It is finally time to create my weapon—my mace of light. Some of the others are already wielding theirs, and it doesn't do for their guildmaster to still be defenseless against what lurks below.

Size is the first thing I must decide. Until now, I've always wielded two-handed weapons. Heartseeker was such, as was my first mace of light, then Gutspiercer after that, and now Life-Ripper too. But I have an idea for a shield that will work well with my echo-eyes. I'm not sure how well it will work, or even if what I have in mind is possible, but in any case, this time I will design a one-handed beater.

I prepare paper and ink, begin to plan. I sketch the haft. It'll be around three feet long, longer than most one-handed weapons would have, but I'm not used to fighting up very close and won't be comfortable without at least this much reach. It'll be hollow titanium, and its poem will discuss how fast a signal for attack can flash from one end of the battle-cavern to the other.

Now to plan the main part of the weapon—the head. Titanium is not particularly heavy, as metals go, so I consider whether to build the flanges around a core of tungsten or lead in order to add some heft. Ultimately, I decide against the idea. It seems to me that true metal values purity. To weld one to another is likely a complex process, and I don't have the money to waste on too many failed crafts.

I assumed that as the Runic League grew, my money would in turn. But there's been some kind of trouble up above. After finishing my echo-eyes, when I took them up to the guild to have the new runes put down, the cut of gold I received after was smaller than usual. Ithis says there haven't been so many jobs put out recently.

I design a titanium head with twelve flanges. This is double the usual, so should weigh enough to do plenty of damage. It also gives me more space for the poems.

With an even number of faces to graft stanzas too, my first instinct is to create twenty-four alternating ones. One stanza of light, followed by another of darkness. No—I shake my head and curse. If I arranged them like that, the poem would end on a stanza of darkness.

Light must defeat the dark, so the poem will begin in darkness. But what effect might such a saga have on the final craft? I put down my writing-stick and pace about the forge, worrying. I think back to my first mace of light, still lying at the bottom of the shaft. Likely I'll see it soon enough.

It flashed off and on, dark then light. At its zenith, it was blinding, but whenever it darkened, it was next to useless in the face of the enemy's magic. How might my new runes of darkness react to the sorcerer's power? Might it increase the monster's strength in some awful way?

I can't rule such an effect out. No, I can't use runes of darkness on this craft. Not many of them, in any case. My poem will speak of a completely overwhelming victory. Light will absolutely crush its opposition, which never had any chance to begin with anyway. Each time I mention darkness it will be pathetic, feeble, impotent.

I start to draft the poem right away. I've created enough vocabulary that I won't have to rely so entirely on the trance. But the runic flow calculations turn out to be nigh on impossible. Light is addition, but without the subtraction of darkness, the sums are unbalanced. I have to work the flows very trickily, and this leads to some strange phrasing.

I'll patch it up in my trance, create some new runes. There's still plenty of gaps that need to be filled. It'll work fine.

I move back to the physical designs, calculate and recalculate, measure and check. Once I'm satisfied, I go down to the eating hall to fill myself up. I'll check my sketches again after I'm fed and rested, then begin work immediately.

When I get to the eating hall, I'm surprised to see not only the deep dwarves here, but ten members of the Runic League too. They sit at their own table, drinking and talking in low voices. Beside their chairs, heads wrapped tightly in cloths lit white from within, are their own maces of light.

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"Guildmaster!"

I don't recognize him in his new armor at first, but quickly realize that the speaker is Ithis. Just like his old helmet, his new one, titanium engraved with softly glowing runes of light, has been forged to look like the jaws of a beast. The beast he's modeled it on this time seems to be a dithyok—the circles of engraved teeth look truly gruesome.

"I'm surprised to see so many of you down here," I say, walking over.

"Guildmaster Nthazes requested more bodies. The darkness has been restless recently."

"I see. A worrying development."

"Yes, but it hasn't tried to attack us yet. Or at least, not with any great force."

"Then it has attacked?"

"Just scouting maneuvers," says another runeknight—I struggle to recall his name. "Trying to judge us newcomers' strength."

"And what has it found?"

"It's found we have plenty," says Ithis, raising his visor to sip some beer. "Your runes of light are powerful. Flexible too. We already have nearly as many as those of the deep dwarves' original scripts."

"Excellent. And they take well with almergris?"

"Very well."

"Good, good. I am about to forge my own weapon, actually. It seems I'm going to have to work hard to surpass your skills."

My runeknights laugh. "Hardly!" says another whose name I also cannot recall. Yolok? Yulok? "We'll never beat you in the forge, guildmaster. Not if all ten of us put our funds together to buy the best metal in Brightdeep."

I grin and sit down. "I'll try to impress you all as best I can. But tell me, how are things up in the city? Ithis, you mentioned the work situation..."

We discuss many things about the guild over the table. Problems have been cropping up left and right, as problems always do, and Ithis explains the solutions that he, Hayhek, and the other seniors have been implementing. There's a lot to think about, a lot of things I'd never considered before.

For example, security. Until now our door has been left wide open, and since the guild has grown so fast, it's hard for anyone to recall who's a member and who isn't.

"We have guards posted now," Ithis tells me. "They have everyone's name and face memorized. We've already turned a few away. They claimed to be lost—I think they were spies."

"Trying to get our runes? Have they guessed that we don't sell all of them?"

"It's not hard to imagine rumors about secret scripts floating around. I'm sure it's all hearsay, not based on what we actually have. But the draw of mystery is strong."

Then there is the issue of finances. Jobs have been drying up at an alarming pace. There's something suspicious going on, my guildmembers say, because none of the other guilds seem to be suffering. No one has been able to figure out exactly what, though.

"Conspiracy," one grumbles. "A plot against us. Perhaps from Runethane Halmak himself. I never liked him."

"He's trying to strangle us, you think?" I say, narrowing my eyes. "Cut off our gold?"

"With respect, guildmaster," says Ithis, "I wouldn't be so hasty to pin it on the Runethane. He's never shown any open hostility to your claims, unlike some others and, by all accounts, he spends most of his time up in the forge anyway."

"It's sure to be one of his subordinates, then," says another runeknight. "One of his so-called elders. I've had to deal with them on more than one occasion, and let me tell you, guildmaster, they're a bad lot. They're fossilized. Think bronze and Bezethest are all there is."

I nod. "They've reason to dislike us, then. They really do prize that script—for whatever mad reason."

"It's the best, they say. Nothing else equals its depth, its breadth, its power." The runeknight shakes his head. "I got sick of it."

The conversation degenerates into grumbling about the other guilds, and most especially about the Red Anvil guild. Probably I ought to attempt to calm the atmosphere, but instead I just find myself nodding along, and throwing in my own grievances at points. Why won't the Runethane recognize the truth of my claims? If he'd only look—I'd be a strong ally to him. If he's really as fair as he claims to be, we could work together. He could teach me of his favored script and perhaps I might be able to expand it in some fashion.

But alas, too many old dwarves are set in their old ways. Even Runeking Ulrike himself seemed blind to the potential my powers hold. There's already enough runes, he told me. Why should he need more? I do not wish to criticize him after how he saved me, and I of course do not say this openly, but that remark seems, in hindsight, to have been a rather arrogant and short-sighted one.

I end my meal and drink, tell my runeknights good luck, and return to the forge.

I ready my tools and materials, take up my mining-knife, and start to scrape down the titanium ingots. True metal flashes, sparks, tumbles onto the anvil. I collect it, weigh it out. Thirty-five grams. I can't afford to make a higher concentration, and besides, the haft is going to be tricky enough to create as it is.

I heat up my smoke-coal and metal, then begin to craft.

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