We are deep in the mine, in our usual meeting place. I have brought a lamp, to ward off some of the creeping unease I feel, but its small flame is giving little light. The air seems cold.

"Reports," I order. "Starting with you, Ithis."

"Training is going as you commanded, Runethane. Not all has been pure combat—we have been focusing on maneuvers, too. There have been no major issues—though as an aside, many dwarves are complaining about the price of metal and the availability of reagents."

"That is out of my control, I'm afraid."

"Of course. I've told them that if they want more gold, they'll have to fight for it in the contests. As you have commanded."

"Excellent."

"On that point," Lekudr says, "the contests have been becoming rather ferocious, guildmaster. Injuries have been increasing drastically. Before long, I worry that there will be a death, or more than one."

"What does that matter?" scoffs Ithis. "Only the weak would perish to a wooden weapon. Those sorts will be the first to fall regardless."

"Bad luck can happen to anyone," says Brognir.

"The contests will continue as they are," I order. "Injuries cannot be prevented. If anyone does die, there are many young dwarves eager to become runeknights here in Allabrast. They can replace the fallen."

"Some of the guilds have already started recruiting," says Lekudr. "And they're being rather aggressive about it."

"You sound as if you do not approve."

"Not entirely—especially since they've been claiming that to join any guild from our realm is to get one step closer to the Runeforger—and to greatness."

I shrug. "I have no problem with this. I am glad, in fact, that my reputation has survived the beating Runethane Ytith gave it."

"Very well. But I do worry about the quality of those they're taking in. It seems to me there are a lot of young fools with too much money and too little skill."

"I see. Examinations are continuing, though, are they not?"

"Yes," says another one of the captains, sullen Ptholok. "Examinations of a sort. It seems to me that standards have been purposefully lowered, especially for tenth degree."

"Is that so?"

"Very much so. I went to observe a couple—for I have the same worry as Captain Lekudri. At the first, the blindboar brought in for them to fight were sick and weak. At the second, the runeknights judging the initiates' armor were lenient. They hit with very little force."

I recall my own first examination under Vanerak, how close I came to death. To let any weak fool become a runeknight is to insult all who lost their lives that day.

"Thank you for informing me," I say. "I certainly do not want any runeknights unworthy of the name in our ranks. We'll hold our own examinations for tenth. If anyone wants to join our realm's guilds, they'll have to pass it, regardless of whatever other tests they've undergone—for any degree."

"It will take time and gold to organize such, I think."

"We needn't bother with wild beasts. Our own dwarves will do. If any seem too weak, have them beaten bloody. That should weed out the poorer prospects."

The captains nod approvingly.

"Let us continue with the reports. Lekudr, do you have more to say?"

He voices a few concerns, nothing major. The other captains follow suit. Everything is proceeding as I have ordered, training and forging both. Aside from the dispute over how violent the training contests have become, they seem to have nothing much to say.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

We are not down here simply for the usual reports, however. All through the speaking, the captains have been unable to keep their eyes from the short scabbard hanging from my belt. And they are standing a little further back from me than usual, too.

While many weapons glow with power, mine exudes the scent of a forgotten grave, of old bone and memories of horror. I did not notice this in the forge; it started a few short-hours after its crafting, and has been slowly growing in intensity, as if the metal itself is rotting.

"...and that is all, my Runethane," says the last captain.

"Good," I say.

An intense silence falls. Eyes drift toward my scabbard, then flick back up.

"I suppose I should not keep you waiting," I say, pretending as if I have been putting off this moment for dramatic effect, rather than simple fear of what they might think.

They make no reply. I smile grimly and draw it.

"Behold Graveknife," I say.

"Nacmal-Kel Al-Yom."

I hold it up, flat toward them so they may see the first stanza of the poem. "Behold the runes of death."

"Runseh-Nachrok Al-Yom."

The captains draw back as one. Lekudr especially shrinks away, but Ithis soon leans back in, almost steps forward. And he is the first to congratulate me.

"A thing of beauty, guildmaster."

"In shape, perhaps."

"In all parts of its form. Well-balanced, and deadly. Most who see you approach with it drawn will flee."

"Alas, it is a side-arm only. Steelpierce is still my main weapon."

"It will be effective in the press of battle," says Rtayor, also stepping forward. "You'll soon clear those too close for your spear to impale. After the pikes are broken, and they come in with their own short-swords, they will regret their bravery."

I spin Graveknife in my hand, slash and stab the air, which whines. Unease runs through the pit of my stomach.

Lekudr seems to stagger slightly. "What is the matter, captain?" I ask him.

"Nothing," he says.

"I am not going to demote you for speaking what you feel."

He shakes his head. "I feel its power, that is all."

"And it is to your distaste, perhaps?"

"It's not that. It is a weapon, and like all weapons, it is made to deal death. I feel no distaste at that."

"What is it, then? Tell me."

He shifts uncomfortably. "I must say that... For me, guildmaster... For me, who spent so long on the precipice of death... It seems to cut through my heart a little. Like it's opening old wounds."

"I understand. You will hold a flank then, when it comes time for battle."

"No, my Runethane. I'll be wherever I'm most needed." He draws himself up out of his usual, aged hunch. For a moment I see the young dwarf he once was, eager beyond measure to prove himself. "I will overcome this weakness."

"Very well," I say, unwilling to reject his courage, though his reaction worries me more than a little. "You will fight near me, then."

"Thank you." He swallows. "And—I will try to use these runes, too. I'll even go that far. I should overcome all of my fear."

"No," I say firmly. "No. None of you are to copy these runes. They are mine alone to use. They are too dangerous."

Lekudr lets out a breath of relief, but Rtayor and Ithis look at each other.

"My Runethane," says Rtayor. "This may be presumptuous of me, but isn't a dwarf free to choose what he's to forge?"

"Yes," says Ithis. "And these runes hold obvious power. A few with good weapons using them could turn the tide of a battle where simpler scripts could not."

"They are too dangerous," I repeat. "They nearly slew me in the crafting."

"Runes of light may do that also," says Ithis. "Look at what happened to Nthazes. All forging, especially the forging we senior runeknights engage in, has the potential to cause injury or death."

I narrow my eyes. "You think I don't know that? I, who work in conditions far more dangerous than any of you do? Do you feel the heat of the world's blood streaming through your soul when you forge?"

Ithis draws back.

"You make think you do," I continue. "You may think you take risks when you craft. But you do not see what I see. I have described it to each of you, how it is to forge runes, and yet you cannot understand the process through words. No one can truly understand but me, and perhaps the First Runeforger in times long lost. So, if I say these runes are too dangerous to work with, I say so because I have truly seen what they are. Because I have seen them at their very making, in their most perfect forms."

I pause to catch my breath. Graveknife's edge glints. Its tip has tilted toward Ithis. Quickly I sheathe it and, after a moment's struggle, let go of its handle.

"Can you not feel it?" I ask them. "Well? This knife desires death, and it doesn't care whose. It'll turn on me if I let it. You do not want this power, captains. If you were to wield it, you would regret it."

"But you will not?" Ithis dares to say, though very quietly, almost under his breath.

"I likely will," I say. "I'm only wielding it in the first place because I see no other choice. Our Runeking has given me a harsh dilemma." I scowl, and spit my next words: "I'm half a mind to think he wants me killed too, almost as much as he wants to see the same for hated Uthrarzak."

The captains look at each other, shocked.

I shake my head. "Forget I said that. The knife is affecting me. I have complete faith in Runeking Ulrike, just as I'm sure all of you do."

They nod.

I ask if anyone has more to say, and no one does. Then we leave, in silence.

But I am sure that once I'm out of their presence, plenty more is going to be spoken of. Of the runes, of myself, and of the Runeking also.

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