Making my amulet of unaging goes more smoothly than I'd anticipated. My chisel cleaves into the ruby as easily as steel into butter. The sound of steel on gem in my naked ears—I took some days to repair my runic ones but they aren't what they used to be—is high and harsh yet somehow invigorating. Despite never having carved runes this way, directly into a material, each one comes out exact and even. All are new, never before seen.

The light of the furnace, which is set low just enough to keep me warm, reflects in the runes, making them like lines of bloody fire. My mind is in a trance so I’m barely paying attention to what they are—even as I can tell that each is perfect. It’s a strange feeling, and contradictory in its logic—how can I know that each is perfectly formed and unique if I’m not looking? But I know this is the best way.

With my unconscious mind, or maybe soul, set on the runes, my conscious mind begins to drift into dark places.

Skill at forging at any cost. That was Fjalar’s philosophy. Am I so different? I wanted my brother back at any cost. I even dealt with a dragon to get that—Guildmaster Wharoth said it tricked me, but that isn’t entirely true. I knew even as I made the deal that I could have told the others that it was on its way, worked something out before they were burned.

In the end I didn't. I regretted that decision, just as I regret giving the dragon Thanerzak's diamond key—though what value do regrets have after so much destruction? I know when I reach the Runeking’s realm, the great city of Allabrast, I will learn that the black dragon destroyed everything and nearly everyone.

Will anyone remember the key? Even if no one does, I’ll still turn myself in after mine and Nthazes’ task is accomplished. It’s the right thing to do. I suppose this is what separates me from Fjalar: I am willing to admit that I did wrong.

Yet despite these feelings, I hope that I’ll be forgiven. Even though I’d told myself that if my sentence is to be execution, then so be it, but, really, I hope dearly that my punishment is less severe. Just like burned in the hearts of Fjalar and Galar, the desire to craft greater weapons, armors and amulets burns in my heart also.

The scratching of my chisel stops. I’ve finished. I wonder what I’ve created. My skin prickles, as if a chill wind has blown through my armor, like the darkness has descended on me once again.

Every other time I’ve written runes, I’ve at least guided them. But because this time there was absolutely no guidance and no conscious thought, the poem comes from my very soul.

I read. Like the innermost poem of Fjalar’s amulet, it is an unstructured narrative, a dozen different episodes linked only by theme, one on each facet of the ruby.

It is written in runes of blood and conflict. It describes a dwarf who cuts down all who oppose him in his quest for greatness. He wields terrible, bloody powers of combat—invents weapons no one has seen before or since, wrought of cunning metaphor—and uses them to their fullest potential. He is unaging and all-enduring in mind, body, and soul, and his battles can never end.

He feels no guilt.

With a trembling hand I lay the ruby down on the anvil. I sit down on the stone floor, shivering.

Originally I’d planned for my amulet to be composed of multiple stones, but now I sense with absolute certainty that I don’t need any but this. The craft is suited to me perfectly. The runic flow is exactly in tune with the currents of my own soul. It emanates vitality, like a second beating heart.

It takes great courage to stand up and read the runes once more. Facing the deep darkness was nothing compared to facing what is within me.

I reflect again: am I really the sort to try and accomplish my goals at any cost? Surely not. After all, down here I tried to help others. I put my life on the line for Nthazes, Jaemes, and all the other dwarves of the fort. Yet was I really being selfless? A dark corner of my mind tells me no: I helped because I want to prove at the coming trial that I have good in me. I helped only to further my own survival and my quest for my brother.

Deep down, that’s still my quest. That's why I must craft greater and greater weapons and armor. I must become strong enough to find him, or else force the black dragon to admit that it killed him.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I sink back down to the floor. I can’t wear this ruby as my amulet, no matter how effective it is. I have to try again.

I lock it in my materials’ chest—I’ll find a better home for it later—and take up the sapphire I’d intended to be the second gem in my amulet. I take up my chisel in my other hand, and begin to gouge.

I carve one stroke of one rune. Sapphire dust glitters in the air; its brilliance distracts me and I become lost on how to continue. I return to the chamber of the Shaft, where everyone has moved their belongings, to borrow some paper from Jaemes. I take it back to the forges and plan out the runes methodically.

I write a noble poem about calmness and tranquility in the midst of change, about remaining unaffected by the ravages of the world around. I praise the ability to stay composed and relaxed, and how this keeps both body and mind unwarped.

I’m being so careful that some sessions I only carve five or six runes. Physical issues persist also: while cutting into the ruby felt like the stone was barely there, chiseling the sapphire is like trying to scratch diamond with a stick.

I think this problem is caused by tension in my fingers that make my movements stiff. I take a day off to try and let them recover, but this doesn’t seem to help much.

I judge the passing of the days by Jaemes' clock, though since he spent a good while locked up, unable to continue his calendar, it’s now hard to make a guess at how long it's been since my arrival here. I estimate about two years, give or take a few months. It seems to me a very long time.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Finally, the sapphire is complete. I sit down on the steps of the forging pit, turning it over slowly in my hands so I can examine each rune. The poem is passable, I suppose. I do feel some kind of power flowing from the gem into my body, though it’s far weaker than what I felt from the ruby.

I decide to ask Nthazes to have a look. We walk a short distance away from the other dwarves sitting near the Shaft, and I hold it out on my palm. I let him pick it up and turn it over. He shines the light of his mace, again partially obscured with a gauze, through it to read the runes and examine the crystal’s structure. Soft blue light illuminates his haggard features, making deep shadows in his wrinkles.

“It’s an alright piece, I suppose,” he says. “You must still be exhausted from fighting. Maybe I shouldn’t have rushed you into it.”

“It’s not very good, is it?”

“It’s passable for a first attempt. If you do the setting and chain right it’ll be fine.”

“I see.”

“Though, I can’t read all the runes. So maybe it’s better than it seems to my eyes,” he says brightly. “You do have a lot of strange ones up there, don’t you? I’m looking forward to researching some. Maybe I’ll get to bring some dictionaries down.”

I shake my head. “These runes... Well, these ones are all from up above. But...”

Nthazes frowns.

Should I tell him? Of course I should, he’s my friend. We’ve saved each others’ lives. I reach into my pocket and take out the ruby and hold it out for him to see.

“You made two?” he says. “And this is...”

“You’ve never seen any of these runes, have you? Not a single one.”

“No.”

“But their shapes are familiar, aren’t they? Like they’re in scripts you know, or thought you knew.”

He nods, still staring blankly at the gem. “Yes. That’s a good way of describing it.”

“I didn't learn these runes, Nthazes. They weren’t from some dictionary. They’re original. I made them.”

He continues to stare blankly at the ruby. He picks it up from my palm and turns it over and over. “I don’t understand,” he says.

“I made them. They’re new runes.”

He looks at me, blinks a few times. “How?”

“I don’t know how. I can’t control it so well, they just come out like that. As if my tools and hands move by themselves.”

“Just with this craft?”

“No, with every craft. On my armor and on my weapons too. That’s why my mace of light ended up so strange. Those new runes of light weren’t from some dictionary up above like I told the Runethane. I created them.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know! I’ve always been able to. Even my very first rune was an original. I thought I was writing a basic one from a dictionary of my brother’s, but it turned out wrong, yet worked far better.”

He shakes his head. “That’s unbelievable.”

“I can barely believe it myself.”

“No new runes have been created since the runeforgers.”

“I know. Everyone knows.”

“Does that make you one of them?”

“That’s not possible.”

“Then how?”

“I don’t know. It makes me something, I suppose. I’ve been keeping this a secret.”

“Of course.” He nods. “I understand. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know. I trust you.”

“I’m sure that someone will work it out, though, up above. There’s clever dwarves up there.”

“Some already did. My guildmaster, and Vanerak, a first degree.”

“You’ve told me a bit about them already.”

“I haven’t told you everything, though. The story I told you about my life before here, well, I have to apologize." I swallow. My throat feels dry all of a sudden. "I left out some details. Some important details.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to tell me on the way up.”

“I’ll tell you now. It’s not something I want to be overheard by caravaners.”

So, with my voice barely raised to a whisper, I tell him the full story, sparing no detail. I tell him of my involvement with the black dragon. How I struck a bargain with it so it could gain the key, and how that ended in the burning of my guild and then, eventually, as far as I can guess, to the destruction of two cities. I tell him that once we get the Runeking’s aid, I plan to admit my crimes. I won’t be returning here.

He is silent after I end my long tale. I watch his face nervously. He seems to be deep in thought.

“You were inexperienced back then,” he finally says. “All tenth degrees make stupid mistakes.”

“Not mistakes on that scale.”

“True,” he admits.

“I can barely forgive myself, let alone expect others to forgive me. Look at my ruby again, Nthazes.”

"What of it?"

"I let the runes flow as you advised me. I did it right: it felt as if they were coming directly from my soul. And look what I've created: the poem is nearly as nasty as Fjalar's. You'd be horrified if you could read it."

Nthazes shakes his head. "That doesn't mean your soul is dark. Fjalar's runes were on your mind when you wrote, that's all."

"Then why does this gem feel like it fits me so much better?"

"The runic resonances are better, that's all. There's no forced awkwardness like on the sapphire. I really did rush you into this didn't I? I'm sorry. Of course being in the darkness for so long would have an influence on how you write. That's inevitable."

"That's not the whole of it. There's something dark in me. Something unforgivable."

"That isn't true. I think your guildmaster was right when he said that you were the victim. The dragon was many times more powerful than you. From what you say, it seems nearly as powerful as the deep darkness. Probably it’s more powerful, now.”

“Yes.”

“An initiate can’t stand up to something like that. You were weak, not evil. There's no darkness in you.”

“I should have tried to resist!”

“That wasn’t its power, though. It manipulated you so that it wasn’t possible for you to try.”

“Maybe.”

“Yes,” he says firmly, and he claps me on the shoulder. “You never had a chance against it. If your guildmaster and I can understand this, surely others will as well. They'll see that there's nothing dark in you.”

“There’s no guarantee though.”

“There’s never any guarantee of anything. If Fjalar’s needle had been an inch lower, I’d be dead now. Everything hinges on tiny chances.”

“So you’re saying there’s a tiny chance I’ll be pardoned? A tiny chance my brother might still be alive?”

“Anything’s possible. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

DWARVES OF THE DEEP

END