best tools in the underworld won’t make a tenth degree into a first, or even a fifth.

“The commanders and senior runeknights will also be available to instruct you on how to best utilize the runes of light. The runes themselves are being engraved onto a stone tablet which will be placed in your meal hall. Memorize them: there are only five hundred and forty-seven.”

My heart misses a beat. If my runes of light come out altered, any senior runeknight who looks at them will know. Would they believe me if I told them I learned runes of light up above? Or will they see it as a reason to suspect me further?

“Study well, keep your eyes closed and your ears keen, and there is no reason to fear the almergris.”

All easier said than done.

“To help you, there will be demonstrations organized. Yes, like those you attended while initiates. I do not think them necessary—a runeknight should forge his own path and find his own way, after all—but your commanders have persuaded me. It will give those of you still afraid a little confidence, perhaps.”

Galar was right, then. I’m glad of this—I’ll be happy for any knowledge that helps me prevent myself burning out my eyes.

Slowly and deliberately, Runethane Yurok stands up from his throne. His voice takes on a stern quality: “I have not called you all down here just to discuss forging, however. It has come to light that certain rumors are still spreading themselves around. Or rather, they are not spreading by themselves, but you are spreading them. Some of these are the usual, concerning the killings. Others are worse.”

My insides feel light all of a sudden. Has someone picked up on what we are doing?

“Apparently, some of you have been heard criticizing my decision to hunt the white jelly. This saddens and disappoints me immensely. Your fellow dwarves died so that we could take the almergris. To say there should have been no expedition is to say that the almergris was not worth their sacrifice. That is a grievous insult indeed.

“But I am a forgiving Runethane. I know who has been spreading these rumors, as well as the ones that claim it was not the darkness that killed, but a fellow dwarf. However I will punish no one yet. We are short on dwarves: to punish severely without giving you a chance to change your behavior would show poor judgment on my part.”

He clasps his mace and its light fills the hall, turns the artificial darkness to thin gray, blinds us so we cower back, shading our eyes.

“You only have one chance!” he booms. “The next dwarf to be caught spreading rumors will be sorry he did so. Mark my words.”

He leans the great mace back against his throne. The light dims and we are swathed in scentless black once more.

“Keep your conversations to forging. Dismiss them, Commander Cathez.”

Cathez turns to us and orders us to march back to the fort proper. My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking. Am I one of those on his list of rumor-spreaders? Has word reached him about Jaemes, Nthazes and I disappearing off into the fort together?

Probably. Yet I won’t give up my investigations. My fear turns to resolve, and anger. Stupid, stubborn, short-sighted bastard! Galar is wrong about him: a dwarf of brilliant ideas—what an absurd notion.

He’s a fool about to get us killed, and insecure to boot. His discomfort at us criticizing the expedition has nothing to do with feeling insulted on the dead’s behalf—he just can’t stand the fact some of us think he’s wrong.

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Over the next few sessions I re-enrune my boots and gauntlets. Once all the finger-plates on my gauntlets have been seared with salterite, and the surface damages sanded away, I devise another twenty miniature poems for them.

No animal metaphors this time. Just a series of verses praising the virtues of a strong, steady, and firm hand on the weapon. Runes of strength and grip, not speed. The topic strikes me as a dull one, but it goes well with some silver I purchased. I mix my remaining quizik into the incandesite I’m going to use for them, to dampen its enthusiasm.

I graft. Red-white flashes light the pit and I taste a tang of burned silver. Once I’m done, I read over the poems. A few of the runes are altered; not as many as I’d expected. Maybe a third.

I’m not sure why. Maybe this script—Jorthan Three—isn’t changed so easily. Its runes are more complex than those of Yttrite Four; perhaps that has something to do with it. Whatever the reason, I feel relieved. Stability and steadiness, that’s what these gloves are for. I don’t want to lose grip on my weapon when the deep darkness is coming for me.

My boots are next. I’m only changing one rune in each line, so it turns out to be a fairly quick and easy job. I discover that if I grind the salterite coarser, it doesn’t burn the rune away so quickly, so the titanium doesn’t end up so damaged.

I sand it carefully, twist the runes into shape, graft them. These haven’t altered themselves at all.

Good. Or maybe not. Perhaps my ability is merely gearing up to twist my next set of runic poems into something beyond recognition. Might it change the runes of light into runes of darkness? Will my weapon of light become as black as Heartseeker?

The others would throw me into the Shaft and—

I shake my head vigorously. So far my runes have changed meaning only slightly. However original the runes of my next weapon are, it’ll still be a weapon of light.

Hopefully my eyes will be intact enough to see it.