Into the magma I dive. The sphere appears and rushes toward me—or maybe I rush toward it. It becomes closer to me than ever. I feel like if I had arms, I would be able to reach out and touch its smooth surface. Power ripples the magma around it; waves of heat flow through me.

I am not scared, I tell myself. Whatever power lurks within, if it has a mind or none, I have never yet lost to it. I am still alive. It will not burn me.

I begin, first going through the single line I've already written, which describes a wave upon which sunlight glints. I pull the runes through me. A few I alter, combine, and then I reach the beginning of the second line, the circle second from the edge.

A line of darkness—that's what I create. I write of the trough of the wave, a watery trench that dives down to abyssal depths. The sun cannot reach the bottom. Nothing can reach down here, and within lurk beings whose nature no dwarf nor human is quite sure of.

I finish the line. Within the sphere, I detect a hint of laughter—though perhaps it is just natural trembling? There is no way to be sure, unless I enter somehow, and that is something I am very afraid of doing.

It continues to push power through me. With most of my script complete though, I don't need so much. For now, I am in control.

The next line, of light, of the sun revealing glittering fish on the crest of the wave, comes easily. Then I dive back down into the depths. Hints of the seafloor can be touched, though it is impossible to tell what material they are made of. Something soft, absorbing, and perhaps made of flesh and bone turned to mud.

In this way, the poem continues. Heat flares through me each time I dive back into the darkness. I create new runes to describe lack of light, silence, nothingness. This is the only way, no matter how much it might displease others—how it displeases Nthazes. I need power, and though the dwarves of the deep might be able to gain power with just pure brightness, I cannot. Each dwarf has his own way of doing things.

I must choose what suits me the best, no matter how wrong, cruel, dangerous or inappropriate others believe it to be. When I forged my mace, I found this impossible. But now, with the lives of my guildmembers so obviously on the line, and foes arrayed against us regardless of my intentions, my qualms have faded. I commit to my script's dual nature. I refuse to let others determine how I craft.

Light, darkness, light, darkness. Height and depth increase with each alternating line. The crests of the waves breach through the clouds into purest sunlight, while the depths carve into the underworld below, the mud and stone parting to reveal shapes of stone bones from creature dead for eons.

Nothing is certain down at these depths. Nothing sure can be known. There are only hints, and as the waves dip deeper, less and less can be understood. This is the theme of my poem. Brightness gives way to silence—though for the center of the shield, in the final spiral, I have something different planned.

The waves reach their ultimate height. Far above, so say the humans, there is no air and the suns' and stars' and moons' light are free from haze and interference. The wave pierces into this place, freezes into clear crystals. The jewel-like fish within become still and solid, like true jewels, every aspect of them laid bare to see.

Below, the waves reach their ultimate depth, carve through into caves that are utterly lightless. There are no words to describe what is inside—the only words I can use are negatives. There is no life, no stone, no air, nothing. They exist in a realm beyond what any being could know.

My skin is starting to burn. These runes, of negatives destroying positive, of one minus itself, are all new. They are broken mirrors of the ones of light—or perhaps more like extinguished lamps. In any case, they are hard to create. The sphere keeps forcing more heat through me and I struggle to control it.

But I must. This final part of the poem is to be the piece that holds everything together. Dual nature—light and dark in equal measure. That's what I must write now.

The great frozen, mountainous crest topples over. It plummets into the black trough and fills it. The sound is great; it ripples across the land and sea too violently for ears to hear. But there is knowledge carried in it all the same, knowledge of the shapes of the jewel-like fish, their materials, and of the shape of the caverns below which are now filled. The sound and tremors have form and knowledge, but it's knowledge that only they can know.

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Done. The poem is complete. As usual, heat continues to rush through me, but I cling on. I am able to reach for the ruby. I grasp it and healing cool flows around me. My eyes open and I am in the forge with Hayhek before me. The full bucket is in his hands.

The last flames upon my skin flicker and vanish into smoke.

"Zathar?" he says.

"Finished," I say.

I look down at the anvil. The buckler is complete, the platinum grafted. I pick it up and look over it. I frown. The coloration has changed. Before it was plainly metallic, but now it is rippled intensely. Where runes of light are written the metal is nearly white, and where those of darkness are grafted, it is close to black. What's more, the color seems to be part of the metal itself, rather than being a glow emanating from it, as was the case with Heartseeker or with the weapons of light. Only the center retains its original tone.

"This will draw attention," I say, suddenly nervous, suddenly doubting my decision that I was all too sure of in the magma. "Elder Brezakh will use it against me."

"He might," croaks Hayhek.

"Are you alright?"

He rubs his throat. "I would like a drop of ale. You've been working a long time."

"There was no reason you shouldn't have had some."

"Seemed rude to drink while you were hard at forging."

"You don't need to mind that. Did I really take that long?"

"I don't know. As you say, time doesn't seem to pass down here."

What equipment to bring? If the fight is to come to blows, what armor and weapons will suit me best? Can I really trust my mace of light? That's my main concern. I swing. It seems to lack in weight, somehow, lacking impact. Yet my buckler is properly strong and I can't wield it alongside Life-Ripper. Maybe if I'd designed the shield to be strapped to my forearm, it could work, but instead I gave it a handle.

In the end, I take both weapons, and both helmets too. I'll decide on the best strategy once I see what's happening. Hayhek carries Life-Ripper and my tungsten helmet, though he seems rather uncomfortable about doing so. He almost shivers when he first grasps the bident.

On the way up, we pass one of the deep dwarves. Melkor.

"Good hour," I say.

"Where are you off to, Zathar? You are marching fast."

"Some trouble up top. Not everyone thinks we're a force for good."

"I see."

"Are there many of us at the Shaft now?" Hayhek asks.

"There might be some. Always are."

"Guildmaster, should we call them up?"

I shake my head. "No. What if the darkness takes advantage of the weakness? Then Brezakh will just have more stones to throw at us. Say we aren't committed."

"Very well. Though it's a risky strategy."

"We must fight with words first, then weapons, as you say."

"I would prefer the fighting keeps to words alone."

"Well, so would I, of course."

"Really?" Melkor says curiously. "Something in your tone of voice suggests otherwise."

I laugh harshly. "Your ears are very sharp. Maybe you deep dwarves know me better than I do, when I speak. Very well—part of me does hope it comes down to weapons. If I crush one of Runethane Halmak's elders, who'll dare interfere with us again?"

"If you crush him," says Hayhek. "If. You said yourself he is strong."

"Again, though—who can fight blind and deaf?"

I wish Melkor luck with his continued vigil, then we continue to hurry through the tunnels. The light of Hayhek's mace, shining from behind, hurts my eyes, and I am glad when we reach the stairway and he can wrap it back up.

We ascend quickly. Silence greets us when we emerge. I look around. The usually bustling forging district is empty. The shops—they're closed, doors locked shut. But for a dozen glaring guards in front of the castle, no one is about.

I stare back at the guards, but they make no move to pursue. They look as if they're waiting for something—for what?

"Something's happened," I say. "Let's get to the guild."

We rush through the streets. No one is about, no runeknights, no masons or gemcutters, no children play in the fountain. There isn't even a single drunken miner. Once we get into the outer tunnels, there are a few farmers around—but they flinch away from us.

We sight the door to the Runic League—it is wide open, and there are no guards to be seen. Panic seizes my heart. We double our pace.

"Anyone here?" I yell as I rush through the doorway. "Ithis? Ugyok? Rtayor? Anyone?"

The lanterns are extinguished. Hayhek unwraps his mace and shines it around. We both gasp sharply. Tables have been overturned, and the floor is sticky with spilled ale. A sense of horror descends on me. What has happened here? Where is everyone? At least there seems to be no blood in the floor. It seems that no one has been slaughtered, at least—not here in the guildhall, anyway.

"Look!" Hayhek shouts. "On the back table! A letter!"

I run over to it, read:

Guildmaster,

We have been ordered to the castle. Claims have been brought against us. Elder Brezakh says we are in league with the darkness. I have responded with my own claims: that there is a conspiracy against us. The Runethane will be called to judge. Until then, they promise that no harm will come to us. It won't, not unless they want it to come to them.

Ithis

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