I rub my hands together, eager to begin. This weapon, although only my first, is going to be a masterpiece. I can feel it.

Where to begin? What to do first? What to do second, third, fourth...

I have no idea how to forge.

It doesn't matter. It's in our blood, my brother always said. In the blood of all dwarves, yes, but in ours most of all. I stare at the copper fangs, steel rod, and glimmering incandesite. Something will come to me.

I continue to stare.

Nothing comes to me.

I sink down to the ground in despair, head bowed. In our blood? What's that supposed to mean?

Was my brother just a fantasist?

He used to keep me up all night, babbling about how it was his destiny to become a runeknight, Runethane, and up and up. He knew how to forge instinctively, he claimed to me. His hands would move like the hands of the ancient creator, the Runeforger, when the world was born and the first runes bent into existence. A new legend would be born, and he and I would never have to touch a pick again.

He had no proof for any of this. But he believed it, because if he lost that belief he would no longer be able to go on living. That's exactly what happened, I think bitterly. That's part of why he threw himself into the chasm.

I can't lose my belief or I'll end up like him.

First, the runes. They're what I know best: some of my earliest bedside stories were definitions and grammatical structures. I have copper, so I leaf through the dictionary to find some words appropriate to it. I select Zhakth-Madthaz, Gthal-Then, and Halat. They mean ‘spark from a chipped flint’, ‘thin trail of light’, and ‘come here’.

The verb doesn't really fit, I know, but in terms of shape it's on the simpler side.

Now l have to make them. I pick up one of the copper teeth with the tongs—an awkward process, for with only one hand usable I have to tuck the right handle into my armpit—and walk to the magma shore. I hold the fang just above the hell-hot liquid and wait. The heat is harsh; my ragged overalls turn dark with sweat and my throat turns dry like baked meat.

The fang brightens and softens. I return it to the anvil and take up my hammer, which I bring down, just a tap, scared the fang will fly apart.

It doesn’t. In fact my tap is too gentle. I bring the hammer down again, harder, and the copper flattens out, just a little. I repeat, and repeat, until the copper fang is cooled. Then I reheat, hammer, repeat, until it’s thin as paper.

Worryingly, it looks to be more impure than I realized, run through with thousands of threads of organic white.

Can’t do anything about that though.

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I take up a shard of obsidian I found on my way around the lake. My stomach is churning; my hand is trembling, vibrating. I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly.

Runesmiths don’t have shaky hands.

I cut the runes out, painstakingly. It takes me an hour, and to my great pride, the shape of each is exactly as inked in the dictionary.

Grinning, I place them in my pocket and lay the steel rod out. This will be trickier, but I’m feeling confident. I visualize the shape I want to create—a knife blade, short and wide, with a handle I can wrap in batskin.

The steel takes far longer to heat up than the copper did—five or six times as long. I struggle not to faint—my mind seems to shiver in time with the mirage, and the brightness of the magma is making my eyes go funny. I hear hissing from the bone tongs too, and see they’re black and cracked.

I hurry to the anvil, and, holding the bright white steel still with the tongs—now with both grips wedged incredibly awkwardly under my right upper arm—I hammer down hard. The steel dents in the wrong place.

Not accurate enough.

I hammer again. The shock shudders up my arm, and the steel shifts out of place, and bends slightly in the opposite way I intended.

“No!”

I get the steel back into position, and hammer down once more, just as inaccurately. I rejig, hammer, dent another place I don’t intend.

“No!”

I bring the hammer down again and again and again in desperation. The clangs ring out around the cavern, like a pealing bell, deafening me. I’ve heard that a rhythm takes over the best runesmiths at their anvils, that their arms move as naturally as their lungs breathe.

This does not happen to me. My forging is a constant battle against the steel, of brutal bashing, error correction, frustrated shouting, heart-stopping fear twice—once when the steel flies off the anvil and rolls right to the edge of the lake, then when I nearly topple into the lake myself, dizzy from the heat.

At the end of it, I have a lump that looks like it’s been hammered out of shape rather than into. It curves, for one thing, like a fruit from the surface. No good for stabbing through joints in armor. And what's far worse is the quality of the steel itself. I can see little cracks in it, and it’s discolored in parts. Am I not supposed to quench it in oil, or water, or wyvern blood? I think I am, but I have none of those things.

With the cracks in it, I'm deadly scared it will shatter to pieces if I try to rework it. I have no choice but to graft the runes and call an end to my efforts.

With my cramped and aching left hand I place the three runes on the blade. Then I use my obsidian to pick off three chips of incandesite and lay them atop each one.

I bring the hammer down on the first rune. It flares bright red and becomes one with the steel. I do the same with the second rune. When I bring the hammer down onto the third rune, red explodes through cavern like crimson lightning. A keening sound rings out and I duck behind the anvil, terrified something's gone wrong, that my craft is in pieces.

But once I find the courage to look, I see the blade is whole, and emanating a weak aura of power. My hand is drawn to it like a magnet; my skin prickles. I touch it with my fingertip and it's warm. The grafting hasn't been a total failure, at least.

I make the handle by wrapping batskin and strands of cloth around the blunt part. Then it's time to test on a low-hanging vine. I slash.

The blade is too blunt to hack all the way through.

I've failed. I sink to my knees.

Sap splatters on my head, warm and scented. I look up and it’s pouring from the cut, which is hissing. A red glow from the runes envelops me.

The blade is shoddy. But the runes are perfect. Halat, come here, must have a strong affinity with the white threads that so diluted the copper. Was it luck that led me to choosing it? Or some hidden, subconscious stroke of genius?

That rune, I think back, is never used with fire. Who would desire to burn themselves? But something deep within me knew it was the best tool for the task, and now I reap the rewards.

I stand and laugh, letting the warm sweet sap flow into my mouth.

It's better than sour beer for sure.