Nthazes helps me lug the storage chest down into the nearest forging pit, and I am pleased to see that it is well equipped, if free of ornamentation. The bright glow of the coals in the furnace shines brightly on Nthazes’ armor and the diamonds embedded in his titanium plates glitter brilliantly. He is magnificently equipped, though the long ears still look very odd to me.

He shows me where the hammers and tongs are, and how to operate the various vises and grind-wheels. He manages to dig out a coarse scraping cloth and a bucket of vinegar, and even goes so far as to gift me some sheets of decent iron I can use to patch up the most egregious holes.

“Of course, it’ll only be a temporary measure,” he says. “But I think you’ll be able to earn some titanium to begin the real work soon enough.”

“By guarding against the darkness with you?”

“You’ll need to make something light-enruned before that. Until then you’ll have to work with the foraging parties.”

“Hunting the bzathletics and such?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, most aren’t as big as the thing you came across. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Remember to put everything back once you’re done, or the commander will give you hell.”

“No problem. And thank you. I’ll try to repay you however I can. Even before it's time for us to leave.”

“Just tell me something interesting over our next meal,” he laughs. “That’s all I want. Really, it’s excellent to meet someone from somewhere interesting for once.”

“What about the human?”

“Oh, I suppose he’s interesting enough in his own way. But he’s a bit hard to talk to. Anyway, I really ought to be going now.”

“See you around.”

“See you.”

He leaves me in the forging pit and immediately I get to work. My first order of business is to scrub away the rust. I lay my breastplate on the anvil, dip the coarse cloth in the vinegar bucket, and pat the steel all over until it is completely soaked. Usually you would have to wait overnight after this stage, but Nthazes told me this vinegar is too strong for that and should be rubbed away immediately.

I do so, scraping the rust away with vigor. It’s hard physical work, as hard on my exhausted body as hammering was back before my wandering. I rub the cloth in tight circles, taking off great quantities of red rust-mud, which I scrape into a waste bucket with my fingernails.

Times passes—about three hours? I step back and take a look at what’s left of my breastplate. The rust is gone, but that was about half of the thing. What remains is a runed framework with more holes than a kitchen colander. My heart sinks. Repairing this by welding titanium is going to take longer than forging it from scratch did.

And I still have every single other armor piece to fix up too. Not to mention the fact that because titanium is far harder to work with than steel, I’ll need to practice with scraps just like Nthazes suggested. Hell, I’ve never even attempted to weld one kind of metal to another before.

Is one year going to be enough? I have to craft an amulet of unaging too, and they are notoriously tricky. Not a few promising runeknights have made mistakes in the forging of their amulets with devastating consequences. I’ll have to craft it slowly and carefully.

Two years, then? Even three? But how am I going to measure the time? There is nothing down here, no calendars, no clocks, nothing. Some of my panic returns and I am forced to sit down on the steps of the pit, breathing heavily.

What if I end up spending another ten years down here? Then when I come up, they will say I’ve fled from justice, and my punishment will be made worse. Brutal torture, mutilation, followed by an even more brutal execution...

“You all right?” someone calls to me. I look up, and see one of the twins has just come up from his own forging pit—Galar, the one with his beard done into a trident.

“I’m fine,” I say, swallowing to wet my suddenly dry throat. “It’s just strange not to have any way of measuring time.”

He shrugs. “We manage fine. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Hey!” I say, suddenly thinking of something. “What about the human, Jaemes? He’s managed to count the years. Maybe he has a clock? And a calendar.”

“A clock? That like a ruler for time, I suppose? He might.”

“He lives in the barracks like the rest of us, doesn’t he?”

“He does. He’s strange though. Hard to talk to. You can try if you want, though.”

“I think I will. Do you know where his room is?”

“A few down from yours, I think.”

“Thanks,” I say, and begin to put away my tools. My arms are aching—it’ll take a while to build back up the strength I need to forge for long periods of time. Once I’m done, and the storage chest with my armor is locked and put back in its marked place by the wall, I make my way past the other forging pits to the exit.

As I pass Galar’s pit, I see a curious sight. He’s not the only one down there, but is working with his brother. Fjalar is holding a small piece of metal in place with tongs while Galar hammers it carefully. The metal is so bright it shines like a star of the surface sky.

I shade my eyes to try and see what it is. It’s not a weapon, certainly, nor any kind of armor. Gradually the light fades, and I see that it is a tetrahedron of some kind of metal I do not know. At each point glitters a diamond. An amulet of unaging?

Galar puts down his hammer and, using a small pair of tongs, takes up a long piece of glass from a table next to the furnace. With his free hand he turns a wheel on the side of the furnace and the flames within roar and brighten. Sweat drips down his beard.

“Careful it doesn’t shatter this time,” Fjalar says. “Listen well.”

“I always do,” Galar grunts. Both dwarves are wearing ears like Nthazes’, but modified to fit to their bare heads by means of a metal band curving over their albino-haired scalps. They are also wearing goggles—not of anything transparent, but solid steel. They are forging by sound and feel alone.

Galar places the glass rod into the furnace and waits. His face is very close to the roaring heat, and his skin shines with sweat. His brow is contorted in concentration. The glass begins to shimmer as it transforms from transparent to a translucent crimson. He snatches it back out with the tongs and holds it close to one ear.

“It’s singing,” he says. “Very clearly.”

“Clearly enough?” Fjalar asks. “I don’t want to have to remake this thing.”

“I think so.”

“It better be. Bring it over here.”

“You don’t have to order me,” snaps Galar. “I know what to do.”

He returns to the anvil and gently touches the crimson rod to the topmost corner of the tetrahedron. A strange thing happens: the moment the glass contacts the diamond there, a bubble of light appears. The bubble stretches upward, quickly at first, then it begins to slow as it reaches the top. A keening sound accompanies the transformation, lowering in pitch as the bubble's progress slows.

“Come on, come on...” Fjalar hisses.

“Nearly there,” Galar says in a pained voice. “Nearly!”

The bubble reaches the top of the glass, then the whole thing shatters into a thousand fragments. The twins shout in pain as their faces are peppered with shards. The force of the shattering is so great that some flecks of glass even embed themselves into the dwarves’ steel goggles.

“Damn it!” Fjalar screams, slamming his fist on the anvil. “You idiot!”

“It’s not my bloody fault! Whose idea was this whole craft anyway?”

“Yours!”

“Yes, but doing it this way was your idea!”

I slip backwards out of sight and walk away, curious about what they were making but mostly feeling slightly shaken. Not so much at their anger, but at the weirdness of them working together. A dwarf makes his or her own equipment—only the smallest children work at the forge with a teacher. For two dwarves to share in the making of something is unheard of. Who will equip the finished creation? And twins are no exception to this rule, as far as I know.

Things really are different down here. I hurry out of the forging chambers, hoping no one saw me peeping. Watching another dwarf at work is considered rude up where I’m from, but for all I know down here it could be a taboo carrying the strictest of penalties. I tell myself to be more careful in future.

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

After blundering back through the corridors, and asking for directions from no fewer than five dwarves whose feet I trip over, I finally make it back to my room. After taking a short nap, I decide to see if I can find Jaemes.

Galar said his room was a few doors down from mine, so I knock on the third along. It’s opened by a dwarf—his voice doesn’t come down on me from above.

"Yes?" he asks.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Where is Jaemes’ chamber?”

“Next to mine,” the dwarf replies grimly. “Left.”

“Thanks.”

He shuts the door and I knock on the next one along. This time the gruff voice of the human answers:

“Who is it?”

“Zathar. The dwarf who fell in from above. I’d like to talk.”

“About what?”

“Time.”

“I’m busy writing.”

“When can I... I mean, can I come again later?”

I hear him laugh loudly. It’s a harsh sound, like the bark of an animal.

“When! A good joke down here,” he says. “A fellow refugee from the saner places of the world, aren’t you?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“I suppose I could too. Fine, you can come in for a bit. I've got writer's block anyhow. Just make sure to shut the door behind you. The rest don’t like it when light leaks out.”