I tell, as I often do, of a dwarf doing battle. Yet, I don't quite tell the tale as is conventional; the battle does not proceed according to the demands of time. Rather, the feats of the dark-battling champion are categorized on the various limbs of the suit according to type and described in order of greatness.

His leaps, bounds, and charges are written of upon the legs and boots of the armor. He dashes across the shadowed cavern with impossible speed. The shadows flee at his rapid advances but can never escape. Clad in armor of pure light, he always catches them.

Upon the arm-pieces and gauntlets, I detail the dwarf's feats of combat. His strikes are too fast to be seen—they are but blurs of burning light to his enemy. He wields a spear of pure brightness in both hands and each thrust is a beam that reaches to the very ends of the dark cavern that he does battle in. The shapeless shadows fall apart at its touch.

On the helmet I considered speaking of his vision, but ultimately decide against it. My runic ears will provide all the perception I need. Instead, I discuss the way he coordinates his attacks and movements. Arms and legs and weapon move in a harmony like art. I arrange the runes in a clever fashion so that the power will be directed downwards, and thus, just as in the poem, my movements within my armor will be coordinated also.

This armor is primarily for offense, but there's no telling what we might find around the sorcerer. Perhaps, in its final moments, it'll attempt to bring the city down around our heads. My plates must provide physical protection as well, and so in each piece I describe one feat of deflection too, as the dark entity causes rockfalls in an attempt to blot out its blazing attacker by more brutal means.

Finally, I come to the chest and backplates. Upon them I describe the very greatest feats of attack and defense, and also the beginning and outcome of the battle. On the backplate, the most unseen part of the armor, I write of the initial, cowardly attack. On the front, near the heart, I tell of the dwarf's final blow, piercing the heart-origin of the darkness. The black disintegrates, and the dwarf is left in a cavern of pale and neutral gray, clear of shadow.

All the time during this composition, I am bathed in heat. Yet the power directed through me by the sphere is not so fierce as it usually is. I don't need to create so many new runes, and I don't need to improve many either. A few I alter for the purposes of runic flow—very few scripts have multiple runes for the same meaning, but mine has several—yet all in all, my power is not so needed. When I emerge from the trance, I am barely warm.

"You didn't burn this time," Hayhek remarks. It seems he's decided to come down to watch over me himself.

"No." I blink a few times, then look down at the anvil. I've made only a skeleton of the poem; on the blue-steel surface lie the scattered new runes and altered, and a few of the more important lines are whole, but there's no more than this. My reagents sit unused.

My head feels unusually clear too. I'm noticing things that aren't metal—like the look of relief on Hayhek's face.

"I thought you would," he says. "You were moving slowly. I thought that maybe something had gone wrong."

"Not at all. There isn't much to improve in my script, that's all. I didn't exert myself."

"Well, I suppose that's good to hear."

"Your own armor is impressive, by the way."

He's remade it at some point, and I can tell that his technique has improved. It's smoother, more elegant, and the runic flow over it stronger too.

"Thank you. It's not as good as yours, though. Should have taken more time, but didn't have it with the examinations coming up."

"How did they go?"

"You were there, guildmaster," he reminds me.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Ah, that's right. I remember now." I nod, smile. "They went well. Very well."

A sudden worry takes me, and my smile vanishes. "Time—how long have I spent down here?"

"I haven't been counting."

"Can you guess?"

"Many dozens of long-hours."

"Ah, shit. Have preparations for the expedition begun yet?"

To my surprise, he shakes his head. "Not at all."

"Not at all?"

"No. Life proceeds as usual—the Runethane remains in his forge."

"He's still working?"

"Indeed."

I feel surprised, but on second thought, why should I be? Runethane Halmak is superior to me when it comes to metal, and likely when it comes to patience too. Why would the demands of time have more of an effect on him than on myself?

"I see. And what about Nthazes? Has he finished his crafting yet?"

"No. He's still in his forging pit, cloaked in black smoke."

"Still? You speak as if he hasn't emerged even once."

"He hasn't."

"Really?"

"Not once. He's absorbed in some great work. His dwarves say that the smoke sometimes flashes bright silver, and that they can see strange shapes in it."

"I saw similar when I met the Runeking."

"I doubt he has reached that level of skill yet."

"No, no. All the same, I hope he has been eating and drinking, and sleeping."

"Very little of any of those, apparently."

"Oh."

This worries me a little. I hope he is not damaging his body too much. Mixed with my worry, however, is slight jealousy, like a trickle of blood amid water. I thought I'd surpassed him, and yet it seems that he's now surpassed me. Silver shapes in the smoke—I've never seen those.

"His craft will be the greatest out of any of ours, I'm sure," I say. "At least, I hope so. That would be only fitting."

"Yes, guildmaster," says Hayhek.

But he can tell, I think, that I don't quite mean what I say. He can tell that I am in fact, however much I may try to suppress the feeling, hoping that my weapon will be the greatest.

"Anyway," I say, "I am going to enrune now. You may all return to the guild. Keep up the crafting. Runethane Halmak will emerge eventually, and Nthazes too. We must be ready when they do."

"Yes, guildmaster."

I twist, place, graft. Flashes of silver light the forge. Light reflects strangely off the true titanium, yet no specific shapes appear, just hints of what might be shapes. The process, though I naturally take utmost care to align each rune correctly, seems to speed by.

I place the armor on a stand and walk around it, observing. It seems to glow, and not just with power, but with ordinary light also. It's a soft glow, barely perceptible. I extinguish some of the braziers so I can see it more clearly. It mostly comes from the runes, yet the untouched chainmail is bright too, each ring clear to see. The runic flow is near perfect, then, to bathe the unruned chain so thoroughly.

It's time to equip it. My anticipation builds as I strip off my forging leathers and get into a set of thinly-padded silks I've purchased to wear under it.

Plate by plate I put it on. Unlike my tungsten armor, it's simple to clad myself in—not much more difficult than an ordinary set of clothes would be. Jaemes once told me, I seem to recall, about how human warriors require several assistants to help them get their plates on. I can't imagine crafting something so inelegant.

I place on the helmet and attach the runic ears. The moment everything comes together, the moment the various parts of the saga become unified, I feel a rush of runic strength.

I step. My speed startles me. So does my control; I do not overbalance. I aim for a spot of floor several feet ahead, leap for it. I hit exactly where I was looking and halt my momentum exactly. The clink of my boots on the stone sounds, high and harmonious—my runic ears show me the shape of the forge exactly by it.

Grinning, I dance around, jumping and slashing with an imaginary weapon. My movements don't have the grinding, near-unstoppable power they do when I wear my armor of magma, yet the speed and precision this set affords more than makes up for this. It's more flexible, too. I have a greater range of movement.

I tire myself out after a while, and sit down on the floor, breathing heavily. This is a fine piece for sure. The true metal has elevated the runic power greatly. Yet all the same, I can't quite bring myself to smile too widely.

It is not quite as powerful as Runethane Halmak's armor, nor Vanerak's. Even counting only amongst those armors in this realm, it is probably only third or fourth best.

I shake my head. I am getting greedy and impatient. I should be proud of this effort!

I do, and yet I'm feeling something else too. There is a niggling worry at the back of my head. What is it?

Runethane Halmak and Nthazes are still working on their armor. Do I think I've been too impatient? Yet I've rushed nothing.

Then it hits me: the enruning was too easy. Usually, it feels as if I'm battling to the death against the sphere and the world's blood. This time though, the trance was almost simple to get through. Even making new runes of darkness did not provoke the maliciousness that always attempts to destroy me.

I look over at the metal still to be crafted into my weapon. Next time, the sphere is not going to let me off so easy. It's been conserving its power. It knows, in some fashion, how tricky the balance of my next runic poems is going to have to be.

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