I don't quite have the gold yet to purchase my gems, but I do have enough for twenty large ingots of titanium. It's time, I decide, to face the shame of all runeknights and mine out the true metal once more.

I place the edge of the blade against the top of the first ingot. Grimacing, I scrape along. Silver mist boils up and I hear a keening sound like a scream from far away. White sparks appear and roll down onto the anvil. They cool, reveal themselves to be smaller than grains of sand.

Back and forth I sweep the blade. Titanium, good and strong, vanishes into nothing. Like the dark dust I wrote about in my poem, it's banished by my runes of light. To treat such a noble metal like this—horrible beyond all runes.

One whole kilogram ingot gone, I scrape the true metal into a bowl and weigh it. Just under two grams. The ratio is a tiny fraction better than it was with tungsten. Maybe this is because of the kind of metal, or maybe because of the different poem. Whatever the exact amount, however, it's still an immense waste.

I spend the next several hours destroying the remaining nineteen ingots. By the end of this awful process, I have a grand total of thirty-six grams of true metal. I re-weigh twice: still only thirty-six grams. I hold the bowl up to the light and stare at it. Can this truly be all that's left?

It is.

Melting the material is my first job. I get myself a mold from the shelf. It's made from some kind of unreflective black substance that, when tested, did not so much as glow slightly red even after enduring an hour of the furnace's highest possible temperature.

I put the grains in, heat. For a while, nothing happens. Then it suddenly it blooms with bright light and collapses into a single, bead-like drop. I pull the mold out and look closely. The true titanium is shimmering like a mirror of purest magma-light, and in the yellow shimmers I can see metal statues that twist and dance like living things. What exactly they are, I cannot quite tell. They're formless, or hints of forms.

Pure potential, I decide. That's what I see in those tiny, blinding dots. When I entered the Runeking's forge, I saw a similar phenomenon: swords of golden fog spinning as I walked toward his anvil. How much true metal does he use, for images of such clarity to form?

Might his true metal have been made even truer? If so, where does it end? I banish the thought. I have to concentrate on my work.

After the bead of true titanium cools, I take it into the palm of my hand. It's a little bigger than I expected, about the size of the nail of my little finger. I weigh it again, and the scales again balance at exactly thirty-six gram weights.

It's a little larger in volume than it ought to be. This true titanium, I conclude, is even lighter than the mundane form.

I stroke my beard, puzzled. Why should this be? The true tungsten was heavier than the ordinary—and it was far harder to melt, too. This true titanium's melting point isn't that much higher than ordinary titanium's.

Until now, I've just assumed that true metal was just a harder, stronger, and more heat-resistant form of ordinary metal. But why should something nearly living be so simple? There are further secrets, it seems. Once I begin to forge, they will become apparent.

And they will become apparent soon. I've decided that, with my newfound appreciation for the subtleties of light, even if I have no runic ears to wear I am capable of making a piece of armor strong enough to stride into battle in.

This hour, I will make a helmet: light, strong and enruned to fling back the blows of my enemies. Partly it's a test, of both my new script and true metal, but it'll be a strong craft in its own right as well.

First, to design it: I sketch out a few potential shapes. In the end, I decide to go for a simple, two-piece design, of a main part and a large visor to draw down. It won't encase my neck fully—I want to allow myself more freedom of movement. Later, I'll create a chainmail coif as well to protect my throat and spine.

With the basic plan decided, I go into particulars, drawing exact lines and angles, measuring curves carefully. I triple-check every measurement I make, then triple-check all of them again. I start to become hungry, but ignore the sensation. The call of the metal and furnace is too strong. Heat can be my sustenance, and the intoxicating scent of the fuel my drink.

I put down the writing-stick. My fingers are raw and there's spots of blood around my nails. I lick them off and ready the titanium sheeting—ingots weren't all I bought.

Very carefully, very slowly, I cut the pieces into shape. I will not allow even the slightest amount of dust or metal to be wasted. The off-cuts—though I do not like to call them that—I heat and hammer out very thin. A hundred beats, a thousand, and they become near as flat as paper. I lay them on the main sheets and heat everything to nearly melting point, though not quite.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Once the metal has cooled to red-yellow, I inspect closely. The way the flames reflect on it shows that the surface is still slightly uneven, the shape not quite right. I must fix this, so I select a small hammer and raise it.

A weakness takes me. I lean on the anvil, coughing. My throat is dry, my stomach a hole of hunger. I can't ignore my body any longer; I must rest. I curse, place down my tool, and head down to the eating hall.

Once more, there is no one here. After devouring the last few scraps of food that were laid out, I begin to worry. I haven't seen any of the Guardians Against Darkness for a while. A sudden fear takes hold: might they all be wiped out? Could the darkness be loose? Could it even now be slinking through the fort?

Probably not. I calm myself. If the darkness was loose, it would have come to the light and warmth of my forge first. It's still contained, has to be.

Yet all the same, I feel obliged to find someone. If the darkness has become more active, or if there is something else tying up the deep dwarves, I ought to know. I hurry back to my quarters to equip my armor. I should have it with me at all times, I decide. I was a fool to consider this place safe.

Once equipped, and with Life-Ripper ready to stab—perhaps its magic-tearing thorns will have some small effect on the darkness, though I'm not particularly hopeful—I make my way down in the direction of the Shaft. The corridors seem quieter than usual, and the blackness thicker, almost like it's a solid gel painted over my eyes. I become disoriented in the subtle currents of air and end up back at my forge instead of the Shaft, perhaps due to some subconscious instinct to flee.

But I do not flee. I prepare a torch—there's a small stock here—and restart my journey down.

The dark corridors are starting to unnerve me greatly. I shiver. Has the air grown colder? It seems to me that the firelight, as it flickers over the walls, is being eaten by the blackness, sucked in and extinguished.

I'm just imagining things, I tell myself. Any moment now, and I will meet Nthazes or one of the others.

Another half hour's quiet, careful treading, and I'm nearly at the Shaft. There's still no sign of anyone. I step around the final turn, heart pounding.

A silver glare meets my eyes. Inside my heart, hope and terror flare to the same degree of incandescence. I break into a run. The deep dwarves' weapons have not been extinguished, but they must all be gathered here to make such brightness. What has happened?

I dash out into the massive, circular hall, remember the steps at the last second and halt my momentum. Not quite in time—my front foot hits empty air and I make a heavy step down. My tungsten clangs, and the note echoes through the silence.

No one calls out. I squint, eyes watering. Around the shaft a dozen runeknights are gathered, all holding up their white-glowing maces of light to create a barrier around the pit.

My body tenses. It's an involuntary reaction, driven by pure fear. Fear of cold, death, of life being ripped away like it was ripped away from so many, down in the city below here.

It's fear of the dark, of what lies within the pit—of a blackness far blacker than usual, and this time it is not just my imagination. A cold, empty feeling comes over me. It's here. Within the Shaft I can see the deep darkness, alive and roiling, boiling, threatening to pour over and exterminate all warmth and life above. It's battering itself against the light. I aim Life-Ripper at it, though before that terrible mass of dark my weapon feels tiny and impotent.

Perhaps foolishly, I make my way down the steps toward Nthazes. I discard my torch and shade my eyes. The brightness is astounding—yet at the center of my vision I can still see the darkness. It's not at all obscured by the glare. In fact, it's beginning to suck the glare in, destroy it.

"Guildmaster Nthazes," I whisper. "What's going on?"

"The same as always, my friend."

None of the dwarves seem disturbed by my entrance. I suppose they must have heard me while I was still in the corridor.

"Is it going to attack?" I ask. "Is it attacking already?"

"It's trying to escape, just like it always is."

"It's stronger than before."

"No." Nthazes shakes his head. "It's weaker than before. Before—well, you remember. But we're weaker than before also."

"I'm making my script of light. I've already created a useful set of runes. But it's not quite enough yet."

The blackness shudders. Can it hear me? Is it somehow transmitting my voice down to its wielder?

"Work on it quickly!" spits Hirthik. A thin tendril of darkness slithers toward his feet. He swings his mace down and it vanishes. "We need more strength!"

"As soon as I can," I promise, taking an alarmed step away. "As soon as I can."

"And you will send more dwarves?" asks Nthazes.

"Yes! My guild is ready—and I will keep my promise."

"Good. That is good."

Unseen ripples spread in the blackness, sensed only by a series of chills that run emanate outward from the Shaft. Slowly, yard by yard, a black column rises from the center. It opens up like a fist extending fingers. It starts to bend down toward Nthazes.

"Go, Zathar," he says calmly. "Don't worry about us. Just concentrate on your work. You can do nothing here in any case."

"Understood," I whisper.

The blackness crashes down over him. More tendrils whip out from it, slashing at the others. They slash back with their weapons of light and the circular hall becomes a flashing nightmare of blinding brightness and the darkness of nothing. I turn, run. Nthazes is right—Life-Ripper will do nothing against this force.

I rush up the stairs, panting. Battle-cries and deafening silences chase me. Then, just as I'm about to pass through the exit, I see a figure standing in the corner of my vision. A tall, gaunt figure, with long hair flowing down like a white river. In her hand she clutches a long section of wood.

Her eyes, for one flash of an instant, meet mine.

They are like Jaemes' eyes, determined. But they are also like the eyes of the wizard I faced up on the surface, full of fearsome magic.

I continue to run.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.