How could we have been defeated so easily? This is the question that worries me through my waking hours, the question that turns my night-hours to sweaty, anxious turnings under the sheets and snatches of nightmare.

Never before has the Runic League lost a battle under my command. Not a real battle. My dwarves have suffered a few defeats in the past, yes, but only minor ones. The worst single loss we ever had was twenty, to a particularly savage troll incursion. And of course I was not in direct command in that instance.

Runethane Ytith wiped us out completely, and if we had all been wielding real weapons, her victory would have come even sooner. I failed to take into account of too many factors—I ought to have easily guessed that her troops were better quality than mine. If so, I could have come up with a plan to counter this advantage, but I instead fell victim to my own arrogance.

Runes are not the deciding factor in battle. The sooner we all realize this the better, including Runeking Ulrike.

Has our defeat not proven that we are far from the strongest force up here? Surely, he saw the battle with his own Eyes, or has at least heard about it—like the rest of Allabrast has, I am informed. The great Runeforger, defeated in battle by a dwarf in the old runes. That's the tale going around the city, and no matter that the dwarf was one of the more powerful Runethanes. I can't help but wonder if more than a few dwarves are re-thinking what script to use on their next craft.

Perhaps our Runeking will invite me into his palace and explain that he's decided to give the impossible task to someone more capable. One can hope, though I think it more likely that if I'm called to him, it'll be so he can tell me to try harder.

Try harder—this is all I can do, I think glumly. All any of us can do. So, after a couple long-hours' spent overseeing training and drinking a great deal of quality wine and ale, I pluck up the resolve to return to the forge.

My first task: to perfect the formula for my welding-powder. To a mix of titanium, magnesium and vanadium dust, I add a small amount of yelgrine and quizik. I have two pure titanium sheets ready, adorned with meaningless silver patterns grafted, of course, with the salterite and yelgrine reagent-mix.

I scatter the powder over sheet, then place the other over, making sure it is aligned. Now, I insert them into the new furnace.

I chose it for precision. At the back is an immensely complicated mechanism of bellows and turning cogs, and by operating the levers attached to it, I can control the heat inside the furnace's chamber exactly. I can even make it so the front of the furnace is cooler than the back, or vice versa, a function I've never seen before. A kind of mercury alloy in glass tubes allows me to know the temperature down to the sub-degree.

There are other functions, too, which its creator explained to me—it is one of a kind. I don't know if I'll need them, but time may tell.

I set the temperature to six-hundred, fifty-four and three quarter degrees. Once I see that the mercury reaches the appropriate marks, I insert the plates. They begin to glow red, then orange. The thin line between them flashes pale green, fades fast. I let them continue to heat for five minutes—I count with a sand-timer—and then pull them out.

Once they cool back to their original color, I inspect: first with my eyes, then with a lens, and then with my ears. They pass the first two checks easily enough, yet when I tap them, I detect hints of weakness in their humming note.

Not quite good enough. I go over my calculations once more. After much mind-racking, I decide that the amount of quizik needs to be decreased ever so slightly.

I am tired, and my head hurts, but time is running out. Rumors abound that Uthrarzak is already attacking into the border realms. Another says that Runethane Grovik has turned fully traitor, and is already attacking Gaflek's realm. I can't allow myself the luxury of sleep and wine between every session in the forge.

So, I remake the powder immediately, weighting every element with incredible precision, on a balance I purchased from the same metalworker who designed the furnace. I grind and mix, making sure every last grain of dust is evenly incorporated.

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Once done, I lay out another two plates. I dust, press them together, and into the furnace they go at six-hundred, seventy-eight and a half degrees, as recalculated. The metal goes from red to orange. Then, a little later than before, comes the flash. It is an emerald green. This is not an effect I predicted, and I curse quietly.

The proof will come in the testing, though. After the metal is out and cooled again, I inspect as before.

It passes the first two tests. Then I shut my eyes, tap. The melody is pure. Frowning, I tap it again, in a different spot. There is no distortion. A third time, followed by a fourth, proves the perfection: the metal plates are cleanly welded all the way through.

I'm still not satisfied. I make up the mixture again and repeat the test. Once more, there are no distortions in the sound. I have done it, perfected the formula. There is no reaction with the salterite. The two reagent mixtures are compatible.

Yet I allow myself no celebration. There still remains a possibility that it was not an alchemical problem that catalyzed the gray flames' birth, but the runes themselves. That, unfortunately, will only become apparent upon the completion of my next craft.

I get to designing it immediately. After a brief look-over of my old sketches, I start scribbling away on fresh sheets. The scratching of charcoal on paper fills the forge for hours on end. I need a thinner, flatter, cleaner blade. Too many layers, too thick, will affect the evenness of the heating.

Last time, I decided on the shape of the blade first before considering how many layers it should be composed of. This time, I do the opposite. I decide it is to be of only ten layers and thus very thin in profile. Held edge-on, it will be all but unseeable, just as death itself is oft unseen by those it comes for.

After many hours sketching and re-sketching, the physical design is complete. Now to draft the poem.

With great trepidation, I commit my memory of the death-runes to the paper. First I write out my old composition, then I organize each symbol into categories of both meaning and grammatical role. Written out in black charcoal, they look like burned bones on the page; they are fearsome and malicious even without reagent to bind them and bring out their power.

I will not permit my dwarves to use them. After Uthrarzak is slain, they will be forgotten. The crafts I make now are for use in this war alone. They will do their duty in it and be retired—locked away in the depths of my realm. Maybe once a century, initiates will be taken down to look at them so they can understand just how terrible a craft can be.

I am getting ahead of myself. I scowl—am I really thinking about locking away a craft I am just about to create? Just by the thoughts, I am insulting it. I should be thinking of how I will wield these deathly weapons, not about what to do after the battles are done.

With the runes organized, I start on the poem itself. It's similar to its predecessor, though much shorter and more elegant, with far less repetition. Most stanzas are cut entirely. Many individual runes, too, are sliced out and their lines re-worded.

The process drags on; it is more difficult than I anticipated. The death-script is trickier to work with than my previous ones. Death cannot be related to everything, and negations are never as powerful as writing a concept directly and succinctly. The runic flows, too, frustrate me intensely, infinitesimal divisions complicating every last equation.

My temples throb as I work. When I rub them, the veins there feel like solid wires. Eventually, I give in and put down my writing-stick. The finer details are beyond me, at least up here. They will have to be worked out in my trance.

It will be a very dangerous one. I feel sure of this.

I take a simple meal right here in the forge, of stringy dried pork and raw mushrooms, washed down with watered down ale of the cheapest sort. I brought these supplies down on my return to the forge, for I must wean myself off the richer foods. When it comes time to march out and do battle, I'll consume the same as the rest of my troops. I won't let myself be seen as decadent.

Now for a quick sleep on the hard floor, and now I get right to the forging. I meld half a kilogram of mundane titanium with half a kilogram of true. An image of my face, bright white and distorted, seems to be imprinted into the ingot after it cools.

I shake my head. It can play all the tricks it likes; they do not bother me any more. With heat and hammer I start pounding the metal out into a long sheet. My strokes are heavy, and as evenly timed as the tolling of a bell. White sparks fly up, dangerously close to my eyes, but I am not afraid of them. Hot metal does not scare a Runethane, not this tiny amount. Only a coward distorts his vision of the craft with glass protection.

The sheet grows; I divide it. They grow further, and I divide them again. The sheets become as thin as paper, thinner. I cut them with great care into shape. I tap, listen, re-forge those that do not meet my standards.

After a long time, they are shaped. Ten palely gleaming knife-silhouettes lie on the squat anvil. Already they look deadly, for I had death on my mind when I designed them, and the same all throughout their heating and hammering.

They are well-ready to receive the runes.

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