"No..." I groan. "No."

As I stagger around the furnace, I see that all that's left of my knife is a twisted lump of dull gray, dead metal, like a piece of distorted and fossilized bone. I have failed utterly, at the last step of the process. The runes and metal, after many long-hours of work, have ultimately perished.

I reach into the furnace and pick up the remains, hoping that there is still at least something left of the true metal, but it falls apart into dust in my hand.

Something in the furnace grinds and shudders again. I look from my dusty palm into it, and stare hollowly. Even the fuel at the back has turned to inert dust—the whole thing is unusable, dead. The gray flames have destroyed it from the inside out.

A tremendous cracking sounds behind me. I spin around, leaping back and tripping as I do so. I steady myself against a shelf. My mouth falls open—the anvil has cracked down the middle, and is flaked with rust. As I watch, the two sides slowly lean apart before clanging to the floor.

The gray flames have destroyed it, too. It was lucky I was around the other side when they blasted out—had I been directly in their path, I do not know what would have become of me.

Or maybe I do know. At least, I can guess.

I collapse down against the shelf and hold my head in my hands. My breathing is deep and heavy; my heart thuds so loudly I feel sick. Something went terrible wrong, something that I'll have to figure out if I'm to remake this knife and subsequently the weapon to slay Uthrarzak—yet I cannot bring myself to think about it.

I dash from the forge. I cannot be here any more.

"Runethane!" shouts one of the guards. He grabs me by the shoulder, shakes me. My body feels loose. "Runethane, are you injured? Are you burned?"

"I'm fine," I croak, my voice like a death-rattle. "I am fine."

His eyes are bright with panicked concern. He does not believe me.

"I am fine," I repeat. "Leave me be. I am going to retire to my quarters."

"We will escort you."

I am too drained to argue. The two support me as I stumble down the corridor and up the steep flights of stairs. My body is cold, and though my ruby is trying to warm me, its power seems oddly ineffective.

We are at my quarters already. The guards take me through the door and lay me on my bed. They discuss something quickly, but I can't quite make out the words. What seems like only seconds later, though it is probably a while, Lekudr appears.

He says something to me, but at that moment dark sleep comes.

When I awaken, white-bearded Lekudr and two guards are still at my side. I blink, eyelids feeling heavy and sticky.

"Runethane?" whispers Lekudr, after a few seconds.

"That is I," I say. Some strength seems to have returned to my voice. "How long have I slept for?"

"Five short-hours, by my count."

"Not so long, then."

"No. But you still look half dead, my Runethane." He leans in, eyes wide with concern. "What happened in the forge? We have not entered it, though we did have an expert in healing examine you—there were no burns. What happened?"

I force myself to sit up. This takes some strength, for my body feels like lead. I look down, afraid. My fingers look gray, and my nails pale, as if the blood has retreated from under them.

"We are your guild," says Lekudr. "You must tell us, or we cannot do our duty to help you. Something is weighing on you. We can all see it."

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I grimace. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes. Ever since your meeting with the Runeking, you've looked lost, Zathar."

"Lost?"

"Yes," agrees one of the guards. "Lost, my Runethane. We are all worried."

"You did not show it."

"We did not wish to pry," says Lekudr. "I feel that I now must, though. Does the war go ill? Is that what it is?"

I shake my head. "Not as such. Not yet, anyway. We will see."

"What is it, then?"

"Something terrible. Perhaps impossible."

"Then that is all the more reason for us to know, my Runethane."

"I suppose it is. Yet even so—"

"We are your guild. Your Runic League! We will follow you to death itself, my Runethane." He looks at the guards. "Will we not?"

Their expressions harden. "Yes," they answer.

I clench my fists. They have to know. No matter how terrible the secret, they have sworn to help me with my burdens. I do not want them dead—yet I must accept their willingness to sacrifice.

"Good," I say quietly. "That is very good. You are right, Lekudr. You all must know. We must call a meeting of the captains."

We hold the meeting deep in the mine, for I do not trust the walls of our lodgings, and although I no longer trust the thick stone to keep our secrets either, this is still the most secure place I can think of.

All eight captains are gathered before me in the darkness: white-beared Lekudr, brutal Ithis, Brognir once of the Red Anvils, confident Rtayor, then Haljar, Uthir, Ptholok, and Kalthaz.

"I trust each of you with my own life," I say. "Thus, I trust each of you with this secret that all our lives depend on."

They are still and solemn.

"I do not know even if the Runeking would want me telling you, but so it goes. I can't complete the task he's set me alone, perhaps."

I ready myself to tell them. Their silence has become heavy with anticipation.

"My task is this: I am to slay Uthrarzak. I am to slay a Runeking."

The words come out with less force than I intended. My voice sounds weak—with my runic ears I can hear the subtle quavering, like a network of minute cracks in an edifice meant to be unbreakable.

My dwarves are speechless.

"It seems impossible, doesn't it?" I say, and a slight laugh escapes my lips, though I do not feel like laughing. "For me to slay a Runeking. It seems impossible. I have ruled my own realm less than fifty years by surface reckoning. I am not yet a century old. My metal is strong, but not so strong. Yet even so, I have been given this task."

Their silence continues. I wait, agitated, for someone to break it. Ithis does. He says the obvious:

"You have the runes. That is why he chose you."

"Yes. I know. He said so."

"He believes you able to compose some script to defeat him."

"That is correct."

Lekudr frowns, his lined brow wrinkling further. "Were you working on that script in the forge? Is that what caused your injury?"

I shake my head. "Not the script itself. I made that with less trouble than expected. It was in the final stage of the craft, of layering the pieces together, when disaster struck. It was the formula, I think now. The formula of the powder I was using to weld the pieces."

"Runic layering," says Rtayor. "I always got the impression you thought little of that technique."

"The Runeking suggested I try it. I am loathe to reject his advice."

"Besides that, though," says Lekudr, "what is the script you are making? The script to kill a Runeking?"

"Yes," says Ithis. "We must know, if we are to help you."

I hesitate to say it. The words catch in my throat.

"My Runethane?" Ithis whispers.

"I am composing a script of death," I manage to say at last. "Each rune will have death in its meaning. That's the nature of what I put onto the metal. Death—it killed my forge and anvil, too."

This second revelation has the same effect as the first: my dwarves are speechless.

"Do you think me reckless?" I ask bitterly. "I think myself reckless. Yet this is the only way I can see. Our Runeking said that written well enough, a poem can become a prophecy. I don't know about this. My view of runes is different to his. But I have to try. And if I am to write of hated Uthrarzak's death, it has to be in these runes. It's the only way. Runes of death—they are our only hope for the war."

The silence drags on. Then, once more, it is Ithis who breaks it:

"All our weapons speak of death in some form or another," he says. "I don't think you reckless, my Runethane. You are merely writing the truth. Some try to cover up their weapons' nature, but weapons are for dealing death, and that is the be-all and end-all of it."

"It nearly killed me," I say. "Nearly killed me! If I'd been standing in front of the furnace, my life would have been swept away."

"You need attendants for this work," says Brognir. "I will attend you myself if you so wish. Juniors will not do anymore."

"You are a captain. You have your own duties to attend to. But yes, I will have second and third degrees attend me from now on. Our most trustworthy—but they still cannot be allowed to know of the task. They must not know why I make these runes."

Brognir nods. "Of course. No one can know of the... task. That is our Runeking's order, yes?"

"Indeed." I listen from left to right, to their breathing, the way they stand, the shape of their expressions. And I sense fear. "Do any of you have more to say?" I ask.

"We are with you," says Ithis. "Whatever you ask us to do, we will obey. We will go into battle at your side against Uthrarzak himself. Our whole guild will."

"You gave us new life and hope," says Rtayor. "We are with you."

The other captains follow suit, pledging their willingness to fight alongside me even against hated Uthrarzak. Their words are those of conviction, yet behind the phrasing I sense hollow disbelief and deep fear. For an ordinary runeknight to go against a Runeking and live, let alone win, is unheard of.

At least, I suppose, I will not have to die alone.

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