For a few minutes after my proclamation and naming of my weapon, the silence holds—only disturbed by the terrified weeping of some new initiate at the back. Then, one runeknight begins to clap. Another follows, and another, and then comes the cheering.

I grin. They believe my weapon is brilliant. It is brilliant—dangerous to friend as well as foe, yes, but still brilliant, and well-named also. Nightcutter. Perhaps it's just because of the drink in my veins, but my earlier worries have vanished, and blazing confidence now fills me in its place.

I blink open my eyes for a moment to take in the scene, and it's as Hayhek said: the maces of my dwarves are glowing but slightly. Nearly all the light of the guildhall has been concentrated into one streak of purest white extending from the top of Nightcutter to the arched stone ceiling.

"The darkness will fall to pieces at my blows," I announce. "When we march, I will be at the tip of our formation. My strikes will be yours. Don't have any fear about the lack of your own light, for the darkness won't make it past me. I'll cleave its arms at the elbows and its hands won't grasp."

More cheers follow, though not quite as loudly as before. Perhaps they are offended that they won't get to use their weapons. They can see that I am breaking the taboo here, or at least bending it rather severely. I ought to say something to assuage these concerns. Words flow out:

"Are you disappointed, my runeknights?" I laugh. "I know you wish to use your own weapons and win your own victories. But though we be individuals, we are also a guild. My strikes are yours, and yours are mine. We fight toward a common purpose—to rid the underworld of a terrible evil. That takes precedence over any individual glory."

There are some shouts of agreement in response to this, though not quite as many as I'd hoped for. Still, they'll come round to the idea. Things are changing, and this is no ordinary guild. They're already using the crafts of another anyway, are they not? My crafted runes.

"You may dismiss yourselves now," I say. "Go back to your forging. Those of you who've finished your weapons should rest and recover your strength. The final battle cannot be far away."

I retire immediately to my quarters, feeling suddenly exhausted. The rush of drink and thrill that fueled me during my ascent and speech is dying down fast. I place Nightcutter on the weapon-stand and lie on my bed face down, still in my armor. Strange dreams take me—when I wake up, I only remember shadows of them.

My head aches and my stomach roils. I try to get up, but my muscles are unwilling to exert themselves. A dreadful sense of anxiety weighs down on my heart. Before long, I am sure, I am going to have to explain myself to Runethane Halmak.

Did I really have to charge through the streets like that? I should have made some attempt, at least, to cover Nightcutter.

I stay in my quarters for a while, pondering and worrying. Am I going to be summoned to face judgment for my reckless wielding of light?

But nothing happens. It seems as if the Runethane is still hard at work, and I imagine the elders have been given strict orders not to provoke me. So, I return to what I usually do when I'm up here, to what I see as my duties as guildmaster. Talking, training, and judging forging.

After a few long-hours, once the initial shock about Nightcutter wears down, guildmembers begin to ask more questions about its creation. They are always cautious around the topic—they do not ask directly. But the hints are obvious:

"Night and day are such strange concepts for us dwarves, aren't they? Yet you seem to gain great inspiration from them."

"The mace is the traditional choice. Why is that, guildmaster?"

"There's something different about your metal, guildmaster. Is it your runes, or something else?"

"I heard that the runes can take on a life and will of their own. Just a silly rumor, I'm sure, but...?"

On the few occasions I do give an answer, my explanations are vague enough that the asker gets the message—the reason why my craft is so unusual is not to be discussed. I regret telling Ugyok and the others with him that sometimes my runeforging can be unpredictable. Doubtless, rumors about that are flying fast around the guild, and may even have made it outside.

But what's said is said. Once I'm down there, cutting apart the darkness, it won't matter how Nightcutter was made, only its effect.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I only wish the time to fight would hurry up and come. The waiting is becoming intolerable. How long does the Runethane wish us to stand around here? Nthazes, too. What crafts are they making? I want to see; I need to know how they will stand up to Nightcutter's power.

Then, finally, after nearly twenty long-hours, a worried-looking member of the Red Anvil guild arrives to deliver a letter. He walks up the dais, trembling slightly. I take it from him, open it. I read:

Greetings, Guildmaster Zathar

You are to attend me in my hall. Guildmaster Nthazes will be there also, as will the emissary of our Runeking. Cover your weapon—I've heard of its power. We will discuss the battle. It must be won soon, by orders of Runeking Ulrike.

Attend immediately.

"I presume you are here to escort me," I tell the bronze-clad runeknight.

"Yes, honored runeknight. That is correct. Me, and others also."

"I'll cover Nightcutter if our Runethane desires it, of course, but I warn you that it'll have no effect. Mere cloth won't block its power."

"With respect, honored runeknight, you should then place it into a heavier container. When Runethane Halmak heard the tale of you rushing through our city, darkening its lights in your wake, he was displeased. He thought your act was most reckless."

"I apologize for that. Yet no one came to severe harm, or I would have heard about it by now."

"Severe harm, no. No one was totally blinded."

"He must know of the strength of its light too, then."

"Yes. He wishes to see both for himself—but at the proper moment. Please, honored runeknight, do not provoke him."

"Very well. As he wishes."

I order some of my dwarves to find a suitable container. A few are shown to me, and I select the strongest-looking one, a heavy chest of surface wood. I have it taken to my guildhall quarters and open it up.

The interior is plain and rough, scuffed with evidence of its last occupants, mundane ingots of steel. Nightcutter does not wish to be placed in here. There is no light, and no way to display its proud beam either.

"I've no choice," I hiss to it. "No choice!"

I place it in and shut the heavy lid. A dark glow, like that that used to be around Heartseeker, begins to emanate from the wood. I grimace, but if this chest won't conceal it fully, nothing will, bar something forged and enruned for the purpose, which I don't have time to make.

I call in four mid-rank dwarves and order them to lift it up. The place it on their shoulders and fall in behind me as I exit my quarters. They remind me very much of coffin-carriers, and I would like to believe this heralds the death of the darkness, though that is just desperate wishful thinking on my part.

"They won't be allowed into the meeting," the messenger, now waiting beside the door out, tells me.

"Naturally."

We leave. Outside the doors stand nine more of the Red Anvil, all at least fourth degree. Five close in behind us as we start to walk down the tunnel toward Brightdeep proper.

When we emerge into the city, our procession begins to draw many stares and whispers. Customers and shopkeepers both emerge from the stores lining the main avenue to come and watch us. A crowd forms and trails behind us at a safe distance. Do they think that I am under arrest? It certainly looks as if I am, being flanked by bronze-clad runeknights, and with my weapon safely locked away.

Does the crowd assume that its black glow proves my evil, just like Brezakh and his nephew claimed? Maybe they've heard the rumors I lost control as well.

But what they think doesn't matter. Judgment will be up to the Runethane and the emissary of the Runeking alone.

The emissary: what will he, or she, be like?

They will be a dwarf of terrible power. That I can be sure of. Perhaps even as strong as the Runethane himself, or even stronger. At the very least, they'll be of first degree, and many centuries old. I never heard of anyone in Allabrast attempting to join the Runeking's own guild, so I presume recruitment has been closed for a long time.

A personal friend of the Runeking. That's who this could be. Or at the very least a deeply trusted soldier. Perhaps they've even been taught his own forging techniques, or fought at his side in the ancient wars against Uthrarzak.

What will such a dwarf—clad all in gold, I imagine, like the one who showed me into the palace all those years ago—what will they make of my runes? Will they take the same view as their master and dismiss them? Will they see them as a threat? Or perhaps they'll believe them instead to be an opportunity, and order that I return to Allabrast immediately, to spill all my secrets to Runeking Ulrike, and forge runes to be used in the onrushing war.

We reach the castle gates—fully repaired by now—and they swing open. My escort tells me I'll have to carry my weapon by myself from here on out. I take the chest from my four runeknights and promise them a hefty reward.

"The honor of carrying your weapon is reward enough," one of them tries to tell me.

"Yes—but I'd feel remiss not giving you anything else."

They thank me, and then I'm led into the familiar corridors of the Runethane's castle. The weight of the chest on my shoulders is crushing, but the strength of my armor sustains me, as does the coordination and balance it grants.

The doors shut. I grunt as I take one step after another. I frown—there's something off here, something I can't quite put my finger on.

Then I see it. The walls are a different color, nearly white. And instead of shadows down the corridor, there is light. Have they changed the braziers? Yet it's not from them that this all-encompassing glow pours from. The origin seems to be down a slight bend some distance away.

I shut my eyes and focus my hearing. I stop.

Far ahead of me, walking slowly and silently along the stone, is a runeknight in gleaming titanium with runic ears like great curved horns. In his hands he's holding a great mace, its head leaned next to his own on his shoulders. Despite its heavy wrappings, it is this craft that is illuminating the castle so brightly. I can hear its runic power, thrumming with every step its wielder takes.

It is Guildmaster Nthazes, finally emerged from his forge, and carrying a mace of light even more powerful than his old Runethane's was.

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