Within Runethane Halmak's castle, Benkal is hard at work on his own craft. He has already poured the bronze into the mold, waited tense hours for it to cool, and now he is scraping away the muddy mixture to reveal gleaming, fire-hued metal within.

It's dull work, but satisfying. Do miners feel this way, he wonders, when they chip away the stone to unearth diamonds? It's unlikely. Those he's seen are always too drunk to think much of anything, and care about nothing more than their next meager pay-hour. And Benkal is revealing his own work: something made, not merely found.

The last few crumbs of molding clay come away under his fingernails. He washes his hands in a bucket of water, making sure to get out every last piece of dirt. It's expensive stuff, this particular kind of clay, and he doesn't want to waste any of it. He'll gather up the specks from the bottom of the bucket later for reuse.

He dries his hands thoroughly and takes hold of the sword. The handle is a little awkward with no leather around it, but other than that, the craft is perfect. It is smooth and sharp even before the hardening.

He moves onto this stage now. Bronze must be hardened under the hammer—although he's heard uncle Brezakh has found a secret way to make this step unnecessary, Benkal has not yet been taught it.

With a small yet very heavy hammer, he taps down the edges firmly but carefully. He knows not to tap too hard and overly distort the metal's outward structure. As much as possible, only the inner structure must be distorted—even a tenth-degree of the Red Anvil guild knows this.

After the edges, he works inward to its center. It takes him one long-hour, though he indulges in many breaks for ale and food. This is a little vice of his—without the taste of expensive meats and wines in his mouth, it's hard for him to feel much enthusiasm for his work.

He finishes. It is now time for the runes. He begins to feel a little queasy. These runes—they are wrong, not meant to be. Even just formed in ink they seem to rob some of the light from the room. He dreads what they will be like once put into metal. Whichever runeforger made them, be it Zathar or some dwarf from long ago—whoever it was, they were either mad or evil.

But he must make this weapon. No matter how much he dreads working with these runes, he must use them. Zathar must be brought down, and this is the way to do it. Once the Runethane sees the evil in the dark runes, he will surely have the traitor executed and the threat to the realm will be eliminated. That's why Benkal is taking such a risk.

It's certainly not simply because he desires his uncle's favor and the prestige and gold which comes with it. Certainly not, Benkal has convinced himself. He is a noble runeknight, not some petty power-grabber.

He calculates the lengths of lead he needs and cuts carefully. He bends them even more carefully and lays them along the flat of the blade on beds of quizik and jasperite. The beginning and end ones of each stanza, however, will be grafted with hytrigite.

He switches on his furnace, holds the welding-rod in. He pulls it out; the white metal shimmers. He touches it to the first rune.

Darkness flashes. It's as if he blinked. He swallows, touches the rod to the next one. There is another black flash. He stops, steps away. He takes a deep draught of wine for courage before returning. He takes a deep breath and touches his welding-rod to the third rune, the fourth. Fear-sweat beads on his forehead. Might he be bringing some terrible evil into the underworld?

No, no. This is all for the good.

He slips a few times, knocks some runes a millimeter out of place. But it's good enough. The enruned side of the blade has become completely dull. Now for the other side. He works slowly, laying on each rune exactly. He reheats his welding-rod. With each tap, more light vanishes. He shivers. Is it just his imagination, or has the forge become colder, and its lanterns dimmer?

He finishes the last rune. The blade loses its last hint of color and becomes an inky black. He swallows, fearing to take hold of it, but he forces himself reach out and wrap his gloved hand around the hilt.

He raises it up and a coldness spreads down his arm, like drops of chill water running down the inside of his skin. The sensation intensifies until he can no longer bear it. He attempts to let go and, with growing panic, finds that he cannot.

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Light is being drawn into the blade—the lanterns truly are growing dim. The metal is beginning to shiver with the power—or is it his arm that's shaking, as the life drains out of it?

He yelps, swings, manages to fling the blade across the room. It hits the wall and bends. Black sparks jump when it hits the floor. The light continues to be drawn into the enruned metal. Benkal backs away.

The bronze twists further and then—shatters like dropped glass. Shards of metal whistle across the room. One embeds itself in Benkal's hand. He stares in fascinated horror as its black color slowly fades back to the hue of bronze.

He sinks down to his knees. That craft—it was the most terrible he's seen. Yet there was power to it. With the appropriate poem, the right forging techniques, it could be truly strong.

He shakes his head vigorously. He can feel blood dripping from his right hand. This blade is a proof of concept, nothing more. Its purpose is to convince the Runethane that Zathar is a force for ill in the realm.

The sword is not going to do that in pieces, though. He will have to reforge it—but first he decides to forge a sheath of light. This power is too strong, too terrible, to be left out in the open.

Still feeling downcast, I ascend to Brightdeep for gold for my shield and, as importantly, to find out if anyone's discovered the reasons behind the mysteriously localized economic downturn. Is there truly a conspiracy against us? Are the others really so suspicious of my runes and background? Or is the motive simple jealousy of our success?

I have a worrying feeling that, by one way or another, I will know soon enough. As I walk through the streets, I'm glared at, avoided, whispered about—or, and this is new—smirked at. I scowl back at these last, but most just smirk further. Do they know something I don't? Is some joke being played on us?

I hurry my steps and soon make it to the guildhall. Two heavily armored runeknights confront me.

"Raise your helm!" one orders.

"He's the guildmaster!" says the other. "Don't you recognize the bident?"

"There are thieves in the other guilds. We can't judge by equipment."

I nod. "A wise decision." I raise my tungsten visor. "Does this satisfy you?"

"Yes, guildmaster." He hesitates. "Though—"

I tug on my beard. "It's not a mask."

"Go on through, guildmaster," says the second guard. "Everyone will be pleased to see you."

He opens the door—a great heavy steel affair, enruned with a poem about how magma burns anyone who tries to force their way through it to ash. A fearsome looking barrier, though I feel that it wouldn't hold up long to the weapon of a second or first degree.

Within the guildhall, the atmosphere seems somewhat muted. A few dwarves greet me, but most seem to be out. On jobs? I spot Ithis at the back of the hall counting coins and walk over to him.

"Ah, guildmaster."

"You don't sound so happy."

"I'm not. We're being cut off—I'm certain of it."

"No jobs? But then, where is everyone?"

"Mostly forging with what little materials they have, or else working—on the most menial things, as a rule."

"Anything pays well has gone, has it?"

"Indeed."

"Gone where?" I grip Life-Ripper more tightly. "Are we pitted against Runethane Halmak himself, do you think?"

"It's possible, I suppose. I'm trying to find out, trust me."

"How?"

"Listening around. That kind of thing."

"Listening around? Be more specific, if you would."

"Of course, guildmaster." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "I've got dwarves posted to half the bars and public houses in the city. Mostly the junior degrees: those young and not so easily recognized. I'm sure someone will let something slip eventually."

"Spies, ay?"

"You might say that. But there's no law against listening around."

I nod. "I approve. Expand things, if we can afford to."

He grimaces. "That might be a bit of a stretch. Look at these figures, guildmaster."

He turns around the piece of paper he's been scribbling numbers onto. I read. Anger grows in me further: the numbers are a great deal smaller than usual. Less than half of what they used to be, in fact. I curse, filthily.

"You take the words right out of my mouth," says Ithis. "But don't worry, guildmaster. We'll get to the bottom of this. And once we do, the culprits, no matter how high they might be, will have no choice but to face the heavy hammer of justice."

"There is the question of who will wield that hammer, though," I say. "The Runethane? Or will I have to do it personally?"

"Hopefully the Runethane. Hopefully the rust doesn't go right to the top."

"If it does, though—Vanerak won't be the only Runethane to taste my blade on his skin. They won't get away with this—whoever they are!"

"No, guildmaster. They will not."

I stand there for a few more seconds, every muscle tensed, my teeth grinding against each other. My ruby is blazing as hot as a drop of magma. Bloody images flash through my mind, of dwarves lying around me with their armor broken and blood oozing from the cracks.

"Guildmaster?" Ithis says.

"They won't get away with it," I hiss. "They won't!"

He looks somewhat alarmed. The fear in his eyes wakes me from my rage and I shake my head rapidly.

"It's nothing. Nothing at all." I blink hard to get the images out of my mind, then sigh. "You can get back to counting what's left of our coin. I better get started on my next craft. I planned for a shield, but I suppose it'll have to be a buckler now."

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