When most dwarves forge, they use a hammer. They heat the metal and beat it out into shape. Then, they graft the runes. Crafting has been done this way for untold eons.

Now there are new techniques. When Elder Brezakh forges, he uses no hammer. Why apply such crude force when making beauty and sophistication? Why incur the metal's wrath? His process is far more effective, far more advanced.

First, the alloying. Most runeknights are content to trust the metalworkers to do this for them—and indeed for materials for lesser runeknights, metalworkers do a good enough job. But senior runeknights must put more attention into their crafts. Even the slightest impurity can have a devastating effect on the final outcome. So, Elder Brezakh alloys his bronze himself.

Bronze! Such a versatile metal. He takes from the furnace a cup of molten copper and pours it into the mixing crucible. Its heat is fierce, angry, yet also somehow impotent. Copper! Such a weak metal, easily broken and easily melted. Like a young dwarf who has not yet faced the trial of battle, it must be strengthened.

But by the addition of what? Most dwarves, including an unfortunate number of runeknights, believe bronze to simply be a mixture of copper and tin. Bronze has far more depth to it than this. Bronze can be a mixture of copper and many other metals. Some alloys contain barely a smidgen of tin—like the one Brezakh is mixing this hour.

He adds a smaller cup of zinc. The uneducated would say this makes the alloy brass—this is not the case. The main metallic properties come from the addition of the next two elements: tin, of course, followed shortly by aluminum, and then manganese. This is the crucial difference between strong bronze and flimsy, pretentious brass, which is only fit for decoration. Brass takes its properties from untrustworthy zinc. Bronze does not, though it may use it in part.

Manganese! That is the key to this alloy. It is a metal unknown to most dwarves, even to most metalworkers. It's of similar appearance to silver, yet it's brittle, almost powdery if one applies enough sudden pressure. But it adds more strength to the alloy than its humble pure properties would suggest. Like the death of a foe, or a friend, it forces the copper to strengthen itself.

He closes the cap of the silkenstone crucible. A master of masonry made it and the cap fits as tightly as if it were sealed magnetically. He turns it over and around gently in his scarred, solid hands, feeling the weight within slosh about. Just a few turns are all it needs, and then he lays it down on the workbench.

This stage is done. It felt easy, just then, yet this act of mixing was the culmination of several long-hours of painstaking measurement and melting. Not to mention that most taboo of process—extracting the true metal. Each metal he just mixed contained a heavy drop of its truthful version. The largest proportion was true manganese, so difficult to work with, so liable to disintegrate in the merest wind and bore into the very brain of the unworthy runeknight who breathes it in.

Elder Brezakh does not allow himself any sigh of relief, nor a pat on the shoulder to say job well done. He takes no break. He will review his poem yet again. To the other side of the workbench he goes, where a thick stack of papers sits. He reads the first layer, then the next, and then the ten through that. His reading is not skimming, like more impatient runeknights are wont to do, but instead careful analysis. Each rune and sub-rune—for that is the correct way to think of runes of the Bezethast script—must fit exactly in both meaning and mathematical power-flow.

So far as he can read, they do, yet it is not enough to consider just the horizontal flow of the runes, but also the flow heading up and down. Compound poems, that great work of genius invented by their honored Runeking, are most tricky to make right.

A few runes seem off. Brezakh corrects them, and the corrections create errors in other lines, which must be corrected also. He wields his quill like a surgeon wields a dagger, cutting to remove with great elegance, before carefully inking in more proper syllables.

His mind remains utterly focused throughout this process. He does not allow himself to feel disappointment. The craft will be perfect, eventually. He just has to work at it.

And then, as so often happens when he is most deep in concentration, there is a loud knock on his door.

"Enter," he says, rather gruffly, unable to mask his irritation.

Runethane Halmak enters, looking cheerful. Brezakh throws a cloth over his poems and turns to face him.

"Good hour, my Runethane."

"It is indeed, Brezakh."

"You look happier than usual."

"Why shouldn't I be? We are becoming strong, my friend. Strong and numerous! A force to be reckoned with, even among the more powerful of the Runethanes' domains."

"We are still far from equaling those, I fear. I would not compare us to Runethane Ytith, nor to Runethanes Galthur or Volovik."

Halmak waves a dismissive hand. "It's only a matter of time. Just a matter of time. The bigger our realm, the more mines we can open. The more mines, the more metal, the more strength and riches. The formula is a simple one."

"We may not have much time. You know the rumors as well as I do. Perhaps you know better, from your communications with the Runeking."

"Oh, stop worrying so much. Uthrarzak is still sweeping up what remains of Halajatbast's kingdom. It wasn't so large as ours, but it was still significant. He will march south, yes, that is a certainty—but we have time before that happens."

"There is the dark to contend with also."

"It is dormant, injured."

"And strife from within, too."

"This again?" Halmak snaps. "I thought I told you to drop it."

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Brezakh folds his arms and advances to within a pace of his Runethane. They are nearly nose to nose. "You are not taking it seriously enough."

Halmak glowers. He's not in his armor, but runes or none, he still exudes menace. "We cannot have an economy without competition."

"No. But we are allowing the competition to grow too fierce. Some guilds are growing strong. Threatening our position."

"Rubbish. We have a three-quarters degree, in me, and multiple fraction degrees. You yourself are nearing quarter-degree. And below them we have more second and third-degrees than every other guild here combined."

"For now. I was listening carefully when the refugees gave their report on what happened. I was listening even more carefully when the two surviving guildmasters gave their report. In fact, I had them discuss the fighting with me later, one on one. I learned something interesting."

"Did you now?"

"Yes. Zathar Once-Traitor took command of Oludek's Salamander Coats. Or rather, he was forced into command. They wanted him to lead. They saw him as some kind of savior."

"I am aware of what happened. He was the strongest there. Is it not natural that he should have led them? He is second-degree, closing in on first. Though he still uses but a tiny fraction of the truth, his script from the magma has carried him far."

"You know what they believe about that script."

Halmak snorts. "Only because they don't know enough about runes, and about senior runeknights. Zathar has worked up a cunning deception, that's all. Or perhaps Vanerak broke his mind."

"The refugees believe in them too. Some are most fanatical about it."

"They can believe what they want. The truth will come out in time."

"Yes—but what damage will have been done by them? I've been informed that, at the feast, talk of him starting a guild was going around."

"Well, all the power to him."

"It will grow strong. Too many trust him, however foolish that might sound."

Halmak shrugs. "It makes no difference. They will not threaten our position—besides, you make it sound as if the guilds are our enemies! They are friends. They are armies, yes, but armies for us to command. That is how our culture has always worked. We are not Uthrarzak's miserable slaves. We do not force those weaker than us to do our bidding. Not unless in times of proper war."

"Mark my words, my Runethane, this will end badly. Someone will challenge you."

"Zathar will, you mean? He managed to escape Vanerak, yes, but he was weakened and injured."

"Zathar or someone else."

"Nonsense," Halmak says sternly. "I'll be a whole-degree by the time the guilds grow as powerful as you fear. I will hear no more of this."

Brezakh steps back, shrugs impolitely. "Very well, my Runethane. I will not mention this again—until I have to."

"Fine, fine." He throws up his arms. "Anyway, that wasn't what I wanted to talk about."

"What was, then? I am rather busy."

"The state of these new residences that are being dug out. I gave you the responsibility, remember?"

"Like I said, I've been rather caught up in my forging."

"Well, as loathe as I am to order you out of here, the overseers report that the miners say..."

We are sitting in the back corner of the tavern. It's quiet; there are few patrons this hour. Everyone is still satiated from the feast, it seems, or else this place simply isn't very popular. Likely the latter, and darkly-scarred Ugyok chose it for that very reason.

I look from him, to Ithis, then back to Hayhek.

"A name?" I say. "Hayhek, I haven't yet decided if I want to go through with this."

"Of course not. You don't have to make a final decision today, this hour."

"Then isn't choosing a name a little premature? Runes are grafted after the metal is tempered."

"Not always," Ithis interrupts. "But please, Zathar. We've been through all this. We need help. We need a leader—a true leader. Who else is there but you?"

"You. Or Hayhek. Or any other senior runeknight."

"You're the most senior. And more importantly, you have your runes. If we're going to survive down here, we need ones that'll give us an advantage."

"I can make runes without being guildmaster."

"You can't. You can't forge without money, and you have none. Once the guild is established, do you have any idea how much gold is going to start pouring in?"

"A lot, yes, but—"

"Nearly all Runethanes are guildmasters first. They need the metal, and time in the forge crafting rather than being out in the caves risking their lives."

"I'm not looking to carve out my own realm, Ithis. Aren't you getting a little ahead of things?"

"And we'll get gold, too."

"You?"

"Our members. Just so long as you're at our head, recruitment will be easy. We'll have influence. We'll have our pick of the jobs."

"Not to mention, the realm will grow stronger as a whole," Hayhek adds. "The scripts you make are easy to work with due to their completeness. Junior runeknights especially will benefit. Maybe you have mixed feelings about this, Zathar. I can understand that. But if it helps, think of the guild not as something for yourself, but as something for its members."

I sit back, bite my lip. He's right. Didn't I promise Nthazes that I'd strengthen the realm, get more runeknights ready to fight the darkness? And creating this guild will be the best way to do that.

But what about Wharoth? What would my old guildmaster think? He is dead, yet somehow I feel that I can't do this without his approval. It's a ridiculous, bitter thought, but it sticks in me all the same, like a dagger of grief, lodged deep in my side.

"Let me think," I say quietly. "In silence."

"All right," says Hayhek.

I hold my temples in my hands and look down at the table.

What would my old guildmaster, irritable, strong, yet oh-so kind, have had to say about all this?

I still can't imagine him approving of me starting a guild. But he would certainly want me to help others. The only reason he fought so hard for me to be given a fair trial was because he heard of how I saved the dwarves of the deep. Now I'm trying to save them again, and if he had understood that creating a guild was the best way to do this, the best way to spread runes of light throughout Brightdeep, then he would have had no objections. My own gold isn't the reason for me agreeing to this. I'm doing it for others. Just for the others.

At least, mostly for them. But my own gaining of power, I tell myself, will also be for their benefit. A weak runeknight can protect no one.

I look up, look each in the eyes in turn. "Very well," I say. "You've persuaded me."

Ithis grins. So does Ugyok. Hayhek bows his head low in respect.

"Thank you," he says.

"So: a name. I suppose it falls to me to choose."

"We can give suggestions," says Ithis. "I have some ideas."

Of course he does. "Well, then let us hear them. But two things: we're not going to call it the association of anything. And there's to be no mention of steel, either. Those belong to Guildmaster Wharoth."

Did Wharoth have a similar conversation when he first decided to establish his guild? Why and when did he establish it, anyway? I never asked—I suppose I'll never get to, now. Braztak might have told me one time, while we were drunk. I hold some vague memory of this, nearly grasp it, but then it vanishes.

I'll never get to ask him either.

"Is that all right?" I finish, swallowing hard, blinking blurriness away.

"Of course," says Ithis. "We will respect any decision you make, for you are our guildmaster."

"We will do nothing to offend Wharoth's memory," says Hayhek. "You have my most solemn word."

"I never knew this Wharoth," says Ugyok. "But he must have been a great runeknight indeed, for a runeforger such as yourself to respect him so."

"He was. He was very great indeed."

A solemn silence falls. Not a minute later, Ithis, ever impatient— but who I suppose I have to thank for bringing the truth of Wharoth's fate out into the light—breaks it.

"Look here, guildmaster. I have prepared a list. Choose anything you think works. Or make something yourself. Anything you think fits."

I nod. "Show me."

He unrolls a long strip of parchment. Upon it, written in my own runes, are many names. I stare.

One alone stands out to me, as if writ in ink of the forge's fire:

The Runic League.

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