The forge has always been something of a place of solace to me, and this has been especially true during my reign as Runethane. It's been somewhere I can forget about the politicking, the troll attacks, the endless petitions of the commoners. In my forge, all that concerns me is metal and runes. Working with them is never easy, but it is familiar.

But I feel no solace in this forge. As I stand before the anvil, I feel a terrible weight of responsibility upon my shoulders, one far heavier than I have ever felt before. I came to the war thinking my responsibility would be to my own dwarves, and maybe to the other Runethanes fighting around me.

The Runeking has now laid the fate of everyone upon me. I am to kill hated Uthrarzak. How is this possible?

The scripts our Runeking suggested provided no clues. I went to the library a second time, as I said I would, and spent many hours in deep research. Yet most of this research proved useless. I read the runes regarding poison and disease, and at a glance knew they would not work. Not against Uthrarzak's armor.

I'd always heard he was a tactician, an expert in the ways of cavern warfare, and that his greatest works were tomes of strategy. But it seems as if his personal strength has been played down greatly throughout the centuries since the two Runekings' last clashed.

His armor is thick, Braedle told me. In his true war-gear, he looks more like an iron-troll than dwarf. It attaches in layers, magnetically. Runes of incredible power bind everything together and repel any weapon that comes close.

And though his legions fight with pikes, he often uses a spear. Braedle cautioned me not to use my usual choice of weapon. He has mastered it to a higher level than any other dwarf yet.

What to make, then? I don't know. Perhaps a war-pick, like Gutspiercer which I used against the dragon, or maybe a war-hammer.

For now, for this first craft, however, I will make a knife. The plans are done; its shape I've already sketched out upon the paper—like a curved fang.

It's not practice. For a dwarf to make something just for practice, never intended to meet the blood of combat, means he won't put all he has into it. His skill won't come through, and the craft will be insulted.

So, I am committed to taking this knife into combat alongside Steelpierce. It'll see use in battle. There will undoubtedly be times when I'm pressed against my foes, crushed against the shields and pointed pikes, and it's then that I'll strike with it.

I begin. Titanium is my material of choice. I want this weapon to be light and fast, seeking out the gaps between my foes' plates and cutting through to kill. As for purity, it'll be half-true. My main weapon will be full-true, for I don't think I can defeat Uthrarzak with anything less. But I need to develop my technique first, and thus decide to use a less challenging material.

Into a crucible I place two hundred grams of mundane titanium. To this, I add two one-hundred gram ingots of the true. Into the furnace it goes. I turn a wheel and the bellows begin to pump. Orange firelight burns out from the furnace's mouth. Sweat drips down my face into my beard. Sweat runs down my face into my beard. The contents of the crucible begins to melt. In my runic ears, I hear a sound like strange laughter.

I grimace. True titanium is still difficult for me to work with, which is why for my War Armor and Steelpierce I used true steel. While it's true that steel does have some advantages, I am starting to feel that I only used it out of cowardice. I did not challenge myself hard enough.

The titanium ingots meld together. I withdraw them, stir with a tungsten rod, then place the crucible back in for a while longer. The surface of the molten metal begins to shiver and shimmer.

I draw the crucible out and place it on the anvil. I stare as it goes from yellow, to orange, to red-orange. I shut my eyes, listen, and hear nothing untoward. There is no laughter from it. I tip the crucible upside down and give it a few taps with my hammer. There is a clink as the titanium piece falls out.

Time to hammer it flat. I heat the piece back to yellow, then begin. Sharp cries echo around the forge as I beat it into shape—or rather, into thickness. Shape is not a priority now. At this stage, my only goal is to make an even a sheet as possible.

Layered-enruning. That is the proper name for the technique Ulrike has developed, and which many senior runeknights throughout his realms now use. Barahtan employed it against me in my trial by forging, and Runethane Halmak and Elder Brezakh were both experts with it as well.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Personally, however, I have never been very convinced of the technique's superiority. My crafts have beaten those dwarves', after all, and it is complicated and expensive. Besides, why should a longer poem necessarily be better than a simpler, more elegant one? Or why not just write the runes smaller, if you want to put on more of them?

I've never been one to shy away from using new or unorthodox techniques, however. And Runeking Ulrike is right that, as the Runeforger, as an agent of the great changes coming into the underworld, I should at least attempt some of the newer methods of forging.

Layering is simple in principal. You make a thin sheet of metal, then fold it over and over into the shape of the weapon. And upon each fold, you put runes.

But runes' power depends upon the perfection of their shape. So, when forging metal already enruned, one must be extra cautious in order not to warp them. And composing the poem becomes much harder, too. Runic power on one layer affects the flow of the layers under and above it. And, of course, the poem becomes much longer.

I'll think about the poem later. For now, I must persuade the metal into perfectly even flatness. My arguments are my hammer-blows; the titanium refuses to accept them. I grimace. I'd forgotten just how tricky the metal could be.

Endurance and patience are what will win me this fight. I lay blow after blow into the metal, each calculated and aimed. I observe the colors, listen to the ringing. I seek out each uneven part and flatten it. Exactly half a millimeter's thickness is what I need.

The metal spreads out. It becomes too wide to reheat in the furnace, and so I divide it with a diamond edged knife. For hours more, I continue to beat. The room around me vanishes in my concentration. Eventually I judge the sheet to be nearly the right thickness, yet uneven spots persist. I take up a smaller hammer, tungsten-cored, its head only a little larger than my thumb. Tap by tap I go.

My face is reflected in bright hues. It is twisted; the metal is mocking my features. It won't succeed in frustrating me, though. I am too patient for that. Strike by strike it bends to my will until I have what I need.

I shut my eyes, listen to check. Each thin plate rings evenly with a sound like sweet music. Indeed, it is music, and music far superior to any sung with voice or blared through brass trumpet.

Now to cut—but I stop myself. How long have I been in the forge for? I look over the silvery, paper-thin sheets of metal which are to become my craft. It must have taken quite a lot of time to prepare these. At least half a long-hour.

My dwarves are under orders not to disturb me unless we come under attack, and there isn't much I don't think my captains wouldn't be able to handle, but all the same, I am Runethane. I must be a visible presence, especially in times such as these.

So, I equip my War Armor, take up Steelpierce, and exit the forge. I order the guards outside to walk with me. We are going on a tour of inspection, I tell them.

To my mind, an army is no different to a sword or spear. The skill of a general is not only in how to wield it—what commands to issue, where to station this company or that company, and so forth. It is also in how he creates it and maintains it.

If part of a blade is weak, it may snap at the vital moment. So too with an army.

No diamonds glint in the miners' lodgings. There are pock-marks, where a few sparse ones may have been taken out, yet those efforts have long since been relocated to the main mine. This place, dug out below a squat building five hundred meters distant from the pit, is devoid of any kind of color or luxury. Oily fumes hang thick in the air, which smells strongly of cheap beer and sweat. Singing echoes from some rooms, while silence occupies others.

I knock on one. It does not open.

"By order of the Runethane, open this door, guildmaster!" I say loudly. "I know you are in here."

I am not actually sure; it is just a prediction. Yet it's one that proves accurate as the door swings inward and my eyes meet the shocked face of the guildmaster of the Iron Hammers, one of the smallest and poorest of my realm.

"My Runethane!" he stammers. "We were not expecting you!"

I eye the room critically. It is a mess, and the dwarves inhabiting it worse. They lounge drunkenly on their beds. Kegs of beer are stacked haphazardly in one corner.

"Just because you are living with miners," I say, "doesn't mean you should copy their habits."

"I'm sorry, my Runethane. I will have the place cleaned up."

"You will. And you will stop wasting your time. Are you not aware that you will soon be leading your guild into battle? Get them forging. Get to training."

"Captain Brognir has not give us such orders yet, my Runethane."

"Show some initiative. Those who succeed are those who work."

"Yes. Of course. But..."

"Well?"

He gives me a desperate look. "Training we can do, my Runethane, but most of us don't have enough money for materials. Some don't even have enough for coal. The prices in this city are absurd! And they go up hour by hour."

I think for a moment. Is he just making excuses, or is this a real concern? Knowing what I know of Allabrast, I judge it to be the latter.

"That is fair enough," I say. "I will have some kind of a reward system made. Those who fight best in training will win gold. How does that sound?"

The guildmaster looks back at his dwarves doubtfully. A few have jumped into action and are tidying up the mess, while others snore on, oblivious to my presence.

"Get them in shape," I order. "That's your responsibility. And for some more motivation—if you do well, I will look into finding you better quarters."

The guildmaster bows deep. "Thank you, my Runethane."

I move on to the next guild down here, and then the next. I will not have weak metal in my army. They are my craft, just as much as any other equipment I wield.

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