I take a brief break to return upward and inspect my guild. They cheer my armor greatly, and in return I praise the new weapons of light that have been created. Some of those dwarves I judged merely average, or even weak, have surprised me with their skill. They've made good crafts with small gold, and we may have a bigger force to go down with than I anticipated.

After having the saga on my armor recorded and describing the new runes for an addendum to our dictionaries, I say my goodbyes and descend back to the forge. The cool quiet welcomes me, as do the scents; I breath deep the residual fumes of metal, red jammy, and smoke to clear my head, then stand over the anvil with pen in one hand and paper spread over the steel.

As I've already decided, my weapon is to be a glaive. Its blade will cut through the darkness, severing the tendrils that reach for us. To accomplish this, the runes' light must be especially intense. It must be like a bar of gold heated past white.

Galar's trident is my inspiration. Through clever use both of runes and the arrangement of metal, he was able to unleash blasts of light that annihilated great swathes of the darkness. The key was concentration, of light and runic power looping around many times over before being released from a single point.

Terrible brightness, all from a single point. That's why it was so bright, so effective. And if all goes to plan, my light will be intensified even further that his was. It won't spread at all, but be focused down a single, infinitesimally thin line.

Before the head, though, I must make the haft. It will be made of a hollow tube of titanium, enruned for speed, accuracy, and a lack of weight. The plan for this part is simple, yet I realize that until I work out what the exact weight of the head will be, I can't finalize the quantities I need.

There's no putting it off, then—I dive into the calculations, both geometric and runic. I sketch, write numbers, tear the papers up and start again. The blade will be split down the edge to form a double-blade, and within the split will be reflective surfaces which must be precisely angled to focus the correct amount of light and runic power. And because the blade will be curved, each of these interior surfaces must be angled slightly differently. The gradual intensification of the light will affect the angles needed also.

I fall into a trance nearly as intense as my runeforging ones. Numbers and symbols spin through my head. I create graphs with long lines sweeping across them. There are many axes to consider: time, shape, light and shifting runic power. I must hold four dimensions in my head while I calculate.

More often than not, I fail miserably and must start again. How did Galar manage? And his brother too, with his viciously ingenious gem of blood? Did they fill wide sheafs of paper with the wreckage of failed mathematics just like I'm doing? Somehow, I feel that they didn't have quite so hard a time of it.

My head feels like it is going to melt! I cool it down with some ale, but so long in the forge has turned the liquid warm. I end up going down to the eating hall to find something colder.

There, I confirm what Hayhek told me about Nthazes. He's still in his forging pit, veiled in billowing smoke. No one can see what he's doing. And the images that flash in the silver are not pretty things to look at. They're jagged loops, like weapons curving in on themselves to bite their wielder. Occasionally, Nthazes will shout out in pain or frustration. This shocks me—he is almost never frustrated; he's one of the calmest dwarves I know. Perhaps the calmest.

I return to the forge with new vigor. Though my friend and I are separated by many thick walls of stone, we are battling towards the same purpose. Even if I am jealous of his newfound power, it's a healthy jealousy, the spirit of brotherly competition.

After a few more attempts, each more accurate than the last, my calculations finally come out correct. The angles and curves are set: the cutting edge will be shaped like a wave, wide then suddenly tapering to a rapier-like point for the final third.

I finish the design for the haft, then set the papers aside. I prepare fuel, smoke, mask and ingots.

To work! I hammer out just two ingots, very thinly, to create the haft from. I hammer the metal up and down, listening closely for any defects. Throughout the process, I'll sometimes stop and let the metal cool a bit so I can make better sense of what the final shape will be after it's quenched. Then I'll reheat and throw myself back into the gradual hammering.

Like my armor, the metal for the haft is only one part in ten true. Even so, working such thin true titanium is difficult, and I become a little worried about how hard making the head, many times more complex, is going to be. I have enough true metal left to make it nearly one-third in purity. To create such precise angles from such rebellious metal will be a challenge.

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But tribulations involving metal can be won with patience. The runes are what I should be more worried about—both the runeforging and the grafting. After contending with the sphere, I'll also have to contend with the reagents and metal: incandesite, almergris, and gold—very pure gold as well, for I'm finally going to use Runethane Ytith's gift. Such a mix may well attempt to burn my eyes out. In fact, it almost certainly will, especially with true titanium behind it.

After the metal is flattened, I must turn it into a cylinder. I employ the same technique I used with my mace, using a tungsten rod for a frame. After the shape is more or less complete, I pull out the rod and get to smoothing the metal.

Sound echoes strangely down the tube, confusing my efforts. It's not just light the true titanium is altering to confound me. Patience prevails, though, and I perfect the basic shape without making any irreversible mistakes. I end the construction with a long weld and the clever folding and sealing of the terminus.

I take a meal—the salted meat tastes metallic from the fumes. My head spins, and lukewarm ale makes it spin further. After only a single sleep, though, I'm ready to work again.

I am going to make the haft in one spread-open part. Once it's done, I'll fold it over, and the double-blade will be complete. First, though, to make my last ingots. I hammer a bowl into the mundane metal and pour in the carefully measured true titanium. I add part of another ingot, to make up for the extra metal I need, and then place all into the furnace.

I switch it on to maximum heat. The metal glows bright yellow through the smoke and I hear a keening sound. The grains of true metal begin to congeal. When I judge they're ready for the hammer-stroke, I pull everything out and do just that: strike!

A wave of strange power washes through the forge. My stomach turns. Everything brightens then dims, and a sound like faraway bells rings briefly in my runic ears. I become dizzy for a brief moment. I watch as strange shapes twist upon the metal's bright surface, and the shape of the metal changes. Wave-patterns appear, violent like those that might form on a lake disturbed by hungry amphidons.

Then, all is still once more. Apart from the shimmering, the metal looks normal, workable. I grit my teeth then strike again.

It flattens out more than I expected. The titanium's malleability has increased even further. I strike in a rhythm, one and two and three, beating the piece out into a vaguely triangular shape. Odd parts bulge up and I must flatten them down. The metal spreads in unexpected ways, and this time it's hard to get used to the patterns of rebellion.

Three times the true metal—more than three times the difficulty. I shout in frustration as my triangle begins to transform into a pentagon. Why won't it yield to me? This is nothing to do with respect, only skill. I aim more precisely, swing more carefully. It starts not to warp at all. I need more power—and yet I need more precision too.

It's my opponent. I batter it as I would an enemy dwarf. Its unexpected movements I treat as attacks which must be time-delay parried by a subsequent, better calculated hammer-blow. I keep the metal hot, yellow hot, never allowing it a rest. Sparks fly at me as if aimed, especially toward my eyes and the unprotected parts of my skin. Doubtless they are aiming themselves, or else being aimed by the true metal.

The fight is as grueling as most I've faced. My arms begin to ache, and my legs too, the latter with the sheer effort of keeping me standing for such a great length of time. I lean against the anvil, panting as I attack. I can't let up the pressure, cannot show weakness.

The rogue points flatten out—eventually I have a rough triangle, its foremost point rounded. Now to split it down the middle. I use a diamond saw for this, slashing down the centerline like I'm seeking to wound, striking fast and hard, not letting the metal react. Instinct tells me this is the best way, decisiveness over patience and I'm proven correct. The cut is perfect.

I beat the thicker uncut edge of the triangle flat, and the two halves of the joined triangle—twin right-angled ones—separate out by inches. I continue to beat until the sheet is flat, going through smaller and smaller hammers.

Each bump must be eliminated, each trough brought level. Once they are, I must perfect the reflective angles that will lie just within the cutting edges. I measure by both eye and ear, even as the true titanium tries to deceive me with its shifting glows, hues, and discordant tones.

Are they ready yet? I let the metal cool to dull red and see that every angle is wrong. I reheat the metal, try again, let cool again. Still wrong, and in worse ways than before.

I curse loudly. I just can't seem to predict the way the true titanium is moving. There has to be a pattern to it. It's not alive, just seems to be—not with mundane metal mixed into it. There has to be a solution.

Perhaps I should sleep on it. Yes, that's what I'll do. I turn off the furnace, take a meal and a drink, go to sleep. My dreams are not peaceful; in them I see metal shapes like burning weapons slash for me, attempt to spear me, saw at me. I fight them off with a forging hammer, and in the end am victorious.

I wake and resume. I get closer to the angles I want. I try again and get even closer. They will match with my calculations on my next attempt, I'm sure.

They don't. And don't again. Each time, though—I'm closer!

Closer, done! Finally, after much strain and violent strokes, I have managed to bend the true metal the way I want. I heat, quench, and the craft is finished, but for the final weld and, more importantly, the runes.

I take out the gift of Runethane Ytith and pour the golden coins into the crucible.

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