Elder Brezakh swings his warhammer down at the crimson anvil with great violence. The stone room trembles and the lanterns shake. He swings again. The noise is deafening. When most dwarves are first inducted into knowledge of this secret technique, blood begins to drip from their ears and noses after but a few strikes. But Brezakh is said to be as tough as the metal he forges with, and he feels no pain whatsoever.

He continues to swing at an even pace. The bronze hammerhead begins to glow bright from within, brighter and brighter with each strike. This is the way to harden a craft. To beat it upon the anvil of true bronze, enruned most deeply with a poem of battle, a poem that tells of how only the bloodiest armies can ever be called truly strong.

Dust rains from the ceiling. Cracks form on the floor. Brezakh yells out a battlecry as he continues to beat. His arm starts to ache. Pain begins to seep into his bones. He shouts louder. The fight has just begun—his greatest in the forge so far, to forge the greatest weapon he has ever yet designed.

Will this amount of true metal really be enough? I want to increase the concentration and hold nothing back in my forging of this aegis. I won't disappoint myself as I did with my mace. No, this shield will be a circle of magnificence, all but unbreakable, and the notes that ring from it from each strike it takes shall be deafening in their purity.

Both sound and sight, I'll rob from my foes. Whoever is attacking us, when they see this craft, when they see the genius of my runes and the skill of my metalworking, they will throw themselves to the ground and beg for mercy.

I doubt I'll give them any.

This isn't enough true metal, I decide. I grab another twenty heavy ingots and begin to mine them down. The silver mist tastes acrid, tastes of shamefulness. But my enemies use plenty of it. I have no choice but to do this.

Once I'm done, I weigh the grains, the spoils of the deaths of fifty heavy ingots of titanium, of many hundreds of golden wheels. They weigh but ninety grams. I want one hundred—I mine down the rest of my supplies, but for those set aside for the rest of the craft. I grit my teeth when the counterbalance reaches ninety-nine weights, and no more. It'll have to do.

I pour the grains into the dip in the rough circle I've crafted. I equip my leather mask, heat the metal alongside the coal. Black smoke swirls as the grains come together into a bright bead, upon which patterns swirl and shake, reform and disintegrate. Around them, the rest of the metal is nearly pure white. I tap. The true metal melds and the whole craft shivers, distorting like jelly for a fraction of a second, then it's back to how it was.

This is the most true metal I've ever put into a craft. The ratio of true to mundane is great too, for my buckler is not to be a large one, even as bucklers go. Will I be able to work it properly? Are my skills great enough? And I do not have much time. I'm confident that Ithis will find out the conspirators soon. Once he does, there is sure to be blood.

I let the metal cool to red, then begin to hammer it out into a wider circle. My vision becomes dark, though dashed through with short streaks of sparks. After some time, the buckler is roughly the size I need it to be. I also hammer out a kind of protrusion which, after letting the metal cool, I sever. I will form this section into the grip after the main forging is complete.

I put my helmet on and pull down my visor. There is darkness, then the strange colors come into dim view. I tap the anvil. It rings, and everything becomes clear—the sound is like a flare of illuminating flame.

I begin to work the buckler into shape using a smaller hammer, holding the metal disc in my tongs and working around the edge in a spiral. Each tap is exact, but the titanium resists my exactitude. It mocks me, bends in unexpected ways. I feel as if I'm back forging my helmet again, failing on every stroke.

How must working with purely true metal be like? Or, as I've considered in the past, some kind of doubly-true metal? I cannot fathom it.

I struggle. My arms tire. My fingers begin to ache. Frustration is beginning to win the battle against patience. Why will it not bend how I wish? My progress seems to be nightmarishly slow. Have I broken off more than I can forge?

Beat by beat, I grapple with the true titanium. I do not have much time—blood is coming.

My ruby shudders in anticipation.

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"Ithis, are you truly sure about this?"

"You worry too much, Hayhek. We are doing nothing wrong. All we're here to do is ask some questions."

"That must be why you seem so eager to swing that hammer of yours."

"Only to emphasize my points. They'll need great emphasis if we're to break the armor of falsehood and taste the sweet blood of truth."

"You are speaking metaphorically, I take it?" Ugyok says, nervously.

"Of course."

"I still think we should have asked Zathar's permission."

"You know not to disturb him while he is at work. We can't afford to throw him off his stride. And besides, he ordered me to expand my efforts, and this is how I've chosen to do so. Us in the Runic League are free to follow orders in our own way. Zathar is not a tyrant—he trusts us to do what we think best."

"He won't approve of torture," warns Hayhek. "He doesn't have the stomach for it."

"There will be no torture. You have my word on that."

The eight dwarves, all senior members of the Runic League, continue to stalk carefully through the tunnels. Though they wield their maces of light and runic ears project from their helms like those of bats, they are not in the fort right now, but deep into the unexplored tunnels around Brightdeep.

They are on a hunt for the truth. And the truth is held, or so Ithis believes, by the party of dwarves that entered this tunnel an hour before them.

One of them apparently held a roll of paper that looked suspiciously like a job contract. Ithis intends to find out where he got it, and if it really was handed to him personally by Elder Brezakh, as his rumor-finders suspect. He's their opponent, the whispers say. The Runethane's weapon-hand dwarf who by all accounts holds nothing but contempt for Zathar and the Runic League.

The party advances at an even pace. With their runic ears amplifying even the slightest echoes from along the tunnel, there is no danger that they'll lose their quarry. No matter how many times the tunnels branch or how convoluted their loops, Ithis and Hayhek are able to lead unerringly.

How long will the hunt last? None know, but these are all senior runeknights. They are patient. They will wait however long it takes for their opportunity to come.

The tunnel opens up into a wide cavern. Stalagmites jut from the floor like spears, and long strands of reddish vine-fungi form a web between them. The Runic League's quarry—twenty members of Rothok's guild—have cut a path through.

Ithis orders a halt. He feels danger in the air. All wrap thick cloths around their weapons' heads and listen carefully. They're not the only hunters in this cavern. Though the sound almost overwhelmed by the loud tromp of the other runeknights, they can hear the subtle skitter of many long legs.

"Bzathletics," whispers Hayhek. "A lot of them, or perhaps a singular jitilik."

"Bad news for them if it's the latter," says Ugyok.

"Good news for us, though," says Ithis. "Let's wait until it attacks."

They wait. The cavern wind brushes over their armor, distorting their hearing-view of the stalagmites and vines before them. The scent here is of spores, and frothing water, but there is also a subtle smell of rot, like that exuded from bones recently picked and licked clean.

"A jitilik. I'm sure of it," whispers Hayhek.

"You slew the last you faced, didn't you?" says Ithis.

"It wasn't fully grown. Still only had half its legs."

They continue to wait. Some pinch the cloth wrappings around their mace and hammer-heads, knowing that they'll have to reveal their light soon enough. How will it fare against a jitilik? And, indeed, against other dwarves?

A sudden cry of fear is the first sound of the battle. Then a great hiss rises up, and the burgeoning battlecries of the other runeknights are dulled.

"Lights!" Hayhek orders, and the eight members of the Runic League tear the coverings from their weapons. A bright glow shines out over the cavern. They shut their eyes.

"Advance!" Ithis yells. "Double-march!"

They begin the advance. But Hayhek speeds up, nearly breaking into a run. Ithis hurries after him and grasps his shoulder.

"We needn't move so fast! We'll wait until both sides are tired—that's our strategy."

"If we help them, perhaps they'll give up what they know willingly."

"Perhaps. And we will help them, somewhat. But we don't want to expose ourselves to too much danger, do we?"

"I suppose not."

Hayhek slows a little, though not quite as much as Ithis want him to. Those behind them match the pace. The loudness of their hurried tread makes the sound-scape around them shiver. They're still not completely used to getting around with runic ears, and several stumble into stalagmites, cursing. The formation loosens a little. Hayhek senses this and reluctantly slows his pace further.

"Good, good," Ithis says under his breath.

He's too bloodthirsty, Hayhek thinks to himself. And he trusts Zathar too completely. While it may be true that Zathar is their hope, and indeed the hope for all dwarfkind—he is a double-edged kind of work. Hayhek knows this from bitter experience. And he knows that the others of the Runic League will learn soon enough too.

The sound of screams and weapon against chitin increases in volume despite the dulling effect of the noxious fumes now spreading around the party. These fumes are the jitilik's most feared weapon: it asphyxiates its prey before spearing them on its towering legs. Usually it goes for smaller creatures than dwarves, who are more susceptible to the poison, but the bigger ones are known to enjoy meatier meals when the fancy takes them.

Just a little further, thinks Ithis. Then we'll get to the bottom of this, just so long as Hayhek's nerve doesn't break. Ithis will have to be subtle about his methods of extracting information.

Why won't the graybeard commit fully? Why does he hold back? Are they not all working together for the future of all dwarfkind? Is that not the reason for the Runic League's existence?

No act can be considered wrong if it is in pursuit of the world Ithis dreams of: an underworld for the dwarves alone, chiseled and pristine, where no harm from dragons, trolls, demons or humans can ever come. A world of peace—and peace from other dwarves too, for who could ever rival Zathar Runeforger, once his powers have come to full fruition?

No one at all. No one. Not even the Runegods.

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