The glow of Galar’s trident is not so bright. Maybe about a quarter as bright as my mace at its zenith, and half as bright as Fjalar’s mace. I feel oddly disappointed. The Runethane frowns dangerously.

“And what is this, Galar? Come closer.”

Galar steps confidently right up to the Runethane's throne. He plants the trident upright on the stone; it’s slightly taller than he is. There is silence for a few seconds, allowing me to hear the shape of the tines clearly—there’s an indentation at the point of each one, or maybe an opening.

“It’s a trident,” says Galar.

“We can see that,” Hraroth growls. “Why did you not create a mace, or at least a hammer?”

“Innovation is vital. Especially in these trying circumstances.”

“In these circumstances something that works is vital.”

“Calm down, commander,” says the Runethane. His frown has diminished somewhat and he has a thoughtful look on his face. “The glow is certainly not very bright, and the runework is inferior to his brother’s, but he’s right that innovation is important. Maybe we have relied on maces for too long.”

“Yes,” says Galar. “I believe we have.”

“Let us hear out your reasoning.”

“While there is no doubt that maces are effective, due to their great surface area, other shapes can provide different benefits.” He speaks quickly and confidently, as if he’s prepared these remarks beforehand. “My trident was designed not with maximum constant output in mind, but for focused blows against the darkness—”

“Shows how little you know,” says Hraroth. “Constant, all-around pressure must be kept on the darkness. Focused blows mean little to it.”

“Ah, but have you ever tested this hypothesis, commander?”

“I have never attempted to throw my life away, no.”

“I will not be throwing away my life... I designed this trident to create a focused attack against the darkness that is sure to annihilate large swathes of it. If you would be so kind as to observe, I will demonstrate.”

The Runethane is nodding. “Go ahead.”

“Do you see here this wheel embedded into the shaft of the weapon?” He holds it up to the Runethane.

“I do.”

“There are eleven notches. Right now it is set to zero. Now I will demonstrate setting one.”

He turns and points the trident to the left. There’s a small click as he turns the wheel, and a moment later a cone of light glares out from the three tines, creating three pale overlapping circles on the far wall. It’s quite a sight—and one that makes me suspicious. There must be some very advanced runework going on in the weapon's interior.

“Fascinating,” says the Runethane. “But still not so powerful. Let us see the third setting.”

“As you command.”

There are two more clicks and a moment later the circles become nearly too bright to look at. A few dwarves clap.

“Impressive,” says the Runethane. “Do you not agree, Commander Hraroth? Chamberlain Helthok?”

“It is an interesting design,” says Hraroth. “However I worry that it will be of little utility. The cone of light is vulnerable toward its point.”

“Of course,” says Galar. “This is an offensive weapon, not a defensive one.”

“The light is also not so bright. Even for offensive use, I have my doubts of its effectiveness.”

In reply, Galar clicks the wheel up one more notch. The overlapping circles become blinding pools of liquid brilliance, making everyone in the hall yell out in shock and cover their eyes. I do the same, burying my head in the crook of my arm. A bright blue afterimage hovers in my vision.

“Each degree doubles the power!” Galar says triumphantly. “So what do you think, my Runethane? Do you think this will be an effective weapon against the darkness?”

“Doubles?” Hraroth says incredulously. “My Runethane, if this claim is correct, Galar has crafted the most powerful weapon of light ever seen in the fort.”

“Turn it up to ten,” orders the Runethane. “I will risk some of my own vision to test the truth of your claim—though naturally I will not be looking directly into the light.”

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“Ah,” says Galar. “To tell the truth, my Runethane, I have not tested the higher settings yet. I worry about... Complications.”

Hraroth’s expression darkens. “Explain.”

“The way my craft works is, well, complicated. To simplify, there are several looping stanzas within the trident’s points—the whole weapon is hollow, you see. The wheel is linked to a restriction mechanism. Theoretically, if the wheel was not there, the light could increase in brightness forever.”

“I think it more likely that the runes would melt.”

“Well, that is why I said theoretically. And also why I am reluctant to change the degree of brightness up past setting six.”

“Interesting,” says the Runethane. “Very interesting indeed. Let us see setting six, then.”

Even with my eyes shut tight, the light is bright. I can see every detail of every little vein and artery on the inside of my eyelids.

“Turn it off!” someone yells.

I hear the Runethane raise his hand through my runic ears, and the brightness snaps away. I open my eyes and am relieved that my vision is undamaged; the glows of the runeknights’ maces are still clearly visible.

“Very impressive,” says the Runethane. “What do you think, Commander Hraroth? Should he be moved up like his brother?”

Hraroth considers for a second. “As reluctant as I am to say this, yes. Not so much because of this craft—I still believe it has immense tactical weakness, and not to mention likely reliability issues—but because of what it demonstrates. Galar has better abilities than he’s let on until now.”

“Not at all!” says Galar. “My runes are nothing interesting. Just a few tricks.”

“Very impressive tricks,” says the Runethane. “Fifth degree is right for you also, I think.”

“Only fifth?”

He sounds oddly disappointed. This confuses me—I thought he didn't want to move up.

“Do not question the decision of your Runethane,” says Hraroth. “You are fifth now; be glad of it.”

Galar bows low. “It was never my intention to question anything... Thank you.”

“Thank you,” says the Runethane solemnly. “I hope this interesting new weapon will be put to use before long. I look forward to reading the reports of its effectiveness. And if you can find out a way to increase the power without risking the weapon's integrity, and improve your armor, maybe another promotion will be in order too.”

Galar grins widely. "Really? Thank you, my Runethane!"

He turns to rejoin the ranks, still grinning. He directs the grin at his brother; I try to catch a glimpse of Fjalar's expression, his reaction to his brother's high praise, but the head of a glowing mace gets in the way and I don’t get to see it.

“Next!” orders Hraroth. “Sixth degrees!”

They peel off the formation to go and line up, leaving me feeling oddly exposed. I am going to talk to the Runethane soon—this fact hits me in the stomach and I suddenly feel like being sick. Talk to a Runethane! How many dwarves of Thanerzak and Broderick had that privilege? Only the elites, the most important runeknights, ever had that chance. And although this fort is smaller, more intimate than the realms I hail from, a Runethane is still a Runethane. Through hundreds of years of forging has Runethane Yurok made himself into a dwarf worthy of the title. What will he think when talking to a whelp like me?

More importantly, what will he think of my runes? I know the lie I will say—a lie of necessity, for to tell the truth will ironically have me branded as a liar—but how will this lie be received?

The sixth degrees’ judgements go a little more harshly, maybe because the Runethane’s impressions have just been colored by Fjalar and Galar’s excellency. No one is forced to reforge, but he finds something major to criticize in each and every craft. Hraroth is slightly less critical—even so, he’s the one I’m most worried about. The Runethane might be fascinated by my runes; Hraroth is likely to be suspicious of them.

“Fifth degrees, forward!” Hraroth barks.

For a second I hesitate, wanting strongly to slink to the back and prolong the judgment of my mace for a half hour longer. I resist the urge, gather my strength, and walk quickly ensure I end up at the front of the line. No one seems unhappy about this—they’re clearly just as nervous as I am.

And now I am looking directly at the trio: the Runethane on his tall throne with his great mace leaning against it, grim-faced Hraroth on his right, and the calm and solemn chamberlain on his left. They loom over me amid the swirling darkness.

“Ah,” says the Runethane. “Zathar, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say, suppressing the tremor in my voice.

“Come closer, up-abover.”

I obey.

“From where did you descend from again, exactly?”

“Runethane Thanerzak’s realm. Like your fort, it is also a realm of Runeking Ulrike.”

“I know which realms my Runeking has under his domain, Zathar.”

“Of course.” I swallow. “I apologize.”

“But we are not here to discuss geography. I’ve heard interesting things about your crafts, Zathar. You intrigue me—despite the company you choose to keep. And I have also heard something of your fighting skill.”

“I have tried my best to be of service to the fort. To which I am in debt to.”

“Let us see then, how much more service you can be to us. I notice that you have covered your craft.” He leans closer. “Are you going to reveal something interesting, like Galar has done?”

“Perhaps.”

“There’s no perhaps,” says Hraroth. “Reveal your craft to us.”

I tear away the cloth in one movement, quickly so they don’t see the shaking of my hands. The pulsing of the light is on a downswing—it is about half as bright as an ordinary mace. It continues to dim; I’m too afraid to see the Runethane’s expression so I just stare at the runes.

“It’s gone out,” someone mutters.

It relights. I shut my eyes; the insides of my eyelids begins to go pink. I turn my head away, and sense the Runethane, Hraroth, and the chamberlain do the same. The light reaches its zenith, then begins to dim. I open my eyes again and force myself to look directly at the Runethane.

He’s frowning. He’s noticed them immediately.

“What kind of runes are these?” he whispers, in a fascinated tone.