Nthazes opens the door and the forging hall is cold and dark. In only two of the pits do furnaces burn, and the clangs of hammer on anvil from them seem distant and empty. An immense sense of sadness takes hold of me: the scale of the guardians' losses are made truly clear in this place. Once the forging hall was full of fire and cacophony—precious little of that remains now.
"How many of you are there in total?" I ask quietly, as Nthazes leads me between the dust-filled pits.
"Only about thirty."
"There were two hundred before, weren't there?"
"About that, yes."
"So there have only been twenty or so recruits?"
"About that. But as I said before, Runethane Halmak's best have forged weapons of light too. If we should be attacked, or are ordered to attack ourselves, we will face the darkness with greater forces than before."
"Runethane Halmak's forces don't have the benefit of experience, though."
"That is unfortunately true. But we can do nothing about it." We stop at a pit in the far corner. "How will this do for you?" he asks.
I peer into it. The furnace is one of the bigger ones, yet its design is primitive. It looks like it will need a lot of coal to run, and the bellows are pedal-worked, not automatic.
"This is the hottest one we have," says Nthazes. "I've heard senior runeknights need hotter furnaces for their works."
"Did Runethane Yurok use this one, then?"
"No. He had his own. I believe Commander Cathez used to forge here, though."
"I think it'll do just fine then," I say politely. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. But you'll need some supplies, I presume. Unless you're hiding a few titanium sheets under your armor?"
I laugh. "I neglected to bring any."
"We don't use the storerooms so often anymore, preferring to keep metal close by."
He gestures to some familiar shelves, brought from the stores—I imagine a bloodless body lying beside them, shake the vision from my head. They are stocked with titanium sheets.
"You can choose whatever you like, and as much as you like. Although—" He suddenly frowns.
"What is it?"
"I suppose you'll be wanting to use Runethane Yurok's metal."
"No!" I shake my head. "That material is precious beyond words. It should be for your use alone. Not mine."
"I insist. You saved the fort. You deserve it just as much as we do."
"I don't even know if this forge can grow hot enough."
"Then you wish to use the Runethane's?"
I recall the Runethane's face, the obsession upon it, the refusal to admit the possibility that he was wrong—his sheer arrogance, and also cruelty. I don't want to work where such a dwarf forged.
Yet can I really refuse an offer of true metal? A material distilled a thousand times and filled with life and power?
"I don't want to bring bad luck down on you. You said you stayed away from his places."
He shrugs. "That's just superstition. I'll light braziers for you, make it bright."
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"I can't, Nthazes. You said so yourself: I'm an outsider."
"But we need your strength. If you fight with us and your equipment fails because I did not grant you the resources you deserved, the fort's end will be my fault. I can't risk it."
"You put too much pressure on yourself."
"I am guildmaster. This is my duty. Come on, Zathar. Use what we offer you. It's not as if you won't give anything in return."
I nod, reluctantly. Though perhaps not that reluctantly. "Very well."
So now I stand in Runethane Yurok's personal forge before his great blue and gray-stained anvil. Upon it are sheafs of paper and a sharp charcoal writing stick. Behind me are high shelves, upon which lie sheets of titanium of the highest quality, cases of quizik, incandesite, jasperite and hytrigite, and a small box of almergris. That case is securely locked. Beside the shelves is another case, larger and heavier—a proper chest, nearly as long as I am tall.
It was once triple locked. Nthazes and the others have broken the locks away, however, sawed them apart with a diamond saw which he has also allowed me the use of.
"Do you not wish to look inside?" he asks.
It repels me. "I can feel the power from within."
"And are you familiar with it?"
"Somewhat. The material I worked with was akin to it."
"Which needed great temperatures to make workable."
"Yes."
He walks over to the chest. I reach out, open my mouth to stop him, but am too slow. He lifts the chest open and power seems to fill the room. Magnetically I'm drawn toward it—suddenly I'm peering in next to him. Firelight dances on the silvery facets of three small ingots like sunlight upon three rivers. A look of bliss has come across Nthazes face. He closes his eyes.
"Can you hear it, Zathar? The music."
I close my eyes too. I can hear a faint keening, just.
"I will be able to hear it better once my ears are completed."
"Then you best start work, and make them well: just to hear this music, if nothing else."
I open my eyes and step away. "I shall."
"And you are sure you cannot tell me how to find, or create this material?"
"I can only tell you what I was told: what comes into the Runeking's foundry-palace, but never out?"
"All right. Your runes will be gift enough, I suppose."
"Are you going to stay to watch me work?"
"No, that would be rude."
"I don't mind. Others less worthy than you have watched me."
"Even so, I won't."
"Very well. But when I runeforge—I'd like you to be there then. In case I burn."
"I'll have a bucket filled, and chains prepared."
"I won't be doing that this hour. I'm just going to sketch some designs."
He nods. "You do that. I'll return to my vigil. Make use of our food and ale freely, when you need to. And I'll have your old quarters cleaned and prepared for you."
"Thank you. Please send someone show me to them, though. I don't remember my way around."
"Of course. Goodbye, for now."
"Goodbye."
He exits and shuts the heavy door. The thudding echo fades and I feel truly alone. I look around, and despite the bright light of the braziers and sweaty warmth of the great furnace, it seems chill and dark in here—unfriendly. Should I really be working here? Was this not a foolish decision? I am in the personal forge of a Runethane! It has been made to fit him and his character. The tools are arranged in the order he valued them highest. The forge is set to the heat he liked to work with. It has been positioned next to the door, perhaps because he believed that putting it there would ward off the darkness.
Yet I cannot refuse the power true metal can give me, and with my runic furnace left behind in Vanerak's realm, there is no other place to work it but here.
Time to get rid of the distracting thoughts. An anvil is an anvil, a furnace is a furnace. Metal is metal, true or otherwise. This is the world of metal; here I will forge.
I begin to sketch designs for my runic ears. Nthazes' and those of the other deep dwarves' have inspired me. I draw ideas for a pair tall and elaborate, like tall curving horns, or swords. How should the curves go? They will channel the wind at scale, seeking to take in the entirety of whatever tunnel, cavern, or maze I enter. I want to hear every movement of the darkness when it reaches for us.
Designing such a grand craft is no easy task. I spend what is likely several short-hours on each draft, painstakingly calculating curves and shading in depths—only to realize that its premise has been flawed, and then I'll thrust the paper into the furnace in a fit of frustration.
The shadows seem to be laughing at me. It's as if some ghost of Runethane Yurok remains in here to find amusement in my feeble efforts. Well, why should he not laugh at me? What I'm attempting is the specialty of these deep dwarves. Who am I to try to equal them, even those lower in degree than me?
I change the settings on the furnace, switching various levers and turning several marked wheels. No longer is it Runethane Yurok's furnace, but my own, at the heat I prefer. Then I switch it off—the smell it makes is not quite that of the coal I'm used to. Likely it feeds on some more expensive fuel. Maybe a very expensive fuel.
I go back to my designs. Fuel I can worry about later. Right now I need to stop embarrassing myself and plan something worth turning into metal.
Deep into my seventh or eighth sheaf, hunger and thirst set in. I curse and force myself to step away. Where is the guide Nthazes promised me? No one has come. I open the heavy door and peer out. There is no one waiting.
I laugh. With no way to judge time, how would he guess when I finish? I shake my head and retreat back into the heat and light of the forge. Hunger and thirst, sleep, things like that—they can all wait. I am in the world of metal. Now is the time to craft. Or at least to prepare to do so.
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