《Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy》


 Stone Drudgery

    I swing my pick at the rock wall. The vibration shudders through my hands, the clang shudders in my ears, and sparks fly toward my eyes before they dim and float down to join the pile of dust and gravel at my feet.


    This is my life. The life of a miner. Sixteen hours a day I swing my pick at the rock wall, hollowing out a new forge-hall for Runethane Broderick, for his war-effort under the command of Runeking Uthrarzak, who fights against another ten Runekings in his hundred-year struggle to throw down the Runegod of the Western Mountains and take his place.


    My arms burn. From the center of the half-done cavern I can hear laughter and drinking as my fellow workers take their lunch break. They claim you can only work well after plenty of rest, but I know this isn¡¯t true.


    If I am to find what I desire, what I have been seeking for the past eight years of swinging my pick, I have no time to rest.


    Clang. Clang. Clang. Iron shudders and sparks fly. I know if I work hard enough I can find something, anything that will put me on the path to greatness. My brother found something. He died for it, but I shall not.


    A glowing chip of rock the size of my fingernail carves a path of light through the air and hits my cheek. It burns and I gasp in pain.


    "Bastard!"


    I pull the still-hot stone from my skin.


    ¡°Bastard! That¡¯s going to leave a scar... Oh.¡±


    The tiny piece of glowing stone I hold in my hand is not stone at all. It is metal, and it is no ordinary metal. It is one of the eight reagents, a vital ingredient in the forging of runic weapons and armor. It is Incandesite, and it is worth a hundred silver coins a gram.


    I quickly lean in and, holding my pick near the head for better control, chisel away to uncover the nugget. It glows in time with each iron tap. I bring my body in close to cover the glow: it goes without saying that I don¡¯t want my co-miners to see. Luckily they''re too interested in their flagons to look at me.


    Flake by flake I uncover the incandesite. It¡¯s the size of my fist. I reach into the hollow I¡¯ve dug out, and grasp it. Warmth flows into my palm and fingers and I can see every bone in my hand backlit by its glow. For a few moments I stare, my breath held still in my lungs, my mind blank with happiness and fear.


    I¡¯ve done something few miners are lucky to do. I have dug out something worth a great deal of silver. Enough, if I sell it in the underground markets, to retire in modest comfort.


    I am not going to sell it. Nor am I going to hand it in like a good dwarf for far less silver than it''s worth.


    I am going to forge it.


    I carefully place it into the pocket of my baggy sackcloth trousers, set down my pick, and wander over to the slackers. I do this because if I''m to rush out now, I will draw a great deal of suspicion. That was my brother¡¯s mistake.


    ¡°Ho, shortbeard,¡± cries one of the miners. ¡°You going to have a drink today for once? It¡¯s not good for a young dwarf to stay sober.¡±


    I smile. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right. I¡¯m feeling a little tired today.¡±


    He claps me on the shoulder and grins like a loon. His beard is grey and straggled, specked with little chips of rock. He¡¯s one of those too lazy even to wash it, let alone apply some oil. He pours a flagon and hands it to me. I take a swig; it tastes sour and cheap and coats the inside of my mouth with rock-dust.


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    ¡°Why are you grimacing? This is Grogwatch¡¯s finest!¡±


    He laughs and claps me on the shoulder again. Hardrick, I think his name is. I really ought to know¡ªI¡¯ve been mining with him for the past four years. Maybe longer.


    ¡°It¡¯s got dust in it,¡± I point out.


    ¡°All good beer has dust in it. Dust is nutritious. Got calcium, like milk. Makes your bones strong.¡±


    ¡°Sure it does.¡± I force myself to down the rest of the flagon. ¡°Very healthy.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my dwarf.¡± He pours me out another flagon. ¡°Have another.¡±


    I have no choice but to oblige. He offers me a seat on one of the stone chairs next to the barrels and I take it.


    There are about ten dwarfs working to hollow out this section of the new forge-hall. Their faces are lit blue by cheap crystal lamps strung overhead, and each looks haggard, hunched over his own flagon. Their eyes are dead, even though their mouths babble stupidly about their wives, mistresses, damn useless kids, other miners, complaining about anything, blaming everyone apart from themselves for their pathetic position at the very bottom of society.


    That¡¯s what makes me different. I don¡¯t complain. I strive.


    ¡°I better get to the loo and back to work,¡± I tell Hardrick after another flagon.


    ¡°Back to work? You¡¯d enjoy yourself more if you didn''t,¡± he laughs. ¡°Even if you find something worth a copper, that dime will vanish soon enough.¡±


    ¡°A copper is still a copper, though.¡±


    Shaking a little, the incandesite hot against my leg, I stand and make my way to the bathroom, a wooden cubicle at the back left corner of the cavern. I unlace my trousers. As soon as I¡¯m done, I¡¯m out of here to buy a hammer, speed off to an isolated cave somewhere¡ªno one will miss an eighteen year old miner, will just assume I got eaten by a salamander or fell down a shaft¡ªand forge something powerful enough to get me admitted to a guild.


    I finish and lace my trousers back up. A hand grabs me around the back of the neck and thrusts me against the stone wall. My nose cracks and I feel blood run down my face, nearly as warm as the incandesite.


    There''s hot breath on my neck. I think it''s Hardrick, smells sour enough. And I can guess what he¡¯s here for.


    "Where is it?" Hardrick hisses. "I saw the glow."


    Something metallic comes against my neck, and with a thrill of fear I sense the power in it.


    "Saw what?" I say, trying to buy time as my mind races to think of a way to escape.


    "You found something. I saw it. Don''t play dumb!" He pushes the blade against my neck harder. From where the metal touches an icy, unnatural pain crawls into my skin. "Can you feel that? This knife has a death rune. One cut and your heart stops!"


    I grab his wrist and try to push the knife away. He resists. I stamp down hard on his foot and manage to twist and turn out his grip, but he grabs me again, by the collar, and shoves me back against the wall. He places the tip of his knife against my cheek.


    It''s a crooked ten inch length of semi-rusted iron, blunter than a cook''s cleaver. But it has a rune, alright. A small, messily carved thing of blotchy rose gold. It hums unevenly.


    "Hand it over," he says. "One touch and you die."


    "Never!" I hiss, and knee him between the legs.


    He bellows in pain and shock. His knife slashes deep into my cheek and icy pain rushes through my face, deep into my skull; my brain feels like someone has tipped ice onto it, and momentarily I''m blinded.


    But I recover quicker than him, bunch my right fist and deliver a hammer-blow to the side of his head. He crashes into the wooden cubicle wall, nearly stumbles into the toilet.


    I swing again. A tooth flies. Again. Blood sprays from his lip. I grab his wrist and try to wrench the knife from his grasp.


    "You little bastard!" he howls.


    I duck his punch.


    "You little bastard!"


    I jab at his eyes. One of his hands shoots up reflectively to block. I bring my jabbing hand down and with my two hands against his one on the knife, I finally take it from him.


    He''s still up, though, and bigger and stronger than me.


    I have to finish this now.


    Like a striking snake I plunge the ill-forged weapon deep into his shoulder. He screams in agony and falls against the wooden wall of the cubicle, bringing it down with a crash and a cloud of sawdust. The knife remains buried in him to the hilt.


    The other miners, who were already running over to the commotion, see me standing over him, splashed with blood.


    I run.

 First Freedom

    The stone pillars lining the road blur with my speed. My rapid footsteps echo. I jostle through crowds of miners to much cursing, but thankfully none of the runeknight guards around take much of an interest beyond a few odd looks¡ªit¡¯s raucous and chaotic enough here that one dwarf, even fleeing for his life, doesn¡¯t draw so much attention.


    Runethane Broderick''s new forge-hall is a grid of corridors punctuated by thousand meter shafts, halls of empty bookshelves awaiting runic treatises, scaffolds straining to support great tungsten buckets filled to the brim with molten metal, and of course statues of the Runethane himself, solid gold and hung with diamond encrusted chains. Apparently he''s wanted it built for two hundred years or so, and ten years ago he finally amassed enough funds to begin. It¡¯s going to be a great deal bigger than the forge-halls of Runethane Thanerzak. It¡¯ll have to be, if he and his runeknights are going to be able to craft enough powerful runic weapons and armor to win them the victory they¡¯re after.


    Being a grid, one might think the half-made forge-hall would be easy to navigate, but grids are surprisingly easy to get lost in¡ªone turn wrong and you end up going in a circle, or rather a square. Nonetheless I have been working here like a dog for the past eight years and know how to find my way around. Past the empty dragon house with its barred windows, a right turn at the great statue of the Hammer of Jazkh Haldaak, a left turn at the quarter-filled mercury lake, and I¡¯m hurrying down the main road. Past the pubs and guardhouse, and very a far way away from anywhere wealthy, I come to the miner barracks that is my home.


    It¡¯s a block of stone, and its windows are barred like the dragon house¡¯s, though with iron rather than tungsten. Its door is shut.


    For most miners, a rune-sealed door may as well be a wall of solid stone. I am not like most miners. I am not illiterate.


    Zhekh Harkza Hazhulam


    Steel Path-To Victorious


    I speak the runes painted upon the door and it swings open. I hurry to my room. It¡¯s the worst one, right next to the toilets, and stinks of stale sweat and urine.


    Fearing that I will hear runeknights pounding down the corridor any second, I heave my mattress off of the hole it covers and reach down. I scrabble around with both hands in a familiar motion. They make contact with my brother¡¯s treasures:


    A small pouch of silver, a book, and a short bar of refined steel.


    This is all I need to begin my legend. I swallow and bring them up. I¡¯ve never dared to bring them into the light until today, but they look just as I remember them from four years past. I count the silver pieces. Enough for a good hammer and tongs, and some left over for a rune. Just enough.


    I push the mattress back over the hole and stand up. I put the silver in my pocket next to the incandesite, and the steel in my other pocket along with the book: a dictionary of runes, a battered thing, with a thin leather cover scratched all over. Some of its pages are scorched at the edges. Other pages are missing entirely, or blotted. Even so, enough is readable. At any rate there¡¯s enough information in here for me to tell the difference between a pain rune and a death rune. If Hardrick owned a book like this, I might actually be dead.


    I wonder how much he¡¯s stolen using that crude knife of his? Too much. I scowl in disgust. To take your first steps at forging just to get your grubby hands on some money. Pathetic. And it was money he had in mind, for I know he sure spends enough of it drinking and whoring.


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    But I won¡¯t have to deal with him ever again, nor any other miner.


    I rush from the barracks and down the street to the merchant¡¯s district. I just have to make two purchases and then I¡¯ll be gone, free, ready to do what my brother always whispered to me in his half-dreams.


    Become a legend.


    <hr>


    Hardrick lies gasping in agony, clutching at the wound in his shoulder, which the two plate-armoured runeknights standing over him have extracted the knife from. He is looking up at one, blonde, who turns the weapon over in his gauntleted hands.


    ¡°Yuck,¡± the blonde runeknight says to the other. ¡°Have you ever seen something so badly made?¡±


    ¡°Looks like a child crafted it.¡±


    ¡°Or a miner. I¡¯m shocked this rune even works at all.¡±


    ¡°Me too.¡±


    ¡°Does it?¡± Blonde directs this question to Hardrick.


    ¡°Does it work?¡± Hardrick groans. ¡°It nearly stopped my heart. I¡¯d say it works.¡±


    ¡°Stopped your heart?¡± says the other runeknight. He has a black beard and a scar cutting through both lips. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Hah! Don¡¯t worry,¡± Blonde laughs. ¡°This is just a rune of pain. You didn''t have anything to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Hardrick says through gritted yellow teeth. ¡°Bastard.¡±


    The other miners are crowded around them. Partly they are shocked, but mostly they¡¯re excited. Nothing this interesting has ever intruded on their empty, dull lives before.


    ¡°He just set upon you?¡± one of the miners asks. ¡°Just tried to stab you like that?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Pretty much.¡±


    ¡°Why though?¡±


    ¡°No idea... He didn''t like the beer I gave him much. And he was always a weird one. We all could tell that. Doesn¡¯t take much to make his type fly off the handle.¡±


    ¡°I wonder where he forged it,¡± ponders Blonde.


    ¡°Not at a guildhall, I can tell you that,¡± says Blackbeard. ¡°Any guildmaster worth the title would throw the dwarf who made this into a cauldron of molten iron as soon as he saw it.¡±


    ¡°And good on him for doing it.¡± Blonde¡¯s mouth twists into a grimace. ¡°This thing is an insult.¡±


    ¡°What are you waiting for, then?¡± Hardrick asks. ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to go and grab him? He stabbed me!¡±


    ¡°Shut up, miner. We¡¯re faster than we look. We¡¯ll catch up.¡±


    ¡°But not for your benefit,¡± Blackbeard makes clear. ¡°We¡¯re going for him because this,¡±¡ªhe takes the knife and waves it in Hardrick¡¯s face¡ª¡°Is an insult to the hammer that bent it into shape.¡±


    ¡°Right you are,¡± Hardrick says. ¡°Right you are.¡±


    ¡°What was his name again?¡± asks Blonde. ¡°Zuthur? Zother?¡±


    ¡°Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Zuthur?


    ¡°Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Zuthur. Got it. Any idea where he might have run off to?¡±


    ¡°No idea... Wait...¡± Hardrick decides to go for a gamble. ¡°I saw something in his pocket. An orange glow. He might have found something.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be off to pawn it then,¡± says Blackbeard. "Probably in the dark district."


    ¡°No, not him. He¡¯s crazy. Wants to be a runeknight. He mutters about it under his breath sometimes.¡±


    ¡°The forging district then,¡± says Blonde. ¡°If he¡¯s foolish enough to head there directly." He gives Hardrick the slightest of smirks. "Though, it was stupid of him to attempt a murder just after succeeding at a thievery, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    The blonde runeknight¡¯s eyes are piercing. Can he see through the lies?


    ¡°Like I said,¡± Hardrick says nervously. ¡°He¡¯s crazy.¡±


    Blonde shrugs. ¡°Well, whatever. A bit of incandesite never goes amiss in any case.¡±


    ¡°Must have been a big chunk to glow so strong,¡± says Blackbeard. ¡°Plenty even after the Runethane has his tithe.¡±


    ¡°And if you find him, there¡¯ll be some payment for me too?¡± Hardrick asks hopefully.


    ¡°Maybe something small. We¡¯ll see.¡± He starts to turn to leave, then stops to look back at Hardrick. ¡°What was his name again..? Ah, never mind. Doesn¡¯t matter. You don¡¯t need a name after you¡¯ve been submerged in molten iron.¡±

 The Forge District

    The city in which I have spent every day of my life, so far as us dwarves measure life in days, sits at the center of the yawning cavern of Hzhakmar, surrounded on all sides by stalagmite forests inside which dwell creatures from nightmare. At the east and west of the city stand two mountains fully as tall as any you might find on the surface¡ªnot that any miner ever gets to see the surface.


    Carved into the east mountain is the palace of Runethane Broderick. Atop the west stands the castle-tower of his rival, Runethane Thanerzak. A ravine down the middle of the cavern divides their territories.


    The merchant district of Broderick''s domain runs along a full quarter of the central ravine''s length, and is a jumble of thoroughfares and alleyways over which tower stores selling everything a dwarf might want, though maybe not afford. I have only been on breakdays before, and so the quiet and the shuttered shop windows and doors unnerves me a little.


    But I know there is one section open today. It¡¯s open every day. Forge supplies.


    It''s its own little district within the district, cut off from the rest by great black fireproof walls, right adjacent to the chasm. Runeknights of all stations have their business here but very rarely anyone else. Both the stifling heat and creeping sense I am unwelcome oppress me.


    I wipe sweat from my brow and tentatively step through the obsidian entrance arch. A few runeknights are lounging outside a reagent shop a little way down the street. I daren''t go there¡ªbest stick to the shops near the entrance. Those are the only places that will sell to someone lower even than an initiate.


    I enter a shop with the runes for tool, zhakthaz, over the entrance. Even in here is more luxury than I''ve ever encountered. The floor is polished obsidian tiles, the chairs have cushions, and the display-cases for the wares are unclouded glass. In them are chisels, hammers, tongs, vices, mallets¡ªthere¡¯s even an anvil set with a copper rune of fire. On the wall hang salamander skin gloves, boots, and aprons.


    For the moment I am awestruck, and gaze open-mouthed at one tool then another.


    ¡°Can I help you, young man?¡±


    I jump a little then turn to the shop assistant. She smiles at me sweetly.


    ¡°Are you looking for anything in particular?¡±


    ¡°Oh, ah, yes, actually.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure we have what you¡¯re looking for. What are you looking to forge? An axe is a popular first project.¡±


    She¡¯s pegged that I¡¯m not even an initiate yet. Well, that¡¯s pretty obvious.


    ¡°I just need a hammer and tongs. I¡¯m sure I can find them myself...¡±


    She¡¯s already picked a hammer out and is handing it to me. Its handle is patterned and the iron of its head glimmers in wavy patterns.


    ¡°This model is very popular,¡± she says.


    I take it and weigh it in my hand. The weight feels good, and it¡¯s incredible to hold something in my hand that isn¡¯t a pick, but I can¡¯t help but feel it¡¯s a little fancy looking.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for something a bit more... Worksdwarf like. And I¡¯m in a bit of a hurry.¡±


    ¡°Certainly.¡± She smiles sweetly again, is already handing me another one. ¡°This is a more beginner model.¡±


    I heft it. The handle is a bit long for me, but it hasn¡¯t got any fancy carvings, and I still keep flicking my eyes to the door, terrified that an angry runeknight guard is going to burst in and drag me away to the dungeons.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it.¡±


    ¡°Excellent! A decisive young dwarf, aren¡¯t you?¡± She smiles again. She¡¯s very pretty, and blonde. I bet she handles all the young male dwarves who come in to buy their first tools. ¡°That¡¯ll be three silver pieces, and one for these tongs. They¡¯re a set.¡±


    I lay four silvers out on the counter, which she¡¯s led me to without me realizing it.


    ¡°But everything is half off if you get the salamander skin gloves and apron to go with them. Would you like the blue, the green, or the red?¡±


    ¡°I, uh, I just want the hammer and tongs.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I didn''t realize you already had salamander skin gloves and an apron.¡±


    ¡°Not as such, but I¡¯ll just take the hammer and tongs, thanks.¡±


    She gives me a small, cute, apologetic smile. ¡°You can¡¯t forge without protection, young dwarf. Not if you want to keep the skin on your fingers intact.¡±


    ¡°Look, I just want the hammer and tongs. I¡¯m in a bit of a hurry too.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t hurry if you want to be a runeknight. Runethane Broderick has spent the last ten years on one axe, they say.¡±


    ¡°Look, that may be so, but... Fine, I¡¯ll take everything. How much is the total?¡±


    ¡°That comes to six silver pieces.¡±


    ¡°How about five? Six would be everything I have...¡±


    ¡°Were you going to use the last one for runes? Copper works just as well, you know. I have some discs under the counter, just half a silver for five of them.¡±


    ¡°Never mind. I¡¯ll find something else for the rune.¡± I lay out my last two silver pieces.


    ¡°Very good.¡± She smiles and sweeps them away. ¡°Let me wrap everything up for you.¡±


    With deft hands she bundles up the apron, hammer and tongs and places them into a convenient linen bag. I thank her, take it, and hurry out the shop.


    Now, where in hell am I going to go next? I¡¯d had it in mind to leave the city through a tunnel and find my way to a cave with a convenient pool of magma, but the more I consider this plan, the more poorly thought out I find it to be. Even if I do manage to find a cave that isn¡¯t home to some kind of horrible beast, what am I going to forge my runes with now I''ve thrown away my last silver? I can¡¯t expect there to be a convenient gold nugget lying next a stalagmite, can I?


    Freedom has turned out to be harder than expected. I dreamed a great deal about escaping my miserable life, but planned too little about how to start my new one.


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    At any rate, I best hurry out of here. If Hardrick told the runeknights in charge of supervising us¡ªnot that they ever bother to do much supervising¡ªabout the incandesite, they¡¯ll know exactly where I¡¯ve headed.


    Shit, I really ought to have hidden out somewhere for a few days first to shake the trail... Then again, if I¡¯d done that, an alert might have been put out about my escape, and I¡¯d never have been able to purchase anything.


    Stop thinking, stop thinking. Stop wasting time. I need to get away from here.


    I hurry down an ordinary shopping street, bag swinging as I walk. I take some deep breaths and slow my pace so I don¡¯t appear suspicious. A dirty miner hurrying in a panic is likely to bring the runes for ¡®thief¡¯ into anyone¡¯s mind.


    Where to go, where to go? I can find no clear answer to this question. If the alert is raised about a miner thief on the loose, no one will let me rent a forge either¡ªand of course, I remember, I don¡¯t even have the silver to rent one with.


    Caves it must be. A gamble, but everything has been a gamble. How to get to one? Descend into the chasm and hope dearly no beasts catch my scent. Where¡¯s the nearest stairs into the chasm? A couple of miles from here, probably.


    I continue to walk. The handle of my little linen bag is already damp from nervous sweat. Every footstep I hear makes me jump a little, glance back. No one looks to be after me though: all I can see is just ordinary dwarves going about their business.


    Apart from two runeknights walking a few hundred feet behind me, one in gold and one in armor of some darker metal. Both have their helmets on so I can¡¯t see their faces, yet the shape of their equipment does seem slightly familiar.


    I quicken my pace, then slow it. There¡¯s plenty of reasons runeknights might be walking along this road, I reassure myself. To enjoy the view, maybe, for by now I¡¯ve made my way onto the street running along the side of the chasm. Only a short fence of iron divides civilization from drop. Or maybe they¡¯re just walking to their next job, on their way down to the chasm themselves perhaps, with far more important things on their mind than miners and petty thievery.


    Every time I look back, they¡¯re a little closer. My heart thuds loudly in my ears. My breath catches in my chest. I recognize that armor¡ªthese two have supervised my group of miners before. The golden plate has runes of speed, and the dark metal of the other¡¯s is lead. They must have arrived after I left the shop and spotted me just as I was starting to hurry away.


    I pick up the pace. No use feigning innocence if they¡¯ve already found me. My bag swings violently, its heavy contents pulling me off balance, so I clutch it tight to my chest. I begin to sprint.


    Footsteps, blisteringly rapid, echo up the street toward me. I¡¯m already tiring but I try to increase my pace anyway; it¡¯s hopeless. A quick glance back shows that the runeknight in gold is already gaining on me, and the one in lead is somehow not far behind. Apart from them, the street is deserted.


    The runeknight in gold grabs me by the shoulder. The sudden deceleration sends me tumbling over, rolling; I stumble awkwardly up¡ªand he¡¯s right in front of me. His eyes, the color of ice, look into mine.


    ¡°Slow it down, miner. Why are you running from us?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m... I mean... I¡¯m just in a hurry, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°A hurry to get away from us?¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    He crosses his arms. The filigree of platinum runes of speed on his armor is very fine, exquisite even, and the axe hanging from a loop on his belt looks sharp enough to cut through steel, skin, flesh and bone in one single easy blow. It goes without saying that I do not stand a chance against him.


    ¡°Why then?¡± asks his lead-clad friend, catching up. His armor doesn¡¯t seem to weigh him down nearly as much as it should.


    I¡¯m in too much of a panic to think up a plausible excuse.


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for a forge. There¡¯s no problem with that, is there? Anyone¡¯s allowed to forge and apply at a guild. Even miners.¡±


    This is true.


    ¡°Even miners?¡± says Lead. ¡°You sure about that?¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± says Gold, but there¡¯s cruelty in his voice. ¡°He¡¯s right. Even miners are allowed, provided they have the tools.¡± He narrows his eyes at me. ¡°Tools that aren¡¯t stolen.¡±


    ¡°These aren¡¯t stolen!¡± I stop clutching the linen bag so tightly to my chest. ¡°I bought them with my wages. You can ask at the shop.¡±


    ¡°Which shop?¡±


    ¡°I... I don¡¯t know it¡¯s name. The smaller one, right at the entrance to the forging district.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. I know the one you mean. Still, if you¡¯re going to forge you need the materials also. Metal. And reagent.¡±


    ¡°The latter¡¯s a bit out of reach for miners, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡± says Lead. ¡°Maybe if you saved up ten year¡¯s wages, but you don¡¯t look like you¡¯ve been working for that long.¡±


    ¡°I had enough for some,¡± I say.


    I feel like vomiting. I¡¯ve only once been this scared¡ªthe morning my brother died.


    ¡°Why¡¯s there blood on your shirt?¡± Gold asks, suddenly changing the topic.


    I look down and see a few spots on my sleeve. ¡°I cut myself,¡± I lie. ¡°A sharp bit of rock flew at me.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s your blood then?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Gold turns to his friend. ¡°What do you say? Think he¡¯s above suspicion?¡±


    Lead laughs loudly. ¡°No. Guilty as charged. Fits the description perfectly too.¡±


    There¡¯s nothing else for it: I spin around and run. Less than a second later I¡¯m once again spinning, rolling, and this time feeling a terrible pain in my kidneys. Coughing and retching, I try to stagger to my feet, but the runeknight in gold kicks me in the chest and sends me flying back a good fifteen feet. I land hard.


    ¡°Leave me alone,¡± I groan. ¡°I¡¯ve done nothing wrong!¡±


    ¡°Thieving is a crime,¡± says the runeknight in lead. ¡°Crime is wrong.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t stolen anything!¡±


    "You stole reagent from the Runethane. You are meant to declare such finds."


    "I never stole anything! It''s mine! I found it, then Hardrick tried to steal it! It''s him you should be after, not me!"


    I grab the hammer out my linen bag, stand up and face off against them. Neither bother to attack me; they just laugh.


    "So Hardrick is his name, is it? Seems to me that he was just trying to make sure the Runethane got his due."


    ¡°Get away from me!¡± I scream.


    "Give up your find," orders the runeknight in gold.


    I back away further, and feel the back of my thigh touch something cold and hard: the iron fence dividing street from chasm. The runeknight in gold advances. His movements are nonchalant and unhurried, yet even so his limbs blur as his runes of speed shimmer. He takes up his axe and spins it. The head becomes like a solid circle, the outer edge of a wheel, so fast does it move.


    ¡°Last chance,¡± he warns. ¡°Give it up, or we¡¯ll chop you to bits and take it from your corpse.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not giving anything up! I earned this. Thieves! You¡¯re both as bad as Hardrick, both of you!¡±


    ¡°Comparing us to a miner now?¡± sneers Lead. ¡°No one ever taught you not to insult your betters, did they?¡±


    ¡°Very rude,¡± Gold agrees. ¡°New deal: if you don¡¯t give it to us, we¡¯ll break your bones, take it from you anyway, then dump you in a vat of molten iron. How does that sound?¡±


    ¡°Scary!¡± Lead laughs.


    I hesitate. Maybe I should just give it to him and cut my losses. Then I can explain to my other supervisors, the more responsible ones, what exactly happened with Hardrick. I¡¯ll be punished for thievery, but not attempted murder. Maybe one day I can find another piece of incandesite, and this time report it, and use the gold and tiny sliver of material I get for it to begin my journey.


    ¡°Come on, hand it over,¡± says Gold, softening his tone. ¡°I don¡¯t really want to chop you, you know. I might get fined. I am meant to be in charge of you lot, after all.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes! Murder is a crime. Even if it¡¯s just a miner. Come on now, young dwarf. Where are you hiding it, ay?¡±


    ¡°If I hand it over, you¡¯ll let me live?¡±


    ¡°Yes. That¡¯s what I just said, isn¡¯t it? Come on now. Which pocket is it hiding in? Take it out.¡±


    He reaches out his left hand, palm up, and raises his axe high in his right.


    I don¡¯t believe him. The moment I hand over the incandesite, my head comes off. So now I have a choice to make. Death by axe, or death by chasm.


    Easy choice to make. I¡¯m not going to hand anything over to scum like this.


    I throw myself backward¡ªhis axe cleaves the air where I just stood, clangs into the iron fence, but though his weapon is fast his reaction was too slow¡ªdidn''t think a miner could have this kind of courage¡ªand I¡¯m already out of reach, falling fast into the blackness of the chasm.

 Cavedwarf

    I don¡¯t scream as I plummet. I wail.


    My tears pour upwards, leaving a path like suspended diamonds in the air.


    My legend is over before it is even begun, just like my brother¡¯s, exactly like my brother¡¯s¡ªhe died at the bottom of the chasm too, broken in body, mind and soul.


    The impact hits me. It¡¯s not the bone-crushing stone I¡¯ve been expecting though, but soft. A bracket fungus jutting from the cliff-wall. I bounce off it and tumble to another. It breaks under me and I restart my fall.


    Fortunately it doesn¡¯t last long. Reaching out to guard my face, I collide with a stone ledge. My wrist bends and snaps and I scream in pain. Clutching it, I roll onto my back, tears still streaming from my eyes. I can feel the break in it and the terrible swelling too.


    ¡°No...¡± I groan. ¡°No, no.¡±


    I¡¯m alive, but for what? I can¡¯t forge with a broken wrist.


    ¡°No...¡±


    I lie there in misery and agony, choking on my tears. The mouth of the cavern is some two hundred meters above me, bright from the city-lamps. The brackets of fungus partly obscure it, like curtains half-closed.


    I continue to lie, crying in pain and grief.


    I notice something lying beside my face, and I turn my head to look.


    It¡¯s my hammer. Shockingly, its iron head is scarred but not cleaved. It¡¯s better made than its price suggested.


    And as long as I have a hammer, I can forge, can¡¯t I? A broken wrist can heal. And I can still feel the incandesite hot against my leg, and the length of steel and the dictionary still remain in my other pocket.


    I silence my groaning and force myself to sit up. My sides feel swollen and bruised too, but the agony of my broken wrist eclipses any pain in them.


    First, I need a splint. The ledge I''ve landed on is long but thin, only half a dozen paces or so wide. Sprouting from it are bushes of slender stalked mushrooms.


    I grab one, with my left hand of course, and tear it out. It''s soft and springy, no use as a splint, but I can use it as a tie.


    After pulling out another about the same length and thickness, I place them parallel to each other on the ground. Then I put my steel bar on top of them at a cross-angle. In absence of anything else stiff, it''ll have to do. I¡¯ll worry about getting a replacement when the time comes to forge.


    I lay my forearm over the steel, then awkwardly tie it to my forearm with the mushroom stalks, using my left hand. It''s painful despite my best efforts to keep my broken wrist dead still, and when I lift my arm up the damn thing nearly comes untied. I restart, tightening the ropes hard this time, biting my tongue to stop my groans of pain escaping.


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    But now it''s done and I can figure out what to do next. Looking left and right along the ledge, I can see two cave mouths, one dark and one with a dim red glow.


    There''s only one option. I can see well in the dark, like all dwarves can, but not in pitch black. Hammer clutched uncomfortably in my left hand, I walk softly along the edge to the promise of magma, and enter.


    The tunnel slopes to a harsh degree. Carefully I make my way down it. The red glow strengthens; it outlines the rough edges of the rock making them look like bloody beaten iron, and the heat is making me sweat; my sackcloth overalls itch against my skin.


    It turns and twists. Sweat gets into my eyes, making them sting. The red glow is now the orange of magma. Is this a false start? Does this tunnel plunge directly into a molten lake?


    Thankfully the slope lessens, and widens. Another turn and it opens like the mouth of a trumpet and becomes a cave proper. I look across.


    The stone below the city is riven with caves and tunnels, both dwarf-made and natural. This one looks to be natural¡ªit¡¯s a wide caldera lit by a central, gently bubbling pool of magma. Stalactites cover the roof, pointing down like needles. Hanging vines wrap them; they get their energy from the molten pool¡¯s light, growing down toward it until they catch fire and the seed pods at their tips explode and scatter their contents high up back to the roof.


    I sit down and gaze on the beautiful scene for a few minutes. Maybe a lot longer than a few minutes, for the heat and brightness calms my heart. I look down at the steel tied to my wrist, and imagine it softening under that heat, ready to be shaped by my will and hammer into an artifact my brother would have been proud to look upon.


    Gradually, though, the calm in my heart dissipates. My wrist is still broken, and since my bag is gone, vanished into the chasm, I have no tongs, no protective gloves, no metal for a rune either.


    And no food. That has to be my first priority. Moisture I can get from the fat vines above, but there is little to eat in the caves that doesn¡¯t want to eat you first.


    I stand and make my way through the stalagmites, mirror images of the stalactites above. There¡¯s a thin layer of soil here, detritus of a million years of dead fungi, but the only living things in it are toadstools barely the size of my fingers. I pick one up and sniff it¡ªI don¡¯t think it¡¯s edible.


    A flash of red movement catches my eye suddenly. A baby salamander vanishes into the maze of rock points. It¡¯s tiny, but I¡¯m used to small rations, and more importantly, its skin is fireproof.


    Catching it with a heavy hammer is not going to be possible though. Perhaps I could make some sort of trap? No bait.


    But...


    If there are little salamanders here, there must be big ones too. This habitat isn¡¯t exactly small¡ªthe magma lake would take a good ten minutes to row across if it was water. And big ones like to eat dwarves. A metallic supplement to their usual diet of firefish in the lava tubes and pigs up in the city.


    I won¡¯t be able to swing a hammer fast enough, though. A spear is what I need. I break off a stalagmite, then spend the next hour carefully chipping its tip into a sharp point. It¡¯s too heavy to wield in one hand, so I break it in half. Less a spear than an oversized pin, but it should do the job, I hope.


    And I hope too that the salamander that comes for me isn¡¯t so big.


    I pick out a spot I hope is perfect: there¡¯s only a few stalagmites between me and the lake, and I lay heaps of dried fungus between them, forming a perimeter. I¡¯ll hear it, and have time to react.


    Now time for the bait. Of course it¡¯s me.


    I need something to really whet its appetite though.


    Grimacing, I pierce my right hand with the stone spear. Blood runs out, and I wipe it on the stones in front of me, before bandaging up with a strip of overall I tore off in preparation.


    Now all there is to do is wait. My stomach rumbles. My arm is still agony. Despite this, I feel the darkness of sleep creep over me. I''m exhausted, and it¡¯s just so warm...

 Blood and Copper

    Claws dig into my chest, slicing my overalls apart. I scream and desperately try to block the hideous fanged face trying to bite into my neck. The beast¡¯s wings¡ªthis is no salamander¡ª beat up hot air. It hisses at me, a fell sound, like a cross between a snake and an overheating steam pump.


    It grabs my good arm with one of its back feet, which are like hands, and tries to wrest the stalagmite spear from my grasp. I kick it under the ribs; it lets go of my arm and flaps up to hover above me for a few seconds.


    It¡¯s like a cross between a vampire bat and a monkey. Its wingspan is a good six feet. It hisses at me again, baring its long fangs, which are bright red.


    I stand up, heart thudding, and guard myself with the stalagmite. It folds its wings and outstretches its clawed hands and feet. There¡¯s no way for me to guard all four limbs, so I go for its head. We collide. I stab my stalagmite between its teeth, then scream in pain as a hand and foot grab hold of my broken arm. It throws me by it, and I land only a few yards from the magma. It¡¯s going for me again, I see through tear-stained eyes.


    But purple blood is running from its mouth. I¡¯ve wounded it, and although its wingspan is large, its body is smaller than my own.


    I brace myself. It tries to grab me by the face but I duck and ram the stalagmite up through its belly. It hiss-screams in pain and flaps back up into the air¡ªa length of intestine is dangling from the wound, dripping more purple blood.


    ¡°Get away!¡± I scream. ¡°Get away!¡±


    It obliges, limply flapping away over the stalagmites. I curl up, clutching my broken wrist, which hurts as bad as when I broke it. Gradually the pain ebbs a little, and I bring myself to inspect my wounds¡ªseems I¡¯ve gotten away with only a few cuts and scratches. Those fangs of its looked like they were for sucking blood, but it didn''t get them into my neck.


    The thing lets out a final hiss and collapses in the distance. My stomach rumbles; it feels like there¡¯s a hole in my belly. Meat! And I was nearly going to let it get away. I hurry after it through the stalagmites. By the time I reach it, it¡¯s still as stone, but just to make sure I slam my hammer into its head.


    The blow ruptures the flesh of its cheek, exposing its teeth in grisly fashion. They¡¯re red, as I saw before, but not from blood. It¡¯s a familiar red: copper.


    Hunger momentarily forgotten in my fascination, I batter its head a few more times with the hammer until one of the teeth is loose enough to pull out. It¡¯s not pure copper, I see as I hold it up to the light, but mixed with a kind of enamel framework.


    Can it be turned into a rune? In absence of anything else suitable, I¡¯ll have to try.


    First I have to eat, though. I drag the dead bat-monkey nearer to the shore of the magma lake, find a sharp-edged rock and begin to hack it apart. Every meal I¡¯ve had until now has been pre-prepared miner gruel, so my butchery is amateur work at best. Rather, it¡¯s a total mess of guts, flayed skin, and pale bone. Purple blood runs down the gentle slope and hisses and bubbles to steam on contact with the magma.


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    I put a few strips of meat next to the glowing shore. They begin to sizzle. The armbones, I decide, will make a perfect splint, and while my meat cooks I replace the steel on my arm with them.


    After quenching my thirst with some of the creature''s blood¡ªa risk but no more risky than any other source of water I might find¡ªI try some of the meat.


    It is far worse than miner gruel, squishy and stringy all at once. I have trouble keeping it down.


    But I nearly have what I need, don''t I? All that''s left is just tongs and some fireproof gloves.


    I look at the remains of the bat-monkey. Everything that lives down here has to be fireproof to some extent. I test its skin by hacking away a leathery patch and tossing it into the magma lake. It smokes for a full five seconds before disintegrating to ash.


    Good enough. And tongs, well, the wing bones are long. If I tie them together...


    It''s done. Took longer than I thought, but I have what I need. I look upon my handiwork in pride and triumph.


    The gloves are barely glove shaped and still drip with blood, and the tongs, two notched bones linked with a strip of skin, look like they might fall apart at any second.


    They''ll work though. They have to.


    I look across the magma lake, and at the other shore, rippling violently in the heat-mirage, are some flat-topped boulders.


    <hr>


    Hardrick lies in bed. His shoulder still burns with pain, but he knows he should be glad he got off lightly.


    "You should be glad you got off so lightly," snaps his wife from the other end of the room. "I told you making that thing was a stupid idea."


    "Shut up," Hardrick snaps back. "Was getting us plenty of cash until now, wasn''t it? Show some gratitude for once."


    "Us? Getting you cash more like, for your filthy habits!" A heap of washing, heavy and stinking of cheap soap, lands on Hardrick''s legs. "Hang this up!"


    "I''m injured, you miserable bitch!"


    "Only one arm! Help out for once, I''ve got to go down to the bank for your medical expenses."


    She stalks from the apartment. Hardrick swears loudly.


    Why should he have to put up with this bullshit? Worked his ass off for thirty years, he has. Got them a real apartment. Who cares if he likes to make a little money on the side for a few drinks with his mates, a few whores?


    Except it''s not really enough money, is it? The beer is sour, the company bad, the women worse. Half of them are even uglier than his wife.


    He can do better for himself. Why not? Those runeknights stomping around in their fancy armor¡ªare they better than he is?


    No.


    And that knife he made... It really was shameful. He can do better. Something flares into life in his dwarvish heart. He can forge better than that.


    He can live better than this.


    "Washing!" he spits as he climbs out the bed. "Washing indeed. I''ve got something better to do."


    <hr>


    My materials lie arrayed on the stone anvil. My hammer and tongs lay propped against it. My hands and wrists are wrapped in batskin, fireproof, ready to craft the first artifact of my legend.


    It''s time to forge.

 First Forging

    I rub my hands together, eager to begin. This weapon, although only my first, is going to be a masterpiece. I can feel it.


    Where to begin? What to do first? What to do second, third, fourth...


    I have no idea how to forge.


    It doesn''t matter. It''s in our blood, my brother always said. In the blood of all dwarves, yes, but in ours most of all. I stare at the copper fangs, steel rod, and glimmering incandesite. Something will come to me.


    I continue to stare.


    Nothing comes to me.


    I sink down to the ground in despair, head bowed. In our blood? What''s that supposed to mean?


    Was my brother just a fantasist?


    He used to keep me up all night, babbling about how it was his destiny to become a runeknight, Runethane, and up and up. He knew how to forge instinctively, he claimed to me. His hands would move like the hands of the ancient creator, the Runeforger, when the world was born and the first runes bent into existence. A new legend would be born, and he and I would never have to touch a pick again.


    He had no proof for any of this. But he believed it, because if he lost that belief he would no longer be able to go on living. That''s exactly what happened, I think bitterly. That''s part of why he threw himself into the chasm.


    I can''t lose my belief or I''ll end up like him.


    First, the runes. They''re what I know best: some of my earliest bedside stories were definitions and grammatical structures. I have copper, so I leaf through the dictionary to find some words appropriate to it. I select Zhakth-Madthaz, Gthal-Then, and Halat. They mean ¡®spark from a chipped flint¡¯, ¡®thin trail of light¡¯, and ¡®come here¡¯.


    The verb doesn''t really fit, I know, but in terms of shape it''s on the simpler side.


    Now l have to make them. I pick up one of the copper teeth with the tongs¡ªan awkward process, for with only one hand usable I have to tuck the right handle into my armpit¡ªand walk to the magma shore. I hold the fang just above the hell-hot liquid and wait. The heat is harsh; my ragged overalls turn dark with sweat and my throat turns dry like baked meat.


    The fang brightens and softens. I return it to the anvil and take up my hammer, which I bring down, just a tap, scared the fang will fly apart.


    It doesn¡¯t. In fact my tap is too gentle. I bring the hammer down again, harder, and the copper flattens out, just a little. I repeat, and repeat, until the copper fang is cooled. Then I reheat, hammer, repeat, until it¡¯s thin as paper.


    Worryingly, it looks to be more impure than I realized, run through with thousands of threads of organic white.


    Can¡¯t do anything about that though.


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    I take up a shard of obsidian I found on my way around the lake. My stomach is churning; my hand is trembling, vibrating. I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly.


    Runesmiths don¡¯t have shaky hands.


    I cut the runes out, painstakingly. It takes me an hour, and to my great pride, the shape of each is exactly as inked in the dictionary.


    Grinning, I place them in my pocket and lay the steel rod out. This will be trickier, but I¡¯m feeling confident. I visualize the shape I want to create¡ªa knife blade, short and wide, with a handle I can wrap in batskin.


    The steel takes far longer to heat up than the copper did¡ªfive or six times as long. I struggle not to faint¡ªmy mind seems to shiver in time with the mirage, and the brightness of the magma is making my eyes go funny. I hear hissing from the bone tongs too, and see they¡¯re black and cracked.


    I hurry to the anvil, and, holding the bright white steel still with the tongs¡ªnow with both grips wedged incredibly awkwardly under my right upper arm¡ªI hammer down hard. The steel dents in the wrong place.


    Not accurate enough.


    I hammer again. The shock shudders up my arm, and the steel shifts out of place, and bends slightly in the opposite way I intended.


    ¡°No!¡±


    I get the steel back into position, and hammer down once more, just as inaccurately. I rejig, hammer, dent another place I don¡¯t intend.


    ¡°No!¡±


    I bring the hammer down again and again and again in desperation. The clangs ring out around the cavern, like a pealing bell, deafening me. I¡¯ve heard that a rhythm takes over the best runesmiths at their anvils, that their arms move as naturally as their lungs breathe.


    This does not happen to me. My forging is a constant battle against the steel, of brutal bashing, error correction, frustrated shouting, heart-stopping fear twice¡ªonce when the steel flies off the anvil and rolls right to the edge of the lake, then when I nearly topple into the lake myself, dizzy from the heat.


    At the end of it, I have a lump that looks like it¡¯s been hammered out of shape rather than into. It curves, for one thing, like a fruit from the surface. No good for stabbing through joints in armor. And what''s far worse is the quality of the steel itself. I can see little cracks in it, and it¡¯s discolored in parts. Am I not supposed to quench it in oil, or water, or wyvern blood? I think I am, but I have none of those things.


    With the cracks in it, I''m deadly scared it will shatter to pieces if I try to rework it. I have no choice but to graft the runes and call an end to my efforts.


    With my cramped and aching left hand I place the three runes on the blade. Then I use my obsidian to pick off three chips of incandesite and lay them atop each one.


    I bring the hammer down on the first rune. It flares bright red and becomes one with the steel. I do the same with the second rune. When I bring the hammer down onto the third rune, red explodes through cavern like crimson lightning. A keening sound rings out and I duck behind the anvil, terrified something''s gone wrong, that my craft is in pieces.


    But once I find the courage to look, I see the blade is whole, and emanating a weak aura of power. My hand is drawn to it like a magnet; my skin prickles. I touch it with my fingertip and it''s warm. The grafting hasn''t been a total failure, at least.


    I make the handle by wrapping batskin and strands of cloth around the blunt part. Then it''s time to test on a low-hanging vine. I slash.


    The blade is too blunt to hack all the way through.


    I''ve failed. I sink to my knees.


    Sap splatters on my head, warm and scented. I look up and it¡¯s pouring from the cut, which is hissing. A red glow from the runes envelops me.


    The blade is shoddy. But the runes are perfect. Halat, come here, must have a strong affinity with the white threads that so diluted the copper. Was it luck that led me to choosing it? Or some hidden, subconscious stroke of genius?


    That rune, I think back, is never used with fire. Who would desire to burn themselves? But something deep within me knew it was the best tool for the task, and now I reap the rewards.


    I stand and laugh, letting the warm sweet sap flow into my mouth.


    It''s better than sour beer for sure.

 Fateful Encounter

    I fill my belly with another meal of bat-meat, wash it down with a gallon of sweet warm sap. I keep my knife clutched tight in my hand the whole time. Like a mother clutching the hand of her child, I cannot let it go.


    Getting back to the city is going to be a challenge every part as difficult as the forging. Moreso. The caves are a maze of mazes; it''s easy to go down instead of up, and the further down one goes the worse the creatures get, for the deeper you go the more moisture collects, which supports larger plants, which in turn support larger plant-eaters, which in turn support the carnivores¡ªor so my brother once told me. The bat-monkey I killed was probably half the size of its cousins a few hundred feet down.


    Well, in that case I just need to keep my wits about me and make sure I head upward. The big tunnels are guarded, but there¡¯s too many small tunnels for every one of them to have been blocked¡ªthat¡¯s where raids come from, both dwarven and beast. I can find an escape.


    I set out on my journey, knife in hand, hammer at my side, pockets filled with baked meat.


    A few short hours later and I am, predictably, very lost. It started out fine¡ªI went back up the way I came to get my bearings, then came back and walked up a tunnel that seemed like it was going in the right direction. It curved down, branched several times, and now I¡¯m here, in a tube only half as tall as me, crawling. The walls are glowing faintly with a green slime that smells of rotten citrus which I think is burning through my trousers at the knees.


    It branches. One tunnel heads upwards, very steeply. The other goes straight on, but who¡¯s to say it won¡¯t plunge down? I climb up, knocking down gravel undisturbed for a thousand years; it rattles behind me.


    It¡¯s getting steeper, and turning into a wide staircase. A very old, very eroded staircase, but staircase nonetheless, and the ceiling is high now and arched. I stop. I¡¯m headed back to civilization, but still in Runethane Broderick¡¯s side of the city¡ªyes they think I¡¯m dead, but the state I¡¯m in and the knife in my hand are sure to draw suspicion.


    Well, it¡¯ll be the same on the other side. I¡¯ll just have to move at night. I continue upward.


    It begins to get warmer, hotter. The slime on the walls starts to become dry and papery, coming off when I scrape against it and billowing into clouds of green dust. I cough and splutter. Strangely though, the heat isn¡¯t coming from ahead, but from behind.


    I stop myself dead. I listen. From behind I can hear scraping sounds, like iron talons grinding granite.


    I begin to sprint up the steps. My footsteps echo down. I can hear myself panting in fear and exhaustion. My thighs are burning, and give out. I fall and smash my broken arm on a stair, cry out in pain. The scraping sound is louder now, and although I¡¯m too scared to turn and look, I know whatever¡¯s after me is huge, heavy, monstrous.


    ¡°Help!¡± I scream up the stairs as I restart my flight. ¡°Help me!¡±


    No one replies. I imagine I hear dark laughter from behind. The staircase bends at a sudden right angle¡ªI turn to follow it and smash my nose into rock, tumble backwards.


    The tunnel is blocked.


    I turn, knife at the ready.


    A monster stands there in the darkness. Its face is long-snouted, black-iron-scaled, predatory. Its snakish body is borne off the ground on four powerful legs which terminate in sharp-taloned feet. Wings like black shadows stretch along the walls behind it. Its teeth are as long as my fingers; fire-light emanates from between them. Its eyes are green and cruel as a cat¡¯s.


    The dragon speaks, the sound of flame given voice:


    ¡°How very interesting you are.¡±


    ¡°Get away from me!¡± I shout, and slash the air between us with my knife. ¡°Get away!¡±


    ¡°How rude,¡± it says as it pads up the stairs toward me. ¡°Even for a dwarf.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll cut you!¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t try. Would be a waste to break your knife after all that time you spent on it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll cut. Steel is sharper than iron!¡±


    The dragon laughs; flames leap from its mouth, nearly scorching me. ¡°Such a simplistic understanding of things.¡±


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    ¡°Get back, beast!¡±


    ¡°Beast? Ruder and ruder. Us dragons are twice as intelligent as elves, and at least three times as intelligent as dwarves.¡±


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡±


    I¡¯m shaking, more terrified than I¡¯ve ever been in my life. Dragons are cruel¡ªthey play with their food. I¡¯ve heard bloodcurdling tales of dwarves kept as pets for decades, tortured daily with hot claws deftly wielded for some minor insult or trespass.


    ¡°What do I want? Firstly, an apology, for using my home as your forge.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t realize.¡± My voice is quavering. ¡°I didn''t know.¡±


    ¡°Apologize!¡± Its green eyes flash and its fire reaches me this time, flash-scorching my knife hand.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry!¡± I yelp, pulling my hand back. I can feel tears in my eyes. ¡°I really didn''t know, how was I supposed to know?¡±


    The dragon smiles, if you can call it that. ¡°True, true. I didn''t exactly announce myself. I didn''t want to disturb you, you know. You¡¯re the most interesting dwarf I¡¯ve seen for years.¡±


    ¡°Can you let me go? Please, I beg you. I won¡¯t intrude on you again, I swear it.¡±


    ¡°I might decide to let you go, after we talk. If you¡¯re a good conversationalist.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll talk about whatever you want. Anything.¡±


    ¡°Sit down,¡± it orders.


    I obey. It pads closer to me until its jaws are nearly at my face. I cringe back. Its teeth are flecked with long-dried blood, and the inside of its mouth glows like the entrance to a furnace. Its stare is frighteningly intense.


    ¡°Very interesting. Such a resemblance. I see an opportunity.¡±


    ¡°Resemblance?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°To whom?¡±


    An iron claw catches under my chin and the dragon tilts my head back. Its face draws even closer. I shut my eyes in terror.


    ¡°Your method of forging was most fascinating, you know. One armed! Such a challenge to overcome, but you know, it''s not the worst challenge I''ve ever watched a forging dwarf overcome."


    "No?"


    "I don''t like one-word answers!" it snaps. "Phrase your sentences properly."


    "I... I mean, what was the challenge? Who was the dwarf?¡±


    ¡°The challenge was to forge with two mangled thumbs. And the dwarf was one who looked a lot like you. Beard was a little lighter, eyes green not blue, but his face, yes, there was a definite resemblance.¡±


    Goosebumps rise on my skin. A chill runs through me. The dragon notices; its smile widens to expose more teeth. ¡°A relation, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°My brother. That was my brother.¡±


    ¡°Proper sentences, good. Excellent. Would you like to know more?¡±


    ¡°Where is he? Where is he now? Is he still alive?¡±


    The dragon hisses. ¡°So demanding!¡± Liquid fire drips from between its lower teeth and burns holes in my leggings. ¡°I¡¯m telling the story here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry! Please, I would like to know more. Whatever you can tell me!¡±


    ¡°Very well. He crawled down the tunnels, lower down than you went by far. He snatched salamanders with his teeth, chewed and swallowed them raw to survive. He tied a rock to his right hand to be a hammer, made a contraption of sticks for tongs. And then he had the audacity to steal a young dragon¡¯s gold bar to make his craft with.¡±


    ¡°He didn''t have his steel!¡± I cry out. ¡°He had to use something.¡±


    ¡°Indeed he did. I was going to kill him, you know¡ªshove him into the magma. But I watched him at work, and I was moved. The way he worked the gold. Formed it perfectly. I let him go. After all, the more beauty dwarves create, the more there is for us dragons to steal, no?¡±


    ¡°I... Please don¡¯t take my knife!¡± I clutch it to my chest. ¡°I can make things for you, if you can tell me more of my brother. Where did he go?¡±


    The dragon shrugs; its wings shift as it does so. ¡°I have no idea.¡± It raises one horned eyebrow. ¡°Or maybe I do, if you can bring me something.¡±


    ¡°Bring you something? Not make?¡±


    ¡°Yes, bring. Steal. Just a little something.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°A key. I¡¯d take it myself, but I might draw some trouble if I were to walk into Thanerzak¡¯s castle. It¡¯s rather heavily guarded.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the key for?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to know that. Can you get it for me? Or are you one of Broderick¡¯s dwarves, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°I was. Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°Good. Very good, young dwarf. This is my lucky break, it seems. Makes up for all the misfortune I¡¯ve had so far.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to be of service.¡± I swallow in relief. ¡°Would you be so kind as to tell me the way back up to the city? If possible, to Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s side?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes, I know these tunnels as well as I do the pattern of my own scales.¡±


    ¡°Please.¡±


    It tells me the way; I thank it, profusely.


    ¡°Just remember, young dwarf, that my patience is not infinite. And having black scales is useful to me¡ªI can walk unseen in the darkness, and when you come down here again, I¡¯ll be watching. Enjoy your journey, and try not to die before you get me that key.¡±


    ¡°What does it look like?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Pure diamond, I¡¯ve heard, and about as long as your arm. Not sure where exactly he keeps it, you¡¯ll have to ask around. Once you¡¯re a runeknight, that is. They won¡¯t tell a little initiate military secrets.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be a runeknight soon enough.¡±


    ¡°I certainly hope so.¡±


    It lets me past and I hurry down the stairs away from it. Like a bad dream, it vanishes into the darkness behind me.

 Halat

    Hardrick is ready to forge. He spent the morning scraping out his family''s entire savings from various accounts, and the afternoon buying materials and tools. Now he''s rented out the best forge he could find for the night.


    He has eight hours until dawn. He does not know if this will be enough for his ambition.


    He takes out his metal. It''s a bar of steel nearly as long as he is tall, of the best quality. With his tongs¡ªextendable tungsten with heat proof rubber grips¡ªhe places the bar in the furnace.


    Not five minutes later it''s glowing white hot.


    He lays it on the anvil, and begins.


    <hr>


    The route the dragon told me is a winding one. I travel up, down, east and west. The tunnels go in great loops and spirals, until my dwarven sense of direction fails completely and I have no idea how deep I am or how far from the chasm. At several points the tunnels narrow so tightly I can¡¯t proceed without sucking in my stomach and holding my breath for minutes at a time.


    Even after I emerge from these sections, through which nothing even an inch wider than myself could squeeze, I can sense the dragon¡¯s presence¡ªa hot dryness on the back of my neck and a sense of dread. It¡¯s tracking me, and though I know it wants me alive, it¡¯s not a pleasant sensation.


    The route is so complex it takes every ounce of mental effort I have to stay on track. But in those moments where it straightens out for hundreds of yards at a time, with no side-paths to get lost down or curtains of fungus to hack through, one thought dominates my mind:


    My brother is alive.


    Alive!


    He was robbed the very day he dug that lump of salverite from the wall, beaten, had his thumbs crushed. I begged him to stay with me, to wait for them to heal, but even as a na?ve fourteen year old I could see his hands were beyond repair. A week after the assault, he threw himself into the chasm.


    Somehow survived. Must have hit something to break his fall on the way down, though if the dragon spoke the truth about him falling further down, it was likely more than a mushroom. There¡¯s a river at the very bottom of the cavern¡ªmaybe into that.


    And with two broken thumbs, he forged an artifact of great beauty.


    My heart swells with pride. Of course he could do that! It¡¯s in our blood. We¡¯re destined, both of us, to rise and rise, up to the very top!


    If only I could meet him. He¡¯ll be proud of what I made too, I¡¯m sure of it.


    My route ends at a rusted manhole cover. I break through the decayed steel and emerge into Thanerzak¡¯s side of the city as the dragon promised. And lucky for me it¡¯s night; no sunlight beams from the mirrors up high.


    I¡¯m exhausted, covered in cave-slime, dressed in rags, but alive and more importantly carrying an artifact hopefully well-crafted enough to earn me entrance to a guild.


    First though, I need to find a guild to gain entrance too. They''re fairly recognizable, so if I find a spot high up, I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll be able to spot some. I climb up a ladder attached to the side of disused warehouse¡ªrather tricky with one broken arm, but I manage.


    Across the city I see them. I can tell by their shape: a long hall, faintly glowing from the forges within, next to sparring halls, accommodation, and some other buildings, all enclosed by a high fence. Though the general layout of each is the same, the sizes are not: some nearer the mountain are nearly districts in themselves, while the ones out here on the outskirts are barely a hundred yards a side.


    I climb down the ladder and make my way toward the smallest. None of the bigger ones will let me one step inside their gates in my state, no way.


    Dawn is still a couple of hours away, so I try to get some sleep slumped against the wall in a nearby alley. Nightmares of failure torment me until the mirrors above the city let loose the surface sun¡¯s light. I peek out at the guild I¡¯ve chosen.


    Its name, written in wrought iron above the gate, is Dhal-Hart-Zthak, meaning ¡®Association of Steel¡¯. Nothing too grand or imaginative, and the guildhall is even shabbier looking than it did before the sun came up, but it is what it is. I wait until a runeknight walks out from the apartments across the street and unlocks the gate.


    I hurry to him, ignoring the curious looks I get from other early risers.


    ¡°Excuse me!¡± I say, holding up my hand in greeting. ¡°Excuse me!¡±


    He turns to me, and wrinkles his nose. ¡°What is it? You a miner?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like to apply to join. Can I do that today? Now?¡±


    He raises his eyebrows. I suddenly feel extremely self-conscious, excruciatingly aware of the difference in our appearances: him in gleaming runed steel plate with a bronze axe at his hip, and me in slimy rags clutching a half-blunt knife in my pocket.


    ¡°Please? I have a craft for you to examine.¡± I hold out my knife handle first. ¡°That¡¯s how this works, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± he says slowly. ¡°Well, anyone can apply. You might have worn something decent though. First impressions and all that.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°This is all I have.¡±


    He sighs. ¡°Well, can¡¯t be helped. Wait out here while I get the guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°Thank you! Thank you so much!¡±


    He leaves me waiting. I begin to worry that the guildmaster is just going to order him to boot me back out. And if this place won¡¯t accept me, which will? The walls of the guildhall are covered in mold. The ground is not even pavestones but dirty gravel. The air smells of thick smog from low-quality coal. The fence is rusted, and the fact the runeknight emerged from an apartment across the street implies they don¡¯t even own their own accommodation.


    To my relief, when the runeknight returns about twenty minutes later he tells me to follow him, and that Guildmaster Wharoth himself will judge my craft.


    ¡°Thank you again, it¡¯s an honour.¡±


    The runeknight shakes his head. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be so happy about it. He¡¯s in a foul mood. Nephews were on the piss all night. One of them would be judging you if they weren¡¯t both so hungover, but now he has to do it, right in the middle of his work.¡±


    ¡°Oh. I¡¯ll... I¡¯ll try my best not to make his morning any worse, then.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit. Round here.¡±


    Between the back of the guildhall and what looks like a small sparring hall, they¡¯ve set up a table on the gravel. I guess they don¡¯t want me dripping slime indoors. The runeknight gestures for me to sit down on a chair in front of the table, while he takes his place behind, on the left of the dwarf who must be Guildmaster Wharoth.


    He looks just as I imagined a guildmaster would look: gray and grizzled. His slate-colored beard spreads over his chest. Unlike the two runeknights either side of him, he¡¯s not wearing armor, but an apron of thick salamander skin, blackened from years of use. His bare arms bulge with muscle.


    ¡°Well?¡± he demands. ¡°What have you got to show us?¡±


    ¡°This steel knife.¡± I place it on the table. My voice is quavering. ¡°I forged it yesterday, the runes are a kind of copper.¡± I swallow. ¡°The handle¡¯s a bit crude, I know, I couldn¡¯t get proper leather.¡±


    ¡°The handle isn¡¯t the only thing that¡¯s crude,¡± laughs the runeknight to the right of the guildmaster. His beard is a flaming red, oiled and perfumed even this early in the morning. ¡°What did you do to this steel? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen something so badly abused.¡±


    ¡°The metalwork does leave a lot to be desired,¡± agrees the first runeknight. ¡°What do you think, guildmaster?¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth¡¯s eyes meet mine, and they¡¯re brimming over with anger. ¡°What the hell were you thinking, bringing us this, and dressed in rags to boot? We¡¯re a small guild, so you think we¡¯re letting anyone in, is that it?¡±


    ¡°No! I... I put a lot of effort into it. It¡¯s a bit blunt, but the runes...¡±


    ¡°Blunt?¡± He snatches it up off the table and holds it up to his eye. ¡°Whelt, get me my glasses... No, I don¡¯t need them. Even I can see this thing¡¯s blunter than my backside.¡±


    ¡°The runes are good,¡± I plead. ¡°Take a look at them, please.¡±


    The one with the red beard, Whelt I think, takes my knife from the guildmaster and examines the runes.


    ¡°What kind of copper is this?¡± he sneers. ¡°I¡¯ve met whores more pure.¡±


    ¡°It was from a bat.¡± The quavering of my voice worsens¡ªthis is going even more badly than in my nightmare. ¡°In the caves.¡±


    ¡°A bat?¡± says Wharoth. ¡°Give that here, Whelt.¡± He squints at the runes. ¡°A Thalat-Cur, you mean?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s called. I¡¯d never been down there before.¡±


    ¡°A poor choice,¡± says the first runeknight. ¡°Their copper makes terrible runes.¡±


    ¡°It does,¡± agrees Wharoth. ¡°They don¡¯t stand up to power well at all.¡± He puts the knife up to his ear for a second. ¡°Must be why its hum is so uneven. Stable, though. And...¡± He frowns at the blade. ¡°Read out the runes for me, boy.¡±


    ¡°Zhakth-Madthaz, Gthal-Then, Halat,¡± I say.


    He squints at the last rune. ¡°This one isn¡¯t Halat. Halat isn¡¯t curved like this here. Someone get me my glasses!¡±


    The first runeknight hurries into the guildhall and finds Wharoth¡¯s glasses for him.


    ¡°That¡¯s better. Yes, this isn¡¯t Halat. I haven¡¯t seen it before. Where did you learn it?¡±


    His eyes aren¡¯t angry anymore, but curious.


    ¡°My brother¡¯s dictionary,¡± I answer. ¡°Look.¡±


    I take it out my pocket. It¡¯s in even worse shape than before my journey through the tunnels, but the page with Halat is intact. Wharoth examines it.


    ¡°This is Halat. What you have written is not. Compare them.¡±


    I do so. The guildmaster is correct: the rune I drew is one stroke different.


    ¡°It works though,¡± I tell him. ¡°You can test it yourself.¡±


    ¡°I shall.¡±


    He pricks his finger with the tip. Blood spurts out and runs up the blade, wrapping it in vines of liquid crimson. He pulls the knife away, but the stream of blood from his finger continues to flow toward it, up through the air.


    He squeezes his cut finger against his thumb to stop the bleeding. He continues to stare at the blade for a good few minutes, watching the red dry on it.


    ¡°Weird,¡± Whelt offers.


    ¡°Very,¡± agrees Wharoth. ¡°Very interesting, too.¡±


    I try to calm my breathing. ¡°Does that mean...¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll confer. Go back to the gates and wait for us.¡±


    I bow and hurry to obey. I stare out at the street through the bars, heart pounding in my chest and in my ears. I can¡¯t bring myself to turn around lest I see the guildmaster walking toward me shaking his head, a grim expression on his face.


    ¡°We¡¯ve decided,¡± come his voice from behind. ¡°Turn around!¡±


    I do so and look at him. His face his not as grim as I feared.


    ¡°You¡¯re in, two to one in favor. Your metalwork is shit, but a good job for having one broken arm.¡±


    ¡°You noticed?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Didn''t want to show weakness in front of us, that right?¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡±


    ¡°Hathat¡¯s running a bath for you, can¡¯t have you walking around in that state. Oh, and what¡¯s your name, short-beard?¡±


    ¡°Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Courage, in certain readings of certain scripts. Appropriate.¡±


    I frown in confusion. ¡°Certain readings?¡±


    ¡°Runes are complex.¡± He laughs. ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot of studying to do.¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯m really in, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    I bow deeply¡ªdeeper than I¡¯ve ever bowed before. ¡°Thank you so much. You don¡¯t know how much this means to me. Thank you. Thank you.¡±


    My tears fall to the ground like rain.


    ¡°Thank you so much.¡±

 Two Initiates

    The bath felt amazing¡ªI''ve never been in hot water before, and the soap was a substance divine. I came out feeling like a new dwarf, born again into a blessed existence rather than a cursed one. The clothes too are neat and crisp, and smell good.


    Now there¡¯s just one more thing I have to do: sign the contract. Then I¡¯m officially an initiate, on the first step to becoming a runeknight, Runethane, Runeking...


    Guildmaster Wharoth lays it down on his desk. I peer at it. It¡¯s very densely written, and though I understand the words, I don''t understand what it''s trying to tell me. It''s all very official and legal.


    ¡°Take a minute to make sure you understand it all,¡± says Wharoth, but I¡¯m already signing my name at the bottom.


    "Or don¡¯t."


    "You have no idea how long I''ve waited for this moment," I say, then look up and smile tentatively at him. "So, what happens now? Will you teach me how to forge? Or will one of the other guild members?"


    He frowns. "Teach you to forge?"


    "Yeah, I mean..." I laugh nervously. "I have a lot to learn, don''t I?"


    "This isn''t a kiddie school, boy. We don''t teach you here."


    "What?"


    "We''re a guild. Don''t you know what that is?"


    "I thought I did. If you don''t teach me, who does?"


    "You pay for lectures in the city. Then you buy some metal. Then you practice. You can use our forges, half off for the first two hours."


    "You won''t teach me to forge? And I have to buy materials? Don''t you provide them?"


    "We''re too busy to teach lessons to initiates. We have our own forging to do. And yes, you have to buy your own materials. We''re not a charity for the down-on-their-luck." He leans over the table. His grey brows draw together even further. "You really had no idea, did you?"


    "You won''t give me anything?¡± I can¡¯t keep the shock out my voice. ¡°I don''t have a single copper on me. Honestly, I''m not trying to swindle you. I don''t have anything."


    Wharoth sighs and sits back. "Well, that''s true enough. You don''t have a family either, do you? I can tell. Fine, I''ll give you some cash to start out with. You can make your own way from there."


    "I don''t understand. If I have to make my own way, what''s the point in joining? Why does anyone join?"


    "Discounts with our partners. A hand up when you''re down on your luck. Sometimes you get to rub shoulders with someone powerful. Connections, in other words."


    "I see."


    "From the sounds of it you don¡¯t, but you will soon enough.¡± He gropes around in his desk drawer and pulls out a purse which clinks. He empties its contents onto the table. ¡°Fifty silver pieces.¡±


    My eyes widen.


    ¡°Looks a lot? It isn¡¯t. Here¡¯s my advice: organize some lodgings first. Buy some books too¡ªthat little dictionary won''t get you far. And there''s lectures and demonstrations around town you can pay your way into. Junior sparring lessons you can do here¡ªmostly they¡¯re little wannabes, but they¡¯ll kick your ass at first.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all going to cost fifty silver?¡±


    ¡°Plus metal for forging¡ªwhich you¡¯re going to be going through a lot of¡ªit''s going to cost more. So you¡¯ll need to find a job pretty quick too.¡±


    ¡°A job? What job?¡± I clench my fists, suddenly angry. ¡±I''m not touching a pick again. Not ever."


    "Of course not, whoever heard of an initiate mining? Bouncer might be a good start once you have some armor. Before then... Ach, I''ll pay you. Our janitor quit last month, that''s why the place is so filthy."


    ¡°A cleaner?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a step up from miner, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I guess it is. Sorry if I sound ungrateful.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t sweat it. Any more questions?¡±


    ¡°Can I get my knife back? Or are you going to keep it?¡±


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Wharoth folds his arms. ¡°It¡¯s your knife, you can have it back now if you want. Only, that rune bugs me. So I¡¯d like to keep hold of it for a little while longer, if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I don¡¯t mind. Just... Don¡¯t pull it apart.¡±


    ¡°Good grief, do I look that cruel?¡± He shakes his head. ¡°Not everyone you meet is an asshole, boy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just...¡±


    He gestures dismissively. ¡°I understand, I understand. Anyway, we¡¯re done here. Just one more thing.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t spend a single coin of that silver on drink, you hear me?¡±


    I nod solemnly. Then I gather the coins back into the purse, and begin my life as an initiate.


    <hr>


    Fugthath, runeknight of the third degree, sits at the head table of one of his guild¡¯s halls. Not the main guildhall, mind you. Little wannabe initiates aren''t going to be judged on those golden floors. His guild isn¡¯t some third-rate dump: it is situated not a hundred yards from Runethane Broderick¡¯s palace¡ªthe Runethane¡¯s sons and daughters themselves are members, not that they¡¯ve ever deigned to give Fugthath more than a passing glance.


    This is the premier guild this side of the city: Halat Hazhulam Ghalzh.


    Inevitable Victory.


    He looks over the line of hopefuls stretching down the hall, out the door, and down the street past the gates. Each clutches a craft of some kind, be it a weapon, amulet, or piece of armour. Most are only teenagers, with a few young men and women mixed in. Apart from one.


    ¡°Look at that one,¡± says the head judge. ¡°Looks about fifty.¡±


    ¡°Ugly too,¡± Fugthath says, scratching the scar running through his lips. ¡°Miner.¡±


    The other applicants don¡¯t think much of the old miner either; a few shove past him in line. He doesn¡¯t seem to notice, almost like he¡¯s sleepwalking. His craft is wrapped in leather and looks to be taller than he is.


    The applications proceed. It¡¯s dull work. The applicants don¡¯t know this, but today is a ¡®reject everyone¡¯ day. There aren¡¯t any places open now, but the guild lets the kids line up all the same, knowing that the more they reject, the higher their reputation as an organization of only the best of the best climbs.


    ¡°There¡¯s a scratch here.¡±


    ¡°The handle¡¯s off, only a millimetre, but these things matter, boy.¡±


    ¡°This rune isn¡¯t neat enough.¡±


    ¡°Your beard¡¯s dirty.¡±


    The miner¡¯s nearly at the front now. The applicant behind him, decked out in a full set of steel plate, tries to shove past. The miner finally wakes up, stomps on his foot, swears one of the dirtiest insults Fugthath¡¯s ever heard, and strides up the stone steps to the judge¡¯s table.


    ¡°Your overalls are stained,¡± the head judge drawls. ¡°Rejected.¡±


    The miner doesn¡¯t seem to hear him. He slaps his craft down with a clang.


    ¡°Rejected!¡± the head judge snaps. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have to say it twice.¡±


    ¡°Get out,¡± Fugthath says. He pats the warhammer at his waist. ¡°Now.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± cries the third judge. ¡°Look!¡±


    Fugthath looks down at the leather bag¡ªwhatever¡¯s within is shivering, flexing from the impact of being set down¡ªand each time the blade touches against the leather, it slices like a razor.


    The judges watch, hypnotized, as the blade cuts itself free of its own accord. They remain hypnotized. Exposed, it¡¯s clear to them that the blade is a masterpiece any runeknight of even their rank would be proud to have forged.


    ¡°Rejected?¡± the miner says incredulously, arrogantly. He raises his eyebrows. ¡°This?¡±


    The blade is perfectly straight, its diamond cross-section perfectly formed too. It¡¯s clear that the steel was of high quality to begin with, but now it has a bluish patina that can only come from expert quenching in winefruit oil, one of the trickier liquids to work with. The grip, while not the most elegant, is perfectly serviceable. Likely it fits the miner¡¯s palms like the hands of a lover.


    Slice and kill,


    Slash-rend, pierce,


    Draw-blood-from-the-wound;


    Slice-like-through-paper and eviscerate,


    Cut-skin, crimson,


    Flow-like-river-from-neck.


    Thus read the runes. A crude poem, with some rather suspect rhymes, but the ribboned leather is proof it gets the job done.


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Fugthath asks the head judge. ¡°I mean...¡±


    The head judge is still staring at the blade in amazement. ¡°Did you steal this?¡± he asks the miner.


    ¡°Steal? Don¡¯t you think if I tried to steal something like this the owner wouldn¡¯t slice me in half with it? I made it, took me all night, it did. I¡¯m no thief.¡± He grins at Fugthath¡ªa yellow leer. ¡°Hey, I¡¯ve met you before.¡±


    Fugthath frowns. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, you were the guy who got stabbed by that kid, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    The miner pats his shoulder. ¡°Still hurts a motherfucker. You get him in the end?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we got him all right.¡±


    ¡°Great. So what¡¯s it to be? Am I in?¡±


    The head judge looks back down at the blade, then back up at the miner¡¯s ugly mug.


    ¡°We¡¯re not meant to let anyone in today, strictly speaking. But I guess we can make an exception.¡±


    ¡°Pretty great, isn¡¯t she?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Fugthath agrees, in awe. He¡¯ll have to revise his opinion of miners. ¡°Damn great.¡±


    ¡°Amazing what you can do if you put your back into it, huh?¡± The miner spits into his callused palm. ¡°Shake on it?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t really do that here,¡± says the head judge. ¡°But just this once, sure.¡± He shrugs. ¡°She really is a great blade.¡±


    Fugthath looks at the blade once more and frowns. There is something off about it, on second consideration. There is something odd about the way it''s been constructed: the diamond cross-section is thicker than usual, and its tip is longer than necessary. The runes are more sharply defined than is proper. Perhaps just beginners inaccuracy, but then again, perhaps not. Perhaps something else. He opens his mouth to raise his concerns to the head judge, but him and the miner are already shaking hands.


    Hardrick is now the newest member of Inevitable Victory.


    He thinks he¡¯ll do well here.

 Initiate: First Steps

    The life of an initiate, it turns out, is not a particularly exciting one. There are no daring adventures recovering rare gems from the nests of firewyrms. No nights spent hammering titanium behind roaring lavafalls, no pouring out runic poems of epic splendor onto impregnable armor. Nothing like that.


    There is a great deal of sweeping. Sometimes mopping. When I''m not working, I''m studying everything I can. Runes of course, of several scripts, and metallurgy too¡ªbut also geography, monster anatomy and behavior, military strategy, physics and chemistry¡ªan initiate must study anything and everything that can be studied. He or she, after all, desires to be one of the elite.


    Learning is all very well and good. But the opportunities to apply my knowledge are limited.


    An example of this problem: last night''s lecture. It took place in one of the larger city halls, and the lecturer was a very respected one, from one of the richer guilds this side of the chasm.


    Entry cost me ten whole silvers.


    It was worth the price, don''t get me wrong. Most lecturers read from books anyone can find, and don''t even have the decency to drone loud enough for us at the back to hear them. But this woman was dynamic, spoke loudly and passionately from experience about the power relation between rune font and metal-grain structures, and even included a practical demonstration in which she sawed through three breastplates of varying rune-to-metal discordancy.


    At the end, she said: "To really understand the intricacies of choosing the best rune-forming method, practice is key. I recommend creating a series of steel gauntlets and grafting the same runes in various fonts to them so you can feel the differences for yourself.¡±


    And herein lies the issue: I can barely afford the iron¡ªiron, mind you, not even steel¡ªfor one gauntlet, let alone three. Wharoth pays me ten coppers an hour, which if I¡¯m lucky adds up to one silver a day. No wonder the last cleaner quit.


    So far I¡¯ve been able to make half a single gauntlet, an axehead, a very short sword, and a rather ill-fitting helmet. They sit in a chest at the end of my bed, humming discordantly¡ªmy runes are too good for pig-iron.


    It¡¯s still better than being a miner.


    The months pass. My arm heals. I¡¯m glad of this, but also fearful. There¡¯s one more area of study I have to embark on, the most important after forging.


    Weapons and armor are only useful if you know how to fight.


    The sparring arena isn¡¯t in the building I first thought it was. Instead it¡¯s just a square marked out in gravel to the left of the guildhall, in full view of the street. I stand in one corner and face off against my opponent in the other, who¡¯s about a foot shorter than I am.


    He raises his shield and wooden axe and steps forward. I do the same, and it¡¯s a damn effort. The wooden training armor encasing me seems to think it¡¯s my second opponent: it pulls in the opposite direction at my every movement. I raise my shield and the wood plates on my shoulder try to lower it. I ready my axe for a swing and the elbow-part jams up. The helmet is squeezing my head and the visor makes me pretty much blind.


    My opponent rushes me and slams his axe into my head. I flinch backward, then bash him with my shield. It¡¯s a good bash, with all my strength in it, but I barely move him. His axe hits me in the side. I shout in frustration and try to shield-smash his body and chop him in the head simultaneously, and my armor picks this moment to allow me full freedom of movement. I rush on past him and fall down face first.


    I hear laughter from outside the fence, and a shout of ¡°go get him son!¡±


    This is the junior class, after all. Initiates my age generally have decent enough armor to fight in the arenas.


    ¡°Stand up, Zathar,¡± says the instructor. ¡°You can do better than that.¡±


    I can do better than that. I know I can. I beat Hardrick, didn''t I? He was twice my size and had a knife. It¡¯s this damn wooden armor, two sizes too small, that¡¯s the trouble.


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    ¡°Yeah,¡± says the kid. Straggly brown strands of beard are poking out the bottom of his helmet. ¡°Stand up and fight.¡±


    I stand up. I fight again. I lose again.


    ¡°Move with the armor, Zathar,¡± says the instructor. ¡°You''ve got to move with the armor, or you can¡¯t do anything.¡±


    I breath deep to calm myself. How am I meant to move with the armor? I wish he would explain in a bit more detail.


    This time I go for a more unorthodox tactic. First, I fake a retreat. Next I throw my axe at the kid''s face and tackle him. But somehow he sidesteps and then he''s the one tackling me, down onto the gravel.


    He sits on my chest and whacks my helmet a few times. "Yield!" he cries. "Surrender!"


    "Get him son!" comes the voice from behind the fence again.


    "I yield," I hiss through gritted teeth. "Get off of me already."


    "Do you surrender?"


    "That''s what I just said, isn''t it? Now get off me!"


    Purposefully slowly, he obliges. I drag myself up off the ground too.


    "I said move with the armor," the instructor says. "You don''t fight against it."


    I tear off my helmet. Sweat pours down my forehead from my matted hair.


    "How am I bloody meant to do that? It''s two sizes too small!"


    "Forge something decent for yourself then," says my opponent, smirking.


    "I don''t have the money," I spit at him. "Once you grow up you might understand."


    The other dozen junior trainees are sniggering. I must make for a ridiculous sight, face bright red with frustration, hair and beard slick with sweat, covered in dust from my constant toppling to the ground¡ªthe obvious inferior of a boy not three quarters my size.


    "Calm down, calm down," says the instructor. He''s an older looking runeknight but only of the sixth degree, and clearly does not give a shit about anything any more.


    "Could you please explain how the hell I am meant to move with this absurdly tight armor?"


    "It''s like..." He waves his arms from side to side. "There''s a kind of flow to it..." He scratches his head. "You have to become one with the armor. It needs to fit properly too."


    "So you should hurry up and forge something," says the boy. "How come you can''t even afford a few sheets of steel?"


    I can''t take it anymore, and charge at him. With my helmet off I can actually see what he''s doing, not to mention what I''m doing too. I smash my fist into the side of his head and stagger him. I kick him in the leg; he nearly falls over.


    He doesn''t quite fall over though, and swings wildly at my head with his wooden axe. It catches me in the temple, tearing open the skin. Blood pours down the side of my face.


    He backs away apologizing. The instructor steps forward to see if I''m OK, but I''ve been thrown into the chasm, attacked by a giant bat, nearly sweated myself to death forging in front of a lake of magma.


    I don''t need help, and I don''t need an apology.


    Snarling, I launch myself at my opponent, trip over my clunky wooden boots, and fall face first onto the gravel once again. For a good few minutes I stay there, shouting in frustration and pounding my fist against the ground. Eventually I stop then just lie there.


    "You sure you''re OK?" my opponent asks. He''s offering me a hand up.


    I sigh and take it.


    "I think you should get something for your head," he tells me. "I hope that cut doesn''t become a scar."


    "I''m fine. You beat me, I deserve to get hurt a bit. That''s how life goes."


    "I still feel kind of bad."


    "Don''t bother."


    "My name''s Yezhak. My father''s only eighth degree, he wants me to do better."


    Is this kid trying to be friends with me? I can¡¯t imagine why. Maybe this is part of what Wharoth calls making connections. Well, there''s no need to be rude.


    "Zathar," I say.


    "You coming back here tomorrow?"


    "No. Going to make some armor first."


    "Oh."


    "Sorry, were you looking forward to beating me up again?"


    "Kind of." He smiles nervously. "I heard some rumors. Is it true you forged your first piece with a broken arm?"


    "Yeah. I don''t recommend it. Anyway, I''ve got to clean this cut up."


    "See you around."


    "Yeah."


    I take one last look back at him before I round the corner of the guildhall. He''s already facing off against another opponent, axe high, ready to pound them into the gravel. He¡¯s small but strong, the epitome of dwarfishness.

 Initiate: Fighting Like a Dwarf

    I decide to quit attending lectures and try and save up some money. Iron gear, if I can supplement it with a bit of steel, should get me a job that pays at least a little more than cleaning.


    My study then, when my back and arms ache too much to continue cleaning, is restricted to the guild library. Guildmaster Wharoth told me I could use it for free if I sorted all the books by script, category and into alphabetical order, so I did just that.


    He didn''t pay me for the job, but getting free access to here was worth it.


    The world of runes is far vaster than I ever imagined. There are dozens of scripts, and more get unearthed every decade. Each single rune has several layers of complexity: my brother''s dictionary only showed the first. Their sound changes depending on which others neighbor them, what metal they are carved on, their proximity to certain gems.


    At the end of every night''s study my brain is throbbing with the effort of remembering them all.


    It''s a good pain.


    One night, a week or so after my sparring lesson, someone claps their hand on my shoulder when I''m deep in strained thought.


    "Boo! How you doing, little initiate?"


    I scowl. It''s the red-beard who judged my craft alongside Hathat and the guildmaster. Whelt. His beard stinks of too much perfume.


    "What do you want?" I snap.


    "You''ve been spending a lot of time in here lately. When are you planning on getting back in the ring?"


    "The sparring ring? You were one of those watching and laughing, were you?"


    "I was laughing a little, yeah."


    "I''ll return to the ring once I have some armor. Right now I''m focused on study, and earning some money."


    Whelt shakes his head. "You want to fight in real armor, you won¡¯t be allowed to do it here. Not against a bunch of kids. You¡¯ll have to go to an arena, and at your skill you¡¯ll get your head smashed in for sure.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not as shit at fighting as I look, you know.¡±


    Whelt raises his eyebrows. I slam my book shut.


    ¡°What am I supposed to do then? Buy a better set of wooden armor?¡±


    He laughs. ¡°It¡¯s not the armor that¡¯s the problem. Only a poor smith blames his tools.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s two sizes too small! It fights me every move I make.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not your movements that¡¯s the problem. It¡¯s your style.¡±


    ¡°My style?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You¡¯re trying to fight like a cave bear, all slashing and biting. You need to fight like a dwarf.¡±


    ¡°I am a dwarf. How could I be fighting like anything else?¡± I scowl. ¡°And what do you care? I thought you didn''t even want me in the guild.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± He looks surprised, then understanding dawns. ¡°No, no. I voted in your favor. Hathat was the one against.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Really?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. He¡¯s not a big fan of anyone without a runeknight for a dad. Brother¡¯s a bad influence on him too¡ªnot to mention that sister of his. Anyway, fighting. You gotta fight like a dwarf.¡±


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    ¡°But what does that mean?¡±


    He tells me.


    <hr>


    The next morning I¡¯m back in the sparring yard. My wooden armor feels just as uncomfortable as last time, squeezing my every limb like a vise and obscuring my vision. Every time I breath out warm sweaty air rushes up my face. It¡¯s dizzy, disorientating, and restrictive.


    Yezahk spins his axe in his hand. I''ve requested to fight him, against the instructor¡¯s advice not to. Apparently he¡¯s gotten even better.


    ¡°Ready?¡± he says.


    ¡°Ready.¡±


    ¡°To eat gravel or to win?¡±


    I can¡¯t see his face for the visor, but I know he¡¯s smirking at me. I¡¯m going to wipe that smirk right off his face.


    I ready myself, and don¡¯t charge.


    He¡¯s as impatient as I was last time, and rushes for me with his axe in high guard ready to cleave downward. I take one step forward¡ªjust one deliberate step¡ªand meet his charge with my shield. He tries to swipe it away with his own and bring his axe down in the same moment, but my posture is stable enough that he can¡¯t take me off balance. I block his strike easily.


    ¡°You been practicing somewhere else?¡± he says, stepping back and readying for another attack.


    I don¡¯t answer, just return to fighting stance. He shrugs and charges again. And with only three simple movements¡ªmy foot back, my shield forward, my axe meeting his from below¡ªmy defense is successful.


    The armor is still a pain, of course, but it doesn¡¯t hinder me so much as long as I keep my techniques small.


    Yezakh charges again, thrice as ferociously. His axe slashes at me from every direction: above, below, left, right, diagonally. But I block most of the strikes, and those I don¡¯t only hit the strong parts of my armor.


    ¡°Go on!¡± shouts his dad from behind the fence. ¡°Wear him down!¡±


    He redoubles his attacks. Now that he¡¯s really trying, his skill becomes apparent. I¡¯m starting to have trouble keeping up, more and more strikes slip through. But defense isn¡¯t the only part of fighting like a dwarf.


    I kick his ankle hard. He stumbles back and I see an opening¡ªstrike him round the back of the head.


    ¡°Ah!¡±


    He retreats. I¡¯m grinning behind my visor, and can tell he isn¡¯t. He¡¯s panting too hard, breath like white steam puffing out.


    ¡°Give up?¡± I ask him.


    He charges again, but his axe-arm is tired and slow. I guard easily¡ªthough I¡¯m hot encased in my armor, I¡¯ve barely broken a sweat.


    A fight between dwarves, Whelt explained to me, is one of endurance of both body and equipment. The amount of damage a weapon can inflict on armor of equal quality is always low, no matter how strong the wielder. That¡¯s how good dwarf armor is. So fights are nearly always slogging matches, and tough beats fast.


    And swinging a pick for sixteen hours a day, every day, for ten years, tends to build up one¡¯s endurance.


    I walk toward him slowly and deliberately, axehead resting on my shoulder, ready for a powerful yet unpredictable attack. He lifts his shield and I can see it shaking. I strike at the top of his head, knowing he¡¯ll have to expend a lot of energy to block it there. The moment my axe hits with a crack, I shove my body forward.


    He falls to the ground and I stand over him, ready for victory. I slash down, hit, hit again.


    With a sudden burst of stamina, he grabs the haft of my axe and pulls me down by it. For several furious minutes we roll around in the gravel, punching, kicking, grappling. The fight ends with my arm around his neck and his hands twisting my ankle sideways nearly out its socket. He lets go of it.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough, boys, enough!¡± shouts the instructor. ¡°Separate!¡±


    Reluctantly I let go of Yezakh¡¯s neck and stand. He¡¯s too exhausted to do the same though; he flops his arms out and lies there spread-eagled, panting.


    Outside the fence his father bows his head with a sigh.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I tell Yezakh, holding out a hand for him. ¡°I¡¯m three years older than you, nothing to feel bad about.¡±


    He lets me pull him up. ¡°I don¡¯t feel bad,¡± he says once he gets his breath back. ¡°I¡¯m just tired.¡±


    ¡°Too tired to go again?¡±


    ¡°In a bit.¡±


    So I fight a few more of the juniors. They all make the same mistake Whelt told me not to¡ªcharging in and burning through their stamina in the first few minutes. I beat them easily¡ªone by one they fall at my feet. The parents behind the fence begin to grumble about unfairness.


    ¡°So what?¡± the instructor tells them. ¡°If they ever have to fight anything that isn¡¯t a dwarf it¡¯ll be something bigger than a dwarf. This is experience.¡±


    It does begin to feel a little unfair though, apart from when I fight against Yezakh. He¡¯s already caught on, instinctively, to the lesson Whelt taught me, and he holds back his enthusiasm and begins to attack in a more calculated manner.


    For the next few weeks I spar every day, and do it so well the instructor promotes me to assistant. So I start to earn money from sparring rather than lose it.


    Soon I have enough silver in my purse for the iron plates, steel strips, and leather I need to forge my first full set of armor.

 Initiate: Iron Armor

    I stand sweating before the hot forge, tongs in my left hand and hammer in my right, ready to begin. This time I¡¯ve learned, I¡¯m going to do things properly, and my suit of armor will be one to be proud of.


    My materials, I must admit, are not of the highest quality. But they¡¯re respectable. For the main plates I have wrought iron, a bit soft, but it¡¯ll be tough enough once I graft on runes of hardness. I¡¯m going to add some steel bands too, just to make sure everything keeps its shape properly. Wish I had more, but can¡¯t be helped.


    I begin. My hammer feels a lot more comfortable in my right hand than my left, and I know how to grip it properly now too. The hot iron plate bends under my touch, and mostly in the way I want it too. My mistake last time was desperation. I''ve been told that metal can sense emotion and resists any dwarf without confidence in his skills.


    While I''m not totally convinced this is true, having calm nerves does help me hammer a lot more precisely.


    After a solid day''s work, the main plates are complete. The next day I affix the leather straps, padding, and chainmail that will link everything together. It''s painstaking work, far duller than forging, and I''m a bit worried about the chainmail''s quality¡ªit was the cheapest I could get and looks it, with uneven, wide-spaced links.


    Still, after two days hard work I can''t help but feel proud about my craft. The breastplate is angled to deflect piercing attacks, the visor designed to match the shape of my face for maximum visibility, and I¡¯ve rigged smaller plates to move over the joints for extra protection when I move. From helmet to boot it shines a dark silver.


    Now for the runes.


    I twist wires of copper and lead into shape, heat, hammer flat. A far easier method than I tried before.


    The boots I imbue with lead runes of stability. I don''t want to fall on my face anymore. Around the legs and arms I graft copper runes of hardness. Not an ideal metal for it, but better than nothing. I also imbue them with minor slipperiness, for an advantage in grappling.


    I save my best for the steel bands under the breastplate though. Along each I graft a poem of integrity, relating the moral meaning of the word to the structural in five stanzas.


    Yes, these aren¡¯t the most exciting enchantments. I would prefer to create armor with flames rippling over the surface, that can break steel weapons at a touch, that repels troglodyte arrows back to sender with unerring accuracy. But if I¡¯m ever to get that good I¡¯ll need to stay alive, and stability and structural integrity will go a long way toward ensuring that.


    The morning after I finish, it''s time to show off.


    In the main guildhall right now sit about half the guild''s members, eating breakfast and nursing hangovers. The food is not free, of course¡ªpaid through guild membership fees which I''ll have to start handing over once I''m a runeknight.


    Every morning and evening they gather here to swap stories, give and receive advice, boast, brag, crack rude jokes: in short what Guildmaster Wharoth terms ''networking''. I¡¯ve had a few interesting conversations here myself, and a few of them even believe my story about forging my first craft one-handed deep in the caverns.


    Though of course I haven¡¯t told them everything.


    After their morning meal, the runeknights go about their various businesses. Each has one job or several. Guarding seems to be the most common, along with adjudication in the arenas. Only a few are active in Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s military, though most were in the past¡ªthe conflict with Runethane Broderick has been in a lull the last couple of decades.


    They earn money. They buy materials. They forge in preparation for the examination for the next degree.


    The degrees go from tenth to first, but no runeknight here is higher than third. Each degree an order of magnitude more difficult than the last to ascend to. In the whole of this side of the city, not even two hundred dwarves are of the second degree, and only a dozen are of the first.


    My new armor draws some approving nods as I walk up the guildhall to the serving table. It¡¯s nothing compared to the other dwarves¡¯ gear of course, which shimmer with gold and platinum and precious gems, and allow them to accomplish feats I can¡¯t even dream of, but you know what, it¡¯s good enough.


    ¡°Not bad,¡± says one.


    ¡°Stability on the boots, always a sensible choice,¡± says another.


    ¡°Might get you to runeknight, with a couple adjustments.¡±


    ¡°My first suit wasn¡¯t half as good. Keep it up.¡±


    I beam with pride. Halfway through breakfast, Guildmaster Wharoth appears and the hall goes quiet. He only has a few dull announcements to make, so I mostly ignore him while I devour my porridge. After he¡¯s finished, though, he beckons me into his office.


    ¡°Stay standing, short-beard. How long did you spend on that?¡±


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    ¡°Three days.¡±


    ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s as long as it took.¡±


    He shakes his head in disappointment. ¡°You want to make it to runeknight, you¡¯ll need more patience than that.¡±


    I frown. ¡°The others didn''t seem to think it was so bad. Good for a first attempt.¡±


    ¡°For a first attempt.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with it?¡± I hold out my arms and rotate my wrists, examining the iron for any imperfections. I don¡¯t see any.


    ¡°Runes are squint. Didn''t you even examine them under a lens? Discolored patches. Worst of all that chainmail. Bought, I see, not made. Never buy chainmail.¡±


    ¡°Chainmail takes months to make!¡± I protest.


    ¡°Good chainmail takes years to make. If you want to make it to runeknight, that¡¯s the kind of time you have to put in. Not three measly days.¡±


    ¡°Years! I don¡¯t have that long!¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll grow old.¡±


    He pulls an amulet from under his salamander skin apron. It¡¯s bright gold and a cabochon-cut diamond gleams in the center. Etched into the crystal is a long spiraling poem discussing the malleability of mortality.


    ¡°Better hurry up and make one of these, then,¡± he says. ¡°How old do you think I am, boy?¡±


    ¡°I... A hundred, give or take.¡±


    ¡°Three hundred.¡±


    ¡°Three hundred? That¡¯s not possible.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°You miners, you really don¡¯t get to learn much about the world, do you? Miners and shopkeepers, nine tenths of everyone, they get to live to maybe a hundred and fifty. You know how long our Runethane¡¯s been alive?¡±


    ¡°I know he¡¯s been around for a couple hundred years. Of course he has, he¡¯s Runethane.¡±


    ¡°More like a thousand. That¡¯s how long it takes to get that good. And I don¡¯t think there¡¯s a Runeking who isn''t over ten thousand. Our Runeking Ulrike is certainly about that.¡±


    My mouth falls open slightly and I¡¯m in too much shock to say anything. Thousands of years of forging? The path to greatness stretches up like a dark staircase above me, on and on, endless. How far up will I have to ascend before I meet my brother? How far up is he? How far up can we make it, before something shoves us off?


    ¡°So my point is,¡± continues the Guildmaster, ¡°That you¡¯ll have to put some more time into your work if you want to join our proper ranks. I hope you weren¡¯t planning on taking your first exam in that.¡±


    ¡°I was just going to try and get a better job. Maybe do some fights in the arenas.¡±


    ¡°Stay away from the arenas for now. A guarding job, maybe you can do.¡±


    ¡°Alright. I¡¯ll save up and put some more steel in this.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Start again from scratch. And make your own chainmail. Blades are allowed in the arenas. I don¡¯t know if you know that.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t.¡±


    ¡°Well, you do now. I¡¯ll lend you my linking machine, five silver an hour.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll turn you a tidy profit, if I¡¯m going to be spending months on it.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°If you want to advance at my level, materials aren¡¯t cheap. I¡¯ve got my own ambitions, you know.¡±


    ¡°Okay," I sigh. "I¡¯ll think about it. I¡¯m glad you¡¯re taking an interest in me.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re an interesting young fellow. It¡¯d be a waste if you got your head chopped off.¡±


    <hr>


    I stare at my armor, feeling rather dejected. I¡¯ve hung it on a stand in my room for further examination under a bright light with a magnifying glass I just bought. I sigh deeply as I realize Wharoth was right.


    There are discolored patches, big ones, where the iron was heated unevenly. Many of the runes don¡¯t line up correctly. The mistakes are measured in millimeters, but it makes a big difference to the power harmonics. And I can nearly stick my pinky finger through the links of the chainmail.


    I sit on the bed and wonder what to do next. My heart sinks at the thought of spending another four months cleaning and teaching kids for barely three silvers a week, but now I¡¯m doubting this armor will get me any work at all.


    It¡¯ll be a good practice at being patient, though. Hundreds of years of forging to become Runethane, and thousands more beyond... It¡¯s starting to seem like a silly dream, just the fantasy of some delusional kid to make the long hours down in the mines a fraction more bearable.


    Someone knocks on my door. Probably the landlord, my rent is late this month.


    ¡°Come in,¡± I sigh.


    It¡¯s not the landlord, it¡¯s Whelt.


    ¡°Hey,¡± he says. ¡°Heard you put together some armor.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Guildmaster give you his usual criticism, did he?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    He gives it a look over and shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s not so bad, apart from the chainmail.¡±


    ¡°I was planning on starting again from scratch, actually.¡±


    ¡°Probably a good idea, once you get the money. You have to keep improving, you know, if you¡¯re going to keep going up and up.¡±


    ¡°Why are you here, anyway?¡±


    ¡°Couple of friends dropped out the job we were going to do together. Found something better, they say.¡± He grimaces. ¡°Think one of their father¡¯s set them up with something. But I told the employer I¡¯d bring two along, and he¡¯s counting on me for it.¡±


    ¡°When does it start?¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow morning. Last minute, right?¡±


    ¡°And why me?¡±


    ¡°Damn low ranking job, that¡¯s why. I¡¯m only ninth degree, you know? No one else wants to come along.¡±


    ¡°OK. What¡¯s the job?¡±


    ¡°Just guarding a caravan for a few days. Easy.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Sure then. I¡¯ll take it.¡± Then I remember something. ¡°But I don¡¯t really have a decent weapon yet.¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all?¡±


    I take out the very short sword I made a couple weeks ago out my storage chest. Whelt examines it.


    ¡°Blade¡¯s not bad quality. Get a new handle and turn it into a spear. Shouldn¡¯t take more than a couple hours.¡±


    Guess my rent payment is going to be even further delayed: a new handle is going to be the very last of my silver.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back early morning tomorrow," he says. "If you¡¯re in, that is?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in. Easy job, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Definitely.¡±

 Initiate: Kazhek

    The next day I find myself sitting atop an ore wagon. It''s shuddering as it rumbles out the city and down into the stalagmite forest.


    Easy job. Runeknights come here all the time. So Whelt tells me. Nothing worse than bats for sure.


    Except, that is, for our fellow dwarves.


    There''s ten of us on this job. Whelt and I are the only ones from the Association of Steel. The other friend he managed to persuade is an old dwarf from another guild who keeps his head down and doesn¡¯t talk much.


    The other seven, sitting opposite us, are bad luck.


    They''re from a nearby guild nearly twice our size, the Troglodyte Slayers. Each is equipped with densely runed bronze and carries a square shield sporting their guild''s emblem: a falling stalactite impaling three troglodytes. Their visors are down and have been since we started off three hours ago, but Whelt tells me he has a bad feeling about one of them.


    "See him in the middle, Zathar?" he says in a low voice. "Pretty sure I know who he is, and that¡¯s not good."


    "Who?"


    "Think he¡¯s Hathat''s big brother. Met him before, and I can tell by the way he sits. Relaxed. His runewriting is similar too."


    "Only similar?"


    "I''m not sure yet. But I think that''s him."


    "How come he''s in a different guild to Hathat?"


    "Isn''t it obvious? Hathat wasn''t good enough to get into that one."


    The darkness around us grows deeper as we head further away from the city, for the light of the sun mirrors only reaches so far. The stalagmites become thicker and taller. Some now tower as high as my five story miner barracks did. Each is a kind of brownish cream color, smooth and pearlescent with moisture.


    And moisture means cave beasts.


    I can see the occasional flicker of movement in the darkness. The tail of something skittering away. The hint of a clawed hand around a distant spike. An eye blinking.


    My palms grow sweaty in my gauntlets. Nothing this close to the city would dare attack ten armored dwarves, surely. But how deep into the forest are we going?


    An hour later, the bronze-armored dwarf Whelt pointed out stands and puts his visor up to better survey the landscape. The resemblance is definite. He''s a little taller than Hathat, and his eyes are a little deeper set, but they''re brothers for sure¡ªsame slightly upturned nose and downturned lips.


    "Never been in this part of the forest before," he muses. "Polt, you''re the geography expert. What are we going to find out here?"


    The dwarf next to him shrugs. "Same as anywhere."


    "Bats and salamanders?"


    "No salamanders up here, idiot. No magma."


    "Dragons?"


    "Of course not," snaps Polt.


    "Cave bears?"


    "We''re too far from the surface. Shut up already."


    Hathat''s brother laughs and slaps Polt''s helmet, which dings. "Just winding you up. Giving the young ones a bit of a scare." He gives me a nasty grin. "You feeling scared, initiate? What about you, Whelt? How''s my brother doing?"


    Whelt shrugs. "Fine, Kazhek, I think. Don''t spend much time with him."


    "No? You too good for him or something?"


    "Maybe."


    "Shame. I''m curious to know how he''s getting on."


    "Ask him, then."


    "Nah, he doesn''t like to talk to me that much. Likes to complain to Jalat, though. Isn''t too happy about the sorts your guild is letting in these days."


    He grins at me again. I scowl back.


    "What''s your problem?" I say.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Nothing, nothing. Why should I care about what happens with you lot?"


    He turns back around and the conversation ends, for now.


    The ore caravan continues on its way. It''s massive, maybe even as long as the guildhall, but a bit thinner. It''s made of three sections: a long tail in which the ore will be stored, a shorter middle section into which are crammed about thirty miners and their picks, then the front section in which sit the driver and expedition boss. A trio of massive blindboars drags it all, grunting and heaving. Their stink is like a mixture of old pork and sweat.


    "Never been on a caravan this big," says the old runeknight next to me. "But seems odd to be all grouped up."


    "Yeah. Why aren''t we spread out?" I ask Whelt. "Isn''t it dangerous to have us all sit in the middle?"


    Whelt shrugs. "Nothing dangerous this close to the city."


    "Really?"


    At that moment I glimpse a flapping motion out the corner of my eye. I spin, spear up at the ready, but the bat hovering a few meters off the side of the caravan is only the size of my hand.


    Kazekh laughs. "Careful of that beast. If you don''t stab it now, it''ll come back and drain every last drop of your blood. Isn''t that right, Polt?"


    "No," Polt snaps. "Cur-Thaz only goes for large herbivores. It latches on for weeks at a time. It doesn''t bother with dwarves."


    "You sure about that?"


    "Yes!"


    "You got lucky this time then, initiate."


    I roll my eyes and sit back down.


    "Was that a bigger bat I saw just¡ª"


    "Will you shut it!" snaps one of the other visored dwarves, a woman slumped against the railing. "I''m trying to sleep."


    "Alright, alright. No need to be a bitch about it."


    She sits up angrily. "And why are you all sitting next to me, anyway. Spread out!"


    "Relax, sis. There''s nothing dangerous this close to the city."


    "We''re heading deep, or didn''t you hear about that bit?"


    "Deep?" Kazhek looks puzzled. "In this great lump of a train?"


    "The train''s not going deep. The miners are."


    Kazhek rolls his eyes. "Doesn''t matter for us yet then, does it?"


    She shrugs. ¡°Fine. Yeah, you¡¯re right. But I still want you all to fuck off. Just remember who got us this job.¡±


    ¡°Whatever.¡± Kazhek pulls out his warhammer and smacks it against his bronze shield, which rings like a gong. The sound echoes off the stalagmites. ¡°Stand up then, you lot, or I¡¯ll have boss up front dock your pay. Up, up.¡±


    The bronze-clad warriors stand up, grumbling. Polt makes sure to violently collide with Kazhek.


    ¡°Congratulations,¡± he says sarcastically. ¡°Your sister still whips you like a dog.¡±


    ¡°Like to see you stand up to her. You¡¯ve seen her angry... You want to go to the front or the back?¡±


    ¡°Front. Might see something interesting.¡±


    ¡°Doubt it, but sure. Hey Whelt, take the old guy and initiate to the back. You can pass the time counting the shits the boar are leaving for us.¡±


    Whelt rolls his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m staying right here.¡±


    ¡°You going to fight me in the arena for it?¡±


    Whelt pats his axe. ¡°Fuck off, Kazhek.¡±


    ¡°Whatever. Initiate, old man, you¡¯re off to the rear then.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°Why should I?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the only initiate here, that¡¯s why. Do as you¡¯re told.¡±


    ¡°Who made you the leader? We¡¯re not even in the same guild.¡±


    The old dwarf tugs at my arm. ¡°Hey, let¡¯s just go.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s right,¡± says Kazhek. ¡°Old and rusty he may be, but he¡¯s wise. Go away. Or do you want to fight me too? I don¡¯t mind teaching the odd initiate a few sparring tricks, not at all.¡± He laughs. ¡°I¡¯m a born teacher.¡±


    I can feel blood turning my face hot, and feel my hands curling into fists. Whelt claps a hand on my shoulder.


    ¡°Just go, Zathar. Not worth fighting over. You won¡¯t win.¡±


    Cursing, humiliated, I turn and walk over the shivering wood to the rear of the caravan. I lean on the rails. Just as Kazhek said, I can see the boar dung trailing off behind us into the distance. I can smell it too.


    ¡°Fucking asshole!¡± I shout, and smash my fist down on the railings.


    ¡°Hey, hey, calm down,¡± says the old dwarf. ¡°Idiots like him aren¡¯t worth getting upset about.¡±


    I glare at him. ¡°I was this close to smacking him. Fucking asshole.¡±


    The old dwarf shakes his head. ¡°Then it¡¯s a good thing you didn''t.¡±


    ¡°So he¡¯s a runeknight, I¡¯m not. He¡¯s a few ranks above me, so he gets to boss me around, is that it?¡±


    ¡°He gets to boss us around ¡®cause he¡¯ll beat us up if we say no. That¡¯s how the world works.¡±


    ¡°What the hell would you know about how the world works? Your beard¡¯s gray, and you¡¯re on a shit job like this? Are you too scared to do the next exam, or something?¡±


    He smiles sadly. ¡°I¡¯ve got too many kids to have the money for it. I¡¯m happy where I am.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t sound very happy.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe. But as long as my kids are, I don¡¯t mind.¡± He looks closely at my face. ¡°My son talks about you a lot lately.¡±


    ¡°Your son?¡±


    Then it hits me¡ªthis old dwarf has the same curly hair as Yezakh, the same small build too. Fifty years ago they might have looked identical, but whatever energy this dwarf had when he was Yezakh¡¯s age is long gone.


    ¡°Yeah.¡± He looks put out. ¡°You don¡¯t remember him? You sparred him last week too.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± I say hurriedly. ¡°I remember him. Good kid.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a kid too. Hope you do things better than I did.¡± He grabs my hand and shakes it. ¡°Hayhek.¡±


    ¡°Zathar.¡±


    ¡°I know. Try to keep calm these next few days, yeah? I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll make it up to where Kazhek is soon enough.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    The caravan rumbles on for a few more hours, then it stops before the mouth of a tunnel that sits like a pool of absolute blackness between two massive stalagmites. We disembark, and the mining operation begins.

 Initiate: Kazheks Rage

    The material the dig-company¡¯s scouts found is called glasolite. It¡¯s one of the eight reagents, and as its name might suggest, it¡¯s transparent and brittle. Ordinarily deposits of reagents are found much further from the city, but the stuff here was caked over with limestone, which allowed it to remain undiscovered. Now it¡¯s going to be smashed to bits, loaded up, and sold for ten silvers a gram to the material shops, who will then sell it for thirty silvers a gram or more to their runeknight customers.


    Trouble is, when it gets smashed, limestone chips get mixed in. It would take far too long to pick them out manually, so the company hiring us has brought a special machine to unmix them. It¡¯s a fat tube twenty feet tall, ten feet across, and with a scaffold set up around it with ramps for the miners to drag their sacks of rock up. The mixed glasolite and limestone chips go in the top, the limestone comes out the sides, and the glasolite pours out the bottom into waiting minecarts, which are then reeled up the tunnel to the caravan.


    The machine is right near the tunnel entrance, away from any possible danger, so the worst equipped dwarf, me, gets the job of guarding it. But since it¡¯s still an expensive piece of equipment, the boss wants someone reliable there too. He chose Kazhek, who was only too happy to take the easy job.


    So for two days my life is thoroughly miserable.


    ¡°Hey, initiate, that miner dropped some of the glass. Put it in the minecart, will you? Yeah, that one¡ªif you run you should be able to catch it.¡±


    ¡°Hey, initiate, I¡¯m thirsty. Aren¡¯t you? Go get us some water, will you? Good man.¡±


    ¡°Hey, initiate...¡±


    ¡°Hey, initiate...¡±


    Is this any better than mining? Looking at the miners with us, I¡¯m not sure. At least they¡¯re allowed to drink away the dullness and frustration of their work.


    The hours pass. The cavern turns from a white-curtained, crystal-pooled, pristine hall of stone to a mess of dust and gravel that stinks of miner sweat and beer. Kazhek¡¯s requests become more and more inane, until thankfully he gets bored with my lack of reaction and gives up on them. Near the end of the last day, when there¡¯s only a few more deposits to be carved out, he can¡¯t even be bothered keeping an eye on the machine.


    The machine grinds to a halt.


    ¡°Hey,¡± one of the miners shouts down from the top. ¡°Hey, runeknights. One of the paddles is stuck. Can you take a look?¡±


    ¡°Go on, initiate,¡± Kazhek yawns. ¡°Go up and take a look.¡±


    ¡°How am I meant to know how to fix it?¡± I protest. ¡°You know more about runes than me. You ought to go.¡±


    ¡°It probably just needs a good prod. Go on, up you go.¡±


    I sigh and head up the ramps.


    ¡°See?¡± the miner says, pointing to where one of the mixing paddles is jammed against a chunk of rock. ¡°It won¡¯t move.¡±


    It¡¯s easily within reach of his pick. Typical miner laziness and stupidity, just like I remember. I don¡¯t want to risk him screwing it up and falling into the cauldron though, which I¡¯ll certainly get blamed for, so I push past him and shove the rock down with the butt of my spear. The paddles start to spin again, bringing up clouds of dust and the smell of chalk.


    ¡°Cheers,¡± the miner says. He turns to pick up the next sack of rocks, puts his foot off the wooden ledge and falls into the churning rocks and spinning steel paddles.


    He gets lucky. Instead of landing in the whirlpool of rocks and being immediately dragged down and turned to red paste, he hits one of the paddles. It¡¯s thoroughly strained from two days of non-stop spinning, and further deteriorated from poor maintenance and old age, and snaps. A tinny alarm blares and the machine grinds to a halt once again.


    This time it¡¯s going to take a lot more than a firm prod to fix.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on up there?¡± Kazhek shouts crossly.


    I help the miner, who¡¯s shivering in shock, up out the cauldron.


    ¡°The miner fell in,¡± I shout down. ¡°He broke the paddle.¡±


    ¡°No I didn''t!¡± the miner cries out suddenly, pulling himself free of my grasp. ¡°He broke it when he was trying to fix it!¡±


    For a moment I¡¯m speechless at the ingratitude. Then I grab him by his dirty lapels and shout in his face:


    ¡°Liar! Maybe stop drinking on the job for once!¡±


    ¡°Get down here!¡± Kazhek orders me. ¡°Right now!¡±


    I drag the miner down with me.


    ¡°I fixed the damn machine,¡± I spit. ¡°Then he goes and stumbles in.¡±


    Kazhek rolls his eyes. ¡°If he¡¯d fallen in he¡¯d be paste. Do you think I¡¯m stupid?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, he hit the paddle.¡±


    ¡°And I expect it just snapped like that, did it? Despite it being well-runed steel?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s rusted where it meets the center. Go up and see for yourself.¡±


    ¡°The boss will take a look. Don¡¯t think he¡¯ll be paying you very much after he sees the damage.¡±


    ¡°You heard the machine stop then start again, didn''t you? I fixed it, then he fell in.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°He¡¯s lying,¡± says the miner. He reminds me of an older, smaller, uglier Hardrick. ¡°He broke it.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± One of Kazhek¡¯s guildmates approaches. ¡°Why¡¯s the machine stopped?¡±


    It¡¯s Polt.


    ¡°The initiate broke it,¡± says Kazhek. ¡°He was trying to fix it, but managed to royally fuck it up.¡±


    ¡°Boss is going to be pissed. Why didn''t you fix it yourself? Or the boss is a mechanic too, you realize.¡±


    I make the mistake of thinking Polt¡¯s on my side. ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Aren¡¯t you the one responsible for the machine?¡±


    ¡°Shut it,¡± Polt snaps. ¡°You¡¯re still the one who broke it.¡±


    ¡°The miner broke it!¡±


    ¡°Bullshit.¡± Kazhek looks properly angry. He really is meant to be the one responsible for the machine, after all. ¡°No one who falls into one of these things gets out with all their limbs. Just admit you fucked up, initiate.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have anything to admit.¡±


    Polt rolls his eyes. ¡°Who cares which one broke it? We can dock their pay equally. They¡¯re both miners, after all.¡±


    My patience, steadily worn down after three days of running about doing pointless tasks at the whim of the most thoroughly unpleasant dwarf I¡¯ve met since Hardrick, snaps. I stride up to Polt.


    ¡°Take that back¡ª¡±


    Polt shoves me. I fall backwards¡ªthe runes of stability on my boots are far inferior to those of strength winding around his wrists. I try to stand up but he slaps me back down.


    ¡°Stay there while I get the boss, initiate. Don¡¯t speak back to either of us.¡±


    I kick him in the ankle and he stumbles back a step. I catch a look of surprise on his face, which quickly turns to one of rage.


    ¡°Now you¡¯ve done it,¡± he snaps.


    I scramble up and swing a left hook at the side of his head. He doesn¡¯t even bother to guard, just lets it collide with no effect. His counter, despite my blocking it, sends me sprawling sideways. Then he throws himself on me.


    We grapple on the stone, and he¡¯s faster, stronger, tougher. I¡¯m flipped, rolled¡ªhe punches me again, denting my helmet badly. The impact rings in my ears. He picks me up and throws me down hard, body slams me in the next instant. My spear, which I¡¯ve managed to hold on to, snaps in half beneath me.


    In a spasm of fear and anger, I stab upward.


    I feel something break in the gap just below his breastplate, then a soft sensation.


    Polt clutches his side and rolls off me. I scramble up. Blood is running out his armor.


    ¡°Polt?¡± Kazhek says. ¡°Polt, what¡¯s wrong?¡±


    He hurries to his friend. I stumble backwards. Whelt grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me away.


    ¡°Zathar, what did you just do? What the hell¡¯s going on?¡±


    The rest of the runeknights, and the miners too, have all gathered around. They look shocked.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Kazhek yells. ¡°Shit, shit! Someone help me get his armor off!¡±


    Three of his guildmates run forward and help him unstrap Polt¡¯s breastplate. The wound in his side is a red hole; the blood pouring from it, pumping from it, is bright crimson. I must have hit an artery. One of the dwarves tries and fails to stem the bleeding with a rag.


    I let my half-spear drop to the stone.


    ¡°Polt!¡± screams Kazhek, cradling his friend in his arms. ¡°Polt, look at me. Look at me!¡±


    Polt meets his eyes for a second. He opens his mouth to says something, then the last of his strength drains out the hole in his side and his eyes roll up. He flops back.


    ¡°Polt! Wake up!¡± Kazhek slaps his cheek, shakes him by the shoulder. ¡°Polt! Polt! Wake up!¡±


    Polt does not move. Kazhek continues to shake him and cry out his name for several minutes. Then he goes silent, stands, and turns to me. His eyes are red; tears are streaming down his face.


    ¡°You killed him!¡± he screams at me. ¡°You fucking stabbed him!¡±


    I back away. My entire body is shaking. ¡°He attacked me!¡± I shout. ¡°You saw, you all fucking saw! He attacked me!¡±


    ¡°He was just going to rough you up a bit. He wasn¡¯t trying to kill you, you asshole!¡±


    ¡°How was I meant to know?¡± I howl.


    ¡°Because if he was trying to kill you, you¡¯d have your skull fucking smashed in!¡±


    ¡°Felt like he was trying to do just fucking that! He half punched my helmet in already!¡±


    ¡°Your brains would be all over the ground if he¡¯d been trying!¡±


    ¡°He started it!¡± I scream. ¡°He started it!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t fucking care!¡± Kazhek pulls his warhammer from his belt. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you now.¡± He advances. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you.¡±


    I pick up the remains of my spear to defend myself. The cavern is spinning around me. My breath in my dented helm is sickly hot, but the rest of my body has gone cold. He¡¯s getting closer, clutching his short, spiked weapon in both hands. It¡¯s going to crush my head like an egg.


    Someone¡ªold Hayhek¡ªrushes past me and attempts to shove him over. Kazhek just sidesteps and smacks him down with a strike to the shoulder.


    ¡°Hold it!¡± Whelt shouts. ¡°There¡¯s legal ways to do this.¡±


    Kazhek is not listening. He raises the warhammer and leaps¡ª


    One of his guildmates flies at him, a bronze blur, and tackles him bodily to the ground. She yanks the warhammer from his grasp and tosses it aside. He screams in rage and unleashes a flurry of punches, but she¡¯s faster, and her runes better quality. A well-aimed jab brings him crashing down to the stone.


    ¡°What the fuck are you doing, Jalat? Get out my way!¡±


    ¡°Look at Polt¡¯s armor.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that got to do with anything?¡±


    ¡°The chainmail¡¯s rusted through. Look.¡±


    He looks. His sister is right, the bronze mail is a greenish color.


    ¡°And?¡± Kazhek demands, turning back in furiously. ¡°He¡¯s our guildmate.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a runeknight of the seventh degree and he let his armor rust.¡±


    ¡°He was our friend.¡±


    ¡°Your friend, Kazhek. You were the only one who liked him very much.¡±


    ¡°You cold bitch. This brat killed our guildmate. He¡¯s going to pay the price.¡±


    ¡°Polt attacked him first. I saw when I was walking over here. Then Polt got his armor breached, a runeknight, got his armor breached by an initiate.¡±


    Some of the other members of the Troglodyte Slayers are nodding. Some are not.


    ¡°Just because his armor was rusted a bit doesn¡¯t mean he deserves to die!¡±


    ¡°Deserves? Maybe not. But it was still his own fault. And I don¡¯t want to start a feud with another guild.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re barely a guild.¡±


    ¡°Their master¡¯s more dangerous than you know. And our master is keen on money, not feuds. So back the fuck away.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± The expedition boss, a tired looking runeknight of the fifth degree wearing a suit of platinum chain, steps forward. ¡°I¡¯m not having two deaths on my expedition. You want to fight, you can do it in the arenas. And the runeknight was the one who attacked first.¡±


    ¡°This is absurd,¡± spits Kazhek. ¡°You¡¯re both absurd. Heartless, is what you are. I¡¯m going to kill him.¡±


    ¡°Kill him in the arenas then!¡± the boss snaps. ¡°Not on my expedition.¡± Then he glares at the miner. ¡°And you¡¯re too drunk again. You¡¯re meant to have one beer an hour, not three. Zero pay for you.¡± He looks at me with slightly more compassion. ¡°Get up back to the caravan, sonny. And try not to stab anyone else today, yeah?¡±

 Initiate: Death in the Blackness

    I sit at the rear of the ore caravan. My shaking has calmed somewhat, though I still look down in disbelief occasionally at the dried blood on my spearhead. Whelt and Hayhek are sitting beside me, but they haven¡¯t said much, apart from asking if I feel okay occasionally.


    I don¡¯t know if I feel okay or not. Goes without saying, but I¡¯ve never killed anyone before. I didn''t even kill Hardrick, though I¡¯m pretty sure he had it in him to kill me.


    In the middle of the caravan sits Jalat with most of the Troglodyte Slayers, separating us and Kazhek at the front who''s with a couple friends and Polt¡¯s body. He¡¯s staring at me.


    His eyes are just dots from afar, but I can see the hatred in them as clearly as I could when he was charging for me.


    ¡°I don¡¯t really know,¡± I say to Whelt quietly, ¡°How the arenas work. Can he challenge me?¡±


    ¡°He can. You don¡¯t have to accept.¡±


    ¡°Polt attacked me. I just defended myself.¡±


    ¡°I know. Most of us saw, when we were coming over to see why the machine stopped. It was self defense, so there¡¯s no legal problem. You won¡¯t get dragged in front of a court, no way.¡±


    ¡°This kind of thing isn¡¯t so rare,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡±


    ¡°And don¡¯t feel guilty either,¡± Whelt says sternly. ¡°Runeknights are soldiers half the time. Best you get your first-kill jitters out now than break down on the battlefield.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t feel guilty. Not really. Just... Kazhek¡¯s stronger than me.¡±


    ¡°Stay close to the guildhall and he won¡¯t risk anything. Wharoth likes you, and he¡¯s no slouch when it comes to protecting people he cares about. And I¡¯m not going to let him get at you either.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. That means a lot.¡±


    Under Kazehk¡¯s stare though, it¡¯s hard to feel safe. The first opportunity he gets, he¡¯ll take. I tighten my grip on my broken spear. Somehow I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any rust in his armor.


    The hours pass. The light from the mirrors above the city brightens as we draw closer, then turns orange and dim as dusk falls.


    The lead blindboar driving the caravan lets out a piercing scream, a wail of primal anguish that echoes through the stalagmites, sending everyone¡¯s hands to their ears, then we¡¯re sent tumbling as the driver slams on the brakes. Everyone, feud momentarily forgotten, rushes to the front with weapons drawn to see what¡¯s happened.


    The lead boar is on the ground, kicking and screaming, blood pouring from its front right foot. The collar and drive-rods linking it to the caravan are bent and broken.


    ¡°Get down there!¡± the driver shouts as he emerges from the front cabin. ¡°Wrap its leg in something, and drive off any bats!¡±


    We hurry down the ladders and set up a perimeter. The boss and the driver, helped by some of the Troglodyte Slayers, wrap the gigantic beast¡¯s foot in a length of cloth. There¡¯s a shard of black glass about as long as my arm stuck in it.


    Once the beast¡¯s calmed, they disconnect the bent and broken rods from its back and guide it, limping, to a small clearing off the road. I¡¯m close enough to hear the driver and boss discussing what to do next.


    ¡°It needs to be put down,¡± the driver says. ¡°That foot¡¯s a mess. The obsidian¡ªhell knows how it got there¡ªis jammed right in.¡±


    ¡°You have any idea how much those things cost? Fixing the sorter is already going to take a big chunk out our profits. We lose that boar, we¡¯ll be lucky if we break even.¡±


    ¡°Even if there was a chance we could save its foot, we¡¯d need the damn best vet in the city. And hell only knows what kind of beasts all that blood is going to bring up.¡±


    ¡°We can bring a vet out here.¡±


    ¡°And leave the caravan just sitting? If Broderick¡¯s scouts catch wind¡ª¡±


    ¡°Two boars are enough to pull the caravan. Slow, but fast enough. Some of the runeknights can stay here to guard the injured boar until we can get a vet out.¡±


    ¡°All right. If you think there¡¯s a chance it¡¯ll live.¡±


    ¡°It better live.¡±


    ¡°Should we pick some to stay? Or let them choose among themselves?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s separate them out. The Troglodyte Slayers can go back to the city with us, the other three can stay with the boar.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That¡¯s a good idea. Keep them from each other''s throats.¡±


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    They call me, Whelt, and Hayhek forward. We¡¯re not so far from the city, so it¡¯s only going to be one night we stay with the boar. They assure us that the worst that¡¯ll come are bats, though because of the possibility of greater risk, we¡¯ll get double pay for the hours we spend out here, provided the boar survives.


    So we stand around the injured boar, now lying on its side, and watch the caravan rumble slowly down the road away from us. Kazhek¡¯s eyes and mine remain locked. When he finally disappears into the darkness, I breathe a sigh of relief and sit down.


    ¡°Glad to see the back of him?¡± Whelt asks. ¡°Let¡¯s just hope whatever comes after us isn¡¯t worse.¡±


    ¡°Think anything will?¡± asks Hayhet.


    ¡°Maybe. There¡¯s a lot of blood spilled.¡±


    We choose the order of the watch. I go first, since I¡¯m inexperienced, and they expect that if anything comes it will be in the later stages of the night. I stand at the head of the boar, which is crying as it sleeps, tears running from its small eyes through its coarse white bristles. I feel sorry for it, and thankful too.


    I walk to the road. A low wall of crushed stone, from the stalagmites that a thousand years ago stood where the road now runs, marks the boundary between thread of civilization and dark wilderness. I look up, and can just about see the tips of the stalactites in the faint moonlight shining from the city mirrors. They hang there like reflections of the spires all around me.


    I turn back, make my way to the sleeping boar, pace around it, return to the road, always looking up for any sign of bats. I''ve taken my helmet off for better visibility, so hopefully I won¡¯t be taken by surprise.


    And, in the only luck I¡¯ve had so far on this job, I see no worse creature than a gecko about the size of my hand.


    I wake Hayhek when it¡¯s time to finish¡ªhe has a wristwatch he¡¯s letting us use¡ªand go to sleep. It is not a particularly restful sleep, for my armor is uncomfortable, the ground cold, and I am tormented by the voice of Kazhek in my dreams. He swears to kill me, over and over again.


    I¡¯m not dreaming, I suddenly realize. Kazhek is here.


    Not right over me yet, thankfully. I¡¯m lying near to the boar and he¡¯s only just creeping over the stones at the edge of the road. Whelt is asleep next to me in the same position he took when I started my watch, and Hayhek is facing the stalagmites, standing with his head bowed, shoulders rising and falling in the slow rhythm of elderly men''s sleep.


    Even clad in his bronze, Kazhek makes no sound as he tiptoes forward, warhammer at the ready. I¡¯m not sure what alerted me to the danger¡ªsome sixth sense, perhaps. I feel hot, and my mouth is dry. Subconscious fear must have pulled me from my dream.


    ¡°Whelt,¡± I whisper, trying not to move my lips. ¡°Whelt, wake up. Kazhek¡¯s here.¡±


    No movement.


    ¡°Wake up!" I hiss. "Wake up!¡±


    He shifts a little.


    ¡°Wake up!¡±


    He turns over, away from me, mumbling. Kazhek accelerates, and his shadow covers me, like that of a grim reaper wielding hammer rather than scythe¡ªeither would get the job he¡¯s here for done.


    I reach for my broken spear¡ª


    A black shadow swoops from above. It''s not so huge, not even half as big as the blindboar, but it''s fast, oh so fast, and the air its wings bring down is hot. Its tail wraps around Kazhek''s face before he has a chance to react. He drops his warhammer and tries in vain to pry the black iron from his face. Whelt scrambles up, shouting incoherently. Hayhek yells a warcry and draws his weapon. The boar screams.


    I flee in terror.


    A massive hand, dripping with and stinking of fresh blood, grabs me and throws me down, flips me onto my front. The dragon pins me with its claws on my chest. It¡¯s holding me with just a fraction of its strength, but already the steel struts of my armor are groaning.


    Its angular reptilian head looms over me. Its cruel green eyes bore into mine. Furnace-light glows from behind its blade-like teeth.


    ¡°I told you I¡¯d be keeping an eye on you, dwarf,¡± the dragon whispers. ¡°Now tell me, are you a runeknight yet?¡±


    I can¡¯t see what it¡¯s done to the other three, if they''re struggling or dead; my vision is taken up entirely by its midnight black body and wings.


    "Are you a runeknight yet, dwarf? I would like my key sooner rather than later."


    "What have you done to the others?" I whisper. "What have you done to them?"


    ¡°I think it ought to be rather obvious, even to a dwarf, that I¡¯m asking the questions tonight.¡±


    ¡°What have you done to them?¡±


    ¡°They''re friends of yours, are they?¡±


    ¡°What have you done to them?¡± The stink of fresh blood is overpowering. ¡°Please!¡±


    It speaks softly and very slowly: "One I have with my tail, the other two are under my back feet. Unharmed," it adds, then smiles. "As of yet. Now, back to the topic at hand. Are you a runeknight yet? Compared to the armor of the others, yours is somewhat lacking.¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± I say.


    The dragon narrows its eyes. ¡°I see. And why not? How, exactly, are you planning on joining the Runethane¡¯s military as an initiate?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m working my way up to it. I need time, these things take time, that¡¯s what everyone is telling me.¡±


    ¡°Time? How much time, exactly? I¡¯m in rather a hurry.¡±


    "I don''t know. A while. Maybe a long time."


    "Give me a number, dwarf."


    ¡°A year, at least. I need to save up money to make armor, and a new weapon. Then I¡¯ll be able to take the exam.¡±


    ¡°A year to stop being an initiate.¡± The dragon nods. ¡°I see. And then how long, exactly, until you¡¯re able to get me my key?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ll need better gear, better and better. Another few years¡ª¡±


    ¡°A few years!¡± hisses the dragon. The flames behind its teeth flare to white. ¡°A few years? You think I can wait a few years? I¡¯ve been living ten years in the cavern, and now you want me to wait more?¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t be helped! Please,¡± I beg, as quietly as I can. ¡°Just a few years! Three! Then you¡¯ll have your key, I promise.¡±


    The dragon crushes down my armor further; its claws screech on it. I feel one of the steel struts across my chest snap. It brings its jaws down to right beside my ear, and its black scales are burning hot.


    ¡°You have six months,¡± it whispers, and its green eyes flash. ¡°Six months to get my key for me. If I don¡¯t have it by then, I''ll burn your guild and everyone you know to ashes. Six months!¡±


    It releases me and lifts off into the darkness of the high ceiling, wings beating down a furnace-like gale. Then it¡¯s gone, leaving in its wake four terrified dwarves and one eviscerated boar, heart torn out through its belly and lying on the stone in a pool of blood.

 Initiate: The Sword of Inevitable Victory

    Everyone lies there, stunned. The others more than me perhaps¡ªthey¡¯ve never seen a dragon before, let alone had one¡¯s claws clamped over their mouth. Kazhek, blood feud forgotten for the moment, looks up at the sky in horror.


    ¡°There can¡¯t be a dragon so far up here,¡± he says. ¡°Not possible.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Hayhek says quietly. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane must know.¡±


    I attempt to wipe the blood off my armor. The boar¡¯s heart is still spasming slightly.


    ¡°Why are you here, Kazhek?¡± I say.


    He glares at me. ¡°Boss decided three wasn¡¯t enough to guard the boar after all.¡±


    ¡°Liar.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter any more. This is more important.¡±


    ¡°Was it talking to you?¡± Whelt asks me. ¡°I couldn¡¯t quite hear. What did it say?¡±


    ¡°It said... If we don¡¯t stay out of this part of the forest, there¡¯ll be consequences.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°It might come back,¡± Kazhek says.


    ¡°You should get out of here,¡± Whelt spits. ¡°Sneaking up in the night! You¡¯re a coward.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere or doing anything. Unless we want to fight amongst ourselves with a dragon overhead.¡±


    No one does. Kazhek retreats to stand by a stalagmite away from us, but not so far away. He''s shaking, we all are.


    I don''t for one second think he''s quit his quest to kill me, though.


    The rest of the night passes thankfully eventless. Soon after the faint moonlight from the mirrors becomes the rays of dawn, illuminating the city and its two mountains in a cone of red-orange, Kazhek takes his leave in silence. A short while later the veterinarian arrives.


    He''s shocked beyond words at the gory-drenched scene, and it takes him some convincing that what attacked us was indeed a dragon. Eventually though, accept it he does, and after he closes the dead blindboar''s tear-streaked pink eyes, we head back to the city.


    Six months.


    I have only six months.


    <hr>


    Several days have passed now since the news of the dragon reached the ears of Runethane Thanerzak. He has ordered forces from the north districts to be brought to the south. A great many forces. Runethane Thanerzak does not like dragons, to put it lightly.


    Ten of Runethane Broderick''s runeknights emerge from a disused tunnel into the northernmost district.


    The dwarf at their head is Fugthath, the one with the scar through his lips. He has forged himself a new suit of armor, an advanced one. It is composed of lead scales, each imprinted with a rune of platinum. The effect of the runes is to make it so the lead is weightless to him. It feels like wearing cotton¡ªbut to those he strikes a light jab is like the blow of a mighty hammer. He wields no weapon; his armored fists are appropriate for the close-in combat he expects.


    Eight of the other dwarves are equipped in more or less mundane fashion: in bronze or steel plate, wielding short swords and holding bucklers, and employing various runes of hardness, strength, and speed.


    The last dwarf, though the junior of all, is the most spectacular. His armor is steel and writ on it in dense text is an ode to speed in shining silver. An odd choice, for such a stocky dwarf¡ªit doesn¡¯t exactly amplify any natural strengths¡ªbut he has his reason, and that reason is his sword.


    It is the mark two of the weapon he forged for his application to Inevitable Victory, and it is better in every respect. The blade is longer, taller even than he is, and he is not short, and curved very slightly and it is single edged. This makes it a peculiarity among dwarf blades, because so-shaped weapons are no good for stabbing into the gaps of armor.


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    This does not matter. It is not designed for stabbing into the gaps of armor. Writ along its edge in runes less than a millimeter high is a long ode to sharpness in a triplet-iambic structure.


    The ode is far too long to write down here.


    Ordinarily a long sword of any shape would be useless in the close-quarters fighting these runeknights expect. But Hardrick¡¯s sword, as Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s dwarves are about to discover, is not ordinary.


    The dwarves advance through the midnight streets and come to the gates of the shop that is their target.


    This shop is a very important one, and thus it is guarded at all times by four runeknights of the fourth degree. They draw their weapons as Fugthath approaches.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± their leader says. Flames flicker on his short sword. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    The four rush Fugthath. Their leader stabs, and the tip nearly catches in the gaps between the lead scales¡ªthe fight might end here and now¡ªbut Fugthath has one hundred years of fighting instincts and turns. He punches as he does so, just a quick flick of his right hand, and the leader¡¯s breastplate cracks and crumples. He flies backwards and hits the shop door.


    The other three are taken on by more of Fugthath¡¯s dwarves, but not Hardrick, who is stuck at the back of the formation. The guards last some minutes, before the weight of multiple weapon blows results in total armor failure and they crumple to the ground, blood pouring from their wounds, limbs, ribs and skulls cracked.


    The ten runeknights advance into the shop. The guard leader is behind the counter, struggling to breath with his breastplate caved in, reaching for a button. Fugthath sprints to him. The leader presses the button and a tinny alarm sounds, not throughout the city, but inside one of the barracks of Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s castle.


    Fugthath does not notice the button, or that it was pressed. The next moment he leaps over the counter caves the survivor¡¯s helmet in. Blood and brain matter are forced out the visor; some gets on Fugthath¡¯s boots and he grimaces in disgust.


    ¡°Ugh. Anyone have a tissue?¡±


    No one seems to.


    ¡°Fine. We don¡¯t have much time. Grab whatever incandesite you can and put it in the sack.¡±


    The dwarves hurry about the shop. The sound of smashing glass fills the various rooms as display stands and cabinets, each containing various purities of incandesite, are broken into. The purest and most expensive they throw into their sack, the rest they place into a pile on the floor for incineration.


    ¡°Get all of it, all of it!¡± Fugthath tells them. ¡°The back rooms too.¡±


    Most of the dwarves jump to the order and hurry to the deep-carpeted back rooms. Hardrick cannot be bothered, and picks through the pile of low quality incandesite for anything good enough to go in the sack¡ªthe more they bring back the better their bonus, after all. The crystals shimmer like fire in the low light as his greedy hands sift through them.


    Fugthath, who has been irritated by the newly minted runeknight on many occasions, opens his mouth to chastise him.


    The door flies open. Five runeknights of Thanerzak¡¯s personal guard charge in. Their armor is like steel but with a slightly darker shine to it¡ªtungsten. Their helmets are blank masks, like that of their master, and it is unclear how they see out of them.


    They wield maces spiked with long shards of diamond.


    Fugthath defends the first blow with his arm and his counter sends his assailant flying. But the other four are already closing in, and he can see those diamonds will go through his lead armor like it is paper.


    A mace swings for his head.


    It misses and spins off to the far corner of the room, owner''s hands still clasped to it. Blood spirals in the air.


    Hardrick is fighting. His sword loops through the air at incredible speed, a silver blur cutting through everything it touches. The tight walls of the shop offer about as much resistance as the air does, and the armor of his opponents only slightly more.


    Three of the runeknights fall in bleeding chunks. Not one of them is below the third degree. The last is of the first degree¡ªhe knows Runethane Thanerzak personally and has for three hundred years. The runes on his armor are better written than those of his dead comrades, and there are more of them.


    Hardrick¡¯s sword cuts into his right arm, but does not slice all the way through. The runeknight strikes, Hardrick ducks, but the runeknight has anticipated the duck and the blow connects with Hardrick¡¯s helm anyway, sending him to the floor. Luckily for Hardrick, the angle was such that the spikes did not penetrate his skull.


    Fugthath rushes in and unleashes a flurry of punches that only manage to slightly dent the elite¡¯s tungsten plates. The elite sweeps his leg with his mace and a diamond spike pierces into the back muscles of Fugthath''s lower leg. Fugthath falls to the ground.


    But by now Hardrick is up again, and the other eight dwarves are here too. He hews another sword-blow into the elite¡¯s shoulder¡ªagain, not deep enough through to sever anything, but it draws blood¡ªand the elite does not fancy his chances.


    He flees.


    The dwarves cheer for Hardrick, who smiles nervously. He is not used to being cheered.


    He better get used to it though, he thinks. He removes his helm, turns to face the warriors of Inevitable Victory and his injured commander, and turns his nervous smile into a wide grin. It sparkles white¡ªhe has paid to have the yellow beer stains thoroughly cleaned away.


    They cheer louder.


    What, Fugthath wonders to himself, exactly is this dwarf?


    He seems to be a legend in the making.

 Initiate: No Time for Patience

    Guildmaster Wharoth, I know, spends most of every day and night in his personal forge. I also know he does not like to be distracted while he is working.


    Nonetheless, I feel I have no choice. I need to pass this exam. Every night when I close my eyes I see the black dragon¡¯s green eyes bore into mine, feel its claws press upon my chest and crush the breath from me.


    I wait for a pause in the hammering behind the door. I knock.


    No answer, and the hammering starts up again. The next time it stops, I just walk in.


    Surely if he didn''t want to be disturbed he would have locked the door.


    He''s standing over the anvil. Sweat is dripping from his gray beard and running down his salamander skin apron. The hammer he holds is a runed one, likely custom-forged. He looks mildly irritated rather than furious, which I take as a good sign.


    "What is it, Zathar?"


    "I need your advice. Can we talk now? Or maybe later, in your office?"


    "Here and now is fine."


    He puts down his hammer and throws a thick rag over the anvil so I can''t see what he''s making.


    "It''s about the exam," I say.


    "Not about your feud?"


    "No. Well, I mean... I¡¯m an initiate. I can¡¯t defend myself against a runeknight. Even if he¡¯s just the seventh degree."


    "Fights are decided by the better steel. Not by what degree you are."


    "If I want to afford better metal, better dictionaries, I¡¯ll need a better job than an initiate can get."


    He shrugs. "True enough. If you want tips you should ask one of the others, though."


    ¡°You¡¯ve been through more than them.¡±


    ¡°Longer ago.¡±


    ¡°You must be able to tell me something. Anything.¡±


    "The others are more up-to-date."


    "You''re the most experienced though."


    He sighs. ¡°Fine. One thing. Then you can get out of here.¡±


    "Yes?" I say eagerly. "What is it?"


    "It''s not the tip you want to hear," he warns.


    "If it''ll help me become a runeknight, I want to hear it."


    "Very well.¡±


    I tense in anticipation of the vital wisdom he is about to impart.


    ¡°My advice is to stop bloody rushing!¡± He throws up his hands in exasperation. ¡°Earn some more, forge some more¡ªanother two suits worth of practice and you might have something decent enough to pass in.¡±


    ¡°Two suits! And you recommend I spend months on each, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Armor is vital,¡± he warns. ¡°The examiners will not go easy on you."


    "Kazhek wants to kill me.¡±


    "You rush, the examiners will do his job for him. Figuratively or literally. If they don¡¯t think you¡¯re worthy, they¡¯ll tear you apart."


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    "If I don¡¯t become a runeknight soon, I¡¯ll be in pieces anyway!"


    "Calm down, calm down. As long as you stick around here, Kazhek can¡¯t do anything. Go slow, that¡¯s the key. I believe I¡¯ve told you already.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    He holds a finger to his lips to quiet me. Then he beckons me forward.


    ¡°Come here.¡±


    I walk to the anvil. He pulls the thick sheet away with a flourish. Lying upon it is a single small plate of metal. It¡¯s darker than steel.


    "Tungsten," Wharoth says.


    "Pure?"


    "Of course not. Impossible to work with, even with my special hammer.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it alloyed with, then?¡±


    ¡°Not telling you. Not telling anyone,¡± he laughs. ¡°My point is, how long do you think I¡¯ve been working on this piece? This single scale.¡±


    ¡°Three years,¡± I say drily.


    He raises his eyebrows. ¡°Got it in one. See, you¡¯ve learned something. Now apply it to your own work.¡±


    <hr>


    I do not have three years to spend on a single plate of armor. Wharoth does not know it, but his life is on the line. I have decided to take the exam at the end of the month, which is in approximately two weeks. This is not long enough to improve my sparring, to forge better armor, to forge a better weapon.


    Repair is the best I can manage.


    I lay my armor on the bed and think about what I can salvage. It¡¯s less than I expected¡ªit¡¯s dented all over, especially at the breastplate. Scratches abound. The steel band I won¡¯t be able to replace with my current funds, not if I want to replace the chainmail, which is torn in several places. I don¡¯t want to bleed out like Polt.


    With the silver I received from my job, I make the purchases I require. A new sheet of iron for the breastplate, and some chainmail. The third cheapest option this time. I really don¡¯t want to bleed out like Polt.


    It takes me a whole day to make the repairs. The sheet of iron goes on first. I heat it and the old one to white hot and hammer them together. While it cools I work on stripping out the underlayer of chainmail from the rest of the armor. Depressing work, considering how much effort I put into sewing it in. I also remove the steel band the dragon broke, which is doubly depressing, both for the silver the steel cost me and also my runic poem, which I was rather proud of.


    Once the breastplate is cooled, I graft some weak runes of weightlessness to it. They should just about halve the thing¡¯s weight. I try to hammer out the various dents, polish away the other various shapes from the rest of the armor, then I put it all together with the new chainmail.


    It occurs to me that Wharoth would smack me in the head with his hammer if he knew what I was doing, and I suppose he will find out at some point, but I¡¯d rather see him angry than burned to death.


    With my armor ready, I leave the forge. Not wearing it, of course, with the uneven bits and all, but swathed in sheets, like a woman might swathe an illegitimate child while rushing it away to some safe haven.


    There won¡¯t be any safe haven for my armor though, not as long as I¡¯m in it. I put it in my room and head to the central arena, where signups are taken for the exam.


    The central arena, contrary to what its name might suggest, is not located in the center of Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s side of the city. It is located outside the city, halfway up the mountain a thousand and a half feet or so below the castle. It is not circular like most arenas either, but a half circle¡ªhalf floor, half five hundred foot drop.


    Apparently the drop is fenced off most of the time.


    Most of the time.


    Just outside the arena is a small plaza, the main feature of which, and why it is so crowded, are the brightly painted betting shops. I shove my way through the shouting, greedy crowds of shop-workers, miners on break, and assorted runeknights, all eagerly waving betting slips and jangling bags of coins, and eventually make it to the corner office where exam signups are taken.


    Naturally there is a line. Naturally everyone in it is in armor. My hooded figure¡ªon the off chance Kazhek or another one of the Troglodyte Slayers is here I''m wearing a cloak¡ªdraws odd looks from the gray-haired, severely dressed ladies at the desk.


    ¡°Name and guild?¡± one says when I¡¯m at the front of the queue.


    ¡°Zathar of the Association of Steel.¡±


    ¡°They can¡¯t even afford to get their initiates in armor now, can they?¡±


    ¡°I didn''t know I had to¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no you don¡¯t have to have it now. Joking. Silver please.¡±


    I pay the thirty silvers.


    ¡°Good. Next please!¡±


    I blink in surprise. ¡°What? That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°What else would there be?¡±


    I had been expecting an interview or something, to make sure I wasn''t going to waste the examiners'' time. Or in the worst case scenario some kind of armor inspection.


    ¡°I... I¡¯m not sure. That¡¯s really it? I¡¯m down for this month? This month, right?¡±


    ¡°Do you want to go next month?¡±


    For a brief moment I consider it. I could improve my fighting, brush up on the written part, maybe scrape together money for a shield¡ªno. I have no time.


    ¡°This month.¡±


    ¡°Good. Make sure your armor¡¯s ready in time. There¡¯s a fine for no-shows. Another thirty silvers.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± She shoos me away. ¡°Next please!¡±

 Initiate: Final Training

    Thirteen days to prepare. Not a lot, especially for something that will determine whether or not your friends will die, and in which you have a strong chance of dying too. Still, it is some time, and I need to use it as best I can.


    That is why I''m here, cloaked, walking across to the northern districts in the early morning. It''s cool and damp today. Apparently on the surface there is something called rain, when water drips from the sky, and it¡¯s because of this rain that some days the cavern air feels wet and the heads of older dwarves ache.


    I¡¯m not sure I believe in this rain. Maybe I¡¯ll go up to the surface someday to confirm its existence, but for now my destination is one small apartment.


    The apartment block is much nicer than any miner barracks, with polished brick walls, boxes of bright mushrooms lining the road before it, dainty curtains in the windows, and an enruned wrought iron gate. Yet I can¡¯t help but notice the imperfections, the scratches on the bricks, the wilted state of some of the mushrooms, a bent point on the gate. This is not the home of rich runeknights, but of the poorer class.


    I speak the runes on the gates and walk through. The apartment block is in two wings separated by a spiral staircase. I walk up one floor and along the corridor.


    I knock on the door to apartment number three-oh-three.


    Unlike the guildmaster, he doesn¡¯t keep me waiting. The door swings open, and old Hayhek, smiling, beckons me in.


    The interior is like I always imagined a nice place to live might be. There is patterned wallpaper instead of whitewash, polished furniture instead of unvarnished stools, a door leading to what seems to be a bathroom instead of a bucket on the floor.


    Yet there is a sense of dilapidation, that things haven¡¯t quite worked out for its owner: some of the wallpaper is peeled, the varnish is chipped, there is a drafty chill to the air.


    ¡°Sorry about the mess,¡± Hayhek apologizes. On that count he is wrong, for the place is tidy at least. ¡°Come on through.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He leads me to the dining room. The table is nicely set with all the best breakfast foods a dwarf could desire: pork sausages, roasted mushrooms with cheese, tender albino fish, bread, and of course a light breakfast beer.


    He gestures and I sit down.


    "I''ll go get my boy. He wakes up late after a long day''s training."


    "Thanks."


    "The rest of my family I''ll leave to rest. My daughters don''t deserve it, but my wife sure does. Tuck in at your leisure, by the way."


    Of course it would be rude to start without them¡ªmy brother used to tell me off about that, at our paltry meals in the miner barracks. I wait, and not for long. Yezakh strides into the room grinning broadly.


    Stood beside his father, the similarity is clearer than ever. The shape of the curls in their beards and hair are the same, even if Hayhek''s hairline is beginning to recede, and their eyes are the same green. The only major difference is in their posture: Yezakh is almost leaning forwards, as if he''s going to bound forwards like a spring, but Hayhek is slightly stooped, shoulders sunken.


    They sit down and we begin to eat. Yezakh tucks into his with relish, I with a bit less, for the dragon still weighs heavily on my mind, and Hayhek eats slowly and deliberately.


    ¡°You cook this?¡± I ask him, to break the silence.


    ¡°No, the wife did last night.¡±


    ¡°Very kind of her.¡±


    ¡°She is kind.¡±


    It all feels rather awkward. Apart from the sound of Yezakh munching down his food, we eat in silence. Once I¡¯m nearly finished, I decide to break it.


    ¡°Hayhek,¡± I say. ¡°Thanks for your advice. About staying calm.¡±


    ¡°You didn''t take it, though.¡±


    ¡°Didn''t take what?¡± Yezakh asks.


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    ¡°My advice about staying calm.¡±


    ¡°On your job? Did something happen you didn''t tell me?¡±


    ¡°You didn''t tell him?¡± I ask Hayhek in surprise.


    ¡°Didn''t want to scare him. Not with the girls around... But he¡¯s a young man. You tell it.¡±


    I tell him. The young dwarf is delighted and horrified in equal measure: the killing horrifies him, my bravery delights him. The dragon terrifies him, the fact it touched his father and I, could have slain us but just warned us in a suitably dramatic manner, delights him.


    ¡°I''m jealous," he says. "I''ll come next time, when I''m ready."


    "You should think twice about that," Hayhek warns.


    "Yeah, maybe. I''m guessing you didn''t come just to tell me all that though."


    ¡°Not quite,¡± I say.


    ¡°Why then?¡±


    ¡°I came here to make a request,¡± I say solemnly.


    He nods seriously. ¡°Of course. What is it?¡±


    ¡°I am going to take the exam to become runeknight. I would like to train with you both.¡±


    ¡°With my father?¡± he frowns. ¡°Why?¡±


    Hayhek looks pained. ¡°I know more than you know, son. Even if I can¡¯t move so well anymore.¡±


    ¡°Your father¡¯s brave,¡± I tell Yezakh. ¡°When the dragon came, he drew his weapon. Shouted a warcry.¡± I laugh a little. ¡°I just tried to run, you know?¡±


    ¡°If only he was braver more often.¡±


    Hayhek shakes his head. ¡°Not that easy, son. You¡¯ll understand, one day.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± Yezakh shrugs, then smiles. ¡°But I¡¯ll be happy to beat you up some more, Zathar. Not in the sparring gravel this time?¡±


    ¡°No. Somewhere there isn¡¯t an audience.¡±


    And thus my thirteen days of training commences. It takes place in a disused tunnel beneath their apartment¡ªsince the cavern has been occupied many hundreds of years it is full of disused tunnels¡ªand Hayhek is a strict master. I train in my armor, fully plated up, with visor down so I get used to not being able to see properly.


    The tunnel echoes each day. First with the sound of heavy breathing, as Yezakh and I train our bodies. Pushups, pullups on the ladder, and running and jumping until we fall down, and then we must get up again. Then we drill, blocks and attacks. We fight with sticks rather than blades or hammers, but a stick still hurts if it hits you in the head with enough force.


    Then the sparring commences. Non-stop, two hours at a time. I need to feel my opponent, Hayhek tells me, never shouting but always stern. I need to feel my opponent through the blows to my armor. Some will always get through my shield or weapon''s guard, so I need to learn to use those shocks.


    Runeknights have to be tough, I know that, have always known that¡ªbut this tough? I am dehydrated nearly to fainting by the end of each lesson from the sweat loss. Hayhek says it¡¯s good for renewal, gets the weakness out the body.


    After I pass, I¡¯m going to save up for gold, and forge myself an amulet of endurance. Several, because I don¡¯t want to go through this all again, worse than this again, no way.


    In the evenings I stagger across town and do not cross the street to my apartment, but head into the guild library. The first part of the exam is written¡ªat least half of being a runeknight is knowing the runes, of course. I study until I drop at my desk, then when I wake up I close my books, stand, and head back across town for the next day of physical endurance.


    Only on the day before the exam does Hayhek allow me a rest.


    ¡°I¡¯m dead,¡± I say that day, leaning against the tunnel wall. ¡°My muscles are shreds.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll recover. We¡¯re dwarves. We¡¯re not like surface-dwellers and cave beasts. Our endurance is legendary.¡±


    ¡°Only because we know how to forge amulets.¡±


    ¡°Forging those amulets took endurance of the mind and body.¡±


    ¡°You sound like the guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°If only I was like him,¡± Hayhek chuckles. ¡°My endurance didn''t carry me so far, sadly.¡±


    For the last few days Yezakh has been away, working on his forging, so we¡¯re alone.


    ¡°Why are you still only of the eighth degree, Hayhek?¡±


    ¡°You sound almost scared. Don¡¯t want to end up like me, eh?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I told you before, family comes first. Once you have children, well, life ceases to be about just you anymore. That¡¯s why I gave up.¡±


    ¡°Surely the higher you rise, the more you can do for them.¡±


    ¡°Can do a lot, but you can''t be there for them. If you ever have children of your own, you¡¯ll understand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t plan to. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.¡±


    ¡°Yezakh says the same. Well, you¡¯ll make your choices and I made mine. Good luck for the day after, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. Any last advice?¡±


    ¡°You really going to keep using that spear?¡±


    ¡°Yes. New handle, though.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Kazhek will be watching. You should find something else.¡±


    ¡°Didn''t have time to forge anything.¡±


    ¡°Well, in that case, don¡¯t kill the examiner.¡±


    ¡°I heard you can¡¯t win, anyway. That it¡¯s about how long you last.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, it¡¯s rare. Still. Try not to get unlucky, either way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡±


    ¡°Good, good...¡±


    He stares down the darkness of the corridor, like he¡¯s searching for something, far back in the darkness of his lifetime. I wonder if he sees regrets there. Maybe when my beard is gray, I¡¯ll understand what he¡¯s searching for.


    In the meantime, my eyes are on the future.


    It¡¯s time to become a runeknight.

 Initiate: Written Exam

    The stands are crowded like every day of the tenth degree examination. The racket carries down to the arena gravel, accompanied by the smell of sausages and beer. You¡¯d think the higher level exams would be a bigger draw, but no, it¡¯s the tenth degree, the amateurs, that bring the most shouting miners waving colored betting slips, shop workers, guildmasters fretting about how many of their initiates will make it through intact, and nervous families.


    I stand with more than fifty other candidates in the semicircular arena. We are in a line along the fenced-off border between gravel and fatal plummet, backs to the crowd, staring out over the city spread before us. There¡¯s the chasm, and our mortal enemies beyond it, we are meant to think. Look them in the eye. Far away, they¡¯re training for war.


    Most aren¡¯t thinking this. They¡¯re worried if they¡¯ll pass or not, going over runes in their head, fretting about being knocked in the head in the final duel.


    I¡¯m thinking about the dragon. Is it up there in the stalactites, clutched to one like a monstrous gecko, green eyes boring into me from afar? And I also think about my brother. What was the day he became a runeknight like? Do other caverns have exams too, or do they have their own deadly trials?


    My speculations vanish when we are called to turn around.


    The examiners stand in a line facing us. Each is a runeknight of seventh degree or higher, and each''s armor is decorated with their guild emblem, for it is an honor to be selected as examiner, and the guilds are keen to use their members¡¯ presence here as advertising.


    And of course, one is in full bronze holding a shield decorated with a falling stalactite impaling three troglodytes. My heart begins to pound very hard, and I regret not forging a new weapon. It might not be Kazhek, of course. The armor looks slightly different, with more flared edges. He has a mace at his side instead of a warhammer. But that isn¡¯t proof of anything.


    There is one examiner for each candidate. He is standing opposite me.


    They bow to us, and is it just my imagination, or does the Troglodyte Slayer bow a little less? Does his hand creep toward the handle of his mace?


    I can¡¯t worry about it now. It is time for the written test. The examiners exit the arena and desks are carried out and placed down by the arena staff. Each of these dwarves is dressed in a blood red robe. Symbolic, I hear.


    Once the desks are placed, the head examiner emerges onto a platform jutting out over the main arena gate. He is a runeknight of the first degree, in pure tungsten armor that shines darkly. Even the sharpest blades, rumor goes, cannot pierce their defenses. His face is masked by the same metal, just as Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s is rumored to be, and it¡¯s unclear to me what runes allow him to project his voice through it to fill the arena.


    ¡°Initiates,¡± he says solemnly. ¡°Today some of you are under the impression that because you can take this exam as many times as you like, every month, even, that it is not a problem if you fail. Well, know this. Those who fail the first time rarely pass the second, and then rarely do they attempt a third time. To fail today is to most likely condemn yourself to a life of failure. You fail today, you will likely never join our ranks. You fail today, and it is not because your efforts were lacking, or that you were unlucky. It is because you yourself are unworthy, a failure. I repeat, a failure. And many of you today will fail, and prove yourselves to be failures.¡±


    He pauses. I expect him to continue and give some uplifting comment about hard work and rising above the crowds, but he just turns and walks off.


    We take our places at our desks. The crimson-cloaked staff order us to remove our helms, then go around placing heavy wooden contraptions over our heads. These restrict the movement of our necks, and block out our vision so that all we can see is the pen and desk in front of us. And the slates also, now laid down before us with clatters.


    ¡°Begin.¡±


    I turn over my slate. Half of it is dense with runes, the other half is blank. I begin to scratch away with my pen. Each rune begins to glow a moment after I draw it, as if a spirit hand is tracing over my work as I write. My runes are being transferred to another slate, where an examiner is marking them.


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    I hope the examiner is randomly selected.


    My writing is also, if I¡¯m extremely unfortunate or fortunate, being sent up to the stands, for the worst and best answers materialize on tall boards of aluminum set at regular intervals there. The examination is a spectacle too, after all. The runeknights on the benches are laughing. It¡¯s great entertainment for them to see initiates make mistakes. The other dwarves are just eating and drinking, impatient for the physical section.


    The whole thing lasts an hour, or so I thought¡ªthen as soon as my slate is taken away, it is replaced by another. Several runes here I have never seen before, and I begin to worry. I can at least guess what they mean from context, but use them? And I have to compose lines for certain exotic metals I¡¯ve never seen, like brass, gallium, and lithium.


    It occurs to me that the Association of Steel¡¯s library is not among the best, and also that I should have saved up the silver to buy some practice slates¡ªbut that would have meant not repairing my armor.


    The next hour is a struggle, and the one after also, for my slate is replaced a second time. By the time the staff pull the wooden helmet from my head, my vision is blurry, my fingers ache, and my head is spinning.


    We stand. The head examiner in his blank tungsten mask is on his platform again.


    ¡°Your runes have been reviewed and your scores tallied,¡± he sighs, voice heavy with disappointment. ¡°Just as always, your knowledge, handwriting, and poetic skill is sorely lacking. Even the best among you has nothing to be proud of. The worst among you would do well to chop your own fingers off and have your parents tie a pickaxe to your wrists. Your efforts are utterly shocking. It will be a miracle if any of you do well enough in the coming trials to pass the examination. I hope this miracle does not occur, because frankly not a single one of you deserves to become a runeknight.¡±


    He leaves the platform. I can hear some of the other initiates sobbing, which I find vaguely irritating. They don¡¯t have a dragon breathing fire down the back of their neck.


    The staff bring out our weapons and hand them to us. Next will be the tests of endurance, and these at least I feel prepared for.


    ¡°Next will be the inspection of your weapons and armor,¡± one of the staff says. ¡°You will be called forward one at a time.¡±


    My mind goes white. Whelt had not mentioned this section.


    One by one, we are called forward. The inspections are each carried out by a different runeknight, and their criticisms are harsh.


    ¡°This rune is malformed. Can¡¯t you hammer properly? And what kind of metal is this? Well?¡±


    ¡°Iron,¡± answers the initiate being harassed. She¡¯s wearing plate far better than my battered scraps.


    ¡°Iron? This is barely iron. If you aren¡¯t going to use stainless steel, coat it with something. Don¡¯t you know what rust is...¡±


    And so on and on, for each of them, until finally it¡¯s my turn. Trembling, I step out of the line and walk forwards slowly, listening to the gravel crunch below each footstep, like the second hand of a clock ticking down toward my demise.


    The runeknight who comes to judge me is fortunately not the Troglodyte Slayer. Perhaps each initiate must have a different examiner judge them for each stage, and Kazhek wants his friend to deliver justice in the final. This one is a tall woman in burnished gold, with rubies set about her helm.


    She takes one look at my armor, shakes her head, and sends me back to my place.


    I wait there, trembling, as the rest of the candidates are judged. Many of them glance my way as they step forward, trying to get another glimpse of the candidate whose equipment was so bad the examiner could not find a single word harsh enough to describe it.


    The judgements end.


    I wait to be escorted out of the arena and permanently banned from sitting the exam.


    But it appears no candidate is to be failed just yet.


    ¡°The next section of the examination will begin,¡± says the head examiner, back on his platform. ¡°We will see your endurance, as well as how well your armor is constructed. And let me just say, I do not hold high hopes many of you will leave without broken bones. Or get to leave at all.¡±


    He trudges back to his seat. If our armor is going to be judged now, why did we have to go through all that abuse?


    The reason hits me as the examiners are handed special weapons. Some are given small hammers, blunt looking swords, or axes of light aluminum. Others are given viciously heavy and spiked two-handed flails and diamond-tipped hooks.


    Those who were judged to have potential will get the former set.


    Disgraces to dwarven smithing, the latter.


    And of course, when I am called forward to meet my examiner, it is the bronze-clad Troglodyte Slayer, and he wields a steel flail, its handle as tall as he is, and its barbed warhead a third that length again.

 Initiate: Physical Exam

    A circle is drawn in the gravel around me. The staff member hurries off as the Troglodyte Slayer approaches. The visor in his bronze helm is just wide enough that I can see his eyes. They aren¡¯t Kazhek¡¯s eyes, but they¡¯re nearly as angry looking.


    ¡°Kazhek send you?¡± I ask.


    ¡°We had some words before this.¡±


    ¡°If you try to kill me, I¡¯ll put my spear through your visor.¡±


    ¡°Vicious little one, aren¡¯t you? Just like he said.¡±


    ¡°I never started anything.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. This isn¡¯t the execution. Now, down on your hands and feet. Hurry up! Good. Pushups, until I say stop. Start. Too shallow! Your breastplate should touch the ground. Elbows straight!¡±


    Doing pushups in full armor is not an easy task. It is a very hard one. After only twenty, my arms are burning, and my abdominals are beginning to strain too. Then the beating begins.


    I feel the impact of the flail full on my back. The barbed hooks on it dig into the edges, so when he rips it back up, they catch and tear at the iron. The next impact comes a second later and knocks the breath out of me. I collapse down.


    ¡°Up! Did I say stop?¡±


    I groan and force my arms to push me up. The next impact comes immediately and knocks me back down.


    ¡°I said up!¡±


    I manage another ten, and then one of the flail¡¯s hooks catches in the chainmail at my waist and tears it open. The examiner laughs, and the next impact is three times as hard as the earlier ones. When he drags his weapon back up, I feel the back plate of my armor lift slightly.


    ¡°Shoddy. Too poor to buy what you needed to make a new set, miner?¡±


    I never told any of them I was a miner, come to think of it. Not Kazhek, not Polt, not Hathat or Whelt, Hayhek or Yezakh or Guildmaster Wharoth. They can just tell from my look¡ªthere just must be something about my expression or bearing that makes them want to either pity me or bully me. He hits again, and my back plate comes off some more. Ten more pushups, and ten more strikes, and I¡¯m finished. My arms can take no more.


    ¡°I never said stop.¡±


    I attempt to struggle up again, but my arms won¡¯t let me.


    ¡°You know, most examiners would fail you here. But Kazhek told me not to fail you under any circumstances. Nice of him, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    The examiner isn¡¯t making any sense, at least to my exhausted mind.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be kind too: give you some rest.¡±


    And how did Kazhek know I was going to be here? I wore my cloak and hood, didn''t I? The Troglodyte Slayers must have connections with the exam board.


    ¡°If he¡¯s asked you to kill me, just get it over with,¡± I hiss. ¡°Bash my head in. Or are you afraid of getting in trouble?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I won¡¯t be the one to kill you. Anyway, rest¡¯s over. Stand up.¡±


    Another groan escapes my lips as I struggle to my feet. I can feel my back plate half hanging away, loose. Up in the stands, a group of runeknights in bronze are laughing at me. Or rather, most are. The face of the one in the center is blank, his eyes unblinking. Kazhek.


    ¡°Stop standing around. Now¡¯s the run, go!¡±


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    All the other initiates have already lined back up next to the fence, facing left, examiners standing next to them. My examiner slaps me on the back of the head and hurries me across the gravel toward them. It is midday now and the sunlight from mirrors is harsh in my eyes.


    I think I hear someone say go, and then I¡¯m jogging around the semi-circle arena. My examiner jogs at my side, and whenever I falter slightly his flail swings out at me.


    One by one, my iron plates are peeled away. First to go is my left boot. The flail catches on the toe-cap and I¡¯m sent tumbling down face first. My examiner strikes again, on the sole, tears it right off, and a piece of my skin with it.


    ¡°Up!¡± he screams, and I scramble up.


    The cut makes me limp of course, and this, of course, gives him more excuses to bash me. My right boot is the next to go, followed by my backplate, and then he damages the runes on my breastplate. Now it¡¯s twice as heavy as it was, and quickly comes away.


    Then the plates around my waist, then those around my ankles. Next my chainmail undershirt. The flail¡¯s barbs puncture my skin and blood trails down my chest and stomach. The examiner leaves my gauntlets and helmet, though, so my arms remain tired and my visibility stays reduced.


    Whoever duels me is going to have a very easy time of it. I look up at Kazhek, and he looks back. He has started to smile a little now, a triumphant smile.


    With final a brutal blow to my ankles, my examiner knocks me down one last time just before the bell to end the run rings. I lie there in the gravel, too exhausted to twitch a single muscle. I can feel each puncture in my skin distinctly: they¡¯re little spikes of pain like nails through my flesh.


    ¡°Stand up, you!¡± shouts one of the staff. ¡°Stand up!¡±


    I drag myself up from the gravel. I half expect to see Kazhek standing before me, holding up his warhammer, or perhaps Polt¡¯s weapon for a more poetic justice, but there is no one left in the arena but us candidates. The crimson cloaked staff are rushing out; our examiners are already gone.


    A rattling sound from behind startles me. I turn my head back to look. The fence separating arena from abyss is retracting into the gravel. With a final click, it is gone. The candidates not exhausted to breaking point begin to mutter to each other in fearful tones.


    ¡°Attention, all of you.¡± The head examiner has returned to his platform. We turn to face him. He shakes his head. ¡°Turning your back from the task you have set yourself is always a bad idea. Remember that¡ªthough I doubt many of you will be remembering much after today. It would honestly be a mercy if we were to end it all for you here, and throw you off the drop. Many of you are probably considering taking a few steps backward to do it yourselves¡ªnot a bad idea. I wish we could change the rules, and have you slaughtered a few hours ago, after we got to see how shoddy your forging skills are. If any of you pass today¡ªwhich I doubt you will¡ªthe first time you emerge onto the battlefield you will be killed immediately.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡± someone shouts angrily. He shakes his axe toward the stands. ¡°My father is a runeknight, my grandfather too.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. You clearly haven¡¯t inherited any of their talents.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all psychological,¡± someone else hisses loudly. ¡°Don¡¯t take the bait. The pass rate is about a third every month, always is.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± continues the head examiner from behind his tungsten mask. ¡°Usually at this point we would bring you up one at a time and have you duel the examiners. The best third of you we would go easy on, and let you pass. Half of you we would fail, but make sure not to injure you too badly. The remaining one sixth, the disgraces to dwarfkind whose armor is falling off of them in pieces, we would kill or permanently maim.¡±


    I grip my spear tightly. I have enough strength for one good stab. Let Kazhek come¡ªI¡¯ll take an eye at least!


    ¡°However, the Runethane is most troubled by the recent sighting of a dragon. He wishes you to be prepared not for dwarf-on-dwarf combat, but dwarf-on-dragon. He wishes that the only ascendants to runeknight from now on be those who can look a terrible fire-breathing beast in the eyes and refuse to flee.¡±


    Fire flashes in the gap between main arena door and ground. The head examiner¡¯s platform shivers slightly.


    ¡°Some of his runeknights cautioned against this decision, warning it was short-sighted, and would lead to a significant drop in the numbers of runeknights. He told them quality is more important than quantity.¡±


    The main arena door, which is solid steel, and runed heavily, trembles violently. More fire flashes. Several candidates shuffle back a step.


    ¡°I agreed with his assessment, and took it upon myself to personally redesign the final stage of the examination.¡±


    A massive impact shudders the gates, opening them slightly. I glimpse red scales and a solid black, bestial eye.


    ¡°Slay the beast, and you are runeknights. Perish, and you are not.¡±


    The solid steel gates crash open and fall to the gravel. An abyssal giant salamander charges out.


    Each of its six limbs is as big as two dwarves. Its four eyes are pitiless. Its red scales glow like hot coals. Its claws score the fallen steel gates deeply.


    Blue flames jet from its mouth as it roars in rage.

 Initiate: Deadly Exam

    A regular giant salamander is on average three times the size of a dwarf. An abyssal giant salamander is on average twenty times the size of a dwarf. I have read about them in the guild library. Their skin is more expensive by weight than flawless diamond and there are, broadly speaking, three techniques runeknights employ to hunt them.


    Number one:


    After the salamander¡¯s lair has been identified, a pit is dug at the entrance and titanium spikes set at the bottom. Once the salamander falls in and impales itself, the runeknights descend to finish the job. If it is not quite dead, some of the runeknights are incinerated.


    Number two:


    A pool of magma that the salamander hunts in is identified. When the salamander dives in, a tungsten wire net is laid over the top to entangle it when it emerges. However sometimes the salamander finds an alternative exit, ambushes the hunters from behind, and devours them.


    Number three:


    A troglodyte is captured and left bound in a dead-end tunnel as bait. The runeknights listen for screams and the sound of crunching bone, block the tunnel up with an enormous boulder, and wait for the salamander to starve. This technique has the advantage that the skin becomes nice and loose, easy to harvest. However if the wrong type of stone is chosen, the salamander will smash it into a hail of splinters, eviscerating the runeknights standing guard.


    All of these methods require coordination, expensive equipment, extensive preparation, and still go horribly wrong half the time.


    None of them involve fighting the salamander head on.


    It charges for the center of the line, six-legged lope awkward yet blindingly fast, and the dwarves there shout out in terror. One forgets she¡¯s standing in front of a five-hundred foot drop, and flees over it. Others scatter sideways. Only one brave dwarf stands his ground. He raises his shield and axe. The salamander accelerates.


    With perfect instincts, the dwarf sidesteps out the way not a foot before its jaws snap around him. But the salamander does not fall headfirst over the edge. It halts its momentum with precision borne of a hundred million years of evolution, whips its head around and bites into the young dwarf¡¯s midriff. Its teeth shear through his steel armor like it¡¯s paper. It throws the dwarf¡¯s torso up into the stands in a shower of blood and trailing intestines, and swallows the lower half whole.


    The crowd erupts into screams of horror. Some braver dwarves charge at the head examiner, and are held back by guards.


    The head examiner watches on impassively, expression behind his mirrored tungsten mask unknown to anyone but himself.


    I sprint away from the rampaging salamander, or at least I stumble away as fast as I can¡ªmy muscles are shreds, and I only make it halfway to the main gate where the other candidates are fleeing through before falling over again.


    I look behind me, terrified. Luckily the monster is at the opposite side of the arena, tearing to shreds another candidate delusional enough to think he had a chance. I lay my spear down temporarily, and strip off the remains of my armor. There¡¯s not much point in wearing it if the monster can bite right through.


    I pick my spear back up, and shuffle as fast as I can to the wall. I point it up, and wait for the monster to make its way to me.


    <hr>


    His name is Vanerak. He is a runeknight of the first degree, personal friend and bodyguard to Runethane Thanerzak, and five hundred years of war has erased every trace of compassion he ever had.


    Though it has to be admitted he never had much to begin with.


    The panicked cries of the guildmasters, the wailing of suddenly and shockingly bereaved families, and the wails of utmost terror from the candidates below make their way through his tungsten helm and into his ears, but don¡¯t quite make it into his brain.


    ¡°This is madness!¡± cries a guildmaster. ¡°All my best initiates are in there! Let them out!¡±


    ¡°My son!¡± screams a woman. ¡°My son!¡±


    ¡°Let them out, you monster!¡± shouts a miner who came here to see fair fights, not a massacre. ¡°Unlock the inner gates! What¡¯s wrong with you?¡±


    Vanerak ignores them all, and continues to watch the chaos unfold down below. Behind his mask he has a slight smile on his face. Carnage is always amusing to watch, especially when sanctioned by the Runethane. Well, not entirely sanctioned. But Vanerak is Runethane Thanerzak''s most trusted dwarf, and there are always more initiates.


    He won''t get in too much trouble.


    <hr>


    It wasn¡¯t meant to be like this, thinks Bazhie as she runs from the heat at her back. She was meant to have an easy time of this exam. Her brothers prepared her for it, helped her get together the funds for the steel and dictionaries, her kind guildmaster taught her how to forge and rune. This was to be the day of her triumph, the day she¡¯d make her miner father up in the stands proud.


    She can feel the heat of the beast¡¯s breath on her back. Her armor feels heavy, her axe-hand heavier. She knows she should turn around and face the beast head on. But the last two who tried that are in pieces now.


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    With a terrible cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she understands she is about to die. The only question is whether to meet it with courage, or with cowardice.


    She chooses courage, but her body chooses cowardice. She cannot turn.


    The salamander rips into her from behind.


    <hr>


    A woman¡¯s severed head, still in its helmet, flies over Nothak and thuds into the gravel. He leaps over it, tears streaming from his eyes, anguish wailing from his lips. He dropped his axe as soon as the salamander emerged but hasn¡¯t even noticed its absence yet. There is nothing else in his mind apart from fear.


    He never wanted to be a runeknight. His parents wanted him to become one, because they¡¯re runeknights, along with their parents, and grandparents, and so on through the ages. But he didn''t inherit courage, skill, brains¡ªnothing.


    He rather liked painting pictures.


    Some people get to see every happy memory of their life roll past their eyes before they peacefully and quietly sink into oblivion.


    Nothak does not die peacefully and quietly.


    <hr>


    Medez and his friend Fretik stand upon the fallen gates, shields and swords up, visors down, watching as the salamander tears off its latest victim¡¯s limbs one by one. Behind them the rest of the surviving candidates are pressed against the inner gates, pounding against them with armored fists, trying to pry the bars apart with their weapons, or stripping down and desperately attempting to squeeze through.


    Not Medez, though. He¡¯s not a coward. Not a failure like the rest of them. Told the examiner that himself, didn''t he?


    ¡°We¡¯re going to kill this thing, aren¡¯t we?¡± Fretik says. ¡°Aren¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°We sure fucking are. Going to slide under and stab it right in the neck.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s gonna be easy, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Stupid easy. We¡¯re faster than the rest are.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s right. They were just slow. Slow and stupid.¡±


    ¡°Too right.¡±


    The salamander tears the limbless, still screaming dwarf¡¯s guts out, then silences him with a jet of blue flames that melts his armor to slag and turns his flesh into ash. It looks up at Medez and Fretik, hisses, and accelerates toward them.


    ¡°Ready?¡± Fretik says. ¡°Medez?¡±


    Medez is already forcing himself into the press behind, elbowing and shoving his way through the armored, screaming mass. He finds a handhold on one dwarf¡¯s shoulders and pulls himself up, tramples over heads until he comes to the inner gates. With his sword he hacks at the bars, but his steel can do nothing but bring forth sparks.


    The press shifts beneath him and he falls down into it.


    The world smells of sweat and urine. The screams in his ears are so loud that they are no longer like sound, but the opposite, an all-engulfing blackness of noise. Metal boots crush down on him. Then the world becomes very hot, very blue, very painful.


    Then it ceases to exist at all.


    <hr>


    ¡°Stop this!¡±


    ¡°Have mercy!¡±


    ¡°Do something! Do something!¡±


    ¡°Monster!¡±


    The words penetrate through Vanerak¡¯s helmet, and do not make it into his mind. He feels his platform shiver beneath his feet as the salamander incinerates and tears to pieces the remaining candidates.


    Cowards, all of them. Not a single attempt at coordination, formation. No, Runethane Thanerzak is better off without these sorts. Hell, dwarfkind itself is better off without them.


    ¡°Examiner,¡± hisses one of his guards. ¡°I don¡¯t think we can hold them off much longer.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll hold them off myself then.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think the Runethane is going to be happy about every single one of the candidates dying either.¡±


    ¡°What makes the Runethane happy is often not in his best interests.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    Vanerak looks behind him for the first time. It really is chaotic, isn¡¯t it? A total breakdown of discipline. Dwarves of all sorts screaming at his thin line of guards, battering them with whatever they can find¡ªthrowing food even, amusingly.


    But maybe the guard has a point. Runethane Thanerzak did say to bring the pass rate down, but he did not mean bring it down to zero.


    Vanerak turns back to the arena. There is one dwarf left, right near the abyss, backed up against the left wall, spear jutting out. He doesn¡¯t seem to have a single scrap of armor on. Well, that¡¯s smart enough. Initiate-level steel is no defense against an abyssal salamander.


    Maybe Runethane Thanerzak won¡¯t be so angry if there¡¯s a pass rate of at least one.


    Better move fast. The salamander¡¯s heading toward him.


    <hr>


    From the bloodstained arena gatehouse, the salamander is emerging. I stay still as a stone, hoping it won¡¯t notice me, but no living creature, no matter how disguised, even in the darkest of dark caverns, has ever escaped the notice of its four bestial eyes. It is heading right toward me.


    I shuffle back. I¡¯m nearly at the edge of the abyss. Which is the less painful way to die, five hundred foot fall or being torn apart? Probably the former.


    But I can¡¯t throw myself off. If there¡¯s even the smallest chance I can survive this nightmare of smoke and blood, I have to go for it with all my might, for my friends, for my brother. I stand. I take a fighting stance and aim my spear.


    ¡°Come on, monster!¡± I scream. ¡°Come and get me! I¡¯ve killed before, and I¡¯ll kill again!¡±


    Its tongue, gray like ash, flicks out. The red glow of its scales dyes the gravel around it a dark crimson. Its belly is a touch fatter than when it first emerged, its six legs move perhaps a touch more sluggishly, and the fire in its jaws is yellow rather than blue, but I¡¯m under no delusions¡ªthis thing could kill me as easily as I could crush an insect.


    One good stab. I have that in me at least. One good stab.


    The thing begins to speed up. I ready myself.


    From his platform above the main gate, the head examiner leaps down and draws his sword. He begins to sprint after the salamander, runes of speed flashing on his boots. The salamander doesn¡¯t seem to notice him, and continues its charge toward me.


    One good stab! It¡¯s right before me now, jaws opening, two rows of teeth clearly visible, sharpened tombstones¡ªmy entire field of vision is a graveyard of razors.


    I throw myself to the side, and those jaws follow me just like they did their first victim. But I¡¯m ready. I take my good stab, power my spear right into one of its black eyes. It roars. Flames flicker on me, but they¡¯re yellow and weak, their power used up.


    One taloned paw lashes out and I¡¯m thrown backwards. I can feel the upper part of my back resting on nothing. I try to sit up, but all my strength is gone. I made my stab, and now I have no more.


    No claws pierce my belly, though. My legs are not bitten off. I hear the beast roar in anger, then in pain. Finally, silence. A tungsten clad hand takes me by the forearm and pulls me up.


    I stare into the darkly reflective mask of the head examiner. Behind him the salamander lies in a pool of its own blood. And I notice that a lot of blood is coming from its eye, if not quite most of it.


    ¡°Congratulations,¡± the head examiner says. ¡°You pass.¡±

 Runeknight: Abyssal Skin

    The moments after I passed vanished in a blur. I remember being hurried through the crowd by the head examiner and his guards, then gripped tightly and flanked by Whelt and Guildmaster Wharoth, who I didn''t even realize had been watching me.


    Then I was hauled up onto a long silk-draped platform in the plaza, clearly designed for at least fifteen dwarves to stand in a row on, and, in front of the crowd baying for blood and being held back by guards, the head examiner handed me my certificate.


    ¡°Your armor was awful,¡± he said. ¡°But your spear was good.¡±


    I was still in too much battle-shock to reply. I vaguely remember the head examiner turning away then being confronted by Guildmaster Wharoth, angrily shaking his fist.


    It was at that point, I think, that the head examiner handed me a long strip of abyssal salamander skin.


    ¡°Hold it up!¡± shouts one of my drunken guildmates. ¡°Hold it up again!¡±


    I stand on my chair and hold the strip of red skin aloft. It¡¯s still glowing like embers.


    ¡°Incredible!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s one of the finest materials a dwarf could hope for!¡±


    ¡°Swing it around!¡±


    ¡°Far too precious to swing around,¡± warns Guildmaster Wharoth. ¡°Sit back down, Zathar.¡±


    The guildhall is filled, packed. The story of the insane examiner and his brutal final test has spread all throughout Thanerzak¡¯s domain, and every guildmate not in distant lands has come here to celebrate my victory. With their own private funds they¡¯ve purchased massive quantities of pork, bread, cake, sizzling steaks, succulent mushrooms, and barrels of fine quality ale. The delicious smell of food and drink permeates the hall, and the sound of merriment must be echoing through the street, because it¡¯s sure hard to hear anything right now in here.


    I¡¯m not sure how I¡¯m feeling. On the one hand, the examination was the most brutal experience of my life so far. I watched fifty-three dwarves get torn to pieces and burned alive right before my eyes. But on the other hand, it¡¯s my greatest triumph, and a truly legendary victory. It''s unheard of for any runeknight below at least seventh degree, let alone an initiate, to get even a single stab into an abyssal salamander.


    I decide to stop worrying about my emotions and drink more.


    ¡°So, what you going to do now?¡± Whelt asks. ¡°Any kind of job you want me to set you up with?¡±


    "I''ve been thinking about a military career. Fighting in the caves, guarding the castle, getting up to know the Runethane, all that kind of stuff."


    "Oh, tricky, tricky. They only take the best of the best, you know."


    "He is one of the best though!" roars a drunken dwarf from across the table. "Sole survivor, spreading our guild''s name faaar and wiiide..."


    He attempts to strike up a song, and fails miserably.


    "I''d think carefully before joining up with the military lot," warns Guildmaster Wharoth. "Things aren''t going so well."


    "You mean the dragon?"


    "A lot of forces have been diverted. Opening up weaknesses in our lines. Rumor has it some of the Runethane''s best were killed in a raid a couple weeks back. Sliced to pieces."


    "Oh." His words bring an image of the salamander''s first victim to mind, torso trailing blood and intestines. "Dangerous, then."


    "It''s never been cushy. You best forge yourself something very good indeed if you want to apply."


    "Just his luck that he''s got something then!" Whelt says happily, slapping me on the back hard enough I spit a little beer.


    "You mean this?" I take out my salamander skin again.


    ¡°Yeah. You have any idea how much it¡¯s worth? Damn, any idea at all?¡±


    Its only the length of my belt, and doesn¡¯t look quite as impressive up close as one might expect. It''s not pure red, but of black scales glowing red out the edges between them, for a kind of volcanic look, but the glow is not so bright¡ªit doesn¡¯t turn the hall crimson or anything¡ªand it¡¯s merely warm, not burning hot like its appearance suggests.


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    ¡°Not sure,¡± I say. ¡°A thousand silvers?¡±


    ¡°Silvers? Golds, my young man, golds!¡±


    Whelt is really in his element here, drunker than most and his red beard oiled to a sheen for the party.


    ¡°That much?¡±


    ¡°That much,¡± Guildmaster Wharoth confirms.


    ¡°Can I forge with it? I mean, it can¡¯t form a blade. And it¡¯s too soft for armor...¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s some techniques. Very advanced ones. You¡¯d do well to practice with ordinary salamander skin first, so you don¡¯t end up ruining it.¡±


    ¡°That hard?¡± If it¡¯s too hard, I¡¯d probably be better off selling it.


    ¡°Hard. But there are some runes you can make strong beyond measure with it.¡±


    I ponder this thought for the rest of evening, wondering what runes they are. Ones holding enough power for me to get accepted into the military, maybe. Or perhaps armor that can resist the flames of a dragon.


    What would my brother say, to look upon me now? And where is he? Will the rumors of my victory reach him?


    Only two things I know for sure: Kazhek is still out for blood, and the black dragon is waiting for me.


    <hr>


    Only five and a half months left of the six the dragon promised me. I decide to devote three of them to forging the armor and weapon I will need to join Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s military and gain access to his castle.


    First, research. Guildmaster Wharoth has donated a heavy bag of silver and gold to me for spreading the Association¡¯s name far and wide, and I spend a good portion of it on books about salamanders. Several prove useless, all about their ecology and how to hunt them, but others contain in-depth information on how to use their skin to forge.


    In brief, salamander scales are composed of long, very thin loops of carbon. This is what makes their scales black. The red glow is caused by a chemical form of incandesite residue which they get from swimming in molten rock.


    A dwarf can utilize these two properties in a few ways. First, the carbon scales can be pulled apart and woven into nearly any metal to make it both stronger and more flexible. The scales must be pulled apart in exactly the right way, so the fibers are not tangled, nor too thick or thin. And the metal must be the right temperature when the fibers are mixed in, or they¡¯ll clump up¡ªplus exactly the right amount of skin-residue must be included, for too much risks explosion.


    It¡¯s even harder than this, of course¡ªI¡¯m simplifying. The textbooks recommend years of study and practice before attempting it.


    There is an easier way to use my skin, though. The scales can be separated from the film of skin they¡¯re attached to and, with a great deal of heat and hammering, shaped into runes. Some smiths consider this to be very wasteful, a discarding of the skin¡¯s true potential, but they do admit it is not so difficult to accomplish, provided one has the stamina for it.


    So this is what I will do.


    First though, my basic materials. Iron is below me now, so naturally I go for steel. I could do bronze, I suppose, but Kazhek wears bronze and likely knows all the ins and outs of it. I¡¯m better protected from him in something else.


    I don my hooded cloak and depart for the forging district. It¡¯s right opposite the same district on Runethane Broderick¡¯s side, and if I spend some time looking into the chasm I¡¯ll probably be able to spot the exact ledge I fell onto. But I don¡¯t have the time to waste. I spend half my remaining funds on the steel plates and bars I need, and get back to the guildhall.


    Armor first. I¡¯m going to forgo chainmail for extra-thick padded leather¡ªI don¡¯t have time to sit around linking steel rings together, and Kazhek wields a warhammer, which chainmail will be little use against.


    This doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m going to ignore all of Wharoth¡¯s advice, though. I¡¯m going to spend a good long time on this armor.


    Two long months, to be exact. Each day of those I spend at the forge, heating and hammering. Each strike on the hot steel I make precisely, timing and swinging down with exactitude. Not a millimeter do I allow myself for error. After the end of the first week I notice the arm-plate I¡¯ve been working on for the past four days is of slightly the wrong dimensions¡ªI throw it out and buy new steel.


    No errors. No imperfections.


    Five weeks in, and the breastplate I¡¯ve been working on for two of them is not perfect. I could hammer out the imperfections, salvage my minor errors somehow, but no. I plan out a better way to forge it, using a water-hammer and a special vise purchased at great expense, to make sure the front is angled exactly how I want it to be.


    For two months the only thing I hear is the clang of metal on metal. The only colors I see are orange and silver¡ªeven when I close my eyes I see sparks and steel. Charcoal is the only thing I can smell, until constant inhalation of its fumes eliminates my sense of smell entirely. My hands grow back their miner¡¯s calluses.


    And the runes!


    They take an entire week in themselves. I do not try for anything ambitious or extravagant, but stick with simple silver runes of hardness for durability and slipperiness for deflection, bonded with incandesite.


    The salamander scales I¡¯m saving for where they can have a more concentrated effect¡ªthe weapon.


    Finally, after two months are over, I have my suit of armor, and it is magnificent.


    How to describe it?


    Every plate is angled for deflection, giving it a polygonal, almost spiky appearance. The visor is wider than most, for visibility. It fits to me well and moving is no burden at all, the plates slide past each other with no friction, allowing me total freedom to strike and block and dodge where I need to.


    It gleams brightly, and especially so the runes. No single ones this time, but full odes in circling bands spaced at regular¡ªregular down to the millimeter¡ªintervals.


    It is a work of art, the best thing I¡¯ve ever forged.


    But my weapon will be even more impressive.

 Runeknight: Dark Spear and Bright Key

    It is important for a dwarf to choose exactly the right weapon to suit his fighting style. The more muscular warrior might choose a mighty two-handed hammer to crush the heads of his foes. A nimble one might choose a needle-point sword to stab through his opponent¡¯s visor and the gaps in his armor. One who favors disabling his enemy before killing him might choose an axe, to sever limbs and splinter shield.


    I didn''t really choose to wield a spear, of course. It was the only thing I could make on short notice¡ªa rather primitive and embarrassing alteration of an iron weapon forged for practice. Yet I won two battles with it. Why change things?


    My next weapon will be a spear as well.


    First the haft. It is considered cheap to use wood for the handle of your weapon; not only does it tend to catch fire around magma, the only wood readily available underground is of dried mushroom stalks and isn¡¯t particularly strong. So for my new weapon¡¯s haft I buy a long pole of aluminum. It¡¯s slightly more expensive than steel and not quite as tough, but it¡¯s light.


    Now for the spearhead. I plan to make it steel, as long as my forearm and tapering, perfect for stabbing through even the most minute gaps in armor. Possibly it will even pierce through fine chainmail.


    After two weeks of forging and one of sharpening, it is done. I hold it out at arms length to admire. The forge¡¯s fire flickering over it makes it look like a flame itself, a razor sharp candle-tongue of red and yellow.


    I spend another night welding it ever so carefully to the aluminum haft. I do not use an ordinary technique, but an advanced method, accomplished with two thin, perfectly stenciled circles of incandesite, one on the haft and one on the spearhead, that must be aligned to each other exactly, and kept aligned throughout the entire heating and hammering process.


    For a heart-stopping moment I think I¡¯ve done it wrong, but then comes the characteristic flash of blinding white my textbook notes as the mark of completion, and weapon and haft are bound.


    And now it is time for the salamander scale runes.


    First I have to shape them. I have to buy special fuel for this, for ordinary heat cannot melt the black carbonite. The fuel is called dragon¡¯s blood, although of course it has nothing to do with dragons¡ªit¡¯s a ferment of mushrooms harvested from deep below.


    I separate the scales from red membrane, scrape them clean but for what I meticulously measure to be the exact right amount of residue, and heat.


    My first attempt results in a bang that sends black fragments into my hand, fire into my beard, and brings a good dozen guildmates running to see what¡¯s happened.


    ¡°Careful with that,¡± Whelt warns. ¡°Didn''t the guildmaster tell you to practice with ordinary scales first?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get it next time.¡±


    ¡°You just ruined the equivalent of an egg-sized diamond.¡±


    ¡°No need to exaggerate. I¡¯ll get it next time!¡±


    And get it I do. The next scale softens into a black sticky semi-solid¡ªdespite the heat its color eerily does not change¡ªand I shape it into the rune I want.


    I repeat with the next scale, and the next. Then it is time to leave them a day to cool.


    I return to the forge to inspect, and my heart sinks in horror. They¡¯re cooled, but their shapes aren¡¯t quite right. They¡¯ve come out slightly twisted. My head spins and I nearly fall down, as I realize the enormity of my failure. The shape of each scale is a good several millimeters off from the diagrams in my dictionary, and I have none left.


    Well, I¡¯ll just have to hope, I tell myself, as I align them along the razor edges of my spear, a tiny speck of incandesite under each one.


    It takes just a tap to graft each one to the metal. Generally speaking, the highest quality runic materials take to their metal like fish to water, dragons to fire. Once the runes are grafted, the spearhead begins to glow softly, not brightly as I¡¯d hoped.


    The spearhead isn¡¯t the only part that I¡¯m going to enrune though. I welded head to haft with a special technique for a reason, and that reason is multiplication. Through the incandesite bond, the power of the runes on the haft can flow up and resonate with those on the spearhead.


    So to the haft I graft platinum runes¡ªthe thin wires I used to make them took nearly the last of my funds¡ªof resistance to downwards force and friction.


    And as I put the final syllable into my poem spiraling around the haft, I breath a sigh of relief. Light circles up and in turn my salamander runes of flesh-seeking flash too, a black flash, an anti-flash that saps the firelight from the forge in an instant of darkness.


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    They flash again, once, twice, then a third and fourth time in rapid succession, five, six, seven, uncountable times like the rapid blinking of abyssal eyes.


    My relief turns to apprehension. I step back, nearly to the wall. The spearhead isn''t flashing anymore¡ªit is solid black, a hole of light-sucking darkness. I can still see the fire in the forge, but it¡¯s faded, unglowing.


    The spear rolls off the anvil, falls to the floor, points toward me. It creeps forward.


    Someone knocks hard at the door.


    ¡°What the hell is going on in there?¡±


    I grin fiercely.


    ¡°One minute!¡± I shout.


    What need is there for apprehension? This is my weapon, is it not? I kneel down, grip it firmly in both hands, raise it up. The black glow fades until it is but a dim halo, like a dark twin to the glow of the cavern mirror reflecting the moon through thick fog.


    You will obey me, I think. You are mine. You are mine, my art, my weapon.


    For the first time I feel truly the dwarvish thrill of creation. We are all small gods, in our own way. We create. That is what drives us¡ªthe desire to create the most beautiful art we can.


    It is this, not power, that takes the truly ambitious of us up and up.


    Guildmaster Wharoth forces open the door. He looks at the dark spearhead and a sheen of fear-sweat appears on his forehead, as if certain terrible suspicions he has harbored for some time now have just been confirmed to him.


    But he just says: ¡°Well done. I knew you had talent.¡±


    <hr>


    In the very core of his castle, in his vault-room into which none but he is allowed, underneath his blankets of foil, Runethane Thanerzak awakens from a nightmare. It is the same nightmare he has every night.


    A terrible noise fills the vault-room. It is like the sound of a baby pig being slowly torn in half on the rack.


    Runethane Thanerzak comes to the same realization he does every morning. The terrible noise is the noise of his own scream. He shuts it off with fearsome effort, and climbs out of bed.


    He looks at himself in the mirror¡ªthe only mirror he allows in his castle. He comes to the same dreadful conclusion he comes to every morning, that his nightmare was not a nightmare. It is reality, replayed in the darkness every single night for the last three hundred years.


    He puts on his clothes. They are soaked with numbing drugs, but the process is still excruciating. Gradually, though, the pain fades enough for him to equip his armor.


    He turns the combination on the vault door and walks out. Servants bow before his masked, impenetrable figure. He barely notices their existence, closes the door¡ªa series of thuds confirm the locking mechanism still works just the same as it has for the past three hundred years.


    Through his corridors he strides. They slope upward¡ªhe has no stairs in his castle, for raising his legs past a certain shallow degree causes him intense pain when his thighs press up against the plates of his tungsten armor. Smoothly yet slow he moves, flanked by guards wielding long, sharp spears, until he comes to the doors of his council chamber.


    His guards swing them open and he enters. His council, all runeknights of the first degree, are seated, but he remains standing, for reasons that should be apparent by now.


    ¡°Greetings, Runethane,¡± says his right-hand dwarf, whose mirror-like helmet is veiled with a thin layer of gauze.


    ¡°Good morning, Vanerak.¡± The Runethane¡¯s voice is rough as sand. ¡°Congratulations on the success of the last few exams.¡±


    ¡°Thank you very much.¡±


    ¡°Though I do remember asking you to raise the pass rate after the first one.¡±


    ¡°I have made an effort, bringing in smaller salamanders. But initiates these days are so weak.¡±


    ¡°Are they really so poor?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, I would like a pass rate of eight percent, rather than two. And at least a sixty percent survival rate for the losers.¡±


    ¡°Very well. We¡¯ll use regular salamanders from now on.¡±


    ¡°No, no more salamanders. Too predictable, and dragons are unpredictable beasts. Some other monster.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll make the arrangements.¡±


    ¡°Good. Ganzesh, how goes the redeployment?¡±


    ¡°It goes as you ordered, Runethane,¡± says Ganzesh. He is one of the newer additions to the council.


    ¡°As I ordered. Do I detect a hint of dissatisfaction with said orders in your tone, Ganzesh?¡±


    ¡°I am merely worried that Runethane Broderick will sniff out more opportunities to strike at us.¡±


    ¡°Broderick is an upstart. We have nothing to fear from him¡ªin a mere three months I will have what I need to cleave him in two. But for this to happen there can be no interruptions from the real threat.¡±


    ¡°I understand, yet there are rumors he has called a most powerful runeknight to his ranks.¡±


    ¡°Rumors are not reality. The beast lurking in the forest is reality. Continue the redeployment. Every inch of the mountain must be defended.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Good. Is there anything else that needs must be brought to my attention?¡±


    There is not, so he leaves the council chambers and walks back down the spiraling corridors, flanked at all times by his spear-wielding guards, until he is back before the circular door to his vault-room.


    His guards and servants vanish from the antechamber. He turns the combination and enters, closes the door behind him. The locks thud reassuringly.


    There are only three pieces of furniture here: the bed, the mirror, and a tall closet.


    He does not keep his clothes and armor there¡ªthey hang on the wall.


    No.


    Very carefully, he traces the runic code on the closet door. There is a click, and it swings open.


    Within is a key of diamond as long as his arm, glittering brilliantly despite there being very little light to glitter on it.


    It is the key to a small hatch in the wall of his forge.


    It is also, in a way, the key to his hate-filled heart.

 Runeknight: Under the Castle

    As I walk through the city streets toward the mountain, I realize there¡¯s a problem with my spear. I¡¯ve named it Heartseeker, and it¡¯s hungry.


    My arm aches from the effort of holding it back. It¡¯s like trying to restrain a snake, a ravenous snake. It rolls and bucks in my hand, trying to jab its black and silver snout into the juicy chests of those I pass.


    At least you can sheath a sword, or tie an axe at your belt. A spear is never pacified.


    I take to holding it in both my hands, at guard like I¡¯m readying myself to receive a charge. This gets me some odd looks, but no one who isn¡¯t a runeknight dares to look long. For the first time in my life, I feel respected.


    The road up to the castle is a long one. It bends back and forth, steep uphill in most parts but sometimes it plunges into a crack or gully, which means plunging yourself into darkness. I guess putting torches in them was never considered¡ªit¡¯s one thing to never let the enemy know what you¡¯re doing, and better yet not to let them know what they themselves are doing.


    Guards are posted at regular intervals, most in teams around great spear-throwing contraptions aimed at the sky. Fortunately they are far enough from the path that Heartseeker sleeps.


    The final approach to the castle is a flight of two hundred stairs, each step steeper than the last until I¡¯m practically climbing up on my hands and knees, which would be difficult enough in plain clothes with my hands free. Two guards greet me at the top, if greet is the correct word here:


    ¡°What¡¯s your business?¡± the first barks. His armor is a shimmering alloy I don¡¯t recognize, and the axe at his belt thick with runes so small you would need a magnifying lens to read them.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to apply.¡±


    ¡°Apply for what?¡± says the second. Her faceplate is clear crystal, and her face heavily pierced with rose-gold rings, lips, ears, nose and all.


    ¡°A military application.¡± I pause a second to catch my breath. ¡°I want to join up. Join you guys.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah?¡± says the woman. ¡°You have what it takes, do you?¡±


    Heartseeker shivers in my hand¡ªit¡¯s awake again. A thrill shoots through my hand and up to my brain.


    ¡°I do,¡± I say confidently. ¡°Lead me inside?¡±


    ¡°Go on in yourself,¡± smirks the man. ¡°I can tell you aren¡¯t one of Broderick¡¯s agents. Just my nose.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± laughs the woman. ¡°Got to have a good nose to be a guard up here.¡±


    I frown, not quite understanding the joke, nor why they''re letting me in so easily, then shrug and walk past them toward the castle gates.


    The design of Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s castle says one thing and one thing alone: impregnable. There is no beauty here, not a single stone has been selected for aesthetics, the only reason each is polished to reflectivity is to make the walls impossible to ascend by climbing. It is, however, slightly smaller than it looks from down in the city, almost disappointingly so.


    I walk through the raised portcullis into a plain entrance hall, in which the only concession to comfort is a single chair on which a solitary guard sits, partly shrouded by the gloom.


    ¡°Where are you going then?¡± he asks. His armor is tungsten like the head examiner¡¯s was, but his face is uncovered to reveal an expression of intense indifference.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to join up.¡±


    ¡°Join up what?¡±


    ¡°The military. The army, you guys. Didn''t you do the same?¡±


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    ¡°Oh yeah, sure.¡± He scratches his beard. ¡°A long time ago.¡± He smirks slightly. ¡°You¡¯ll want to head on down then, right the way down.¡±


    ¡°Can you take me, then?¡±


    ¡°No, no. I have to stay up here. That¡¯s my job, you know. I¡¯m a guard, so I guard.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m allowed to just go on down by myself?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Why not?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re allowing me in? Aren¡¯t guards supposed to keep people out?¡±


    ¡°Why would we keep out a fellow loyal servant of our honored Runethane?¡±


    ¡°I... I mean, what about spies?¡±


    He smirks again. ¡°Are you a spy?¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± I say hotly.


    ¡°Well, there¡¯s no problem then, is there?¡±


    ¡°What if I get lost?¡±


    ¡°No problem there either, for me. Off you go now. First left, then keep going down.¡±


    His chuckles echoing in my ears, I head down into the tunnel he indicates. It is low and arched, of stone blocks lined up with unerring regularity. The oil lamps along the walls are spaced widely, so that my journey is a slow fading of day to night and back again. These do not smell of oily smoke, but are perfumed with a slightly acrid, not unpleasant scent I do not recognize. Perhaps it¡¯s the smell of something from the surface.


    The tunnels branch down in spirals, the slope of each so shallow just descending a mere hundred yards is nearly a mile¡¯s walk. Occasionally a door appears, unlabeled and unmarked. I am too apprehensive to knock on them, and besides, the guard said to go right down. He must have meant the very bottom¡ªthat¡¯s where their barracks must be.


    Now I understand just how wrong I was to think the castle small. Only the gatehouse was squat and small.


    The mountain itself is the castle.


    My belly rumbles. I ate lunch of course, though it was just a sandwich, but now I¡¯m starving. It must be well past dinner, and maybe it¡¯s even pitch black outside.


    How far down do I have to go? Am I even heading in the right direction? The tunnels have branched several times thus far, and none of the branches have a sign indicating what they might lead to. Am I heading down a dead end? My dwarven sense of direction says no, but fortifications like this are designed to deceive, to lead the enemy to their mortal fates no matter how clever they think they are.


    I have no choice but to continue. After an indeterminate length of time, I feel Heartseeker pull on my wrist. I hurry forward.


    There''s a guard here, leaning against the wall and yawning. He wears a tall helmet and carries a spear longer than Heartseeker and more heavily runed, although it has no halo of darkness or light. He stops his yawn halfway and looks at me oddly.


    ¡°What¡¯s someone like you doing so far down here?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for the barracks,¡± I answer. I can hear the fatigue in my voice.


    ¡°The barracks?¡±


    ¡°Yes, the barracks. I can sign up there, right?¡±


    ¡°Sign up for what, exactly?¡±


    ¡°The military. To join you guys.¡±


    He nods knowingly. ¡°Oh yes. The barracks. Just keep on going down and you¡¯ll reach them eventually.¡±


    Why can I tell he¡¯s smirking underneath his helmet? I keep on going down, down and down, spiraling for what feels like the entire night and half a day too. Then, finally, I reach a door.


    I¡¯m too exhausted and hungry to hesitate; I knock.


    It opens.


    ¡°Yes?¡± says a tungsten clad runeknight.


    ¡°I¡¯m here to join.¡±


    ¡°Join what?¡±


    ¡°You! The military!¡±


    ¡°Oh. Us. You better come in, then.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Breathing hard, I stumble through the door into a plain stone room, set with a carved wooden table and several chairs. There are plates with scraps of dry food still on them on the table, and some empty flagons of ale.


    ¡°Sit down and wait,¡± commands the runeknight, and I gladly do so.


    He doesn¡¯t keep me waiting long. The clink of armor heralds his return, along with a similarly clad figure.


    ¡°Oh!¡± I say, in surprise.


    I cannot see the new runeknight¡¯s face, but I recognize his mirrored mask. He nods at my spear.


    ¡°You¡¯ve put in some good work.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I have.¡±


    ¡°Now, you¡¯re here to join us, is that right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°I do believe you are of the tenth degree.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± I laugh a little, desperate not to let my tension show. ¡°I haven¡¯t been passing any exams behind your back, or anything.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That is unfortunate. As part of Runethane Thanerak¡¯s policy of quality over quantity, we are not admitting any runeknights under the fifth degree.¡±


    The journey back up to the surface is the longest and most depressing I have ever taken.

 Runeknight: Deception

    Guildmaster Wharoth throws his hands up in exasperation, then slams them down on his desk in abject rage.


    ¡°Have you not listened to a word I¡¯ve told you?¡± he spits. ¡°Patience! Patience! Patience! I thought you were headed in the right direction, all that time you spent on your armor. And now you want to commit suicide?¡±


    ¡°But it is allowed?¡±


    ¡°Do you even know what the exam for fifth involves?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I. Sixth and up, it is different for each dwarf. The head examiner selects the method, and if he¡¯s taken a disliking to you, he will kill you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think he likes or dislikes anything much.¡±


    ¡°You insult him with arrogance and he will dislike you very much. He will have you crushed like an insect.¡±


    ¡°I stuck a spear in the salamander¡¯s eye!¡± I protest. ¡°And now I have a better spear, and better armor.¡±


    ¡°Your steel will be torn through like paper. Any steel will. Steel will not get you anywhere past the eighth degree.¡±


    ¡°Then I stab first.¡±


    ¡°Listen to yourself!¡± he cries. ¡°Moron! Fool! Why are you so keen to kill yourself?¡±


    Because I don¡¯t want you to die, I nearly say. Because the black dragon threatened me. If I don¡¯t do what it says, you will burn.


    But of course, I can¡¯t say that. Not to the guildmaster. I am working for a dragon. I cannot tell that to an old fighter of Runethane Thanerzak.


    ¡°I just...¡± I trail off.


    ¡°Just have some damn patience. Do some jobs. Buy some better materials, and practice, practice, practice.¡±


    <hr>


    I spend the entire night in the guild library, searching for something, anything, any kind of solution that will let me forge the gear I need quickly and on the cheap. Of course, there is nothing. Gear is not cheap or quick to make¡ªnot unless it¡¯s bad gear, liable to fall apart at the first sign of battle, or jam up in the middle of a deadly combat.


    I find myself reading a book of cautionary tales about dwarves who tried to do what I¡¯m about to. Go in unprepared.


    The dwarf who tried to take on the troll under the bridge with a stick.


    The dwarf children who went into the witch-elf¡¯s home with no disguise, and were eaten.


    The Runeking who tried to battle his challengers naked, to show that skill was more important than thick armor and a heavy hammer.


    Armor always wins out over skill. That is the founding principle of dwarf society, and it is a principle I cannot get away from. I must prepare properly, but the stronger the material the more expensive, and harder to work. Some alloys take months to prepare, and I have three. Less than three, now. And very little money.


    Over the next two days and nights I do not sleep. I go from shelf to shelf in the guild library and read every book there is. My fingers blister and bleed. My eyes redden. A pressure grows inside of my skull, as if my brain is swelling like a buboes.


    And in a thin tome at the bottom corner of one of the most antique shelves, unopened for a hundred years at least, I find my answer.


    The devious runes of mimicry.


    To lie about the quality of one¡¯s metal is a hideous sin in dwarven culture. It is nearly as bad as using the equipment of another, and equal in detestedness to melting down a precious craft before it is complete. Thus it makes sense that the runes written for mimicry would be hidden away. It is lucky that I am in such a poor guild¡ªa more respected one would never risk the reputational damage being found to hold such information could incur.


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    By grafting these runes to my steel, I can make it look like whatever armor I want. The examiners will surely show no bias to a dwarf who walks into the arena in shining platinum. Or to one who comes dressed in diamond, dazzling spectators, judges, and foes all with blinding brilliance. Or one cloaked in molten lava, who radiates an aura of heat so powerful all but the bravest fear to fight.


    And if the runes are made just right, formed to dimensions with no margin of error, and grafted with exactly the correct amount of reagent, my steel will even take on some of the properties of its disguise.


    It will be nothing near as strong as the real thing, but enough to give me an edge, should I get hit.


    This is the power of runes of mimicry. As long as Heartseeker reaches my foe before he or it can strike, I can pass.


    I will admit my plan is a long-shot. No matter how much the examiners are impressed by my armor of crystalline diamond, platinum, or whatever I choose, the monsters and men they send my way will not be easy opponents. But with Heartseeker, whom I notice Guildmaster Wharoth found absolutely nothing to critique about, I have a chance.


    The only problem is that I have to scrub away the runes already on my steel.


    And for that, I will need a good quantity of a very special reagent I do not have enough money to purchase.


    <hr>


    I knock on the door to Hayhek¡¯s house. He¡¯s not expecting me, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise.


    ¡°Zathar!¡±


    ¡°Good morning.¡±


    ¡°You look like you haven¡¯t slept for a week.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I have.¡±


    ¡°You should rest. We heard about the exam.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°A disgrace. So many good dwarves...¡±


    ¡°A horrible waste. Does everyone who makes it to the top end up insane?¡±


    ¡°A lot do, unfortunately. I¡¯ve met enough, so I should know. Standing in a forge for years on end, the hammer ringing in your ears... Bad for the brain.¡±


    I nod, though I don¡¯t quite agree. When you¡¯re forging you do use your brain. It is mindful drudgery, not the mindless drudgery of mining.


    ¡°Can I come in?¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. No breakfast set for you, sorry to say.¡±


    ¡°Just some bread and water will do.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get some.¡±


    He leads me into the dining room. The tablecloth and nice plates from last time are absent, and I see that the wooden surface is old, covered with innumerable scratches, the varnish long since gone. I sit down on an uncomfortable chair.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Yezakh?¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Hayhek scratches his gray beard. ¡°You¡¯re here to talk to him, of course.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I haven¡¯t seen him since before the exam.¡±


    ¡°He hasn¡¯t been taking it too well.¡±


    ¡°Did something happen to you?¡± I frown. ¡°Is your wife okay? Daughters?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re fine. He didn''t take what happened at the exam well. And then they¡¯re still not changing the rules...¡±


    ¡°You told him I passed, surely?¡±


    ¡°Of course. But...¡± He sighs and sits down opposite me, heavily, rests his elbows on the table. ¡°He¡¯s damn terrified. He wanted to take it soon, as soon as he joined your guild. That why he wasn¡¯t there the past few days of our practice¡ªhe was forging his craft, and a good few more to boot. I saved up some silver for him to rent out a forge and buy some iron.¡±


    ¡°Oh. He doesn¡¯t think he can win.¡±


    ¡°No! And I don¡¯t either, told him he ought to wait until the Runethane¡¯s madness passes. He didn''t take that well¡ªhe doesn¡¯t want to wait. But he¡¯s paralyzed¡ªhalf wants to rush forward, half stay back.¡±


    ¡°Let me talk to him. Alone.¡±


    ¡°All right. Make him wait and show some patience, like you tried to. When you lost it, nearly got you killed, right? And Kazhek¡¯s still after you...¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Hayhek leads me to Yezakh¡¯s bedroom door. I knock.


    ¡°It¡¯s me. Zathar.¡±


    No answer.


    ¡°Come on out, will you? I want to talk.¡±


    ¡°Out of there!¡± Hayhek says sternly. ¡°You can¡¯t be a child if you want to be a runeknight.¡±


    The door opens. Yezakh does not look like a child. His eyes are dark, his beard unkempt, his face reddened. He looks angry.


    ¡°I heard you talking,¡± he spits, glaring at his father. ¡°I¡¯m going to sit the exam. Just as soon as I¡¯m prepared. Next month at the latest.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get yourself¡ª¡±


    I hold up a hand to cut Hayhek off. ¡°Come talk with me, Yezakh. I¡¯ll tell you how to pass the exam. Wasn¡¯t so hard. And they¡¯ve made it a bit easier, I¡¯ve heard. Let¡¯s go back down to the tunnel, and I¡¯ll tell you what it takes. It has a weakness, you know?¡±


    Some of the anger in his eyes fades. I¡¯m not in my cloak, nor in battered iron, but equipped in my gleaming angular steel. Heartseeker is in my hand, though I¡¯ve covered its darkly haloed head with silk cloth. He¡¯s impressed. He knows that if anyone can help him, it¡¯s me.


    We¡¯ll help each other. Every good thief needs a lookout.

 Runeknight: Thievery

    I get a good day¡¯s sleep before the robbery, and wake up sweating.


    Thievery. Taking another dwarf¡¯s hard earned work, what he¡¯s bled for, maybe. He¡¯s at least sweated for it. And then the thief comes along¡ªhe¡¯s been lying in bed all day. He doesn¡¯t work hard, but he gets the reward.


    Hardrick was a thief.


    Am I like Hardrick?


    No! I tell myself firmly. I¡¯m doing this for my guildmates. They¡¯ve helped me along. I don¡¯t want them to burn. This crime is for them.


    Or is it for myself? The black dragon threatened me, yes, but it also made me a promise. Help it, and I will learn where my brother went.


    This is the real reason I do not tell anyone of it. To throw this chance away would be tantamount to watching my brother throw himself into the chasm once more.


    Out of my bed I get and dress. No armor of course, no spear either¡ªa thief dresses in something anonymous and uses a knife, if he has to use anything at all. I¡¯m not planning on stabbing anyone tonight though. In and out with the salthazth, the salterite, also known as the anti-reagent. That''s all we''re doing.


    Yezakh¡¯s agreed to meet me at the plaza outside the gates of the forging district. It¡¯s a peaceful area, tiled with large, flat granite slabs. Four fountains stand at each corner; in daytime couples sit by these, and children play in them. Now at midnight the plaza is deserted but for a few drunks lying face up in the fountain furthest from us.


    ¡°Ready?¡± I ask him. ¡°You have what I said?¡±


    He nods silently, hands me a folded sack, and shows me his own knife.


    ¡°Did you forge that yourself?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°You should have brought one from your kitchen. Something anonymous.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t get through armor, if it comes to that.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t. In and out, and we¡¯re done.¡±


    ¡°I hope so, but...¡±


    ¡°It won''t," I tell him firmly. "Let¡¯s hurry up.¡±


    We enter the forging district. Unlike the one on Runethane Broderick¡¯s side of the city it¡¯s not closed off; the wall is low and the gates kept open. Dwarves of all classes are free to walk in to marvel at the beautiful diamonds, bars of gold and platinum and tungsten, and glowing reagents in the shop windows.


    But the wares we''re after aren''t so openly displayed. Salterite is not a well-regarded material. It is shameful to be seen buying it, for to do so is to admit your forging failed. Not a good look, especially for those of higher degrees. Our target store keeps its stock up on the third floor. We crouch down in the shadows of an alley opposite.


    ¡°How are we going to climb up?¡± Yezakh whispers.


    ¡°We¡¯re not," I say. "I scouted in here yesterday. The locks on the first floor windows are iron, but the wood they¡¯re screwed into is old." I point to the middle window. "Hammer that dagger of yours into the crack, at the center, and the lock will come right off.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t it clatter when it hits the floor?¡±


    ¡°No. Thick carpets.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Let¡¯s try it.¡±


    He slinks over to the window and I follow. Carefully he jabs the tip of his dagger into the crack between edge and frame, then with the palm of his left hand hammers it in. There¡¯s a crunch. I wince. He levers the window open partway with his dagger, then I pull it fully open. He climbs right in without further instruction.


    When we had our talk, he took far less persuading to come around than I¡¯d anticipated. Might be the gold I promised, but there was something else too. He¡¯s an angry boy, not just on the surface but deep down. Doesn¡¯t like his father¡¯s position, and his own even less. I think he burns to move upward even more than me, to be honest. He¡¯ll do anything to get an advantage.


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    We tiptoe over the carpet and up the stairs. On the second floor landing we can hear deep snoring.


    ¡°I thought you said there¡¯d be no one here?¡± Yezakh whispers.


    ¡°I said it wasn¡¯t guarded at night like some of the richer shops. I guess the owner lives here though. Let¡¯s just try not to wake him up.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    We continue up the rest of the stairs to the third floor, where a door awaits us. There¡¯s no lock, but it creaks loudly despite my opening it as slowly and gently as possible.


    ¡°Should we shut it?¡± Yezakh asks.


    ¡°Best not to.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    Is it just the distance, or has the snoring from the second floor lessened somewhat?


    ¡°Yes. Less risk that way. Stay here and warn me if the snoring stops.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    I walk over to the only feature of the room, a rectangle covered by a dark cloth. Eerie glows of various sizes shine through the velvet. I kneel down, put my eye close, and lift up the fabric a touch to peek into the glass case it covers.


    Up close, the jagged hexagonal columns of the salterite are exactly as depicted in the textbooks, but they did not do the color justice. The salterite is not merely pale green: it emanates a harsh light that stings to look at, as if the rays are attempting to boil the jelly of my eyeballs.


    Blinking, pained tears running down my face, I peer around the case to see how to open it. Just as I saw on my scouting, there¡¯s no visible handle, no hinges, but this time I notice thin runes etched into the top¡ªa script of opening, a riddle one must whisper the answer to.


    A head without an eye,


    An eye without a head,


    One twin hanged,


    Painless by a thread.


    I rub the tears from my eyes and read the riddle again. It¡¯s a tough one. I¡¯m not so clever with words, despite all the reading I¡¯ve been doing recently. The answer must be two things, and animals, if we''re talking about heads and eyes.


    ¡°Troglodyte and beholder,¡± I whisper.


    The runes flash red, and the glass case begins to vibrate and emit a keening sound.


    ¡°Shit!¡± I swear.


    The glass case takes my curse as my next answer. The runes flash a brighter red¡ªbright enough I¡¯m sure the room lit up¡ªand the keening increases in volume.


    I begin to sweat. How many chances do I get? Three is the usual.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Yezakh whispers at me.


    I put a finger to my lips. He frowns at me, then turns back to the open door, dagger clutched tightly.


    I need to consider the second half of the riddle. Hanging, an execution. One evil creature, and one good? But what animal is so weak that it dies instantly and painlessly just from being hanged by a thread? I''m beginning to feel that maybe the answer isn¡¯t a pair of animals at all. A lot of riddles are like that, with some mundane object described like it¡¯s alive.


    The keening is growing louder minute by minute.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Yezakh hisses. ¡°Zathar! The snoring¡¯s stopped!¡±


    I grit my teeth and think harder. Think! But my brain is addled from my fanatic study, and no answer comes. The keening isn¡¯t helping either; likely it was designed specifically to impede critical thought. Maybe I should call Yezakh over, but if he doesn¡¯t understand the rule, and says something before thinking of an answer...


    Eye with no head? Head with no eyes? Not something living? I take a wild guess.


    ¡°Window and blinds!¡± I hiss. Something blind but an object, and something that''s kind of eyes.


    The entire case flares scarlet; the keening becomes a scream. I shout in frustration and bring the hilt of my dagger¡ªjust a kitchen knife, but heavy enough¡ªdown on the glass which smashes; the screaming stops. Someone below yells, and a second later I hear thumping footsteps.


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Yezakh shouts.


    ¡°Don¡¯t kill him!¡±


    I grab handfuls of salterite and throw them into my sack one after another. My hand burns from touching it; I wipe it on my trousers and now my thigh burns too.


    ¡°Fuck!¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s almost here, Zathar!¡±


    I rush for the open door past Yezakh, who¡¯s holding his knife point out. A thick-set dwarf is storming up in a robe.


    ¡°What the hell¡¯s going on!¡± He sees our knives and goes pale. ¡°Wait¡ª¡±


    I smash him in the forehead with my knife hilt. He cries out and falls backwards, clutching at the banister to stop himself tumbling down.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± I hiss. ¡°We¡¯re not after much! Just shut up! Come on, Yezakh!¡±


    I jump over the groaning shop owner and hurry down the stairs, Yezakh at my heels. I force open the drawer under the shop counter, grab fistfuls of gold and all but throw them at Yezakh, who stuffs the coins into his pockets.


    ¡°Stop!¡± shouts the shop owner, one hand pressed to his swollen forehead. ¡°Thieves! Thieves!¡±


    But we¡¯re already out the window and sprinting into the night, and by the time the city alarms begin to ring, we¡¯re far away.

 Runeknight: Forging the Mimicry

    We crouch down in the shadow of Yezakh¡¯s apartment block, panting. For a long time neither of us can think of anything to say to each other.


    ¡°You get what you need?¡± he finally says, grinning a little.


    I look into the sack. The glow makes my pupils sting. ¡°Yeah. Think I got enough.¡±


    ¡°I want to count out the gold. Should we do it here or inside?¡±


    ¡°Here of course. Then we¡¯ll divide it.¡±


    ¡°Divide it as we agreed,¡± he warns.


    ¡°Of course. One third to me, two to you.¡±


    He nods and begins to pull clinking handfuls of coins from his pockets. The pre-morning glow from the mirrors isn¡¯t bright enough for us to tell their colors, but we can tell which is what by size and shape as he sorts them into piles on the paving. The small hexagonal ones are gold, the bigger thinner circles silver, the small circles copper. I end up with thirteen golds, five silvers and nine coppers; accordingly he gets twenty-six golds, ten silvers, seventeen coppers.


    ¡°Good haul,¡± he says. ¡°I should make a spear, you say?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Maybe one shorter than mine so you can have a shield, a solid metal one, with runes of fire-reflection.¡±


    ¡°What if they don¡¯t send a salamander next time?¡±


    ¡°Whatever the monster, like I said before, just wait until it¡¯s had a go at everyone else. It¡¯ll get tired out.¡±


    ¡°What if¡ª¡±


    I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. ¡°You¡¯ll be fine. I survived. You will too.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    We part ways. It is dawn by the time I arrive back at my room, and after stuffing the sack under my bed, I only allow myself a short sleep.


    Two months and twenty days are left exactly.


    Down in one of the guild forges, I lay a gauntlet on the anvil, then take out a salterite crystal and place it on a side table. I¡¯m wearing gloves; my hands still feel a little raw from when I grabbed them, and my thigh too where I got it on me.


    With a small hammer I break the crystal into tiny pieces¡ªeach twists itself into a new hexagon in an eerie display of magic. I take one of these pieces, only slightly larger than a grain of sand, and place it on the rune I want to remove.


    I touch the hot end of a thin poker I¡¯ve had resting in the furnace to it. Its pale glow flares to white, and the light feels like it penetrates right through my eyeballs into my skull, touching my brain with acid. When the flare dies I see it¡¯s worked, though. The rune is gone and the sense of power emanating from the gauntlet diminished slightly.


    One by one, I remove the rest of the runes. The air fills with an odd smell that isn¡¯t quite a smell, more a feeling¡ªan unpleasant sense that something has gone wrong with the world, that something vital has been drained. It¡¯s an ugly sensation, and it pains my heart as well to see the runes I worked so hard on vanish, but this needs to be done.


    Once the gauntlet is scrubbed clean, I pick it up and hold it up for inspection. There¡¯s some slight white marks on it, salterite burns, and some tiny flecks of metal from the runes where I didn''t quite apply enough. I¡¯ll have to do better on the next pieces.


    It ends up taking a week. The breastplate alone takes two full days. If my runes of mimicry are to be perfect, undetectable and taking on both the visual and physical properties of their disguise, they need to be laid properly. And damaged metal is no proper foundation for runes.


    I feel slightly sick as I look over the full suit; it¡¯s like a dead body in some ways. All that made it what it was, I have stripped away to leave but a husk. It nearly makes me cry.


    After a half-day¡¯s break, I¡¯m back in the forge with the book of mimicry runes and a roll of shining gold thread. Gold was the only material I could get enough of at an acceptable price, and although it¡¯s terrible armor usually¡ªheavy yet soft¡ªit does have magnificent resonance with enruned rubies, the illusion of which I can write on cheap almandines.


    I twist the gold threads into the runes of mimicry. They must be written in a runic script that, unlike nearly all others, is thin and looping, almost like commoner letters. It¡¯s tricky to get exactly right, but it¡¯s vital that I do. If the illusion unravels, I am dead.


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    The main part of the script is to give the colors and properties. The runic poem I¡¯d write on normally, if this was true gold, I insert backwards within the looping letters.


    Again I test on the gauntlet. I wind the carefully twisted gold around the fingers and wrist, place a circle of it on the backhand plate, place the almandine ovals at resonance points. Finally I brush over incandesite which I¡¯ve ground, very slowly and carefully, to powder.


    The gold shines brightly, the almandine brighter. The steel fades to a colorless gray matte, like stone or wet dust. For a moment I think the process has gone wrong, then the gray becomes yellow then shining gold. Spots of blood appear, and reform into rubies. Finally appears the poem of strength and lightness I wrote backwards into the mimicry runes, and the gauntlet is finished.


    I put it on. It feels no different to steel, and I start to worry that I¡¯ve only accomplished half of what I set out to replicate, only the visual side. But this gauntlet was the messiest scrub-job. The other pieces will be better.


    And they are. The finished armor takes my breath away. It emanates majesty and ostentation, but also power. The rubies across it form a network of meridians that confer a repelling force¡ªwhen I put my hand close I can feel it being pushed away. If they were real, of course, no weapon from a lesser runeknight could come within a foot of it, but even this fake power will be enough to give me a useful advantage. The rubies also confer a resistance to heat. The suit is cool to the touch, and nearly icy against the skin to wear.


    Yes, I¡¯ve done the best I can. I saw a solution, the only solution, and I executed it.


    Now I will put it to the test.


    <hr>


    The guildhall of the Troglodyte Slayers is buried deep. It is not carved geometrically like many similar guildhalls, but instead retains the natural shape of the original cave, a long curving tunnel, walls rippled slightly and organically. Many parts are green jade, and the lights high in the ceiling are jade-treated glass. Their calming turquoise plays across everything below.


    Kazhek sighs. He¡¯s sitting in a corner, like he often does recently, with a book.


    It¡¯s called Bats and Their Many Sub-Varieties: Illustrated.


    He flicks from page to page, not really reading, not really looking at the pictures either. They¡¯re not interesting. What did Polt use to find in this kind of thing? Kazhek can¡¯t understand, they always were polar opposites. Maybe that¡¯s what made them such good friends.


    He takes another drink from one of two glasses he¡¯s put out. The other is empty, and will remain so. It¡¯s Polt¡¯s glass.


    He should stop this habit, he really should. But he can¡¯t bring himself to. He hasn¡¯t gone out on a single job, hasn¡¯t gone down to a single bar, hasn¡¯t been with a single girl. He just can¡¯t bring himself to. Life has become a dark pit for Kazhek, and he doesn¡¯t have the energy left to climb the walls.


    ¡°Hey, Kazhek,¡± someone whispers behind.


    ¡°What?¡±


    His guildmate sites down heavily. It¡¯s Bhatak, who failed the job of trying to get Zathar killed in the examination. ¡°News,¡± he says.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Kazhek looks at Bhatak nervously. The big dwarf looks worried, like the news he¡¯s about to deliver is very bad indeed.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how to put this. We got some new information from our contacts in the exam board.¡±


    ¡°I see. He¡¯s trying to move up again.¡±


    ¡°To somewhere we can¡¯t reach. He¡¯s skipping straight to the fifth degree. Applied this morning.¡±


    ¡°What!¡± Kazhek shouts. He sits up straight, accidentally spills his drink over the book, but is too panicked to notice. ¡°Straight to what?¡±


    ¡°Straight to fifth. Fifth!¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. His armor is impressive, apparently. A real well-crafted suit. And his weapon is downright frightening.¡± Bhatak grimaces. ¡°Another spear.¡±


    ¡°The bastard. Murdering bastard!¡±


    ¡°Calm down, Kazhek! People are staring.¡±


    ¡°So fucking what? Shit! What are we going to do?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. None of the higher degree runeknights are going to play along with us, I don¡¯t think. But we can¡¯t get into the fifth degree exam. The examiners will be from the Runethane¡¯s guard.¡±


    ¡°We have to do something. How did he move this fast?¡±


    He clenches his fists, smashes both down onto his sideways-fallen glass, obliterating it and driving its shards into the table. A bang resounds around the cavern. A lot of dwarves are now staring.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how he moved so fast,¡± Bhatak says. ¡°His guildmaster must be helping him.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he didn''t even forge his armor himself. You remember what he was wearing last time¡ªcrap. I don¡¯t understand what¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I. But we have to do something, or he¡¯ll be out of our reach forever.¡±


    ¡°I can challenge him,¡± Kazhek says desperately. ¡°Once he passes, he can¡¯t refuse a challenge from a lower-ranked runeknight.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll challenge a fifth degree in seventh degree armor? Kazhek, that¡¯s suicide. And he¡¯s a killer.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Kazhek¡¯s handsome face twists into a snarl. ¡°He¡¯s an accidental killer. He hasn¡¯t got any real guts. He¡¯s pulling some kind of trick. No, I can take him.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m fucking sure.¡± He stands and raises up his warhammer. With a mighty overarm swing he brings it down onto the table. Splinters fly, the table cracks in half, and the glass he laid out for Polt breaks on the stone floor.


    Everyone in the hall is staring at him now. He doesn¡¯t care. He will have his justice, his revenge, and a path out of the deep dark pit of despair whose walls he finally has the strength to climb.

 Runeknight: Dwarf Against Beast

    I am standing in a small dark stone chamber inside the arena building. I have been standing here for an hour at least, while the preparations are being made. My false armor is cold against my skin.


    What are they bringing up to send against me? I will admit: this is one of the most frightening moments of my life. Well, a great many moments have been the most frightening of my life recently. Each worse than the last.


    An abyssal salamander. That¡¯s what they¡¯ll make me fight, except I¡¯ll do it alone this time. But what if it¡¯s something worse?


    The door to the chamber opens and torchlight floods in.


    ¡°It¡¯s time,¡± says an examiner. He¡¯s another one of the Runethane¡¯s tungsten clad personal guard. Maybe one of those I met down in the corridors.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready,¡± I reply. ¡°What am I to fight first?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll find out soon enough.¡±


    He leads me from the chamber and down to the first floor corridors. Gravel crunches underfoot, bringing back memories of horror. My breath quickens when we go past the inner gates and into the small corridor where so many initiates were carved up and slaughtered just a few months ago. It hasn¡¯t been cleaned¡ªbloodstains and scorch marks paint the walls, reach up to the arched roof even. I look down and I think the gravel here is mixed with chips of bone.


    ¡°Mine won¡¯t end up here,¡± I declare.


    I¡¯d meant to just think it, but it came out loud. The examiner turns to me.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to die here today. Whatever you send against me, I¡¯ll kill.¡±


    He nods. ¡°I hope so.¡±


    ¡°You do?¡± I can hear the incredulity in my voice.


    ¡°Of course. The Runethane needs powerful guards.¡±


    ¡°You know I want to join you? Are you one of those I met in the castle, then?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°No. But we all heard the story. You¡¯re getting a reputation as one crazy young dwarf.¡±


    I smile for the first time in weeks. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean Vanerak¡¯s going to go easy on you, though.¡±


    That must be the insane head examiner''s name.


    ¡°Of course. You really can¡¯t tell me anything about what I¡¯m going to face?¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I really can¡¯t. I don¡¯t know myself.¡±


    I nod. ¡°No problem. Like I said, whatever it is, I¡¯ll kill it.¡±


    He leaves me to face the main gates alone. I ready Heartseeker in case beyond the gates is already my first foe. The gates swing open, and I¡¯m proven correct. On the gravel just before the five-hundred foot drop stand two giant salamanders. The ordinary kind, fortunately. Each is only three times my size.


    Their eyes lock on to me, but I¡¯m already charging out the gates to meet them, yelling wildly, Heartseeker outstretched before me. My golden armor is shining in the light, its rubies flashing bright scarlet. The crowd is applauding.


    The salamander on the right reaches me first. It springs up, fire spraying from its jaws; it outstretches its front claws at my head.


    I thrust! Heartseeker is true to its name and slices right into the sorry creature¡¯s chest. I sidestep and rip my weapon free in one smooth motion, and the corpse crashes to the ground. A pool of blood rapidly expands around it. I turn to my second foe.


    It hisses and slinks back. It¡¯s slightly smaller than the last one, and I can see the fear in its eyes. It knows it¡¯s no match for me. I almost feel sorry for it, but Heartseeker is straining and crowd is cheering, and most importantly from up on his platform the head examiner is watching me through his blank tungsten mask.


    I charge. The salamander opens its mouth¡ªa bolt of flame hits me but my golden armor is true enough that it washes over with no effect. The salamander makes to retreat but Heartseeker goes through its eye and into its brain. It spasms once and collapses. I rip bloody Heartseeker out and raise it over my head in both hands.


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    My scream of victory echoes around the arena and up into the stands. The crowd cheers. I can see my guildmates there, and they¡¯re cheering the loudest, except for Guildmaster Wharoth, who is pale and furious.


    My enthusiasm dies slightly at the sight of him. I bring Heartseeker back down and stand at military attention.


    Vanerak holds up a hand for silence. He gets it instantly.


    ¡°An impressive performance for the warmup,¡± he states in his usual dispassionate tone. ¡°However it was rather slow, and had several moments of hesitation. Well, that does not matter to us so much. It does not matter if a dwarf hesitates, so long as his armor can turn away the blow his enemy makes in that moment of opportunity. We will see if the candidate¡¯s armor can turn the blows from his first real opponent.¡±


    He returns to his seat. So my next opponent is going to come right away, is it? Part of me is relieved¡ªif there was going to be some in-depth inspection of my armor carried out by runeknights of the upper degrees, I don¡¯t know if my mimicry would have fooled them.


    Most of me is scared, though. Last test, if I¡¯d been forced to fight two salamanders like that, they¡¯d have torn my armor and me to shreds. This examination is going to be five times tougher at least. An abyssal salamander is next, I¡¯m sure of it. I point Heartseeker toward the now shut gates and brace.


    The gates open. I can only make out a silhouette in the dimness of the corridor beyond, but it¡¯s not the shape of a salamander. It¡¯s upright and has two legs and two arms, and appears to be clutching some kind of weapon in one hand. It can¡¯t be a dwarf, though, it¡¯s too big. At least twice my height and four times my weight.


    It shades its eyes from the brightness and roars a guttural roar, then it walks forward and meets my eyes with its own dark ones. I can see malice in those eyes, hatred¡ªit blames me for being brought up here.


    It¡¯s a troll.


    Its arms are long, its legs bow-legs, its head is a misshapen sphere with a jutting nose and too-small ears. Its skin is scales, but they aren¡¯t lizard scales¡ªmore like thick flaps of fungus. A misshapen swollen belly thankfully sticks out enough to conceal whatever it¡¯s got between its legs. Guttural grunts snort from its nose. It may walk upright, but it¡¯s a dumb beast. Wielding that iron club takes all the brainpower it has.


    I brace as it charges. Its bow-legs carry it faster than they should be able to, much faster¡ªdespite their deformity, they¡¯re still twice as long as my own.


    Heartseeker outranges its club, though. As soon as the troll¡¯s within striking distance, five seconds after its fetid stench hits me, I stab its thigh. The steel cuts deep and brings out a fountain of blood¡ªHeartseeker found an artery¡ªyet the troll does not notice. Its club blurs toward my head.


    I duck and hurry backward out of range. It¡¯s slow to react, eyes not working so well in the relative brightness of city daytime, and I get in another hit, this time deep into its belly. When I rip Heartseeker free, a bit of severed intestine follows and hangs out the wound.


    The troll does not feel it and strikes again. It misses, but my dodge back isn¡¯t quite fast enough, and its second strike connects on my weak gauntlet. Even the glancing blow knocks me sideways. The false rubies¡¯ weapon repelling field is far too weak to be effective.


    I watch in horror as the bright shining gold of my gauntlet abruptly flickers matte gray, back to gold, to gray again, then back to gold, but now with half the luster of the rest of my armor.


    The troll strikes again. I parry this time, a more dwarfish response than a dodge. The force sends me stumbling back, but I manage to draw Heartseeker¡¯s blade down the troll¡¯s fingers, severing two of them.


    The troll, once again, doesn¡¯t care. Its next blow is an upward arc that impacts my lower left side and sends me flying backward, rolling along the gravel.


    Trolls don¡¯t feel pain, I remember reading. They¡¯re not conscious of their own injuries¡ªwhy should they be? You can cut both arms off a troll and a month later it¡¯ll have regrown them. They breed frighteningly fast too, can reproduce from a young age. This monster has probably fathered or mothered a hundred troll-spawn already. It¡¯s expendable and acts like it.


    I scramble to my feet. The audience members far above in the stands are whispering to each other. Vanerak¡¯s head is tilted; he¡¯s curious at something. I notice my left side plate the troll hit is orientated toward them¡ªI glance and see it¡¯s no longer golden, but dull yellow at best, and some of the false rubies are cracked.


    Shit! I have to finish this now, now!


    I unleash a flurry of stabs at the troll. Each one connects and rends deep, but the beast keeps on lumbering forward¡ªslightly slower now, but its strikes carry just as much power. I turn one, another, slice off its ear, and its retaliation crashes into my shoulder. I cry out in pain as I¡¯m sent to one knee. Its next strike glances the front of my helmet and tears my faceplate right away.


    It skitters and bounces along the gravel and comes to a rest, and flickers from golden to as gray as the material it lies upon.


    I¡¯ve no time to watch the crowd¡¯s reaction as the troll swings at me yet again, and again, and again, relentlessly. The look in its eyes has not changed¡ªstill bestial anger.


    It¡¯s mortal, though. Everything can die¡ªdwarves, salamanders, dragons¡ªall meet their fate. I just have to make sure I don¡¯t meet mine today. I shift my grip on Heartseeker to a shorter one¡ªduck under a brutal swing¡ªthrust up into its flesh¡ªHeartseeker¡¯s runes guide it deeper, deeper, leftways into its heart.


    The troll¡¯s knee slams up into my breastplate. I feel it dent slightly, and I fall backwards. A massive weight crushes onto my legs, twists my hip at an awkward angle. I struggle out from under the dead troll, yelling in frustration, as the crowd boos. Once I¡¯m up I extract Heartseeker with a violent yank and spray of crimson, and look up to the stands.


    The crowd¡¯s not merely booing¡ªthey¡¯re shouting insults and throwing food in my direction. Most of them have their thumbs down, the universal gesture that means no mercy, kill him now. My guildmates are shocked into silence. Guildmaster Wharoth is furious, all but baring his teeth at me.


    I look down at my breastplate. It''s dented. It hasn¡¯t quite totally reverted back to the color of steel, but the rubies are certainly revealed as fakes, and thin looping lines are clear to see across it, half-revealed runes of mimicry.


    Vanerak stands up.

 Runeknight: Dwarf Against Dwarf

    Well, Vanerak thinks, it was to be expected. A runeknight of the tenth degree going straight to the fifth? A miracle story, had it been true. But of course it is not a miracle, just a deception. He doesn¡¯t feel any anger, to be clear. It was a bold move.


    His weakness revealed, the candidate must now be punished. That¡¯s how it always goes. Let¡¯s see how he fares against the next three trolls.


    Vanerak stands up. The crowd is a sea of fury either side of him, jabbing down their thumbs like daggers, not that most of them have ever killed anyone. Some are even dirtying his arena with their half chewed snacks. How revolting. Sometimes he wonders how they¡¯d react, the common ones, if they were down in the arena, gates before them and their only escape the five hundred foot plummet at their backs.


    Now on his platform, he sighs and crosses his arms. Just behind him he has a woman ready to pull the lever at his command, and unleash the upstart¡¯s doom.


    ¡°Stop!¡± comes a shout. At first Vanerak ignores it, then there¡¯s the unmistakable sound of metal smashing down shield. He turns.


    ¡°Stop!¡± shouts a blonde dwarf in dull, heavily scripted bronze. He¡¯s at the head of a wedge of a dozen more bronze-clad runeknights; together they drive against the ring of guards, shoving with elbows and shoulders. The guards lock shields and force most away, but the blonde dwarf breaks through punching and kicking like a mad animal.


    ¡°Stop!¡± he begs again. ¡°Don¡¯t kill him yet.¡±


    ¡°And who might you be?¡± Vanerak asks.


    ¡°I have a quarrel with him.¡±


    ¡°Do you now?¡±


    ¡°Yes! He murdered my friend.¡±


    ¡°Did he now?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Stabbed him. I want my revenge.¡±


    Vanerak tilts his head quizzically. ¡°He¡¯s about to die anyway. That not enough for you?¡±


    ¡°I thought it might be, for a while. But if I have a chance, any chance, I want to do it myself.¡± He holds up his warhammer. It¡¯s a hand-and-a-half one, with a small but quadruple-spiked head. ¡°I want to break him myself.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can understand your desire. Must have been hard to lose your friend. However, this is my examination, and I will decide how it proceeds.¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have the right to decide how it proceeds,¡± says the dwarf. ¡°Not if I make a formal challenge of him. Challenges take precedent over examinations. It is written into our laws.¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    Vanerak frowns behind his tungsten mask. Rather ironically for an examiner, he¡¯s never much been bothered with rules¡ªhe¡¯s been above them for so long. Well, who cares if the candidate dies by troll or by dwarf? Dead is dead. Maybe the fight will be interesting. He can always send the trolls in later.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°You can duel him.¡±


    The dwarf blinks. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Do you want to go down through the main gate? We¡¯ll have to move the trolls out the way first, which will be rather a pain, however.¡±


    ¡°No need.¡± He pulls his visor down over his handsome features and bright blue eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll jump straight down.¡±


    How impatient, thinks Vanerak. That¡¯s the trouble with young dwarves these days.


    <hr>


    From the stands comes plummeting a bronze-clad figure. He hits the gravel; it explodes away from him to leave a crater ten feet wide. He tears his helmet off and tosses it away¡ªhe wants me to know who he is.


    I recognize the cruel features, blonde hair.


    ¡°You¡¯re my test, are you?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No. Your test is finished. I just persuaded the examiner to let me end you personally.¡±


    I ready Heartseeker. ¡°I¡¯m not going to be ended.¡±


    ¡°Look at you!¡± he laughs as he advances. ¡°Thought you could become a runeknight on the cheap, did you?¡±


    ¡°I didn''t have a choice,¡± I scowl.


    ¡°You¡¯ve always had choices. You chose to kill my friend, and now you¡¯ve chosen to kill yourself.¡±


    He lunges with his warhammer. I catch his strike on Heartseeker and turn it, but he follows up with a precisely aimed kick to my knee and I stumble nearly to the ground. His next blow I sense going for my head, so I duck, but he turns the strike in the last fraction of a second and smashes my arm.


    A spike on his hammer catches the armplate and he rips it right away. It clatters to the gravel like a dropped tin plate; its gold flickers to gray.


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    ¡°Call yourself a runeknight!¡± he spits.


    The crowd roars its approval.


    I whip Heartseeker upward. Its power directs it to Kazhek¡¯s eye, but he steps back and lands a blow directly on my upper right arm. The plate crumples and my flesh is crushed beneath it, my bone bends¡ªI think I feel it crack.


    He steps back out the way of my clumsy counter-slash, readies himself back to fighting stance. I ready myself too, but my right arm is agony, the crumpled plate still crushing the muscle and pushing on the bruised bone.


    He smiles. He can see my pain. I grimace and aim Heartseeker at his face once more.


    Thrust! And Heartseeker, with half the strength from my right arm gone, moves of its own accord. Kazhek is taken aback¡ªhis smile vanishes abruptly¡ªHeartseeker gashes his cheek. Crimson sprays onto the gravel.


    ¡°Fucking murderer!¡± he screams, and swings at my leg. His warhammer connects, puncturing the steel over my ankle. A brutal stab of pain goes through the muscle. Blood runs from the hole. I back away. I¡¯m exhausted now, the troll was too much for me, lungs are burning, heart is thudding, muscles are stinging with fatigue.


    Kazhek¡¯s not tired at all, and comes at me, just as relentlessly as the troll lying dead on the gravel behind us did. He swings, nearly catches my nose as I don¡¯t bring Heartseeker up in time¡ªspear against hand-and-a-half hammer, how¡¯s he even in range! He¡¯s more skilled than me for sure¡ªbut Heartseeker has its own skill. Like a hunting hound it finds the gap above his kneecap plate and slices in.


    Kazhek gasps in pain and scrambles backward. He nearly falls to his hurt knee, but manages to steady himself. I¡¯m too tired to chase¡ªyet Heartseeker has other ideas, stabs right at Kazhek''s mouth. He throws himself backwards to avoid the dark-haloed steel; it still gashes his forehead in a deep vertical line.


    I restrain Heartseeker. Kazhek¡¯s still dangerous; I can¡¯t overextend myself.


    ¡°What are you waiting on?¡± he hisses.


    ¡°I never chose to kill your miserable friend. It was a fucking accident!¡±


    ¡°You could have dropped your spear.¡±


    ¡°While he was trying to bash my head in?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± I spit. ¡°You going to come at me? Or are you too scared? Prefer beating up the weak, do you?¡±


    He grimaces and walks forward. His eyes are deadly focused, I can almost see the combat mind behind them whirring as he calculates the best angle of attack. I try to predict it¡ªa swing from the left¡ªthrust to his right. He parries with ease and using the momentum of his parry brings his warhammer up. He hooks two spikes under the lower edge of my breastplate, rips back and the dull gold tears.


    Its final runes of mimicry broken, the entire breastplate fades to plain, scratched steel. The vanishing of runic power shocks into the almandines; some merely crack while most burst into matte red shards which scatter and rattle at my feet.


    ¡°You¡¯re a disgrace!¡± Kazhek spits. ¡°You¡¯re no runeknight.¡±


    I scream in rage and unleash a rapid flurry of stabs, the same kind of flurry I bled the troll out with, but Kazhek is too skilled. He is not overwhelmed, not physically, not psychologically. He is fearless in the face of razor-sharp death. His warhammer flows from position to position, smooth as water, and meets every one of my strikes. I press forward and he walks back calmly, not letting my advance break his composure, even when Heartseeker touches his armor, even when it slices off a lock of hair which scatters into fine threads that vanish into the breeze.


    Gasping, I fall back. My arms are like two lengths of lead. Kazhek smiles and hefts his warhammer up above his head, angles it back, widens his stance back, readying a killing blow that will smash my skull to pieces.


    He is tougher than me. More skilled. Yet I know skill at combat is not the most important skill for a runeknight to have.


    The most important skill for us to have is that displayed at the anvil.


    I stab down¡ªand Heartseeker follows its runic instinct, drives up at a gap under the left of Kazhek¡¯s breastplate.


    Through the gap.


    A terrible ringing sound and blackness obliterates the world.


    I open my eyes and I¡¯m lying on my back. One side of my face is cold. I gasp and choke on dust. The cavern far above is spinning, the stalactites twisting like mad ropes. Blazing dots of color dance among them.


    I gasp and choke again, clutch the side of my face¡ªwet with blood¡ªhelmet gone. I sit up, vomit onto my lap.


    ¡°Nearly got you,¡± Kazhek groans.


    He¡¯s lurching towards me. With his right hand he¡¯s holding his warhammer aloft for a second strike, but his left is around Heartseeker, whose snout is still buried deep into his side. It¡¯s shivering and twisting, trying to get deeper.


    ¡°Nearly got you!¡± he gasps.


    I try to stand, vomit again. The world is still spinning¡ªI¡¯m badly concussed.


    ¡°Nearly got you,¡± he whispers. Blood pours from his mouth. Heartseeker looks to be partway into his left lung.


    ¡°Got you!¡± he screams. His warhammer comes down at my bare head.


    It falls from his hand halfway down and clatters harmlessly on my shoulder, then it clatters on the ground. More blood runs out his mouth and he falls to his knees.


    He gives a final blood-bubbling gasp, sprawls backwards and lies still. Heartseeker continues to slide into him slowly and gruesomely.


    I groan, stand, vomit up nothing, stagger over to him and tear Heartseeker out. It drips with blood.


    ¡°Fuck you,¡± I say hoarsely to Kazhek¡¯s corpse. ¡°Fuck you, you fucking bastard. You brought this on yourself.¡±


    The crowd is on their feet, shouting and booing at me. I take a moment to catch my breath, ready myself. I swallow to wet my throat.


    ¡°Fuck you too!¡± I scream at them. ¡°All of you! Bastards!¡±


    I bring my armored foot down on Kazhek¡¯s nose. The dead bone crunches¡ªhis handsome features are forever ruined now. He can burn in hell disfigured.


    ¡°You hear me!¡± I scream to the stands. ¡°You get in the way of me, in the way of what I want to do, my dreams, everything and anything, you¡¯re going to end up like him!¡± I stamp down on his face again. ¡°Just like him! Look down on me, will you, you bastards? Because I was a miner? I¡¯ll fucking cut your hearts out!¡±


    They continue booing of course. I spit onto the gravel, and aim Heartseeker toward the gates, fully prepared to die.


    <hr>


    He¡¯s got guts, Vanerak thinks to himself. You have to admit that about him. Did he really just threaten to kill every single one of us? Did he mean that to include me? Real guts, just like when the Runethane took on all those dragons three hundred years back.


    ¡°Kill him!¡± screams the crowd. ¡°Crush him!¡±


    Just a nod and it¡¯ll all be over. This candidate, no matter how much guts he¡¯s got in him, is not going to kill three trolls. Not to mention the abyssal salamander after them¡ªone of the biggest on record too, if you believe the runeknights who caught it.


    ¡°Kill him!¡± scream the dead dwarf¡¯s guildmates, shoving violently against the shieldwall of Vanerak¡¯s guards. ¡°Kill the fucking bastard now!¡±


    Why should he die, though? Such guts! Exactly like how the Runethane used to be, back in the good old days when this cavern was wild and Broderick just an unknown soldier. No, this candidate won¡¯t die today.


    He won¡¯t pass either, though. His weapon is impressive, but his armor?


    Nowhere near good enough.


    He can try again in a couple years. Vanerak looks forward to it.

 Runeknight: Before the Black Dragon Comes

    The guildhall in the morning¡ªthe morning of two days after, for I¡¯ve been too weak to leave my room until now¡ªis deathly quiet. I shuffle up to get my breakfast from the back, wearing nothing but cheap cotton, and no one so much as looks at me nor whispers a word. I am ignored. A few get up and leave. When I sit down at the long table with my soup¡ªand they¡¯ve served me a little less, it seems, than usual¡ªthose opposite shift away.


    I sup my soup down quickly. It doesn¡¯t fill me. I am starved for nutrition to repair my injuries. Every part of me aches, my head most of all, even more than my cracked upper arm and my punctured ankle. I¡¯m not going to be in shape to do much for a long time.


    Certainly not fight a dragon.


    My fingers around the handle of my spoon turn white as bone. I watch my hand begin to shake.


    The black dragon is coming for us. Six months, it said, and in seven days those six months are up.


    It is going to burn everyone.


    I look around the guildhall. All avert their gaze, but that doesn¡¯t matter. They helped me and I can¡¯t let them die. I could barely stop a troll, though. How am I going to stop a dragon?


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    I look up. Whelt is standing opposite, looking uncharacteristically subdued.


    ¡°Can I sit down?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say quietly. ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°Quite the performance the other day.¡± He chuckles a little, awkwardly. ¡°It was impressive. And I¡¯m not so sad about Kazhek. He brought it on himself.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think I¡¯m an insult to the guild, then?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°You needed to get away from him, and you tried to do that by going up. I can understand your reasons.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, though he¡¯s got my reason wrong.


    ¡°And you took him down. Everyone here has to admit that was impressive. Your spear is no joke.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Though my armor was.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. That wasn¡¯t ideal, but still... Runes are runes. Each is impressive in its own way.¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡±


    He shifts in his seat. ¡°Anyway, the guildmaster wants to see you.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± My heart sinks; my shoulders slump.


    ¡°He didn''t tell me what about, but...¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I can guess.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s damn angry.¡± Whelt grimaces. ¡°Has been since we learned you¡¯d signed up. You should have told us that, you know.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t want to make him angry. Guess that didn''t work.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Is he going to throw me out?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Zathar. I really don¡¯t know. He¡¯s never thrown anyone out before, but...¡±


    ¡°I understand. Thanks for telling me.¡±


    ¡°No problem. And even if you do get thrown out, we¡¯re still friends. Kazhek used to give me a lot of shit before I was at his degree. I owe you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    I stand up from my seat, slowly to stop my hip twinging where the troll landing on me twisted the ball in its socket, and nod to him once again.


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    ¡°I¡¯ll see you later, then.¡±


    He smiles. ¡°You¡¯ve got this. See you later.¡±


    I turn and walk down the guildhall. Now they¡¯re looking at me, out the corners of their eyes, at the condemned walking down to meet his doom. I wonder how many are hoping Wharoth throws me out, tosses me away, maybe back down to the mines from where I came.


    No. I can never go back there. Whatever happens, I¡¯m still a runeknight. No one can take that away from me.


    The door opens as soon as I knock it. Guildmaster Wharoth looks down on me¡ªthrough he¡¯s only a few inches taller, he looms.


    ¡°Sit down,¡± he says, quietly, but I can hear the anger seething in his voice.


    I sit down on my usual seat opposite his desk. The office is decorated with half a dozen sets of gleaming armor on stands, each one the guildmaster¡¯s, and each perfectly formed. On the walls hang weapons, equally beautiful and deadly. It is intimidating to see such displays of skill I do not yet have.


    He closes the door with a click. I watch him as he walks around me to behind his desk, sits. He steeples his calloused hands on the plain wooden surface. His eyes bore deep into mine. I look down.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look down.¡±


    I look back up. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say.


    ¡°Sorry for what?¡±


    ¡°Using those runes. I know they¡¯re not¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care what runes you use. If you want to trick your opponents, some say it¡¯s un-dwarvish, but not I.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°So what are you sorry for?¡±


    ¡°I... I wasn¡¯t patient.¡±


    ¡°You could have told us, you know. How scared you were of Kazhek. That¡¯s what drove you to try and climb up so fast, isn¡¯t it? That¡¯s what Whelt was saying.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I lie. ¡°That¡¯s why I was rushing.¡±


    I hate myself for lying. But whatever happens, whatever the dragon does, it knows where my brother is.


    ¡°You can trust us, Zathar. If we knew he scared you so bad, we¡¯d have sorted him out for you. The guilds are rivals, true, but us smaller ones, and the Troglodyte Slayers aren¡¯t so big either¡ªwe talk to each other. Their guildmaster would have put a stop to it. In five or six years, once you got up to seventh, we¡¯d have organized a duel, if he hadn¡¯t forgiven you by then.¡±


    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t have. I¡¯m a miner, from the dregs. He hated me for that.¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°No, he hated you because he was a hateful person. You being a miner was just an excuse. He bullied Whelt back in the day because he was his little brother¡¯s friend. That was enough for him.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°I hope you do. And that outburst of yours at the end was ill-advised, by the way. You shouldn¡¯t threaten to kill people like that, even if your blood is up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ll be more careful.¡±


    ¡°Please do.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not going to throw me out, then?¡±


    ¡°No. Why would I?¡±


    ¡°Haven¡¯t I brought shame upon us? You may not mind the runes I used, but everyone else...¡±


    He laughs bitterly ¡°We¡¯re badly regarded as it is. Our reputation can¡¯t go much lower. And whatever mistakes you make, you still show promise.¡±


    ¡°Do I really? Every piece of armor I make gets smashed.¡± I gesture to his own suits of plate on the stands. ¡°Yours don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I repaired the dents. And if it was truly bad armor, that hammer to your head would have cracked your skull open. You¡¯ll get better. Just remember...¡±


    ¡°Patience. I¡¯ve got it.¡±


    ¡°Good. Off you go now. I¡¯ll get some money to you later so you can forge yourself some new plate. Might have to be iron, though I¡¯ll let you use my linking machine for the chainmail for free.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, and stand up. I bow low, lower even than when he first accepted me into the guild. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    <hr>


    I lie awake, shivering. In the drawer beside my bed are the silvers Wharoth got for me, but just like he said they¡¯re only enough for iron. They will not get me through the fifth degree exam¡ªwhich I cannot take anyway. I must wait another year at least.


    No exam, no joining Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s military. No military, no access to the castle, no key.


    Sneaking in would be suicide. There¡¯s nowhere to hide in those tunnels, no way to escape up should I be caught in the act. I would get lost, get cornered, and be slain. Vanerak¡¯s favor will become disfavor in an instant when he discovers my true ambition.


    And yet I cannot allow my friends to die!


    They are too kind, have helped me too much. My heart clenches at the thought of the dragon killing them. I should tell them now, warn them now! Yet the memory of my brother throwing himself over the edge floats up in my mind.


    Through forging I attempt to bring some clarity to my mind over the next week, perhaps the final week of the Association of Steel. The clang of hammer on iron calms my nerves, but once I return to my room, sweating and exhausted, my mind whirls with fear in the night and I cannot sleep.


    How can I warn them? It will have to be when the dragon comes, right in the seconds before it lands on the roof of the guildhall and begins to burn. Otherwise I will be found out. But will a few seconds be enough for them to escape, or prepare for battle, if battling the black dragon isn¡¯t suicide?


    The day before the dragon is due, my armor is more or less complete, apart from the chainmail. It¡¯s a sorry, twisted piece, blotchy and weak in parts. If the dragon decides I¡¯m not worth keeping, its claws will go right through. As if it will use its claws! Fire is more likely. I¡¯ve grafted copper runes of fire-reflection, but who am I kidding?


    They¡¯re not going to stand up to dragonbreath.


    And neither will the guild.

 Runeknight: Hot Fire, Black Death

    I wait until the moment after dark falls and grab the cold iron of the fence. I clamber up, slowly, groaning through clenched teeth each time my hurt right arm must take my weight. Here¡¯s the closest the fence comes to the guildhall, and I stretch out my hand to the roof, grip, swing across then pull myself up onto the tiles. I sprawl across them gasping. Even this small effort has taken my breath away, and I¡¯m not even in armor¡ªditched it, would only get in the way.


    Heartseeker is in my hand, for what that¡¯s worth. It won¡¯t pierce dragonscales but maybe it could get an eye¡ªno, if by a ten thousand to one chance I injure the black dragon, it¡¯ll incinerate me for sure.


    Still, feeling the weapon in my hand gives me some mental strength as I force myself to stand, and stare up at the cavern ceiling far above. The mirrors are giving barely any light¡ªeither the moon is a crescent, which it apparently sometimes becomes, or covering the sky are those rainclouds I don¡¯t quite believe in. Whatever the reason, I won¡¯t get much warning.


    I shiver and try not to blink.


    Something flickers over one of the stalactites far above.


    The dragon? The flicker was too fast to tell, too far away.


    Another flicker, right at the top of my vision. I spin around, try to follow it. Nothing more comes. I let out a shaking sigh.


    A gust of cold wind comes against the back of my head. I spin, Heartseeker at the ready. I think I see wings above.


    A bat close by or the dragon far away?


    My heart is battering against the inside of my chest, and despite the cold my face is drenched in sweat.


    Another gust of wind, from the other side. I spin again, unbalance myself and fall to one knee. There¡¯s nothing there. I gasp in a breath, and choke on the dryness of my mouth, hack and splutter.


    The back of my neck prickles. It¡¯s here now. I can sense it. Slowly, I turn around.


    Just beyond the closed iron gates of the guild there creeps a black shadow with a long curling tail and narrowed green eyes. I leap down off the roof and drive Heartseeker through the closest window. The glass shatters inward; someone shouts in shock.


    I scream: ¡°Dragon! Run!¡±


    My guildmates look at me, dumbstruck. Food and ale pause halfway to their mouths and their eyes blink slowly.


    ¡°Dragon!¡± I scream again. ¡°Run!¡±


    ¡°Wha¡ª¡± someone begins, then a wall of flame explodes inward from the front of the room¡ªpieces of wall and the door already disintegrating are borne on the roiling liquid yellow heat. Some dwarves quick enough to pick up shields manage to block the flame; others in full armor are thrown by the blast far to the other side of the room; those with neither armor nor shield instantly turn to ash and are scattered into nothingness.


    The wall of fire comes to my window and the pressure and heat sends me flying away. I crash against the iron fence and slide down, all strength knocked from me.


    The front half of the guildhall collapses in an explosion of sparks and with a horrible crumping, crushing noise. The hot smell of smoke fills the air. A scream from a trapped dwarf begins, increases in volume, continues. The rest of the dwarves stream from the back windows, all of which are smashed outward, yelling in confusion and terror. Only half have their weapons.


    ¡°Where¡¯s the guildmaster!¡± one yells.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    ¡°Was he at the front of the room? Where was he?¡±


    ¡°The middle!¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s he now?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s going to fly up!¡± another screams. ¡°Look!¡±


    The black dragon has raised its wings, and with terrible strength it brings them down and shoots into the air. The backdraft fans the writhing yellow flames to white¡ªthe screaming of the trapped dwarf stops abruptly. Another beat of the dragon¡¯s midnight wings and it¡¯s fifty feet high, looking down at us like a cat looks at rats.


    I meet its gaze. Its fire-lit face breaks into what is unmistakably a smile. I told you so, the smile says. I told you so, didn''t I?


    It tilts its body, folds its wings and dives.


    Most of the dwarves run, throwing down shield and axe and scrambling up and over the fence. I stumble to my feet to climb up after them, but lack the strength, fall and skin my knees on the gravel. The black dragon lands and faces those few dwarves brave enough to stand their ground.


    The first dwarf rushes it, axe high with his shield held in front of his face. The black dragon doesn¡¯t bother with fire, just reaches out a taloned hand, grabs the shield, crumpling the metal, rips sideways brutally. The dwarf¡¯s arm is torn from its socket and both it and his shield sail into the darkness. The black dragon bites the top of the dwarf¡¯s head away and his corpse topples backwards, hits the ground with a thud. Brain matter splashes over the ground.


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    The next runeknight smashes the black dragon¡¯s shoulder with a mighty blow from her two-handed warhammer. A hideous clang rings and reverberates out; the hammer head falls away¡ªthe haft of the weapon has snapped clean in two. The dwarf has just enough time to widen her eyes in horror before the dragon stabs its talons through her steel plate and tears her intestines loose in an explosion of bloody lengths of gore. They ribbon through the air and she hits the ground before they do.


    ¡°Face me!¡± screams the next dwarf. ¡°Face me, monster!¡±


    It¡¯s Whelt. His armor is blackened with soot, and his bare face is red and charcoal, scorched. His beard is crumbling ash. He brandishes his axe at the black dragon, which lunges toward him¡ªfast, so fast¡ªI throw Heartseeker weakly at its head. It curves toward one of the malefic green eyes.


    A veil of utter darkness blocks and Heartseeker is sent spinning away. The black dragon twists its body away from Whelt towards me. Then its jaws are right in front of my face, teeth red and black with burning blood. The jaws open.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± it says.


    ¡°I¡ª¡±


    One taloned hand grasps me around my left arm, as crushing as a mantrap. The black dragon beats its wings and carries me up into the air. It halts and hovers about twenty feet above the ground, brings its jaws even closer to my face. My shoulder feels like it is going to pop, but the worst thing is the heat warming me from below.


    ¡°Was six months too short for you?¡± it asks.


    ¡°I tried!¡± I blurt out. ¡°I tried my best!¡±


    ¡°I did not ask for your best,¡± it sighs. ¡°I asked for the Runethane¡¯s key.¡±


    ¡°It was impossible. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°I do not accept your apology. However, I do see that perhaps I placed too much pressure on you. So I shall give you a year. By which I mean another six months, for the first six have already passed, and my patience has never been thinner.¡±


    ¡°I understand. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll give you time to heal, as well.¡±


    ¡°Heal?¡±


    It flicks my shin with its left talon, and the strike is like that of an iron bar swung with two hands. I scream in pain as my bone is snapped clean in two. It lets go of me and I fall, crumple. I feel my broken leg bend like at a second knee.


    I¡¯m screaming; I can do no else.


    Whelt was waiting for it. He leaps, swings his axe down and connects with its snout. The blow bounces away. The black dragon opens its jaws and yellow light illuminates Whelt¡¯s red-scorched face.


    A bulky figure clad in golden scales tackles him out of the way. The fire bursts from the dragon¡¯s jaws but the figure has rolled back to his feet and turned with deep-ingrained instinct, and raises his golden shield to block it.


    The fire hits the shield and is drawn swirling into it like water being drained from a bathtub. The gold begins to glow, brighter and brighter, until it is as bright as the sun must be, for night turns to day. The black dragon¡¯s flame dwindles to nothing, but the shield continues to shine for a good few seconds longer before its heat and light too vanishes.


    The black dragon rears up and slashes down with the talons of its right hand. The figure in gold blocks with his shield and the talons glance off in a shower of sparks. The figure¡¯s stance remains stable; the force did not move him.


    I notice that the figure¡¯s armor is not yet complete. A leg and one muscled, axe-wielding arm are bare. I recognize the arm¡ªit¡¯s always bare, for although Guildmaster Wharoth keeps his leather apron on at mealtimes, he never wears his long gloves.


    He slashes upward with his axe, a disemboweling stroke. The axe bites into the dragon¡¯s belly just enough to leave a tiny glowing cut.


    The black dragon roars in outrage, swings its right hand down at Wharoth¡¯s unarmored shoulder. The guildmaster ducks the blow and returns with one of his own. A cut appears in the dragon¡¯s hand, slightly longer and deeper, more brightly glowing. A flame flares out of the wound and lengthens and winds its way through the air to the axehead. It winds around the metal, which glows red, and a rune on the side glows white.


    Even with the terrible pain in my leg destroying all thought, and through my blurred, smoke-choked vision, I can read it. It¡¯s a rune I know well.


    It¡¯s the twisted Halat, ¡®come here¡¯, I forged into my first craft¡ªthe knife Wharoth took such an interest in, the reason he let me into the guild.


    The black dragon roars again and flaps up into the air, clasping its left hand over the right to stem the bleeding. It looks down on Wharoth; the fury written on its face nearly makes my heart stop.


    ¡°Get out of here!¡± Wharoth shouts up at it. ¡°Leave my guild and never return!¡±


    The black dragon bares its long teeth. ¡°I shall stay.¡±


    It breathes in deep¡ªits chest expands visibly. The guildmaster raises up his golden shield and braces. The black dragon roars out a torrent of flames far brighter and narrower than before, a pillar of obliteration linking the Guildmaster¡¯s shield to its jaws.


    Wharoth shouts a warcry:


    ¡°Dway tzhet khaznor! Dway tzhet hakhthaz!¡±


    ¡°Dwarves stand firm! Dwarves stand and live!¡±


    His shield starts to glow again, brighter and brighter until it outshines the dragonflame. Every building in the city is lit by brighter light than has ever touched them, and long black shadows spread out behind them in a starburst of darkness. The light increases further, until even with my eyes closed its brightness is like stabbing nails in my eyes, then the shield¡¯s runes hit their limit and the glow stops increasing. Wharoth shouts in pain; I open my eyes a fraction and see metal dripping from the shield and splashing into tiny red bearings which roll and scatter away.


    ¡°No!¡± someone shouts.


    A massive spear, ten foot long, lances into the ground beside me. It quivers, making a deep thrum. Another whistles overhead. I look toward the mountain, and I can see more flying from it, black needles that suddenly become spears and impale houses, the guildhall, one of the slain dwarves.


    One bolt passes through the black dragon¡¯s outspread wing. Another whistles past its head. It snaps its jaws closed and its torrent of flame evaporates. It fixes me with one last angry glare, then beats its wings and accelerates up, away. For about a minute or so I watch it speeding from the city illuminated by the sun-like glow still shining from Wharoth¡¯s shield. The black needles from the mountain chase after it, whistling loudly, until the sun-glow fades and nothing more can be seen. The whistling continues for a minute, then that stops too.


    My breath, shocked away for the duration of Wharoth¡¯s duel, returns, and with it my scream of incredible pain and heart-rending anguish.

 Runeknight: The Two Runethanes

    Runethane Thanerzak stands at the head of his council of war. It does not take place in the ordinary council chambers, but in a chamber further down, as far below the base of the mountain as the peak is above. Miles of rock separate it from the nearest open cave, and the passage spiraling down to it is thin and steep. Trailing up are copper wires linked to the city alarms, traps, and various other defensive implementations ready to be activated at his word. The left wall is dark glass carved with a map of the city, both of his side and that of Broderick, but now is obscured by a tall sheet of aluminum inlaid with an expansive map of the stalagmite forest at the top, and curling tunnels at the bottom. Red runes denote where the black dragon might be hiding.


    Thanerzak listens to his twelve councilmembers while he sweats in his armor, for it is hot down here. The sweat stings his ravaged skin.


    ¡°We believe it is biding its time at the top of the cavern,¡± says Ganzesh. ¡°Above this section, or perhaps here. There are several places it could perch.¡±


    ¡°What does it matter where it perches?¡± says another one of the councilmembers, the woman Calat. Her hair is long golden braids that flow out the back of her tungsten helmet. ¡°It can fly, you realize. We chase it to one perch, it¡¯ll just fly to another.¡±


    ¡°Dragons do not perch,¡± Runethane Thanerzak says. ¡°They are not birds. They lurk in the dark places until they emerge to destroy.¡±


    ¡°It only attacked one small guild,¡± Vanerak points out. He sits at the Runethane¡¯s right hand, tungsten mask covered by gauze as usual. ¡°And it is a small dragon, from all reports. Far smaller than those who used to rule this cavern.¡±


    ¡°It must be probing our defenses,¡± Ganzesh says. He¡¯s not wearing a helmet today, and looks as young and foolish as he sounds.


    ¡°Our defenses are not the small guilds,¡± Thanerzak says. ¡°No. This guild is the crucial element. Vanerak, you had the survivors and their master interviewed, did you not?¡±


    ¡°I interviewed them personally.¡±


    ¡°They were warned of the attack.¡±


    ¡°I would not say that, Runethane. The warning came only three seconds before the dragonflame.¡±


    ¡°But they were warned of the attack by the same dwarf who was threatened by the dragon in the forest. And the dragon later spared his life. This is most disturbing. I have never known a dragon to spare a life before. Preserve it for torture, yes. But dragons do not let people go.¡±


    Ganzesh scratches his head. ¡°Perhaps this is a different breed of dragon.¡±


    ¡°There is only one breed of dragon.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t the dwarf it spared that crazy one?¡± Calat asks.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°The one who attempted the fifth degree exam with the runes of mimicry.¡±


    ¡°The one you spared also,¡± Runethane Thanerzak says. ¡°He was a fool. You should have dispatched of him.¡±


    ¡°You wished that candidates willing to face monsters head on be passed,¡± Vanerak points out. ¡°He is braver and more skilled than most.¡±


    ¡°And he has a connection to this dragon. It disturbs me.¡±


    Vanerak shrugs. ¡°The dragon has a connection to him. It has singled him out for torture, that is all. There are other ways to torture a dwarf apart from placing him in a cage and... hurting him physically.¡±


    Thanerzak¡¯s skin stings. He clenches his fists at the memories. But he¡¯s taken his revenge, is still taking it. There¡¯s no need to relive the trauma.


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Apologies, my Runethane,¡± says Ganzesh. ¡°But I feel the discussion is getting derailed somewhat. What are we going to do about the dragon? As Calat has pointed out, if we give chase it can just fly away.¡±


    ¡°We must close off its angles of escape. Calat, you were in charge of engineering the ballistae, were you not?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I want them mobile. Mount them on wagons. How long will that take you?¡±


    ¡°That depends on how many runeknights I get at my disposal.¡±


    ¡°Hire as many as you need. I want the ballistae mobile by the end of the month. Then we will begin the hunt.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°How exactly will this hunt be undertaken?¡± asks one of the other councilmembers. ¡°Are we to attempt to encircle the dragon?¡±


    ¡°No. We will attempt to funnel it to one of the cavern¡¯s corners.¡± He turns to the map of the forest and points to a small peninsula in the rock. ¡°Here.¡±


    ¡°Is that wise?¡± Vanerak asks. ¡°There is a Disc above that section. We would be wise not to disturb his works.¡±


    ¡°The works of him cannot be so easily disturbed by our weapons, nor even by dragonfire. No. This place is where the black dragon meets his doom.¡±


    ¡°To guard all the ballista through the forest will take hundreds of runeknights!¡± Ganzesh says, aghast. ¡°We cannot leave the city undefended.¡±


    ¡°We will leave enough here.¡±


    ¡°I just think we are overlooking the threat that Runethane Broderick poses! And the Runeking has tasked us with¡ª¡±


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°The Runeking is far away from here,¡± Thanerzak says. ¡°And you overestimate Runethane Broderick. He is not so powerful as I.¡±


    ¡°His army is larger. And the rumors I told you of before, they are true. My spies confirmed them. They speak of a most powerful addition to his runeknights.¡±


    ¡°Silence.¡± Runethane Thanerzak does not need to raise his voice to seal Ganzesh¡¯s lips tight. ¡°You are only two hundred years old. You do not have wisdom and experience, and you have never seen a dragon. Broderick poses not half the threat that thing does.¡±


    ¡°I speak my mind because I am worried for us, Runethane,¡± Ganzesh whispers after a long pause.


    ¡°I know. You care deeply for the city¡ªafter all, you were born here. Unlike most of us in here, it is all you have known. I will spare all the runeknights I can to defend against any attack Broderick may throw at us. And of that defense, you are in charge.¡±


    ¡°You trust me so?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the Runethane says, though that is not quite true. He just wants to get rid of this young fool for a while. He doesn¡¯t need his concentration disrupted.


    ¡°I thank you.¡±


    ¡°You are welcome. Now, we will continue with the main part of the discussion. Once the ballistae are mounted, we will stage them first at...¡±


    The discussion lasts long into the night, if it is indeed night. Runethane Thanerzak has been avoiding sleep, and so his perception of time is rather warped at the moment. The nightmares have been getting worse.


    Finally, the discussion is over. He ascends the spiraling passage flanked by the councilmembers, guards, and servants, a procession of metal moving in perfect lockstep around him. They lead him to his chambers, and he enters. Sleep is battering at his eyes, darkening his vision.


    Once again he avoids it. He draws out his key of diamond and makes his way to the forge.


    The weapon is nearly complete.


    <hr>


    Hardrick is led into the entrance hall of the palace by his guildmates. He gazes up in wonder at the roof. He¡¯s never seen such wealth! It is plated with gold and studded by diamonds the size of his fists¡ªand his fists are the size of hams. Such power, such ostentation! There¡¯s a big word, who says hitting the books doesn¡¯t have its benefits?


    Even the halls of Inevitable Victory are not so ostentatiously decorated, at least not the ones he¡¯s been allowed into. Perhaps the main hall is this ostentatious, with ostentatious statues of the strongest members and ostentatious books filled with deadly runes, and ostentatious armor and ostentatious weapons hung upon the walls for inspiration.


    ¡°We nearly there yet?¡± he asks Danath.


    ¡°Nearly,¡± says his tall, blonde friend. ¡°You nervous?¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°You should be.¡±


    Hardrick shrugs. ¡°I know my armor will impress him, and if it doesn¡¯t, my sword will.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    Hardrick gets the feeling Danath isn¡¯t so happy about all this. He¡¯s never been given a personal audience with the Runethane, after all. And it¡¯s not even as if Hardrick requested it, no, the Runethane requested it. Well, ordered it.


    Wants to see the great hero for himself, does the Runethane. Hardrick grins wide, showing off his gold-capped teeth to an attractive female servant. Whoever knew moving up in the world would be so easy?


    ¡°This it?¡± he asks when they come to a pair of enormous ivory doors. They are patterned with a complex inlay: a battle rendered in platinum, with rubies for the various splashes of blood.


    ¡°I believe so.¡±


    ¡°You mean you haven¡¯t been let in before?¡± Hardrick says in mock surprise.


    ¡°I''ve never had reason to, no.¡± Danath''s jealousy is clear to hear. ¡°You should knock.¡±


    Somehow, Hardrick feels that he¡¯s instead meant to petition the beautiful servants standing either side of the door. But why waste time? The Runethane is expecting him, isn¡¯t he?


    He strides forward and knocks loudly. The doors swing inward.


    Runethane Broderick is a great appreciator of beauty. That much Hardrick has heard, yet still the work of art that is Broderick¡¯s throne room still takes his breath away.


    It has been made in an image of the surface world, wrought in precious gems and metals. Long thin emeralds make up the grass either side of the platinum-paved path. Trees of burnished copper and green agate stretch up to the ceiling of sapphires. The centerpiece of the room is a sphere of pure gold, six feet in diameter, that hovers above Broderick¡¯s throne and shines so brilliantly Hardrick has to shade his eyes.


    The throne is gold too; gold is Broderick¡¯s favorite metal.


    And Runethane Broderick on the throne? He is golden too.


    Not in the sense that he wears golden armor. How crude! No. Runethane Broderick has sewn tiny golden rings into his skin. Each is only a millimeter and implanted so perfectly that not a single speck of white or pink shows. For clothes, golden chains drape him, but there aren¡¯t quite enough of them, Hardrick thinks.


    It really is every bit of skin the Runethane has turned to gold.


    His beard is perhaps the most impressive part, however. The story goes that a servant once compared the gold dust he used to rub into it to dandruff. Broderick locked himself in his chambers for a year, and when he came out, he had plucked out every single hair of his beard and replaced them with golden wire.


    The servant was executed.


    Now this bizarre dwarf is looking down upon Hardrick. Suddenly his silver cladding does not feel so impressive.


    ¡°So you¡¯re the one are you?¡± laughs Broderick. His voice is deep and mellow. ¡°The miner?¡±


    Hardrick goes to one knee. ¡°I used to be. Then I found I had a talent for forging.¡±


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know about that. I¡¯m not a great fan of silver, you know. You might have redone it in gold.¡±


    ¡°Didn''t have the time.¡±


    ¡°So what are you here for, again?¡±


    Hardrick looks up, mildly annoyed. ¡°You wanted to look at me.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, I remember. But not just look. Get up, will you?¡±


    Hardrick does so.


    ¡°Give us a smile.¡±


    Hardrick smiles, showing off his golden teeth.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s more like it! Maybe you have better taste than I thought. And I hear your sword is most ferocious!¡±


    Hardrick draws it out. This is the third version of it he has created. The runes are much better formed. Even the air seems to recoil away from it, as if in pain.


    ¡°Looks nice. Give us a swing.¡±


    The sword keens as it passed through the air, left, right, straight down.


    ¡°Yes, very nice. You¡¯ve been on a couple raids already, I hear?¡±


    ¡°Only one, actually.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re going on a lot more. I need someone to really mess the other side up. Spread destruction, diminish fighting capacity, that sort of military stuff.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for the opportunity.¡±


    ¡°Big word for a miner. How would you like to be a captain instead?¡±


    ¡°A captain?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Lead not just raids, but a proper army. You¡¯ll be better off than your friend here.¡±


    Hardrick hears Danath shift behind him.


    ¡°Ah, but you''re only the fifth degree, right?¡± Broderick says.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Well, you can get special dispensation and take the exam for third right away. Shouldn¡¯t be so hard for you, from what I hear.¡±


    Hardrick grins and slashes his sword in a loop around his head. The air squeals. The runes flash brightly, leave their images trailing behind the slash. ¡°I¡¯m sure it won¡¯t be.¡±

 Runeknight: Distant Battle

    I¡¯m standing next to the door, leaning back against the wall slightly. I¡¯m not meant to do this, I¡¯ve been told several times, but it is hard to stand for long periods of time with a snapped leg. It¡¯s in the the process of healing, of course, is expertly splinted¡ªthe Runethane ordered the survivors get the best medical care¡ªbut it won¡¯t be healed for another month at least, despite the chains of soothing tying the splint to it.


    This is a new job I have. Standing around. Guarding, to be specific, though there¡¯s nothing to guard against. I¡¯m not even at the main entrance to the warehouse, but stand at the door to the shipment office in the coal stock house. A kind of decoration, in sad iron armor. I¡¯m not even allowed Heartseeker here. Too threatening to the clients, apparently.


    Well, this is as good as it gets. I am going to be dead in five months. That¡¯s what the dragon promised, and I''ve learned it keeps its promises.


    A full half of the guild perished in the flames and at the dragon¡¯s claws. The guildhouse is destroyed, and although Guildmaster Wharoth has been given money to rebuild it, in honor of his valiant defense and excellent shield, he is devastated. I¡¯ve only seen him a couple times since, and the strength in his eyes was dulled to nothingness.


    My fault, I think bitterly. I think this thought often. My fault. Whelt is still recovering from his burns. No one expects them to fully heal.


    When the dragon next comes for me, I¡¯ll be alone, I¡¯ve decided. No one to fight it for me. Hopefully it¡¯s all over quickly.


    The door to the shipment office opens and the manager walks out.


    ¡°Stand up straight, Zathar. Important client coming.¡±


    He clanks away. A new decree has been passed: everyone who owns armor must wear it. The manager, though he¡¯s a runeknight, has not worn his in a while, and it fits him badly. He¡¯s reached the level that he¡¯s happy with, and has been enjoying the peaceful, prosperous life. The client he comes back with is much the same sort. He¡¯s not in armor, though I¡¯m sure he owns some. He¡¯s outgrown it a while back¡ªhas a swollen belly from too much food and drink. A curious type of runeknight, are business owners. Forge enough to get them the money they want, then use it not on progress but to earn more. I don¡¯t understand them.


    I don¡¯t have to. I¡¯m not progressing anywhere. My life ends in five months.


    ¡°How much did it cost to get all this in?¡± the fat client asks.


    ¡°Too much. Transportation costs are flying up faster than a gecko up a stalagmite.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that means my costs will be going up as well, then.¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ll work out the details in my office.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course.¡±


    They shut the door behind them. It¡¯s thin wood¡ªthe owner here is a spendthrift, which is the only reason he agreed to hire me¡ªso I can hear their conversation. I don¡¯t want to listen. What reason is there for a dead dwarf walking to listen to anything? But their words enter my ears regardless as I slump back against the wall.


    ¡°So what¡¯s exactly going on with the transportation? Blockage in the shafts?¡±


    ¡°Nothing so easily cleared,¡± grumbles the manager. ¡°Security protocols. There¡¯s a new passcode system all the mines have to follow now. It hasn¡¯t been well implemented.¡±


    ¡°Runethane¡¯s doing, I suppose?¡±


    ¡°His new head of defense, I think.¡±


    ¡°Hah, well, like I always say, he¡¯s looking to the wrong people. Needs dwarves like me organizing things. Nothing¡¯s ever badly implemented in my company.¡±


    ¡°I feel it can''t be helped. Things are heating up hotter than a pile of coals a salamander¡¯s made its nest in.¡±


    ¡°Oh? I¡¯ve been too into my work recently. Can¡¯t stop the golden grind.¡±


    ¡°Nasty rumors swirling around. The dragon, of course.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I heard about that one. Though I didn''t see it.¡±


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    ¡°Well, I did. Terrified the kids, I can tell you. My youngest is still having trouble sleeping.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s other rumors, though?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Broderick¡¯s going to make a move, they say.¡±


    ¡°After so long?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been building up. There¡¯s talk he has a new general.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be so worried. The Runethane will see him off.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane¡¯s more worried about the dragon. You know his history.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, we¡¯ve had raids before.¡±


    ¡°We had one from this new general recently. He was just a soldier, yet rumor says he killed some of the Runethane¡¯s best guards.¡±


    ¡°They still drove him off though. Won¡¯t mean anything for my business.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s gotten better. Rising at an incredible rate. Was a miner last year, they say. And now he¡¯s third degree!¡±


    I draw in a sharp breath. That can¡¯t be true. No one can move that fast.


    The fat client seems to agree with me. ¡°Ah, I¡¯m sure it¡¯s been blown out of proportion. Anyway, my order. Can you fulfill it?¡±


    The conversation moves away from rumors and into business. Estimates are polished down to exact figures. Vast quantities of money and coal are to be shifted. The tone of both men becomes progressively more joyful. They love money, it seems. They live their life for it.


    My thoughts are elsewhere. On top of the pain, anguish, guilt and fear, now jealousy flares. It cannot be true. A miner last year, and now third degree. I could not make fifth. Of course I couldn¡¯t! To move that fast is impossible.


    The rumors are blown out of proportion. They have to be! Otherwise why is he on the other side doing so well, and me so poorly? Why am I in iron, working a low-pay job, not even allowed my spear, yet he is a general decked out in platinum or tungsten? What did he do right, and I wrong?


    I feel rather sick.


    The two business-dwarves'' conversation continues for some time. The door opens, but I don¡¯t bother straightening myself. The manager is in too good a mood to care, and says nothing. My job continues. The light streaming in from small windows high up, dotted with specks of black dust, diminishes. The room becomes total blackness, for of course no lamps are allowed next to shelves stocked high with crates of coal.


    I¡¯m getting sleepy. My shift doesn¡¯t end until midnight, but I usually sleep the last part of it anyway. My eyelids begin to close.


    ¡°Hey!¡± someone shouts. Is the voice part of my half-dream, or just far away? I decide the former and shut my eyes again.


    ¡°Get out, get out!¡± someone¡¯s yelling from the front of the warehouse. ¡°Help them!¡±


    This voice is definitely real, because the alarm bell accompanying it is assaulting my ears violently. I¡¯m not meant to leave my post, even in case of an attack, but the person who decided that rule was likely not expecting one. I draw my knife and limp forward through the shelves of coal. The dust I stir up makes me cough. The exit is a square of light, through it I limp. I see the last of the guards in the main warehouse rushing out the doors.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I shout after them. ¡°Hey! What¡¯s happening?¡±


    They don¡¯t hear me. I can hear battlecries outside. I limp as fast as I can to the exit, reach it and look out down the road.


    It¡¯s a wide thoroughfare, walled by warehouses, and a little distant from here by some massive smelters belching smoke upwards into the stalactites far above. In the clouds of smoke too heavy to go up that instead creep across the road, there are flashes of metal. A brawl? Robbery?


    I steady myself against the wall of the next warehouse and continue to limp forward. The guards from my warehouse disappear into the melee, swinging down axe and hammer. One falls over backwards, and though it¡¯s hard to tell in the smoggy, lamplit darkness, I think there¡¯s blood running from him.


    The street is like a scene from hell, firelit black smog, with the alarms from every warehouse and smelter in the district blaring, dwarves shouting. This is not a robbery. It is an assault.


    I stop my advance. One of the warehouses next to the battle flares into a tower of fire. For a moment I fear the dragon, but no, another figure is behind this. I can see him in the midst of the dwarves surrounding him and hacking at him in futility. His silver armor shines, and his sword shines brighter. It leaves trails through the air, and limbs fall at its touch.


    Another building flares into fire, this one nearer to me. A dwarf runs from it¡ªsaboteur. Does he glance at me? If he did, he doesn¡¯t care, and rushes into the building opposite.


    Everyone¡¯s run out to defend against the attack. No one here is used to war, remembers discipline. Me included. I turn to my warehouse. An oil charge would send the coal up in a tower of flame that would brush even the stalactites a hanging a mile above.


    The noise of battlecries vanishes. The fight is over, and the dwarf in silver stands triumphant among the bodies. He raises his sword high and shouts out.


    It is a cry of exaltation.


    Someone knocks me from behind and I fall to my knees. I look up, and a squad of ten dwarves in tungsten are charging toward the silver-clad figure. He makes a rude gesture, and sprints off into the red-glowing smog. His saboteurs, dozens of them, flood from the warehouses not yet burning and follow.


    Those warehouses explode into flames. The military falls back, shouting in frustration and anger. The dwarves the silver runeknight killed are incinerated.


    It seems the legend is real. Like a ghost out of nightmares he has appeared, to torment me in my final hours. So suddenly, it is almost as if the fates are tormenting me. The legend from the other side, my mirror, who is clearly so much better skilled than I am.


    I slump back against the wall, and curse everything. I am doomed, yet he is rising.

 Runeknight: Defensive Position Number Sixty-Three

    The raid I witnessed was the first of many. Nearly every day after, a new one springs from some disused tunnel to kill, maim, and most importantly destroy. Rumors explode of an army being raised on the other side of the chasm, to flood across and unify both halves of the city once and for all under the golden fist of Runethane Broderick.


    The defenses go up, all around and under Thanerzak''s half. The earth trembles with the rumble of mining and the low thunder of stone brick placed upon stone brick. Tunnels are blocked up. In their place, new mineshafts dug and the materials of construction raised into the city. Along the chasm rises high scaffolding, obscuring the enemy side from view.


    The raids diminish in frequency, but do not quite cease. Every runeknight in the city now belongs to the militia under the command of Defense Minister Ganzesh. I understand that he plans to keep our territory standing no matter how much gold, sweat, and blood it takes.


    From now on vital industrial areas are to be protected by only the strongest. So once the paperwork for my placement into the militia is finished, I am to be assigned a new position.


    And while I wait for my assignment I begin a new craft. I cannot give up, I''ve decided. It is odd to say, and likely treasonous, but seeing the runeknight in silver, the legend who has gone from miner to general, has inspired my heart to roil with jealousy. Only a miner yet he has excelled; there is no reason I cannot too. And with the dragon being hunted, and the defenses going up, it is not likely to be burning me any time soon. Maybe it will even miss my six month deadline.


    All of us who faced the dragon received gold. It is not much, but I can create something, at least, better than the wonky iron that is my current gear.


    Gauntlets. My power is in the offense, and so I must emphasize that. I have thought of the perfect runes to graft. First though, the forging itself, down at one of the forges our guild has been gifted as a replacement for those incinerated.


    I measure the plates to fit exactly¡ªmy right hand is more swollen with muscle than the left, and I make sure to take this into account, as well as every other difference in structure between my hands. I curve the backplates so they follow exactly the lines of my knuckles. Each part of each finger gets its own plate as well, which overlap.


    Most importantly, the chainmail. Guildmaster Wharoth is willing to give me his linking machine free of charge as promised.


    ¡°Go ahead,¡± he said to me. ¡°You stood up to that monster. You didn''t flee. Keep it, in fact.¡±


    It¡¯s an amazing piece of equipment. It doesn¡¯t just link rings together, but creates them too. All I have to do is cut the steel wire into the correct lengths, insert them, and keep my hand turning the machine¡¯s wheel steadily. In a day I have nearly a third of the chainmail I need, and it¡¯s gleaming and soft to the touch. I wrap it around my hand and unlike the cheap stuff, it¡¯s as flexible as silk.


    But I cannot spend every day in the forge, as much as doing so calms my heart and mind. Today I am to be assigned my position. I leave my apartment, bypass the forge and walk up through the main roads of the city.


    I imagined military law to mean serious, grim looking runeknights marching up and down the streets at all hours, beating anyone who didn''t have permission to go outside. The reality is different.


    The most obvious departure from peaceful times is the amount of dust in the air. The high walls in front of the chasm are being constructed at incredible speed, and all the stone-cutting raises up huge gray clouds that drift through the streets, coating everything and everyone, and getting into my lungs to make me choke. Coal-smoke adds its darker tones to the air, as vast amounts of metal ore are smelted to drive down the price of materials so every runeknight can equip themselves for the battle to come.


    There are still plenty of grim-faced military types, however. I come face to face with a committee of three up in the plaza outside the arena, where the open-air assignment office has been set up. Office is rather grand a word. It¡¯s a long table stacked high and haphazardly with books and papers. In the middle, orientated to face the new militia members, is a large map marked with many numbers.


    ¡°Name and degree,¡± intones a tungsten clad officer.


    ¡°Zathar, tenth.¡±


    The officer raises his eyebrows as he makes a mark on his list. ¡°Well! The famous one!¡±


    One of the other officers laughs. ¡°The crazy one.¡± She grins at me. ¡°Not quite as handsome as he was in all that gold.¡±


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    I scowl.


    ¡°Where do we put him?¡± asks the third. ¡°The front lines? He has courage.¡±


    ¡°Tenth degrees can¡¯t go on the front lines,¡± the first points out. ¡°They¡¯d be slaughtered. And he can¡¯t go in the rapid response force either.¡±


    ¡°But can¡¯t have him too far back,¡± says the second. ¡°Not near anything important.¡±


    ¡°The middle then... Here,¡± says the third. He taps his finger on the map, half a mile up the mountain. ¡°Defensive position number sixty-three.¡±


    ¡°What do I do there?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You sit there and do nothing,¡± says the woman officer. ¡°If Broderick¡¯s army makes it through the city to you, you¡¯ll have to fight, but that won¡¯t happen.¡±


    ¡°Who else is with me?¡±


    ¡°Go there and find out,¡± the first officer says sternly. ¡°You report there tomorrow. Fail to show up, and there will be both physical and financial consequences.¡±


    <hr>


    I arrive at defensive position sixty-three and my first thought is that it looks very defensive indeed. It¡¯s a circle carved into the rock of the mountain slope, twenty foot in diameter, four foot deep at its front side and eight foot at the back. It is also fronted by a wall; stairs lead to the small platform behind small crenellations. We are, I imagine, meant to stand on these and stab downward if Broderick¡¯s dwarves show up.


    Then I realize the fatal flaw. Any enemies can bypass the front, climb the mountain a little, and charge in from the back.


    ¡°It used to hold a ballista,¡± explains the commander, a nervous looking runeknight of the sixth degree. ¡°If the enemy shows up, we¡¯re supposed to get out and form a line linked with the defenders in the other positions.¡±


    ¡°That shouldn¡¯t happen though, right?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°I hope not. Who knows, though?¡±


    The dwarves with me are unfamiliar faces. None are equipped very well. Mostly steel, with rather uninspired runes of toughness and flexibility¡ªand a few don¡¯t even have steel, just iron like me. As for weapons, I personally think Heartseeker is the best by far. If its dark glow even makes my allies nervous, how much more so my enemies?


    On account of its glow, and maybe my reputation too, the rest avoid me. I spend my time looking out across the city from the top of the wall with no one at my side.


    A few days later, however, one familiar face comes to join us. A gray-bearded one, with eyes dark from lost sleep.


    ¡°Zathar,¡± he says. ¡°Nice to see you.¡±


    ¡°Hayhek. Funny we should end up together.¡±


    ¡°Not really. Anyone strong is either up front or back at the castle.¡± He chuckles. ¡°Likes of us get put here.¡±


    I try not to let my frustration at his lumping us into the same category show. ¡°Didn''t they put Yezakh in with you?¡±


    ¡°Still hasn¡¯t taken the exam, and now they¡¯re on hold.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°And with what happened to your guild, well, he¡¯s a right mess about that as well.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s tough. He¡¯ll recover.¡±


    ¡°I hope so.¡± He sighs again. ¡°I hope so.¡±


    I nod firmly. ¡°He will. And so will our guild. The Guildmaster has the money. Once this all blows over, he¡¯ll rebuild it. Yezakh can join, and then he can take the exam.¡±


    ¡°If it blows over.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t it? At least, no one¡¯s going to make it up here to us.¡±


    ¡°Better hope they don¡¯t.¡± Hayhek grimaces. ¡°Look up there.¡±


    I look to where he points. At the emplacement adjacent to ours are several figures in dark bronze. My new hopes sink.


    ¡°Do they want revenge?¡± I ask. ¡°I beat Kazhek fairly.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But I won¡¯t trust them to guard our backs.¡±


    I must stay at the emplacement every day until four hours after nightfall. As the mirrors darken, torchlights flicker into flame down in the city, turning it into a sea of lights. They are thickest and brightest along the front wall whose construction stops for nothing.


    One night a procession begins along the main road. It is too dark to make out properly, but I can see a long line of massive carts, each pulled by a straining blindboar. Upon each cart is a contraption of some kind.


    Of course. Tonight is the night the dragon hunt leaves the city.


    ¡°Is this wise?¡± I ask Hayhek. ¡°With the raids, and Broderick''s army.¡±


    ¡°Wise? Who knows? We all understand why he¡¯s doing it, though. With his history.¡±


    ¡°What history?¡±


    Hayhek looks at me curiously. ¡°You don¡¯t know it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Miners never got history lessons.


    ¡°This cavern used to be ruled by the beasts. He was the one who took it from them, three hundred years ago.¡±


    ¡°You remember it?¡±


    ¡°No! I¡¯m not quite that old. But he suffered a great deal in the process. Which is why he¡¯s charging off now.¡±


    I point to the head cart of the procession. ¡°Is that the Runethane, then?¡± I can just make out a tungsten clad figure walking in front of it, armor gleaming darkly in the torchlight, a tall halberd leaned on his shoulder. I swallow¡ªthis is the most powerful dwarf in the caverns, the thousand year-old warrior who conquered dragons. He¡¯s so far above me that he may as well be standing on the surface under a glow of unfiltered sunlight.


    ¡°No.¡± Hayhek deflates my thrill. ¡°That¡¯ll be one of his first degrees. The Runethane is in his forge.¡±


    ¡°Is he making something?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±¡¯


    ¡°What?¡±


    Hayhek shrugs. ¡°No one knows. Best not to speculate. Nothing the likes of us could ever hope to create.¡±

 Runeknight: Key of Pain

    Because the war is not yet started in earnest, and because to move massive stocks of food, expansive tents, and dig latrines would take dwarfpower better employed creating the wall and blocking off tunnels, for the time being I am just a part-time soldier.


    I have the late-afternoon and evening shifts. Despite the late nights, I do not allow myself any sleep-ins. Each morning I shake off the despair of my nightmares, gather up my materials and make my way down to the forge.


    Every detail has to be perfect. Every mistake must be ironed out or redone. In fact, I think I end up remaking every one of the overlapping finger plates, just to make sure the surface of each is optimal for both perfect physical defense and clean rune-grafting.


    I realize the chainmail is going to be more difficult than I thought. The linking machine is more complex than I gave it credit for. If I do not keep the turn-speed of the wheel constant, the links end up uneven. The mail fabric I thought was so perfect before proves on closer inspection to have minute unevennesses, so I throw it out and begin again.


    Yet I¡¯m making progress. As the days grind on, my gauntlets begin to come together.


    Once lunchtime comes, though, it¡¯s away from the forge and up through the city to defensive position number sixty three. I stare out over the city, longing to be back in the forge working on my craft. Instead, I watch another kind of craft coming together. The great craft of the walls.


    Stoneworking is another ancient and revered dwarven skill. Since we spend our whole lives surrounded by the material we have a natural affinity for it. If runes could be grafted to it, perhaps masons would be as well-respected as runeknights. In times of war, they nearly are. Everyone is in awe at the walls they are constructing. They are a hundred feet high, and each block is cut so perfectly, stacked so exactly against the other, that the seams between them cannot be seen even from just a foot away. Up in the distance, they look as smooth as any wall of natural making¡ªsmoother, for they are not yet weathered, and thus gleam like gray mirrors.


    For about a week and a half they continue to extend upwards until they reach the point judged adequate by the stonemasons, or perhaps the limit of Defense Minister Ganzesh¡¯s funds. The masons are not finished, however. They create triangular crenellations all across the top, and rumor has it ¡®murder-holes¡¯ to throw down rocks and burning magma pumped from below. They also build bunkers at even intervals both behind the walls and on top, as triage and command emplacements.


    It¡¯s satisfying to watch, and relieving too. The more I look at the walls growing day by day, the more confident I am that I will not have to fight the silver legend until I am ready. Broderick¡¯s men will not be able to both cross the chasm and smash through the walls. And they will surely not risk the march through to the outer edges of the forest to bypass the wall, not with a dragon lurking there, and all the other beasts besides it.


    ¡°How is the dragon hunt going?¡± I ask Hayhek one day. ¡°Haven¡¯t heard any news lately.¡±


    ¡°If you haven¡¯t heard any news, that means there isn¡¯t any. Still tracking it, I imagine.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane is very confident he can find it.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane knows plenty more about dragons than us. We just have to have faith in him and his guard. That¡¯s just the way of the world: can¡¯t do everything on your own.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Do I even want them to find it? I¡¯ve gone from fearing my death at its hands, to new hope for the future. The silver legend gave me inspiration for my craft, and this inspiration in turn has given me some hope for my future. But my future includes my brother, and to get to him, I must fulfill the dragon¡¯s request.


    My leg is nearly completely healed now¡ªI barely limp, and I am a member of the Runethane¡¯s military, and the castle is right behind me. Gaining access is not totally out of the question. The key is not so far out of my grasp as it once was.


    But what does the black dragon want with the key? What if giving it the key will mean the deaths of hundreds? What is the key for? These are uncomfortable questions.


    The construction of the walls completes; the remaining scaffolding is taken down. Nothing of note happens for a few days. The city calms, an effect of the great gray cliffs now protecting us.


    Then a rumor takes root.


    ¡°There¡¯s something on the other side...¡± whispers one dwarf to another during night shift.


    I prick up my ears.


    ¡°What thing?¡±


    ¡°A machine. My cousin¡¯s down helping block off the tunnels. Talked to some of our spies... Broderick is building something.¡±


    ¡°Building what?¡±


    ¡°No idea. Something big. Something huge.¡±


    The other guard chuckles. ¡°I think your cousin¡¯s telling tall tales, mate.¡±


    Nevertheless, the rumor persists. Over the next few days I hear it repeated again and again, a story of some great machine of twisted metal forged together with huge trunks of wood from the surface. No one has had a glimpse of it, least of all me, but even so we start to see it through the wall. Just our imaginations, of course, but imagination is often more demoralizing than reality.


    A hideous monster of a machine, built to one purpose and one alone: our destruction. None of us feel so safe any more.


    I feel even less safe the day one of the Troglodyte Slayers comes down to greet me. I see her striding down from position number sixty-two in her bronze armor, which is more ornate than Kazhek¡¯s was, and shimmers at the shoulder plates¡ªthere¡¯s some kind of runic poem of strength there. A two-handed hammer is strapped to her back.


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    The commander lets her in. She climbs up the stairs to the emplacement and faces me. I step back, two hands on Heartseeker, ready for anything.


    ¡°Relax,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯m not here for revenge.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re Kazhek¡¯s sister,¡± I say.


    ¡°You¡¯ll remember I stopped him killing you, then.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. His first attempt, at least.¡±


    ¡°He always was rash. I tried to talk him out of sabotaging you in the examinations.¡±


    ¡°How kind of you.¡± I narrow my eyes slightly. She does not look particularly kind. ¡°At any rate, that¡¯s all over now.¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°Kazhek had friends who would very much like a piece of you. Polt wasn¡¯t so popular, but he was.¡±


    I tilt my head in suspicion. ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone else in my guild to get hurt,¡± she says sourly. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re particularly skilled, to be clear. Just lucky.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try not to hurt any of them, then,¡± I say.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be so rude. You should be thanking my brother. You weren¡¯t in any shape to take on the rest of the fifth grade examination. I should know, I¡¯ve taken it. Seems Vanerak enjoyed the duel so much he decided to keep you alive.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe he just thought I showed promise.¡±


    ¡°Whatever the reason, just stay away from my guild. Don¡¯t pick fights if they provoke you, and don¡¯t accept any duels.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning to.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    She leaves and I lean against the battlements and sigh.


    ¡°It¡¯ll never be over,¡± Hayhek warns. ¡°Feuds are ugly things.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve got nothing to complain about,¡± I say darkly. ¡°Kazhek challenged me. If he lost that was his fault and his business.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not about logic, Zathar. Never is.¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    We continue to watch out over the city. The light of the mirrors turns orange, then fades to dim silver.


    ¡°Hey,¡± says one of the other dwarves. ¡°Look at that. Down there.¡±


    I squint to the smeltery district he¡¯s pointing to. Smoke is rising from a hole in the street.


    ¡°Some accident?¡± Hayhek says.


    Armored figures climb from the hole. At their head is the runeknight in shining silver. My grip on Heartseeker tightens. They flood out into the nearest facility.


    ¡°Another raid!¡± someone shouts. "Commander!"


    The commander scrambles up the stairs and looks down.


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot this time,¡± he murmurs.


    ¡°Do we go down?¡±


    ¡°No. Stay here. We have to keep discipline. Someone else will deal with it.¡±


    There¡¯s an awful lot of soldiers though. And the skill of the silver legend I have seen for myself.


    <hr>


    Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s hammer falls again and again upon the blade. The anvil shudders with each beat. Sparks flash into the air, blue and white. He cannot see the blade change its shape, the alloy is far too hard for that; it takes all his strength to bend and flatten it by even a micrometer. It has taken him a century to form it into its current form.


    It is nearly done, though. Another few weeks, and the weapon will be complete.


    Someone raps at the door to his forge. He grimaces and puts down the hammer, walks over to open it. It¡¯s Ganzesh, of course.


    ¡°What is it?¡± The Runethane¡¯s voice reverberates metallically behind his mask. He often wonders if he is the only one who can hear the reverberations, or if the peculiarity makes its way outside the mask as well.


    ¡°My apologies, Runethane. I have an urgent military report.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°I think it would be better if we were to sit down, somewhere... I have reports from the rapid response forces, and the head quartermaster, as well as financial statements¡ªdire ones¡ªfrom the banking guild. We should go over them.¡±


    Thanerzak glowers. Ganzesh of course cannot see the glower, but he can certainly feel it.


    ¡°I am forging.¡±


    ¡°Even so... It is urgent.¡±


    Thanerzak is beginning to regret giving Ganzesh his new position. He wanted him out of his way, up in the city organizing things, not down in the castle bothering him.


    ¡°If it¡¯s so urgent, tell me here and now.¡±


    ¡°We have just driven off another raid¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°But one of immense size, Runethane! With the silver legend at its head. The one I told you about, Broderick¡¯s newest general.¡±


    ¡°You still drove them off.¡±


    ¡°At cost! Fifty runeknights slain, and several of our biggest smelteries have been demolished by thermite charges. The knock-on economic effect will be enormous. Prices of bronze, copper, and titanium were already high, and now¡ª¡±


    ¡°If you have already driven them off it no longer concerns me. I have a more important concern.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane, there is also the matter of the ram they are constructing. My spies say it is vast, and my stonemasons say that the wall will not hold against it forever.¡±


    ¡°Even if they batter a hole in the wall, they will still have to bridge the gap, and we will not let them.¡±


    ¡°I would not be so¡ª¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± Thanerzak snaps. ¡°No matter how many runeknights Broderick pours into my city, once my weapon is complete, they will be of no consequence. Broderick will be destroyed, and I will be able to restart the true conflict. Starting with severing the black dragon¡¯s scaly head from its shoulders, unless Vanerak manages first.¡±


    ¡°Just one weapon cannot defeat an entire army.¡±


    Runethane Thanerzak smiles behind his metal mask. ¡°You will see, young dwarf. Now leave me be.¡±


    Ganzesh bows and hurries away. Runethane Thanerzak turns back to his forge.


    It is not large at all. Nor is it, like those of most of his underlings, perfectly geometrically carved and equipped with all the latest forging technology¡ªautomatic vises, pump-action hammers, linking machines and the like. It is the same rough cave as he found it four hundred years back, on his first expedition to what would become his lands, when all was as yet untouched by dwarven hand.


    There is only one addition.


    He looks down upon the axe. Head and welded haft both glimmer in every color there is, and some there are not. It¡¯s not glowing with heat anymore though. The alloy he mixed over a century back tends to bleed heat if it isn¡¯t being subjected to constant impacts, and Ganzesh has completely interrupted his rhythm.


    He lifts it up and places it lengthways into a blackened alcove at the far end of the forge. Beside this alcove shines the handle of his diamond key: it is inserted halfway into its lock. He pushes the key in a fraction; it clicks; he turns it and it clicks again, louder.


    Something deep below rumbles, a scream through the rocks, and white dragonfire roars into the alcove. Its blinding light and heat glare out, turning the forge room incandescent. Runethane Thanerzak begins to laugh, then to scream with laughter. His rabid mirth fills the forge room and echoes down the halls of his mountain-castle.


    This is his revenge. The dragons that tortured him so, he is now torturing in turn, and he will continue to torture them, every day, with every new craft he makes.


    His revenge will never end.

 Runeknight: Battering Ram

    After that raid, our hours at the defenses are increased. Now I must be there morning, afternoon, and the first half of the night.


    Thus I do not sleep.


    The second half of every night I spend at the forge. My gauntlets are nearly complete now. I put them on and clench my fists. The chainmail on my palms is no impediment and the metal scales running down the backs of my fingers overlap without even a millimeter gap between them, no matter how I flex my hands. Now for the runes. I have twisted them into perfect shape already: all I have to do is graft them with the little incandesite I have remaining.


    The forge flashes with brilliant red light each time I tap one into place. The poem I have drafted is a highly structured one: the first half a reflection on the way a hunter cuts into his prey with unerring accuracy in five short stanzas and one long. On the second gauntlet is a poem of one long stanza followed by five short, about the way a fish can swim gently down the river, drifting with the flow of the current, and never make a single wasted motion.


    It is dawn when I finish, but I do not feel at all sleepy. The flashes of light from each careful tap of my hammer have kept me awake by invigorating my brain and my heart. I hold the gauntlets up to the early morning rays streaming through the window and their runes¡ªcopper, a light and passionate metal perfect for the themes of both poems¡ªgleam like fire.


    Hands trembling, not in anxiety but anticipation because I know these are my finest crafts next to Heartseeker, I put on the gauntlets. They¡¯re warm inside. I flex my fingers. Those of my right hand move powerfully, as if my muscles are now steel springs. Those of my left hand barely feel as if they move at all, so naturally do they flow through the air.


    When I clasp Heartseeker, both properties combine. The precision and strength of my movements is fivefold what it was before. I move the spear from high guard to low so quickly it blurs, left to right and it whirrs through the air, dark glow leaving a trail of night.


    I wrote the runes to improve how I can manipulate the weapon¡ªor rather support it, for Heartseeker moves to the kill of its own accord. It just needs me to get it into position as quickly and efficiently as possible. I also need the strength to pull it back for defense when it gets a bit too eager.


    I practice a few stabs and parries. After the initial excitement wears off, I realize that I can¡¯t quite get the feel I was expecting, but that¡¯s no matter. Heartseeker only comes alive when it has a target.


    As I walk up through the streets I notice a change in atmosphere. The tension has reached nearly a breaking point. Barely anyone is out and about, unless they are runeknights in heavy armor. I see one walking with a basket of bread and vegetables¡ªhe won¡¯t let his wife brave the streets when war could come at any time.


    Do they know something I don¡¯t?


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± my commander hisses once I¡¯m finally up at sixty-three. ¡°By twenty-five minutes.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. Was just finishing up.¡± I flex my gauntlets at him. ¡°Have to be prepared, yeah? For when they finally break through.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that!¡± snaps one of the others. ¡°Hundreds could die.¡±


    I apologize and make my way to my spot at the top of the wall.


    ¡°What¡¯s with the atmosphere today?¡± I ask Hayhek.


    ¡°Not sure,¡± he laughs. ¡° I noticed it too, though.¡±


    ¡°You must have heard something.¡±


    ¡°Just a continuation of the usual rumor. The machine on the other side. Some people are saying it¡¯s finished.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be nothing.¡± He waves his hand dismissively. ¡°And even if they manage to knock a hole in the wall, they have to cross the chasm. The Runethane won¡¯t let that happen.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re very confident.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m old!¡± he laughs. He sounds oddly jovial today. ¡°The conflict heats up sometimes. Back when I was an initiate, there were raids and counter-raids almost everyday¡ªand for a good decade too. Never came to anything.¡±


    ¡°Did you fight?¡±


    He laughs; his laughter almost has a hysterical edge to it.


    ¡°When I was young, I was quite the hothead. Just like my son.¡±


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    ¡°I see... Any advice?¡±


    ¡°That I can give you? No. I never beat anyone as strong as Kazhek. When the blood started flying, I stayed back. Exactly what I¡¯m doing now.¡±


    I look curiously at him for a bit, wondering what''s behind the sudden switch in his mood, then back at the commander. He looks even more nervous than the others, if anything¡ªfingering the axe at his belt. I wonder if he knows something we don¡¯t. But after a few hours it seems that our fears are unfounded. The tension calms.


    Something thuds. Just once, a simple sound like damp wood hitting damp wood. Not a terrifying crash or thunderous rumble. Or worse a cracking. Just a distant thud.


    The effect on everyone is instant.


    ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± shouts one of the dwarves at the other end of the emplacement.


    ¡°Did it come from underneath?¡±


    Another thud.


    ¡°It¡¯s from the front!¡±


    My eyes widen; I focus on the walls. The sheer gray shivers slightly, and a few seconds later the next thud reaches us. I grip Heartseeker in both hands and aim it through the crenellations. Hayhek chuckles.


    ¡°No need to worry so much. And if they do break through, it¡¯ll be a long while until they reach us, which they won¡¯t.¡±


    Feeling a little silly, I pull Heartseeker back.


    ¡°Dwarves!¡± shouts our commander. ¡°If you¡¯ll come down here for a bit.¡±


    Nervously everyone climbs down off the walls and forms a semicircle in front of the commander. He smiles grimly. We look at each other, wondering what¡¯s going on, if the battle has started.


    ¡°No doubt many of you have heard the rumors going around recently, about some machine Broderick¡¯s forces have constructed at the other side of the chasm. Well, they¡¯re true¡ª¡±


    Fearful muttering breaks out.


    ¡°Silence! Discipline, dwarves. There¡¯s no need to worry. Defense Minister Ganzesh and Runethane Thanerzak have developed a plan to foil our enemies. As we speak a raid is traveling through a secret tunnel to emerge right under the machine. The wall will not be broken. We have nothing to fear.¡±


    Many of the dwarves breath out sighs of relief. I don¡¯t, and neither does Hayhek¡ªbut only because he¡¯s chuckling again.


    ¡°See?¡± he tells me once we¡¯re back on the walls. ¡°Nothing to worry about. It¡¯ll all blow over.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°When you first came up, you were the one telling me not to be so sure about everything blowing over. What¡¯s changed?¡±


    ¡°Well...¡± He scratches his head. ¡°I just had a bit of a think, is all.¡±


    I stare into his eyes, and think I see through the facade. I look at his hands, and see they¡¯re trembling.


    ¡°Really?¡± I say quietly. ¡°You don¡¯t think this is going to blow over at all, do you?¡±


    ¡°It will,¡± he snaps gruffly. ¡°Just wait and see.¡±


    I turn back to the front and continue to stare at the walls. The next thud comes, and the next. The quality of the sound doesn¡¯t change¡ªnothing¡¯s snapping or breaking. Yet the rhythm remains constant.


    Several hours pass, and the thuds are still continuing. The counterattack hasn¡¯t reached the machine yet.


    Will it?


    <hr>


    Hardrick¡¯s soldiers are roaring at him in the darkness of the tunnel.


    ¡°Get him!¡±


    ¡°Cut him up!¡±


    ¡°What are you waiting for?¡±


    He stands opposite a terrified runeknight who clutches a short spear and a large square shield which shimmers like water under moonlight. Dark red torchlight shines on their faces, matching the scent of blood that fills the air. The rest of Thanerzak¡¯s attack force lie in pieces some way back. Not all of them were killed by Hardrick personally, but most of them were.


    Sweat runs down the runeknight¡¯s forehead. His helmet has been removed so everyone can see his fear. Hardrick licks his lips. There¡¯s no escape for the runeknight; Hardrick¡¯s dwarves block him in both front and back.


    ¡°What degree are you?¡± Hardrick asks.


    ¡°Why should you care!¡±


    Hardrick barks a harsh laugh. ¡°Why should you care why I care?¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t tell you anything!¡±


    Hardrick¡¯s dwarves roar with laughter. ¡°He thinks he has a choice!¡±


    ¡°Put it this way,¡± Hardrick says, leering. ¡°If you tell me, I might let you live.¡±


    ¡°Might?¡±


    ¡°Will, then. I¡¯ll let you live if you tell me what degree you are.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m second, then.¡±


    Hardrick smiles widely and advances. ¡°Only third here.¡±


    ¡°You said you¡¯d let me live!¡±


    Hardrick laughs and swings down. Ordinarily a longsword is most unsuited for use in a tight tunnel, but Silverslash makes no distinction between rock and air. To the runeknight¡¯s credit as a smith his shield stops the blow, just. The razor edge cuts deep into the metal and stops. The runeknight attempts a counter-attack, stabbing at Hardrick¡¯s face, but in less than a blink of an eye Hardrick is three steps out of range. So fast was his movement that a whip-snap echoes.


    His dwarves cheer. Hardrick grins at the long cut he¡¯s made in the runeknight¡¯s shield. Its moonlight shimmering has vanished¡ªit won¡¯t stop any more blows.


    The runeknight knows this too and throws it down. He screams and charges at Hardrick, driving his spear forward in front of him with both hands. With another whip-crack Hardrick is beside him and his longsword sweeping low at the runeknight¡¯s ankles.


    Silverslash slows for the briefest moment then the runeknight is lying on his front screaming, blood gouting from his red stumps.


    ¡°You lied!¡± he blubbers. ¡°You said you wouldn¡¯t kill me!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re still alive,¡± Hardrick grunts. ¡°Fugthath, finish him off, will you?¡±


    A leaden hammer blow to the nape silences the runeknight¡¯s crying.

 Runeknight: Axe of Thanerzak

    Defense Minister Ganzesh bursts into the forge. He does not bother to knock, just shoulders the door and turns it into a shower of splinters. Runethane Thanerzak spins around, but Ganzesh cuts off whatever he was about to say.


    ¡°Runethane! You must listen to me this time! Our force... The ram is still active. They¡¯ve failed. Dead or captured!¡±


    ¡°I am¡ª¡±


    ¡°They will break through! And my spies say...¡±


    He swallows in fear.


    ¡°Say what?¡± Thanerzak asks, his voice cool.


    ¡°They say Runethane Broderick himself will lead the attack. Please, my Runethane...¡±


    He gestures to two runeknights in the corridor. They walk in solemnly, holding between them a long object draped in gray silk.


    ¡°I beg you, lead our forces yourself. They cannot stand against a Runethane, not one backed by an army of his own.¡± He sweeps the silk away to reveal an axe of tungsten inlaid with a dense script of platinum. Although four hundred years old, it is as polished as the day on which it was forged. ¡°Take up your old weapon, and lead us.¡±


    Runethane Thanerzak lays down his hammer on the anvil. He smiles gently behind his helmet.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to fear, young dwarf. I was not totally unprepared for this possibility. But I won¡¯t take up my old axe.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane, please!¡± Ganzesh is on the verge of tears. ¡°You have to help us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying I won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    The Runethane picks up his unfinished axe.


    ¡°What? My Runethane, there are no...¡±


    Thanerzak walks forward. As he does so the axe glitters brightly in all possible and impossible colors. He rotates it slowly. Ganzesh gasps.


    ¡°After I became Runethane,¡± says Thanerzak, ¡°I came to understand something.¡±


    The ordinary colors glittering on the axe come from the plain alloy; the impossible ones from tiny runes, so small as to be unreadable, that have already been worked into the metal.


    ¡°A rune can only truly be part of the craft if it given heat and pressure to grow along with it. Adding them after, you will perhaps one day learn, is crude.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Ganzesh whispers.


    ¡°It would take a decade to explain. Let¡¯s just get rid of Broderick first.¡± He swipes his axe downward very slowly, and power shivers through the room. ¡°Even unfinished, Starcleaver is enough for the upstart.¡±


    <hr>


    The thuds continue. It¡¯s been six hours since they started and they have not slowed in pace one bit. I turn to look at Hayhek. His wrinkled face is pale and sweat is dripping into his gray beard, darkening it. I pat his shoulder.


    ¡°They won¡¯t reach us, yeah?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    Of course he¡¯s more nervous than me. He has a family, after all. Yezakh, plus a wife and two daughters. What awful nightmares are running through his mind right now? What is he imagining happening to them all, to the family he¡¯s dedicated his life to, when Runethane Broderick¡¯s men enter the city?


    If, I tell myself firmly. If they enter the city. It is not inevitable.


    Yet it sounds more and more inevitable with every passing minute, with every thud against the tall gray walls. Now the quality of the sound is changing, becoming harsher, a little harder, a little more like cracking.


    ¡°Look!¡± hisses one of the dwarves. ¡°Look at that!¡±


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    A fine line has appeared, running down the center of the wall vertically. When the next thud comes it becomes a little darker.


    ¡°They¡¯re going to break through!¡± a dwarf screams. His face is white and he¡¯s clutching the parapet hard with both hands. His arms and shoulders are trembling.


    ¡°Silence!¡± shouts the commander. ¡°Shut up!¡±


    ¡°What happened to the counterattack?¡± asks one of the woman soldiers. ¡°Did they not get through? What¡¯s the news?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± says the commander. ¡°Just stay calm, everybody. Even if they break the wall, they¡¯ll still have to bridge the chasm. And our forces won¡¯t let them do that. Just stay calm!¡±


    He doesn¡¯t sound calm. We continue to watch as the crack grows darker and darker. Other cracks spread from it, especially from a point near to the base where a circular impact-pattern has formed. Dust showers from the cracks with each thud, and a gray cloud creeps through the streets.


    ¡°They¡¯re going to break through,¡± Hayhek whispers.


    It seems that Defense Minister Ganzesh has come to the same conclusion, for a legion of gleaming metal now forms up on the main road directly in front of the wall¡ªthough a good few hundred feet back from it. The column, at least a thousand strong, is steel toward the back, then turns to a multitude of shades as the armors get progressively more advanced, then there is a cap of dark gray tungsten where the most elite stand.


    One of those tungsten figures steps forward and turns to face the legion. He raises an axe above his head which gleams like a star of a hundred colors. It¡¯s just a spark in the distance, but it draws my eyes, like all the light of the cavern is being pulled toward it.


    ¡°That¡¯s him!¡± someone shouts. ¡°The Runethane!¡±


    Everyone cheers. It looks like he¡¯s giving a speech, though of course we can¡¯t hear any of it. At several points everyone in the shining legion raises their weapons, and a faint shout reaches us, and we all shout in turn, as do the defenders in the other positions.


    There¡¯s one last shout from the legion. Then Runethane Thanerzak raises his axe higher¡ªit shines even brighter, a speck of starlight, like a pinprick in the world through which shines pure and ancient magic.


    He turns to the wall, axe still raised. He brings it down. Its light burns a streak through the fabric of the mundane world. A second later the wall explodes outward in a burning torrent of magma.


    There¡¯s a shocked silence. Our commander breaks it.


    ¡°Genius!¡± he cries. ¡°Pure genius!¡±


    The counterattack through the tunnels was a diversion, and the wall a trap. The Runethane knew it could never hold. He had it built up, pumped full of magma, just so he could slice it down the middle and rain burning death and crushing stone upon his foes.


    A roar of victory goes up from the legion down in the streets and from us and every other defender on the mountain.


    ¡°We¡¯ve wiped them out!¡± the dwarf who before was shaking shouts out. ¡°We killed them!¡±


    Hayhek sags in relief. ¡°Told you it would all work out,¡± he says hoarsely. ¡°Told you, didn''t I?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    I crane forward and squint to get a better look at what¡¯s happening. The orange glow of the magma makes it difficult to see how much destruction has been caused on the other side. I can make out hints of what might have once been machinery: great lengths of wood burning and falling down. Not all of it is falling down, however. Some is resting on a great stone bridge. Chunks are falling off it, but it¡¯s still wide enough that there¡¯s plenty of space to cross.


    Slowly the smoke clears enough that we can all have a clear view of Runethane Broderick¡¯s side of the city. The cheers of victory die. While the ram is now nothing but burning wreckage, the enemy still has a clear way across the chasm.


    ¡°Not to worry,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°Our attack will have wiped out most of them.¡±


    A bright golden dot appears in the dark drifting smog, backed by five more. Runethane Broderick. Those behind must be his first degrees.


    And he¡¯s backed by a gleaming legion marching down toward the bridge in lockstep. There¡¯s gaps in their ranks where flying stones and magma have obliterated dozens at a time, yet there are still several thousands of them, far more than those arrayed at our side.


    At their head is a silver dot.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Hayhek mutters to himself. ¡°The Runethane will deal with them. He¡¯ll crush them.¡±


    Runethane Broderick accelerates across the cooling magma and burning splintered wood in a golden blur. His first degrees follow nearly as fast. We can¡¯t see what weapons they¡¯re raising, but surely they¡¯re deadly enough to cut through tungsten.


    Runethane Thanerzak meets his foe. Bright flashes of color shine out, blinding us a dozen times a second. Hayhek cries out and shields his eyes. I shade mine, tighten my grip on Heartseeker, try to see the flow of the battle. For now it¡¯s just a skirmish, Broderick and his elite against Thanerzak and his.


    The silver legend raises his longsword¡ªeven in the far distance we can all tell what it is¡ªand whirls it around his head in a shining blur. The army behind him lets out a shout in unison and accelerates to double-time.


    Thanerzak¡¯s plan isn¡¯t looking so genius anymore. The silver legend and his army step onto the bridge and walk over the burning wood and cooling magma like it¡¯s nothing.


    ¡°No...¡± Hayhek hisses.


    Thanerzak¡¯s plan wasn¡¯t quite finished, though. A bright red glow appears at both edges of the broken walls just after the silver legend crosses through, at the exact moment the spearhead of his army is in the gap. Magma sloughs down from both sides in a river of fire. The front three dozen or so dwarves accelerate out in time to avoid the rain of death, but many do not. The river splashes backward along the stone bridge, burning to death what must be several hundred.


    Another roar from us defenders as Thanerzak¡¯s legion charges down past their dueling Runethane to smash against the silver legend and the broken-off tip of his force.


    The brutal battle begins in earnest.

 Runeknight: Brutal Battle

    Hardrick watches as the tide of runeknights charges down to meet him. It is all rather surreal¡ªmade more so by the bizarre colors that flare each time the weapons of the Runethanes clash. He feels like he is in a dream, that any moment he will open his eyes to his old apartment; his wife will be nagging him to get up, his sons will be spitting insults at each other, his pick will be hanging on his wall ready to be taken up for another twelve hours of mining.


    His yellow teeth rotting slowly in his gums.


    The first runeknight reaches him: a woman with a two handed sword like his own. He sweeps Silverslash forward to meet it. The steel of her sword falls into two pieces, and she does also. Crimson splashes over him.


    The next is a great lump of a dwarf wielding twin maces of lead spiked with diamond. Hardrick steps back¡ªthe sensation is not of movement, but of instantaneous transposition, the enemy is one distance away then another. Silverslash¡¯s tip cuts through the dwarf¡¯s belly plate and his guts pour out.


    Another runeknight swings at him and is bisected.


    The next loses his head.


    The next both head and arm in one stroke.


    It can¡¯t be this easy, surely? It can¡¯t be. This has to be a dream, a glorious dream. He throws his head back and, in the midst of the raging, howling whirlpool of blood and metal that is the melee, screams with joyous laughter.


    <hr>


    We watch in horror as the legion turns steadily into a pile of bloody bodies at the silver legend¡¯s feet. The rest of his army barely has to fight, so sharp and swift is their general¡¯s blade.


    ¡°Why doesn¡¯t the Runethane do something?¡± someone screams out.


    Runethane Thanerzak and his elites are having their own troubles. Two tungsten-clad warriors have fallen while only one of those in gold ones has. And it is hard to tell from so far away, but the dot that is our Runethane seems to be moving back a tiny amount with each flash of impossible light.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Hayhek hisses through clenched teeth. ¡°Beat him! Kill him!¡±


    He¡¯s definitely moving back now. Step by tortured step he retreats up the main road. The legion around him is faltering too. Those at the back can see the bloody carnage at the front and want no part of it. They cease marching forward, and are wavering.


    Every alarm in the city goes off at once, a cacophony of metallic wailing. It stops, starts, stops again. The signal for retreat. Defense Minister Ganzesh can see his forces aren¡¯t going to win without the favorable terrain of the mountain and the reinforcements stationed there.


    ¡°Out of the position!¡± shouts our commander. ¡°Form a line!¡±


    We hurry out of the emplacement. The air smells of fearful anticipation: of cold sweat mixed with something more primal. Our commander leads us down to where the slope of the mountain shallows out just before the buildings of the city begin and sorts us into a line. Those from other emplacements extend it to the left and right. In front of us form also two more lines of runeknights, in better armor. My mouth becomes dry. If the silver legend and his army manage to cut through them, we here have no chance.


    Hayhek collapses to one knee beside me and starts to hyperventilate.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± I ask, going to one knee beside him. ¡°Get it together. We haven¡¯t lost yet.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t see,¡± he groans. ¡°What happening... Oh, hells...¡±


    ¡°Come on, stand up. Come on.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t...¡±


    ¡°Come on!¡±


    I pull him up. He¡¯s shaking badly.


    ¡°We have to fight.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t see...¡±


    He¡¯s right about that. Now we¡¯re lower down the mountain our view of the battle is totally obscured by the buildings in front of us. All we can do is listen to the screams of pain and fear advancing through the streets.


    A sudden shout, then orders to remain calm from the commanders brings our attention to the center of the line. A contingent of dwarves in iron armor and worse is marching through to form a fourth line up behind us. Half are decrepit runeknights who never progressed far enough to afford to forge an amulet to slow their mortality, and half young initiates. Most of these latter aren¡¯t even in full armor, just have a helmet or a pair of boots. Some don¡¯t even have proper weapons but carry plain iron or steel bars, or forging hammers.


    One does stand out though. His armor is full steel runed with a thin script of gold. He breaks from the contingent, ignores the shouted protests of his commander, and runs down the line toward us.


    ¡°Son!¡± Hayhek cries, and breaks line to embrace him. Our commander opens his mouth to give discipline, then decides to leave them be. Yezakh looks over his father¡¯s shoulder and smiles at me.


    ¡°Spotted your weapon soon as we got out the alleys,¡± he says, then lets go of his father. ¡°Ready to fight? They say any of us who slays a runeknight won¡¯t have to sit the exam¡ªthey¡¯ll go straight to ninth degree.¡±


    I slap him on the shoulder. ¡°That means they¡¯ll promote me to eighth, I hope.¡±


    ¡°Nice. I hope so too.¡±


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    I shift to the right to allow him to step in between me and Hayhek. We wait as the sounds of battle grow closer and closer. The back end of the legion begins to emerge from the narrow streets before us, and their commanders shout at them to form a new first line at the very front. Weapons are drawn and shields raised.


    ¡°Dwarves!¡± someone shouts from behind. We turn and see a youngish dwarf in tungsten hurrying down the mountain road to the center of the lines. He steps out in front and turns to us, his exquisitely runed titanium halberd held dead straight at his side.


    ¡°Today we face a grim enemy. Yet we must have no¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re here!¡± someone shouts.


    Speech cut off, Defense Minister Ganzesh curses and turns back around to face the foe. There¡¯s a sea of them, charging out from the gaps in the buildings, a tide of armor and glinting sharp and blunt implements. A ferocious battle cry is ringing out from them, making my stomach churn. Through their lowered visors it sounds metallic, more like the roar of a machine rather than anything living. I ready Heartseeker¡ªpaired with my gauntlets it feels more deadly than ever, but will it be enough? Hayhek and Yezakh raise their axes and bring their shields in front of them.


    The enemy collides with the frontline. The crash of a thousand pieces of metal suddenly and violently impacting one another rings out, shortly followed by screams of pain from both sides. Sparks fly into the air as weapons tear armor asunder. The sparks become mixed with sprays of blood, then are overwhelmed by gouts of it.


    ¡°Forward!¡± shout the commanders of the second line. It marches forward to support the first before it breaks.


    A shiver runs through our line from the center, caused by a hundred dwarves turning at once in horror.


    ¡°It¡¯s him...¡± Hayhek says.


    The silver legend is here. Ganzesh rushes forward out of the melee to meet him. I catch only the first moments of their duel, halberd sparking against longsword, before my attention is forced back to the fight in front of me.


    Even the double line cannot hold against the onslaught. The tide of hacking, stabbing, bludgeoning metal that is Broderick¡¯s army drives them back pace by pace. Dwarf after dwarf falls, bloody steel and gaping wordless mouths closing in on me.


    ¡°Third line!¡±


    A bolt of fear shoots through me before I remember that we¡¯re the fourth now. Even so, my stomach grows light and my head dizzy when the line before us marches down to join the melee. It¡¯s almost as if the ground before me has dropped away, leaving the abyss of death yawning before my feet, hungering to swallow me down.


    The hideous smell of blood isn¡¯t helping either.


    ¡°Son. Young man.¡± Hayhek says gruffly. He pulls down his steel visor. ¡°We¡¯re going to win this. Don¡¯t worry about a thing.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Yezakh replies. ¡°We¡¯re going to drive them right out.¡±


    But the third line is weaker than the two before it, and it shows. Broderick¡¯s army falls back a few paces when the new tide of steel hits, and several slip on the blood of the fallen and disappear, trampled and stabbed, but at a shout from their commanders they redouble their efforts, and begin to chant:


    ¡°Hazhulam! Hazhulam! Hazhulam Ghaltharok!¡±


    ¡°Victory! Victory! Our victory is now at hand!¡±


    ¡°Halat Hazhulam!¡±


    ¡°Come forth, victory!¡±


    ¡°Halat Bhorot Jlakathaz Nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°Come, enemies, and die on our blades!¡±


    ¡°Hazhulam!¡±


    The triple line of our forces, if you can still call it a line, starts to disintegrate. Dwarves in bright platinum, in beaten gold inset with rubies, in titanium plates inches thick and engraved with runes so well carved they glow with cold power, fall wailing in pain. I glance nervously down the line to our commander. His visor is down, but even so I sense that his mouth his half open, the order to charge on his lips.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have a chance,¡± I hiss under my breath. ¡°We don¡¯t have a chance!¡±


    ¡°We do!¡± Hayhek says desperately. ¡°Ganzesh is still fighting. And he¡¯s winning!¡±


    I look to the center of the lines and see that Hayhek is correct. Ganzesh¡¯s halberd is a match for the silver legend¡¯s longsword, and his skill is more than a match. Each block he follows with a spiked stab, and I see that the silver legend is bleeding from several punctures already.


    Then three blurs descend from the rooftops behind the battle. They are not in plate, but billowing robes of fine golden chainmail. Each wields two weapons¡ªone swords, another axes, the third scythes of diamond. They close in on Ganzesh.


    He¡¯s not going to win.


    ¡°Forward!¡± shouts our commander. ¡°Drive them back!¡±


    This is our last chance, and we know it. Yet the metal grinder in front is our death and we know that too. A third of the line steps forward, a third stays put, and a third steps back, turns and starts to shove through the old men and initiates who turn and start to run also.


    ¡°Stand and fight!¡± shout the commanders.


    ¡°Cowards!¡±


    ¡°Protect your city!¡±


    ¡°Come on, you two,¡± Hayhek says. He¡¯s one of those brave enough to step forward. ¡°Let¡¯s defend our city.¡±


    Yezakh nods and bashes his axe against his shield.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say.


    Hayhek spins around and looks at me. Even with his visor down I can see that his eyes are wide in shock. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I said wait! Shit... Can¡¯t you understand?¡±


    The thrashing and slashing wall of metal is drawing closer. At the center of the line Ganzesh is nowhere to be seen, and the line is broken there. Broderick¡¯s army with the silver legend and the golden elites at their head are rushing up the central road and curving around to prepare a rear charge, blood and dust trailing from their boots.


    ¡°Zathar, what are you saying! This is our city!¡±


    ¡°Our family¡¯s down there,¡± Yezakh says. He sounds aghast. ¡°We have to protect them.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t protect them if you¡¯re dead.¡±


    ¡°If we believe we¡¯re dead, we¡¯ll die. We have to believe in victory.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve fought against bad odds before. I know when I can¡¯t win!¡±


    ¡°You won every time!¡±


    ¡°I have not! But listen to me, there¡¯s a way to survive.¡±


    ¡°We retreat and they¡¯ll just cut us down!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°We have to fight!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°Hayhek, your guild bullies you. They¡¯re holding you back. Yezakh, my guild are all out on the dragon hunt.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your point?¡± he says.


    ¡°My point, my point is...¡±


    The tide of battle is sweeping closer by the second. The death-crazed faces of Broderick¡¯s dwarves are like those of ghouls from the deepest darkest caverns of my nightmares. Heartseeker will not stop all of them¡ªmany are many times stronger than me still.


    ¡°We switch sides,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°Kill our own?¡± Hayhek gasps in shock. ¡°I trusted you!¡±


    ¡°No! We don¡¯t kill anyone. We blend in. We survive, and live to fight another day. Come on!¡± I step backwards. ¡°I have a plan. Come on! Die and you¡¯ll never see your family again. Come with me, trust me! You can see your family again. Protect them. Come on!¡±


    The two dwarves, one too old and one too young, yet both so alike, waver. Then Yezakh steps forward. Deep down he trusts me over his father.


    ¡°Son?¡± Hayhek says nervously.


    ¡°Come on. Zathar¡¯s right! Come on!¡±


    Hayhek nods, takes one reluctant step up the slope, then another less reluctant one, then he begins to run up after us. Together we flee the blood and steel and follow the rest of the shattered army up the slopes of the mountain toward the castle while violence roars behind us.

 Runeknight: The Search Begins

    When I went up the mountain path to the castle before, I passed through several deep and darkly shadowed gorges. My plan is simple: hide in the darkness, wait for Runethane Broderick¡¯s army, and when they are passing us slip surreptitiously into their ranks. It¡¯s far too big for everyone to know everyone else, and though they have yellow bands wrapped around their arms to signify their side, many have been likely ripped off in the clash of weapon on armor.


    We shouldn¡¯t stand out. I worry slightly that one or two enemies might have taken note of Heartseeker¡¯s peculiar dark glow, but it¡¯s unlikely. Plenty of other weapons glow to some degree, after all, and Broderick''s dwarves were probably more concerned with those being slashed at them.


    Into the dark of a gully we duck. We back against a cool wall, some distance from the path, and watch as our fleeing army passes in singles and small groups, shouting in fear, loose armor plates clattering.


    The very last passes limping: a young initiate with blood running from his ankle. Hayhek raises a hand to his mouth as if he¡¯s about to call him to join us, but I press it down and shake my head.


    ¡°That blood will lead them right to us,¡± I hiss. ¡°And I can hear them.¡±


    The sound of the approaching enemy is getting louder. It¡¯s loud and solid¡ªindividual footsteps cannot be heard. It is also coupled with laughter and joyous primal cries, and an undertone of chanting, like some still are keeping up their discipline with their song of hazhulam.


    They really overwhelmed us, I think to myself. I¡¯d known the army Thanerzak sent on the dragon hunt had been big, but I didn''t think it had been the majority of his runeknights. It really wasn¡¯t a wise move. He got overconfident. And where is he now, anyway? He didn''t retreat along with his army, but neither did Broderick appear before us, shining in all his gold. Does their duel continue? If it does, they must have taken it underground, for no runic power is flashing and sharply illuminating the stalactites far above.


    The enemy army reaches us. We press instinctively back against the wall. First are the most enthusiastic, berserks with armor coated in gore through which glow redly runes of speed, pain-numbing, damage-turning and fire-touch. To move out now would be suicide¡ªin their eyes I can see they¡¯re happy to cut anything.


    Next comes the main body of their army, led by the silver legend and Broderick¡¯s golden elites. It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve seen the silver legend up close, and his armor is fearsome. It is indeed silver, grafted with platinum runes of speed that shiver and blur with each step. His helmet is ornate; wings sweep back from it.


    A few minutes after he passes, once the quality of the soldiers¡¯ armor has diminished somewhat and also grown more battered, I motion to father and son and begin to creep up toward the path. At the point where the shadow is deepest, I jostle into the marching mass of metal.


    ¡°Watch it there!¡± someone spits at me.


    ¡°Watch yourself!¡± I spit back.


    I tilt Heartseeker down¡ªif it was to stick right out of the ranks it really would be conspicuous¡ªand keep pace with the march. It¡¯s not so fast, for these dwarves are damn tired, stinking badly of sweat as they stumble up the steep path, their heads bowed and breath coming heavy.


    Just as I predicted, several have also lost their brassy armbands. I glance back and see that Hayhak and Yezakh are a few marching bodies behind me. I breath a sigh of relief. So far, unlike the limping initiate whose hewn body lies a few steps off the road, we¡¯re still alive.


    And headed to the castle.


    This is my chance to get the key. My only chance. My relief dies and worry roils up in its place. I look up to the peak of the mountain, and see the castle standing there as solemnly as a gravestone. Step by step it grows larger. The last steps are steepest, just as I remember. At the top of them some dwarves will make their last stand.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Halfway up I hear it. It is very short. Forty minutes or so later I see it in the form of severed heads and accompanying headless bodies.


    I ascend over the red-dyed final steps and march into the castle in the midst of the steel tide. In the antechamber I stand on something round and hard¡ªit¡¯s part of the chair of the lone guard I remember being up here. Of him there is nothing to be seen.


    The antechamber is a bottleneck, so I¡¯m pushed and jostled. Someone grabs me by the shoulder. I clench my fists, fearing I¡¯ve been found out, but of course it¡¯s just Yezakh.


    ¡°Where are we going? Shouldn¡¯t we find a way back to the city?¡± he whispers, barely audible over the swearing and insults and grind of armor-clad bodies shoving against each other.


    ¡°If we hurry back too soon, it¡¯ll be suspicious. And there¡¯s gold down here too, bound to be.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re up here to loot?¡± Hayhek says in a dark voice.


    Yezakh nods. ¡°I get it. Stay up here, get gold for better equipment, and get down at the same time as everyone else. That¡¯ll be when our family¡¯s in real danger anyway.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± says Hayhek, but I can see a touch of suspicion in his eyes alongside the nerves and fear.


    It makes me feel a little ill, lying to them. But they would understand. They¡¯d lie to protect their family, wouldn¡¯t they? I¡¯m lying for nearly the same reason.


    ¡°So which tunnel do we head down?¡± Yezakh asks.


    ¡°Follow me,¡± I say.


    Of course, I really don¡¯t have any idea of where to go. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears even above the scrape of metal and loud swearing. What if the silver legend, or even Runethane Broderick should get the key first? And there¡¯s an infinitely higher chance that they do, with so many searching for whatever they can rip up and sell, or melt down to forge. I jostle my way down to where the tunnel entrances are.


    ¡°The forges are this way!¡± someone shouts out. ¡°This way, they¡¯re saying!¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s saying?¡±


    ¡°The bastards coming up holding rods of titanium and gold, that¡¯s who!¡±


    Like iron filings to magnetite, everyone rushes at once to a tunnel where several of the gore-encrusted berserker dwarves are pushing their way up with armfuls of precious metals and gems. We¡¯re caught up in the tide, squeezed. I feel my iron chestplate bend under the pressure, and someone treads on my toes so hard it hurts even through my boots.


    Inexorably we''re forced toward the tunnel to the forges. Seems we don¡¯t really have much choice in where we¡¯re headed, but then again, the forges are as likely to hold the key as anywhere. Yet how hard is it going to be for someone else to find an artifact of dazzling diamond as long as an arm before me?


    I narrow my eyes and begin to plot a way to take it from that someone else.


    <hr>


    Runethane Broderick has his prey in his sights. He chases him, his old tungsten clad commander¡ªhell, how he used to hate having to wear that stuff! A dwarf should be free to choose his own equipment, and make his own judgments about what¡¯s fit to fight in.


    And Broderick has made the right judgment. He flies down the steep stone stairs while his old commander thunders down heavily and slowly¡ªin just a few minutes he''ll catch him. A firey glow illuminates them both, and Broderick feels sweat oozing through the golden rings embedded into his skin. Must be sweaty hell encased in all that dark metal. Another disadvantage to stubborn tradition.


    ¡°Where are we headed, old Thanerzak?¡± he shouts. ¡°Where are you leading me, on this merry chase of ours?¡±


    Thanerzak does not answer. He makes a sudden turn into a dark side-cave, and there¡¯s a crash. Broderick cleaves his axe into the wall to slow himself, bringing up sparks and fine gravel, and swings around where Thanerzak disappeared. In the floor is a square hole framed with iron, with splinters sticking from it. The remains of a trapdoor. He kneels and peers down, and sees nothing.


    ¡°A trap, is this?¡± he shouts, then he shrugs. His next words he speaks to himself: ¡°Well, trap or none, can¡¯t let him get away, can I?¡±


    He dives down, pressing both palms to the walls to slow himself by friction as he shoots down the narrow shaft. His hands hiss as they heat up, their golden cover begins to glow, but each tiny ring is runed. So tiny are the rings that each has space for only one rune, but together they form a magnificent poem of immortality and protection from any kind of damage you care to imagine.


    When Broderick hits the bottom his feet and legs take the impact with superb ease, like he dropped one story rather than twenty.


    ¡°Now,¡± he says to himself as he looks around the circular chamber, with its many exits carved into the walls. ¡°Where to go now?¡±


    He sniffs the air, and smiles. From one exit he can smell the unmistakable scent of dragon.

 Runeknight: The Forge-halls

    I spiral down into the castle, shoving past anyone injured or more tired than me, which is most of them. I get a few angry swears, some jabs, but no one grudges me too badly¡ªwe¡¯re all racing here. A dwarf will do almost anything for gold, or materials that will improve his kit and put him one step further up the ladder. I¡¯m not surprised when I nearly trip over the first concussed victim of this mad drive downward.


    The tunnel expands suddenly into a great vaulted hall. The tiles beneath my feet change from slate gray to stripes of jade, silvery ore, and polished quartz and marble. I can almost make out the mosaic they form, of dragons fleeing in terror from tungsten-clad dwarves¡ªthough the picture is so covered with trampling metal boots that I¡¯m forced to mostly imagine the centerpiece of the picture, Runethane Thanerzak locked in mortal combat with the greatest of the old dragons.


    Arching pillars form the entrances to the various forges that Thanerzak¡¯s elites use¡ªor at least used to use¡ªto create their tungsten armor and various deadly weapons. I rush into the grandest, guessing it¡¯s the Runethane¡¯s and thus the most likely to hold the key.


    ¡°Damn,¡± Yezakh says. ¡°Looks like they¡¯ve already cleared this place out.¡±


    Indeed, the first few dwarves must have gone straight for this room as well. The center anvil has been overturned and a chest that must have been hidden beneath it lies smashed on the tiles. The locked and barred cabinets have been hacked open¡ªa few small gemstones lay scattered in front of them. The armor stands are conspicuously missing all armor, and the hooks on the walls for hanging weapons now hang only air. No one else is here either.


    ¡°Fuck,¡± I hiss under my breath, then hurry to the overturned anvil. I dig through the broken stone beneath where the hidden chest used to sit, but there¡¯s no second secret container, or indeed anything at all.


    Where else to search apart from the Runethane¡¯s forge, then? His personal chambers? Where in hell are they?


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Yezakh calls. ¡°There¡¯ll be more to find in the other rooms.¡±


    I hurry after him. Hayhek nudges me, and looks at me suspiciously.


    ¡°You seem like you¡¯re searching for something in particular.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡±


    ¡°I should be up there protecting my family."


    "They''re far from the battle. They''ll be fine for now."


    "You don''t know that. And your gold is just an excuse, isn''t it?"


    "I said it''ll be fine!" I hiss, and hurry back to the main hall.


    Dwarves are pouring in and out of the pillared arches: in with greedy smiles and empty hands, out groaning under the weight of gleaming metal and boxes of gemstones. The higher degree runeknights take weapons and armor¡ªnot to use, for it is a sin to use another''s work as your own, but as spoils for display.


    I run down the hall, looking left and right for the shine of diamond. There¡¯s plenty of course, some the size of my fist even, but none as long as my arm, nor in the shape of a key. Briefly I consider asking someone if they¡¯ve seen it, but that might lead to awkward questions back about why I¡¯m looking for something so odd, and why I¡¯m not wearing an armband.


    I at least manage to remedy that last problem. I spot a dwarf whose band is so tattered it looks like it could fall in half any moment, and scrape against him as he¡¯s coming out of one of the high doorways. His armband snaps and falls away just as planned, and after a quick apology for the collision, I¡¯m surreptitiously picking it up then tying it around my own arm.


    This should put me above all suspicion.


    But the solution to my most important problem is still nowhere in sight.


    If the forges are stripped bare, I¡¯ll have to go somewhere else. I make my way out of the forge hall, beckoning Yezakh and Hayhek to follow me.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± Yezakh asks.


    ¡°Somewhere else. All the good stuff¡¯s gone from the forges, I think.¡±


    ¡°Where else would good stuff be, though?¡±


    ¡°No idea. Let¡¯s just keep on going.¡±


    The sounds of the happy looters diminish, and the floor is sloping gradually downward. This is a good sign, I think. Treasures are generally hidden further below less important things.


    ¡°What about here?¡± Yezakh says, gesturing to a rough hole in the corridor.


    I peer down it. Looks more like an exploratory shaft than anything else, or maybe even less than that¡ªjust a natural tunnel no one could be bothered to block off. And in that case it¡¯ll be a dead end.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°Waste of time,¡± I say, and we bypass it.


    A few minutes later a flash of white fills the corridor and heat washes over our backs like from an opened furnace. We stop and I spin around. I frown¡ªthere¡¯s an odd smell in the air now, one I recognize, though I¡¯m not sure from where. A kind of acrid scent that dries out my nostrils and makes my eyes water slightly.


    ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Hayhek says quietly.


    ¡°From the entrance back there, maybe,¡± says Yezakh.


    I begin to walk back the way we came toward it. My hands are shaking slightly; I¡¯m more anxious than before, for some reason I can¡¯t pinpoint. I turn right into the thin tunnel-corridor and hear dwarves further down.


    ¡°Try it again!¡± one urges.


    A second flash of white blinds me, and the heat is stronger¡ªbeads of sweat form on my face. I pull my visor down and continue to advance.


    ¡°Damn! What the hell is this thing?¡± says a second.


    ¡°Again?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Rather not.¡±


    ¡°Go on!¡±


    ¡°You do it! I don¡¯t want to get burned.¡±


    A third flash of light, brighter than the first two, flares out a smashed door in the corridor¡¯s side. The heat brings back terrible memories of dwarves burning, and a hideous black face close to my own, dripping fire from its jaws.


    I step through the doorway into a small and primitive forge. Beyond a battered anvil stand two dwarves, their armor not so much better than my own iron and with weapons at their sides which look somewhat worse. They turn to look at me, and Hayhek and Yezakh who follow in close behind.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I say.


    ¡°Look at this!¡± one says.


    The dwarf steps aside. Next to a chiseled alcove a rod of glittering diamond juts from the wall. It terminates in an ornate handle.


    My mouth goes dry and my eyes widen. The already fast beating of my heart becomes a flutter so rapid I become sick and dizzy. The diamond rod shimmers as the room seems to rotate around me.


    Half of me had never really believed the dragon¡¯s promise. Now I see one part of it is real, and perhaps that means its tale of my brother is too.


    I swallow to wet my dry throat. I have to play this carefully.


    ¡°You just turn it, and what happens?¡± I ask.


    The second dwarf points to the alcove. ¡°White fire shoots into there after a few seconds. Must be a furnace.¡±


    ¡°Obviously it¡¯s a furnace, you dolt,¡± says the first.


    ¡°Can I try?¡± I ask, trying not to let my voice tremor.


    The first dwarf smirks. ¡°Maybe for some gold... Hey!¡±


    I¡¯ve already shoved him out the way, all thoughts of playing it safe forgotten, and my hand is reaching toward the handle. I grasp it. A shiver runs up my arm.


    ¡°You turn it to the left,¡± says the second dwarf.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell him!¡±


    I turn it to the right. There¡¯s a series of clicks. I pull, slowly, and inch by inch withdraw the key from its lock. The two dwarves look on in amazement as I take it fully from the wall; their eyes widen when they see how intricate the bit is: a fractal hand of rods and spikes perfectly aligned at right angles, becoming ever smaller as they branch, right down to the sub-visible scale and perhaps beyond. Tiny runes etched into the crystal glitter like ice.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Yezakh asks, eyes wide with awe.


    ¡°A key...¡± I breath.


    ¡°Expensive, that looks,¡± the first dwarf says softly. ¡°What say us five sell it and split the dividends?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± I snap.


    ¡°And why not?¡± His right hand creeps to his sword.


    I think I could take them, but Heartseeker¡¯s length is a disadvantage in this cramped room, and also I¡¯d really just prefer to avoid bloodshed. I¡¯ve seen enough of it today to last a good long while.


    ¡°Orders of Runethane Broderick,¡± I snap, and they flinch back. ¡°This is his key, by right of conquest.¡± I tilt Heartseeker forward slightly so its anti-glow shadows their faces a touch. ¡°Unless, of course, you wish to challenge him for it.¡±


    ¡°We apologize!¡± the second dwarf says suddenly. ¡°Of course, if it is property of the Runethane...¡±


    ¡°You better apologize,¡± Yezakh says.


    Hayhek just frowns at me.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be escorting this to him,¡± I say, and from a low shelf sweep up a coarse polishing rag to wrap around my treasure. ¡°You two can get back to the main forges.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing down there!¡± the first dwarf protests. ¡°Why do you think we wandered all the way here? And we found it first!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re both rewarded,¡± I say as I¡¯m backing out the doorway. ¡°Now get out of here!¡±


    And just like that I¡¯m rushing down the corridor, the shaft of the key grasped firmly in my left hand. Hayhek and Yezakh are close at my heels.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Hayhek demands. ¡°You¡ª¡±


    I stop and turn, speak fast. ¡°Don¡¯t you see? We¡¯ve lucked out! I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a few merchants who¡¯ll buy this from us without too many questions. And even if they cheat us, hell, we¡¯ll have enough gold for whatever metals we want. You can make an amulet to reverse that gray in your beard, Hayhek. And Yezakh, us two will be moving up faster than we¡¯ve ever dreamed!¡±


    ¡°Why are we going downward, then?¡± Hayhek asks.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Yezakh agrees. Even his eyes now have a glint of suspicion to them.


    ¡°Because...¡±


    "Because what?" Hayhek says softly.


    I can¡¯t think of an excuse, and neither can I sprint off and abandon them in a mad search to get out into the caves.


    ¡°Sorry. I got caught up in the moment. If someone else sees this...¡±


    ¡°We have to go back now,¡± Hayhak says.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. Your family, of course. We¡¯ll head up together.¡± I smile behind my visor and tap Heartseeker¡¯s blunt base firmly on the old stone tiles. ¡°Any savages try to come rampaging into your home, I¡¯ll help stop them.¡±


    Hayhek nods. ¡°Good. I can trust you, Zathar. Can¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Of course you can.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Yezakh says and smiles nervously. ¡°Let¡¯s hurry back up now.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±

 Runeknight: The Pursuit Begins

    The castle halls are now quiet of the happy shouts and rummaging of ransacking. Hardrick makes it about seven or eight hours since the battle ended. No longer does it feel like a dream, but something very real. His throat is sore from the hard breathing and harder shouting of orders, and there''s a harsh stinging in the small holes in his chest and arms where that bastard¡¯s halberd got through.


    He¡¯s not quite at the pinnacle of crafting yet, it seems.


    ¡°Get on with it,¡± says one of the Golden Guard. Braedle, with the axes like her father¡¯s and his cold blue eyes too.


    ¡°All right, all right,¡± Hardrick grumbles, and raises Silverslash.


    The four of them plus several of Hardrick''s lieutenants are standing before a massive circular door of pure tungsten. It radiates solidity and weight; Hardrick finds it hard to fathom the amount of gold it must have taken to acquire the metal. At the center of the door is a small wheel inlaid with numbers, also of tungsten. Braedle tried to guess the combination, failed twice, then on the third failure something ground and clanked inside and now the wheel can no longer be turned.


    Hardrick cuts deep. Though Silverslash can slice through rock as easily as it might through water, hacking into the tungsten is much like hacking wood with ordinary steel. Doable, certainly, but damn hard. Sweat pours down his beard and his arms burn as by slash after slash he cleaves the tungsten apart. Jagged irregular shards clatter to the ground.


    After a solid half hour of hacking, he''s through. A portal of razor splinters and spikes lead into darkness.


    "Let''s take a look," Braedle chirps, and she shoves past Hardrick and into Thanerzak''s personal chamber, closely followed by the other two Golden Guard.


    Hardrick listens to frustrated shouting and the crashing of metal for several minutes.


    "It''s not fucking there!" Braedle shouts in Hardrick''s face. "Where the fuck is it?"


    ¡°Huh?¡± Hardrick growls back at her. ¡°What isn¡¯t fucking there?¡±


    ¡°The damn key!¡±


    ¡°What key?¡±


    ¡°The key my father¡¯s looking for, that¡¯s what!¡±


    ¡°I never heard nothing about no key.¡±


    ¡°If one of your soldiers has smashed it to bits to sell off...¡± warns another of the Golden Guard. ¡°There¡¯ll be damn hell to pay.¡±


    ¡°Like I said, I never heard nothing about no fucking key.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s diamond,¡± snaps Braedle. ¡°About two feet long. It was meant to be here, and it isn¡¯t. Get your soldiers on it. My father will not be happy if it goes missing.¡±


    ¡°Sure, sure,¡± Hardrick sighs. ¡°Danath, you listening to this?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± says the tall blonde dwarf. The gold of his armor and axe of speed are obscured by dark dried crimson.


    ¡°Go get your battalion to search around. And ask around too, in case anyone¡¯s already picked it up.¡±


    ¡°Sure. What¡¯s the punishment if someone¡¯s found it and not told us?¡±


    ¡°Death,¡± Braedle snarls. ¡°A painful death.¡±


    <hr>


    It proves easy to make it back to the apartment. I was right about us having plenty of time: the ransacking of the city hasn¡¯t begun yet, so distracted is Broderick¡¯s army by the riches of the castle. The only smoke that does rise is from the shop and industrial districts and some of the larger guildhalls. Ordinary homes have not been touched, and on account of my tattered armband none of the few runeknights we come across attack.


    Hayhek and Yezakh fly up the stairs. Hayhek fumbles with the key for a moment before the door swings inward and he¡¯s pulled in among screams and cries of relief.


    ¡°We lived!¡± he says. ¡°We escaped!¡±


    I follow up and, after the family finishes hugging one another, am shown in.


    ¡°He saved us,¡± Yezakh says proudly. ¡°This is Zathar... We¡¯d have been killed if he hadn¡¯t stopped us going in... He¡¯s a genius.¡±


    I wince slightly at the beaming young dwarf¡¯s praise, and shake my head.


    ¡°It was just the most sensible option.¡±


    ¡°Come in, come in!¡± Hayhek¡¯s wife says, and we¡¯re hurried into their living room and sat down. She¡¯s as gray of hair as her husband, and her face is lined even deeper. Raising four children must be no easy task. As hard as being a runeknight, maybe.


    ¡°You should get your armor off,¡± she says.


    ¡°No,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°No, we don¡¯t know what Broderick¡¯s dwarves are going to do.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s all lost then? It¡¯s over?¡±


    ¡°For now. Until the dragon hunt returns, if they even know what¡¯s happened here. Even then, Thanerzak has vanished. Or at least, I haven¡¯t seen him since he fought Broderick.¡±


    ¡°If he was dead we¡¯d know,¡± Yezakh says, to reassure his mother whose face has turned paper white. ¡°Broderick would be dragging him through the city, or something like that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m sure the Runethane''s fine.¡±


    ¡°The things you must have seen...¡± she says.


    ¡°We¡¯re fine. Everything¡¯s okay. We just need to sit things out, is all. Until the dragon hunt returns.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get some food ready.¡±


    I spend the rest of the day there, sprawled out half on the floor and half on their battered sofa, armor on of course. Heartseeker I prop against the wall, sharp end away from the three young daughters, but ready to be snatched up at a moment¡¯s notice. The wrapped key stays clasped tightly to my chest, and for further security I tie it there with several of Hayhek¡¯s old leather belts.


    Dinner is rather basic fare, for Hayhek tells his wife that it¡¯s not going to be safe to go outside for a while yet. Just a couple of sausages and some minced mushrooms, washed down with cheap beer and even some water. As we eat Hayhek and Yezakh lay out the tale in full. I nearly stop them mentioning the key, for something makes me feel like no one ought to know it¡¯s here, but I can¡¯t draw suspicion to myself. Who knows what Hayhek will do for his family? He likes me, but he loves them.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Eventually I manage to drift off to sleep. In its blackness I rush through tunnels running with splashing blood. I feel hot breath on the back of my neck, hear the clamor of clashing metal behind me. I hold the key before me, and race down, down, down. In front of me is a shadowed figure, standing still, yet no matter how fast I run he¡¯s always the same distance away.


    A loud tapping sound wakes me. My eyes snap open. The knocking comes again.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Hayhek hisses. It¡¯s woken him up too; he hurries to his feet. ¡°Everyone, in your rooms! Hide!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m staying with you,¡± Yezakh whispers. ¡°Right behind you.¡±


    ¡°Fine. But behind me!¡±


    I stand up too, take up Heartseeker and and follow Hayhek to the front door. The knocking comes once more, loudly and rudely, then when we don¡¯t answer, we hear angry voices on the other side.


    ¡°Unlock the door, woman!¡±


    ¡°Like I said, no dwarf like that lives here!¡±


    Hayhek whispers to me: ¡°That¡¯s the landlady.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s lying!¡± says a third voice. ¡°Three dwarves entered here for sure! One young with a dark beard. Don¡¯t you trust our soldiers, Danath?¡±


    ¡°Not really, as a matter of fact.¡±


    ¡°One of them had something wrapped up! Something suspicious! The thing you¡¯re looking for, has to be!¡±


    Hayhek¡¯s eyes narrow at me, but he says nothing.


    ¡°Awfully keen for a reward, aren¡¯t you?¡± sneers Danath.


    ¡°No one like that lives here!¡± the landlady wails. ¡°And whoever has what you¡¯re looking for has to be one of your own anyway!¡±


    ¡°Maybe he has contacts here, spies,¡± Danath says. ¡°Either way, I don¡¯t care. I¡¯ve been door-knocking all fucking night. Open the door, woman!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re a nice family!¡± the woman wails. ¡°Don¡¯t hurt them, please!¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t hurt anyone if they aren¡¯t harboring the thief. Open the damned door!¡±


    A rattling in the lock signifies a key being turned.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°Get out of here! We don¡¯t have anyone or anything!¡±


    ¡°You were listening, were you?¡± says Danath.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have anyone or anything!¡± Yezakh repeats. ¡°And we¡¯re armed!¡±


    He points his steel axe toward the doorway. He didn''t make a spear like I¡¯d suggested, but the axe is longer than most and has a sharp spike on the end.


    The lock clicks. The door opens a crack, and Hayhek slams his shield against it to slam it shut.


    ¡°Damn you!¡± shouts Danath. ¡°You are hiding something. If you don¡¯t open the door, when I get in I¡¯ll kill every one of you.¡±


    ¡°What the hell is going on?¡± Hayhek hisses to me. ¡°What the hell is that thing you stole?¡±


    ¡°Something I need!¡±


    ¡°To hell you need it!¡±


    ¡°What is it, Zathar?¡± Yezakh asks. ¡°Why do you need it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s...¡±


    I¡¯m panicking. My hands are shuddering and my breath catches on the dryness in my throat. My nerves are shot, completely, and I think I¡¯ve heard the voice on the other side of the door before. I look from Hayhek to Yezakh, and back to the wife and daughters peeking from the living room. Have I just killed them all? I need to make this right, somehow. Distract the runeknights.


    ¡°Open up!¡± comes the voice of the second runeknight, and he slams the door with his body or shield¡ªeither way it¡¯s forced open a crack. A golden axe wedges into the gap. It¡¯s shivering, the silver runes of speed on it blurry. It¡¯s an axe I well recognise.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go out the back window,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°And leave us to¡ª¡± hisses Hayhek.


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°Then¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hey, you, runeknights!¡± I suddenly shout. ¡°I have what you¡¯re looking for!¡±


    ¡°Do you now?¡± says Danath.


    ¡°A key, isn¡¯t it? Diamond, and as long as your arm.¡±


    ¡°Open the door!¡± Danath shouts to his underling. ¡°Bash it in!¡±


    A massive impact breaks the door vertically in half. Hayhek is thrown backwards past me, and I see a dwarf in steel armor holding a two-handed hammer like a battering ram. A tall dwarf in crimson-coated gold stands behind and to his right.


    Heartseeker moves in a blur. The precision and speed gifted by my gauntlets has it in perfect striking position in an instant, and then all I have to do is push it forward and let its hungry bloody runes seek out the hammerdwarf¡¯s throat.


    He has no time to react. It goes straight in under the helmet and out the other end. I feel it turn toward Danath¡ªit nearly takes my revenge then and there, but he sidesteps.


    I rip Heartseeker from the hammerdwarf¡¯s throat. Blood sprays out over me from the hole. Danath raises his axe for a lightning-strike, but I¡¯m already leaping over the falling corpse and bull-tackling him.


    We crash out into the corridor and hit the iron railing guarding us from the three-story drop to the apartment block¡¯s entrance hall. It snaps and we both plummet; I land on him heavily. For a moment we¡¯re locked in embrace, the wind smashed out from both of us. I get mine back faster, sit up and drive my right fist at his face.


    The speed runes of his armor win out and the golden blur of his left fist reaches my face first. I¡¯m thrown sideways, the noise of the strike against my helmet ringing in my ears. I¡¯m only halfway back to my feet when he¡¯s right before me, axe cleaving down toward my head.


    I whip Heartseeker upward and knock the blow off-course so it only grazes my shoulder. A feint to his eyes makes him flinch, and I scuttle back to prepare myself for his next attack.


    ¡°You¡¯re stealing from the Runethane,¡± he says. He looks at the wrapped key bound to my chest. ¡°The punishment is death. Hand the key over now and I¡¯ll give you a quick one. Refuse, and I¡¯ll cut your feet off, drag you to our guildhall, and throw you into a vat of molten steel.¡±


    I let out a bitter laugh. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what you said last time. Danath, was it? Nice to put a name to the face.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    I push my visor up to let him see my smile. Maybe the shock at seeing me back from the dead will take him off guard. It does for an instant, and I strike at his belly. He blocks with a quick rotation of his axe, follows up a slash at my arm I only just take my gauntlet out the way of. He makes as if to strike again, and I dash back, but he stops the strike and laughs.


    ¡°This is too good! It¡¯s eerie! Holy shit, this is eerie. Are you and Hardrick tied by fate, or something!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I spit.


    ¡°Oh, hell, I can¡¯t wait to see the look on his face when he hears about this.¡±


    ¡°Hardrick? What the hell does he have to do with anything?¡±


    ¡°Tell you what, Zuthur, give me the key and I¡¯ll let you live. Hardrick might give me a nice reward if he gets you alive.¡±


    ¡°What the hell are you on about?¡± I shout.


    ¡°I¡¯m on about our great commander, that¡¯s who! Hardrick, the Silver Savage, Runethane Broderick¡¯s favorite new general!¡±


    My body grows cold. My stomach tightens to a knot.


    ¡°Well, what do you say, Zuthur? Give me the key and I¡¯ll let you live.¡±


    There is nothing to say. Nothing to do but fight this lying bastard of a dwarf. Thinks he can throw me off my fighting game, does he? He¡¯s underestimated me.


    I feint high. His axe blurs up to block, but I tilt Heartseeker down and aim it right at the chink in his armor above his right knee and drive it down through the chainmail and leather into the flesh. Rip it out just as fast, and I¡¯m already back in fighting-stance. Blood runs down his greave.


    Danath howls in pain. I aim Heartseeker for a high strike.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on!¡± comes a shout from behind me.


    I glance back. Standing there are three runeknights holding heavy sacks of loot.


    ¡°Get him!¡± Danath hisses. ¡°He¡¯s the thief! Get¡ª¡±


    I strike at his face, but his axe, fast as ever, knocks Heartseeker away, then it comes down at my chest, slicing the wrapping of the key. The diamond bit shines in the lamplight.


    I feint again for distraction, then turn and dash toward the three runeknights in the middle of drawing their weapons. I aim Heartseeker at the eyes of the middle one. He screams in terror and sidesteps, and I¡¯m through, hurtling through the night.


    But I can hear footsteps behind me, hot on my heels. I glance back and see Danath. His leg is injured, but with his runes of speed he can run still. The parts of his golden armor where the dried blood has flaked away are flashing yellow in the moonlight.


    ¡°Thief!¡± he screams out. ¡°Get him! Everyone get him, and you¡¯ll be rewarded beyond imagination!¡±


    As I run I look up at the dark stalactites for any sign of the dragon, but see none.

 Runeknight: Death on the Bridge

    Where to run to? Where to run to? Already more runeknights are throwing down their sacks of loot and joining the chase. They know whatever the reward for catching me is, it¡¯s greater by far than anything they¡¯re holding, anything they¡¯ve ever dreamt of.


    What the hell does this key unlock?


    The road becomes littered with fragments of stone block, puddles of smooth basalt still glowing from within, and bodies from a few skirmishes that must have broken out in the side streets. The wall looms above me, its shadow short, for the cavern mirrors are nearly directly above it, but so dark.


    Danath is still close behind¡ªI can hear his footsteps, irregular but as fast paced as my own. He¡¯s given up shouting¡ªhe¡¯s shouted enough. The news is spreading across the city as we run. The news that the thief has been found and will soon be ready for slaughter.


    I turn and run along the wall. It¡¯s a horrifying thought, but the black dragon is my only hope. I have to believe that in its gratitude, it will carry me away somewhere safe. That is, if it hasn¡¯t already been cornered and cut to pieces by Vanerak.


    I am hoping for a miracle that will almost certainly not become reality. Yet I must hope. A break in the shadows appears; I¡¯m nearly at the breach in the wall. I turn and run onto the bridge. Some panicked shouts break out behind me:


    ¡°He¡¯s going to jump off!¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s crazy!¡±


    ¡°Stop him!¡±


    Fortunately for them, I have no intention of jumping off. I''m here because it''s the center of the city, and if the dragon can spot me anywhere it''ll be here. I clamber over the still-smoking wood and twisted iron that was the ram and make my way to the center of the bridge. Nearly out of breath, I turn around, and pull away as much of the rag covering the key as possible.


    ¡°It¡¯s here!¡± I scream to the stalactites above. ¡°Come on! Come on!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re coming!¡± my pursuers scream back. Some laugh maniacally.


    ¡°Halt, you lot!¡± Danath shouts, mustering up the last of his breath. ¡°Bastard¡¯s mine. I¡¯m a lieutenant! Stop right there!¡±


    They stop and form a line across the rift in the wall. The dying lava illuminates their armor and weapons so they become like a spiked fence of flame. Danath limps forward, spinning his axe in his hand. It¡¯s small, I think, so much smaller than Heartseeker, but just as deadly or deadlier. He has no shield, for he¡¯s judged that one would only slow him down.


    This here is a master of the fight. He knows his style, and has forged equipment to suit it perfectly. The blood coating him is a testament to just how skilled he is. My blow before was luck, and he won¡¯t underestimate me again.


    Kazhek was nothing compared to him.


    ¡°Give me the key and I¡¯ll make this quick,¡± he says.


    ¡°You¡¯ve already said that,¡± I say between gasping breaths. ¡°I¡¯m not giving it up.¡±


    ¡°Give it to me!¡±


    ¡°Never. I can beat you. I already got one good stab in. One more, and your blood is mine.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Going to be hard to stab when you¡¯re missing both arms.¡±


    For a few moments we make no movement, just circle around each other. He stops. I ready Heartseeker to meet his attack. It comes before I can blink¡ªin a sudden surge of strength and speed he leaps over a pile of wrecked iron and cleaves down at my wrists. I draw them back and his blade contacts Heartseeker¡¯s haft instead. Sparks fly, and the spear¡¯s dark glow flickers for an instant. The natural response would be to fall back, but I resist the fear-urge and push forward instead, thrusting Heartseeker¡¯s haft up to his chin while I kick at his injured leg.


    He sidesteps and swings at my head. It¡¯s only because his injury unbalances him that the blow doesn¡¯t remove my head from my shoulders. Instead it only rips my helmet from my head. I swing around, manage to block his next cut to my side. Shit! He¡¯s right in close-range¡ªI¡¯m in the worst position possible for a spearfighter.


    He strikes again and again, his axehead like a darting predatory bat, always where I least expect it. It¡¯s only because of the precision granted by my gauntlets that I manage to block each strike, but still his axe brushes my armor again and again, slicing it like the iron is no more than paper. Finally I get a blow of my own in¡ªa sudden knee kick¡ªand can back away eight feet or so to a better range.


    ¡°Harder than you used to be,¡± he pants. ¡°Never knew miners could be so tough. Shit, that pisses me off.¡±


    I stab at him, left right and center, repeat and repeat. As always, my only concern is to get Heartseeker into position and let it loose. Unleashed it¡¯s nearly as fast as Danath¡¯s axe, and at the correct range more mobile. He can¡¯t block every strike. One nicks his side, turning one of his silvery runes dark. Another nearly gets into his eye, and the follow-up chips into his groin-plate.


    Confident, my mouth curves into a grim smile and I let loose a rapid flurry. He spins his axe clockwise, counter-clockwise, counter-clockwise again. His injured knee is slowing him, keeping him off balance. He stumbles on a splintered piece of wood and nearly falls over. My strike of opportunity half prizes off his left shoulder plate.


    He charges and slashes at Heartseeker¡¯s haft. Sparks fly and one of the runes goes dark¡ªthe spearhead¡¯s shadow-glow dims. I curse and stab out, but he takes advantage of my hurried frustration to dodge down and get back into close-range.


    A strike at my thigh misses, but a reverse-cut upward slices deep into my right gauntlet. I feel some of its power drain away¡ªHeartseeker suddenly feels unwieldy. He follows up with another dozes slashes, each leaving a deep mark through my iron armor.


    I whip Heartseeker around and catch his helmet with a blow from its blunt end. It stuns him momentarily and I hurry back out of his range. We stand still for a few seconds, sucking in deep gulps of air. Then he laughs.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    He¡¯s winning this and we both know it.


    <hr>


    Yezakh watches from the balcony as Zathar duels the runeknight in bloody gold in the entrance hall. The apartment¡ªjust his ordinary apartment¡ªrings with the sound of their battle. Zathar is brave, even baring his face at the enemy to bait him into striking. Their conversation Yezakh does not quite understand, but then the duel restarts.


    Zathar gets him in the leg! Yezakh shouts encouragement, but they¡¯re both too focused on the fight to notice.


    He readies to leap into the fray. Damn! He should be down there already, but... His steel boots can take the impact, can¡¯t they? Can they? He¡¯s never leapt from so high before, but he has to overcome these cowardly instincts of his.


    Hayhek grabs him firmly by the arm.


    ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± he warns.


    Three runeknights have appeared in the doors to the entrance hall.


    ¡°He needs our help!¡±


    ¡°Just stay here! Listen to me for once in your life!¡±


    ¡°He saved our lives!¡±


    ¡°No! He¡¯s a damn curse on our lives! He put us all in danger, willingly, for riches.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just riches! He¡¯s better than that. He went out his way to help me.¡±


    ¡°When?¡± Hayhek demands. ¡°When did he help you when it wasn¡¯t also for his own gain?¡±


    ¡°He...¡±


    Yezakh wrestles with his thoughts. His father is right, Zathar¡¯s help has always been for himself before anyone else, yet he has helped! That night when they stole into the shop, stole the reagent and gold... It was immoral, sure. But so was all his father suffered at the hands of his guild. Yezakh has heard the stories of the bullying, seen the red rings around his father''s eyes.


    All he wants is to break the cycle. To make sure he never suffers the same. Maybe if he does that his father won¡¯t have to keep suffering either.


    ¡°Let go of me!¡± he snaps, and jerks his arm free. Zathar has just run out into the night. The golden runeknight gives chase.


    ¡°You really think you can save him?¡± Hayhek pleads. ¡°You stand by him, son, and you will be torn apart. We all will! You don¡¯t know how cruel some people are.¡±


    ¡°I just stood in the front lines of a battle with you. I know the risks! I have to face them!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t!¡± his mother says, and grabs him by the shoulders. ¡°You can stay here with us. Be with us.¡±


    He pushes her away.


    ¡°No. I¡¯ve put my fights off for too long.¡± He slams his visor down. ¡°I¡¯m going to help him. Don¡¯t try to stop me.¡±


    He leaps down. His boots shatter the tiles. For a brief second hope flares in Hayhek¡¯s heart that maybe he¡¯s injured his ankles, cannot run, but then his son is up and dashing off into the night.


    ¡°I have to stop him,¡± he says to his wife. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll bring him back.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± she pleads. ¡°You have to.¡±


    ¡°I will. I swear it.¡±


    He gives her a kiss then jumps down and sprints away.


    <hr>


    A sudden commotion at the wall catches my eye. A dwarf smashes through from behind, breaching the line of dwarves with his shield charge. Another follows close behind. Yezakh and Hayhek. The son is in the lead, running toward me, shouting something I can¡¯t make out.


    ¡°...I¡¯ll save you!¡±


    He charges Danath from behind in the same moment I strike. Danath blocks his stab easily, but doesn¡¯t turn back quite fast enough to totally avoid mine. Heartseeker digs into his back, then scrapes across into behind his damaged left shoulder plate. Its shadow-glow darkens hungrily as it digs in to the flesh beneath. He screams out, then Yezakh slashes him hard in the head, sending his gold-and-crimson visor flying off.


    Hayhek shield-slams him, sending him flying backward to crash into a lump of twisted iron and wood. He gasps and spits blood.


    I rush forward to stab his open mouth. Heartseeker darts forward hungrily¡ªbut I have forgotten how to fight like a dwarf. Danath¡¯s armor is mostly intact, and he is not yet at the limit of his endurance.


    He tilts his body to avoid my stab and sweeps out with his uninjured leg. It slams into my ankles like a titanium bar swung with impossible force. I crash to the rubble sideways, shouting in shock. I roll over and see that Danath has stood up, see his axe already cutting down to my belly.


    ¡°No!¡± screams Yezakh.


    He slices at Danath¡¯s neck, but the tall runeknight is far too fast for him. Danath spins and cuts through the axe. The axehead begins to fall down, and already Danath is swinging back, his platinum runes of speed on his golden armor and axe glowing brightly and coldly with power.


    He severs Yezakh¡¯s head.


    It hits the stone at the same time his axehead does, and rolls to face me. The lights in the young dwarf¡¯s eyes, once so full of desperate hope and promise, dull and die. His body, fountaining blood from the neck, collapses backwards.


    ¡°No!¡± Hayhek screams, and he charges Danath with shield forward, but already the dwarves behind him are rushing, nearly at him, and leading them is another familiar face, a dwarf in a suit of lead scales with a hideous scar through his lips. He drives an open palm into the back of Hayhek¡¯s head and the old dwarf flies past me, bounces off another lump of ruined iron with a clang, and sprawls concussed or dead at the edge of the bridge.


    I stagger to my feet and fall forward over the wreckage that only seconds ago Danath was lying against. At the other end of the bridge more dwarves are gathering¡ªI¡¯m trapped, utterly and totally. Out of pure instinct I leap forward and roll, and an instant later hear Danath¡¯s bloody axe whir through the air just behind my head.


    ¡°Stop!¡± someone shouts. ¡°He¡¯s nearly at the edge!¡±


    I get to my feet, see the chasm before me, spin back around dizzily.


    ¡°Give me the key!¡± Danath rasps. His face is haggard but his eyes are bright. ¡°You jump down and we¡¯ll hunt down your family and tear them apart.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a family,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°Family...¡± Hayhek groans. He tries to stand up, but can only make it to his knees.


    The leering faces of dwarves surround me in a tight semi-circle. They are ghoulish. They are monsters equal in greed and cruelty to the black dragon or perhaps even more so.


    ¡°You have a choice,¡± Danath says. ¡°Hand over the key and maybe you can live.¡±


    I laugh bitterly. ¡°If I hand over the key I die.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t you die either way,¡± says the lead-clad dwarf. ¡°I¡¯ll make it quick. I¡¯ll crush your head in an instant. You won¡¯t feel a thing. Faster and easier than decapitation, even.¡±


    I look up to the mirrors. They¡¯re directly above me, and I can see a silver orb on them, repeated many times over. The moon, that must be.


    ¡°Hand it over,¡± Danath says again. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare jump.¡±


    The stalactites are still. Nothing flits between them, not a bat, not a bird, not a dragon either. It isn¡¯t coming for me. Wherever the black dragon is, dead or alive, it isn¡¯t here. I lower my gaze and look Danath in the eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re wrong,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t have a choice. Hayhek, stand up.¡±


    I reach out a hand, and when he doesn¡¯t grab it I clutch his upper arm and drag him to his feet.


    ¡°My son...¡± he says. ¡°You killed him. My only son, you killed him.¡±


    I don¡¯t know who he¡¯s speaking to: Danath or me.


    ¡°Hand over the damn key,¡± says Danath.


    ¡°Never.¡±


    I lean backwards, pulling down Hayhek as I do so. Danath¡¯s hand snatches toward the key, the tips of his fingers brush it, and then I¡¯m out of reach. For the second time in my life I plummet into the chasm with the faces of my enemies looking down on me. Except this time no tears flow from my eyes to leave a trail like diamond dew.


    Wracked with guilt I fall, waiting for my existence to end.

 Thanerzak and Broderick

    Thanerzak flees through the hot dry darkness. Every inch of his skin burns with incredible pain as sweat and fabric conspire to torture it. Wet sticky patches are where pus is leaking out, wet and hot patches where blood is. A dent in his breastplate is like a dagger slicing him with each step he takes, digging deeper and deeper. His mind is clouded with the pain: all he can think is that he must go on, must go forward, must finish his revenge before Broderick¡¯s ambition finishes him.


    ¡°Give up, commander!¡± Broderick shouts. He¡¯s closer than he was five minutes ago. ¡°Turn and face me! Die like a dwarf, not like a coward!¡±


    Broderick, for his part, has never felt so exhilarated. The clanking of his old commander¡¯s old armor is getting louder by the minute. That little trick of jumping down the mineshaft has failed utterly, just like all his other foolish gambits.


    ¡°What happened to you, old one?¡± he calls. ¡°You used to be so clever!¡±


    No reply comes; Broderick laughs and shakes his head, continues the chase. The dark tunnel twists and loops, but one thing is constant: it is sinking downward. They must be miles beneath the city now, nearly level with the bottom of the chasm. Still it goes down, getting hotter and hotter.


    Far, far below the deepest of the dwarven realms lie seas of magma. At the behest of his Runeking, Broderick once visited one so he might look upon the true majesty of the underworld. It was just as hot as now, but was a different kind of heat. It was a heat with a slow and grand majesty. The heat growing in the tunnel has a sentience to it, as if it¡¯s a malevolent entity working itself into his gold-coated skin to blister and destroy.


    The tunnel slopes downward steeply and shockingly. A bright light appears at its end, concealed partially by the wide silhouette of Thanerzak that then vanishes as he jumps out into whatever chamber lies beyond.


    Broderick tilts his weight forward and increases his speed. He begins to worry a little. What final scheme has Thanerzak got planned from him? Might it contain a little of his old brilliance? The light grows wider and brighter in his eyes, then he¡¯s leaping down into the massive chamber Thanerzak has led him to.


    Massive is indeed the word. How many lesser caverns had to be filled with rubble so that this place could be carved out? It is in the shape of a long hall, if long is the right word for a room nearly a mile long and a third of a mile wide. Its size is necessary though, for bound to its walls are the old rulers of the cavern.


    Each is fixed in a standing position: their feet have great tungsten nails driven through them, their hands are nailed to the walls also, and their wings are spread out and fixed to the wall by tungsten hoops. Their heads are covered by tungsten helmets so that only their lower jaws, forced open by thick bars, are visible. A pipe is jammed into each one''s mouth, and clasped to the throat of each like huge parasitic beetles are cog-work mechanisms. These have a single spike at their centers and chains from them run up through holes in the ceiling.


    More tungsten bars of great thickness are bent across the dragons¡¯ chests, arms, and legs. And as is if all this wasn¡¯t enough security, a semi-cylindrical cage of tungsten surrounds each, locked.


    ¡°Impressive!¡± Broderick calls. ¡°But you¡¯re at a dead end, now.¡±


    Thanerzak slows and halts. He turns around and looks at the grotesque golden upstart. He hisses in pain and raises Starcleaver, readies his shield too.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to say anything?¡± Broderick taunts as he strides closer.


    ¡°I have nothing to say.¡±


    Starcleaver glows with terrible light. The dragons writhe and groan in their bonds as the power absorbed from a million of their tortured breaths intensifies. Thanerzak swings down. Broderick feels the slash cleaving air and reality toward him and leaps out the way. Even glancing him, the power is enough to slam him backwards, shatter some of his golden rings and even sever one of the chains wrapped around his waist, which jangles as it¡¯s thrown up high.


    Spots of blood rain as, catlike, Broderick flips in the air and lands softly on the balls of his feet. A long line has been cut in the floor and ceiling, and the back wall too. The bound dragons shiver in terror, try to thrash but cannot break their bonds.


    Broderick examines the damage to his gold and curses. He wastes no time and rushes Thanerzak before he can raise Starcleaver again, swings with his own axe. It is grafted with a saga of speed and ferocity, but Thanerzak¡¯s armor is a match for it, and his strike only dents the tungsten.


    Even so, to the scarred skin beneath the hit feels like a raw cut. Thanerzak screams in agony and swings wildly, but Starcleaver has not yet recovered from its exertions. No wave of power crashes from it and Broderick avoids the blow entirely.


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    He gives a countercut. Starcleaver meets it, and impossible light flashes. It flashes again, a third time, then a hundred times in succession as the two expert fighters engage. After many hundreds of years of combat their movements have no conscious thought to them¡ªtheir arms flex and turn and exert force in automatic patterns.


    Nevertheless, each has his strategy.


    For Broderick, it is to wear down his old commander. His amulets of youth are expertly forged, even if reckoned among the highest masters of the art, and he knows that if he lasts Thanerzak will eventually fall in exhaustion. As long as no strikes powered by three hundred years of dragonfire cleave him in two, he will win this battle.


    He believes that Thanerzak¡¯s strategy is to finish the fight quickly. To make use of what strength remains in his worn-out muscles to destroy his hated rival with a blow too powerful to defend.


    But Broderick is wrong.


    He relaxes the pace of his strikes. The flashes of terrible light reduce in frequency from five a second to just one. There¡¯s no need to tire himself out. Each blow he lands, even glancing, makes Thanerzak flinch.


    Starcleaver begins to glow bright once more. Thanerzak kicks out and Broderick does not manage to dodge. Thanerzak¡¯s tungsten boot hits him full in the chest and the gold rings crunch. Broderick flies backwards and skids along the smooth stone a full twenty feet leaving a trail of fizzing sparks in his wake.


    He swears; Starcleaver is raised high. He throws himself out the path of the blow, but he doesn¡¯t need to. Thanerzak is not aiming for him.


    Thanerzak has only had one goal these past three hundred years. And if he can no longer give the dragons a painful life, he will give them painful deaths.


    He slashes side-on at two dragons bound on his left. Starcleaver¡¯s power obliterates the cages then impacts the tungsten bars over their chests and shatters them with a noise several tones lower than breaking glass, and the next moment the superheated lifeforces of the two dragons burst outward in fiery cataclysms. Scales flash across the hall like a hail of deadly dark arrowheads. Broderick catches one an inch before it slices his eye, and several more cut into his body and make him gasp in pain.


    Where the two dragons were bound are now spreading pools of white and orange. The heat of their demise converted the wall behind into lava which fell down in a bright waterfall unnoticed by anyone, so much brighter were the death-flares. In the pools float scraps of twisted tungsten.


    Broderick tears a scale from his right pectoral and flings it to the ground. The blood bubbling from the small wound is steaming.


    ¡°What the fuck are you doing to my dragons?¡± he shouts at his old commander.


    ¡°They are not yours to seek revenge on!¡± Thanerzak roars. ¡°They are mine, mine for all eternity, be that in this world or the next!¡±


    ¡°Stubborn old fool!¡±


    Broderick rushes him. His axe is like a rabid wild animal, biting ten times a second, a hundred. Thanerzak cannot block even half of them, but all the same he remains standing. Every square millimeter of his skin is now raging agony, and his physical agony matches his mental so that he is driven berserk.


    ¡°Fall down, damn you!¡±


    Thanerzak¡¯s reply is a wordless roar and Starcleaver begins to glow once more. It brightens far more quickly than ever before; Broderick understands that written into it is a saga of infinite rage in runes so small they are more numerous than even the stars of the sky of the surface.


    Starcleaver swings down toward the dragon at the far end of the hall, a black monstrosity with wings like sheets of abyss.


    Broderick raises his axe and blocks two-handed. Starcleaver¡¯s power bursts forth nonetheless, and concentrated to only half a slash it is visible, a red line of anger that digs deep into the ceiling, bringing down a rain of dust. With a shout of anger Thanerzak tries to pull away, but Broderick locks his axe around Starcleaver¡¯s haft. Thanerzak tries to tug it free; Broderick resists then relaxes, flies forward and punches with all the force of two Runethanes. His golden fist shatters Thanerzak¡¯s helmet into a hundred shards.


    Within is a red melted lump that once could have been called a head. From it stare yellow and black shriveled eyes. A gash in its lower half opens and a scream like from something being torn slowly asunder comes as the ambient dragon-heat contacts the bare skin.


    Thanerzak falls to his knees. His hands scrabble for the shards of his helmet. Starcleaver clatters down and he ignores it. He gathers up a few pieces of tungsten and attempts to form them into a sheet of metal, which falls to pieces.


    ¡°No, no...¡±


    Pus runs from his shriveled eyes in place of tears as he gathers more tungsten pieces.


    ¡°No, no, no...¡± he rasps.


    Broderick, feeling slightly sick, puts a single cut through his brain and Thanerzak slumps down, finally freed from his unending torment.


    ¡°You should have done that to yourself a long time ago,¡± he says quietly. ¡°I might have done it for you that day, if Vanerak hadn¡¯t stopped me.¡±


    Oh well. He lets out a long sigh. It¡¯s all over now. He¡¯s freed too, from this stupid conflict which he often thought would never end. It¡¯s a bittersweet feeling, as he remembers that far back before their fighting begun that he used to admire Thanerzak, loved him as a great leader who was fearless enough to invade a cavern of the worst monsters known.


    He looks up at the bound dragons. They¡¯re shivering in their bonds, feeling no less fear than they deserve. Their fire is his now. What shall he forge with it? A new axe? A new covering of rings?


    Or perhaps he shall begin to forge his crown.

 Cavern Exile: Deep Island

    Chill water subsumes me. Its fingers grasp wetly at my skin through my armor and drag me down. I do not resist. A cold grave is fitting punishment for all the suffering I have caused. No: it is a reprieve.


    I feel my fingers grasping at the clasps of my iron breastplate. I will them to stop, but they keep moving, like steel-garbed worms, pressing buttons and clicking aside little levers, digging in and snapping pins where they come against resistance. Weight falls away from me, and I feel the water¡¯s grasp slip. I begin to rise.


    I thrash and kick to try and move myself downward. In the process my ankles clash themselves together, undo the clasps of my greaves and boots. Then I¡¯m spinning upward in a current, the abyssal blackness at the bottom of the trench growing distant. Desperately I want to rest there, lay my head down in the blackness, but the weight of the water is growing less every second.


    A spire of stone approaches. I force myself to swim toward it, and attempt to dash my body against it. Yet I misjudged its shape in the twisting water; it¡¯s no spire but the gentle slope of a mid-river islet. I impact it, feel the rough stone scrape my skin. The rest of my armor, bar my gauntlets, comes away on the stones then I¡¯m out and breathing the dark damp air.


    Heartseeker is still in my hand. Its glow, that dark glow I was so proud of and which separated me from the rest of the runeknights, is faded almost to nothing. I lay it down. My right gauntlet is dead too, heavy. I take it off and lay it beside Heartseeker.


    Staring down at them, I wonder why I¡¯ve saved myself. What my purpose is. I wanted to find my brother so badly that I was willing to sacrifice everyone, and now the key to him is gone too, sinking to the bottom of the abyss with my breastplate.


    How many did I end up killing for it? Half my guild, that makes about thirty, plus another dozen burned beyond recognition, and then Hayhek and Yezakh.


    What makes my brother worth more than all them?


    I stand and walk up the slope of the islet, which rises from the river, a strange wedge, unerringly even, with low walls at the sides. A pattern of circles is engraved into it halfway up, memories of long-dead history. I trample over them up to the top of the ramp and lean over.


    A line of moonlight down the center of the river, the only light that makes it down past the in-leaning chasm walls, is shifting and rippling on the water. I look along it and see white foam being flung up from vicious spikes but one hundred feet away.


    To jump now would be final release. The damp breeze chills my sodden clothes and the skin beneath. The stone feels rough under my feet: here is the last ground I will ever stand on. I turn and look for one last time upon my steel creations.


    ¡°Goodbye,¡± I whisper.


    A dark swell throws onto the stone a figure in battered steel. He lies spread-eagled behind Heartseeker and my gauntlet; the lapping of the river is shifting his left arm and left leg up and down in a steady rhythm, but that is his only movement.


    ¡°Hayhek!¡± I shout, and sprint, slip and slide down the inscribed stone. I throw myself down beside him and pull him onto his front. His armor is dented and torn junk. I begin to rip his breastplate away¡ªno easy task. No matter how desperately I force my hands to hurry at the latches and clasps, I cannot pull the steel away quickly.


    Finally I manage to get it off. I watch his chest. No movement.


    I push down on his chest with both hands, trying to drive life back into him. He lets out a gurgle and a little water laps out. He chokes, and more splashes out. There¡¯s another period of silence as I desperately continue the compressions¡ªI saw this done once before, outside a flooded mine. He coughs and splutters, more water comes out and he spasms onto his side, begins to convulse. More water gushes from his nose and mouth, then he¡¯s hacking and gagging, vomiting up the rest.


    ¡°You¡¯re alive!¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯re alive!¡±


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    He curls into fetal position. I watch his side rise and fall rapidly, then I lie back, exhausted. My thoughts of suicide are gone. If I can keep him alive, I can atone in some small way for what I¡¯ve done. Even then, I don''t think I''ll ever be able to forgive myself, but at the moment it''s all I can do, and to abandon him here would be the same as killing yet another for my selfishness.


    Our situation is dire. We have plenty of water but no heat, no shelter, no food. And barely any equipment to allow us to seek out those needs safely, and defend ourselves from the terrible beasts that lurk here.


    I can¡¯t afford to worry about those. First thing we need is food. Although us dwarves are hardy we are not so hardy that we can survive on air.


    Fish. Are there fish down in the river? Time to find out.


    I take Heartseeker to where the side of the ramp is a few feet above the waterline, some way away from Hayhek. Of course in the darkness I can see nothing but Heartseeker¡¯s weakened blood-seeking sense might be able to help¡ªthough I¡¯ll have to put more strength into my stabs than I¡¯m used to. I lean forward against the low wall and angle it down, place its tip in the water.


    The tip moves slightly, but I think that¡¯s just from the natural eddies in the water. I wait, relax my strength as much as possible. I feel a slight tug and stab but no resistance meets the blade. I curse and draw back, wait to try again.


    My next few strikes have the same luck. The strip of moonlight slowly diminishes, perhaps as one of those mythical clouds comes over the sky, leaving me in total blackness. Heartseeker twitches to the left and I stab, this time meet resistance, but whatever it was I must have just glanced it. At any rate when I lift Heartseeker from the water I can feel no weight on the blade.


    Cursing, I stand up and go to check on Hayhek. I pat around the stone for a while until I contact him. He¡¯s slightly warmer, but no dryer in this damp breeze.


    ¡°Hang in there,¡± I whisper to him.


    I make my way back to my fishing spot and let Heartseeker dangle in the water for a while longer. A while longer turns into a long while longer. The strip of moonlight returns then turns to warm orange, a horizontal beam of fire gently shifting and shimmering down the river. I can vaguely see cave mouths across past the riverbank, but to get there would be a hard swim.


    I could manage it maybe, but not Hayhek, not without strength.


    Patience. Fishing is about patience. Yet most fisherdwarves, those few that make a dangerous living by the clear pools of the stalagmite forest, don¡¯t have the clock of death ticking in their ears. Patience is not going to be enough. I will have to try something drastic.


    I cut open the tip of my little finger on Heartseeker and let the blood drip into the water. I reflect that this is the exact same thing I tried on my first trip down to the caverns. I¡¯d wished to bring up a salamander¡ªhow naive! I was lucky to get the beast I did.


    What will come up this time? If anything at all.


    It doesn¡¯t take long until I hear something splash down from the riverbank. I watch a hint of rippling movement travel toward me; it gets faster as it gets closer.


    I back away and raise Heartseeker for the attack. The beast leaps from the dark water¡ªI see long webbed and clawed fingers, a wide head with needle teeth, and the rest of it is a shapeless dark mass. I give a quick stab to its midriff with Heartseeker, but my instincts are off and though I hit, the blow is far too shallow.


    Its front legs get hold of the low wall and it swipes with thin claws, forcing me to dodge back a few steps. The black beast gets its back legs up, or rather its middle legs¡ªthe back ones come a a second later. I have no idea what it is, but I can see one thing for sure. It has plenty of meat on it.


    No armor either, not even scales; neither is it much bigger than me.


    It charges and snaps, and I dodge automatically to the side. Heartseeker aims toward its neck and I strike hard. Blood jets. It slashes again, sluggishly. A second later its bulbous eyes roll and it collapses, bled out.


    I smile grimly. I thought the deeper you went the worse the creatures? I start to carve out chunks of flesh, but hear another splash from the riverbank, then another two dozen at once.


    Far too many black masses are cutting through the water toward me. I swear under my breath and rush to Hayhek, pull him further up the slope. Then I slash away the dead creature¡¯s back legs just as the first of its fellow rears out the water and puts its front paws on the stone.


    With incredible strain I heave the mutilated carcass up over my head and throw it into the water. The black beasts back up to writhe in a feeding-frenzy whirlpool, snapping and biting. I watch in horror as a couple smaller ones are torn apart in the excitement.


    I brace with Hayhek behind me, Heartseeker out in front. Yet the black creatures, satiated, drift back to their riverbank.


    We won¡¯t be striking out for the left side, then.


    I walk to the right side of the ramp and look across.


    There¡¯s no bank there, just a wall of solid rock.


    Oh, shit.

 Cavern Exile: Bitter Grief

    I slice a sliver of meat from one of the legs and put it into Hayhek¡¯s hand. He drops it.


    ¡°Eat,¡± I say. ¡°We have to get our strength back.¡±


    ¡°Where are we?¡±


    ¡°The bottom of the chasm. There¡¯s a river, we¡¯re on an island on it.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°An island. Dry stone.¡±


    He shuts his eyes and curls back up. I persist with my effort to get him to eat and drag him up to a sitting position.


    ¡°Eat!¡± I urge. ¡°We need to get our strength back.¡±


    Reluctantly he takes the slimy meat into his mouth and chews. His face screws up in disgust and he makes to spit it out. I clap my hand over his mouth.


    ¡°Eat!¡± I urge.


    He swallows it and looks sick.


    ¡°Where are we?¡± he asks again.


    ¡°After the fight we fell. We¡¯re in the chasm. On an island in a river that runs through the bottom of it.¡±


    ¡°Fight... Where¡¯s my son?¡±


    My heart twists in pain. ¡°You don¡¯t remember?¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°Remember...¡± He buries his face in his hands. ¡°Oh, hell. Where the hell am I? What¡¯s happened to me?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t think like that,¡± I say. ¡°You can¡¯t dwell on the past.¡±


    He looks up, eyes red with tears. ¡°And who the hell are you to tell me that?¡±


    ¡°I lost my brother! I know how it feels. But you can¡¯t dwell in depression¡ª¡±


    ¡°Lost?¡± His voice catches in his throat for a second, then he spits his next words: ¡°I didn''t lose my son. He was robbed from me, by you.¡±


    ¡°I made some mistakes.¡±


    His eyes flash. ¡°You killed him!¡±


    ¡°I understand why you see it like that.¡±


    ¡°Really? Do you? Our life was going well, until he met you. You roped him into thievery, even, didn''t you? How much lower could you have sunk?¡±


    ¡°He agreed. He made his own choices.¡±


    ¡°After you warped his mind.¡±


    ¡°Warped his mind?¡± I feel a tiny flame of anger rise out the coldness of my grief and regret. ¡°That¡¯s going too far. He always wanted to rise up above the rest. I just persuaded him to take the steps.¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have. We had a nice life. A family, enough money. Enough of everything.¡±


    ¡°Enough for you. He didn''t feel the same way.¡±


    ¡°He was young, that¡¯s why! Immature, just like we all are at first.¡±


    ¡°Wanting to move up in the world isn¡¯t immature.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it? Is risking everything you have on a one in ten thousand chance you¡¯ll make it to the top a sensible decision? For anyone?¡±


    ¡°It was for me! I had nothing. You noticed, like everyone did. I never even had to tell anyone and you all saw it: I was a miner. I had nothing. I was the dregs of the dregs.¡±


    ¡°My family isn¡¯t! Why would I risk throwing them down so I can rise up?¡±


    ¡°They would move up with you. And it¡¯s not so great a risk if you do it properly.¡±


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    He shakes his head bitterly. ¡°You have talent. You wouldn¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°Yezakh had talent as well. You could have supported him.¡±


    ¡°Supported him to do what? Follow you? That got him killed. I made the right decision in trying to hold him back.¡±


    ¡°You would both be dead if it wasn¡¯t for me. You were about to stride right into the battle.¡±


    ¡°Then we would have died together, and I wouldn¡¯t have drawn any attention to my family. They would have hid, and when it all died down, maybe continued something of their lives. Now what do you think is going to happen to them?¡± He buries his face in his hands again. ¡°Oh, hell...¡±


    ¡°They can hide. Your wife isn¡¯t a fool, is she? And you must have some friends to help her. They¡¯ll live.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that!¡±


    ¡°If they do, they¡¯ll still need you. Up there, alive and healthy.¡±


    He laughs bitterly. ¡°And you¡¯re going to carry me up, are you? We have nothing.¡±


    ¡°We have food and water. There¡¯s caves on the bank. We can get past the beasts¡ª¡±


    ¡°Beasts? Is this meat from one of them?¡± He examines the slimy black skin of the leg and needle-like claws. ¡°Amphidons. They¡¯ll tear us apart!¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t. And after we get past them we can find somewhere to make our camp. Then find some magma, materials... start to forge.¡±


    ¡°Live and forge like the wild dwarves of old," he says sarcastically. "You make it sound so easy.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t be easy. But we have to try. So you can see your family again.¡±


    ¡°My family will never be together again, thanks to you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks to me, you¡¯re still alive!¡± Frustration finally wins out over guilt. ¡°You¡¯d be in a corpse pit with the rest of Thanerzak¡¯s defense force if it wasn¡¯t for me. I gave you a chance, and now another one! I even got the fucking water out your lungs!¡±


    ¡°I wish you hadn¡¯t!¡±


    I throw my hands up in exasperation. ¡°Fine! You hate me, you wish you were dead. I feel the same way about myself, halfway. Just... We can fight about who¡¯s in the right or wrong later. For now, we have to work together.¡±


    He slumps back. ¡°Fine. There¡¯s nothing else to do, I suppose. It¡¯s pointless. But fine.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not pointless. There¡¯s still some hope. We have to believe that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll believe it when I see my wife and daughters again.¡± His voice cracks. His eyes screw up and he speaks his next words through sobs: ¡°Now leave me in peace for a while, would you?¡±


    I nod silently, and walk up to the top of the ramp away from him, clutching the amphidon leg in my free hand. I don''t feel like eating any more, though. Miserable old dwarf... I know I should be understanding. Should feel sorry for him silently sobbing down there, and I do. But we aren¡¯t alike. He¡¯s been content to sit at eighth degree his whole life. Decided this is as good as it will ever get, and been too afraid to take the risks necessary for a truly good life. Worse, he tried to hold back his son.


    I sigh. Then again, what do I know? If I had my brother with me maybe I wouldn¡¯t be so keen to risk losing him.


    At any rate, I have lost him. The diamond key lies at the bottom of the watery abyss where there is no light to glitter on it. Yet...


    Surely there is some kind of helmet I can forge with gills and a light. With enough time and the right materials I''m sure I could manage to create one, and with a repaired and improved Heartseeker fight past any underwater beast to retrieve the key. Only, first I would need a dictionary with the right runes, and caves are not generally known for their bookshelves.


    I examine the circular engravings on the slope just above the bent figure of Hayhek. They¡¯re immensely complex¡ªI never knew something made up of the same shape repeating over and over could be so intricate in its detail. Loops loop around loops, and are cut through by further loops. It has to be a rune carved by long forgotten dwarves. Yet who knows if it was carved before the river came or after? And on what metal might its magic be workable?


    No. I should give up on the key for now, and concentrate on making my way back up to the stalagmite forest... But that¡¯s so far away.


    First we must get past the amphidons.


    <hr>


    Deep in the stalagmite forest, Guildmaster Wharoth is worrying. Not because of the black dragon¡ªVanerak is an expert dragon hunter and this one is little more than a whelp. They¡¯re cornering it steadily, preventing it flapping down to vanish into the caves with timed and furious volleys of bolts. Its end is nigh.


    No, he is worried by his axe.


    Strange that a dwarf should be scared of his own weapon. There¡¯s a children¡¯s story about such a dwarf that his mother used to read to him. A dwarf who made something so powerful he hid it away, only for it to later prove his undoing...


    The axe is not what Wharoth is hiding away. Indeed it is at his side always, a sharp titanium wedge that¡¯s bitten the black dragon twice and hungers to do so again. It shines as he takes it out and lays it across his lap. In the dying light of the campfire around which his dwarves are already snoring, he reads the central rune around which its poem is formed. Or at least, he tries to.


    Halat.


    Yet it¡¯s not halat. What is it? What word has Zathar stumbled across that Guildmaster Wharoth, a scholar of the deepest and most obscure runic languages, has never read? How is it meant to be pronounced, and what is its true meaning?


    A chance error turned a common rune to something unknown. That¡¯s what he wants to believe, what he fears to disbelieve. Yet that explanation is impossible. Runes are not discovered by accident, but by deep archaeology and only brought back to life by skill of the most precise order.


    Could it be possible that the meaning of the strange rune glinting on the titanium is known not to dwarves long dead, but was formed deep in a young miner¡¯s heart?


    This is the theory he hides away; he shivers at its implications.

 Cavern Exile: Amphidon Assault

    The day ends and the night begins. Hayhek, his eyes finally dry of tears and chest freed of wracking sobs, offers to take first watch. It goes by without incident. Mine is more eventful. Two of the amphidons attempt to crawl up the ramp. I stab one in the head and after it slides back into the water its friend and another half dozen beasts rip its corpse to shreds.


    Thankfully, they take no further interest in us and drift back to the river bank like before. Yet somewhere in their tiny brains they¡¯ve registered our presence. It¡¯s only a matter of time before they come for us en masse.


    ¡°Come up with a plan yet?¡± Hayhek asks after our slimy breakfast. His voice is stronger and has lost some of its bitterness, but not all.


    I spit out a piece of fishy gristle. ¡°Maybe.¡±


    He sighs. ¡°Kill one of the beasts and while the rest are distracted, swim out?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll work.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t swim fast enough.¡±


    ¡°You have something better?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then we don¡¯t have much of a choice.¡±


    ¡°Give me the day,¡± he says. ¡°Maybe I can think of something.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Okay. Glad you¡¯ve decided to help.¡±


    ¡°Yezakh wouldn¡¯t have wanted me to give up.¡±


    ¡°No. He wouldn¡¯t have.¡±


    ¡°I still don¡¯t think we¡¯re going to make it, though.¡±


    ¡°We will,¡± I say firmly, then make my way back up to the top of the slope and leave him to his planning.


    I while away the time by looking carefully at the circular runes in the stone, and tracing them in the air with my fingertip. It¡¯s a fascinating system of writing. At first impression the circles seem to be linked together haphazardly, but when I trace them I realize that they all flow into each other, and I can trace the design from start to finish from whatever point I choose without breaking my stroke once. If only I knew what they meant, or what dwarves created them.


    Countless civilizations of dwarves have lived through the ages. There isn¡¯t a cavern in the world that wasn¡¯t once inhabited by us. We used to be able to create our own runes, our own magic from scratch with just clever minds and curious strokes of the chisel or pen, and through this a thousand kinds of power were created. Yet sometime during our endless wars the ability was lost and now we¡¯re reduced to digging up scraps of our lost majesty and scribbling them down into dictionaries.


    This I learned from the guild library. I thought I¡¯d pushed out all the information that wasn¡¯t a new rune for my arms and armor, but it seems a lot still remains. Some geography too. Fifty miles or so directly below this cavern lies the broken realm of Holohom, half sunken into the magma seas, yet inhabited still, apparently, by dwarves whose helmets allow them to breath the sulfur-laden air.


    Perhaps it¡¯s there my brother lives.


    As I ponder I continue to trace the looping runes in the air. I sense a kind of pattern, and add extra twists and loops with my finger, omit others. I grow more bold, making more and more drastic changes, yet to my surprise I can always make it back to the starting circle without breaking the overall flow of the characters I create.


    When the thin line of light along the river becomes bright white and even a little warm, Hayhek comes up with the second leg¡ªthe first is bones now. I slice off two small pieces and try not to breath through my nose. Its fishy stench is growing worse.


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    ¡°I¡¯ve thought of something,¡± he says as we eat.


    ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡±


    He begins to explain. As he continues I feel my eyebrows rise high in disbelief.


    ¡°It¡¯s drastic, I know,¡± he says.


    ¡°It¡¯s insane. From you, especially.¡±


    ¡°I believe it¡¯s our best chance.¡±


    I narrow my eyes.


    ¡°I do. I¡¯m not trying to trick you to your death, Zathar. If there¡¯s a chance I can get back to my family, I¡¯m going to try for it.


    I examine his wrinkled face and serious eyes. He doesn¡¯t seem to be lying.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I declare. ¡°We¡¯ll do it... Now, while there¡¯s still light.¡±


    He nods.


    ¡°Do you want my other gauntlet?¡± I ask. ¡°Might not be a weapon, but you can punch with it all right.¡±


    ¡°You keep it. Won¡¯t fit my hand. I¡¯ll put my own armor back on¡ªbetter than nothing.¡±


    We put the plan into action immediately once he equips himself. First, we chop the remaining leg into several large chunks. Hayhek picks up one in either hand. They¡¯re slimy but he keeps a firm grip on them as we walk down to the waterline. He tosses one high up and toward the riverbank. It splashes noisily a dozen or so feet shy of it. The amphidons raise their heads and one by one slide into the dark water, stirring it into ripples. Hayhek waits until they¡¯re above the spot where the meat sank, and before they dive tosses the other chunk.


    He doesn¡¯t toss it into the distance. There¡¯s no way we can get the amphidons all far away enough that we can swim to the riverbank before they notice our splashing.


    No, he tosses it halfway between us and them. He takes up another, and again throws it halfway between us¡ªit splashes a mere thirty feet or so distant.


    His plan is simple: draw them to the island and kill them all. If I could kill two, why not all the rest as well?


    The last piece of meat he slaps down in the shallows just twelve feet from where I stand¡ªHeartseeker¡¯s maximum striking distance. The biggest, greediest amphidon, twice my size, snaps it up into its jaws and I stab out.


    My luck is bad. The second fattest of the monsters shoves its rival in jealousy and knocks it out the way so Heartseeker only cuts its shoulder. Undamaged, my abyssal-runed weapon might have propelled itself deep and sought the monster¡¯s heart, but in its current state it only sinks in a few inches.


    I tear it out as the beast lets out an angry grunt and lurches toward me. I back away and stab in the same motion, wound it shallowly. Blood sprays but I¡¯ve only made it angry. It snaps viciously.


    A third amphidon waddles up the ramp with a hungry gleam in its eyes. At first its gaze is directed toward its wounded fellow, but quickly it catches sight of me and Hayhek. Frills around its black head twitch. It senses our smell, the smell of dwarf, a meat it only very rarely gets to taste.


    The three race each other up the slope toward us, their thin claws finding purchase in minute cracks and roughnesses so that despite the sliminess of their skin their speed is fearsome.


    ¡°Stab them!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°Hurry up!¡±


    I slow my breathing, remind myself of the fifth degree exam where I cut down two salamanders and a troll, steady my stance and strike out at the middle beast. Heartseeker cuts right through its soft skull and destroys its small brain. It collapses, legs splaying out then spasming rapidly.


    Heartseeker comes out with a splash of white slime and within half a second I¡¯m stabbing at the second beast. My strike is true and I slice open its throat. It falls gasping but I¡¯m not in time to stop the leap of the third one. Its front paws shove me down by my shoulders and its middle claws dig into my sides, bringing forth sharp spikes of pain. Its jaws open and descend to my face.


    Hayhek uppercuts it in the neck. Though in their battered state his gauntlets aren¡¯t much protection, they do add enough force to his punch to stun the monster, granting me the reprieve I need to extract myself from the black paws and roll away. I draw-cut Heartseeker across the amphidon¡¯s belly as I do so and its guts slop out in a stinking mass.


    We scramble further up the slope before the other dozen beasts get to us. They¡¯re content to stop, though, and feast on their fellows. Chunks of flesh go down their gullets and their bulbous eyes shine with ecstasy. Blood dyes the water crimson.


    ¡°Greedy bastards,¡± I say, and grin. ¡°I¡¯m going to finish this.¡±


    A wave of spray and spume erupts from the base of the slope. The amphidons spin around hissing in shock then terror. The pack splits; half dash to the right side of the ramp and half to the left. Their claws scrabble at the low stone walls.


    They are too slow. Tentacles lash out from a pillar of still-falling spray and wrench the amphidons into the air. The rain of spray ends and we watch as a gigantic conglomeration of teeth and slimy flesh throws the writhing beasts into its maw¡ªall of them at once with room to spare.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream.


    There is nowhere to run. The beast fixes the hundred eyes that ring its mouth onto us. We back away, my joy now terror.


    Then from the deeps behind a dozen hooked ropes fly out and dig into the monster''s flesh.

 Cavern Exile: Strange Luck

    The monster lashes its tentacles into the water where the ropes pull from, but cannot get hold of its attackers, whoever they are. Dark blood wells up from where the crude iron hooks pierce its skin. Its maw pulsates, teeth flexing in its squishy distended gums¡ªequivalent to a scream of fury. The ropes pull forward, and pull the beast forward too, down onto the stone slope and hold it there.


    Its full form is a perfect gelatinous spheroid thirty feet in diameter, with the tentacles sprouting in clusters from its left and right. They thrash harder, whipping the water into foam like it¡¯s egg whites. The ropes continue to pull down, flattening the creature¡¯s body out slightly. They''re pulled up along the low walls of the ramp also, creaking as they strain to wrench the monster fully out of the water.


    Who is doing this?


    Now the monster is fully out the water. Its tentacles curl back toward something I can¡¯t see. They flex and lash at more assailants, obscured from my view by its bulk. One by one the tentacles vanish¡ªare not cut off but rather subdued, caught and pulled backwards¡ªI see the flesh where they grow from become white and stretched.


    The last one is caught. The gelatinous beast quivers and waits for its fate to arrive.


    Fate does not take long. Someone in blue-gray armor clambers up on top of it and drives a rough iron spike into it head. The toothed sphere shivers and deflates, yet its killer¡¯s boots must be spiked for he does not slip or even lose his balance for a moment.


    As the squishy mass of flesh and teeth flattens out more more figures are revealed, each equipped in armor identical to their leader¡¯s. The monster¡¯s tentacles are crushed and bleeding where they were gripped¡ªwhoever these people are, they are stronger than dwarves.


    A lot taller too. An elongated bulge in the dead monster, one of the devoured amphidons, wriggles. I make the chief figure¡¯s leg to be about the same length as it.


    He places down his metal spike and advances toward us. Hayhek backs away. I peer forward curiously. The figure¡¯s armor fits tight, almost like skin.


    It is skin. He is not armored at all, and his head is misshapen with a hooked nose and sharp teeth.


    Our savior is a troll. It appears we have been saved only to serve as desserts. I aim Heartseeker.


    The troll stops, holds his hands up. Then he bows low. Hayhek and I look at one another in shock. The river troll unbends his body and with a finger nearly as long as my forearm beckons one of his fellows forward. This one is smaller, only one and a half times my height. He bows too.


    ¡°We thank,¡± he says. He speaks like someone with a mouth full of jelly. ¡°We thank for help.¡±


    ¡°I... You¡¯re welcome.¡± He may be able to speak, but hasn¡¯t got much grasp of logic. Surely they saved us?


    ¡°No,¡± Hayhek says, shaking his head. ¡°We should be thanking you.¡± He bows low. ¡°We would be dead if you hadn¡¯t come.¡±


    The smaller troll shakes his head firmly. ¡°Our hunt long. Tired. Stalk aeolgfu so long tiring. Dwarves bait it for us. Trap it.¡±


    ¡°A coincidence,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°We have to thank you.¡±


    I step forward, with Heartseeker nearly up at rest position but not quite.


    ¡°This beast,¡± I say. ¡°You will eat it?¡± I mime eating. ¡°You will eat its flesh? Not us?¡±


    He nods. ¡°Not you. We hunt not dwarf. Only eat if fall down.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± I say. ¡°Happy to hear that.¡±


    The bigger troll makes a serious of squelchy, throaty grunts, like he¡¯s trying to clear a massive glob of phlegm from his tonsils. The smaller one replies, then looks back to us.


    ¡°How I say this?¡± he says, half to itself.


    I tense. Have they decided to eat us after all?


    ¡°We are in... debt.¡±


    ¡°I suppose so,¡± I reply, before Hayhek can attempt to deny it. ¡°We¡¯ve helped you catch a good meal.¡±


    ¡°Yes. A meal, also terrible murderer.¡±


    ¡°These things cause a lot of trouble, do they?¡±


    ¡°Rarely. But when they come, big trouble.¡±


    ¡°Then I don¡¯t suppose...¡± I begin tentatively. ¡°You could be willing to help us.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That is what chief say. We help you, return for help us.¡±


    The rest of the river trolls are emerging now, drawing up the thick ropes they used to drag down and immobilize the monster. Water drips from their scales. They must have spent a long time down underwater, swimming or maybe even walking along the riverbed as they stalked their quarry. Looking at the faces¡ªif you can call them that¡ªof the two in front of me, I can see horizontal lines just below their cheekbones.


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    ¡°Can you breath underwater?¡± I say, and exaggerate my own breathing in case the interpreter doesn¡¯t know the word.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Opportunity has come. I see diamond glowing in my mind, imagine a door unlocking and my brother behind it. Perhaps I won¡¯t have to forge a helmet with gills. Maybe the key is not far gone at all, just rolled out of my grasp but a few inches.


    ¡°But you don¡¯t live underwater do you?¡± Hayhek asks suddenly. He pushes forward passed me, gives me a suspicious side-eye. I flinch in shame.


    ¡°Half and half.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re trapped here,¡± he says. ¡°We¡¯re weak, and cold. Please, take us to your home so we can rest and prepare.¡± He bows. ¡°That is all we ask of you.¡±


    I bow too, feeling horribly guilty. My duty is to get Hayhek back safely to his family: this is what I decided, is it not? The key is secondary, if it is even the correct decision to pursue it at all.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°Just a few days to recover our strength. That¡¯s all we need.¡±


    The interpreter converses with the chief for a minute.


    ¡°Chief says yes. But I warn it not you like.¡±


    ¡°Anywhere''s better than here,¡± I say.


    ¡°Then follow me. Unless you stay and watch cutting of beast.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll go with you,¡± Hayhek says, grimacing slightly at the mass of flesh. It¡¯s gone pale in death, and a curious acrid smell is wafting from it.


    So we follow the interpreter along with an escort of half a dozen more trolls to the water. Hayhek throws off the rest of his battered armor, but I can¡¯t bring myself to part with my gauntlets, though I know they will make the swim more tiring. I still have hope I can repair them.


    We wade into the shallows. The dark water closes around my ankles. I look down, can¡¯t see my feet, and start to feel queasy, fearing a bite or slimy grasp. Our escort is unperturbed, though¡ªthey march in as if there¡¯s no difference between the water and the land. The two troll guards in front lean forward and begin to swim. Their long arms rotate quickly yet barely splash. Hayhek and I follow in a doggy-crawl, me with Heartseeker held forward lengthways. Though we¡¯re half the size of the trolls we bring up twice as much froth. As a rule dwarves do not get much opportunity to practice swimming.


    The trolls form a circle around us. Up close I can see their rippling muscles, and my fight in the arena with one comes into my mind. I could not beat seven even on land¡ªone would have to be a third or even second degree runeknight to manage that. To do so underwater...


    But if they wanted to eat us they¡¯ve had plenty of opportunity already, I tell myself. No need to worry.


    After a good ten minutes of splashing we haul ourselves up onto the riverbank. My foots slip on something gritty and slimy, nearly fall over. It smells foul and I wash it off in the water.


    ¡°Come,¡± the interpreter says.


    I hurry on after him, breathing hard and shivering. My bare feet tread on rubbery fungi that smells of rot. Everything down here smells of rot, especially the trolls. The acrid smell from before that I thought was the dead monster has followed me here with them¡ªit¡¯s their scent.


    We enter the slimy mouth of a cave. Dangling green algae slides against my face. The cave leads down, its walls coated with the same algae. It glows very softly, in the color I¡¯ve seen surface ¡®grass¡¯ depicted as. There¡¯s no happy sunlight here, though. The only light is that which the algae gives and that is not even enough to illuminate the trolls; they appear as cut-out silhouettes before and behind us.


    ¡°How do you know dwarfish speech?¡± Hayhek asks. ¡°Not that I think it unusual! I¡¯m not assuming you weren¡¯t capable of it, or...¡±


    He¡¯s taking great care not to offend our hosts. Fortunately the interpreter is more than happy to answer.


    ¡°Most not capable. Even me, it is hard, but my brain is large. I¡¯m special rotrylg, new kind. Improved.¡±


    ¡°New type?¡± I whisper under my breath. Is it half dwarf? That possibility doesn¡¯t bear thinking about.


    ¡°Even so, how did you learn it?¡± Hayhek asks.


    ¡°Dwarves sometimes delve, hunt troglodytes, salamanders. I listen and learn.¡±


    I frown at the back of its head. Awfully swollen, I think to myself, with its brain case flaring out to the left and right and distended back slightly also. This creature must be quite the savant.


    Still, the idea he¡¯s interested in us makes me relax a little, and a little spring returns to my step despite the coldness and exhaustion permeating my muscles. If he¡¯s curious about our language, all the more reason to keep us alive, and maybe even well fed, dry, and happy.


    A green wall appears in front of us. We¡¯re at a dead end. My anxiety returns in an instant as the trolls halt.


    ¡°Arrived,¡± says the interpreter. It gestures to the floor in front of the terminal wall.


    Oh.


    This is no dead end at all, for there¡¯s a black hole in the green, from which I hear noises of splashing, gurgling, and troll-speech. They are faint, seem to be coming from a long way down.


    ¡°Our home secure,¡± says the interpreter. ¡°You will safe here, but entrance is tricky... Exit will be more so, but plenty food.¡± It smiles. ¡°Do not worry. See? Trolls go first. None will force you.¡±


    One by one the escort jumps into the hole, until only us and the interpreter are left.


    ¡°Me next,¡± it says. ¡°I hope follow. I wish to learn more dwarvish speech.¡±


    It vanishes after its fellows, and we¡¯re left alone in the slimy green cave.


    ¡°Well?¡± I say to Hayhek, voice echoing slightly off the walls. ¡°Do you trust them?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re our best chance. I¡¯ll trust them.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure? I mean...¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve fought trolls too, believe it or not, though not one on one. These ones are different. More like us.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s this or back to the river.¡±


    ¡°I guess you¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°No use wasting time, then.¡±


    He walks forward and puts his toes over the edge of the hole, leans forward, flinches back, then clenches his fists to give himself courage and leaps.


    I wait ten seconds and call down:


    "You all right?"


    I think I hear a reply from very far below, then after ten more seconds to make sure he''s out the way, I close my eyes and jump also.

 Cavern Exile: Zathars Request

    I can¡¯t help myself: I scream out as I fall. Abruptly the blackness turns to ghostly green, then just as abruptly my scream is cut off as lukewarm water forces itself into my mouth. I splash upward, spit it out. A troll grabs me by the arm and pulls me up onto the damp stone of their abode. Its mouth is twisted into something that almost passes for a smile.


    My nose is assailed by the acrid stench of troll and the pungent smell of rotten meat. The loud grunting and squelching of troll-speech and the thumps and roars of territorial squabbles batter at my ears. All is lit green from the algae on the floor, coating the ceiling far above, and permeating the water. I see gray-green trolls either in loincloths or nothing, green-slime, and the pale green of froth churned up by those fighting and playing in emerald water. At one far end of the cavern is a great pile of a squishy-looking material. It might be red meat, but looks gray.


    ¡°Come on,¡± says the interpreter. ¡°Get you somewhere quieter.¡±


    He pulls me and Hayhek along through the crowds of trolls. I take a moment to look around and get a general understanding of the layout of the grotto. It¡¯s a lenticular cavern angled so that half of it sinks underwater. The cut-out cylinder I splashed down into is a hole cut into the dry land¡ªI wonder if it also links to the underwater part.


    In the center of the dry half stands a large cube of stone, reverently clear of trolls for a whole twenty feet around.


    The interpreter leads us into a tunnel at the left of the cavern. Inside is a set of oversized stairs which we clamber up into a small, relatively dry chamber. It would be the perfect abode if not for the hard stone floor, complete lack of furnishings, and the fact that more than half the space is taken up by a stack of dried green sheets.


    Still, I¡¯m grateful. No amphidons or even tentacle beasts are going to make their way past the horde of trolls between us and the river. I lean Heartseeker against the wall and put my gauntlets down beside it.


    ¡°This is best place for you,¡± says the interpreter. ¡°Dry, quiet.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± asks Hayhek, running a finger down the side of the dried algae. ¡°I thought trolls ate meat.¡±


    ¡°We do. But this is extra. My idea, like meat but easier to find.¡±


    ¡°Can dwarves eat it?¡± he asks. ¡°Not that I would presume to take any without permission.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe safer to have meat. We prepare some for you later.¡±


    He turns to leave us.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say. ¡°What¡¯s your name? Do you have one?¡±


    He smiles, grin stretching across his overly wide face.


    ¡°Most trolls no names. But I have one. Gave it to myself.¡±


    ¡°What is it? I¡¯m Zathar, and this is Hayhek.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. Second hard pronounce for me maybe. But mine is easy to say and remember both! Dwatrall!¡± He chuckles. ¡°Could think nothing better. Maybe choose new later, maybe not.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a fine name,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°You¡¯re not... Half dwarf, are you?¡±


    Dwatrall chuckles again. ¡°No such thing possible. I¡¯m special for other reason. Maybe you learn at meal. For now though, rest.¡±


    ¡°Gladly. Thank you for everything, Dwatrall.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say also.


    ¡°Welcome.¡±


    He stomps down the steps and vanishes back into the main cavern. Hayhek and I slump back against the wall. We¡¯re totally exhausted¡ªthe trip down from the river was not a short one, and the shocking noise and smell and sheer weirdness of the situation we¡¯re in are taking their mental toll as well.


    Soon he is snoring and me also. For once I see no dreams, just sink into relaxing blackness. When I wake up, I notice that some of the sheets of algae have been cut away, and this more than anything reassures me that the trolls are not going to eat us. I sink back into sleep until I wake once more, feeling a great deal fresher, apart from the fatigue in my legs and emptiness in my belly.


    Where to go from here, though, after we''re fed? I better start thinking now. If our plan is to make our way up the caverns and into the stalagmite forest, we need to forge. We can¡¯t rely on the trolls for protection the whole way: even if they were willing, there¡¯s worse than trolls down here. No, we need to forge. Magma for heat will be readily available, but metals and reagent... Where can we find enough of those?


    I spend a long hour in fruitless thought until Dwatrall returns. I shake Hayhek to wake him; he sits up, startled, eyes red with tears from sad dreams which he rubs away.


    ¡°Mealtime?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes," says Dwatrall. "Follow.¡±


    We follow him into the main cavern where the trolls have already begun to eat. Dinner time seems to be rather more organized than the rest of their activities¡ªthey sit in circles with the food at the center, and take turns tearing off chunks, which they chew and finally swallow when their turn to take another piece comes around again. Most of the meat seems to be the rubbery flesh of the tentacle beast¡ªthe rest of the hunters must have returned while we slept. I can see their hooked ropes hung up to dry on a far wall.


    ¡°We prepared special meal for you,¡± says Dwatrall proudly. ¡°And we eat with chief.¡±


    He leads us to a circle of trolls seated just in front of the large stone cube I noticed earlier. The chief, who I¡¯m pretty sure is the one who killed the tentacle beast, though their faces all look pretty much the same to me, leans against it as he chews a meaty mass. Blood drips from his thick lips and spatters on the floor.


    He takes the food out his mouth to grunt at us.


    ¡°He says sit.¡±


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    There¡¯s a space open in the circle for us and we sit down. The acridly stinking mass of the troll on my right, and the unidentifiable chunks of hairy skin and gray-looking flesh in front of us would put me off my appetite in most circumstances, but right now I¡¯m famished.


    ¡°Take a piece,¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°We diced some parts up small.¡±


    I gladly take a chunk and put it in my mouth. It¡¯s not tentacle beast, and it¡¯s not amphidon either, since neither of those had black hairs, which I have to spit out. It¡¯s slimy on account of it not being cooked, but all things considered it¡¯s not so bad¡ªtastes a bit like bloody pork.


    Our turn comes around several times. Usually I¡¯m not done chewing by the time it does, and have to skip taking a new chunk. Nevertheless, gradually I fill up my belly until my stomach feels packed to the brim.


    I tell Dwatrall I¡¯m done. He interprets, and the chief grunts in what might be a tone of approval.


    ¡°He says good food for you. Give you great strength, recovery.¡±


    ¡°What was it?¡± I ask.


    Dwatrall smiles. ¡°Of course was dwarf. Troll best food for troll, make very strong, so of course dwarf best food for dwarf. Only logical.¡±


    My stomach roils violently. My eyes widen in horror. The meat was too cut up for me to realize at first, but on proper examination Dwatrall is unmistakably telling the truth. He isn''t playing a prank. One of the pieces the troll beside me is just putting into his mouth is a deboned, denailed hand.


    Hayhek turns around and vomits noisily.


    ¡°You said you didn''t eat dwarf,¡± I say weakly. I tense my belly and throat to try and keep my nausea down. The trolls are looking at Hayhek in confusion¡ªI hope they don¡¯t think we¡¯re being ungrateful.


    ¡°We not hunt dwarves,¡± says Dwatrall. ¡°Many fall down very recent. Not eating is waste. And good strength for you.¡±


    ¡°Of course... Just, we don¡¯t usually eat dwarves.¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± Hayhek croaks. ¡°Never.¡±


    ¡°Never?¡± asks Dwatrall.


    ¡°No. It¡¯s... Not the done thing. But we¡¯re not ungrateful!¡± I hurriedly add. ¡°You had no way of knowing.¡±


    Dwatrall scratches his head. ¡°I see. When I watch dwarves, they often eat meat they brought down. I thought maybe dwarf meat for strength.¡±


    ¡°Usually boar,¡± I say. ¡°Or cow, or lizard.¡±


    He nods. ¡°New knowledge for me. Thank you.¡±


    The chief troll grunts at him, likely asking what¡¯s going on. Dwatrall grunts back somewhat sheepishly, and the chief troll lets out a phlegmy laugh.


    ¡°It still food he says,¡± says Dwatrall. ¡°He does not understand problem. But you can eat different next meal.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Hayhek says, turning back to the circle with his eyes shut tight.


    ¡°Do you eat your own kind often, then?¡± I ask Dwatrall. ¡°I hope I¡¯m not being rude, but it¡¯s strange to us.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Best strength for us is from troll.¡±


    ¡°I suppose those who lose fights get eaten.¡±


    ¡°If damage beyond healing, yes. Or mangled on hunt also. Great... honor.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°But dwarves eat food hot, no?¡±


    ¡°Usually.¡±


    ¡°Hmm. There is magma near here. You can eat there next.¡±


    ¡°Very near here? We need magma very badly.¡± I gesture at my body. ¡°We¡¯re not strong like you. We need to forge armor and weapons.¡±


    ¡°I know this. Dwarves very clever at fixing their weaknesses. We want this knowledge also. Will help you get metal too.¡±


    ¡°You will? That would be a great help.¡±


    ¡°Much metal fall in from rock-path up high. Dwarf armor and blades too.¡± He scratches his head. ¡°You could just take that. No need to forge.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Hayhek says, his eyes still closed. ¡°You can¡¯t use another¡¯s equipment. It has to be something of your own sweat. Even melting down others¡¯ equipment is frowned upon as well.¡±


    ¡°Frowned upon? Not good?¡± asks Dwatrall. ¡°A waste, I think.¡±


    ¡°It will be from our enemies,¡± I say. ¡°Technically we have a right to do what we want with it.¡±


    "That is sensible."


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say, nodding. ¡°Iron from the ram, and some better metals from Broderick¡¯s forces. With magma for heating, we can forge. Reagent might be tricky though.¡±


    ¡°Reagent?¡± says Dwatrall. ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°Magic rock. For grafting the runes.¡±


    He looks puzzled.


    ¡°The symbols on our armor are runes. They make us more powerful.¡±


    ¡°Interesting knowledge. I will learn too.¡±


    ¡°Forging new equipment will take a while though,¡± Hayhek warns. ¡°How long can we stay with you?¡±


    For a few minutes Dwatrall converses with the chief, whose tone seems to be one of great enthusiasm.


    ¡°We are very keen for knowledge of metal,¡± Dwatrall says, turning back to us. ¡°You stay as long as you like. I want more knowledge of speech also.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± I exclaim. I can¡¯t quite believe our luck. ¡°As long as we like? And you¡¯ll give us the metal? For free?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Not for free, though: on condition you teach me. We can help find this reagent too.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡±


    I pause and think hard. We have something they need. We¡¯re in a stronger position than I thought. Could I push my luck a little further, perhaps..?


    No! I thought I told myself to give up on it. That my goal was to get Hayhek back up to the surface. Having one goal doesn¡¯t have to mean I lose my other, though. And this is my chance!


    I decide I have to try.


    ¡°There is another thing we... I want.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°I lost something in the river. A key, diamond and very long. Your people can swim. If you can bring it back for me, I¡¯d be very grateful. Extremely grateful. Truly grateful.¡±


    Dwatrall frowns. ¡°Where in the river?¡±


    ¡°Before the island you found us on. I¡¯m not sure how far before.¡±


    ¡°I see. I will ask.¡±


    He turns to talk to the chief. This time around, the massive troll¡¯s tone is not so enthusiastic.


    ¡°The deep bottom of the river extremely dangerous,¡± Dwatrall says to me. ¡°A big ask.¡±


    ¡°I would be in your debt. I¡¯ll teach you everything we know. And if that isn¡¯t enough... Really, I¡¯ll do anything you need,¡± I beg. ¡°That key is very important to me. As much as my life.¡±


    Dwatrall turns back to the chief to discuss further. Hayhek glares at me, eyes open now and angry.


    ¡°Why, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°I need it.¡±


    ¡°My Yezakh died because of that key, and you¡¯re still chasing after it?¡±


    ¡°I... I still need it. If there¡¯s even the barest chance I can get it back, I have to try!¡±


    He leans in closer. His eyes are dark. ¡°What is that key, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°Something I need!¡± I snap.


    He backs off, but I can tell he isn¡¯t satisfied. At some point I¡¯ll have to tell him, and I don¡¯t like to imagine his reaction.


    This time Dwatrall¡¯s conversation with the chief is long. Several of the other trolls join in, waving their arms violently, jabbing fingers. The conversation has become an argument. One troll stands up and thumps his chest, and the chief has to slap him down. He falls with a crash. I feel warmth at my back, the troll stench intensifies, and I look around and see that trolls from the other circles have crowded in to listen and watch intently.


    ¡°Dwatrall!¡± I shout to get his attention. ¡°It¡¯s not trouble if you can¡¯t get it for me! Really, no trouble!¡±


    I¡¯m ignored. The argument continues, grows louder, until finally a roar from the chief and a stomp that shakes the stone brings silence. He looks down on me and Hayhek and speaks.


    Dwatrall translates: ¡°Your ask is great. In return, we have another great ask.¡±

 Cavern Exile: The Box and the Hammer

    ¡°You¡¯re deranged!¡± Hayhek shouts. He grabs me by the shirt and thrusts me against the wall of our chamber. ¡°Mad! Suicidal!¡±


    ¡°I need that key!¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t get it!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to come. I never said you had to come!¡±


    ¡°And with you dead, I¡¯m meant to just make it back to the surface on my own? With whatever crap we manage to make down here?¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t make crap. We¡¯ll make gear better than we¡¯ve ever made before. It¡¯ll be enough.¡±


    ¡°Enough? Do you even know what a lava troll is?¡±


    ¡°I killed a troll once before. With armor worse than I¡¯m going to forge.¡±


    ¡°That was an ordinary troll. A lava troll is... It¡¯s what an abyssal salamander is to an ordinary giant salamander. You¡¯re insane to think you could take on even one. Let alone a horde of them, and their chief to boot!¡±


    ¡°This is my chance!¡± I shout, and shove him stumbling away. ¡°I¡¯ll take it. With the right equipment, a dwarf can do anything. Conquer anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Why do you think they were arguing so much with the chief? They¡¯re terrified of angering them!¡±


    ¡°But the chief believes we have a chance.¡±


    ¡°What does he know? You¡¯d need third degree armor. Maybe even second!¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯ll make it.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have time! We need to get to the dragon hunt.¡± He throws his hands up in despair. ¡°And we don¡¯t even have a proper forge!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll manage,¡± I say stubbornly. ¡°Or at least I will.¡±


    <hr>


    The river trolls have a legend, Dwatrall explained to me. It revolves around the big stone cube the chief leans against, and although he used the word legend, it is to most of the trolls¡¯ minds indisputable history.


    Back when Hazhakmar cavern was ruled by dragons, their hoards lay among the stalagmite spires, sometimes even towering higher than them. Each was a great pile of gold, silver and platinum coins, cups, necklaces, chains and furniture. Most treasured of each dragon, however, were its artifacts of magic. The dragons could not use them, of course, just as they could not use the rest of their hoards¡ªwhoever heard of a dragon drinking from a cup or eating off a table?¡ªbut they liked having them.


    Having is the most important thing to a dragon, those embodiments of greed. Like fire which burns inside them, they cannot help but continue to seek out more and more fuel for their hungry egos.


    The dragons ranged far and wide out of the cavern, flying up out the tunnel where the mirrors are now to soar over the surface and to far distant cities, mountains and caves. They terrorized anyone they came across, humans and elves, goblins and giants, but most especially the dwarves. For, to our great pride, no one makes treasures as magical, beautiful and powerful as we do.


    The dwarven artifacts they stole they placed at the very top of their golden mountains so that their fellows might look upon them and become enraged with jealousy. Their jealousies led to raging battles that smashed both stalagmite and stalactite as they rolled on the ground and in the air, tearing each other to shreds and burning the shreds to ash.


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    It was during one of these battles that two enterprising trolls crept up from the deep tunnels and stole from one of the dragon¡¯s hoards. The first took a great hammer, created by one of those money-grubbing mercenary dwarves from the east to sell for human use. For a tall human it would have served well as a two-handed weapon, so for a troll it made a small but extremely serviceable one-handed one.


    The second, a river troll with skin dry and itching, desperate for something he could take back to prove his worth, picked up a stone cube, runed with titanium on its top side, and carried it down on his shoulders.


    At the grotto, he was derided as a fool. He shook the cube over his head and it rattled. He told the others that whatever was inside had to be of incredible power if it was secured so well. Better than a weapon, he speculated that maybe it contained some magic that could lift the trolls out of their sorry, stupid lives of squalor and bring them into the light of full sapience.


    Some of the smarter trolls saw the logic and helped him try to smash the cube apart. But no matter how hard they beat it with their fists, kicked it with their clawed feet, and bit at it with steel-sharp teeth, they could not break it. Then they sought out a natural shaft of immense height and dropped it. From the bottom there came a crash and a crack.


    When they got down, the stone ground was shattered and the cube was intact. They cursed the troll adventurer again as a fool, and told him that if he wanted the respect he so craved, he should go back up to the dragons and steal something more useful.


    Then he remembered that the runes on the hammer had been the same as those on the top of the cube. They were a set. Maybe the hammer was not for mercenary use at all, but a kind of key.


    He persuaded half the of river trolls to travel with him to the lava trolls, to either persuade them to share the power of the box, or else crush them and steal the hammer. They failed at both of these. The lava trolls slaughtered them and marched down to steal the cube for themselves.


    They could not get it, for the river trolls hid in the abysses of the river. After a long siege the lava trolls grew sick from the damp and retreated back to their burning abode.


    Five or six hundred years have passed since then.


    After Dwatrall finished this tale, the chief picked up the stone cube and with great effort and strain, the veins on his arms and face and neck and chest bulging like cords, shook it over his head.


    It indeed rattled.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably just gold in there,¡± said Hayhek. ¡°And the hammer... Just because it was written in the same form of runes doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re connected.¡±


    ¡°Not finish story,¡± said Dwatrall. ¡°I born on this stone. Chief made me eat off it, sleep on it. He smarter than before chiefs, thought up this test. And I change. Ancestor clever, sensed the truth. Inside this box is magic that can make trolls better than strong. Can make us clever. Clever as dwarves.¡± He grinned. ¡°Who know... Cleverer, even.¡±


    ¡°And the lava trolls still have the hammer?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes. Hear stories sometime, of them fighting over who holds it on hunts. Strong weapon.¡±


    ¡°But the heat where they live weakens you, so you can¡¯t fight them for it. But if we forge the right armor...¡±


    ¡°Maybe you can get it. You get our key for us, and we get yours for you.¡±


    And of course, ignoring Hayhek¡¯s protests, I agreed to help.


    <hr>


    Another sleep and a couple meals of something that the trolls promise isn¡¯t dwarf later, and Dwatroll announces he will lead us to our new forge. We follow him to one of the grotto exits, a slimy tunnel that drops suddenly downward at a right angle into a deep pool. I drag myself out spluttering¡ªI won¡¯t ever get used to swimming.


    He leads the two of us down yet another tunnel. The green algae that for a long while has been the only source of light dims as it flakes away to leave bare black stone and total darkness. Before long however, a new glow reaches us, the familiar bright orange of magma. I quicken my pace to get closer to the glorious dryness and wonderful smell of hot rock and metal.


    I¡¯m the first into the cave. It¡¯s small, the magma a pool only a dozen feet or so across, and the space around it a circle only about ten feet wide, but it''ll serve just fine. They¡¯ve dragged in three flat boulders for us to use as anvils, and more importantly they¡¯ve stocked the place to the brim. There¡¯s barely room to move for all the twisted iron and the towers of armor of all kinds of exotic and strong metals. Weapons are stacked in piles like firewood.


    Most of everything is fused with black basalt from the lava Runethane Thanerzak poured over our foes, but that can be removed easily enough.


    ¡°Lot of dwarves fall recent,¡± says Dwatrall. ¡°Can you tell why?¡±


    ¡°There was a battle,¡± I say. ¡°A big fight... very big fight. Our Runethane poured lava on the enemies, and they fell off.¡±


    ¡°How did you fall off also?¡±


    ¡°There was... It¡¯s a long story. We¡¯ll tell it to you while we forge.¡±


    ¡°Good. Improve all my knowledge. Let¡¯s begin.¡±

 Cavern Exile: Forging like the Dwarves of Old

    It almost feels more comfortable, somehow, to be forging down here in the caves with raw magma for heat, tongs of rough iron, and a simple large rock for a hammer. Sure, it¡¯s harder to be accurate, and my tools break several times. But up in the guild¡¯s forges there was always the annoyance of someone peeking in, or banging at the door claiming they¡¯ve booked it for this time even though they haven¡¯t, or Guildmaster Wharoth¡¯s accountant trying to overcharge you for everything. Somehow forging down here is more pure, closer to my dwarvish ancestral nature.


    If my forefathers managed with magma pools and rocks, why can¡¯t I? We wrap our arms in salamander skins (the trolls hunt them on occasion by throwing rocks from a long distance) and begin.


    First order of business is thick steel plates. Armor is always best when each piece is composed of the same metal, and there just isn¡¯t enough titanium, tungsten, gold et cetera for a full set that¡¯s thick enough to stop a troll¡¯s hammer.


    There isn¡¯t enough steel either, but we can make it from iron. I find a tungsten breastplate, hammer it into a more concave shape¡ªbloody hard work¡ªchip off the fire-resistance runes so heat can penetrate through, and use it as a crucible. I place twisted iron in, semi-submerge the crucible where the magma is shallow, and when the iron is a runny white-orange mass, drop in algae which becomes instantly carbonized.


    I mix using a titanium sword. I feel like a mad cook creating a soup for a fire-snake of the deepest magma seas.


    Hayhek forges himself a basic chisel and hollows out some shallow rectangles of various sizes in one of the few exposed sections of floor. We very carefully pour the molten steel into the hollows, wait for it to cool, and prize it out.


    We repeat this process until we have enough steel to work with. It takes several sleeps¡ªI¡¯ve stopped counting time in days and, funnily enough, that seems rather natural to me. Why should dwarves measure time in terms of the sun and moon?


    ¡°Can finally the forging begin now?¡± asks Dwatrall.


    He¡¯s wrapped head to toe with the rest of the trolls¡¯ stock of salamander skin. Only his gray-green eyes are visible, and with his trollish form hidden I can almost imagine that he¡¯s some kind of overgrown dwarf.


    Despite his wrappings he¡¯s been sweating and scratching all through the process. Even when we told him there was nothing to do but wait as we chiseled and stirred, he insisted on staying in the forge asking incessant questions.


    ¡°Why does carbon make iron strong?¡±


    ¡°Because the carbon changes the grain structure of the crystals,¡± I answer. ¡°Making the metal harder to deform.¡±


    ¡°Why is it harder to deform?¡±


    ¡°The crystals are smaller, and in a less regular order that makes them more resistant to being forced one way or another.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a crystal anyway?¡±


    ¡°A regular arrangement of pure particles.¡±


    ¡°Pure particles?¡±


    ¡°The smallest possible form of a material, a tiny ball that cannot be divided under any circumstances.¡±


    ¡°Exactly how tiny are these pure particles?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re...¡±


    And on, and on.


    I don¡¯t mind, because although his queries come in an unending torrent, no two are the same. Once I give him an answer he¡¯ll never forget it. It¡¯s quite uncanny, though he finds our ability to stop remembering things more so.


    ¡°Trolls never forget,¡± he says. ¡°Though most of us don¡¯t take in much in the first place.¡±


    His grammar improves immensely too. Soon he¡¯ll be more eloquent than Hayhek and I both put together¡ªnot that Hayhek says much. Despite his age, he seems rather less knowledgeable than me.


    Once our steel plates are prepared it¡¯s time to transform them into sections of armor. The process is as it always is: heat, quench, hammer, heat, quench, hammer, heat... Sometimes hammer while cold. Slowly my new suit comes together, thicker and better formed than any I¡¯ve made before.


    ¡°How do you do it?¡± Hayhek asks me one time.


    ¡°Forge?¡±


    ¡°So quickly. So easily!¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel easy to me.¡±


    ¡°It looks easy!¡±


    ¡°Show me what you¡¯re doing.¡±


    I watch him work on a small rectangle he¡¯s trying to turn into a vambrace, and his technique is to my eyes rather lacking. He¡¯s cold-battering it into shape around a vaguely pointed part of his stone anvil, but putting in far too much strength.


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    ¡°You should be more gentle. Stop attacking it.¡±


    ¡°Gentle? It¡¯s metal, needs a good whack.¡±


    ¡°Whoever told you that? You¡¯re working with it, not battering it apart.¡±


    ¡°Easier said than done.¡±


    ¡°You just have to feel it through your skin... We¡¯re dwarves, we¡¯re born to this.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯m just out of practice.¡±


    ¡°Out of practice?¡±


    ¡°Haven¡¯t made anything in ten years. Didn''t have the money.¡±


    ¡°Well...¡± I gesture to the stacks of armor and weapons of every kind of metal I¡¯ve heard of. ¡°No need for money down here.¡±


    ¡°Money is important to dwarves, yes?¡± says Dwatrall.


    ¡°It¡¯s everything,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°The more you have, the more you go up.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. In troll society, it is having big fists that makes you go up. And you either have those or you don¡¯t. Can¡¯t make them bigger through determined work.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± Hayhek barks. ¡°If you want gold, determined work isn¡¯t going to bring you the whole way. It¡¯s about who you know, Dwatrall. If they like you or not.¡±


    ¡°If they see you working hard,¡± I say, ¡°They¡¯ll like you.¡±


    ¡°Easy for you to say. You work hard and make something incredible, Zathar. The rest of us work hard and make something decent. Not enough to impress anybody.¡±


    I shrug and get back to my hammering. Dwatrall returns to his too, watching my methods closely. Although he has the brain to remember what I tell him, his application is rather clumsy. Steel chips and pings off the ceiling and into the lava, pings down the exit tunnel, nearly gets in my eye a few times. His hands aren¡¯t suited for the delicate job of wielding a hammer.


    ¡°Hard this,¡± he says in a tone of abject frustration.


    ¡°You need to work with something heftier,¡± I say. ¡°Give me a while.¡±


    I pause the construction of my armor for a few sleeps to chip out a square in the stone floor that¡¯s five foot by five and two inches deep. I take up the pieces he was working with and melt them down in the tungsten crucible, pour them into the mold. Many hours later it''s cooled.


    Dwatrall is the only one strong enough to prize out the massive sheet.


    ¡°Excellent,¡± he says. ¡°And watch this. Here is how trolls shall forge.¡±


    He lays it on the floor, for it¡¯s too big to rest easily on even his troll-scale anvil, and he hammers and bends it, shapes it into a sharply angled breastplate with naught but his hands. It doesn¡¯t even take him a day, or rather the space of time between two sleeps. Hayhek backs away from the finished piece, mildly frightened, when Dwatrall holds it up. I clap.


    ¡°Very impressive.¡±


    ¡°Biggest piece, so it was easy. Next few will be harder.¡±


    Our forging continues. Hammer-blows ring and steel groans. The plates are done¡ªnow for the rest of it. Chainmail would take too long to put together, and is likely impossible for Dwatrall to manage with his bulky fingers and long nails. Instead we have been preparing amphidon skin leather.


    First we scraped away any excess flesh. Then we stretched the skins over the roof of the forging-cave to dry out as we worked. The smell was, unfortunately or fortunately depending on how you look at it, drowned out by the stink of Dwatrall¡¯s sweat and did not trouble us while we worked.


    Then we soaked it in the waters of the troll¡¯s grotto to get its flexibility back, and now it¡¯s ready for use.


    ¡°It¡¯s green,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°I hope the algae hasn¡¯t done anything to it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine,¡± I say.


    We form the leather into overalls and rivet the plates to them. This is the most tedious task of all, for each steel nail must be forged by hand. And as for drilling holes into the armor plates! There are no diamond tipped drills here, just the tips of tungsten and titanium blades that must be turned awkwardly and very slowly.


    How long have we been down here, forging like the dwarves of old? I have lost count. Up in the city we had weeks, and months, and years to measure by, but down here are only sleeps and meals and I¡¯ve long since lost track of them.


    Three months or so have passed, is my estimate.


    ¡°I make it four,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°We¡¯ve used too much time. We should have hurried.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say firmly. ¡°Wharoth always told me not to hurry. And look what we¡¯ve created! Even un-runed, they¡¯re beautiful.¡±


    ¡°Indeed they are,¡± Dwatrall agrees. ¡°And I know just the place to admire ourselves in them.¡±


    He leads us back toward the entrance to the main grotto, then turns off down a side tunnel. It climbs up fifty feet or so until we emerge into a cavern perhaps thirty feet in diameter with one of the most incredible natural features I¡¯ve even seen.


    ¡°Unbelievable...¡± Hayhek whispers.


    I step closer. The cavern is divided in half, one half higher than the other. The divider is a long ridge of silvery ore, down which water flows. The flow has been continuing for so long uninterrupted through the ages that the silver is smoothed to a mirror. A soft glow from ridges of fungi on the ceiling lights all in gentle white.


    And in the mirror, we look upon ourselves.


    My armor is perfectly formed. I had no rulers or compasses to measure with, yet each leg plate, vambrace, and sabaton is a perfect copy of its opposite. The plates are thick, lending the suit a sense of weight and solidity my armors until now did not have. Yet despite this solidity, they are balanced and fitted so perfectly to my body that I feel nearly as agile in the armor as out of it.


    Of course, there are no runes yet, but I have prepared for them. The flat portions of the vambraces line up with where the line of runes on my gauntlets point. And my helmet has a crescent flare just over the eyes, onto which I plan to graft something very interesting indeed.


    ¡°Yours is superb,¡± Dwatrall says to me. ¡°I have a great deal to learn. Yet I have learned a great deal already! This is the first suit of armor worn by a troll.¡±


    It certainly has a trollish look to it. No part is symmetrical, nor smooth, yet each is fitted in such a way to make his massive form even more so, and the effect is such that I can¡¯t help but be impressed.


    Hayhek sighs as he looks upon his own. ¡°I just can¡¯t get it right without proper tools.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not bad,¡± I say. It really isn''t, if a bit plain.


    ¡°Nothing compared to yours, though. Yours is... It¡¯s very well made, Zathar. I can see why Yezakh took such a shine to you.¡± His shoulders slump. ¡°Ah, I really should have spent more time down in the forge.¡±


    ¡°Runes are more important than the frame. You¡¯ll be powerful once they¡¯re on, damn powerful. Your wife will get to see that, and your daughters too.¡±


    He wipes tears from his eyes. ¡°I hope so.¡±


    We continue to admire our crafts for a long while, then return to the forge to plan our expedition for reagent.

 Cavern Exile: Marching Onward

    Most of the third degree runeknights are spaced around the dragon-hunting army at strategic defensive points so that any threats lurching out the stalagmites can be quickly and brutally dealt with before they cause harm to the bolt-launchers. It¡¯s a dull job and unglamorous, since no creature even this deep is mad enough to assault an army of two thousand heavily armed and armored dwarves marching in lockstep through the stalagmites. The clanking of two thousand suits of armor alone is enough to give the most fearsome beast pause, and the magnificent sight of their two thousand glittering weapons puts the teeth and claws of the monsters here to shame.


    Guildmaster Wharoth, though, has been give a specially honored position. No defense for him¡ªVanerak wants him on the attack. They walk side by side at the front of the column.


    ¡°I¡¯d always thought your guild wasn¡¯t worth the stone you built it on,¡± Vanerak says. The stalagmites are reflected darkly on his tungsten mask. ¡°This past year is making me reconsider my opinion.¡±


    It¡¯s been so long since anyone talked down to Wharoth that he doesn¡¯t quite know how to reply.


    ¡°Your shield is of a most original design,¡± continues Vanerak. ¡°For all our Runethane¡¯s virtues, originality is not one of them. Tungsten is his answer to dragonfire, and runes of fire-resistance. Your runes, if I¡¯m not mistaken, are of fire-eating. Are they?¡±


    ¡°They are. Were difficult to get right. Had to angle them inwards, you know, to make them whirl properly. Or the linkage between each one doesn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Yes. The Southmost Cathlowt third script is a difficult one to perfect.¡±


    ¡°You know it?¡±


    ¡°I know many scripts, guildmaster. I am more than twice your age, if you recall.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Wharoth says, feeling very strange, almost like an initiate again. ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°I find the implementation of the runes to be more interesting than the runes themselves. The problem we identified with fire eating was that with too much fire, the runes are unable to take the strain. You fixed that issue to a large degree.¡±


    ¡°Not quite enough.¡± He grimaces and taps his bracer. ¡°You should see the scar on my arm.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, if you wouldn¡¯t mind sharing a few technical details..?¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth cannot refuse and doesn¡¯t want to either. He explains in depth his forging process, the laminating techniques he used for each of the three layers of the shield, the particular reagent mix he had to alter by degrees as the runic whorl grew tighter, and the clever way he designed the insulated sleeve on the inner part of the shield so that excess heat flowing into it was redirected back into the metal to be reabsorbed.


    It¡¯s nice to have someone intelligent to boast to. Most of his dwarves¡ªwell, they¡¯re nice enough, but the cream of the crop doesn¡¯t exactly come to his guild, does it? If only he had the same mind for business that he does for metallurgy.


    ¡°Your weapon too. Much cruder than the shield, but...¡± Vanerak looks down at the titanium blade through his dark-mirror helmet. ¡°That rune is one I haven¡¯t seen before. I can think of a few scripts I¡¯m not familiar with, but its shape is rather dissimilar to the letters of those. Would you mind telling me what it is?¡±


    Ah. So this was Vanerak¡¯s real reason for bringing him to the front. But does he ask out of simple curiosity? Or suspicion?


    ¡°It¡¯s..."


    Wharoth pauses. What can he say without revealing too much?


    "Go on, guildmaster."


    "Well, I thought it was Halat from Jalrat Fourth script...¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an extra line, though.¡±


    ¡°Yes...¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to keep secrets from me, Guildmaster,¡± Vanerak says pleasantly. ¡°We¡¯re all on the same side here. Dig up some forgotten book?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly...¡±


    ¡°Well?¡±


    It would probably be sensible, Wharoth decides, to tell the truth. Vanerak is acting soft enough now, but everyone knows what he''s capable of. Though that doesn¡¯t mean he needs to reveal his fears.


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    ¡°You remember Zathar, surely.¡±


    ¡°How could I not?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one he used. Claimed it was Halat from a dictionary of Jalrat Fourth script.¡±


    ¡°Yet we have determined it is not.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how he stumbled across it. Honestly! I¡¯m as puzzled as you are.¡±


    ¡°Puzzled, yes. He¡¯s a very interesting puzzle, that one. I¡¯ve done things I regret before, Guildmaster, but letting him live twice wasn¡¯t one of them.¡±


    ¡°I''m glad to hear that.¡±


    ¡°I hope he continues to survive. I would rather like to puzzle him out, one day. Solve him.¡±


    ¡°I... I hope he survives too.¡±


    The army continues its march. They are in the furthest extremes of the forest now, and will soon come to a sharply concave section of the wall, a horizontal funnel with no exit from which the black dragon will have no escape.


    Four months have passed, and they have not been able to see the city for a long time. Guildmaster Wharoth hopes Zathar is forging well, for he does not like the way Vanerak enunciated the word ¡®solve¡¯.


    <hr>


    ¡°Reagent binds rune to metal so its power can flow freely,¡± I explain to Dwatrall back in the forge. ¡°Without it runes are no more use than any other piece of metal wire.¡±


    ¡°But what gives runes power in the first place?¡±


    ¡°Our ancestors did, long ago.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°No one knows.¡±


    ¡°That is rather frustrating.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Hayhek agrees. ¡°But it can¡¯t be helped. And we need to hurry. You say there¡¯s a cave with hytrigite nearby?¡±


    ¡°I remember scouting something that matches your description, yes. Blue spheres like frog eggs. It¡¯s not so nearby, though.¡±


    ¡°How far?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Three or four sleeps away. But Hayhek, why not make weapon first?¡±


    ¡°Because what you saw might not be hytrigite. jasperite is very similar, and there isn¡¯t a metal here compatible with the both of them. I can¡¯t waste time on a weapon I might not be able to enrune.¡± He hefts up an iron bar leaned against his stone anvil. ¡°This will have to do for now. And Zathar has Heartseeker, of course.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say nervously.


    How is un-runed steel going to measure up against the monsters of the caverns? And Heartseeker is perfectly sharp, yes, but not properly repaired. All I¡¯ve been able to do is straighten the haft a bit. The damaged runes remain damaged.


    ¡°Caverns are relatively safe,¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°And it¡¯s not just us three. Chief wants us protected. Ten more will come with us, more than enough to deal with anything.¡±


    With our escort and destination decided, we embark after our next sleep. We march¡ªHayhek and I at least, the trolls stomp loudly¡ªpast the silver waterfall, up through a short tunnel which expands and becomes a long cavern. Curtains of semi-translucent, linked limestone stalactites form a maze that we weave through. We pass through a narrow opening and trek up a slope of rubble.


    The stones crush and crumble under the trolls¡¯ tread. The rumble of our passage echoes off the tall walls. Our steel-clad legs flash in the dim light, as do the trolls¡¯ claws. Dwatrall is unbalanced at first, the uneven slope sending him tottering and swaying as he struggles to get used to the new weight on him, but he¡¯s soon as well-balanced as any dwarf.


    He is shorter than the other trolls, but walks more upright. His fists are smaller than the fists of the leader of the escort, but despite this he takes the lead after the second sleep. The trolls can tell he is their future.


    By this point we are traveling downward once more. The slope of rubble was only a temporary ascent, for the hytrigite lies in a cave just below the river¡¯s deepest abyss. As we descend the cave walls become slimy with a new kind of algae, a deep blue kind that emits not only light but sadness. Lethargy drags at me. Hayhek¡¯s head droops.


    ¡°We¡¯ll get there soon enough,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes. But we¡¯ve lost too much time.¡±


    ¡°We had no choice. We had to forge.¡±


    ¡°The dragon hunt might have already returned to the city.¡±


    ¡°If they are, what does it matter? Their victory won¡¯t depend on us being there, no matter how good our crafts.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not about victory! Victory or defeat, I need to be there to protect my family.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be there.¡±


    ¡°Will we?¡± he hisses. ¡°After your stupid agreement?¡±


    ¡°We will.¡±


    "I don''t believe you, Zathar. I don''t."


    The descending tunnel straightens out and we wade through watery muck that smells of grime and rotten plants, and glows an even deeper and sadder blue than the wall-slime. It¡¯s hard going, especially for Hayhek and I, our legs being barely half the length of the trolls¡¯. As we struggle physically, I wrestle with my conscience.


    The right thing to do is clear to me. My priority has to be getting Hayhek to the surface. I must apologize to the trolls and refuse to take on their request to find the hammer. Once Hayhek is safely back, and only then, can I decide if I want to get the key or not¡ªand if I do get my hands on it, I should return it to the Runethane, if he lives.


    If I can still remember the violence the black dragon inflicted on us, the terrible burning smell of flesh, the screams, why can I still imagine helping it? Yet my will to proceed goes in only one direction: toward my brother. As my conscience begs me to stop, the rest of my heart marches grimly on. It says to hell with everyone and everything. It says I can wallow in regrets after I find him, and never before.


    Our next sleep we take sitting up so not to be submerged. Then, after several more long hours of wading, the tunnel ends and we have arrived at our destination.

 Cavern Exile: Stars in Spheres

    The cave is tall, tall as three trolls, and bends around and inward at both left and right, hinting at the shape of a ring. The bottom of it is filled with the same kind of mucky, bluely glowing water we¡¯ve been wading through this whole journey; from the top hang stubby stalactites. Embedded into the wall opposite us is our goal¡ªcyan spheres looking like cleverly made glass at first glance, but who betray their magical nature by the bright glowing stars in their exact centers.


    Their rays illuminate our faces. The trolls shade their eyes, while Hayhek and I are drawn subtly forward by the promise of runic power. Dwatrall is even keener than us and is first to step down from the wide stone opening. He sinks up to his ankles in the water, which ripples around his steel leg-plates. He waves his weapon, a twisted iron club like Hayhek''s but three times the mass.


    ¡°Coming or not?¡±


    The trolls lumber down after him and form a protective ring. Half of them hold lengths of iron like he does, and the other half have sacks filled with rocks slung over their shoulders. Hayhek and I proceed after them and I curse as water runs into the gap under my breastplate, trickles around my waist and runs coldly down my legs.


    ¡°No need to worry,¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°No living beings in this water, at least none big enough to harm us. Pick off the hytrigite and go back.¡±


    He unstraps a sack of his own from his back, opens it and strides toward the bright-shining spheres. A hissing screech sounds from the ceiling, then a chorus of them. The spaces between the stalactites come alive with black wings and thin-furred bodies. Red-fanged bats swarm down¡ªthe same kind as the beast I made my first weapon from.


    The trolls grunt and swing wildly upward with their iron clubs. They strike out fast despite their size but the bats are faster¡ªlike flies they weave around the club-blows and sink claws and fangs into the trolls¡¯ hides.


    One comes for Hayhek. It grabs him by the shoulders with its back feet, grabs his helmeted head with its hands. He shouts a warcry, grips its neck in his armored hand and crushes its throat.


    Two come for me. I laugh at them, loudly, and stab quickly with Heartseeker. It stays true to its name despite the reduced accuracy from my broken gauntlets, and the beasts splash down bleeding profusely from the left sides of their chests. The trolls drop their weapons and begin to tear the bats off of them with massive clawed hands. The bats¡¯ fangs are sharp though, and many a troll¡¯s hands become weak and bloody, run through with punctures. A few fingers drop into the water.


    Dwatrall is having trouble too¡ªalthough he¡¯s clad well enough that their scratching and biting doesn¡¯t get through, there¡¯s so many on him that he¡¯s being dragged down inch by inch into the water.


    I help him out. Ten bats go down in quick succession and flop lifeless around him; their wings splay on the water. He nods in thanks, and goes for one attacking the nape of the troll in front. A single punch and the beast, which is not that much smaller than a dwarf, explodes into mulch.


    As one the bats decide that these meals are too tough for them and scatter upward. I manage to nail another four on the retreat. The water is now clogged with their corpses, bright red, and stinking of blood.


    ¡°Nasty little fucking bastards,¡± Dwatrall spits. He¡¯s picked up plenty of unsavory language from us these past months. ¡°We saw them off though, did we not?¡±


    ¡°We did,¡± I say, grinning at him, though of course he can¡¯t see it through my visor. ¡°That¡¯s the power of metal. The power of the forge.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s powerful indeed. Once we unlock its power in full...¡± I sense him grin behind his asymmetric helmet. ¡°No troll will fear mere cavern beasts, that¡¯s for sure. Nothing will stop us!¡±


    I¡¯m not quite sure how to reply to that, so I point to the cyan spheres running up and down the wall in vertical seams. ¡°If we want power we¡¯ll need plenty of those.¡±


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    ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°As many as we can get,¡± Hayhek says, dripping with blood and sounding a little short of breath. ¡°I¡¯ve never worked with hytrigite before and neither has Zathar. It¡¯s going to take some trial and error. And I don¡¯t want to waste another week going all the way back here.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°No time to waste, with things as they are up there.¡±


    He¡¯s heard the story of the battle, of course¡ªforging wasn¡¯t the only thing he asked about. And he¡¯s aware that Hayhek¡¯s in a hurry to get to his family, although he¡¯s not quite sure he understands the concept of a family. For trolls, everyone around is family of kinds.


    He grunts at our escorts in troll-speak. They nod in acknowledgement and wade forward through the crimson water to the hytrigite spheres. The wings of the dead bats rise up and down in time with the waves they generate. They pause and look upon the cyan spheres with interest.


    I¡¯ve never worked with hytrigite, but I¡¯ve read about it plenty. It¡¯s the safest of the reagents to extract: while incandesite can flare into hideous fires when mined in bulk, and salterite dust burns the lungs of those who mine it, the raw magical energy of hytrigite is sealed securely in the spheroid crystals.


    Incidentally, despite it being safe to extract, it is by a large degree the most dangerous of the reagents to work with, but we won¡¯t have to worry about that until later.


    The trolls pick off the hytrigite spheres one by one and dump them into Dwatrall¡¯s leather sack. It¡¯s easy work, almost like picking fruit. I have a go myself, and find the sound they make when I pick them intensely satisfying, something between a crunchy crack and a sucking noise. The biggest I find I hold up to my eye, and gaze upon the star within. It¡¯s intensely bright, brighter than even white-hot metal. Bright beyond white, like looking into something beyond the physical world.


    What will I accomplish with this new material, I wonder? I had plenty enough incandesite before that I never bothered trying out a different reagent. What possibilities can I unlock? Although the meanings of a rune are unalterable, their connotations can and do change depending on the reagent used to graft them. Incandesite imbues them with passion, whereas hytrigite is cool and regal, but can be awoken to awe-striking wrath if the smith knows how.


    ¡°Full up,¡± Dwatrall grunts. He hands the sack off to the biggest of the trolls. ¡°Time to head back.¡±


    He sloshes up to the exit and climbs up and out. He offers a hand to Hayhek, who takes it and is lifted up with a grunt. Dwatrall does the same for me, then the rest of the trolls follow behind, grumbling and massaging their wounded hands and torn shoulders and backs, which Dwatrall informs me hurries the regeneration process.


    I sigh: another long, dull journey stretches ahead of us without even the anticipation of what we might find at the end. The deep blue water sloshes coldly into my sabatons and my feet itch. Apart from the excitement of the bats, it was rather an uneventful trip.


    I nearly slap myself! I ought to be sighing in relief, shouldn¡¯t I? What if I had run into something worse in this un-runed armor? Shouldn¡¯t I be happy?


    As I walk I angrily ponder on why I feel so irritated.


    The bats were rather too weak, that¡¯s the problem. I want to prove myself to these trolls properly, and more than that, prove myself to myself after my defeat on the bridge. Prove that I¡¯m growing stronger, climbing the bloodstained ladder rung by rung just as my brother must be doing.


    We begin to grow sleepy, legs and eyelids get heavy, and by unanimous unspoken decision we call an end to the march. I sink down onto a flat stone that keeps my armored bottom just above the water, lean Heartseeker behind me, and lean my head back against the wall. Hayhek sits opposite me with his hands clasped over his face. I wonder if he¡¯s silently weeping again, watching the head of his son roll in his mind¡¯s eye. I feel a twinge of guilt.


    The trolls lie down too, five before and five behind us. Soon their chests and bellies are rising and falling steadily. I watch their hands as I slowly let my eyelids sink down¡ªit¡¯s fascinating how the wounds and cuts are slowly closing, ragged stumps of fingers becoming smooth and round and sprouting the beginnings of tiny claws.


    I wake. All the others are sleeping still, but I feel hot, dry. Just beyond the five trolls behind lurks a crimson face with eyes like black coals and teeth like daggers filling a wide mouth. A forked tongue flickers out. For a horrible instant I think it¡¯s the black dragon¡ªbut no, that monster¡¯s eyes are green.


    This creature is just an abyssal salamander.


    An abyssal salamander.


    Abyssal salamander.


    It bites into the belly of the nearest troll and tears out its guts at the same moment I snatch up Heartseeker and scream out:


    ¡°Get up! Get up! Get up!¡±

 Cavern Exile: Abyssal Duel

    The troll next in line flails wildly with his club from a sitting position. Then the rest between me and it are on their feet and I can¡¯t really see what¡¯s happening, just a blur of iron clubs rising and falling. I can hear all right, though. Trolls do not scream, for they do not feel pain as us dwarves do¡ªtheir death cries are a mournful gurgling, not born from agony but resignation to their fate.


    This sound is still loud, and echoes in the corridor.


    ¡°What is it!¡± Hayhek screams out. ¡°Zathar, did you see it?¡±


    ¡°Salamander!¡± I yell.


    Hayhek screams louder, but to his credit stands beside me in the corridor with his twisted iron club held ready above his head.


    ¡°Salamander?¡± Dwatrall asks, his voice filled with fear. ¡°A big one?¡±


    It¡¯s onto the last of the five rear guards now. This troll is wide awake, not so unready as the prior four. It strides forward laying down blows at the salamander¡¯s massive head¡ªI¡¯d forgotten just how huge these beasts were: its jaws could fit me in whole.


    One blow connects. The salamander flinches back slightly. It bats away the next blow with its right paw; slashes out with its left. The troll is ready for it and blocks with its forearm. Blood sprays downward, bringing up droplets from the water, but the troll doesn¡¯t care. It rushes forward, clawing at the salamander¡¯s nose and simultaneously clubbing upward at its lower jaw.


    Before either blow connects the salamander opens its mouth and blasts out the worst nightmare of the river trolls: fire.


    For the first time I hear a troll in pain: its scream pierces my very soul and makes me nauseous. It contains all the sadness of the death-moans, but that¡¯s just one note nearly lost in the orchestra of the agony of feeling skin and flesh crisp away.


    The heat of the blast sends Hayhek and I stumbling back into Dwatrall, who cries out in terror. The tunnel fills with steam. All that is visible before me is the tip of Heartseeker and the redly glowing form of the abyssal salamander. All else is roiling gray.


    ¡°Get behind me!¡± I shout. ¡°I¡¯ve got the longer weapon. I¡¯ll hold it back!¡±


    ¡°Flee!¡± Dwatrall shouts. ¡°Flee!¡±


    Fleeing is not an option. Turning my back on this thing is death. Facing it is probably death too, but probably is better than certain.


    I curse myself for wishing for a greater challenge.


    The abyssal salamander opens its mouth and fire glows at the back of its throat. Heartseeker darts out and stabs solidly through its nose. The salamander yelps and backs away a step. The fire in its mouth sputters and is swallowed back.


    Stab, stab, stab! I unleash a flurry. I must keep the salamander backing away, on the defensive. A single blast of fire will cook me in my armor like a ham in foil. The beast is agile, though. Two of my stabs connect, bringing forth hot spurts of blood, but it¡¯s out of range for the next.


    I pull Heartseeker back. I mustn¡¯t overextend¡ªI¡¯ve learned that lesson too many times now. The salamander snaps at me and I ready for its next move. It opens its mouth wide, twice as wide as before, and white glows in its throat.


    ¡°Get back!¡± Hayhek yells from behind me.


    I don¡¯t need to be told. I scramble backward but a length of troll-gut catches around my ankle and I sprawl.


    This turns out to be luck. The body of the fallen troll protects me from the main force of the fire. Even so, the heat scorches as it billows above me. I feel the skin around my mouth flash-burn to peeling red in vertical stripes where my breathing slits are.


    I roll back to my feet, Heartseeker out at high guard. Smoke is drifting from the salamander¡¯s mouth, darker whorls in the white-blue steam. A rock whistles through the air behind me and over my shoulder, tearing the steam, then a couple more. Dwatrall must have rallied the five survivors of our escort, yet their counterattack does little good. The stones bounce off the monster¡¯s snout and heavily muscled front legs.


    It opens its mouth wide again, yet the white fire growing inside is a little dimmer, gaining strength slightly slower. I remember how the one in the arena used up its flames and couldn¡¯t scorch me. This is a chance. I sprint toward the salamander, dive under its bolt of flame. The heat is still brutal, but the water I roll through cools me. Using the momentum of my roll I drive Heartseeker up with all my strength.


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    It cuts a neat hole in the monster¡¯s throat. The salamander hurries back, hissing¡ªunable to roar¡ªin pain. I slash downward and cut its lips deeply. I nearly rush on for another stab, but caution myself at the last moment. A swipe comes down through the air right before me: if I had been in its path my un-runed steel would not have resisted it.


    We back away from each other and the duel comes to a natural lull. We stand against each other, tense, prepared. The blood dripping off its face sizzles and spatters when it contacts the water. The heat from its fire-breath has crisped and killed the blue slime on the walls so the only light is that which its skin provides: a dull crimson glow like that of iron just quenched.


    Beast it may be, but I sense a cruelly cunning mind behind those black eyes. Like any expert duelist, it¡¯s weighing me up, comparing us. I¡¯m doing the same.


    Certainly I¡¯ve inflicted more damage on it than it has on me. Yet it¡¯s twenty times my size, can take twenty times the damage I ever could, probably more, even taking into account my thick steel cladding. In terms of stamina, I have the upper hand. The glow in its mouth is all but spent. Its raw power outweighs that advantage though. My most devastating blow can wound it deep, but just a casual swipe from it would rend my armor apart.


    I send a light jab at its eye to test its reflexes. They¡¯re just as fast as ever; it swats down Heartseeker and stabs at me with its claws outstretched. I dodge to the side but its smallest claw still scrapes across my armor. Sparks flash. In retaliation I draw-cut its wrist. The salamander snatches its paw back and holds it up off the ground and to its hurt neck. Blood begins to spray out.


    Heartseeker has enough runic magic left in it to know the right angle to slice veins, and the blood spraying out keeps on spraying. Further steam rises up from where it¡¯s hitting the water. The salamander rears up as high as it can; its arched horned back touches the tunnel roof. It slams down its right paw with terrifying speed. More speed than I¡¯m prepared for. With no time to dodge, I have to block with Heartseeker.


    The huge paw impacts and drives me to my knees. I managed to get in close so the scaled palm hits the haft rather than the claws; Heartseeker is not sliced neatly into segments but merely bent into the shape of an exotic surface fruit.


    The salamander lunges forward and down, snapping its razored jaws. I dodge back just quick enough to avoid losing my head. Another rock flies past me from behind and smashes its nose, stalling its follow-up.


    Again the fight comes to a lull as we weigh our next moves.


    Heartseeker is in a terrible state. The spiraling runes on its haft are dull, power completely gone. The anti-glow of its blade is nearly dead. The salamander narrows its eyes. It thinks it has this, yet I have hope. The blood flowing out its wrist, still held up to its throat, is a steaming torrent. Its mouth hangs open as it pants, and there¡¯s no fire in it. My inflicted wounds are nasty ones.


    Time to press the attack before it does. I jab at one eye then the other in quick succession. Heartseeker feels heavy, and it does not home in through its own power¡ªit¡¯s an ordinary spear now, and a bent one at that. But it does the job. The salamander flinches away. Weak yellow flickers from behind its teeth. Unbalanced on only three limbs it stumbles and slips in the water.


    I stab again, and Heartseeker sinks into its forearm. It rears up on its hind legs and backs away. Fear is bright in its beastial eyes. It opens its mouth: for an instant I think it wants to rasp in pain.


    Its black eyes flash. White fire comes rushing from its throat.


    Ah.


    That¡¯s why it was holding its injured arm up there¡ªto keep the heat from leaking out. And the fire-fatigue it showed¡ªall a bluff.


    I cry out in terror and cross my arms in front of my eyes and mouth. Just before my vision is totally obscured, I see blue spheres, a star shining in the heart of each, fly over my head and into the path of the flames.


    A series of massive bangs, the loudest sounds I have ever heard, smash my hearing like hammers and a wave of compounded force throws me backward bodily. I feel my feet leave the ground, and it takes a long few seconds for me to come in contact with it once more, on my back. The breath is driven from me. I drag air back in but it comes burning hot.


    I yell out in pain¡ªthe entire front of me feels like fire. I open my eyes and the steel of the inside of my helmet is a dull red. I roll onto my front to cool it in the water, which is now mostly mud that dries instantly. Choking dust fills my lungs. I blunder upward, blind and barely able to breath.


    The glowing crimson form of the salamander looms through my teary and blurred vision. The skin of its face has been torn apart. Shards of jagged cyan are piercing right into the bones of its skull, yet it¡¯s alive, and angry. It swipes. I block, but the force sends me crashing backward into Hayhek, who¡¯s finally decided to charge. We both fall down.


    The salamander rushes¡ªonly two steps, then it collapses.


    Weakly it tries to push itself up with its less-injured right leg, falls back down. The blood loss from its wrist is too much. A steaming red lake spreads forward and laps at my heels.


    I stagger back to my feet. Its eyes roll up to look at me.


    I grip Heartseeker in both hands up near the blade and drive down with maximum force into its brain.


    Its eyes dull. A rush of exhilaration rises in my heart and I try to yell out in victory, but my scorched windpipe won¡¯t let me, and I cough and choke in agony instead, let go of Heartseeker, and fall to one knee.

 Cavern Exile: Readying for Revenge

    ¡°It¡¯s here,¡± Whelt rasps. ¡°I can feel it on my skin. It¡¯s close, close!¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Guildmaster Wharoth says. ¡°We have it trapped. Trapped and ready for slaughter.¡±


    ¡°We will have our revenge,¡± says another guild member grimly. ¡°Today it dies.¡±


    It is the night before the final trapping of the black dragon, so far as night and day have meaning this far from the central mirrors. The stalagmite forest is vast¡ªWharoth had forgotten just how vast. The stalagmites here stretch hundreds of feet into the air and join to the hanging stalactites above, forming stone pillars so massive the dwarves feel like ants walking beside them.


    Yet they do not bow to fear, for fear is driven out of their hearts by a burning sense of righteous justice. This is most especially true of those of the Association of Steel.


    Guildmaster Wharoth has gathered them under the coolness of a translucent quartz arch away from the campfires. Those injured but who had the strength and fury to ignore their wounds and accompany the hunt lie on the crystalline ground. The proximity of the dragon, the mere sense of heat its presence creates, has turned their pain to agony and felled them. Not all, the guildmaster knows, will make it through the night.


    Whelt is an especially tragic case. He was always a relaxed young fellow, with talent but not drive, content to progress with his forging at a steady pace, who spent most of the money he earned on beer and women, and oil for his fashionable beard. Now that beard is gone; his face is charred beyond recognition.


    ¡°You all should have stayed back,¡± Wharoth whispers to himself. ¡°You might have healed.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Whelt hisses. ¡°No. We have to be here, with you. See the end for ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Very well. It¡¯ll be here soon.¡±


    A series of thudding clunks and a chorus of whines announces the launch of more bolts. The dragon must have tried another dash to the ground and the cave. Wharoth looks up and sees its panicked flapping figure back off up into the cluster of thin stalactites it¡¯s hiding in. Far forward, he can hear the rumble of more bolt launcher carts advancing. Soon the dragon''s hiding place will be surrounded¡ªand there will be no further hiding places for it to dash to; they have chased it to an extreme corner of the cavern. The only thing beyond this place is sheer, smooth stone walls.


    ¡°Guildmaster,¡± says one of the dwarves. ¡°I want to get closer.¡±


    ¡°No. Too dangerous.¡±


    ¡°Dangerous? We knew that when we came.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to lose any more of you.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have to be directly under it,¡± Whelt rasps. ¡°But we need to see.¡±


    ¡°We can look at its corpse.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not enough,¡± says another of the injured, weakly. ¡°We need to see it die. For our lost brothers and sisters too. When we get to the other side, we need to tell them what it was like to see the evil light leave its eyes.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t be going to the other side any time soon. Not if I can help it.¡±


    ¡°What right do you have to keep us here?¡± one of the uninjured dwarves cries out, raising her bright axe up in the air.


    ¡°I¡¯m your guildmaster!¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°What the hell do you mean, so?¡±


    ¡°Just because you¡¯re guildmaster,¡± Whelt rasps, ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean you are our master.¡±


    ¡°You will stick to my orders. We will all stay here until we are called for, then me and those I choose will go to where Vanerak orders.¡±


    ¡°And if we choose to go earlier?¡± snaps the dwarf with the axe.


    ¡°It¡¯s not your choice to make. It¡¯s Vanerak¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Whelt cries. He strains and forces himself to his feet. His face contorts; dried pus cracks and clear fluid runs out. ¡°It is our choice. We have suffered the most from all this. Who would punish us? Not the Runethane!¡±


    ¡°The Runethane isn¡¯t here...¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth trails off. He looks around at the faces of his guild members. He cannot stop them, he realizes. Whatever he says, they want their revenge. And why shouldn¡¯t he give it to them? If they want to take the risks, that is their choice. They are not children.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he declares. He takes up his axe and bangs it on his shield. It rings like a deep bell. ¡°Stand up, all of you. Stand up!¡±


    Everyone uninjured leaps to their feet. The injured are helped up by their comrades. One, swathed in bandages from head to foot, refuses his stretcher and for the first time since his injury, forces enough strength into his arm to pick up his sword. Blood leaks from his hand but he does not care.


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    ¡°What are we waiting for?¡± rasps Whelt. Tears of pain are running from his eyes but his voice is resolute. ¡°Tell us to march, guildmaster!¡±


    They are not children. This is their decision.


    ¡°March,¡± Guildmaster Wharoth orders grimly, and he leads them forward through the stone pillars toward the vanguard. Formations of rippled electrostatic quartz light their armor a dimly iridescent blue. The smell of acrid heat increases as they draw closer to clearing below the dragon¡¯s hiding spot.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± snaps a tungsten clad runeknight of the second degree, running out Vanerak¡¯s main formation. ¡°The orders for you¡ª¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t wait for orders,¡± Whelt rasps, stepping up to him. ¡°This is our revenge.¡±


    ¡°This is not about revenge. It is about the safety of the people. If you break formation¡ª¡±


    ¡°Listen to me!¡± Wharoth snaps. ¡°How old are you, runeknight?¡±


    ¡°What are you on about? Get back to your positions! No one is to break formation.¡±


    ¡°How old are you, runeknight?¡± Something in Wharoth¡¯s voice makes the dwarf flinch. The second degree''s armor may be superior to the guildmaster''s, but not by that much.


    ¡°I am two hundred and fifty.¡±


    ¡°Then you weren¡¯t part of the conquest, were you?¡±


    ¡°I fail to see why that matters.¡±


    ¡°Bear with me for a minute, runeknight. I wasn¡¯t part of it either, but I know some who were.¡±


    ¡°As do I. What is your point, third degree?¡±


    ¡°My point is that we both know our history. We know why Thanerzak ordered so many out here.¡±


    ¡°To protect the dwarves of his domain. To say otherwise¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s for revenge and we both know it! Revenge on all the dragons, any that come within his reach. Well, we¡¯re here for the same. We¡¯ll disobey you, and even if you don¡¯t happen to like it, the Runethane will forgive us.¡±


    The guild members are pressing forward. Each has his or her weapon drawn. The runeknight raises his palms and backs away carefully.


    ¡°Fine, fine. You can deal with the consequences yourself. Just don¡¯t disturb Vanerak.¡±


    ¡°Where is he?¡±


    ¡°At the center of camp, of course.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Wharoth turns to his guild. ¡°Spread out in small groups around the main force,¡± he orders. ¡°If the dragon descends, you will have ample chance to join the fight from there.¡±


    ¡°The others will get to it first!¡± barks the woman with the bright axe.


    ¡°No,¡± Wharoth says. ¡°Look up, Gerthel.¡±


    All look up at the stalactite formation above their heads. The black dragon isn¡¯t visible, tucked away into some of the downward spires, but they can all feel its presence.


    ¡°Once the bolt-launchers are at the correct positions, it will have no choice but to fly down.¡± He points to a large perfectly circular hole in the ground, around which stand Vanerak and his tungsten clad lieutenants. ¡°This is the only cave near here. It will go for it, for it can¡¯t fly back out of this corner¡ªthat¡¯s why those two dozen launchers were left behind yesterday. They¡¯re a line to trap it.¡±


    ¡°Your point?¡± Gerthel says angrily.


    ¡°The cave isn¡¯t directly under the dragon. It will have to come around at an angle. Which means it will have to go through some of us. Well? Do you understand the geometry of the situation?¡±


    The dwarves look around at the soon-to-be battlefield. Wharoth sees nods and hears murmurs of understanding.


    ¡°Good. Now get to your positions, and ready yourselves.¡±


    <hr>


    I¡¯m lying on the slimy stones of the main grotto, after having been carried back, coughing and rasping, all the way through the tunnels. Now two days have passed since our return, and I¡¯m nearly feeling better. Better is rather a relative word, though.


    My shoulders ache and still don¡¯t move quite right, from the impact of blocking the salamander¡¯s downward blow. And that cut from its smallest claw went right through my armor, though I didn''t realize it at the time, so there¡¯s a hole of sharp pain at my right ribs. My face is red and raw in vertical stripes over my mouth, and in circles around my eyes¡ªmy eyebrows and lashes are gone.


    Still, it doesn¡¯t hurt to breath anymore.


    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± Dwatrall asks, leaning over me.


    ¡°Better.¡±


    ¡°I brought you some more cooked meat.¡±


    ¡°Amphidon or tentacle beast?¡±


    ¡°Tentacles, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    I grimace, but sit up and take them anyway. At least its not dwarf.


    ¡°How goes the forging?¡± I ask. ¡°Hayhek made much progress?¡±


    ¡°Not so much. We tried heating another of the hytrigites, but...¡±


    ¡°It exploded again?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Cut my hand up badly.¡±


    He shows me his palm, which is cut apart, though the cuts are already scarred over.


    ¡°Damn. At least we have plenty to waste. How are you heating it?¡±


    ¡°Slowly. And we press them gently too, but the energy just won¡¯t spread out evenly, like you say it¡¯s meant to.¡±


    I sigh heavily. ¡°Probably you¡¯re being too gentle.¡±


    ¡°Hayhek wants to be cautious.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s too cautious.¡±


    ¡°Are you still angry at him?¡±


    ¡°No, no," I sigh.


    "You sound like you are. Trolls are often angry. I know the emotion well."


    "I''m not angry. I told myself I¡¯d protect him, and I did. I¡¯ve nothing to be angry about.¡±


    ¡°He should have helped you. We both should have helped you more.¡± Dwatrall bows his head.


    ¡°You saved my life, Dwatrall.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t expect everyone to be as crazy as me. Don¡¯t worry about it. Just... Tell Hayhek to put a bit more force in when he hammers the hytrigite. A book I read called it the most regal of the eight. It doesn¡¯t care for weakness.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    He leaves me. I finish my meat and lie back down to rest and think.


    Ah, Hayhek! I¡¯ve no reason to feel ungrateful to him, I know: I protected him as I promised myself. The only emotions I ought to be feeling are exhilaration, relief, and excitement at the rolls of abyssal salamander skin we have for our runes.


    Yet he might have done something back there!


    Maybe part of him wants me dead, I think darkly. But no, he¡¯s not that kind of dwarf. And hell, it¡¯s good thing he didn''t try to help me, or maybe I¡¯d be responsible for two deaths instead of one.


    I flex my fingers then shut my eyes to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow we will make our runes. I¡¯ll show him what to do¡ªhow hard can hytrigite be to master? It''s just another kind of crystal, isn''t it?

 Cavern Exile: The Most Regal Reagent

    As Dwatrall lowers the hytrigite sphere into the magma with his tongs, it begins to burn. Not with an ordinary flame that flares and tapers upward, but a skin of white-green flame shimmering hotly in symmetrical geometries: it hurts my eyes to look upon it.


    It disappears into the molten rock. Dwatrall grimaces as the rising heat of the magma begins to cook his fingers.


    ¡°We hold for three seconds,¡± Hayhek says.


    The magma bubbles slightly.


    ¡°Now we take it out,¡± Hayhek says, ¡°And place it on the anvil.¡±


    Dwatrall does so. The shimmering green flame remains, and just like the books of the guild library said, the spark in the hytrigite¡¯s center is softened and spreading outward.


    ¡°Then I hammer,¡± Hayhek continues. ¡°Gently.¡±


    I watch as he taps the glowing sphere with a steel hammer he¡¯s forged. Tap by tap, the sphere flattens. The bright green flame intensifies, as does the fuzzy glow within. I glance at Hayhek¡¯s face and see his brows are furrowed in tense concentration. His eyes are focused intently.


    ¡°Going better this time,¡± Dwatrall says excitedly. ¡°Nearly flat.¡±


    He speaks too soon. The hytrigite suddenly flares to blinding white. Hayhek drops the hammer and ducks down. Dwatrall shields his eyes. I leap backwards.


    An instant later the hytrigite blasts apart. Most of the shards slash through the air in Hayhek¡¯s direction, but there¡¯s plenty left to jab into my skin.


    ¡°Ah!¡± I shout; I hadn¡¯t expected it to be this violent.


    ¡°You see the problem?¡± Hayhek says, standing up and wiping sweat from his brow angrily.


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°One errant tap too hard and the damn thing can¡¯t take it. And I know it has to be thin as paper before you can do anything with it.¡±


    ¡°Thinner, some books say.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got no hope in that case.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to try?¡± Dwatrall asks. ¡°You feel you have the strength?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± I say.


    ¡°Go on then,¡± Hayhek says sourly, holding out his hammer by the handle. ¡°See for yourself how it is.¡±


    I take the hammer and nod to Dwatrall, who goes around the back of the stacks of armor to collect another piece. The globe he selects with his tongs is a smaller one.


    ¡°Small is best for practise, yes?¡± he says.


    ¡°We¡¯ll see. Heat it like you did before... But for slightly longer.¡±


    ¡°Longer?¡± Hayhek asks. ¡°Why? It¡¯s smaller than the one we just tried.¡±


    ¡°Just try it. The one that cut your hand up didn''t blow apart in the magma, right?¡±


    ¡°No," Dwatrall says. "After I took it out.¡±


    ¡°Hold it for four seconds this time.¡±


    He obeys. The green fire catches around the sphere just like last time, then he submerges it fully.


    ¡°One,¡± I count. ¡°Two, three... Four.¡±


    He lifts it out. The white spark within has transformed into a roiling cloud of brightness. Hayhek hurries further away. I raise my hammer.


    ¡°On the anvil, Dwatrall.¡±


    Tentatively he places it down. I raise the hammer rather higher than Hayhek did.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Hayhek shouts in panic. ¡°You¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    I bring it down hard. The sphere flattens out slightly, and the roiling white brightens with a flash that makes me blink. I hit again, just as hard; it flashes more brightly.


    ¡°This is dangerous,¡± Dwatrall points out.


    ¡°What¡¯s life without danger?¡± I ask.


    ¡°A long one,¡± Hayhek says, from as far back as he can possibly get.


    I hammer again, and again. Again! The hytrigite sphere becomes flatter than Hayhek managed to make his piece, and brighter too. I sense tension in my shoulders and relax. If you¡¯re tense, that means you can¡¯t feel¡ªyour mind is on yourself, on what might happen to you, rather than what is happening on the anvil.


    The hammer is a bridge between me and the material. An emotional bridge, almost spiritual. This is where Hayhek was going wrong. He didn''t let himself understand the material. As the most regal of the reagents, hytrigite will not respond to caution and cowardice. This is why I heated it for longer, hammer it harder.


    I can feel the hytrigite¡¯s haughty irritation at being disturbed, then fear at the violence of my strikes, then finally respect, understanding. I am going to make it into something greater and it is thankful.


    I misjudge one of my blows and the thankfulness turns to irrational anger. I shut my eyes as the sphere explodes out at my face. Cyan shards jab into my skin in a dozen different places, one just over my eye.


    ¡°Ah!¡± I shout.


    ¡°I knew this would happen,¡± Hayhek sighs. ¡°Help him, Dwatrall.¡±


    I don¡¯t need help; I wave Dwatrall away and pick the shards out myself. I feel blood run in thin streams down my face. I must look a terrible sight: pockmarked now on top of my missing eyebrows and red-striped lips and stripe-singed beard.


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    ¡°Next one please,¡± I say.


    ¡°You should rest,¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°Dwarves don¡¯t heal as fast as us trolls. You¡¯re pushing things.¡±


    ¡°Next one please,¡± I repeat.


    He shrugs and obeys.


    ¡°Four and a half seconds,¡± I say.


    ¡°Even longer?¡± Hayhek says, aghast.


    ¡°I nearly had it. Go on, Dwatrall.¡±


    He lowers the sphere into the magma, and counts to four and a half. He places it on the anvil, and I smash my hammer down, once, twice, a hundred strokes. Each is perfect, with just the right amount of force. The hytrigite has no reason for anger.


    ¡°Oh,¡± Hayhek says, stunned. He approaches the anvil slowly and looks down on my finished work. ¡°You did it.¡±


    The sphere has become a shimmering blue mirror, perfectly circular, surface so smooth we can see our reflections in it. I take up a pair of steel clippers Hayhek has also forged, and place the hytrigite in their sharp embrace.


    ¡°Now let¡¯s see if I did good enough,¡± I say confidently.


    My confidence is well founded¡ªthe hytrigite cuts cleanly and softly. Dwatrall laughs in happiness, and Hayhek nods to me in respect.


    ¡°How did you do it?¡±


    ¡°You just have to feel what you¡¯re working with,¡± I explain. ¡°Stop thinking, and feel.¡±


    Now our rune making can begin. We set up a production line, where Dwatrall and I prepare the hytrigite and Hayhek turns the abyssal salamander scales into thin rods we can shape easily into runes.


    There¡¯s a few explosions¡ªfrom both sides of the forge, for salamander scales aren¡¯t easy to work either¡ªbut in less than a week we¡¯re finished.


    I leave Hayhek to explain the basics of rune-writing to Dwatrall so I can focus all my energy onto my craft. First order of business is fixing up my gauntlets and Heartseeker, which I do with the aid of steel and aluminum from some of the recovered armor. A couple days work and they¡¯re unscarred and straightened out.


    Not only do I fix the metal, but the runes too. Ordinarily that would be impossible, except we have the salamander skin available to us. I chisel out tiny flakes of scale and rub them into the scratches on the runes, and apply heat.


    Feeling the magma, the incandesite blazes and accepts the fresh material into the runes. Soon Heartseeker¡¯s black glow is as strong as it¡¯s ever been.


    I rub my hands together at the start of the fourth day, or rather session. It¡¯s time for what I¡¯ve really been looking forward to.


    I spend only three sessions shaping the runes. While I¡¯ve been working the past few sessions, and even as I was lying in the grotto recuperating in pain, in my head I¡¯ve been constructing the poems I¡¯ll write. They flow from my fingers into the salamander scale rods, taking physical and magical form.


    ¡°What script is it?¡± Dwatrall asks as I hammer one of the shaped rods flat.


    ¡°Just one of the classical ones. Number IV from the Yttrite caverns, if you¡¯re curious.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a tricky one. How do you keep all the letters in your head? I can, but you say you dwarves can forget things, no?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t keep them like they¡¯re in a cupboard,¡± I answer. ¡°They¡¯re... It¡¯s not like a library. More like a river I place them in, and they flow out when I need them.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t quite get it.¡±


    ¡°I read them, then they come out naturally, is what I¡¯m trying to say.¡±


    He scratches his blue-green head with a talon.


    Onto the crescent crest above the eyes of my helmet I carve a poem of far-seeing and close-seeing, a duet of two styles in two different scripts. The hytrigite reagent adds some much needed restraint to the runes so that my eyes do not ache when I have it on.


    These runes are to further improve my accuracy, which I¡¯ve decided to double-down on, since Heartseeker clearly has no trouble inflicting enough damage.


    The rest of the armor I graft with a mixture of all the runes I think I¡¯ll need for the fights ahead. Fire resistance of course, for the lava trolls, plus general enhancements to speed, strength, and lightness. To fight the dwarves of Broderick I add a long extension to the poems of my gauntlets: down my forearm plates I create metaphors for gap-finding, plate-cracking, and chainmail cutting.


    The whole process takes a couple weeks. All the while, Hayhek and Dwatrall have been working their hardest too. Hayhek has stopped weeping at night, stopped complaining. He¡¯s fully focused, almost exhilarated to be working with such fine materials. He¡¯s taken in by the wonder of it, he tells me.


    ¡°An eighth degree, forging with abyssal salamander and hytrigite. And tungsten and titanium. It¡¯s a miracle.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± I agree.


    ¡°What degree would your armor be judged, Zathar? I¡¯ve been thinking. About fourth.¡±


    I laugh and shake my head. ¡°I couldn¡¯t even make five a few months back. I¡¯ve still got ways to go.¡±


    Dwatrall, listening to us from the other side of the forge, shakes his head. ¡°Not so,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about your dwarf society, and your culture of runeknights. Your degree system isn¡¯t based so much on skill at forging. It¡¯s about time, and this networking you tell me your guilds are all about. The ones who get money get the best materials. Naturally those at the bottom, or who are ill-connected, cannot get the jobs that pay the best. So they cannot afford to buy the best materials immediately.¡±


    He gestures grandly to the hytrigite, the stacked armors of every metal, and the abyssal salamander scale runes.


    ¡°Now you have all you need for not an ounce of gold. Those exams you tell me about, Zathar: I don¡¯t think they¡¯d be so hard for you now.¡±


    ¡°My armor¡¯s still steel,¡± I counter. ¡°No matter how good the runes are, the metal of my armor is simple steel.¡±


    Dwatrall shrugs his huge shoulders. ¡°Well, you know more about that than me. But I think you¡¯re stronger than you were before.¡±


    ¡°You will be too, once all those little plates are finished.¡±


    Dwatrall grins. ¡°Oh yes, I will. We will,¡± he says cryptically.


    The reason for the cryptic we comes after he¡¯s finished grafting the runes for his current armor. I thought the little plates would go over the gaps between the regular plates, but I was wrong. He enrunes them, then nails them onto three massive suits of leather.


    ¡°That¡¯s taboo,¡± Hayhek murmurs to me. ¡°One¡¯s crafts are for oneself alone.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not a dwarf,¡± I remind him. ¡°Our taboos don¡¯t apply to him.¡±


    Finally, we¡¯re all done. We return to the room of the silver waterfall to admire ourselves.


    The shape of my equipment is the same as before, yet it now has a dimension of power and magic to it. The hytrigite-grafted runes feel different, more noble, more restrained than incandesite-grafted ones. They give the dark red from the salamander scales a tint of violet iridescence bordering on the very extreme of the visual spectrum. In terms of actual combat effect, they¡¯ll be more resistant to damage, and respond to my needs when they come rather than being tuned to maximum power all the time.


    Now I understand why hytrigite is nearly twice the price of incandesite in the shops of the city.


    Steel my plate may be. But I think Dwatrall was close with his judgment. I would have passed the fifth degree exam in this gear, no doubt about it. I would have cut down as many trolls as they sent at me with ease, Kazhek would not have stood a chance¡ªand as for the abyssal salamander I was so worried they¡¯d send at me?


    I beat one nearly solo with damaged Heartseeker and quality yet un-runed steel. What could one do to me when I¡¯m in this?


    Hayhek raps his freshly forged titanium axe against his tall tungsten shield. The runes on his weapons and armor aren¡¯t quite as numerous and don¡¯t glow quite so brightly as mine, but they still carry a sense of power that he¡¯s never had about himself before.


    ¡°We¡¯re ready,¡± Dwatrall booms, and he smacks his fist into his palm. His poems are uncreative, but they¡¯ll do the trick¡ªfire resistance all the way.


    ¡°Won¡¯t take a week,¡± I promise Hayhek. ¡°One week, we¡¯ll have the hammer, have my key, and we¡¯ll be on our way back up.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯ll take longer,¡± he says. ¡°But I don¡¯t mind. We... I¡¯ve never felt so strong. Yezakh would be proud." He swallows. "So proud!¡±


    ¡°He would be,¡± I assure him.

 Cavern Exile: The Black Dragon Cornered

    The report comes: the last launchers are in position. The blasting bolts are loaded. A hush goes through the dwarven squads arranged around the cave-mouth. What murmurs were continuing turn to absolute silence.


    Two dozen launchers throw their bolts simultaneously. Unlike those thrown previously, these ones are heavily runed, hollow and packed with a mixture of incandesite and volatile oil. They impact the stalactite formation from all angles. The rock the stalactites sprout from shatters, and they come down like stone spears. The dragon flaps downward with them, and more steel bolts come at it from three dozen more launchers. They ricochet against the falling rocks, some right away to crash down at the dwarves, but others strike glancing blows and fly into the center of the formation.


    The black dragon lets out a roar of flame, lighting the cavern firey yellow like a second sun rising. The heat beats at Guildmaster Wharoth and he shouts a battle cry upward.


    ¡°Drazakh shuzth! Shuzth!¡±


    ¡°Fall, dragon! Fall!¡±


    Those members of the Association of Steel around him echo it:


    ¡°Shuzth! Shuzth! Shuzth!¡±


    A rumble begins as the stalactites crash onto the ground. One of them impacts a stalagmite head on¡ªboth explode from head to foot. Gravel rains down and pings off the dwarves¡¯ armor. A cloud of dust shoots upward to the roof, obscuring the black dragon flapping desperately to stay aloft. Wharoth catches a glance of a bolt stuck in one wing-bone.


    So does every other dwarf.


    ¡°Shuzth! Shuzth! Shuzth!¡±


    Gerthel, the woman with the bright axe, makes to run for the field of debris. Guildmaster Wharoth grabs her by the shoulder plate and pulls her back.


    ¡°Stay here! It¡¯s going to go for the cave, remember?¡±


    The pillar of dust, lit a dim gray-blue from the electrostatic quartz abundant in this area, slowly begins to sink down. Something roils within¡ªthe injured dragon. More bolts whistle through the air toward it. The pillar flies apart from top to bottom as the dragon dives down to avoid them.


    It vanishes into the debris-field.


    ¡°What are we waiting for?¡± Whelt rasps. ¡°We should go for it!¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± shouts another dwarf. ¡°Give the order¡ª¡±


    The black dragon shoots up out of the settling rubble and dust. The dwarves cry out in anger¡ªthe bolt stuck in its wing has fallen out. It makes for the rear, then a storm of more bolts from the line of launchers positioned there yesterday whistle out.


    One strikes true, jabbing deep into the dragon¡¯s back left leg. It spits a column of fire downward at the launcher that sent it. The launcher explodes¡ªburning dwarfs scream. More bolts come, a horizontal hailstorm of them. One jabs deep in the dragon¡¯s right shoulder.


    It drops and swerves, fiery blood leaving a trail of incandescence behind. It ducks behind a stalagmite and flaps to the ground, shouting incoherently in rage.


    The dwarves laugh and jeer.


    ¡°Now can we go for it?¡± Gerthel demands.


    It¡¯s only about four hundred feet distant. A march and a short charge and they¡¯ll be upon it.


    ¡°No,¡± Wharoth says. ¡°We can¡¯t let our guard down. But we¡¯ll reorganize, and to hell with any orders Vanerak gives. Get a message to the other groups. We¡¯ll form a line between it and the cave.¡±


    The order goes out. The Association of Steel repositions. A few squads from other guilds shout angrily at them for disobeying the plan, but most encourage them, shout them on.


    ¡°Get your revenge!¡±


    ¡°Kill the beast, for all of us!¡±


    ¡°Revenge is a dwarf¡¯s right!¡±


    ¡°Death to the dragon!¡±


    It makes Wharoth proud to see his dwarves cheered as they march through the cavern. For so long the Association of Steel has been a joke, the guild that can¡¯t even provide proper accommodation or a forge for each of its members. A run-down hovel of a guild run by a money-grubbing recluse. Now they are the first line between the dragon and its escape, with their legendary guildmaster at the head of it: the first dwarf in three centuries to take on a dragon¡¯s flame and not have his shield and armor melted to slag.


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    ¡°Wait,¡± he orders. ¡°It¡¯ll move for us. It must.¡±


    He can hear the rumble as the rear bolt launchers are dragged forward. If any get a clear horizontal shot from close range, the black dragon is dead.


    It knows this. Behind its malevolent green eyes its brain works furiously to find a way out of this situation. Cornered by dwarves! How ridiculous. Yet it has lived in the cavern for a long time, and it has been down to this part before on its wanderings. It listened to a party of the dwarf explorers who were delving for new minerals, new metals, venturing far and wide for ways to make their crafts superior.


    Unseen in the blackness, it stole from them their knowledge, and an instant later their lives.


    This was a good hundred years ago. But the principles it gleaned remain the same. Electrostatic quartz is a handy source of light, and also a handy source of energy. It can only exist up here in the cool places of the cavern, where there is no magma hot enough to ignite the power stored within.


    It turns from the line of dwarves. Guildmaster Wharoth sees its tail flick and curl at him in a vaguely insulting gesture.


    ¡°It mocks us!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go for it!¡± Gerthel spits.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Wharoth orders. ¡°Wait! It has to turn back.¡±


    Four hundred yards away, the black dragon hisses in anger. The arrogance of these dwarves! To think they have it trapped. It recognized the one with a shield swirling with runes¡ªthat¡¯s the one that stopped its flames. Friend of the little idiot who couldn¡¯t even find a simple little key¡ªthe black dragon will show both of them what pain means.


    First, however, it must escape. It moves around its stalagmite to face the bolt launchers.


    <hr>


    Calat was furious when Vanerak ordered her to command the rear line of launchers. The bastard! She is a runeknight of the first degree, same as he is, and more than that she was the one who put this plan together. It was her idea to change the trapping corner from the dismal black peninsula Thanerzak had chosen to this ideal location, lit up so the launchers can actually see what they¡¯re shooting at.


    If it hadn¡¯t been for her, the black dragon would have long slipped their net and they¡¯d be crawling through the caves being ambushed and melted to charcoal group by group.


    Now the dragon¡¯s down on the ground¡ªand facing them! She smiles. Looks like she might get the last laugh after all: the dragon¡¯s decided to give up on slithering down the hidey-hole Vanerak¡¯s sitting in front of. No, it wants its revenge on her, and she¡¯ll give it an opportunity to take it personally.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± one of her dwarves asks worriedly. ¡°The launcher¡¯s nearly angled down.¡±


    ¡°I want to finish this personally.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nearly in our sights!¡±


    She slams down her tungsten visor. It¡¯s mirrored like Vanerak¡¯s, but a bit more advanced than his plain mask. Runes across her vision faintly glow, highlighting the dragon, its wounds, and all its minute scars that might prove to be weak spots for her one-handed trident to penetrate.


    ¡°Don¡¯t launch,¡± she orders.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be careful. Don¡¯t you trust us? We know not to hit the dwarves behind!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not why. Aren¡¯t you listening? I¡¯m going to finish this personally.¡±


    She breaks into a run, square tungsten shield held out in front to block any flames. The dragon is only two hundred yards away and the strength enhancing runes on her legs carry her fast toward it; each step breaks cracks into the ground. Blue sparks from the electrostatic quartz leap up around her sabatons.


    A bolt flies past her. Bastards trying to take the glory for themselves¡ªbut it misses. The dragon grows larger in her view. She can see the slit-black pupils in its green eyes. It opens its mouth.


    She raises her shield. Heat slams into it and the wind of fire drives against her, slows her. The strength-runes on her legs push her forward. The beam of heat shifts downward. That won''t work¡ªshe merely shifts her shield down. The beam moves further down, and forward of her.


    The black dragon forces its cone of fire burn to hotter and brighter. It lets the idiot dwarf charging feel some of it, just so she won''t get suspicious, then brings it forward to the true target: a whorl of thick quartz. The heat sinks into it. The ordinary rock around the quartz turns to orange lava, but the quartz remains solid. The black dragon forces more heat into its breath. It begins to worry that the dwarven explorers from long ago were wrong, and that no amount of heat will¡ª


    The quartz explodes into blue fragments. Lightning sparks along adjoining seams for two hundred yards in every angle. Glittering blue dust blasts upward from them. The rock is shattered and, no longer supported, begins to fall.


    One second Calat is charging, the next she is plummeting amidst an avalanche of chips of ordinary rock, orange drops of lava, and shards of quartz. Lightning strikes from the latter, impacting her, but tungsten is not so conductive. The runes over her vision flicker, but that is all the damage the lightning does.


    Though it doesn¡¯t matter how much damage her armor resists if she becomes entombed in it¡ªyet she can think of no way to stop that happening, no way to resist the fall. She cries out in anger as she spins downward amidst the falling rock, and above her something answers. She catches sight of a massive black shape plummeting after her, not twenty yards distant, with bright green eyes.


    <hr>


    Guildmaster Wharoth looks on in horror as the black dragon disappears down the crackling blue, burning red sinkhole of its own making. Something in the rock has given way, some seam of quartz that reacted with the heat¡ªand he had always been told quartz was stable!


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Whelt rasps. ¡°Guildmaster?¡±


    ¡°We go for it,¡± Gerthel says. ¡°Don¡¯t we, guildmaster? We can¡¯t let it get away.¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°We can¡¯t.¡±

 Cavern Exile: The Guildmaster Versus The Black Dragon

    Guildmaster Wharoth raises his shield and charges into the jagged mouth of the sinkhole. His guild follows him, not knowing whether this is suicide. There could be magma at the bottom¡ªthough he thinks there isn¡¯t supposed to be any near here.


    Magma or no, the tunnel is steep, only a dozen degrees or so off vertical. An unarmored dwarf would roll down head over foot and have his bones smashed to splinters, but around Wharoth¡¯s titanium sabatons run runes of stability and grip. He tilts forward to align his body at a right angle to the extreme slope. The sensation is one of plummeting, but to his eyes he is running, chasing after the storm of lava drops, crushed stones, and energy-crackling quartz.


    His target is the black dragon, a shadowy mass amidst the fire and blue arcs. Blood from its three wounds forms a trail behind it, a lighter golden fire amidst the lava, which bends toward Wharoth¡¯s halat axe and flickers past his face. Some spatters on his faceplate and he can feel the heat even through the tungsten plating there.


    The slope vanishes abruptly beneath him and he¡¯s plummeting vertically. The debris before him coalesces into a crumbly mass which he slams into feet first. Even bending his legs to take the shock of impact, his breath his driven out of him. He feels a twinge in his ankle¡ªthe first hurt of many coming soon, he thinks. A succession of crashes around him marks the arrival of his guild¡ªthose crazy and driven enough to follow, which is nearly all of them. Forty dwarves stand up, or limp up. None is equipped to fight a dragon, yet maybe all of them together...


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± barks Gerthel. ¡°The dragon!¡±


    A shadow in the near distance is run-limping down the wide cave they¡¯ve come to.


    ¡°No one injured?¡± Wharoth asks.


    ¡°Injured or not, doesn¡¯t matter!¡± Whelt hisses. He¡¯s barely standing, barely has the strength to hold up his axe. ¡°Chase it!¡±


    Wharoth nods solemnly, and restarts his chase. His rune-enhanced gait is far faster than anyone in his guild expected¡ªthird degree he may be, but perhaps that is just because he has not had time to sit the examination for second or even first.


    The ripples and jags of the ground blur darkly below him. He stumbles on something¡ªthe body of a tungsten clad elite, her breastplate punctured a dozen times in a curved row of bleeding holes. The dragon¡¯s teeth went through the tungsten like it was nothing more than thin sheets of iron.


    A hundred yards later and he comes across her trident. It¡¯s coated with smoking dragonblood, and from it the blood trails forward.


    ¡°It¡¯s hurt!¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°Bleeding out! We can catch it!¡±


    The twenty of his guild who have kept up with his pace thus far cheer as one. Wharoth pushes his legs harder than he has in a long, long time. The air whistles past his helmet. Yard by yard he is drawing closer to the run-limping dragon. It glances back at them, and its green eyes flash.


    ¡°I¡¯ll carve those eyes from your skull!¡± Gerthel screams. ¡°Then I¡¯ll place them in my brother¡¯s grave.¡±


    ¡°Juice them first!¡± shouts another dwarf. ¡°Dragon eye jelly makes a great armor oil, I¡¯ve heard!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to kill you!¡± screams another.


    The black dragon hisses loudly and turns back away. Its limp is growing more pronounced by the minute, and Wharoth isn¡¯t feeling tired in the slightest. Better yet for the dwarves, the thundering of more footsteps from behind signals the approach of Vanerak and his elites.


    The black dragon turns into a side-tunnel. It lets out a puff of flame to illuminate, and sees a forbidding dead end. The wall isn¡¯t totally solid, but the aperture in it leading to the next section of cavern is far to small for its bulk¡ªwould barely fit a dwarf. It turns around to escape the trap it¡¯s got itself into, but there at the tunnel exit stands the dwarf with the fire-eating shield and blood-pulling axe. Beside him more dwarves line up to form a wall of metal, weak-looking but even mice can bite. The black dragon roars flame over them, to no effect.


    ¡°No escape, dragon!¡± Wharoth shouts. His heart is pounding against his ribcage with equal amounts fear and glory. ¡°No escape this time! No flying away, no running away! You¡¯ll pay for what you did to my guild!¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± laughs the black dragon. ¡°You shall soon see that trapping a dragon is not so easy a task. It is dragons who trap dwarves, not the other way around. Just as my forebearers trapped your wreck of a Runethane to burn for their amusement, I shall trap you beneath my claws and melt you in your armor.¡±


    ¡°Runethane Thanerzak killed your forebearers, just as I will kill you!¡±


    ¡°Would that he had killed them,¡± laughs the black dragon. ¡°He will soon rue the day he let his desire for revenge take dominance over his characteristic caution. You will not be there to see his final downfall, however. Only the downfall of your friends.¡±


    ¡°Charge!¡± Wharoth screams.


    The Association of Steel charges the dragon. It flicks around its tail and throws one to the ground, but the dwarf next to it smashes down and his hammer crushes the tail''s tip. Another dwarf reaches striking distance with his spear. The dragon¡¯s hand is faster, and tears his arm away at the shoulder, then its shoulder is cleaved by axe right into one of the bolt wounds. Bright blood sprays out.


    ¡°Die!¡± Wharoth shouts, and cleaves at its head.


    The black dragon rears up out of range and unleashes a beam of yellow-white flame. Wharoth takes it on his shield. The runes glow bright as the fire vanishes into the whorl they are arranged in. The cave becomes illuminated as if it is open to the sun far above.


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    ¡°It¡¯s distracted!¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°Cut its limbs!¡±


    The dwarves chop, stab, and hammer at it. Desperately the dragon blocks and counters with its razor talons and iron-hard forearms. Yet for every attack it defends, two more strike true. Its armored scales bend or are cut asunder. Hot golden blood sprays onto the dwarves, who scream wordlessly in rage and glory.


    The black dragon clamps its jaws shut. The beam of fire vanishes; the cavern becomes dark. Its head starts to glow red like hot metal, and the red glow expands down its neck. Pressure is building.


    ¡°Shields up!¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°Now!¡±


    The dwarves obey, apart for three overzealous ones who continue their attack. The black dragon opens its mouth and a blast-front of flame and pressure explodes out. At the exact same moment, it snaps its massive wings around its front to double the explosion¡¯s speed and force. The dwarves with their shields up are smashed backwards off their feet and into the air¡ªonly Wharoth remains standing, yet even he is pushed ten feet back. The three dwarves who did not raise their shields are burned alive in an instant. Their red-hot suits of armor, billowing black smoke and trailing fine ash, fly far away.


    In the moment of reprieve it¡¯s bought itself, the black dragon turns and bites hard into the hole in the wall. With a terrible cracking sound from both the stone and its teeth, a chunk of the wall comes away. The black dragon shoulder charges the expanded gap and the wall smashes apart.


    ¡°I said you¡¯re not escaping!¡± Wharoth screams, and he charges after it into the cave beyond. A second later and he realizes he¡¯s plummeting down toward a cluster of stalagmites sharp as spears. He rotates his shield down and smashes the one below him. The dwarf behind him is not so fast, and is impaled.


    The black dragon roars in pain. With a weak flap of its wings it has managed to clear most of the stalagmites, but its back right foot caught on one and is stuck through. Left, right, left, Wharoth cleaves through the tight-clustered stalagmites toward it. With a mighty flex of its thigh, the black dragon pulls its foot free¡ªby tearing it in half down the middle. It struggles away, slipping in its own blood.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got you now!¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°Die!¡±


    The black dragon whips its jaws back around and unleashes another torrent of flame. It¡¯s weaker though: its blast from before must have strained its throat. Wharoth shouts:


    ¡°Nachroktey! Drazakh nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°Die! Die, dragon!¡±


    The fire slows his advance but does not stop it. The black dragon retreats, limps backwards, but its torn foot slows it to a crawl. Its eyes dart to Wharoth¡¯s left. Another dwarf is coming for it, in polished tungsten that reflects the flames so that the dwarf looks as if he himself is composed of flames. The black dragon shifts its torrent onto him, yet the flame washes off the tungsten like water breaking on a stone.


    Vanerak swings down his halberd. A wave of distilled sharpness slashes through the air and cleaves into the dragon¡¯s face, cutting it vertically. It shouts in shock and pain. Wharoth, the flames off him, accelerates to unleash a charging strike. The black dragon raises its hand to grab the titanium blade and twist it away, but the not-halat rune pulls forth a torrent of blood from its arm-wounds. Weakened, the dragon¡¯s hand drops.


    Wharoth''s axe cleaves diagonally into its wrist. There¡¯s an instant of impact, then the axe gives¡ªcuts right the way through. The hand falls to the stone.


    The black dragon wails in agony and stumbles backward. Wharoth raises his axe for another strike, this time at its heart. Vanerak pulls his halberd backward and diagonally to unleash violence enough to slice through ten feet of multi-folded steel.


    The black dragon vanishes downward, plummets off the chasm it had been backing toward. Wharoth rushes after it, sees it falling and twisting leaking bright blood: his foot comes to the very edge.


    A hand grabs him by the shoulder plate and wrenches him back.


    ¡°Stop there, guildmaster,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°Can you not see the glow?¡±


    At the very bottom of the chasm the bleeding dragon is falling into, is a long thin line of orange.


    ¡°No!¡± Guildmaster Wharoth roars.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to panic,¡± Vanerak says calmly.


    ¡°No need? No need?¡± Wharoth looks back to his guild member impaled upon a stalagmite. That one and three more are dead, one more has his arm torn away¡ªhis most loyal dwarves, the most strongest, most driven¡ªhis best. Killed for nothing.


    ¡°No need to panic,¡± Vanerak repeats.


    ¡°All those dead! Our chance at revenge! Gone!¡±


    What of those injured in the original attack, whom he does not expect to make it through the night? Surely they will die with broken hearts.


    ¡°You will have your chance at revenge, guildmaster. I know a great deal about dragons. They do not swim fast through magma, for their wings are hindrance rather than a help. And although this part of the cavern is ill-mapped, we do know of this river and into what cave it emerges.¡±


    ¡°Can we make it in time?¡± Wharoth says hoarsely.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Vanerak pats his shoulder as far below the dragon splashes into the magma with a flare of flame. ¡°It will have to be a fast march, but we can make it in time. Even if we do not catch it on its exit, it is weak, and can only crawl.¡±


    ¡°We can make it? We can catch it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Vanerak reassures him. ¡°Now, let us¡ª¡±


    A crash behind catches their attention. Another dwarf has fallen from the entrance to the chamber. He crawls out the path Wharoth smashed through the stalagmites, tries to stagger to his feet, but cannot.


    Thinking it¡¯s one of his, Wharoth hurries over. But this dwarf is clad in tungsten. His breath is a high-pitched rattle. He forces himself into a sitting position, and when he takes his helmet off to better be heard, Wharoth sees he is in far worse condition even than Whelt was.


    His face is blotchy with red swellings. His beard has nearly entirely fallen out.


    ¡°Vanerak,¡± the dwarf rasps. ¡°Vanerak...¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Vanerak asks. ¡°Ultrich? You were not on the hunt.¡±


    ¡°I ran... Followed your trail, got stung... Red gecko, couldn¡¯t move fast after that... Saw you chase dragon down here, sprinted...¡±


    He vomits blood.


    ¡°Message for you...¡±


    ¡°What message?¡± Vanerak asks. Some of the calm always present in his voice is gone. ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡±


    ¡°Broderick won... Took city. Conquered, took castle.¡±


    ¡°He attacked?¡±


    ¡°After you left... Ganzesh killed, battle lost.¡±


    ¡°And the Runethane? What of the Runethane?¡±


    ¡°Missing... Dead or captured. You have to go back. Go back... Hurry!¡±


    The dwarf vomits blood once more. Too much blood for anyone to lose. His eyes roll up and he slumps sideways, dead.


    ¡°Vanerak?¡± Guildmaster Wharoth says. ¡°Vanerak?¡±


    Vanerak is deep in thought and does not answer.

 Cavern Exile: The Lava Trolls Domain

    We are ready for our quest. We stand prepared at the exit of the grotto behind the chief, who makes a fearful sight in his steel-scale armor which glows red and violet with runic power no troll has ever yet held.


    He is making a speech, grunting and barking and slashing his claws through the damp air to emphasize key points.


    ¡°What¡¯s he saying?¡± I whisper to Dwatrall.


    ¡°He is not speaking like you and I do. More emotions than structured logic.¡±


    ¡°He must be communicating something.¡±


    ¡°Ancestral rage, and promises for future generations.¡±


    Whatever he¡¯s saying, it¡¯s working. The trolls clap and jump and cheer. Troll children splash in the water and wrestle each other in excitement. The chief comes to the climax of his speech: he charges out into the crowd, leaps onto the stone box, stretches his arms out wide and lets out a roar that shakes the grotto, shivers the water, and makes me clasp my hands over my helmet earholes.


    Amidst cheers he walks back to us, then says something.


    ¡°He says: we¡¯re off now,¡± Dwatrall translates.


    Indeed we are. We exit the grotto and jump down a hole into a watery landing pool beneath. We climb out, and the journey to the lava trolls begins.


    The morning is spent walking through tunnels upwards and leftwards. Hayhek and I haven¡¯t been here yet, and I have to say it¡¯s a damn sight better than the slippery tunnels under the river. The ground is dry and gritty, so our sabatons get a good grip and we ascend quickly.


    I observe the party. Our equipment is fearsome. Hayhek and I, armed and armored like fifth or sixth degree runeknights, are more intimidating than most dwarves can ever hope to be. But I have to admit that the trolls are the real combat power.


    Dwatrall, though armored in his uneven plates and wielding a long steel hammer, is still the weakest of the five. Three of them are the biggest trolls in the tribe: dressed like their chief in steel-scale armor of fire resistance, they wield hammers twice the length and weight of Dwatrall¡¯s. As for the chief himself¡ªI do not doubt for a second his titanium enhanced claws can tear open a lava troll with utter ease. The scales of his armor are finer than those of the other trolls, and the glow of their runes more vivid too.


    We march for many hours until the tunnel widens enough for us to sit down in a circle. We devour our meal troll-style, taking turns cramming chunks of raw flesh into our mouths. On the menu is abyssal salamander meat mixed with slices of troll. Both meats are bloodier and heartier than the fish and amphidon we¡¯ve been chowing these past months, and I relish them.


    The three troll warriors sling the sacks of supplies back over their shoulders and we restart the march. Still upward we go, and the ground becomes jagged and crunchy. Bits of obsidian are mixed into the gravel. Fortunately my armor is well-runed enough that they can¡¯t scratch the metal.


    It grows hotter and hotter. I feel sweat run down my face and into my beard. I pull up my visor in a vain attempt to cool myself off.


    ¡°I thought heat and magma got worse as you moved down,¡± I complain to Hayhek. ¡°Not up.¡±


    Hayhek shrugs. ¡°On average that¡¯s meant to be the case. But lava can well up anywhere. Especially to the down-east of the city, there¡¯s a volcanic network. I went down there once before.¡±


    ¡°Hard job?¡±


    ¡°About as hard as the one we¡¯re on now,¡± he says grimly. ¡°That¡¯s where we faced a lava troll. It¡¯s where we¡¯re headed now.¡±


    ¡°Are they really that bad? Bigger?¡±


    ¡°A little shorter, but stockier, wider. Longer arms.¡±


    ¡°Do they breath fire? Like salamanders?¡±


    ¡°No. But they spit at you, and their spit may as well be lava.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°My armor will resist it. I''ve calculated¡ªI could survive for up to a minute swimming through lava, just as long as I keep my head in the air.¡±


    ¡°I hope we won¡¯t have to put that to the test.¡±


    We sleep, march, eat, sleep, march, repeat. The upward direction of the tunnel evens off until we¡¯re marching straight. There¡¯s no handy mushrooms or slime here to provide light, so nearly all of our time is spent in blackness. The runes glow of course, but not enough to see by. Because I cannot see the walls it almost feels as if I¡¯m walking not in a tunnel but over a vast black open plain following tall spectres glittering red and blue.


    After a few more sleeps, the tunnel widens into a cave. It is like no cave I have ever seen before: the walls are crystalline yellow and white, and the stalagmites and stalactites are pale green and translucent. Light is provided by a thin river of lava running down the cavern center. Unlike most lava it glows whitish-gold.


    Visually, this cavern is strikingly beautiful. The smell, however, is something terrible: rotten eggs, meat, and feces all mixed together. Usually one gets used to bad smells after a few hours of being amidst them, but this I do not get used to even after a day and a night.


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    A rather sleepless, nauseous night.


    ¡°No signs of life at least,¡± Hayhek comments.


    ¡°Is this the same place you came on that job?¡±


    ¡°A similar place. The place I ended up at smelled even worse.¡±


    I grimace. I don¡¯t know how much more my nose can take, my lungs too. Just breathing here makes my throat burn a little. Fortunately for me, the cavern twists then joins another, larger one to make a great circular room. My eyes widen at its scale¡ªit must be nearly a mile from end to end.


    Dominating its center is a massive pool of pale greenish liquid, blooming with whitely glowing algae and shimmering slightly.


    ¡°Time to fill up our waterskins?¡± I joke.


    Dwatrall does not quite get my humor. ¡°No. Deadly poison, water mixed with the sulfur of the caverns. Only these white plants can grow in it without dying.¡±


    The chief grunts something.


    ¡°Stick close to the cavern walls,¡± Dwatrall translates. ¡°Gas comes out sometimes.¡±


    ¡°How do you know all this?¡± I ask as we skirt around the pool, clinging firmly to the rocky sides of the cavern. ¡°How do we even know the way?¡±


    ¡°The chief has been here before.¡±


    ¡°Weren¡¯t the lava trolls considered too dangerous to approach?¡±


    ¡°It was just for exploring, mapping. Maybe a probing attack, see if they really were so dangerous.¡±


    ¡°And were they?¡±


    ¡°Yes. His expedition ended over there.¡± He points to the other side of the lake, where a triangular arch of yellow-white crystals stands twelve foot tall. ¡°That is the entrance to the lava trolls¡¯ domain.¡±


    ¡°Hell,¡± Hayhek whispers. ¡°We¡¯re nearly there. Will it be guarded?¡±


    Dwatrall asks the chief.


    ¡°He says yes. Ready your weapons.¡±


    I hold Heartseeker ready in two hands. When I grip it with my right glove, I feel power shiver down both my arms. I look over to the sulfurous entrance, point Heartseeker at it. The sensation I feel is hard to describe¡ªlike my eyes and the tip of Heartseeker are directly linked. When a fight comes, I will have no trouble hitting weak points.


    Provided lava trolls even have weak points. I remember my fight with the ordinary troll, and just how much punishment it needed before it fell. No matter¡ªI have trolls of my own helping me now.


    Yet...


    The river trolls seem scared. Something in their body language, which until now has been a continuous swagger, has altered. They¡¯re slightly more hunched, a bit more flighty: their eyes dart from lake to entrance back and forth.


    After half an hour of shuffling along, we come to the crystal arch. The chief peers through, then turns back to us and gives a cautious nod. We follow him into a tunnel of flakey sulfur, vivid yellow even in the dim light. The trolls¡¯ heavy tread brings up clouds of noxious dust, and I feel my eyes itch and brim with tears.


    If only I knew how to make metal one-way transparent like Vanerak¡¯s mirrored mask.


    The tunnel opens out into a wide, square room. I gulp¡ªthis place looks artificial. The chief holds up his hand to halt us. He looks from one edge of the room to the other, and I follow his gaze. A grim sense of foreboding comes over me. This place is definitely artificial, and has all the hallmarks of a trap-room.


    It¡¯s perfectly square, lit by even strips of lichen on the ceiling, and tall gray boulders are laid out on the floor in a grid-pattern. Each is painted on top with a different color: blood, greenish algae, crushed azure, tar, sulfur. I see what the scheme is immediately. Trolls authorized to come down here are given a code of colors to instruct them on which path to follow. If anyone or anything deviates from that path, they will set off an alarm or trap.


    The chief consults Dwatrall. Their discussion is long.


    ¡°I thought trolls were too stupid to come up with anything like this,¡± I tell Hayhek. ¡°No offense to our hosts, of course. But I thought hitting their enemies was more their style.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of anything like this.¡±


    ¡°That hammer must have the same magic as the box. It¡¯s made them smarter, or at least more cunning.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± He scans the colored boulders once more. There¡¯s five rows of five. ¡°I don¡¯t see a solution.¡±


    ¡°Neither.¡±


    Dwatrall and the chief¡¯s discussion becomes heated. The chief shouts something and Dwatrall backs off, holding his palms out. He turns to us and sighs.


    ¡°I have a solution, but the chief doesn¡¯t like it.¡±


    ¡°What was your idea?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Go back to the entrance and pull down those big crystals. Not all of them were sulfur, at least one was quartz. We could have laid it down gently as a bridge beside the boulders."


    "Wouldn''t that still have set any trap off?"


    "Possibly. But our weight would have been more evenly distributed. No hard points of pressure like a troll walking would create."


    ¡°Seems like a decent idea to me,¡± Hayhek says.


    ¡°But the chief thinks it¡¯s a waste of time to go back.¡± Dwatrall sighs. ¡°He¡¯s convinced the lava trolls will catch us in the tunnel. Completely illogical, I know. But he was attacked there once, and was expecting to get attacked there again. Once trolls have their expectations set, it¡¯s hard to change their minds.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t he usually listen to you?¡±


    Dwatrall laughs. ¡°Usually. But he¡¯s fought lava trolls and I haven¡¯t, so he judges his opinion better.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s his plan then?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Watch.¡±


    The chief gestures to one of the warrior trolls, who marches to the left side of the square cavern, raises his hammer, and smashes the ground next to the first boulder. No alarm shouts, no trap is sprung. The chief grunts in satisfaction and orders the warrior to take a step forward.


    We all tense.


    The troll steps up to the boulder. The ground seems to be solid, and we breath out in relief.


    He takes another step forward and smashes down beside the next boulder. A wide circle of ground around it crumbles, right up to the troll warrior¡¯s toes. He shouts and backs off. The chief laughs loudly. The troll warrior edges around the pit to the next boulder.


    He raises his hammer.


    From the pit comes angry hissing and bright flashes of fire. Salamanders both small and massive skitter out from it like water overflowing from a cup. The troll warrior shouts in panic as they leap onto him and weigh him down to his knees, scratching, biting, and flaming at his armor.


    The chief and the other two warriors yell a battlecry and rush forward. More hissing salamanders pour from the pit and meet their charge.


    I snap down my visor and prepare for combat.

 Cavern Exile: The Lava Trolls Come

    The two warriors flanking the chief smash two dwarf-sized salamanders into paste with two mighty blows that shake the cavern and stumble the rest of the swarm. Another even larger one leaps onto the chief¡¯s chest, grips his shoulders with taloned paws, and breathes fire into his face. The fire washes over the steel-scale helmet like empty wind and the chief slashes with both hands. The salamander falls apart into slices with an explosion of hot blood that rains over the swarm below.


    Smaller salamanders crawl onto the trolls¡¯ legs, biting and hissing fire, trying to get through the armor. Hayhek, Dwatrall and I rush forward to assist. With the longest range and unerring accuracy, I am best positioned to pick them off.


    I have forged my helmet well. I see the perfect angle to hit each salamander, at the proper range. My gauntlets work in tandem to position Heartseeker exactly as I envision it, then my jabs strike forward of Heartseeker¡¯s accord. The dark-glowing spear moves in and out like a piston, and each stab bisects the heart of a salamander. They fall down bleeding from the chief¡¯s legs.


    Those biting at the other two trolls scent the blood of their fellows and jump off toward us, but Hayhek and Dwatrall step forward of me to engage. With each swing of Hayhek¡¯s titanium axe, runed with sharpness and speed, a salamander loses its head. The biggest of them, six feet long, rushes Dwatrall. He misjudges the range of his hammer blow and it bites his head.


    Its teeth bring up naught but sparks. Dwatrall punches it away. It sprays fire which washes off the armor, then he crushes its head with his hammer. Brains ooze from its fractured skull.


    Freed from trying to pull away the salamanders biting at their legs, the chief and two warriors are able to get to their friend. The chief gets in close, slashing apart those salamanders crawling on the warrior, while the two with hammers protect his flanks.


    Another five minutes of battle and it is over. The ground is soaking with steaming blood. The river troll chief pulls the last salamander off his warrior¡¯s face and roars in anger. The helmet could not stand up to the gnawing and was torn asunder, and the troll¡¯s face beneath is a baked mess.


    Dwatrall shakes his head sadly. ¡°I told him...¡±


    ¡°What are we going to do now?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Press ahead. Death is not so uncommon to us.¡±


    The chief has the two remaining warriors test the rest of the boulders. More pits reveal their gaping mouths, but the salamander filled room below has already been emptied. Once the correct path is opened, we leave the trap room into a further tunnel beyond.


    Before we do so, I take a look back. How many salamanders did we kill? Close to two hundred, it seems. But victory came at the cost of one of our number, and we haven''t even seen a lava troll yet.


    The tunnel is much like the last one, vivid yellow and rather dark. It ascends, and branches many times. The chief seems to be choosing which way to go at random, and I grow worried.


    ¡°Which way are we heading?¡± I whisper to Dwatrall.


    ¡°Where he feels.¡±


    ¡°What? None of you have been here before, right?¡±


    ¡°That''s right. But I trust what he feels.¡±


    ¡°Us dwarves prefer to have a map,¡± Hayhek adds in a low voice.


    ¡°Trolls need no maps. We spend our lives in darkness. He feels the currents of the air, scent paths, senses old footprints in the gravel.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t quite see how that¡¯s going to lead us to the hammer,¡± I whisper nervously.


    ¡°Not to the hammer directly. To lava trolls. We will ask them.¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t tell us so easily,¡± Hayhek says.


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    ¡°Not easily. It will require much... persuasion.¡±


    I grimace. Nothing deserves torture, not even lava trolls, even if they do eat dwarves sometimes.


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying we¡¯re hunting them?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes but... I¡¯m worried too, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°About if we can beat them?¡±


    ¡°It is the hunter who should spring the ambush, not the prey.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re going to ambush us?¡± Hayhek asks in a worried tone.


    ¡°It¡¯s a logical conclusion. They must have heard our fight against the salamanders, for it was far from silent, but none have come for us. Therefore, they¡¯re biding their time.¡±


    ¡°Are we being led into another trap, then?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I fear so.¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you tell him that?¡±


    ¡°I think he knows. I don¡¯t think he cares. I think he wants a fight.¡±


    I¡¯m sweating as we continue the march. The chief always struck me as fairly calm and collected¡ªfor a troll, at least. This new, revenge driven side of him worries me. There¡¯s more of them than there are of us, and though I¡¯ve been confident up until now, doubts are starting to creep in. This expedition is beginning to feel badly planned¡ªhell, it¡¯s barely been planned at all.


    We are just sitting down to eat when they finally find us. At either end of the small cave we¡¯re sitting in, two of them appear. As per Hayhek¡¯s description they are a little shorter than the river trolls, yet wider of chest and longer of arm, with gray skin and orange teeth. Their black eyes leer greedily at us. A heat rises from each, making the dark air shimmer.


    We stand up to face them¡ªDwatrall, Hayhek and I toward one end of the cave, the chief and the two warriors toward the other. Down the tunnel I can see more, standing in a long row. They plan to exhaust us.


    ¡°There¡¯s only room for one to fight at a time,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll go first.¡±


    ¡°Let me,¡± Dwatrall says.


    ¡°No,¡± I say.


    I¡¯m here for my key, yes. But I¡¯m also down here to see what I¡¯m capable of. If I¡¯m going to find my brother, I will face a great deal worse than lava trolls. Besides, I killed a troll before. Can these ones really be so much stronger?


    I stab at its eye. It reaches up with its hand to grab the blade and Heartseeker goes through its palm. Orange blood oozes out, bright against the dark yellow of the tunnel. I twist and pull, but the lava troll clenches its fist. I tug harder, but the blood oozing around Heartseeker¡¯s blade is blackening and solidifying.


    ¡°Shit!¡± I cry out.


    The lava troll kicks me in the chest. My armor is strong and does not crumple, but the force is plenty enough to send me flying back into Dwatrall and Hayhek.


    Heartseeker remains stuck in the lava troll¡¯s palm. It doesn¡¯t seem to care; its face twists into a hideous leer. With its free hand it grabs Heartseeker¡¯s shaft. My eyes widen in horror. Aluminum is far from unbendable. The lava troll¡¯s fingers tighten hard around the runes.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream, and scramble to my feet.


    Hayhek is the one who saves it. He charges and swings at the troll¡¯s wrist with speed that would put many a runeknight to shame. His axe cleaves deep into the muscles of its arm and a second later Dwatrall¡¯s steel-clad hand snakes out from above and yanks Heartseeker from the lava troll¡¯s grasp.


    I take it up again gladly. Hayhek and Dwatrall pile into the troll, Hayhek cleaving at its legs with light, fast slashing blows while Dwatrall strikes at its face, holding his hammer like a too-short spear. He¡¯s forced to use it this way because the tunnel is so tight, but he foresaw this problem: sticking from the hilt is a long spike.


    The lava troll takes the punishment without complaint, even once its eyes are gone and its legs shreds that can no longer support its weight. It falls down.


    I glance back, and see that the lava trolls taking on the chief are faring no better. Three lie piled on top of each other, a tangled mess of semi-severed limbs, leaking guts, and split heads, all coated in gelatinous orange solidifying to black. My battle tension fades slightly. In the end, they¡¯re just trolls. Not so much tougher than the one I faced in the arena.


    The hard crust of black over the three trolls cracks. The limbs wriggle like worms within. Steam rises. I watch in horror as the cuts in the limbs begin to seal up, the guts retreat back into the bellies, and the split heads reform and beastial black eyes roll to look at me. The gelatinous orange drains back into the three trolls¡¯ wounds before their skin closes up as smooth as when I first laid eyes upon them.


    The pile begins to untangle itself. I shout a warning to the chief and warrior trolls. The one closest to me, not engaged in combat, turns and looks down. He smashes his hammer into the top lava troll.


    Its spine is crushed¡ªhas to be. Yet it still leaps up, and grabs the troll warrior around his throat. The other two clamber to their feet as I back away, and in this little cave where only a minute ago we were getting ready to fill our bellies, there is room for them to stand side by side.


    I quickly glance back¡ªHayhek and Dwatrall are down the corridor, hacking apart their second troll, not noticing the first slowly knitting itself back together. One eye, already reformed, is staring at me.


    I can worry about that one in a second. The two before me are ready to kill, one flexing its claws, and the other has stinking steam puffing from its mouth.

 Cavern Exile: Trolls Blood

    I have, I realize as I face down my two enemies, the worst possible weapon for fighting them. Spears are for precise strikes at vital areas, but the only method I can see to stop these monsters regenerating is to cut them apart and scatter the bloody chunks, unless there is some vital organ, some center of regenerative magic that I can pierce.


    I¡¯m not sure there is one.


    The troll on the right lumbers forward and slashes with a vicious left hook. I duck and jab with maximum speed into its belly and out. Orange pours out the wound; the flow abruptly stops. The troll swings a right hook and I block it with my arm, roll with the blow to stop it from knocking me down. Sparks flash. Quickly I stab out again, head height. Heartseeker penetrates into the center of its forehead at an exact square angle and cuts deep into the brain. The lava troll spasms, collapses backwards.


    The other swings out, preventing my follow-up attack. I step back out of range and then it spits. The glob is glowing like fire, burning with heat and flying directly at my face. I duck and hear it splatter and sizzle on the ground behind me. Glancing back, I see the troll Hayhek and Dwatrall killed is nearly reformed.


    I stab at the second troll again. Its heart is where I aim. I feel Heartseeker probe into the wound after penetration and sense a slight resistance as its black blade pierces the troll¡¯s toughened heartstrings. The troll makes to grab at Heartseeker''s shaft. I rip out. Blood pours. The troll clutches its chest and stumbles backward, slumps to a sitting position.


    Very purposefully, it cups its hands over the wound. Blood bubbles from its fingers and begins to form a black scab, and now I understand the source of their power. Blood is the key. After it forms a black crust over the gashes and cuts, its magic begins to work.


    A look at the troll I stabbed in the head confirms this. Flakes of black are stuck around the now-healed spot where I stabbed its belly, and a swelling bubble of black and orange on its forehead shows me the healing process in its head is ongoing. More flakes of black where the pile of three lay shows me that their power is not limitless either. Healing from the chief''s slashes took a lot of blood from them.


    The solution then is simple¡ªbleed them out.


    The troll with the head wound stands up and, one hand still clasped to its forehead, charges me. I stab at its thigh and the major artery within. Heartseeker sinks in deep then twists of its own accord to maximize the flesh-cutting. The troll groans, stumbles: its charge is slowed and I dodge out the way. It staggers back around in a circle, thigh gushing with blood already forming a black film. I cut out at its head, a light jab just to distract it, then pull back and stab its other thigh.


    It falls down to its knees bellowing. I can¡¯t help myself¡ªI laugh. The troll I faced in the arena felt far more powerful, but this armor of mine makes me stronger, faster, more accurate, the deadliest I¡¯ve ever been.


    I feint at its belly, then cut upward and stab its neck. Heartseeker spins as I rip it out, shredding the right carotid artery. Blood fountains out and splatters against the far wall.


    The troll Hayhek and Dwatrall sliced up fully recovers. I stab out even as it crawls to its feet: low, center, high, center, high. It snatches at Heartseeker, tries to grab it, but I won¡¯t make the same mistake twice. When I draw Heartseeker back from the second high feint, I adjust the angle so it draws against the troll¡¯s wrist, severing every blood vessel in it. Blood sprays downward.


    The cave smells like hot iron and sweat, heady and intoxicating.


    The troll bellows in anger and slashes a left hook.


    ¡°Not very calculating, are you?¡± I scream-laugh as I shift to let the blow roll off my shoulder.


    I draw cut its ankle to sever the tendon there. It staggers forward and I dodge back out of range, stab into both thighs in quick succession. Blood pours out and the troll falls to its knees: two more quick stabs severs both carotid arteries. Twin fountains paint the cave ceiling fluorescent orange.


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    A roar from behind startles me. I spin around with Heartseeker raised to guard, but I¡¯m too late¡ªthe troll I stabbed in the heart is recovered and tackling me. It grabs me in a crushing hug then bodyslams me down. I feel my steel armor bend at the force of the blow. The troll straddles me and slashes at my face. I drop Heartseeker¡ªuseless at such close range¡ªto block with my arm.


    The force would be enough to send me flying away if I was standing, but of course I am not, so it drives down, bending my armor and rattling my brain. I feel a shiver of shock vibrate through my organs. Another blow comes, just as powerful. I block with my other arm. The claws scratch into my armor. Sparks fly, many sparks, like bright white stars.


    Another blow comes. Another. The lava troll is unrelenting, and I can do nothing to attack: I have no time to take up Heartseeker and try to slice with it. All I can do is defend with my arms and fists like a boxer in a cheap miners'' gambling pit, but how much more can my armor take?


    The troll grabs my wrist on the next blow. It pulls upward, trying to take my arm off. I resist, strain with every ounce of rune-enhanced strength. It grabs my other wrist and spreads my arms open, exposing my face.


    Hot steam begins to pour from its jaws. I cry out and try to force my arms back together, but the troll is more than equal in strength. I see the saliva bubbling up behind its teeth.


    It spits. I wrench my head to the side so the burning spit does not go into my eyes and mouth¡ªinstead it turns the side of my helmet incredibly hot. A red glow fills the left part of my vision. The earhole is sealed¡ªit¡¯s automatically sealed when my visor is down¡ªyet some of the saliva manages to get through and onto my ear.


    I scream. I can feel my flesh blackening and crisping into ash.


    Abruptly the troll lets go of my wrists and smashes down brutally with both fists at once. I cross my arms over my face, but the fists hit my chest. The steel flexes, my breath is crushed from me.


    It raises its arms again.


    Dwatrall¡¯s hammer impacts its skull. The brain case shifts to the right while the jaw stays in the same position. Blood spurts from its nose, and its neck stretches, then it falls off me sideways. I roll up, already gripping Heartseeker for the kill.


    I stab deep into the lava troll¡¯s neck, severing both carotid arteries in one twisting, rage-fuelled strike. So deep is the wound I can see the spine behind for an instant before it¡¯s obscured by a flood of orange.


    The fight isn¡¯t over yet. I spin to look at the other trolls I felled, see if they have recovered.


    They have not. Hayhek is methodically removing their hands and feet and throwing them into a pile at the corner of the cave. And the lava troll who I last saw strangling one of the warriors has been cut to pieces by the chief, whose steel-scale is dripping with glowing blood. The two warriors are standing tall, one rubbing his neck and the other panting. His hammer is covered with soft orange blobs.


    Peering behind them, I see three lava trolls with heads like splattered fruits and limbs cut to thin slices like sausages at breakfast. The fight is over, then. I lean against the cave wall and slump down.


    ¡°All right?¡± Dwatrall asks.


    I remove my helmet and show him my left ear, or at least what¡¯s left of it. It still burns like white hot iron pressed into my skin.


    Dwatrall winces. ¡°Going to take a long time to heal.¡±


    ¡°Heal?¡± I laugh weakly. ¡°I doubt that¡¯s going to happen. At least it didn''t get into my earhole.¡±


    He nods. ¡°That was lucky.¡± He looks at my chest. ¡°Your armor, though...¡±


    I look down. The damage isn¡¯t so bad, dented, and some of the runes in the center of where the twin blows landed are faded.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°You did well, slaying two of them alone.¡±


    He¡¯s right¡ªI''ve slain the second two I fought. Hayhek has removed their hands, but little blood is running from the stumps. My neck-strikes did the job. The sprays of blood on the walls and ceiling are crisping to black and falling down like ash.


    ¡°This one¡¯s alive though,¡± Hayhek says, pointing to the one I first fought, the one that grabbed Heartseeker. Makes sense¡ªdespite my slicing of its carotids, it was never carved up quite as badly as the ones the chief slashed. It has enough blood left that it still draws shallow breath.


    ¡°I¡¯ll finish it off,¡± I say, standing up.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°We need it alive.¡±


    I halt. Yes, that¡¯s right. We have to capture one. And it is this unlucky one, then, that is marked for torture.


    ¡°Cut its feet off, Hayhek,¡± Dwatrall requests. ¡°We don¡¯t want it escaping.¡±


    As Hayhek begins to hack its ankles, I turn my head so the troll can see my ruined ear.


    ¡°An ear I can forgive,¡± I say. Then I hold up Heartseeker lengthways, spin it so the runes flash in the fiery glow of the blood-painted walls. ¡°But you tried to break my weapon before. And a dwarf won¡¯t forgive anyone or anything that tries to ruin his craft.¡±

 Cavern Exile: Pain of the Lava Troll

    Once the rest of the lava trolls have been dismantled and their limbs separated into individual piles, the chief strides to the survivor and glares down into his eyes. Two warriors are pinning him to the ground. The chief speaks, but the lava troll only averts his eyes and growls. The chief growls in reply.


    ¡°Dwatrall?¡± I say. ¡°Is he asking after the hammer?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. Right now he is preparing him emotionally. Threatening him, but it goes deeper than that. He seeks to convince the lava troll that the only fate awaiting him is pain.¡±


    ¡°Pain? Do they even feel it?¡± Hayhek says. ¡°These monsters...¡± He shakes his head.


    ¡°You never told me they could regenerate so fast,¡± I say.


    ¡°They couldn¡¯t, not the one I faced way back. Five of us hacked it to pieces after it killed four. It was a mess once we were done, and... Well, we ran away when we heard more coming. If it managed to pull itself back together, we were long gone by then.¡±


    The chief continues to speak to the lava troll. His words heighten in intensity and the lava troll groans and writhes. I still cannot imagine how they will make this monster feel pain, but whatever the method, the lava troll is in fear of it. His gray skin turns an ashen white, his eyes roll, and more low groans escape his lips. Of course, I realize, to a creature that likely has not felt pain its entire life, the threat of it must be worse than any fear of torture a dwarf can have.


    ¡°Now he¡¯s asking after the hammer,¡± Dwatrall says, as the chief leans in close.


    The lava troll writhes and shouts. He beats his leg stumps against the stone floor, flexes the muscles of its arms so that the river troll warriors bellow and strain to keep him down.


    ¡°Can you understand him? Is he giving it up?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes, our languages are similar enough," Dwatrall answers. "And no. He refuses to tell us where his chief is.¡±


    ¡°What kind of pain exactly is he so afraid of?¡±


    ¡°Think on it, Zathar. If we can feel pain only from fire, what can these feel it from?¡±


    ¡°Water? We can¡¯t afford to waste the skins we have, though. You said there would be no rivers up here.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need to do anything so wasteful. Watch.¡±


    The chief shakes his head at the lava troll, then stands up and walks to our sacks of supplies. He reaches in a finger claw and skewers a chunk of amphidon. It is glistening with meat-juices. He walks slowly to the struggling, writhing, bellowing lava troll. I wince and cover my ears. The chief kneels and holds the chunk of meat over the lava troll¡¯s face.


    "Just moisture from meat is enough? How do they eat?" I ask.


    ¡°They cook their meat thoroughly,¡± Dwatrall replies. ¡°Even more thoroughly than you dwarves do. They dry it out, nearly burn it over magma.¡±


    A drop of liquid falls onto the lava troll¡¯s cheek. Steam hisses up and the lava troll¡¯s face contorts in agony. He kicks his stumps so hard against the stone the black crust over them cracks and bright orange splatters out. The chief brings the meat down and presses it against the lava troll¡¯s cheek.


    I wince as our captive screams. The cave shivers with his cries of unadulterated pain. They increase in volume and I put my hands over my ears; this does not help much.


    The chief withdraws the meat. Morbidly curious, I draw closer to the now shivering troll. On his cheek there is a mark of pale pink where it once was gray. It almost looks like dwarf skin, or maybe even paler.


    Once more the chief looks the lava troll in the eyes and speaks.


    ¡°Is he asking about the hammer?¡± I ask Dwatrall.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


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    The lava troll mumbles something. Saliva bubbles up from its lips.


    ¡°What did it say?¡±


    ¡°It says it cannot give up the location. It does not want to give up the future of its people.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°The chief is asking that now.¡±


    The lava troll shakes his head. The chief grunts in frustration and slices the meat in half. Dark blood drips down on the lava troll¡¯s face; once again the cave becomes filled with screaming. The chief places the halves over the lava troll¡¯s closed eyes. The lava troll beats his stumps so hard against the stone that the bones splinter¡ªI hear it clearly and flinch backward from the violence. The troll warriors tighten their grip on the monster¡¯s arms.


    The chief removes the slices and I see that the lava troll¡¯s eyelids are gone and the eyes beneath are ruined, split and burned.


    ¡°I can¡¯t watch,¡± Hayhek whispers, and turns away.


    I force myself to look on grimly as the chief resumes his questioning. That beast tried to break my craft. This is what it deserves. Not to mention that this is revenge for all the dwarves it¡¯s probably torn limb from limb and cooked over a slow-burning fire.


    ¡°Anything new?¡± I ask Dwatrall, whose face looks slightly pale¡ªthough its hard to tell in the dim orange glow.


    ¡°He nearly said something, then stopped himself.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t he want the pain to end? Surely he knows he¡¯s going to die anyway. What¡¯s the damn point in suffering?¡±


    ¡°If I was in his position, I would try to bear it too. The future of his tribe rests on the hammer, he says again.¡±


    ¡°What does that even mean?¡±


    ¡°He hasn¡¯t made clear... But if I were to guess, he means the same as when the chief says the box is the future of our tribe.¡±


    ¡°They want to break it too, then? They know it has power?¡±


    ¡°I surmise so... A worrying prospect.¡±


    The chief places the chunks of meat over the lava troll¡¯s eyes again and presses down hard, grinds them into the sockets. Fast jets of steam spout into the air. The lava troll¡¯s scream increases in pitch until it no longer sounds like a scream but instead like a crystal being pressured unto the verge of breaking¡ªan inorganic sound, nothing that should ever come from a living creature¡¯s throat.


    The chief rips the chunks of meat out the eye sockets. The eyes within are gone. He shouts in the lava troll¡¯s face and receives no reply. Ranting what I assume are terrible curses, he stands and kicks the wall hard. Gravel crumbles down leaving a two-foot diameter crater. Still ranting, he stomps over to our supplies and draws out a skin of water. My eyes widen in alarm¡ªif he drains it all, that¡¯s a good one tenth of our drink gone.


    He dangles it over the lava troll and shouts down into the quivering monster¡¯s face.


    ¡°Pure water, he¡¯s saying,¡± Dwatrall translates. ¡°A death of pain unimaginable, a hundred times worse than what he just felt, if he does not tell us where to find the hammer.¡±


    The lava troll wails out.


    ¡°He¡¯s said it! He¡¯s saying it!¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± I demand. ¡°Where is it?¡±


    ¡°Their chief is up, left, right, left... Right from cave of shards, down through cave of ring-river... A long list of directions, Zathar.¡±


    The lava troll finishes and looks up pleadingly with his blinded eyes. The chief roars something else.


    ¡°If he lies, the chief is saying, he will throw every infant of the tribe into the river.¡±


    The lava troll wails out again.


    ¡°He promises he does not lie.¡±


    The chief pauses. Now it is time to see what kind of a troll he is: will he reward the lava troll with a painless demise, or the worst fate imaginable?


    Dwatrall holds his breath. I do the same. The lava troll quivers silently in terror.


    The chief empties the waterskin over the monster¡¯s chest. The terrible inorganic whine comes once more, at a pitch on the very edge of my hearing, and increases in volume so that it pierces into my brain even through my hands pressed firmly to the sides of my head. The sound stings worse than the burn of my ruined ear. The lava troll convulses. Clouds of steam fill the cave, and then the whine ceases.


    One of the warriors barks something to the chief, who snaps back angrily.


    ¡°The chief says he suffered no less than our tribesman who fell to the salamanders,¡± Dwatrall says sadly.


    ¡°Still...¡± I say faintly. My ears are ringing.


    ¡°I know. He went back on his promise. I would criticize him for it, but he is not in the mood for criticism.¡±


    The chief walks up to us. The blood-orange steam whirls and roils around him. He stares down at me. I shift back slightly, irrationally afraid¡ªor maybe not so irrationally, for this is an angry troll, after all. He grunts something.


    ¡°Are you ready to go, he asks,¡± says Dwatrall.


    I look back at Hayhek. ¡°Well?¡± I say.


    He turns back around slowly. ¡°Yeah. Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±


    I look up into the chief''s eyes. ¡°We¡¯re ready,¡± I say.


    Dwatrall translates. The chief nods approvingly. Then we leave the cave to journey to our confrontation with the chief of the lava trolls and his dwarven hammer of who-knows-what ancient and terrible runes.

 Cavern Exile: The Final Tunnel

    Hardrick forges furiously. He batters the silver and platinum of his new breastplate with unerring accuracy and the sound of the blows are a rhythmic vibration that shivers in his ears. His crafts are not yet strong enough. He will forge armor that cannot be punctured.


    He steps back to examine the work and curses loudly¡ªit''s not good enough. Six times he has forged, deconstructed, then remade this piece, yet it is still not good enough. There is some quality about it, one he cannot quite put his finger on, that tells him a tungsten blade could pierce it no matter what runes he grafts to it.


    Patience, that is what he hears the older dwarves urge the younger¡ªthough he has never been urged, they take a look into his eyes and scuttle off. They recognize genius when they see it.


    Until now patience has done him no good. Its opposite has. Greed. The need for more, faster, sooner. Why save up for materials when you can steal them? Yes, he soon understood that money was the way forward for a runeknight. Money to buy metal. To buy reagent. To buy dictionaries and your way into lectures. He stole his money. Even from the start, when he emptied his bank account to buy steel for the first Silverslash¡ªit wasn¡¯t just his account he emptied. Oh no, he had the key to his wife¡¯s savings, his parents¡¯ funds, the money set aside for his useless sons...


    That was how a dwarf got ahead. Genius won¡¯t make it alone. Genius and money is what¡¯s needed. And if the money cannot be gotten honestly, then dishonesty must be used.


    Every night he stole. He dressed in rough black and with a new knife of pain and paralysis he has robbed many a runeknight¡ªamazing how much you can improve when you put effort into something: the merest touch of it against bare skin will send even the strongest dwarf into convulsions. He has stolen into many a house and tortured the valuables from the family within. Even prized weapons he has taken and melted down.


    Genius won¡¯t make it alone. Genius and money. With his earnings he has forged his way to the top, and as for those that ask irritating, nosey questions? He duels them and he wins.


    Yet now he curses, for money won¡¯t fix his current problems.


    There is the trouble of the key. Braedle said it would mean his head if one of his dwarves had nicked it and smashed it to bits to sell, so Hardrick has had to promise whoever recovers it more gold than any number of diamonds could be worth.


    Fortunately for his bank accounts no one has yet found it. Unfortunately for him the Runethane is not very happy about this. He will not give Hardrick another opportunity to command, nor an opportunity to take the first degree exam, until it is delivered.


    Another obstacle on his rise to the top. However the key is only a sub-part of the real problem, which is the duties of commanding.


    His every waking hour is reading reports, shouting at people to search harder, filling out reports, shouting at accountants to weasel more money out seized piles of equipment, shouting at soldiers to treat the civilians half decently because the Runethane does not want a rebellion...


    No wonder he has hit a wall with his forging: he barely has the time for it. A few nights a week, that¡¯s all. And a genius must keep his mind and hands sharp and strong with constant practice.


    He throws his hammer down with a clang and kicks at the anvil angrily¡ªthough not too hard, he doesn¡¯t need a broken toe to add to his irritations.


    He thought the climb to the top would be all forging and fighting.


    Turns out it isn¡¯t so easy as all that.


    His shoulder twinges suddenly. He grasps the old knife-wound and winces. There¡¯s another problem:


    Danath told him of an encounter with a young black-bearded dwarf that ought to be dead. And if someone can survive being thrown into the cavern once...


    Why not twice?


    <hr>


    Our journey continues, eerily quiet. We move up through further tunnels of sulfurous stone. The stink sinks deep into my nose and now I¡¯m starting to believe I¡¯ll never be able to smell anything else again.


    A couple sleeps later we enter the caves our captive told us about.


    First is the cave of shards¡ªa very aptly named place. Here the stalactites are a kind of very jagged glass. The stalagmites used to be the same, I think, but have long since been smashed to pieces by the constant passage of trolls. A dribble of lava flowing down one wall casts a very faint light, and through it I see that each glass spike hanging above is a different color, and they form patterns of red, blue, and green waves. Underfoot though, all the colors are mixed together in a random assortment of chaos.


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    After adding to this chaos by stomping a path through it, leaving smaller shards and sand in our wake, we exit into yet another winding tunnel. It shrinks; the trolls have to edge sideways through it for a good mile.


    We enter the next and final cave our captive told us of¡ªthe ring-river. As I expected it''s nothing drinkable: the water is the same white-algae-choked acidic gunk we encountered at the entrance to the lava trolls¡¯ realm. Strangely the river does not seem to come from or go to anywhere¡ªit is exactly what its name suggests, a ring flowing in an endless loop.


    Unfortunately the exit from this weird cavern is in the central island, which means we have to cross.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be up to our waists!¡± Hayhek whispers to me. ¡°We should ask them to carry us across.¡±


    I shrug in reply.


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°A runeknight should have more confidence in his armor.¡±


    ¡°Fire resistance is not acid resistance. There are beasts of slime that eat metal, you know. They¡¯re made of the same stuff as this river.¡±


    ¡°Relax. It¡¯s just a quick splash.¡±


    ¡°You before me, then.¡±


    We line up before the shallowest point of the river, me at the front¡ªI don''t want to get drenched by any waves roiled up by the trolls'' bulk.


    I step into the whitely glowing water without hesitation. The sour-stinking substance reaches nearly up to my waist and there must be something of flame in it for I feel my runes buzz and resist its power.


    "Go slowly and smoothly," warns Dwatrall. "Chief says we don''t want to bring up gas."


    Nodding my head, I proceed forward as gently as I can. The algae sticks to me, forms slimy ropes around my ankles that drag at me. I grimace and force myself through until I emerge onto the opposite bank.


    I stare down the tunnel in the island''s center. There is a sulfurous glow from the far end and a trollish stench.


    Hayhek comes next. He lowers himself into the river in a fashion that suggests he is grimacing behind his helmet, and walks forward smoothly but rather more hurriedly than I did. He pauses for a second.


    ¡°Damn slime round my legs!¡± he curses, then he redoubles his effort and forces himself through and out of the water.


    Dwatrall goes next. It is a lot easier for him than it was for us, at least to halfway, when he starts cursing.


    ¡°Getting through the joints,¡± he hisses to us.


    When he¡¯s nearly at the bank we take his hands and help haul him up. He sits down, cursing, and takes off his leg armor to shake out. Water drips from it and sizzles on the rock like it¡¯s on a heated pan.


    I hear something from the tunnel. A kind of low murmuring, or loud shouting coming from very far away.


    ¡°We should hurry,¡± I tell Dwatrall.


    He says something to chief as he puts his armor back on. The chief replies in what I guess is the affirmative, and strides through next. His armor is better made and none of the water gets through. He turns and beckons the two warriors.


    The first gets through without difficulty. The second stops half way.


    He grunts out in alarm. The chief says something to him, and a panicked exchange of troll-language follows.


    ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡± I ask Dwatrall.


    He looks at me with worry in his eyes. ¡°The algae¡¯s caught around his leg.¡±


    ¡°He can¡¯t pull free? It¡¯s just algae!¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡±


    ¡°We got through with no trouble? Why this now?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just algae, I think. Maybe some kind of slow-awoken predator.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡±


    Dwatrall scans the cave. ¡°No, it does. The lava trolls have been instructed not to go through the same part of the river twice in quick succession. If the algae gets stirred up too much, it sticks whatever wades through.¡±


    ¡°And then what?¡±


    The chief says something to the other warrior, who goes forward to help his struggling comrade.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I shout as he steps in.


    He bellows in shock the moment his foot touches the bottom, and jumps back. He kicks his foot up, and a great slimy strand of white is caught around it. The water where we¡¯ve been crossing begins to hiss and bubble.


    The chief shouts something at Hayhek.


    ¡°Cut the algae!¡± Dwatrall translates.


    Hayhek slashes down with his axe. Sparks fly up from the rock beneath. The loop unwraps itself and falls away. The chief shouts something else to us. He does not make eye contact with the bellowing troll in the river.


    ¡°We have to get down!¡± Dwatrall shouts. ¡°Hurry, into the tunnel!¡±


    ¡°Are we just going to leave him?¡± Hayhek says, shocked. The troll in the river is choking and clutching his throat.


    ¡°He¡¯s gone!¡±


    There¡¯s a massive splash; the troll has vanished in a cloud of poison. The curling gas claws its way through the air toward us. My eyes begin to water and my throat begins to itch.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Dwatrall shouts. ¡°Into the tunnel!¡±


    The chief and the other warrior are already running down it, Dwatrall following close behind. I grab Hayhek and pull him down with me toward the sulfurous glow and the murmurs.


    The murmurs sound like distant laughter now.

 Cavern Exile: The Lava Trolls Lair

    The tunnel is steep and rough stairs. We scramble downward¡ªso fast I feel nearly like I¡¯m plummeting. I hear the hot air whistling past the tips of the steel crescent over my vision-slit, and every time my feet hit the edge of an oversized step a shock runs through my legs. Splintered gravel falls with us, making a crackling sound to accompany our journey down, down, into the lair of the lava trolls.


    At last the vague glow of yellow becomes the open circle of the exit. The river trolls vanish out of it, then Hayhek and I are also stumbling into the hot light and the jeering.


    I turn from left to right and back, jabbing Heartseeker out in front of me, its point sharp and black. We are surrounded by lava trolls: their whole tribe forms a half circle around the exit we¡¯ve stumbled from. Orange drool drips from their open mouths, their eyes stare horridly, and their great clawed hands clench and unclench.


    Our chief steps towards them, roars and slashes his claws through the air at them. The last of our troll warriors steps forward too, and whirls his hammer around his head. The lava trolls are not put out in the least. They continue to jeer.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Hayhek hisses. ¡°Shit, shit, shit! There must be at least a hundred!¡±


    The cavern looks to be about the same size as the river trolls¡¯ grotto, or maybe a touch smaller. It¡¯s just as crowded, certainly. The stone is similar to the sulfurous yellow of the tunnels above, but a little smoother and whiter, suggesting marble. It¡¯s lit from the back by the bright glow of a magma pool.


    Our chief shouts something at the crowd. Something to do with the hammer, perhaps. I don¡¯t see any sign of it yet.


    The lava trolls bellow and beat their arms against their chests. Then a shout from the back echoes through the room and they go silent. The crowd parts like water cleaved by an axe, and through the path walks their chief.


    He is nearly as large as the chief of the river trolls and carries the hammer in one hand, resting it against his shoulder.


    My eyes widen.


    It is like no hammer I have yet seen. Of solid bronze it is formed, twisted and curling, warped¡ªneither straight edge nor even plane can I see. Gems that glitter like diamonds, yet are of an odd color I cannot identify, are set into the bronze to form a pattern I cannot quite grasp¡ªrandom and yet not so. Runic script runs along it like trails of ants, and they are shapes I do not recognize.


    The lava troll chief stops just before us. He takes the hammer from his shoulder and plants its head down. A thud shivers the rock under my feet.


    Dwatrall gasps. Hayhek points. I take my gaze from the hammer and watch as a dwarf-sized figure skirts out from behind the lava troll chief¡¯s leg and bows to us.


    ¡°Greetings,¡± he says, if it is indeed a he¡ªthe naked body is too deformed for me to tell. ¡°Our scouts reported of dwarves that came with our enemies, who it seems committed the terrible dwarven sin of giving up the secrets of their race.¡±


    ¡°It was no sin!¡± I snap back. ¡°They saved our lives. We repaid our debt to them.¡±


    It smirks. ¡°Make all the excuses you want.¡±


    ¡°What are you?¡± Dwatrall demands.


    The thing''s head takes up a good third of its total mass. Its legs are shorter even than a dwarf¡¯s, and bent hideously so that I don¡¯t know how it managed to keep up with the strides of its chief. One of its arms is shriveled, while the other is twice as long as my own and ends in a hand perfectly formed. Its feet and other hand are like badly-molded clay. Half its face is handsome, the other half trollish.


    It clicks the fingers of its decent hand.


    ¡°I am the child of the hammer. Just as you are the child of the box, I do believe.¡±


    ¡°Then you are an advisor also,¡± Dwatrall states.


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    The Hammerchild laughs and claps its decent hand against the ground. ¡°Hah!¡± it screeches. ¡°Hah! Hah hah! Look!¡±


    He grunt-hisses something upward. Without hesitation, the lava troll chief scoops him up and places him on his shoulders.


    ¡°I am the chief of the chief,¡± the Hammerchild shouts in glee.


    Our own chief bellows something in disgust. The lava troll chief begins to say something, but the Hammerchild hisses in his ear and the massive jaws fall silent. Our chief spits on the ground. The lava troll chief makes to step back from the water, and the Hammerchild pinches his shoulder hard. He stops his movement still.


    Dwatrall says something long and complex in the language of the trolls. The Hammerchild replies:


    ¡°Let us speak in the dwarvish tongue so that they can understand, my dear mirror. You ask how it can be that I attained such power over my people. Why they do not reject me. The answer is simple: they are more intelligent than yours. They know power when they see it. They can make the connection between me and the wonders that can soon be theirs.¡±


    ¡°I am shocked they did not drown you,¡± Dwatrall says.


    ¡°Drown me? Why would they do all that, after all the effort they put into creating me?¡±


    Our chief demands to know the thread of the conversation. Dwatrall translates, and is told to ask something.


    ¡°How were you created?¡± Dwatrall says.


    ¡°We heard the rumors of your existence. Some power of the box. So a hundred children were brought forth and struck with the hammer. I was the only one who survived.¡±


    ¡°Cruel,¡± I say.


    ¡°Crueller to let us continue our un-sapient life in squalor.¡±


    ¡°My creation was far less tortuous,¡± says Dwatrall. ¡°And I believe I came out better for it.¡±


    ¡°Oh? How so?¡±


    ¡°You would have killed or at least brutalized any dwarf you came across. We saved these, at my recommendation, and now we have their power of steel and runes.¡±


    ¡°You do now, do you? It seems very much that they will very much be under our control, if we destroy you.¡±


    ¡°Enough of this!¡± I snap, and I step forward with Heartseeker''s point fixed firmly at the demented troll-child. ¡°We are here for the hammer. Will you give it to us? Or will you die?¡±


    ¡°I heard that dwarves were clever. Cleverer than trolls, at least. To us it always seemed that there were only two solutions to bringing hammer and box together. Either we would wipe out the river trolls and take the box, or you would wipe us out and take the hammer.¡±


    ¡°I see no other way,¡± Dwatrall says.


    ¡°There is a third¡ªwe ally, and become strong together.¡±


    Dwatrall is struck silent.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd,¡± I say. ¡°You killed two of our own. We killed many more of yours.¡±


    ¡°Mistakes done by what is to be but the precursor form of our race! What do you say, big-headed small-bodied river troll? Translate my offer for your chief. He makes the decisions still, does he not? Translate for him!¡±


    Dwatrall is silent. I look up at him, worried.


    ¡°They¡¯ll turn on you!¡± Hayhek says in panic. ¡°Don¡¯t listen to him!¡±


    ¡°They killed two of you!¡± I say. ¡°And they eat dwarves, Dwatrall. You won¡¯t get any more secrets from us if you¡¯re foolish enough to ally with them.¡±


    ¡°A problem easily remedied,¡± sneers the Hammerchild. ¡°Torture has a wonderful way of prising out secrets. Even from creatures like dwarves who think they are so resilient.¡±


    ¡°Is that how you learned our speech?¡± I demand.


    ¡°¡®Tis indeed.¡±


    ¡°Yet no forging techniques. A dwarf in pain could never focus his mind onto the forge. And he would not forge for you.¡±


    ¡°My techniques of persuasion are still a work in progress,¡± admits the Hammerchild. His left eye narrows; the right deformed one twitches madly. ¡°Yet they will be perfected soon enough.¡± He leers down at Hayhek and I. ¡°Of course, you will save yourselves the trouble if you agree to teach me right away. Save yourselves a great deal of extreme pain.¡±


    ¡°We do not agree,¡± I say.


    ¡°Very well. Yet it is your chief that has the final say. Translate for him, big-headed river troll!¡±


    ¡°He will say no,¡± Dwatrall states with conviction. "Just as I say no. We appreciate the dwarves as much as we despise you. A great deal."


    "Translate for me."


    "Tell my chief what you wish to say yourself."


    The Hammerchild rolls his eyes and addresses our chief directly. His speech is eloquent, so far as I can tell, with grand rolling statements and broad gestures with his good arm. He finishes with a loud shout, and the lava trolls cheer as one.


    Our chief  gives his answer immediately. It is short. The Hammerchild looks down at us and sneers.


    ¡°Your chief is as foolish as he looks. You will be under our custody from now on, with no one to beg for your mercy.¡±


    Then the chief of the lava trolls places him on the ground, lifts up the hammer in both hands, and charges.

 Cavern Exile: Lava and Water

    Our chief raises both razor-clawed hands to block the downward strike. He catches the hammer at its upper shaft but the blow forces him to his knees. The yellow-white stone cracks under his armor. The lava troll chief rips the hammer backwards to try and break his hands, our chief pulls his claws apart, leans back out the way of a following strike, and rushes forward stabbing at the lava troll¡¯s gray bulging stomach.


    The titanium sinks in deep. Our chief rips the claws out at an angle for maximum damage. Loops of gore and masses of sticky orange pour out, yet the lava troll chief is even more immune to pain than the rest of his tribe. He strikes a terrible blow to our chief¡¯s head, and a warped spike catches between two steel scales. A great tear is rent in the helmet.


    The lava trolls cheer. Hammerchild laughs. I scowl.


    One side has to be the first to join battle properly and it might as well be ours.


    I lance Heartseeker at the great lava troll¡¯s ankle. The tendon falls in half, shooting up through the flesh like a cut band of stretched leather, and the lava troll chief falls backwards. I strike with another jab, even faster, into his eye at the very extreme of Heartseeker¡¯s range. He bellows in anger.


    Our chief leaps forward to deliver a double-handed swipe that will sever our enemy¡¯s head from his shoulders in multiple slices of neck. Five of the nearest lava trolls pile forward to stop him. Dwatrall and the last warrior stride forward with hammers swinging crossways to strike them down. Crossways, anti-crossways, then a slew of downward blows. Heads split apart like fruits, the bodies beneath them slump down. Yet the blood running from their skulls is already starting to solidify.


    A lava troll is suddenly grabbing at my face with a plate-sized hand. I duck and cut around the back of its knee. It stumbles; I dodge back and cut the bone out the other knee with a precisely aimed and twisted strike. The troll clutches it and falls down. Hayhek severs one of the arteries in its neck with a brutal slash, but neither of us have time to cut the other. More trolls are upon us.


    We know how to fight them now. We¡¯ve adapted and slash only at major arteries and tendons: the only parts worth cutting. As for our defense¡ªwe know the rhythm of their attacks. Each dwarf has his or her own style, built up over many years of practice to perfectly suit body type, personality, weapon and armor. Each time you fight a dwarf you must adapt to a new rhythm. Yet the lava trolls all have the same style: lumber forward grasping and slashing. They do so quickly, yes, but to us they are now predictable.


    I duck and dodge, weave through bodies that blunder into each other in their angry hurry to crush us to bloody tinned jam. Heartseeker lashes out as quickly as a snake. The lava trolls fall one by one, shouting in rage.


    And one by one they rise again. So thick is the melee that even those that ought to bleed out become covered with the blood of their fellows, and it does not seem to matter whose blood covers whom. It blackens, crumbles and from it emerges a healed troll, ready to dive toward us once more.


    My muscles are not tired yet. My armor is enhanced enough that I could do this for hours: I only have to exert myself fully on strikes requiring a special degree of brutality.


    However I do not think the lava trolls¡¯ blood will run out before my stamina does. We must strike for the head.


    I scan intently as I duck and weave and strike through the melee. The runes enhancing my vision allow me to see sharply every detail, and I glimpse the deformed figure of the Hammerchild not twenty paces distant.


    Target, in sight.


    I duck between the legs of one lava troll, stab up and sever the arm tendons of one as it reaches down to grab me, thrust violently through the skull of a third, stunning it and sending it to the ground¡ªand now I¡¯m right in front of him.


    The Hammerchild hisses. Two lava trolls flanking it, each as big as their chief, swipe at me. They are faster than their fellows, and more accurate too¡ªI just barely dodge. Yet dodge I do and the Hammerchild¡¯s eyes widen as Heartseeker darts at his neck.


    It pierces deep, through the direct center to sever the spine.


    At the same moment one of his guards picks me up in one hand. He lifts me high and slams me down onto the ground. It is the hardest impact I have felt in a long, long time. My breath bursts from me and black circles spin in front of my eyes. The pressure increases as the troll puts his full weight onto me. He wraps his other hand around my head and begins to twist. Armor is little protection against such an attack¡ªI designed it to be mobile. My neck becomes ninety degrees, then one hundred.


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    I cry out in pain.


    The pressure releases and the troll guard is stumbling backward, half his head stove in by Dwatrall¡¯s hammer. Dwatrall grabs me by the front and pulls me up.


    ¡°Good thinking!¡± he says. ¡°Now let¡¯s get the hammer!¡±


    The ground around us is an eviscerated mass of lava troll limbs and gore¡ªour chief has gone berserk. Helmetless, eyes bulging crazily, he stomps on those that try to crawl up, deepening their just-healed wounds with maximum brutality. The morale of the lava trolls is broken: many are backing away from the onslaught now their leader is flat on his back convulsing. The wound in his spine is repairing slowly and irregularly.


    Their chief lies against the wall too, coated in blackening gore. The hammer lies across his knees. Dwatrall shouts to our chief, currently rending the black coating of a downed lava troll to expose the smooth-skinned adult embryo within. He finishes off the foe, looks up, remembers the hammer. Walks toward the enemy chief¡ª


    Hammerchild hiss-burbles from behind. The lava troll chief roars. The cracked black coating him shatters to dust, and he springs to his feet, leaps with hammer suddenly wielded and driving in a downward blow¡ª


    Right toward me.


    I step back, but he his too fast.


    Dwatrall sidesteps between us and raises his hammer lengthways to guard. But his amateur craft cannot stand against the craft of eons. The haft bends and breaks, and the twisted bronze mass smashes his forehead.


    He sprawls onto his back, steel helmet visibly dented.


    ¡°Bastard!¡± I shout.


    The hammer swings up at me. I block with Heartseeker, angling my weapon so the force is directed away. Even so I am sent flying. I land on a semi-healed lava troll. Its arms wrap around to grab me and I hurriedly roll away.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have you!¡± hisses the Hammerchild. ¡°We will crush your spines and cripple you, and pull your knowledge out scar by scar! We will have you, dwarves!¡±


    The lava trolls backing away cease their movement, then reverse it. The lava troll chief raises the hammer above his head and roars. The cavern shakes. One of our number is down, one by one the felled lava trolls are rising.


    I curse. My neck is sore, and I can feel the first hints of fatigue creeping into my limbs. I do not see a way we can win.


    Then, in the moment before the tribe charges us with renewed vigor, the moment before the trolls lying mangled raise their claws to us, the last of the river troll warriors roars and unleashes not a hammer blow, but something far worse for both us and them.


    The very last of our water.


    He had left the two leather skins of it just inside the tunnel, and in the chaos his chief caused, gone back for them. He saw we stood no chance in a prolonged battle and that water was our only hope. He has already untied them, and now swings them with mouths open in a wide horizontal arc.


    A shimmering wave of coolness splashes the lava troll chief and a dozen more lava trolls either side of him. They scream and steam pours from them. Our chief shouts and slashes the fingers around the hammer¡¯s shaft away. Orange spurts of blood mix with the water and turns into black rocks which fall and crumble on the ground. The lava troll chief falls screaming with the others, water sizzling his finger-stumps.


    ¡°Help me!¡± I shout to Hayhek, busy cleaving the face of a wailing lava troll. ¡°Help me with Dwatrall!¡±


    He puts his axe away. Under the cover of the steam and cries of extreme pain¡ªa dual visual and auditory fog of absolute fear which keeps the lava trolls from advancing further¡ªwe drag Dwatrall back to the tunnel. The troll warrior takes his limp body from us and slings him over his shoulder.


    I turn back to our chief. ¡°Come on!¡± I shout, hoping the desperation in my voice will break down the language barrier.


    He has taken up the hammer and is using it to batter the wailing lava trolls into paste. Some emerge from their cracked black cocoons and he smashes their heads with his feet, then spits on them, wasting precious water.


    But he is in too much of a revenge-fury to care.


    ¡°Come on!¡± I scream again. ¡°Before they recover.¡±


    He snarls back at me, then points into the crowd. The Hammerchild is being borne away on the shoulders of a lava troll at the very rear of the cavern.


    ¡°Forget him! We have what we came for! Come on!¡±


    Yet what hope do I have of my logic getting through? He is a troll. He does not think: he has Dwatrall to do that for him and Dwatrall is in no state for thought at the moment or maybe ever. He charges into the fog and lays about with the hammer. I chase after him, sprint through the steam and the screaming and the wake of falling lava trolls.


    The Hammerchild screams as, for the second time in its life, the hammer comes for it. The scream turns to a hurried order and its carrier spits burning orange onto the forehead of our chief.


    His rage allows him to ignore even burning. The Hammerchild screams once more. Our chief smites the deformed figure from its mount, then crushes it under a dozen terrible stomps.


    The troll who was carrying the Hammerchild flees, as do the rest. They vanish into side-caves, or wade in panic through the pool of magma that fills the rear of the cavern. Our chief roars at their backs as he scrapes the remains of the Hammerchild off his steel-clad feet and spits on them for good measure. A look at the splattered mess tells me there will be no regenerating.


    ¡°We have to get back,¡± I say. ¡°Quickly.¡±


    I am soaked with sweat inside my armor, and my throat is beginning to feel dry.

 Cavern Exile: The King of the River Trolls

    Whelt died in the night: the very last of the burned dwarves to perish. Most fell mere hours after their hope for revenge was drained, but Whelt managed to hang on for a whole long and painful week. Yet perish he did. Vanerak¡¯s order to cease the hunt and march double for the city scarred his soul too much.


    Wharoth lays him to rest in a small hollow in the rock and crosses his arms over his weapon. The rest of the Association of Steel bow solemnly.


    ¡°We¡¯ll get the dragon one day,¡± Wharoth promises both the dead and living. ¡°We will.¡±


    His guild look away. They do not believe him.


    ¡°It was injured. Slowed for sure,¡± Wharoth says desperately. ¡°I took its hand off!¡±


    ¡°We know,¡± someone says quietly. ¡°It might even be dead already.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe it¡¯s out of our reach forever,¡± says another.


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°Don¡¯t speak like that. We will get it one day, I promise you.¡±


    ¡°Can you?¡± Gerthel says quietly. She has been very quiet recently. ¡°Can you promise us, really?


    Guildmaster Wharoth¡¯s head droops. ¡°No,¡± he says. ¡°I cannot. But I can promise that if I have the opportunity, I will take it. For you. For all we have lost.¡±


    ¡°We should chase it anyway,¡± another dwarf says in a low voice. ¡°Forget what Vanerak said. What does he know?¡±


    ¡°Stop,¡± Wharoth commands. ¡°He has lost friends to dragons also. And the task ahead of us is just as important. Broderick is our enemy now. Focus on him. The dragon comes later.¡±


    They fall back in line and continue the march through the towering stalagmites. In the far distance the glow of sunlight from the mirrors lights the city from above. Nearly all the smoke is gone now.


    Wharoth knows more is to come, be it smoke from war or smoke from dragonfire.


    <hr>


    The final warrior died in his sleep. He refused every drop of water we squeezed out of the near-dry skins and tried to give. Each time we offered, he just grunted and nodded to Dwatrall and the chief. They are more important than me, he was saying. I didn''t need to understand troll-tongue to get that.


    Now the chief is stumbling also. The skins are almost truly empty now¡ªit takes a good minute of squeezing and coaxing to get out just a few droplets.


    Hayhek and I are not suffering so badly. Us dwarves are hardy, designed to live in dark caves where food and water is scarce. But the river trolls have lived off the river¡¯s bounty since the beginning of their race and require water nearly as badly as fish do. Without it, their skins turn dry and papery, begin to flake apart. Their eyes go red and yellow crystals build up, preventing the eyelids closing properly. Their tongues have swollen up¡ªthe chief is no longer able to talk to Dwatrall gently to try and bring him out his concussed stupor.


    We are nearing the end of the journey, I think. Hayhek and I carry Dwatrall as well as the hammer now, for the chief has become too weak¡ªhis steps are a constant horizontal collapse, a far cry from the rage-filled strides of before.


    ¡°I recognize this place,¡± Hayhek whispers hoarsely. ¡°This tunnel. Look.¡±


    I must admit that I cannot, until the first traces of blackened blood crunch beneath my sabatons. It¡¯s the cave where we first met the lava trolls. Splintered bone covers the stones.


    The chief collapses face first and the tunnel shakes¡ªyet not much as it ought to for, his muscles have shriveled and become light.


    ¡°Get some water in him!¡± I shout to Hayhek. ¡°Hurry!¡±


    He lets down Dwatrall¡¯s legs and the end of the hammer and hurries to unstrap a skin from the chief¡¯s back. The chief lets out a faint sigh. Hayhek kneels beside his head and opens his spike-toothed mouth. He inserts the leather opening, pulls the skin up vertical and squeezes tight, runs his hand down to get the very last moisture out.


    ¡°Come on!¡± he hisses. ¡°Come on!¡±


    I watch with fists clenched, hoping desperately. My focused vision allows me to make out the fine details even in the darkness, but the only fine details I see are cracks of drought. A tiny droplet glints and falls onto the inside of the chief¡¯s cheek. The chief sighs faintly again, then becomes silent.


    ¡°No!¡± Hayhek hisses. ¡°No, no!¡±


    He continues to squeeze. Another droplet rolls onto the chief¡¯s parched tongue. The great river troll gives no reaction.


    Water is not the elixir of life. Not after so much has been already drained away. I let down Dwatrall¡¯s head gently and walk over to Hayhek.


    ¡°He¡¯s gone,¡± the old dwarf says glumly.


    ¡°Dwatrall needs it,¡± I croak. ¡°Let¡¯s give some to him and hurry on our way.¡±


    We do so. His eyelids flutter when the moisture rolls down his tongue, yet I feel little hope. After we removed his helmet a few sleeps ago the damage became clear. The dent in his wide forehead is deep. There is no doubt that the blow sunk into his brain.


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    We resume our journey after taking no water for ourselves. I remember the tunnels well enough, I hope, and my hope turns out to be well-founded. After only one more sleep we come to the trap room, pass through, and soon are walking out the crystalline arch that marked the beginning of our quest.


    A couple caverns later we meet a party of river trolls. We shout in thanks, or at least try to with our throats like sand. They give us and Dwatrall all the clear pure water we can drink. It takes every ounce of mental effort to take sips rather than gulps.


    The ask us questions, which of course we cannot answer. All we can tell them is that we must hurry to the grotto. Perhaps whatever is inside the box can be Dwatrall¡¯s savior; the movements of his eyelids are becoming less and less frequent.


    As soon as we are brought into the grotto, it begins. The river trolls form a wide circle around the stone cube and kneel down as one. Dwatrall is laid a few paces from it, and Hayhek and I stand beside him holding the hammer between us.


    The chief has been retrieved and his body sits in a cross-legged position against the wall, head propped up and eyes staring sightlessly. He waited all his life to see what mystery his heirloom contains, I realize suddenly with tremendous sadness. Now he will never know.


    ¡°Ready?¡± I whisper to Hayhek.


    ¡°Ready.¡±


    We lift the hammer high. The grotto¡¯s green light plays across us in a slow shimmer. I shiver, feeling magic. This is the culmination of a legend. The curious gems embedded in the twisted hammerhead glimmer and flash. The runes appear to move, marching in geometric paradoxes around the weird angles of the metal. A hum sounds. I look to the box to aim, and the runic pattern on it feels magnetic.


    I am fated now to bring the hammer down.


    ¡°Go,¡± I say.


    We bring it down. The moment contact is made both hammer and box crack into fragments, which crack into smaller fragments, which disintegrate further and so on into infinity in but a fraction of a second. A sound like shattering glass rings out. Metallic dust blows from our hands.


    The trolls stand up and shout. I look to the shifting pile of dust where the box once lay¡ªfor a second my heart fails to beat, for it appears there is nothing.


    Then I spot a thin ribbon of metal.


    I step forward and pick it up, then turn to show the trolls. Immediately their shouting stops: they are struck dumb in awe.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Hayhek says. He leans in close. ¡°Is it... That can¡¯t be...¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± I say, as the grotto spins around me. I have gone dizzy. ¡°No...¡±


    ¡°It is!¡± Hayhek gasps. ¡°What else could it be?¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t be a crown. Surely.¡±


    ¡°What else?¡±


    The band¡ªsilver-looking yet it cannot be something so common¡ªis thick with runes so small my eyes cannot make them out. I can tell they are runes, however: I am a dwarf and they speak to me in a language the depths of my soul understands.


    They speak of power. Regal power.


    Dwatrall twitches and trembles on the green-lit stone. A low half-word escapes his lips. The trolls gabble and point at him, mime putting the crown around his head.


    If crown it truly is.


    I do not keep them waiting. I kneel beside my trollish friend and place the band around his cranium. I align the center with the wound in his forehead.


    Light bursts from the metal. I stagger back, crying out and shielding my eyes. The trolls wail and stumble away, for the band is emitting a powerful heat too.


    ¡°We need to get it off him!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°It¡¯s burning him!¡±


    I peek out from between my fingers and see that the band is wreathed in green flame and that smoke is streaming from Dwatrall¡¯s head. It is thick and crackles with strands of jagged energy. I force myself to step toward him, and a bolt of white strikes my chest and I fall down, my heart¡¯s rhythm suddenly disturbed.


    Just as abruptly as it burst forth the light blinks out. The smoke dissipates and the energy ceases its existence. And Dwatrall sits up.


    He is transformed. Gone are the last vestiges of trollishness. His face is handsome, though not quite like a dwarf¡¯s: the features are finer and more elegant. His eyes are as bright green as emeralds and as clear as still water. When he opens his mouth, his voice is almost like music.


    ¡°Zathar, Hayhek. My friends.¡±


    ¡°Dwatrall...¡± I say.


    ¡°I feel... I remember...¡± He puts his hands to his head. His skull is taller and narrower now, and the band is embedded in it. He runs a finger around its circumference, then stands.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Hayhek asks. ¡°How are you feeling?¡±


    ¡°I feel... Whole. And reborn. Or perhaps born for the first time.¡±


    ¡°And your head?¡±


    He taps where the dent used to be. ¡°My head feels faster than it used to be. As if a thin fog has been lifted.¡± He turns to the river trolls, who are kneeling once more in silence.


    ¡°Ah, my people,¡± he says. ¡°Look up!¡±


    They make no movement. He smiles.


    ¡°I think there is no more reason to use our old tongue. We will make a new one, but for now the language of the dwarves will suit us. Now, I say again: look up!¡±


    Brightness bursts forth from the band. Dwatrall winces slightly¡ªwhatever he did required effort. Magical effort. This brightness does not move like ordinary light: instead it moves out in a slow ring which passes through the trolls¡¯ heads.


    One looks up, then another. Their mouths drop open in amazement.


    ¡°All of you!¡± Dwatrall commands, pain suppressed. ¡°Look at me!¡±


    They look up, eyes wide. My own eyes widen too. They understand, they obeyed his command¡ªand not just his command to do as he wished them to do, but also his command to be as he wished them to be.


    ¡°A crown,¡± Hayhek whispers. ¡°The crown of a Runeking.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Dwatrall says.


    I laugh, despite everything. It seems this quest is at its end. ¡°It is one. And a Runeking¡¯s crown is meant to be destroyed when he dies. And certainly no troll is ever meant to wear it. You are lucky, friend. Blessed by fortune. I am nearly jealous.¡±


    Dwatrall smiles. ¡°Luck and fate are two words for the same thing.¡±


    ¡°You even speak like a king. At least, how I think a king should sound.¡±


    ¡°That is because I am one.¡± He turns to look into the sightless eyes of his chief and bows deeply. ¡°I thank you for everything, my chief. You were the greatest and also the last. From now on, the river trolls will be ruled by kings like the sapient beings we are.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re honored to be part of this...¡± Hayhek says. ¡°Very honored. I¡¯m sorry I wanted to refuse this quest.¡±


    ¡°You were fated to join it. Your arrival here was fated, and so was everything that followed. It could have turned out no other way. I see that now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad we could help,¡± I say.


    ¡°I am glad too. Not just for my people, but also that we could become friends. And friends keep their promises.¡±


    My eyes light up. Fear mixed with anticipation makes me shake a little. Dizziness takes me again.


    ¡°The key,¡± I say.


    ¡°It shall be dredged up immediately.¡±

 Cavern Exile: Dark Journeys

    It turns out that the key has been dredged up already: that was the chief¡¯s final order to his people before we left. A troll kneels so that our faces are level, then he holds it out in both palms.


    I snatch it from him and bring it up to my eyes. I peer closely, turn it over in my hands again and again looking for the smallest chip, the faintest scratch. Dwatrall and Hayhek watch me bring it even closer. I run my eyes over it back and forth from less than an inch away, scanning every single millimeter. Somehow I can tell that if it''s damaged the black dragon will notice instantly and give me a slow death.


    After many minutes I allow myself a sigh of relief.


    ¡°No damage?¡± Hayhek asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I hope not.¡±


    ¡°I am glad,¡± Dwatrall says. ¡°What does it unlock, though?¡±


    I look up at him. ¡°It¡¯s the key to my happiness. That¡¯s all I know for sure.¡±


    ¡°An interesting answer. I hope it opens the door you need it to.¡±


    ¡°I hope so too.¡±


    ¡°It is time to say goodbye, now.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Hayhek bows deep. ¡°Goodbye then, Dwatrall.¡±


    I reach out and shake his hand firmly. ¡°Goodbye, Dwatrall. Our debts to each other are cleared.¡±


    ¡°They are indeed. However, I hope we will continue to call each other friends.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°And do new favors for each other, with no worry over who is in the debt of whom.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯m sure we will meet again.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid we do not know the way to the city. You will have to find the way up through the dryness yourselves. I fear you face a difficult journey.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll manage,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°And we¡¯ll manage quickly.¡±


    ¡°I hope so.¡±


    We receive small sacks of provisions, then he escorts us out the grotto to the drop-hole beyond. After another handshake for both of us, we go.


    A splash later and we are walking along the damp tunnel. Our footsteps echo, the smell of river troll fades and is replaced by that gritty, vaguely bitter scent of raw stone. In my left hand I hold Heartseeker firm, and tied to my chest with many straps of leather is the diamond key. It is swaddled in leather from the tentacle beast, soft and squishy for maximum protection, although I¡¯m beginning to think the key is a great deal more resistant to damage than its fragile appearance suggests.


    ¡°How long do you think it will take us to the city?¡± Hayhek asks.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure.¡±


    ¡°We need to plan out a route.¡±


    ¡°What route is there to plan? This far down is unmapped. All we can do is keep on until we find a turn that takes us upward.¡±


    ¡°This part is unmapped, but there are parts that are. We should make it to one of those first. At least to some area I¡¯ve been to.¡±


    ¡°Might be a good idea.¡±


    ¡°We should pause, and come up with something. We can¡¯t waste time going the wrong way.¡±


    ¡°Yes...¡± I say.


    ¡°Zathar!¡±


    I spin around. Hayhek is a good fifty paces behind. I force my legs to halt, then turn and hurry back.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s got into you?¡± He frowns at my chest. ¡°And where are you planning to take the key, anyway?¡±


    ¡°Upward. Along with you.¡±


    ¡°Broderick¡¯s soldiers want it badly. They¡¯ll kill us if they ever spot us with it... Are you planning on hiding it somewhere?¡±


    I shift awkwardly. ¡°Not as such...¡±


    Hayhek takes a step up to me. ¡°What is it, Zathar?,¡± he whispers. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°I...¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve had our differences.¡± He looks down and swallows. ¡°Yezakh... Partly it¡¯s your fault he¡¯s dead. Even if you saved us both in the battle, what happened after...¡±


    I have no reply.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°But I¡¯m strong now, thanks to you. You helped me become strong enough to protect my family, when I get to them.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    He looks into my eyes. ¡°I can trust you now. But we have to trust each other down here. Zathar, what is the key for? And where are you taking it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s...¡± I trail off.


    ¡°Please!¡± begs the old dwarf. ¡°We have to trust each other. You have no reason to doubt me, I promise. I just need to know. We shouldn¡¯t keep secrets from each other. Not all alone down here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I know. Just...¡±


    ¡°Please, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the Runethane¡¯s key,¡± I say reluctantly. ¡°What it unlocks, I honestly don¡¯t know. Honestly.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t know, then why do you have it?¡±


    ¡°I have it because it¡¯s my path to happiness. To something I thought I¡¯d lost.¡±


    ¡°But where are you taking it?¡± he demands. ¡°Where, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say!¡± I suddenly snap. Guilt wells up within me. ¡°I can¡¯t say,¡± I repeat quietly. ¡°Not now. Not yet.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because... I... Look, I''ll tell you eventually. I¡¯ll say it eventually, I promise. But you must promise not to hate me for it,¡± I beg. ¡°Once we get to the city I¡¯ll tell you.¡±


    ¡°Is that truly a promise?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It is.¡±


    He nods. ¡°All right. I¡¯ll accept that.¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s keep going,¡± I say. ¡°Did you have some route in mind?¡±


    ¡°In the east there¡¯s a spacious cavern, one of the very old mines. Shouldn¡¯t be too many miles from here, and on the same level. I can remember the way back from there.¡±


    ¡°All right. We''ll try to reach there, then.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I''ll lead the way. Just don¡¯t rush off ahead of me. Safer to stick together.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    <hr>


    The black dragon rides the magma river as it has continued to do for a whole week now. Dragons are creatures of flame: living embodiments of that greedy element that consumes and consumes and cannot stop until it is exhausted. While salamanders and other creatures can survive in magma for long stretches of time, only dragons can bathe in it indefinitely.


    Magma does not froth and splash like water does. It is easy to forget that it is not just very hot water, but stone with all the weight that entails. Its tides are thick, gelatinous. The black dragon is submerged just below the surface, and anything looking from above can see the bulging disturbance its mass creates. It would prefer to be deeper, hidden totally from view, but it does not want to risk pressuring its wounds. The bright bleeding has stopped and it does not want its blood to start flowing once more.


    It continues its journey among the flow of molten stone for a while longer. A dwarf¡ªone of these odd dwarves who judges time by the light pouring from the ceiling, at least¡ªwould count a couple of days.


    The black dragon now has a decision to make.


    It could continue. Keep on going until it reaches a place where no dwarves live, and there rest and heal. There are still such places: the verminous little ape-beasts haven¡¯t spread everywhere.


    But hiding won¡¯t get it what it seeks. The key is its goal, and it has waited long enough. There is a chance, however small, that its little dwarf has managed to retrieve it among the chaos of battle. Chaos breeds opportunity, after all. And dwarves are nothing if not opportunistic.


    They¡¯re nearly as bad as dragons. Whenever they see a chance for power or riches, they grab it with both grubby little hands.


    The black dragon raises its scarred face from the molten rock. Its green eyes flicker from left to right until it spots a ledge it recognizes¡ªthere are few paths under the great cavern it does not recognize. With a mighty beat of its wings it soars up and out the magma. Bright droplets fly in its wake; they turn dark and hard as they fall downward, then liquify again when they rejoin the stream.


    It lands heavily on the ledge. For an instant it forgets its severed hand and bashes the stump on the stone. Pain jumps up its arm and it hisses in anger. The axe dwarf will regret that blow in time! But the black dragon lets the angry hiss die. At the moment it must focus on approaching the city with stealth.


    It creeps along the tunnel silently. It slows its breathing to calm the raging fires of its flesh and blood, and the glow of the scars in its black scales fades. Invisibly it walks onward, listening intently for echoes of dwarvish voices.


    Its ears are uninjured and keen as ever.


    <hr>


    Our journey is taking many sleeps and meals. The tunnels feel endless and empty. A few times a march they expand into small caves with nothing of note but small stalactites and the occasional bat or salamander nest. These provide food at least, but we never seem to have quite enough. We¡¯re constantly running on half-empty.


    ¡°Are you sure you know the way to this mine?¡± I ask Hayhek, many times.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been down below the city more often than I can count,¡± the old dwarf always replies. ¡°I¡¯m feeling my way to it.¡±


    I¡¯m starting to doubt his cave-sense. True, he¡¯s more experienced than I am, and it should be better developed than mine. But we seem to change direction every other march and I don¡¯t get any sense that we¡¯re moving upward. The air is just as warm and heavy as it was when we left the river trolls.


    ¡°Are you sure you know the way?¡± I ask after a particularly meandering trek.


    ¡°Yes. Just trust me.¡±


    Another sleep later and we finally find ourselves moving upward. This tunnel is a steep slope which after several hours becomes steep stairs, vaguely reminiscent of those I first met the black dragon on. It turns at a right angle and the stairs become a double set with a pair of minecart tracks down the middle separating them. The air begins to smell faintly of rust.


    ¡°This might be it,¡± Hayhek says cautiously.


    ¡°I hope it¡¯s the right mine.¡±


    ¡°It probably is,¡± Hayhek assures me, unconvincingly.


    We continue to walk up the stairs. Eventually the tunnel levels off and we are walking down a dead straight minecart track. Glowworms hang from the ceiling in their strands of bright mucous. Some are curled around limply struggling flies, slowly sucking the life from them, jaws clasped tight onto juicy abdomens.


    We come to a crossroads and Hayhek holds up his hand for a halt.


    ¡°I recognise this place,¡± he says, smiling. ¡°I¡¯ve been here before¡ªI¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    ¡°This is the right mine, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes. For sure. The main shaft is still a fair bit away though.¡±


    ¡°Do we go left, right, or straight ahead?¡±


    ¡°Left,¡± he says with confidence. ¡°Left, then right. Then a march of ten hours or so. And from there, only a couple days until we¡¯re up in the city.¡±


    ¡°Days. Will be nice to see those again.¡±


    ¡°It sure will. I just hope...¡±


    I clasp his shoulder. ¡°They¡¯ll be safe. Believe in that.¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s get a move on, then.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s,¡± he agrees.


    We turn left and march. We keep on marching. As the hours pass, I begin to sense a curious dryness and the faintest hints of a cruel heat. I clutch at the key strapped to my chest and start to sweat.

 Cavern Exile: The Rusted Lake

    By my reckoning it takes more than twenty hours before the leftwards track emerges into the main mineshaft. I¡¯m panting and hungry, legs aching, yet all those discomforts are forgotten the moment I step forth from the tunnel.


    This mine is vast.


    For most of my eight years as a miner I was hollowing out Broderick¡¯s forging hall; only a couple of times was I put in an ore extraction team. Those times, I¡¯d thought the mines I found myself in were huge, with shafts many hundreds of paces wide filled with clanking, screaming, sparking machinery.


    Yet this place is another scale altogether. It is hard to believe something so vast resides beneath the city.


    It looks to be an entire mile in diameter. Rust-red water has pooled in the bottom and formed a lake glittering from the glow of buzzing flies that hover above and are occasionally snatched down to oblivion by a lurking frog. Up the walls run lines of dark entrances to side-tunnels. Iron juts from them, the last stubs of long decayed bridges.


    In the dim light I can just make out a spire in the center of the red lake. I point to it.


    ¡°What''s that?¡±


    ¡°Remains of the central lift,¡± Hayhek tells me. ¡°They used to load the ore on it. Was a very great piece of rune-work, I¡¯m told.¡±


    ¡°How old is all this?¡± I say in awe.


    ¡°A thousand years, give or take. Was hollowed out long before Thanerzak¡¯s time. Originally the ore was transported eastwards to another city. Then, after the conquest, Thanerzak had new shafts dug from his city to see what was left. Wasn¡¯t much apparently.¡±


    ¡°What job were you on when you came down, then?¡±


    ¡°Just guarding some engineers. They wanted to figure out how the ore lift worked. Spent a good few days up to my knees in that red water while they poked around. Toenails looked like I¡¯d stubbed them raw for a good six months afterwards.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope we don¡¯t spend quite that long in the water. I suppose it¡¯s not so deep, then?¡±


    ¡°About ankle deep on the whole, but there¡¯s a few deeper channels we need to be careful of. We should wade through slowly.¡±


    ¡°You lead the way.¡±


    ¡°Gladly.¡±


    He steps down from our high ledge into the lake and the water runs up nearly to his waist. Blood red ripples spread from him. He begins to wade forward leaving pinkish froth in his wake. Glow-flies buzz around him.


    ¡°You coming?¡± he calls back. ¡°It¡¯s deeper around the edge, should shallow out soon.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    I step down with a splash. Immediately I feel water run into my armor¡ªthere¡¯s no fire in it for my runes to repel. Forward I go, feeling mist through my vision slit cooling my face.


    The cruel heat I sensed before is gone now. I tell myself it was probably just my imagination, yet I can¡¯t quite shake my unease.


    The red water sloshes and plashes as we advance. Long waves wriggle away from us¡ªhow long has it been since this water was disturbed so much? Depends on what the biggest creature lurking here is, I suppose. I hold Heartseeker at combat readiness.


    My foot hits a rusted length of iron. Bubbles erupt and frogs leap from the water; I jump back in fright then shake my head as they bound away on wide feet. Continuing, I notice that Hayhek is leading me in a curve.


    "Where are we heading anyway?" I ask.


    "Just around the opposite side. There''s a tunnel spiraling upwards there. That¡¯s going to be our way out."


    "All right."


    I listen to our voices echo, the sound bouncing around the great hollow mineshaft and, I do not doubt, into the many tunnels branching from it. And we weren''t even speaking that loudly.


    "Maybe we should stick to whispers," I whisper. "Very quiet ones."


    "Good idea."


    We slow our pace to reduce our splashing also. The ripples spreading from us diminish slightly. The lake feels awfully quiet all of a sudden.


    Then I spot it¡ªthe wake of something arrowing toward us just beneath the surface. It looks to be twice as long as me, and there¡¯s a hint of black about it.


    ¡°Amphidon!¡± I hiss.


    It¡¯s already leaping out the water, jaws open. I stab into it, but in my haste jab too hard: Heartseeker pierces through it to the other side too fast to redirect itself from the guts to the heart. The amphidon lands on me and clamps its jaws around my head. It squeezes and my helmet groans, but does not give or bend.


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    Hayhek¡¯s axe separates its neck. The jaws remain clamped for a short second before detaching and splashing loudly down into the water.


    ¡°Bloody hell!¡± I hiss as I tear Heartseeker out the gore. ¡°You might have warned me there were amphidons lurking down here.¡±


    ¡°We never ran into any!¡± he whispers. ¡°Maybe there were too many of us. They seem like the kind of beasts that go after animals that get separated from the herd.¡±


    I make an unsuccessful attempt to wash the blood off my armor with the blood-red water. ¡°Let¡¯s hurry up a bit,¡± I suggest. ¡°In case all that splashing woke up more.¡±


    We wade on and curve around the mass of fused rust in the middle. A hundred black windows formed of the spaces between the girders stare at me. I think I hear a creak inside it, and I make my path around wider, but nothing emerges. I force myself to take some deep breaths and relax slightly. Judging from the last amphidons we ran into, they¡¯d rather go for the corpse of their fellow than risk hunting us.


    I just hope nothing massive and tentacled lives down here.


    And for once our luck holds: we make it to the opposite side with out further incident. I pull myself up onto the ledge, higher at this side, and out of the water. I shake some drops from my arms and hear them patter gently on the stone.


    ¡°Not so long back to the city from here, right?¡± I whisper hopefully.


    ¡°No.¡± He gestures to the dark mouth in the wall before us. It¡¯s a fair bit wider than most tunnels: a thoroughfare if I ever saw one. ¡°This tunnel spirals up around the shaft. All the side tunnels we can see link up to it. After the top, it¡¯s a bit of a maze, but I think I¡¯ll be able to lead us through no trouble.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡±


    I can hear the relief in my voice. Of course, I know that the occupied city will have its own troubles. And there¡¯s still the possibility that the dragon is dead, and all my effort in bringing back the key will have been for naught. But worrying about that is pointless. At the very least I¡¯ll be able to scrounge some proper food again.


    We enter the blackness.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Hayhek curses, only five minutes later.


    <hr>


    The black dragon pads after the echoes.


    It picked up on them a few days back after an ugly encounter with a pair of abyssal salamanders drove it to down near the river. The way the water itched its wounds made it curse its luck, until it heard the distinctive cadence of dwarven footsteps.


    They were very faint: almost completely drowned out by the ambient sounds of the caves¡ªwater dripping, magma hissing, bats chittering, salamanders hissing, and so on¡ªyet dwarven footsteps have a particular rhythm that all dragons recognize instinctively. They are very ordered and regular, much more so than those of humans or elves, for dwarves are born to hammer to a regular beat and that habit slips into their tread. They also ring slightly, because who has ever heard of a dwarf not clad in metal from head to toe?


    So the black dragon forced itself to ignore the stinging dampness and continued in the direction of the footsteps. At several points it misjudged the direction and they became faint¡ªa couple times it lost the trail entirely. Yet, tunnel by tunnel and cave by cave it drew closer. The footsteps grew louder, and the black dragon began to pick up voices.


    The first time that happened, what passes for a smile among dragonkind twisted its scarred lips. Fiery light shone through its gleaming teeth.


    It recognized that voice.


    And now it watches the voice¡¯s owner as he splashes across the rust-dyed water and up into the tunnel beyond. The black dragon chuckles to itself. It has lived its whole life in caves and tunnels, and can read the flow of air passing over its black scales. Tunnels that link to the forest and by extension the surface world have a soft wind flowing from them.


    It can sense no such wind from this one.


    It unfolds its wings and, even injured as one is, they¡¯re plenty well enough for a glide down to the tunnel¡¯s entrance.


    <hr>


    ¡°What is it?¡± I hiss.


    ¡°Blocked!¡±


    ¡°Blocked? What with?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, what with? Rock, of course. It¡¯s fallen in.¡±


    ¡°Fallen in?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Shit. Shit, this is bad luck.¡±


    ¡°How much rock is there? Maybe we can dig through.¡±


    ¡°We can try.¡±


    We lay down our weapons and begin to pull stones out from the crumbled mass dividing us and the way up. Stones is probably too weak a word: each rock is a chunk at least as big as my head, sometimes bigger than my torso¡ªwe roll those ones together, straining and heaving to get them down. Yet for each rock we remove several more fall to take its place.


    ¡°This is hopeless,¡± I pant. Even with the strength of my armor, this is hard. More exhausting even than fighting. It¡¯s mining without a pick.


    ¡°We have to keep trying,¡± Hayhek says stubbornly.


    I pull up my visor, wipe off the sweat with one of our none-too-full supply sacks, and get back to work.


    It really is hopeless. There seems to be no end to the rocks in the blockage. After more than two hours I step back, exhausted, and review our progress. We have advanced but a few feet, and who knows how many remain?


    ¡°We need to turn back and find another way,¡± I tell Hayhek.


    His shoulders slump. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll find a way eventually. At least, we¡¯re closer to the city than we were when we set out.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But not that close. Not if we¡¯re lost.¡±


    ¡°Still. We have to emerge eventually...¡±


    I trail off. Do we? There are plenty of stories about dwarves who get lost down here and meet violent ends. Or just plain sad ends¡ªstarving and thirsting, falling down, and having their mummified corpses stumbled upon decades later.


    ¡°At any rate, we have to turn back.¡±


    Hayhek turns and begins to march away, very quickly. I chase after.


    ¡°We should rest first though.¡±


    He spins around. Through his vision slit I see his eyes are red with tears. ¡°I was this close!¡± he hisses. ¡°This close to seeing them again... Just a few days away...¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll make it up there!¡± I promise him.


    ¡°But when? And what¡¯ll have happened while we were gone?¡±


    He resumes his march¡ª


    And the darkness around the corner sprouts a terrible clawed hand which grabs him around the torso, pinning his arms to his sides, and it presses him down to the stone. He screams out.


    Bright green eyes gaze upon me.


    ¡°You dwarves are such noisy creatures,¡± says the black dragon. ¡°Now, I very much hope you have the key. For both of our sakes.¡±

 Cavern Exile: The Dragons Half of the Bargain

    The fire glowing from behind the black dragon¡¯s teeth illuminates both it and the tunnel, and I see that although Vanerak¡¯s hunt failed, he and his runeknights certainly left their marks. Its face is rent down the middle with a terrible scar. One of its wings has a hole near the shoulder and is at a crooked angle. Its left hand, curled around Hayhek, is badly scarred, and its right is gone altogether.


    And it always seemed so invincible to me.


    Yet injured as it is, I am under no illusions about its power.


    ¡°I have the key,¡± I say, trying to keep the trembling from my voice.


    ¡°Then show me it, dwarf.¡±


    Strip by strip I unwrap the leather around my chestplate. The dragon¡¯s eyes flash when the diamond handle glints. The glow in its mouth brightens as tubular rainbows glitter down the perfectly cylindrical stem, and strands of liquid fire drip from its jaws when the last strips fall away to reveal the fractal bit.


    I don¡¯t give it over and hold it tight to myself. ¡°Release my friend,¡± I say.


    The black dragon hisses. ¡°I shall once you give it over, dwarf.¡±


    It curls its tail up past its head. A long section is twisted and swollen. I reach out and hang the loop of the key on it, but do not yet let go,


    ¡°Release him,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m not as weak as I used to be. You keep your end of the bargain, and I¡¯ll keep mine.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine. Out you go, dwarf.¡±


    It rests its right forearm on the ground so it can keep its balance, then lifts its hand off Hayhek. He scrambles up and rushes to my side, hastily drawing out his axe as he does so.


    ¡°What is this?¡± he cries at me. ¡°What are you doing, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m... What does it damn look like?¡±


    ¡°The key, now,¡± says the black dragon. ¡°Now, dwarf.¡±


    ¡°We have a bargain. You tell me about my brother. You tell me where he went.¡±


    ¡°Bargain?¡± Hayhek says faintly. ¡°A bargain with the dragon?¡±


    ¡°The key first,¡± says the black dragon. The fire behind its teeth grows hotter.


    ¡°No. My brother first. Where did he go?¡±


    The black dragon narrows its eyes. ¡°He went down into the darkest tunnels under the chasm. I followed him for a little while. I was very young, and curious, and entranced by the artifact he¡¯d created. I tracked him to the cavern of...¡± The black dragon stretches its neck forward and puts its jaws right before my face. ¡°The key, dwarf! If you want to know where he went.¡±


    ¡°You promise to tell me?¡±


    ¡°I promise.¡±


    It is foolish to trust the promise of a dragon. They care for nothing but themselves, and the concept of a fair bargain is utterly alien to them. A dragon takes; it does not give.


    And yet I let go of the key. The black dragon flexes its tail up and the key slides down as far as it will go.


    ¡°Which cavern?¡± I demand. ¡°Tell me.¡±


    The black dragon smiles. It flicks its red trident tongue in and out a few times. ¡°Ah, caverns. There are so many of them, do you not agree? Which makes it so hard to remember the name of each one. Those that have names, anyway.¡±


    ¡°Tell me!¡±


    ¡°Let me think...¡± It makes a show of scratching its head with a claw. ¡°Ah yes... Ah, on second thoughts, maybe not...¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that key for?¡± Hayhek blurts out. ¡°Where does it lead?¡±


    The dragon turns to look him in the eyes. The old dwarf cringes back.


    ¡°So the other dwarf wants something too, does he?¡±


    ¡°Which cavern?¡± I demand.


    ¡°This key,¡± says the dragon, not bothering to look at me, ¡°Leads to somewhere very important. I shall not tell you where, however.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s something of the Runethane¡¯s isn¡¯t it?¡± Hayhek says. ¡°It has to be.¡± He looks at me. ¡°What the hell have you done, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡± I snap. ¡°Where is my brother, dragon? Where did he go!¡±


    ¡°I have already told you. I told you right at the beginning, did I not? He went down, far down.¡±


    ¡°Where!¡± I demand, and I level Heartseeker at the dragon¡¯s left eye.


    ¡°Into your Runeking¡¯s realm, mayhaps? I do not know for sure. But I will tell you one thing... Your brother was not in a particularly sane state of mind. All the time I watched him, he was muttering to himself. And the strokes of his hammer¡ªwell, the rock he tied to his broken hand at any rate¡ªthey were very uneven. That¡¯s a sure sign of madness in a dwarf. And he was in the blackness for a long time. And I have heard rumors from below of a black-armored dwarf that stalks the night...¡± It leans back away from us. ¡°Of course, those are just rumors.¡±


    If you value your life, you should be polite to dragons. Keep an even tone of voice and be careful of the words you use. This is, some dim corner of my mind says, the time to calm down. To be persuasive. To not lose my temper¡ª


    ¡°I don¡¯t like liars, dragon!¡± I scream at it. I take a step forward, still tracking the dragon¡¯s left eye with Heartseeker. ¡°Where did my brother go? Tell me!¡±


    ¡°Such rudeness,¡± the black dragon snarls. ¡°Such a lack of appreciation for my wisdom. If there¡¯s one thing I despise, it is being spoken back to by dwarves.¡±


    ¡°Where is he!¡± I scream. Red rage has filled my vision, and a buzzing, hissing noise is filling my ears and drowning out all logical thought and fear. ¡°Keep your promise! I got your fucking key, didn''t I? Where is my brother!¡±


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    The black dragon opens its jaws. Flame roils up from its throat, but I¡¯m already charging and leaping upwards. The runes of strength on my greaves vibrate with energy, make the steel sing. I rotate my body side-on for range and Heartseeker seeks out its target with maximum speed and accuracy.


    Its black tip sinks deep into the black dragon¡¯s left eye. The black dragon roars flame down at me, but the roar is half a scream, and the jabbing agony in its eye knocks off its aim. My armor glows yet does not melt.


    I land down hard, recover instantly and jab Heartseeker at the dragon¡¯s belly. Hayhek charges and cuts madly at the monster¡¯s remaining hand.


    The black dragon flaps its wings and flies backwards. The wind stumbles us. It lets out another roar of flame that billows down the tunnel. We shout in pain¡ªits aim and heat is true this time and I think I feel a couple of fire resistance runes burst.


    But I am in no state of mind to care about being burned alive.


    I charge forward once the flame vanishes, intending to take advantage of the monster¡¯s pause¡ªyet the black dragon is thundering down the tunnel away from us. It seems it¡¯s had enough of dwarves and their razor-edged weapons. I give chase, screaming:


    ¡°Where is my brother? Where is he? Tell me, you liar! Tell me! Tell me!¡±


    It flaps up out over the blood-red water; the beats of its crooked wings turns the calm surface into a raging mass of froth and steam. Glow-flies are beaten down and vanish into the red maelstrom; the great mineshaft turns nearly to blackness.


    A mass of darker black rises, rises, and vanishes into one of the topmost tunnels.


    ¡°Come back!¡± I scream upwards. ¡°Where is my brother! You promised to tell me!¡± My throat grows hoarse and choked with sobs. I sink to my knees. ¡°You said you¡¯d tell me...¡±


    Something slams into the side of my helmet, knocking me onto my side. I try to get up then Hayhek¡¯s boot hits my chest, toppling me backwards into the water. Cold red covers me, then Hayhek is dragging me upright by my shoulders and screaming into my face.


    ¡°A dragon! Yezakh died for a dragon! A dragon! We trusted you!¡±


    ¡°Get off me!¡± I half-shout, half-sob. ¡°Get the fuck off me! What the fuck do you know, you old bastard!¡±


    ¡°That thing burned half your guild alive!¡±


    I shove him away.


    ¡°It burned them alive!¡±


    ¡°I know!¡± I scream. ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that? You think I don¡¯t see that night in my dreams?¡±


    ¡°You stole the key for it. And then you strung us along so that you could help it!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know anything!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a beast. A criminal, a traitor.¡±


    ¡°What the fuck would you know!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a traitor!.¡±


    ¡°What the fuck do you know!¡±


    ¡°You sold us out to a dragon.¡±


    I breathe hard to calm myself. ¡°I had a good reason,¡± I say slowly. ¡°I don¡¯t regret what I did.¡±


    ¡°What reason? Your brother you keep screaming about?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you make light of him,¡± I warn.


    ¡°I should cut your head off.¡±


    ¡°Maybe try to understand my pain before you try, you old bastard. You¡¯re not the only one who¡¯s lost family.¡±


    ¡°How could anything be worth your guildmates burning to death? Worth the death of your friend? My Yezakh! Why did you do it?¡±


    ¡°I was a miner. A fucking miner. No hope, no nothing. Both my parents died in an accident when I was too young to even remember them. All I had was my brother and his hope. His belief that we were chosen for great things, that in the rock something was waiting for us. He said that if only we could find it, we might be able to escape our misery. And I trusted him with all my heart.¡±


    I take a deep breath. Steel myself for the memory.


    ¡°And one day he found it. A great chunk of incandesite. Do you have any idea how rare that is? To find a nugget of something worth enough gold to leave the mines?¡±


    Hayhek says nothing.


    ¡°It¡¯s nearly unheard of. And you¡¯re meant to surrender whatever precious substances you dig out to the runeknights supervising you, of course. You get a reward¡ªa tenth of what it¡¯s worth, if you¡¯re lucky. Unfair, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    He¡¯s still silent.


    ¡°He found the reagent. He snuck it out¡ªtoo quickly. The other miners got suspicious, chased him down.¡±


    I swallow, and clench my fists to stop my hands shaking.


    ¡°Pathetic bastards. Jealous fucks. They beat him to pulp. Smashed both his hands. Worse than that, they killed his hope. I remember that night, in our little room. That was the worst night of my life, Hayhek¡ªnot the night the dragon came to the guild. The night I lost him.¡±


    Hayhek remains silent. Maybe his expression has softened behind his visor. Maybe it hasn¡¯t.


    ¡°His hands were crushed. Totally crushed¡ªthumbs bent backwards. I told him they¡¯d heal, that we¡¯d get another chance. But deep down I understood that they never would, and that we wouldn¡¯t get another chance as long as we lived. And later that night...¡±


    I feel my eyes well up with tears.


    ¡°He left the barracks, walked to the chasm, and threw himself into it. I couldn¡¯t stop him¡ªI was fast asleep. I heard about it the next morning from another miner who saw him go over the edge. I wasn¡¯t even the first to hear about it.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Hayhek says quietly.


    I take a moment to compose myself. ¡°And then I meet the dragon," I say. "It tells me about a dwarf who looked just like me in the deep caverns, who was forging gold with two broken hands. Catching salamanders with his teeth and eating them raw.¡±


    ¡°It might have been lying.¡±


    ¡°No. Dragons are liars, but how would it have read my mind to come up with such a story? It was telling the truth. I have no doubt about that.¡±


    ¡°It might have¡ª¡±


    ¡°Might have! Might have! Yes, maybe it didn''t let him go. Maybe it killed him. But there¡¯s a chance he¡¯s alive. All I needed was to get the key, and the dragon would lead me to him. That was why I helped it, Hayhek. There''s my reason. Are you still going to try and cut my head off? Well?¡±


    ¡°I...¡±


    ¡°You would do anything to see your son again. Wouldn¡¯t you? Well?¡±


    He is silent.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make this clear: I will do anything to see my brother again. Even if I have to be a traitor. Even if I have to bargain with a monster. Even if it means my fellow dwarves burning.¡± I move into fighting stance and level Heartseeker at him. ¡°I¡¯ll burn anyone who gets between me and my brother. Between me and my hope. Wouldn¡¯t you do the same for your family?¡±


    For a long while Hayhek says nothing. Just stands there in the cold red water, thinking.


    ¡°Give me your answer,¡± I demand.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he says quietly. ¡°Maybe I would.¡±


    ¡°You would,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯d cut me down if I tried to keep you from them.¡±


    ¡°I... I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°You do know.¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t. Is it really worth it to have others die just so that you can get what you want? Even if what you want is everything to you? Was watching your guild burn worth it?¡±


    ¡°It¡ª¡±


    I remember the screams of agony and stop myself.


    Was it worth it?


    Is it right to sacrifice others for your own happiness? Yet I never thought it would come to my guild burning. It was a risk I misjudged. It¡¯s not as if I burned them myself.


    Yet if I knew they were going to die, would I have made my deal with the dragon anyway? I think...


    I think I would have. I do not know for sure, but I think I would have.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if it was worth it or not,¡± I say. ¡°I don¡¯t know if it was right or wrong. All I know is that I want to see my brother again.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°So do you accept my reason? Or is one of us going to die down here?¡±


    Hayhek steps back and lowers his axe. ¡°No one has to die,¡± he says. ¡°I... I don¡¯t accept your reason, but I understand.¡±


    ¡°Good enough. But do you understand? Truly?¡±


    He lets out a shuddering sigh. ¡°Yes. I understand your pain. You should know I understand pain by now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m truly sorry about Yezakh," I say. "Sorry about my guild. I wish things had never come to all this. But I made the choice to search for my brother, and that¡¯s what I¡¯m going to do.¡±


    ¡°I understand. I don¡¯t agree, but I understand.¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s find our way back up to the city.¡±

 Cavern Exile: Beginning of the Counterattack

    The dwarven army marches double-time. The stalagmites echo with the tramp of steel and the grim timbre of war songs. Vanerak ordered the ballistae dropped at the beginning of the march, for he judged them little use in street fighting, and without the massive weapons slowing them down the march back to the city progresses much faster than the dragon chase did.


    It is propelled partly by fear for families and friends, but mostly by black rage. It¡¯s a filthy trick, what Broderick pulled. The black dragon was a threat to all dwarves equally, and to use the hunt as an opportunity to attack was nothing but disgusting.


    The army reaches the city in little under a month and sets up camp in a series of shallow caves just outside. On the second night, after all has been organized¡ªlatrine caves decided, living quarters established, defensive perimeter set¡ªthe higher ranking dwarves are called to battle-council.


    He¡¯s chosen this cave well, Guildmaster Wharoth thinks to himself. There¡¯s only two entrances and they¡¯re tough to squeeze through. It¡¯s thick with low, sharp stalagmites, a natural barrier to intruding warriors. There¡¯s even a small river running down the center both for fresh water and to work as a further barrier to any potential decapitation force.


    A tungsten-clad runeknight shows him to his place in the circle. Once everyone is here¡ªa few dozen only, likely far fewer than the number of elites Broderick has¡ªVanerak begins his briefing.


    ¡°First, I should make clear a matter we are all worried about: there has been no news of the Runethane¡¯s whereabouts or wellbeing.¡±


    There is stony silence.


    ¡°However Broderick has been seen many times. It follows that we must assume he defeated our Runethane, who is likely now dead or captured.¡±


    The tone of his voice is cold and even. The gathered runeknights nod grimly.


    ¡°Now to the main topic of discussion. No forces have yet sallied out to meet us, but of course we have been scouted. They know where we are and could attack if they wished.¡±


    ¡°Are there no forces being mustered under the city?¡± asks a bronze-clad second degree. Trazloth, guildmaster of the Troglodyte Slayers. ¡°These tunnels we¡¯re in are well-linked.¡±


    ¡°Scouting parties will be sent out to confirm with confidence, however my elites on their preliminary forays saw no evidence of any underground mustering. Personally, I do not believe they will sally forth. They have no reason to. We are the attackers, and they would prefer we were forced to assault up the mountain.¡±


    ¡°The mountain?¡± another guildmaster says. ¡°But they hold the whole city.¡±


    ¡°Now they do, but they cannot hold it against us. We are a fresh army, more or less, and they are not. The battle, so the few who escaped tell me, was far from a one-sided affair.¡±


    Wharoth speaks up: ¡°Even so, they will have looted the castle stores and industrial districts, and the lower degrees at least have had enough time to improve their equipment a good deal.¡±


    ¡°This is true. However, should Broderick pick a fight in the city, the citizenry can assist us and sabotage them. No. They will be forced to defend at the castle.¡±


    ¡°It will be a hard fight,¡± Trazloth says. ¡°I do not like uphill battles. It is always best to hold the higher ledges.¡±


    ¡°I agree. And when my plan succeeds, we will hold them...¡±


    <hr>


    Wharoth leads the Association of Steel through the dark streets. They walk in tight formation, weapons held ready to slay. Ten minutes ago they crawled from an unguarded tunnel, unspotted, directed by two tungsten clad elites accompanying them.


    Vanerak¡¯s plan is a clever one in theory, but Wharoth wonders how well it will turn out in practice.


    The army has split into squads of twenty or so each. They will now travel through the streets and attack any troop concentrations Broderick has stationed throughout the city. So many attacks at once with no warning will cause a panic¡ªthe enemy likely expects them to come as one concentrated force. They will retreat to the most defensible position: the castle, so that the second stage can commence.


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    It¡¯s gone without a hitch so far. Vanerak and his elites knew the layout of the city caves well enough to find twenty lesser known tunnels¡ªalthough they were a damn tight squeeze in a few places. Most of Broderick¡¯s troops are stationed near the city perimeter, and several of his scout groups met violent ends yesterday, and thus his military intelligence is much diminished. They met no one in the tunnels.


    So far so simple. Plans always are up until they hit the enemy.


    The streets are deserted in this district. This is no surprise: this block of smelteries suffered a massive fire during the battle for the city. The blackened frames of the buildings stink of charcoal and acrid coke. A crust of ash crunches under the dwarves¡¯ boots.


    Shouting in the distance announces first contact, and Wharoth tightens his grip on his axe and bares his teeth behind his visor. Today he feels uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. Today is a day to split limbs and skulls, to cut and rend, to kill.


    it is because of Broderick and his greedy soldiers that so many of the Association of Steel died broken-hearted. Because of them, the dragon that burned so many is still loose, alive and licking its wounds to kill again another day. Because of them, his guild does not have its revenge.


    The Association of Steel will give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Show not one jot of mercy, not even to the youngest tenth degree.


    Ten minutes after the first shouts go up, further ones rise closer.


    Another few minutes pass, more erupt, and are soon followed by the tinny blare of alarms:


    ¡°Raid! Raid! Raid!¡± scream rune-grafted cones of tin. ¡°Raid! Raid! Raid!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be on them soon,¡± one of the tungsten clad elites says. ¡°Get ready to spill some blood.¡±


    ¡°We are,¡± Wharoth spits.


    The elite flinches. Wharoth is slightly surprised by the contempt in his own voice.


    They turn down a narrow alleyway. Its end is brightly lit by a streetlamp, then shadows blink as column of troops runs past. Wharoth recalls that there¡¯s another squad near here¡ªthe enemy must be rushing for them.


    ¡°Charge!¡± Wharoth screams.


    He hurtles down the alley with shield held out in front and titanium axe raised above his head. The vague dark pattern of bricks blurs at either side, then he¡¯s crashing into the column like a spear suddenly thrust into an opponent¡¯s ribs.


    He shield-slams a dwarf who goes flying and crumples into a wall across the cobbled road. The one behind him skids to a halt and Wharoth¡¯s axe is already seeking her neck. The young soldier looks to be barely a tenth degree, clad in thick yet badly forged steel, and the titanium blade cuts right through the gorget.


    Her head comes off, and before it hits the ground the rest of the Association of Steel is already cutting into the column, screaming like hellions as they let loose with axe, sword, hammer and spear. Enemy armor tears and enemy blood fountains.


    ¡°Lead them up!¡± he orders Gerthel. ¡°The elites and I will take those down the street.¡±


    The front section of the enemy column has rushed away and already formed an ordered line. They are well commanded, it seems¡ªWharoth sees their captain in the middle of the line, a runeknight of third or second degree in elegant platinum. He is armed with a long spear, black at the tip, a bit like Zathar¡¯s weapon.


    What has become of that strange young dwarf? The thought distracts him only for a moment and then Wharoth is launching himself down the road alongside the two tungsten elites.


    They smash the line at three points, Wharoth in the middle and the elites at the flanks. Wharoth deflects the captain''s black spear with the edge of his shield and cuts down at his legs. The captain responds by stepping back out of range with unnatural quickness while striking hard. The blow hits Wharoth¡¯s shield straight on and the hammer-strong impact halts him. Now the captain is deep into his line of soldiers, who converge on Wharoth.


    They are no match for the guildmaster. Wharoth¡¯s titanium axe whirs through the air in wide loops, slicing through lesser steel blades and shafts. Their attacking power broken, his loops extend further to reach head and belly. Armor is split open.


    Those lucky enough not to have blood pouring from steel rents toward the not-halat rune suddenly realize that their flanks have vanished. The tungsten elites did their job with brutal precision: every enemy on the left and right is either dead or fleeing.


    The center flees too. Only their captain remains.


    ¡°Not going to run?¡± Wharoth asks him. ¡°I would, if I were you.¡±


    ¡°Broderick¡¯s dwarves do not run,¡± the captain snaps back.


    He lets loose a flurry of stabs. Wharoth knows how to counter such an attack¡ªhe shield-charges to break his opponent''s rhythm and run him down. The dwarf sidesteps and strikes at his head. Wharoth ducks just enough to let the black blade scrape on his helmet, then delivers a vicious cut to his opponent¡¯s hand.


    The captain jumps backward obscenely quickly¡ªhis runes of speed are nothing to laugh at.


    But he did not pay attention to the battlefield. One of the elites¡¯ halberds pierces his back; its spike comes out through the center left of the captain¡¯s chest. Blood streams down his platinum plate, the black spear clatters to the cobbles and begins to roll down the slope of the road, and then the halberd is withdrawn and he collapses. Blood pours down the cobbles.


    Wharoth looks up the street and sees the other half of the enemy column scattering away, Association of Steel in close pursuit.


    ¡°Halt!¡± he shouts to them. ¡°Don¡¯t get carried away! We regroup, then move up the mountain with the rest!¡±


    The real battle has not yet begun.

 Cavern Exile: Bombardment

    The first part of the plan has gone like clockwork. Broderick¡¯s occupying forces were even worse prepared than Vanerak anticipated¡ªmost were in their forges, not expecting an attack to come for a week at least, and in any case were expecting it to be an obvious frontal assault.


    However the second battle is not likely to be such an easy victory. Broderick''s army has formed a ring around the dark mountain''s peak. Every road, path and section of shallow slope is guarded by grim-faced dwarves with their weapons raised¡ªaxes and hammers at the front with the spears of the back ranks jutting outward between them.


    They look formidable, the scouts report. And the formation is more flexible than it looks also. The ring of defense is small so Broderick¡¯s forces will find it easy to redeploy to where the battle is hottest. Marching uphill over rough terrain, Vanerak¡¯s forces won¡¯t find it so easy to move where they wish.


    A couple hours after the army musters, Wharoth receives a letter with his orders: he is to stand in the front ranks of the assault next to Vanerak and the elites. He reads the letter again, very closely, and his brows draw together in confusion and worry. He does not quite believe the words, and hurries to the arena.


    Vanerak sits in the very center. The glow of dawn from the mirrors above lights his tungsten armor and mask the color of raw meat cut from the bone. He looks up from his maps. Gravel and bone shards crunch under Wharoth¡¯s boots as he strides forwards quickly.


    ¡°I would ask permission to speak with him,¡± Wharoth tells the two elites who come to halt his advance.


    ¡°He is busy.¡±


    ¡°It is important. Very important.¡±


    ¡°He is busy.¡±


    ¡°Let him through,¡± Vanerak calls. ¡°Only a third degree of a minor guild he may be, but he and I share some memories now.¡±


    The elites bow and step aside. Wharoth marches up to Vanerak carefully then bows deeply.


    ¡°What do you wish to discuss, Guildmaster Wharoth?¡±


    ¡°I wish to ask a question about my orders.¡±


    ¡°You wish to question my orders?¡± He sounds coldly amused.


    ¡°Not question them. Ask a question about them.¡±


    ¡°To me those sentences sound very much the same. However, I wish for there to be no confusion. Ask away.¡±


    Vanerak¡¯s piercing stare is all the more unnerving for being unseeable.


    ¡°I am to stand with you in the main thrust of the attack. Is that truly correct?¡±


    ¡°Not the main thrust of the attack¡ªthe only thrust of the attack. Broderick has split his forces around the peak, so it follows that a singular powerful assault is best. All our force against one position.¡±


    ¡°A powerful assault with me at the head?¡±


    ¡°You are not so confident in your abilities, I see.¡± There is definite mirth in his voice. ¡°Yet I said before that I have reassessed you. And I did so again after our fight against the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°I am not used to fighting soldiers.¡±


    ¡°You proved your worth once more only a few hours ago. You know this.¡± He pauses; Wharoth wonders if he smiles. ¡°Ah, but I see what really brings you here.¡±


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    ¡°Fine, I admit it: I wish to stay with my guild.¡±


    ¡°I said I reassessed you, guildmaster. I have made no such reassessment of your guild¡ªthey are passable in combat at best. Your fame at hacking off the dragon¡¯s hand will bring better recruits in short time, no doubt, but for now it is best that your Association of Steel is placed in the rearguard.¡±


    Wharoth feels his blood grow hot, yet he knows picking an argument would solve nothing. Vanerak is not the sort of dwarf you argue with. No first degree runeknight is, but especially not Vanerak.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Wharoth says. ¡°I shall see you in a few hours.¡±


    ¡°You shall. Let our luck hold.¡±


    Wharoth spends the morning with his guild, listening to them laugh and cheer with only small hints of bitterness in their voices¡ªthe victory in the street was medicine to them, and Wharoth is happy beyond words to see them beginning to heal. A few times, like when Gerthel tells a particularly amusing joke, or when two of the bigger dwarves put their bodily functions to comedic effect in a crude play, he forgets that their number is half of what it was.


    He looks at the ground and sighs. New recruits will come, provided he survives the battle. There is no doubt about that¡ªwounding a dragon is a legendary feat however much the rival guilds may try to diminish it. And the new recruits will be quality ones too.


    But the Association of Steel will never feel like it used to. Like it did before the black dragon came.


    A tin horn blares. To the guild Wharoth says: goodbye, see you after we kill these bastards, stay safe for I do not want to lose any more of you, and other words to that effect. They cheer him as he makes his way to the main road and head of the column. Sunlight glints darkly off tungsten.


    ¡°You are to be right here,¡± Vanerak instructs. ¡°At my right hand.¡±


    Wharoth stops dead in shock. He is dumbfounded. To be at the front is one thing, but to be ordered to stand beside such an ancient and powerful dwarf is quite another.


    ¡°It¡¯s an honor,¡± is all the reply he can manage..


    ¡°It is indeed. Guard me with your shield, guildmaster, but do not forget to guard yourself also. And swing out plenty with that interesting axe of yours.¡±


    Ah. So this is what it¡¯s about, Wharoth understands: Zathar¡¯s strange rune. Vanerak wishes to see it in further action.


    The rest of the army forms up behind: dozens of glittering ranks in a column right the way down the mountain road. Vanerak raises his halberd, and another blast of the horn rings out loud and long.


    The dwarves move in lockstep up the mountain. Stones shiver and rattle down the slopes, mostly bits of gravel but a few larger ones smash apart on road in front of them. Wharoth winces as a head-sized one smashes at Vanerak¡¯s feet.


    The high-pitched blare of an enemy horn sounds from the very top of the mountain. The reconquest force is still some distance from the top¡ªwill the enemy sally out now and use the long path to build up momentum for a devastating charge?


    No. It¡¯s something uglier. Dastardly¡ªnot that Wharoth expects anything better from this lot. Rocks fly down at the column propelled by arms enhanced by armor of strength and accuracy. He raises his shield and it is battered violently. The sound of smashing fills the air.


    ¡°Ignore it,¡± Vanerak orders. ¡°Rocks are nothing to our armor.¡±


    The elites shout as one in agreement.


    But Wharoth is not so sure. They may not get through the armor, certainly¡ªit would take a very large or very runed bolt from a ranged weapon to kill a dwarf in armor¡ªyet the rocks are sure to degrade their metal and mentally fatigue the army on its already strenuous march.


    When they come to a low pass a few hundred feet before the main stairs up to the castle, the bombardment suddenly intensifies: it becomes nearly a solid mass of gray blurs that arc non-stop over the gleaming ranks at the top of the stairs and hit down with speed. Wharoth raises his shield over his face. It shudders and vibrates as the rocks shatter on it. He has heard of a weather up on the surface called hail, where chunks of ice fall from clouds very high up. If it¡¯s anything like this, he wonders how humans and elves can stand it. He can no longer hear any sound but cracks and rumbling. He can barely see in front of him. All he can do is bear the blows and march forward.


    A voice nearly cuts through the brutal and unending racket. Vanerak is shouting something, he thinks.


    Then the tide of runeknights hits them.

 Cavern Exile: Impossible Skill

    The steel tide hits in an avalanche of war-screams, razor sharp blades, and crushing hammer blows. Wharoth feels a blade cut into one of his pauldrons with a hideous screech and bright flash. He rams out with his shield and feels resistance, but instead of his opponent flying backwards, the runeknight doesn¡¯t move a single inch¡ªthe press of enemies is too thick.


    Someone pushes into him from behind. Although this road is relatively wide, it is still a road, and not a place where hundreds can stand comfortably at arms length. And there are at least a thousand crammed onto it by Wharoth¡¯s estimate, all pushing against each other, a tight mass of steel.


    And the rocks continue to rain.


    He attempts to get his axe up. His arm is pressed tight against the shoulder of another enemy, and the pressure is like from a vise. Even with runes enhancing the strength of his already powerful arms it takes extreme effort to lift it out.


    The pressure finally releases and his axe is up in the air. The titanium glints in the noon sun. Now to swing. He waits for a moment when the press loosens then strikes at his enemy¡¯s helmet. His enemy cuts his sword upward in a reverse-grip-slash at the same instant.


    The press tightens¡ªfrom the addition of enemy forces, their own forces, or just from random chance, Wharoth cannot tell. His strike falls past the target¡¯s head and chops only empty air. His opponent¡¯s sword stalls halfway up his breastplate. Wharoth cannot tell if it cut or not, but thinks it unlikely.


    He is stuck once more. A rock crashes into his helmet, dizzying him. A spear pokes at him and he only just manages to twist his head out of the way. Vanerak, tungsten mirror-helm dulled by rock dust, shoves forward next to him and penetrates his own opponent¡¯s breastplate with the spike of his halberd. With difficulty he extracts it.


    The dead runeknight does not fall. His corpse slumps back against the dwarf behind then in another sudden tightening of the press becomes jammed against Vanerak.


    Another rock clangs into Wharoth¡¯s helm. The same spear from before jabs and nearly gets into his eye.


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Wharoth shouts at Vanerak. ¡°Is there no plan?¡±


    ¡°We keep pushing!¡± the elite behind Wharoth answers.


    Wharoth growls in frustration and pushes forward hard. It has no effect.


    ¡°Vanerak!¡± he shouts again as a different spear shoots out at him. This time it catches into the center of his helmet, and it¡¯s damn sharp: it pierces and pricks his skin with a sting of pain.


    ¡°Patience,¡± Vanerak replies.


    Wharoth scowls behind his visor. How many times has he told young runeknights to be patient in mastering their craft? Yet a battle is a time for speed. Progress is measured not against oneself from yesterday, but against one¡¯s enemy today.


    Nevertheless, if Vanerak says to be patient, patient he must be.


    He shifts his grip so his hand is right below his axe''s blade. He forces his shield up high¡ªthe speardwarves are having to hold their weapons up out of the press and angled downward to get a clear path to their targets, and with his shield raised they won''t have an easy job of it.


    The next time the press ebbs, he surges forward and shoves the blade of his axe up under his shocked opponent¡¯s chin. The runeknight struggles to pull his own blade back and up, but the press is already squeezing. Wharoth pushes his titanium blade hard against the runeknight¡¯s neck and feels it bite into the metal.


    ¡°Get off me!¡± shouts the runeknight.


    ¡°No forgiveness!¡± Wharoth shouts back.


    He grinds his blade harder into the armor. A sudden vanishing of resistance announces that it¡¯s through, then the runeknight screams in pain. Wharoth senses the not-halat rune shiver as frothing blood streams over it. The runeknight¡¯s eyes roll up and he sags against Wharoth dead, and stuck fast.


    ¡°There we go,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°Keep going like that, dwarves.¡±


    The press loosens again. The body pressed against Wharoth falls at his feet. He steps over it, feels a spear stab ineffectually into his shield, and charges his next opponent. This one¡¯s sword is sharp, Wharoth feels the vibration as it grinds into the plate at his left ribs. He curses and punches his axe hard into the runeknight¡¯s visor. It splits open.


    The press crushes harder and he is unable to pull his hand back. A spear comes from his left, attempting to snake around the edge of his high-held shield, and misses by a hair.


    A spear from a runeknight behind Wharoth slams through the broken visor of the swordsdwarf in front. Blood pours from the hole where his eye was and he dies standing. The press ebbs, he falls, and Wharoth is onto his next opponent.


    The enemy dwarves are yelling in anger and fear. Even with the slope to their advantage, they are being pushed back. The rocks have stopped also. They are not an infinite resource, after all. They must be broken off the mountainside and generally speaking dwarven warriors are not so keen to use their well-crafted hammers like common picks.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°We¡¯re winning!¡± Wharoth shouts at his next opponent, whose eyes are wide with fear. ¡°Winning, you damn scum!¡±


    Yet doubt suddenly assails him. Runethane Broderick has made no appearance, nor his golden guard.


    And neither has the silver legend.


    <hr>


    Braedle violently hammers on the door of the forge. It shivers at the blows of her golden fist but does not budge.


    ¡°Cut the lock,¡± she orders Ulrist, a cruel old member of the golden guard with reddish eyes. ¡°Hurry!¡±


    He slashes through the padlock with one of his gleaming scythes. Both halves clatter to the mosaic floor and the chain follows a second later, curling into a pile like a metal snake. Braedle wrenches the door open and storms through.


    It is dark within, then a flash of orange illuminates all for an instant, casting long shadows, vanishes. Braedle''s long angry strides take her across the chamber quickly. The next flash comes, lighting her coldly beautiful features in fiery tones. Flash¡ªHardrick¡¯s hammer falls again. Now she is right in front of him and he does not even deign to glance at her.


    ¡°You are meant to be on the mountainside! My father gave you the orders!¡±


    He continues to ignore her.


    ¡°Put your hammer down, pick up your sword and get out there!¡±


    ¡°When I¡¯m finished,¡± he grunts.


    ¡°Not when you¡¯re finished. Now.¡±


    ¡°When I¡¯m finished,¡± he repeats.


    Braedle snarls and makes to grab for his hammer just as it impacts once more. Flash¡ªand what it illuminates on the anvil makes her stop and gasp. She steps back.


    ¡°What...¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a breastplate,¡± Hardrick grunts, eyes still firmly focused. ¡°You¡¯ve seen one before, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    She takes another step back.


    ¡°What?¡± Hardrick grunts. ¡°Nothing special about it. Been struggling at this one for weeks, sure, but I¡¯ve finally cracked it.¡±


    ¡°Cracked it?¡± she says faintly.


    ¡°Yeah. The trick to making it proper hard. Nothing to do with runes, funnily enough. Just the way you hold the hammer... Needs to be aligned exactly. Metal shouldn¡¯t be too hot either.¡±


    She blinks as the hammer hits again. Aligned exactly? There is more to it than that. She is no amateur at forging: young she may be, but she had the best teachers, the best books, and of course her father gets for her only the finest metals and reagents. Nothing less would be fitting for his favorite daughter, despite the human blood running through her veins.


    She knows skill when she sees it, and watching this dwarf¡ªthis miner¡ªat work is like watching a master. A true master, not merely someone very good. He forges with two hundred years of experience behind each blow, and yet if the rumors are true he has less than one under his diamond studded belt.


    ¡°What are you?¡± she hisses. ¡°What?¡±


    Ulrist scowls and narrows his reddish eyes. ¡°Something wrong. Miners aren¡¯t able to forge like that.¡±


    ¡°Well, I am,¡± Hardrick spits. ¡°Just in my blood, maybe.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Braedle says. ¡°There¡¯s more to it than that. There has to be. What are you, miner?¡±


    ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake, it¡¯s only a breastplate. Won¡¯t be nearly as good as your father¡¯s armor.¡±


    Only a breastplate? Only a breastplate? Every angle of it is perfect. Each plane is flat, eerily so. The sound that rings out each time the hammer makes contact has a profound and mellow depth to it: it is a sweet music only the greatest smiths can make. She can tell that the metal''s crystalline structure down to most fundamental particles of titanium is fine-grained and interwoven for maximum strength, a feat accomplished through an incredibly expert balancing of heating and cooling.


    Her eyes are drawn to a pile of failures a dozen feet away. Even these are great pieces of art¡ªyet to this miner they were but rough drafts, each taking only couple of days at most to create and milliseconds to judge unworthy and toss away like scrap.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard tales,¡± Ulrist whispers. ¡°Sometimes a demon steals up from the magma oceans and gets into a dwarf¡¯s soul. Uses it to forge something powerful, then leaves them a husk.¡±


    ¡°Demons aren¡¯t real,¡± Braedle snaps. ¡°And does he look like a husk to you?¡±


    ¡°Wish he was.¡±


    At this comment Hardrick looks up scowling, showing off his ugly golden teeth. ¡°I¡¯m busy, girlies. Bugger off and leave me alone. I¡¯ll be done when I¡¯m done.¡±


    ¡°Your orders are to fight up top!¡± Braedle snaps.


    ¡°And I will. When I¡¯m ready! Or do you want to face Silverslash, do you?¡±


    ¡°How dare you threaten the daughter of the Runethane!¡± Ulrist shouts. ¡°Obey your orders!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll obey them¡ªwhen I want to. Now fuck off. If you want to win the battle that quickly, go ask Broderick to quit his lockpicking and help you out.¡±


    ¡°How dare you insult the Runethane!¡±


    Ulrist makes to lunge forward, but Braedle pulls him back by the shoulder.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother with him, Ulrist. Doesn¡¯t matter what he is, possessed or whatever. My father will have him punished suitably.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be so sure,¡± Hardrick sneers. ¡°He knows how valuable I am.¡±


    Braedle scowls¡ªit¡¯s true. Her father has turned a constant blind eye to his stealing and cheating, deciding that his skill outweighs every black mark set against him. He''s even forgiven his failure to find the diamond key, deciding that one of Thanerzak''s runeknights probably escaped into the forest with it.


    ¡°I¡¯ll punish him right now,¡± Ulrist spits. ¡°Bend him over and whip his arse ¡®till the skin comes off!¡±


    ¡°Come on!¡± Braedle snaps as she yanks him back further. ¡°We can win the battle without him. We have the other trick up our gauntlets, remember?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I suppose. Later Hardrick, you freak of a miner. When the Runethane hears about your lip...¡±


    Hardrick¡¯s focus is back to the hammer in his hand and the metal on his anvil, and his expression is blank as if he hears nothing but the ring of steel on titanium.


    ¡°Come on!¡± Braedle hisses.


    She hurries with him out of the forge and across the great mosaic depicting Thanerzak¡¯s conquest of the dragons. As she takes long strides across the tiles, her heart is beating fast. Hardrick unnerves her, to say the least. His skill is uncanny, unnatural. Demonic, even? She shakes her head. Demons are not real, and yet...


    All his talk about discovering some natural talent, just having a knack for forging discovered in middle age, being inspired: it¡¯s all bullshit. Lots of dwarves have natural talent. Some even have enough to skip a few ranks. But to go from initiate to Runethane¡¯s favorite in less than a year...


    Unnatural is the only word for it. That, or demonic.


    She shivers.

 Cavern Exile: Rally to the Runethane

    We found a way up eventually, through a side tunnel overgrown with thick gray moss and shoulder deep in water. Took a few dead amphidons to get there, but we emerged with no scars¡ªat least not on our skin, our armor is another matter¡ªand now we¡¯re in a tunnel corkscrewing upwards that Hayhek thinks he recognizes.


    ¡°A day to go now,¡± he says breathlessly. ¡°Maybe even less.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve forgotten what a day looks like.¡±


    ¡°Looks like light. Looks like peace, maybe.¡±


    ¡°Not peace. The war¡¯s still on, I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    ¡°A dwarf can dream. I need to have hope, you said. And I do have hope. I can feel that they¡¯re waiting for me, Zathar! I can feel it!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s great,¡± I say, not really smiling. ¡°Just great.¡±


    At least one of us is going to see his family again.


    ¡°Nearly there,¡± he mutters. ¡°Nearly there. Come on, come on...¡±


    ¡°I hope it isn¡¯t blocked.¡±


    ¡°Of course it isn¡¯t!¡± he snaps. ¡°Can¡¯t be, because we¡¯re nearly there. Halda, Braize, Jaeld, Neyld... I¡¯m nearly there...¡±


    And, miraculously, our luck holds and the way is not blocked. We emerge on the outskirts of our side of the city mid-morning on some day the date of which I do not know. Hayhek does a dance for joy.


    ¡°We¡¯re here!¡± he says in glee. ¡°Here!¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say, pointing to the mountain. ¡°And not just us.¡±


    Upon the final stretch of road to the mountain¡¯s peak rages a battle, marked by a cloud of dust, steel glinting within, tinged with red. Hayhek frowns in worry, then a clear clarity comes over his face and he looks me in the eyes.


    ¡°In that case, no one¡¯s patrolling the city.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Then let¡¯s go find them.¡±


    ¡°Good on you,¡± he says. ¡°You keep your promises, at least. Can¡¯t deny that about you.¡±


    That¡¯s right. When he washed up I promised I would help him, that the key was to be secondary. Now that the key is taken by the dragon, helping him is the only task I have left. It''s time to pay off the debt to this old dwarf who helped me when he had every reason to refuse, who has stuck with me despite our deep differences. My heart feels warm as we walk toward the city under the light streaming from the mirrors.


    I know we will find his family safe and sound. And I know that after we find them, we will win the battle for the city, and win whatever comes after too.


    <hr>


    Step by step, Vanerak¡¯s army marches forward over the metal-clad corpses of Broderick¡¯s runeknights; the crush becomes looser with each row they hack down. Wharoth makes it a dozen dwarves he¡¯s slain. Their blood covers his titanium axe, a layer of shimmering crimson held there by the magnetic force of Zathar¡¯s strange rune.


    Yet his stomach churns with worry. He sees what Broderick¡¯s plan is: tire them out with the stones and mid-tier runeknights before sending in the silver legend and the golden guard. Only they are a match for Vanerak and the rest of the tungsten clad elites. They will be sent in soon. Broderick has no other option¡ªunless he comes himself, and that would be a hard fight indeed.


    Yet they do not come. Another dozen runeknights fall to Wharoth''s axe, and its haft and his right gauntlet too become dripping with crimson. Vanerak and the elites are similarly draped in gore.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like this,¡± Wharoth tells him. ¡°The silver legend might be waiting for us below. Maybe they¡¯ve hollowed out a pit.¡±


    ¡°When he comes, we will destroy him,¡± Vanerak replies.


    Wharoth swallows, wishing he had the mirror-masked dwarf¡¯s confidence.


    The enemy army is faltering now. Some at the back ranks are turning and hurrying up the stairs. Wharoth imagines the desperation and confusion on their faces: likely they are praying for their legend to save them, but he seems to have forsaken them.


    Then, right on time, three golden figures appear at the top of the stairs. Wharoth feels his heart miss a beat.


    Under the sun they shine brightly through the dust clouds. One holds twin axes, one twin scythes, the other a circular blade on an extended chain.


    ¡°There they are!¡± shouts the elite on Wharoth¡¯s left. ¡°Broderick¡¯s golden guard!¡±


    One of the fleeing dwarves at the top of the stairs looks up at one, a remarkably tall woman runeknight with blonde hair flowing from her winged helmet. She slashes her axe down. He rolls down the stairs, brains and blood splattering from his bisected head.


    Over the din of battle, Wharoth hears her scream a command:


    ¡°Tzhakeil!¡±


    ¡°Charge!¡±


    At the same instant, Vanerak replies in kind:


    ¡°Tzhakeil!¡± he roars. ¡°Tzhakeil!¡±


    Both forces clash together once more into a solid steel press. Wharoth shouts in anger as a spear shoots into his cheek guard, tearing a deep scar into the metal and his skin. A wide stream of blood runs down his face. He tries to bring his hand up to the blade of his axe again, but the dwarf opposite him is pressing hard with his shield, trapping Wharoth¡¯s arm against his own breastplate.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Strike them down!¡± Vanerak orders, yet even he is having trouble wresting his opponent away to get a clear stab.


    Wharoth bends his legs, leans forward and shoves with all his might. His muscles feel like they nearly burst, he senses the runes of strength and speed at his thighs shudder. His opponent grunts in surprise, but doesn¡¯t budge an inch¡ªhe can¡¯t, there are too many behind him. Wharoth shouts in impotent frustration as rocks begin to fly through the air again to crack on helmet and shield. It seems that the presence of Broderick¡¯s finest and cruelest has persuaded those runeknights with hammers to forget their pride and get to rock breaking.


    The elite on Wharoth¡¯s left suddenly grunts. Wharoth glances and sees a spear is through his neck. The wielder rips it out and blood sprays in a short jet. The enemy wastes no time in angling the weapon at Wharoth. She stabs fiercely. He ducks, not low enough, and the blow tears his helmet right off.


    He yells in fright at the sudden coolness of the air and doubled din of battle. The runeknight opposing him snarls and gives a mighty shove with his shield. For the first time in the battle, Wharoth is forced to take a step back. Vanerak takes a rock to the head and stumbles also. He grunts, brings his halberd back up, but can¡¯t quite get the spike at the right angle to stab.


    The spear again lances out again and slashes open Wharoth''s left temple. Blood floods down the side of his head, wetting his pauldron. A rock narrowly misses him. He cries out in fear.


    Is this how it ends? Not in bed at the end of a long and illustrious career? Not even in combat with the dragon, avenging his guild with his dying breath? Is he to die stuck in this press of armor with his head staven in by a rock?


    And the golden guard have not even joined the fray. They stand there shining in the sun¡ªor at least two of them do. The third is walking down from the castle with a figure in dark metal slung over his shoulder. He sits it down¡ªdisplaying its headlessness¡ªand another runeknight hands him a long hooked pole with some rope.


    ¡°Is that..?¡± gasps someone behind.


    Another stab flies at Wharoth and he only just manages to duck. When he brings his head back up he sees that the golden guard is tying the rope around the headless figure¡¯s chest and under its shoulders to make a harness. He binds the harness to the hooked pole.


    With a mighty effort he lifts the headless figure high into the air for all Vanerak¡¯s army to see.


    All gasp. Their enemies laugh and press forward the attack.


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°That armor...¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s our Runethane! He¡¯s dead!¡±


    ¡°Dead!¡±


    ¡°Runethane Thanerzak is dead!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± shouts a voice of desperate reason. ¡°It¡¯s a filthy trick. It¡¯s fake armor, not real! Or a fake body! It could be anyone¡¯s!¡±


    Wharoth feels the press loosen behind him. He retreats along with them and the runeknight opposite advances, slashing into his shield again and again. Each ringing impact sends him stumbling back further.


    ¡°No!¡± screams a voice of utter despair. ¡°They have his head too!¡±


    Wharoth looks up. The golden guard with the axes is holding a red blob aloft. It is of course too far away to tell the features, and of course no one except Vanerak and a few other elites have ever seen Thanerzak¡¯s face, yet instantly Wharoth understands that this is no trick. He knows Thanerzak hid his face after being tortured by the dragons, never allowing even a single mirror in the castle, because his once handsome features were obliterated and even his beard would not grow.


    The cold logic is unavoidable, inevitable. That red mess of a head is Thanerzak¡¯s. Their Runethane is perished.


    The army begins to disintegrate; Wharoth feels and hears it vanishing behind him. He¡¯s stumbling back fast now, tripping on loose stones and dropped weapons. A spear nearly takes him through the throat, the swordsdwarf chasing him slashes his blood-coated left pauldron in two.


    And then Vanerak surges into the blood-hungry enemies. One moment he is being driven back beside Wharoth, the next he is in the midst of the foes, halberd spinning and stabbing through breastplates, slashing off limbs, hammering heads flat. Terrible screams erupt from around his deadly dance.


    ¡°Charge!¡± he finds time to yell amongst the flashing metal and fountaining blood. ¡°Avenge your Runethane! Charge!¡±


    The swordsdwarf opposite Wharoth is distracted for a fleeting moment and the guildmaster removes his head with a sweeping blow.


    ¡°Our general is correct!¡± he shouts, pointing to Thanerzak¡¯s body with his bloody axe. ¡°This is not the time to flee. It is the time to kill! The time for revenge!¡±


    The army¡¯s fear turns to shame at their cowardice in an instant, then to vengeful rage. They rush after Wharoth as he leaps to join Vanerak''s dance of death. The enemy dwarves not in combat falter, unable to believe the sudden transformation. They back away to form a new line a dozen paces away from the losing combat in front of them.


    With a final spin of his halberd Vanerak finishes off the last of his opponents, splashing an arc of blood through the air.


    ¡°Tzhakeil!¡± screams the golden guard with the axes from the top of the stairs. "What are you doing? Cut them down!"


    The wrong army obeys the order: the forces of Thanerzak charge up the slope to reach the mutilated body of their honored Runethane. It has become no longer a symbol of fear, but a battle standard to rally to.


    Broderick¡¯s dwarves resist for a few moments before shattering and routing up the stairs. The golden guard throw down Thanerzak¡¯s body, but this only enrages Vanerak and his army further. They thunder up the stairs in a wedge formation, cutting down any enemy who runs too slow until the steps level off and they are at the top.


    The three golden guards stand to halt them as the remaining cowards flee like rats into the castle. The one who raised up Thanerzak¡¯s body steps forward swinging his chain-and-blade in a blur. The other two shift sideways, preparing to attack in a pincer movement.


    Vanerak rushes the middle one with blinding speed. The chain flies out to meet him equally fast and wraps around his neck. The two golden guard flanking spring forward, but they are too late, Wharoth and several other elites are already intercepting them, and Vanerak has stabbed their comrade through his chin and up into his brain.


    Wharoth faces the one with long hair and axes. She is faster than him, far faster, yet she cannot keep up with a dozen attacks a second from three different opponents. She falls back, sparks showering from her golden axe blades each blow she blocks.


    Out the corner of her eye she sees Vanerak charging with his halberd held high. With incredible agility she backflips over the runeknights attacking her out his range, leaps and bounds in a leftward arc, and vanishes into the castle gates. Wharoth and the elites take a moment to collect their confused senses and follow her.


    ¡°Halt!¡± Vanerak orders.


    Wharoth comes skidding to a halt just under the raised portcullis. He spots curious red bags laid around the walls inside. One has a sparking fuse set into it.


    ¡°Shit!¡± he yells, and throws himself backward at the same moment they detonate. The castle walls blow out and he goes flying. A sizable block hits square on his breastplate and and bowls him over. Stone shards rain down on him. His head rings with white noise and he can smell the acrid scent of singed hair.


    An elite grabs his hand and pulls him up. He nearly falls back down again but resists his dizziness. Through the cloud of dust he can see that the castle''s lower walls have been blown out and the rest has fallen down to seal off the tunnels that are the true castle below.


    ¡°Sealed it off, have they?¡± Vanerak muses. His voice is as cool as ever on the surface, yet Wharoth can sense the anger boiling below.


    ¡°Seems that way,¡± spits an elite. ¡°The cowards.¡±


    Vanerak turns to look upon his army, who stand bloody, dusty and exhausted yet have lights of triumph shining in their eyes. "It is to be a siege, then," he declares. ¡°It is no matter. The city is ours. We have gained the higher ground as I told your commanders we would. And the body of our Runethane is returned to us.¡±


    The ring of runeknights guarding it steps away. Vanerak walks to the severed head and kneels before it.


    ¡°It has been so long since I looked upon your face, my friend.¡± He reaches forward and closes its withered eyes. ¡°We will give you the funeral you deserve.¡±


    He stands up and raises his bloody halberd.


    ¡°And we will take your revenge soon after.¡±

 Cavern Exile: Hiding Places

    I hurry through the empty streets after Hayhek. Even though we see no soldiers, we stick to the shadows and hunch low, not saying a word to each other. The city still bears the scars of battle¡ªloose gravel, burned buildings, and bloodstains on the pavements.


    I break our silence with a whisper: "Where are we heading?"


    "My home. They won''t be there, I don''t think, but there''s a chance. And maybe some neighbors are left around."


    We turn a corner and I recognize the street we¡¯re on. It¡¯s the not-poor yet far from rich neighborhood Hayhek¡¯s apartment block is in. We hurry along. There are no bloodstains here, which I hope is a good omen, but neither are there many signs of life. Everyone too scared to creep outside with the battle raging up top, no doubt.


    The apartment comes into sight and familiar guilt starts to gnaw at me once more. The last time I was here, Yezakh was still alive. When I left the gates, he was preparing to follow me to his doom. Hayhek is feeling something too¡ªhis breathing is oddly muted, though I can¡¯t see his face.


    Perhaps tears are rolling down it already, or perhaps he is saving them for the reunion, or if our hope proves futile, for a greater tragedy.


    ¡°We¡¯ll find them,¡± I tell him firmly as we approach. ¡°If not here then somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    The gates are broken off their hinges, which is not a good sign. We walk on through and up the stairs to his door. It is also broken. Hayhek braces himself for the worst and walks through.


    The interior is smashed, torn up, ravaged. No piece of furniture remains whole or upright, the carpets have been slashed into strips and pulled off the floorboards, and every single door has been thrown down, their hinges snapped.


    No hiding place has remained hidden.


    ¡°No!¡± he says as he rushes from room to room. ¡°No, no!¡±


    I grab him by the shoulders. ¡°Stop!¡± I say.


    ¡°What do you mean stop?¡± The high pitch of hysteria has crept into his voice. ¡°They¡¯ve¡ª¡±


    ¡°If they tore it up this badly, that means they probably couldn¡¯t find them! And there¡¯s no blood, is there? Apart from just past the door, and that was our doing, remember?¡±


    ¡°But...¡±


    ¡°Think logically! We have to think, if we¡¯re going to find them.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says, breathing hard and swallowing. ¡°You¡¯re right. I panicked, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°Where are we going next?¡±


    ¡°Down to the first floor. There¡¯s a neighbor we were on good terms with. Maybe she knows.¡±


    We leave the ruined apartment and go down the stairs. A few doors along and we¡¯re at the friend¡¯s place. It has one small window looking out onto the corridor, but through the frosted glass I can only see darkness.


    He knocks.


    He knocks again.


    He knocks again, rapidly and very loudly.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± comes a frightened voice from through the keyhole.


    ¡°Hayhek!¡±


    ¡°Hayhek? You?¡±


    ¡°Yes, me. Baeltha, listen, do you know where Halda ran to?¡±


    ¡°Your wife?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Where is she? Have you heard anything from her?¡±


    I can hear the fear in his voice.


    ¡°No,¡± Baeltha apologizes. ¡°I haven¡¯t. Sorry.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure? Nothing?¡±


    ¡°...Are you really Hayhek? I don¡¯t recognize that armor.¡±


    ¡°It is me! Look!¡±  He removes his helmet and backs away from the keyhole so she can get a clear view. ¡°Look, can¡¯t you tell?¡±


    ¡°...I¡¯m not sure. At any rate, I don¡¯t know anything!¡± she says quickly. ¡°Nothing at all, you hear me?¡±


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Please!¡± Hayhek begs. ¡°I have to know.¡±


    ¡°Nothing!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s me! Believe me, please!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Baeltha snaps suddenly. ¡°You¡¯re one of them hunting for that key, aren¡¯t you? They don¡¯t have it, and I don¡¯t know why you think they would. You¡¯ve already been through my home anyway! Get out of here!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not hunting her! I¡¯m Hayhek, truly!¡±


    ¡°Get out!¡± she screeches, and I flinch back when something heavy is banged against the inside of the door, barricading it.


    ¡°Please!¡± begs Hayhek.


    ¡°It¡¯s no use,¡± I tell him. ¡°She¡¯s made up her mind.¡±


    ¡°She was close with my wife. If anyone knows, it¡¯s her.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Maybe, but she¡¯s loyal. I guess we should be glad of that. And if someone was asking about you all before, that means they don¡¯t have her.¡±


    ¡°Or at least didn''t,¡± he says in despair.


    ¡°Who else might know?¡±


    ¡°Another friend a few blocks from here. Trelda. I never got on with her, but still...¡±


    I feel guilt bite at me again as we walk back through the shattered gates onto the same street Danath chased me down before that fateful duel on the bridge. He must be up in the battle somewhere¡ªI hope he gets his head sliced off, but somehow I get a sense he¡¯s unharmed.


    Murderous, lying bastard. I remember his words, being back in the apartment jogged my memory: he said that Broderick¡¯s silver legend was none other than Hardrick.


    A stupid lie. Utterly impossible.


    Yet, how else would he have remembered his name? No runeknight of the fifth degree would recall the name of a mere miner, and certainly not in the midst of combat, unless that miner had risen to become something more...


    Two lefts and a right later and Hayhek stops behind the door of a small shop. Two carts filled with withered looking vegetables stand sentinel outside¡ªamong all its other horrors, war is bad for business.


    Hayhek knocks on the door. No answer. He knocks again. I hear a noise from inside and raise my hand to silence him. I remove my helmet and put my non-burned ear against the wood.


    I hear a slight scuffing sound, then it stops. I keep still for a minute longer, but the sound doesn¡¯t come again. I back away and nod to Hayhek.


    ¡°There¡¯s someone in there.¡±


    He knocks again. ¡°Open up! Trelda, it¡¯s me! Hayhek!¡±


    No answer.


    ¡°Should we go in?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No choice, I think.¡± He readies his shield and barges into the door, which collapses into splinters with a loud bang. He strides through and immediately gets clonked over the head with an iron bar. The blow sends him reeling backward. I level my spear at his attacker, then lower it.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I shout. ¡°Hayhek, that¡¯s her! It¡¯s her!¡±


    She strikes at him again; he dodges back and tosses his axe backward. She yells out in desperation and strikes again. He reaches up and grabs the bar, then looks into her eyes.


    ¡°Get out of here!¡± she shouts backwards. ¡°Get¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s me!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°Me!¡± He lets go of the bar and tears off his helmet. ¡°Look!¡±


    ¡°Hayhek?¡± she breathes.


    ¡°Yes!¡± he cries out. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s me, Halda! It¡¯s me!¡±


    From a doorway at the back of the room a few faces peer out, then Hayhek¡¯s daughters rush to throw their arms around him.


    <hr>


    While Trelda and her husband fix up the door, Halda tells us what happened after the battle over a simple meal of bread, cheese and water in one of the back rooms.


    After the battle ended, the runeknights led by Danath returned to their apartment, dragging Yezakh¡¯s body with them. Halda had had the good sense to hide by then, however, on the first floor with Baeltha.


    After they ransacked their apartment, Danath and his runeknights went through every other. Fortunately it was dark, and a few rogue pockets of resistance kept the fight going until the morning, so under the cover of night and chaos the family managed to steal away to an abandoned tunnel.


    They fled from hiding place to hiding place after that: a basement one night, a damp cave the next, for they knew Broderick¡¯s runeknights wanted the key and the massive bounty on it. This cycle of hide, move, hide, repeat continued for several weeks, then eventually the runeknights began to call off the search.


    Worried for the health of her daughters in the damp and danger of the caves, she made the decision to move up here only a few days ago. There''s a tunnel leading from the basement, a tight fit but it leads to a network with plenty of hiding places. She was going to run there as soon as the heavy knocking came, but the sound of Hayhek''s voice, though she didn''t fully trust it, gave her pause.


    "I was half sure it was you when you blundered through," she said. "But I saw that armor and thought it was impossible."


    "I''ve gotten an upgrade," he says.


    "At any rate, I thought you were dead."


    "I''m not. And I won''t leave you again. Not for anything."


    There is silence for what feels like a long while. There are more words that have to be spoken today, about Yezakh, about what I did, about the key, and why their son had to die because of it. Where it is now. And of course, Hayhek will not lie to his wife; although he will make my case, I cannot be sure of her reaction when he tells her the key was for the black dragon.


    On the whole I judge it best to let him to talk to her alone. I stand up.


    ¡°My guild is in the battle,¡± I say. ¡°I have to go to them.¡±


    ¡°So soon?¡± Halda says with suspicion. "We need to hear your side of the tale. And I don''t see the key. What happened to it?"


    ¡°Don¡¯t... Don''t think too harsh of him,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°He''s our friend. He¡¯s saved me twice. And about the key... It¡¯s not something to talk about with our daughters around.¡±


    ¡°No?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says firmly. ¡°Later. Go on now, Zathar. Get back to your guild. Try not to die.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t die,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m stronger now. We both are.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s others still far above you. Don¡¯t forget that.¡±


    I nod. ¡°See you again, I hope.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Keep them all safe.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    I take one last look at the family: Hayhek smiling grimly, his wife looking at me with eyes slightly narrowed¡ªhow conflicted she must be¡ªand the three daughters not seeming to understand much of anything, just holding their father close, glad that he¡¯s finally returned to them.


    I bow to them and make my exit. Onward I walk, the peak of the mountain in my sights.

 Cavern Exile: Up the Slope

    A dwarven funeral requires a great deal of preparation, and that of a Runethane even more so. Those soldiers most badly wounded are allowed to lie down and rest, but everyone else, even those limping and covered in blood, no matter how exhausted they are, must assist in the preparations.


    Traditionally, most dwarves are buried in a catacombs a few hundred feet below the city. These are generally quite dry, not to so much prevent the bodies decaying but to prevent the interred armor and weapons from rusting. Richer families have personal catacombs, and the greater guilds have their own large complexes too, and for those poorer runeknights there are public ones with places available for a small fee.


    Runethanes are treated differently.


    It would not be fitting for them to be laid to rest among the runeknights. Nor would it be fitting for them to be cremated and have their ashes mingle in the air with the remains of miners, shop assistants and other commoners.


    Runethanes are laid to rest in magma.


    And because Vanerak cannot abandon the peak, for this is still a siege, the magma must be brought to the mountain.


    Several groups of dwarves make their way down to the industrial districts to search for heatproof buckets. Another group heads down to a known magma lake to clear out any salamanders and bats. When they return, covered in animal blood, Vanerak sends another group of runeknights to corral some miners and engineers to rig up some kind of pulley system.


    All this takes time. It is an insult for Runethane Thanerzak to lie in the air for so long, yet Vanerak can spare too few dwarves. The rest must be stationed around the rubble, at sections of the mountain where the castle tunnels stray close to the open slopes, and also within certain mazes deep down that serve as secret exits. The enemy must not be allowed an easy exit.


    Thus it is evening by the time the pulley system is ready and the buckets of magma are coming up to fill Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s final resting place. It is a natural cleft in the rock near to the west side of the castle¡ªformed, as the legends say and Vanerak can attest to personally, from the claw-stroke of the last mighty dragon Thanerzak defeated.


    In those days he wielded a different weapon. A two-handed axe heavy enough to both strike and stun. Both it and Starcleaver should be laid to rest with him, yet neither will be. A grievous insult to so great a dwarf, yet to leave his mutilated body out in the air for any longer than necessary would be a greater one.


    As Vanerak watches the first buckets of magma be poured into the stone scar, he hears a shout.


    ¡°Vanerak!¡±


    It¡¯s Guildmaster Wharoth, hurrying up toward him. The bandages around his head are dark with dried blood, and his expression is one of anxiety. He arrives panting.


    ¡°Yes?¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°I know you took an interest in him... One of my guild members just gave me the news.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Vanerak asks casually, although he¡¯s already guessed.


    ¡°Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Ah, he¡¯s alive, is he?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I half thought he was dead, but he¡¯s not. And his armor is... Impressive. Very impressive.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a survivor, that one.¡±


    ¡°He is.¡±


    ¡°You were right to tell me this. I would very much like to speak to him. About his runes.¡±


    ¡°I thought you would be.¡±


    ¡°Of course, you are his guild master,¡± Vanerak adds. ¡°And I¡¯m sure you have a great deal to talk to him about first.¡±


    ¡°Yes. After that I¡¯ll bring him to you, if the funeral hasn¡¯t begun by then.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it will have. Too much magma, not enough buckets.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth rushes off around the rubble and down the bloody steps, worrying about his decision. Was it a good idea to tell Vanerak? The interest the aloof dwarf takes in Zathar is not a good one. Yet he would have learned of his return anyway, and it would not have reflected well on Wharoth had he been found to have concealed the information. No, best to tell him, then warn Zathar of the danger he could be in.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    <hr>


    The battle is long finished by the time I reach the slopes of the mountain. By the time I am halfway up, the last clouds of dust are rolling past me, and the blood trickling down the paths is drying up. The last screaming has stopped.


    Who has won? My heart trembles with worry. If it is the enemy, I am soon going to be facing an entire army on my own, if I can¡¯t talk them into believing I¡¯m one of theirs. Even if we have won, what is the toll? How many of my guild members have fallen? Is Wharoth even alive? Vanerak? And what of the Runethane, who vanished at the tail end of the battle in the city? Was he defeated by his nemesis?


    I have nothing but questions and fear.


    Soon, though, my main worry is put to rest.


    ¡°Hey! Oi! Who are you?¡± comes a shout.


    I look and see two dwarves staring at me from below a rocky outcrop some way off the slope. The shorter of the pair is wrapping a runed healing chain around the leg of his friend. I wave to them and approach with Heartseeker over my shoulder, point away from them.


    ¡°I¡¯m Zathar,¡± I say.


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t tell me much,¡± says the short dwarf.


    I decide to tell the truth. If these are enemies, their armor isn¡¯t so good, and I judge I¡¯ll be able to take them out:


    ¡°I¡¯m with the Association of Steel. On our side, yeah?¡±


    At the name of my guild, the two dwarves¡¯ expressions change to ones of solemn respect. "The association?"


    ¡°You know where I can find my guildmates? And did we win?¡±


    The short dwarf¡¯s expression changes back to one of narrow-eyed suspicion. ¡°Yes, we won. Why wouldn¡¯t you know already?¡±


    ¡°I was in the caves. Long story short, I got separated from everyone.¡±


    ¡°Really? And come to mention it, I haven¡¯t seen that armor before.¡±


    ¡°And I haven¡¯t seen yours before. Look, I¡¯m not a spy, and I don¡¯t have time to explain everything to you.¡±


    ¡°Sounds exactly what a spy would say,¡± groans the injured dwarf.


    The one tending to him puts a last knot in the healing chains and picks up his mace.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a bloody spy!¡± I say in exasperation.


    ¡°Prove it.¡±


    ¡°If I was a spy, I wouldn¡¯t be wandering up the mountain in full bloody armor, would I?¡±


    The macedwarf pauses for thought. ¡°Maybe,¡± he eventually says. ¡°But doing something a spy wouldn¡¯t ordinarily do is the kind of thing a spy would do, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    I don¡¯t have much of a counter to that. ¡°Look, I¡¯m not a spy. Believe me,¡± I say. "Just tell me where my guild is."


    ¡°Wait!¡± the injured dwarf says. ¡°That spear, I know that spear. He¡¯s the crazy one who tried to jump five grades.¡±


    ¡°That one? He was in the Association of Steel?¡± asks the macedwarf.


    ¡°Yes!¡± I cry. ¡°I am. That¡¯s me, I tried to jump five grades, then the dragon... I fell into the chasm in the battle, if you¡¯ll believe that. Crawled my way back up.¡±


    ¡°Bit of a tall tale that,¡± grunts the macedwarf.


    ¡°Look, I just need to get to some of my guild members. They¡¯ll recognize me.¡±


    ¡°All right. I¡¯ll be escorting you, though.¡±


    ¡°What about your friend?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± grunts the injured dwarf. ¡°Only a broken leg, I keep telling him. I could have been up and in the battle if someone had thought to bring some splints.¡±


    ¡°Yeah right," says the macedwarf. "Stay still and make sure those chains don¡¯t come off.¡±


    So for the next stretch of the climb I¡¯m escorted by the short dwarf with the mace. He isn¡¯t one for conversation¡ªwhenever I try to ask a question about how the battle went, how we won, the situation at the top, why the castle is now a mound of rubble, et cetera, he tells me to shut up and stop acting like a spy. He¡¯s definitely a suspicious type, though I can¡¯t really fault him for that after all Broderick and his forces did.


    At least my time with him is short. Twenty minutes up the steep rocky path and I set eyes upon members of my guild for the first time in months.


    ¡°Hey!¡± I cry. ¡°Hey, Ghuthar! Boruth!¡±


    The two dwarves, older runeknights whom I¡¯ve shared plenty of drinks with, turn to look at me. They¡¯re stooped over a third, wrapping healing chains around his head and arm which glint in the afternoon sun. They frown.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    I remove my helmet and smile in relief at them. ¡°It¡¯s me! Zathar!¡±


    They look at each other in shock, then at my armor in awe. The injured one moans and forces himself to look up too. His eyes widen, then narrow.


    ¡°You!¡± he spits.


    It¡¯s Hathat, Kazhek¡¯s little brother, who hasn¡¯t spoken a word to me since the fifth degree exam, let alone the dragon attack and everything after it.


    ¡°Me,¡± I say, my happiness dulled a little. ¡°I¡¯m back.¡±


    ¡°We maybe thought you¡¯d run away,¡± Ghuthar says. ¡°After all that with the mimicry armor, and the dragon... Everything.¡±


    ¡°That or got killed in the battle,¡± Hathat says. ¡°Where the hell have you been? And what is that armor?¡±


    There¡¯s jealousy in his eyes, those eyes that so very much remind me of his late brother¡¯s. But this is not the time for gloating.


    ¡°You¡¯ll all hear my story in time,¡± I say. ¡°First I need to talk to the guildmaster. Where is he?¡± I frown. ¡°Is he alright?¡±


    Ghuthar nods. ¡°From what I¡¯ve heard, he¡¯s been spectacular today. Been promoted to Vanerak¡¯s best friend. These are both sad days for our guild and great ones, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°It seems we all have stories to tell, if you haven¡¯t heard of Wharoth¡¯s battle with the dragon.¡±


    Now it¡¯s my turn for my eyes to widen. The dragon¡¯s wounds were from Wharoth? I suspected he was stronger than he let on, but...


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you everything,¡± Ghuthar says. ¡°Boruth, you stay here and look after Hathat, while I take Zathar here up to the peak.¡±


    ¡°He really one of yours?¡± the macedwarf says suspiciously.


    ¡°He is,¡± Boruth confirms.


    ¡°For better or for worse,¡± Hathat hisses through the pain of his wounds.

 Cavern Exile: Zathars Confession

    Ghuthar is in awe at my story. He was always a good sort, stuck by me even after I dishonored myself with the mimicry armor, and he doesn¡¯t question even the more amazing aspects of the tale, like how I defeated an abyssal salamander in unruned armor, or the transformation of Dwatrall by the strange crown.


    I don¡¯t tell him about the dragon, but I¡¯ve made up my mind to confess to tell Wharoth. After all, I told Hayhek, and even after all I did to him he decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. I can¡¯t expect such kindness and understanding from every dwarf, of course, but the longer I keep on deceiving them, the worse it¡¯ll be for me when the truth finally gets out.


    And telling my guildmaster is just the right thing to do. He deserves to know.


    Ghuthat tells me the guild¡¯s tale: of how Wharoth nearly slayed the dragon, and the terrible toll of depression its escape wreaked on the burned guild members. I¡¯m particularly pained to hear of the death of Whelt, who taught me what feels like so long ago how to ¡®fight like a dwarf¡¯. Even the news of Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s death and desecration pales in comparison to the news of the death of my friend.


    As we walk, we run into other members of our guild¡ª just a few, mind you, for most are on guard duty or helping with the funeral preparations. They are shocked at my survival and gear, wondering how someone so shamed and beaten after the disastrous exam could have not only survived the invasion, but pulled himself together to forge some proper armor. Some stick with us to listen to my tale, while other rush up through the blood-soaked path to find Wharoth and tell him of my return.


    When we reach the top of the mountain just after nightfall, he is standing there waiting for me. His armor is battered, the runes on his great shield scarred through, his head wrapped in healing chains and dark crimson bandages, and his eyes are haggard with exhaustion, yet despite all this he looks more powerful than ever.


    ¡°Zathar,¡± he says. ¡°We need to talk.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I reply, mouth suddenly dry. ¡°We do.¡±


    He leads me to a hollow in the slope, too small to be called a cave, and orders Ghuthar and the other guild members to stop anyone getting within hearing range. They are not to listen either. I begin to sweat even more so than I am already. Has he somehow already heard about my deal with the dragon? From the dragon itself, perhaps?


    ¡°Sit down,¡± he orders.


    I sit on the stone ground and he sits down opposite.


    ¡°You¡¯ve made quite the comeback.¡±


    ¡°I suppose so. I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t be with you all. I should have volunteered to go on the expedition, but...¡±


    ¡°I understand. The runes you used to fight Kazhek brought shame on you. I can understand why you wanted to hide away. And you were in no state to take on a dragon anyhow.¡±


    ¡°Others were in a worse state, and they still did.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. But I never expected it of them.¡±


    ¡°Still...¡±


    ¡°Enough. You made mistakes and you paid for them. Though I do wish we¡¯d had the chance to talk after the dragon came. Before I left on the expedition.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for avoiding you. I still felt so...¡±


    I nearly tell him about the dragon then, but I can¡¯t quite steel myself to say the words.


    ¡°...I don¡¯t know,¡± I sigh.


    ¡°It was hard on all of us. And harder when we lost our chance at revenge, as I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard.¡±


    ¡°They told me everything. I didn''t realize you had it in you to cut up a dragon.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do. I should tell you how it happened from my perspective, I suppose, the full story, but we don¡¯t have time.¡±


    ¡°I know. The Runethane¡¯s funeral will be soon, right?¡±


    ¡°Not so soon¡ªthere¡¯s a lot of magma that needs to be brought up. We don¡¯t have time because Vanerak wants to talk to you.¡±


    I flinch. ¡°Vanerak? Personally?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But first, I need you to go through everything that¡¯s happened... From the very start.¡±


    ¡°The very start?¡±


    ¡°You never told me exactly where you came from. I didn''t ask too many questions¡ªI could tell you were a miner, shamed by it, and I didn''t want to pry further. Yet there¡¯s something strange about you, Zathar. Vanerak sees it too. And the more I know, the better I can help you.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± I say.


    I try to relax.


    ¡°Go on. Don¡¯t rush, but we¡¯ve got no time to dawdle either.¡±


    So I tell him everything. Not about the dragon yet¡ªI will, I will, I keep telling myself. I go from my brother¡¯s death, to the incandesite, my fall... I skip what he already knows, and find myself going through the battle and Yezakh¡¯s death.


    He narrows his eyes at that, and my heart beats hard. If one dwarf dead because of me makes him angry, how much rage will my confession about the dragon bring? Will he listen, or just strike my head from my shoulders?


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    He stops me again when I come to the forging of my new armor.


    ¡°Let me look at those runes,¡± he says. ¡°Stand up.¡±


    I do so. He stands up also and bends forward to examine them closely.


    ¡°Interesting,¡± he says. ¡°Very interesting. Continue.¡±


    We sit back down and I continue the story, right up to my last meeting with the dragon. There I stop, and clench my fists to stop them shaking.


    ¡°What is it?¡± he says.


    I can barely make myself meet his eyes. ¡°The black dragon. I met it.¡±


    He leaps up. ¡°Where?¡± he cries. ¡°Down below the city?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I whisper. ¡°But that¡¯s not all.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? What do you mean, not all?¡±


    ¡°Please sit down.¡± My voice is barely audible.


    He sits down and frowns deeply. ¡°What is it, Zathar?¡±


    I tell him: of my first encounter, its promise, our deal... What it said to me in the forest... I omit no detail.


    I finish. His hand clasps the handle of his axe. I bring Heartseeker out in front of me, ready to guard¡ªthough maybe I should put it down, and just accept my punishment. His face becomes a mask of pure rage, red, every vein standing out and pulsing, his eyes staring like death.


    Then, with immense effort, he forces himself to let of his axe. He stands up and places his hands against the stone wall. I see that his eyes are screwed tight,. He begins to mutter to himself.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whisper. ¡°Though I know that isn¡¯t enough.¡±


    His muttering grows louder: ¡°I should kill him I should kill him I should kill him I should kill him...¡±


    ¡°Maybe you should,¡± I whisper, trembling.


    ¡°No,¡± he sighs, and he turns to me. ¡°Stand up."


    I stand.


    "You deserve execution, most would say. And I nearly agree.¡±


    I bow my head. My whole body is shaking.


    ¡°If the other dwarves heard, they¡¯d kill you on the spot, I think. Or burn you alive.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I deserve that.¡±


    ¡°No. I don¡¯t think so. You... You aren¡¯t the perpetrator here. You¡¯re another victim. The dragon manipulated you¡ªyou, a dumb, naive young dwarf, had no defense against that. Dragons are not just feared for their strength, but their cunning also. It defeated you with its mind as surely as it defeated our guild with its fire.¡±


    ¡°I should have told you. Warned you all.¡±


    ¡°You should have,¡± he says. ¡°You¡¯re damn right about that. But I won¡¯t fault you for being afraid of a dragon.¡±


    I look up. His face is distorted through my tears. ¡°You forgive me, then?¡± I dare to whisper.


    He takes hold of my shoulders and looks into my eyes. ¡°Many will not. But yes, I do forgive you. I¡¯ll say it again: you¡¯re as much a victim as anyone else in our guild. That doesn¡¯t mean your crime will go unpunished, though. You will face judgment.¡±


    I look down. I do not fancy my chances at a trial.


    ¡°I understand,¡± I say, wiping my tears onto my armor. ¡°Whatever my punishment, I¡¯ll accept it. Will you tell the others now? Or should I do it myself?¡±


    ¡°I will tell them, but not now. Not while their blood is up. I don¡¯t want to see you torn apart without a chance to make your case.¡±


    I look up and meet his gaze again. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°I shall also make it clear that I will not stand in between you and whatever punishment is decided,¡± he says sternly. ¡°No matter how harsh.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Your crime is not just leading dwarves to die. It is also compromising the security of the city to a most terrible enemy. Make no mistake, even if it is not execution, your punishment will be harsh.¡±


    ¡°I know. Whatever the key is for...¡±


    ¡°We may find out soon enough.¡± He steps back and smiles grimly. ¡°There is one thing in your favor, though.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Vanerak.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Surely he hates the dragon more than anyone?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But he¡¯s taken a strange interest in you. The runes you write are not normal, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Not normal? They work just fine, don¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°They work too fine.¡± He draws out his axe and turns the flat of the blade to me. The rune flashes in the light. I recognize it.


    ¡°That¡¯s the same as on my knife! Why?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s a rune I¡¯ve never seen before. Those on your armor too¡ªI¡¯ve never seen half of them either. They look like a script I recognize, yes. But each isn¡¯t quite right.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I. There¡¯s two possibilities, as I see it: either you have some deep runic knowledge locked away in your head, knowledge of runes long since lost to time; or you have created new runes.¡±


    I¡¯m shocked speechless.


    ¡°Neither possibility makes sense to me either. Yet they¡¯re the only two I see.¡±


    ¡°How, though? How would I do either of those things?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. By any logic what you are doing is impossible.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I¡¯m skilled at runes, I know that. Not that skilled though¡ªand there are better dwarves than me at it. That silver legend on the other side, for example.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a mystery with him too, I¡¯m sure. Whether it¡¯s connected or not, I don¡¯t know. You mentioned you might have met him though, yes?¡±


    ¡°That bastard Danath said that. I don¡¯t believe him.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you shouldn¡¯t have been so quick to dismiss him. Your brother too¡ªI¡¯m sure he did survive the fall and forge. The dragon wasn¡¯t lying about that. And if it had killed him, it would have been sure to gloat about it.¡±


    I shake my head again. ¡°There¡¯s nothing special about me.¡±


    ¡°No, there is. The other dwarves might not notice what I did, but I know more runes than nearly anyone in the city. The ones you wrote are either long forgotten, or newly created.¡±


    ¡°And Vanerak noticed too.¡±


    ¡°Yes. He knows more runes than even me, I think. He¡¯s keen to see you alive.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that¡¯s a relief.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be so sure. At any rate, I better take you to him.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± I swallow. ¡°And when will you tell the others about my crime?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know yet. After the funeral. After things have calmed down.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°You will be punished though,¡± he says sternly.


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be justice if I wasn¡¯t. Truly.¡±


    He leads me from the rocky hollow. As he walk, I reflect on his words. By all rights I should be terrified of the trial and punishment that awaits me, yet I am not. The fear is certainly there, but my sense of relief is stronger.


    I feel that a terrible burden has been lifted from my shoulders.


    When the time comes I shall make my case, and whatever my punishment is, I will face it with my head held high, knowing that justice is being done.

 Cavern Exile: Uncomfortable Offer

    Vanerak meets me above the boiling pool of magma that is to be our Runethane¡¯s final resting place, at the rim of the shallow crater down which molten rock flows in a river from a seemingly unending parade of bucket-bearers. As always, his face is hidden by the dark mirror of his helmet. In it I see my face and Wharoth¡¯s too¡ªmy guildmaster will stay with me for this meeting, he promised, and once again I am overwhelmed by his kindness.


    ¡°Good evening,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You are alive, it seems. How?¡±


    I stick to only the most basic facts: ¡°I fell into the river at the bottom of the chasm. Then I made my way back up.¡±


    ¡°A rather short story.¡±


    ¡°I... I was told you were busy.¡±


    ¡°That is not incorrect. Of course, I shall have the details later.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°As it stands: interesting. Most dwarves who fall into the chasm, or are pushed, inevitably end up dead. Those with bad armor from the fall, those with decent armor from the beasts.¡±


    ¡°I see. I suppose I was lucky.¡±


    He tilts his head. ¡°No, there¡¯s something more to it than that. That armor you made¡ªplain steel, yet the runes were grafted with hytrigite. A most difficult reagent to work with.¡±


    ¡°It was. I managed, though.¡±


    ¡°And the runes themselves are most intriguing too.¡±


    Something about the tone of his voice makes me shiver. Ten minutes ago I was feeling relief almost to the point of elation. Now I am afraid once more.


    ¡°You know,¡± he continues, ¡°I have never seen their like before.¡±


    ¡°No?¡±


    ¡°Would you mind telling me what they read?¡±


    ¡°All of them?¡±


    ¡°That would take too much time. Just read me that line there, on your upper arm.¡±


    ¡°Uthrat yzatha ioltk borthuk ioltk hyulath ioltk hurthzayat,¡± I read.


    ¡°A poem reflecting on the power of a falling hammer, so that some of its crushing force might be bestowed upon your own blows. Is that correct?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I think it works well.¡±


    ¡°I do not doubt that. Yet your rune ioltk, the crux of the poem, is curved rightways at the top instead of leftways.¡±


    I inspect it. The bent line is only a very minor detail, yet even a small mistake can have a major effect on a rune¡¯s power.


    ¡°Maybe I misremembered it.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Perhaps. Though if that is the case, it¡¯s curious that it still works so well, no? I can sense the harmony of the poem, young dwarf. It works too well.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± I sense his gaze intensify and resist the urge to step back. ¡°Is there some... problem with that?¡±


    ¡°Oh no. The opposite. An opportunity, I think. You wanted to join the castle guards at one point, did you not?¡±


    ¡°I did, yes.¡±


    ¡°You must be at least fifth degree for that honored position, so you were turned away, but I see now that your armor more than qualifies you. For the position, and for a new rank.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I say nervously.


    ¡°I mean that you are now far above tenth degree. Of course, some formalities must be observed for your ascension to fifth, however in the midst of the war I cannot spare soldiers to drag up salamanders from the depths, nor to fight you directly.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± Wharoth says. ¡°He is to ascend to fifth? From tenth?¡±


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    ¡°Why shouldn¡¯t he, guildmaster? His armor is good enough, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    ¡°I would, but... It¡¯s very fast. Faster than anyone I remember.¡±


    Vanerak shrugs. ¡°It happens occasionally. Usually only to sons and daughters of Runethanes, et cetera, but it happens. Do you have a problem with it, young Zathar?¡±


    ¡°I... I mean... I would be very happy, of course. Very honored. But are you saying that I am to have no exam?¡±


    ¡°That would be inappropriate. No, your exam is to be the coming battle. At least, that is the excuse we will make. Coming up through the caverns and slaying that abyssal salamander¡ªrarely have I seen so many abyssal runes¡ªwas exam enough. I will put you in the back lines, to keep you out of harm¡¯s way. It would be a shame to lose such an interesting dwarf in the chaos. Then after all is over and we have won, you will be declared fifth degree, and you will join the ranks of me and my tungsten elites. How does that sound to you, young Zathar?¡±


    I look to Wharoth. His expression is grave¡ªhe knows the only reason I wished to join the castle guard was to betray our Runethane by stealing his key. How Vanerak will react when he learns that is too fearful to imagine. And what he wants from me is perhaps something to fear also.


    Yet of course I cannot refuse the offer of such a venerable dwarf.


    ¡°I am very grateful,¡± I tell Vanerak. ¡°I will be glad to join you in the castle, once the war is won.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Now, you two can go and join the rest of your guild and wait for the funeral. I think the magma will be ready by morning.¡±


    He turns back to the bubbling pool, making it clear we are dismissed. Wharoth leads me back to the road.


    ¡°Guildmaster?¡± I say nervously.


    ¡°He is very generous with you, as I suspected. That may prove to be good, or it may prove to be very bad indeed.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    That seems to be all he has for me; he says no more for a while. His visor is up and I can see his face: he will not meet my eyes not matter how much I try to meet them, and his jaw is clenched tight. What thoughts and emotions swirl behind his furrowed brow I cannot say. Is he afraid for me? Or has his anger at my crime flared up again after hearing how Vanerak plans to reward me? How conflicted he must be, to feel the need to help me while suppressing the hate that surely boils beneath the surface.


    ¡°Should I go to our guildmates with you, or..?¡±


    ¡°I think it would be best if you stay away from them,¡± he says in a pained voice. ¡°It isn¡¯t right that they should laugh and praise you not knowing what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°In the morning you may join us at the funeral. Our guild is to have an honored position near to the front, in light of my efforts against the dragon.¡±


    ¡°Will we talk again then?¡±


    ¡°Not then. Later, some time before the battle. I...¡± He finally meets my eyes. They are full of sorrow. ¡°You must understand that although I forgive you, and have made up my mind to help you, I cannot take the strain of spending much time with you. Not until your punishment has been decided and justice served in whatever form it may take.¡±


    His words cut deep. My voice nearly breaks: ¡°I can understand that. I know what it¡¯s like to lose people you love.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you do. That is part of the reason I forgave you.¡± We come to a fork in the path, where a small trail leads off away from the main road. He halts. ¡°Let¡¯s separate here. I¡¯m sure you have a lot to think about.¡±


    ¡°Just one more thing,¡± I say. ¡°Please.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Vanerak scares me. Even if my punishment isn¡¯t fatal, what he wants with me afterwards... He let an abyssal salamander loose on a bunch of initiates. When he talks, he sounds cold. What does he want with me in the castle, guildmaster? What does he want me to do for him? Just write runes? Or something else?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. He is not a good dwarf, even though he is on our side. He¡¯s done a lot of cruel things in his time, if the stories are to be believed.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°The usual. Murder. Torture. All for his Runethane, or so he claims.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°Many whisper that loyalty was just an excuse.¡±


    ¡°I should be scared, then.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What should I do?¡±


    ¡°Whatever you think best. And after your punishment is served, I will help you if I can. So might other members of our guild too. Don¡¯t make the same mistake twice, Zathar. There are dwarves you can trust. That will help you. Don¡¯t keep everything to yourself.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t. Never again.¡±


    ¡°I certainly hope not.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye then, guildmaster. I¡¯ll see you at the funeral.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, Zathar.¡±


    He leaves me at the fork while he takes the main path. I trek down the side path for a short while until my legs grow tired, then sit down on a flat stone. I breath the air deeply: it smells fresh, of dry stone, of the breeze that whistles through the stalagmites, of the open sky far above.


    Wharoth said I must have a lot to think about, but my mind is far to exhausted for anything as demanding as thought. I lean back.


    A few more deep breaths, and I fall asleep upon the mountainside under the moonlight.


    <hr>


    The black dragon shuffles through the tunnels. Every step is a struggle against pain and exhaustion. Its fights have taken too much blood. The furnace of its innermost flesh is gray in parts, ashes.


    Brought to the edge of mortality by mere dwarves!


    It snarls as it remembers the pain of the dwarven axe, that dwarven spear. Its mighty arm, severed by a dwarf! Half its vision destroyed, by a dwarf! An insult. A humiliation. Perhaps it should throw itself into the river and drown its flames in shame.


    Yet, no. It shall not do that, for as long as fire runs through its veins it has a chance for revenge. A most terrible and magnificent revenge. As long as even one ember remains burning within its chest, and the diamond key stays strung through its tail, its revenge is inevitable.


    Onward it shuffles toward the scent of its brethren.

 Cavern Exile: Funeral of the Runethane

    I am sitting on the stone at the far edge of my guild¡¯s assigned place, waiting for the funeral to begin. The slowly bubbling burial pool lights the crater walls brightly, and us runeknights, seated in a semicircle around the rim, shade our eyes from its intensity. The largest guilds have the foremost seats¡ªours is sandwiched between the two greatest¡ªand going outward are the medium guilds, the lesser guilds, then common citizens. Even some miners have showed up to pay their respects, though they are seated far down the path and might as well not be present.


    The only runeknights not attending are those guarding distant tunnels and the thin slopes where the castle tunnels stray close to the surface. They will come to pay their respects later.


    Midday comes, and the sun¡¯s rays from the mirrors turn the magma a pale color, yet its brightness is not diminished. Heat drifting up from the pool makes my hair and beard glisten with sweat. The pool is swollen in size from yesterday: the magma now fills the entire claw-wrought cleft at the bottom of the crater, fifty feet from end to end.


    Mighty indeed was the final dragon Thanerzak slayed.


    The last cables and bars holding up the scaffold are put in place and finally the ceremony can begin. Vanerak climbs up the scaffold¡¯s stairs slowly and deliberately until he stands upon the topmost platform. He is still below the watching crowd but this does not diminish his authority.


    ¡°Runeknights of Thanerzak,¡± he says to us, his voice amplified by a runed disc held before his mask. ¡°We are gathered here today because our lord has been taken from us.¡±


    Total silence surrounds the crater.


    ¡°An untimely death, many commoners would say. But for a runesmith, whether he be mere initiate, runeknight, Runethane or even Runeking, the concept of an untimely death does not quite make sense. We wear amulets of unaging, so there can be no natural ending of time for us, and we live dangerous lives, prepared to risk all in pursuit of perfection.¡±


    Out the corner of my eye I see Guildmaster Wharoth nodding.


    ¡°So let us not say his death was untimely. Fate comes for us at her time of choosing. Instead let us reflect upon the manner of his death: from a terrible betrayal. Even dwarves who are mortal enemies must have understandings between them, for we face many threats from both above and below. No war should have been fought with a dragon on the loose.¡±


    Angry grumbling rises from the crowd. Vanerak holds up his right hand to still it. Then he makes a gesture with his left and a crane in the center of the scaffold whirs to life. It begins to draw a tungsten casket up through precisely cut gaps in the platforms.


    ¡°I remember Broderick,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°He was a most unpleasant subordinate.¡± His voice is heavy with disgust: an uncharacteristic display of emotion¡ªperhaps his heart is not totally cold after all. Maybe his cruel past deeds were all done out of love for his Runethane.


    Or perhaps he is manipulating us. I shift uncomfortably. No one can tell where he¡¯s looking through his dark-mirror mask, yet I cannot help but imagine that his eyes come to rest on my face now and again.


    ¡°Broderick did not respect our Runethane,¡± Vanerak continues as the casket makes its way upward. ¡°He did not listen to orders in even the most dire circumstances. He refused to listen to our Runethane¡¯s teaching on the proper methods of forging. He jeopardized the safety of the conquest force in almost every battle.¡±


    Many of the crowd are shaking their heads in disgust.


    ¡°Thanerzak was not Runethane yet. That was Broderick¡¯s excuse for disobeying him. Yet even once Thanerzak was granted rule of the cavern, Broderick still refused to obey. Instead he snuck down to that most infamous Runeking, Uthrarzak, and persuaded him that he was worthy of becoming a rival Runethane.¡±


    The casket has nearly reached the top.


    ¡°You know this story, of course. But it bears repeating, for it will build rage in your hearts. Rage we need to bring Broderick down and defile him just as he defiled our beloved Thanerzak.¡±


    I can nearly hear the tears in Vanerak¡¯s voice. Somehow that disturbs me even more than his usual coldness does.


    The casket reaches the top; the section of platform the crane has carried it on clicks into place. Vanerak throws it open and the gathered runeknights, even though this is their second time witnessing his corpse, all cry out in anger and horror. It''s my first time; I flinch back and my stomach roils.


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    Thanerzak¡¯s face is as hideously scarred as my guild members told me. It¡¯s more like a blob of gray-red wax than a face; every feature is melted into the others, and it is completely devoid of hair and beard. Somehow that is the most disturbing thing to me: only the most shamed dwarves are forced to undergo such punishment. For a Runethane to be seen in such a state is a terrible tragedy to behold.


    A deep axe wound in his forehead must be from the blow that killed him.


    ¡°See what our enemy has done!¡± Vanerak cries out. ¡°His helmet and dignity stripped from him. His noble head split apart. Remember how he was displayed to us! I ask you, what do our enemies deserve?¡±


    ¡°Death!¡± shout the runeknights, standing up and raising their weapons high. A sudden surge of rage courses through me and I join in.


    ¡°Death!¡± I shout.


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°You are all correct,¡± Vanerak says when the shouts finally quiet. ¡°Death is what they deserve. What they require. And we will give it to them¡ªwe started yesterday, we will finish the job tomorrow, and we will continue it today. Behold!¡±


    He gestures grandly to a long gap separating the two halves of crowd. I turn to look and a thrill of horror runs through me. Down the aisle, pushed and prodded by tungsten elites, limp a dozen captured enemies. They are bloodied, naked, and nothing remains of their beards but a few bristles and many razor wounds. Their armor and weapons are piled on a cart trundling behind.


    Murmurs run through the crowd, but Vanerak silences us:


    ¡°Don¡¯t be so squeamish, my runeknights,¡± he says. Some of the passion has cooled from his voice so that he sounds a bit more like his usual self. ¡°This is the punishment you demanded.¡±


    I look to Guildmaster Wharoth in alarm, but he doesn¡¯t meet my eyes. Vanerak raises his halberd high, points it to the shaven enemies who are now trembling at the edge of the crater, and brings it down. The tungsten elites shove forward with their shields. The captured enemies plead in terror. One tries to climb over a shield and is punched down by an armored fist.


    The unlucky dozen cry out in despair as they are driven off the edge. They roll and tumble toward the magma. The slope is not steep or jagged enough to kill them before they reach the bottom¡ªI imagine Vanerak calculated this carefully¡ªand they hit the magma screaming. Flames and bursts of steam erupt from them as their blood and flesh vaporizes. Those who fell last have it the worst: they survive for a few painful seconds more on top of the disintegrating corpses of their friends before they too are subsumed.


    Their weapons and armor come tumbling after them and sink slowly into the brightness. A minute later, no trace remains of the unlucky dwarves but a slight smell of charcoal drifting in the air.


    Silence reigns. No one was expecting this display of brutality. Vanerak shakes his head at us.


    ¡°They deserved it. You said so yourselves. Such insults to dwarfkind must be dealt with appropriately. Made an example of. Do you not agree?¡±


    For a moment there is hesitation, then each and every runeknight begins to nod, including me. Each fears that Vanerak has his eyes fixed on them through his dark mask.


    ¡°Be assured that our Runethane would have approved of their punishment. And now, it is time to say goodbye to him. I would ask that you all stand and bow.¡±


    We do so. Vanerak steps back from the casket and bows also.


    ¡°Goodbye, my Runethane. You will soon be avenged.¡±


    He closes the casket lid. A dwarf at the base of the scaffold pulls a lever. A thin section of the top platform tilts down to become a slide and Vanerak pushes the casket onto it. By degrees the casket slides down, then starts to quickly pick up speed. Its weight tilts the slide down further and it becomes a dark blur, then it flies off the metal in a spray of sparks.


    It plummets vertically down and vanishes into the glow of the magma. Vanerak bows once more, and the ceremony is over.


    <hr>


    The black dragon is nearly there now. Nearly there! It can smell the stench of its brethren more strongly than it has in many decades, back when it was small enough to sneak through various secret passages unseen.


    Now it is far too large for secret passages and must go by a more direct route. Fortunately there do not seem to be so many dwarves as it expected, and those few it has encountered proved to be no challenge at all.


    Its belly is no longer empty, and the nutrition has made its inner fires flare hotter.


    And lucky that they are flaring back up: the black dragon has come to one final obstacle.


    This challenge is not combat, for the Runethane trusted no one with the knowledge of this place but his strongest elites, who are now distracted far above. The challenge is that the tunnel is far too thin. With much effort the black dragon manages to squeeze its head and shoulders through, then the narrowing of the rock stops it dead. It snarls in anger. It has not come this far to be defeated by rock. It pulls out of the tunnel, arches back its neck, and breaths fire.


    The incredible heat makes the air shimmer like boiling water. White light plays across the dragon¡¯s black scales, illuminating the deep scars in them. The rock begins to melt and fall away like wax with a wettish rumble. Some of the lava pools at the black dragon¡¯s feet, but most begins to flow slowly down the tunnel.


    The prisoners sense the heat. Some begin to hope.


    Others begin to fear.

 Cavern Exile: Forgiveness is Not Always Right

    It¡¯s time to repair my armor. I take it off and put it on the stand next to the anvil. Vanerak has generously lent me one of the better forges, in a relatively untouched part of the city.


    I can hear the tungsten elites hammering away in the adjacent rooms and the sound of their blows intimidates me somewhat. Each has spent decades, at least, bent over the forge crafting perfection, and out of tungsten too, a notoriously tricky metal to manipulate. I can¡¯t let that bother me though. What do I have to be intimidated about? Just a year since my first craft, and I¡¯m nearly ready to join their ranks. I ought to be proud of myself, of my talent. My brother was right about us. Forging is in our blood.


    I lay my breastplate on the anvil and pick up the thin poker I¡¯ll be using for this job. I¡¯ll be leaving the innumerable dents and scrapes alone for now¡ªmy priority is to repair the fire repelling runes that have broken apart.


    Fire repelling runes can only reflect a certain degree of heat. After a point their effectiveness diminishes and the heat starts to warp them, further reducing their heat tolerance, which makes the heat warp them even further, until quicker than the blink of an eye they shatter. Fortunately mine were grafted well enough not to totally shatter. Hytrigite is sought after not just for how excellently it bonds rune to metal, but for the toughness it confers on both. The runes that failed are only cracked slightly.


    Still, repairing abyssal scale is no easy task. First, the poker must be heated until it is incandescent. Then, I have to tap it very gently along the cracks. I pick out a crack and touch by feather-like touch I go along it. My focus is intense¡ªI fall into a trance-like state and all my worries are obliterated.


    Gradually the heat of the poker¡ªaluminum for its good thermal conductivity¡ªfades. I place it back in the furnace and sigh. My trance is gone; my worries have returned. My fears.


    Vanerak approached me after the funeral:


    ¡°I hope you were not... disturbed by my actions as some of the other dwarves were,¡± he said with his usual coldness.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± I said carefully.


    ¡°Good. The dwarves we threw down deserved their pain.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°And they felt a lot of pain, young Zathar.¡±


    He paused for a while. I could feel his eyes boring into mine.


    ¡°Do you know,¡± he said, ¡°That up on the surface the humans have people dedicated to probing the mystery of what happens after death? They are called priests, I do believe.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t.¡±


    ¡°As far as I know, they have not succeeded. This suits me just fine: I have my own theory of what happens when one dies. Would you like to know what it is?¡±


    I shivered slightly ¡°I... I would.¡±


    ¡°I believe that everything freezes still the moment you die. What you feel in that moment continues for all eternity. Pain, regret, shame¡ªall continue for eternity. Imagine a song stopped halfway, and the note it stops on continuing in a monotone scream, forever. That is how I believe death is experienced.¡±


    I flinched. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°So you understand why I am so devastated about the loss of our dear Runethane. The only thing that can bring solace to our hearts is by visiting worse deaths upon those responsible for his eternal suffering.¡±


    I had no reply to that. I believe I went pale.


    ¡°Ah, you are still so young. I forget, looking at your fine armor, that you are not yet twenty. Perhaps you are not ready to attempt to comprehend the horrors of our world¡ªyet you must become able to comprehend them in time. Perhaps soon.¡±


    After saying that he offered me use of this forge, and then he left.


    It was a fearful conversation, and I can¡¯t help dwelling on his view of death. Is what he said true? Are the dwarves who died because of my crime still burning, burning for all eternity?


    I can¡¯t talk to Wharoth either. He won¡¯t so much as look at me. I wonder if he really did forgive me. Maybe he did yesterday but has since changed his mind. I shudder suddenly. Will I be thrown naked into a pool of magma for my punishment? Will the agonizing instant of my death stretch out for all eternity?


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    The aluminum poker is glowing white again. I take it up and resume my work, and let the forging-trance obliterate my fears once more.


    <hr>


    Guildmaster Wharoth is repairing his shield. It is not easy work. The more complex a piece of equipment is, the greater the number of metals that have been alloyed together, the longer the runic poem, the more difficult it all is to repair.


    And the runic poem spiraling around his shield is indeed a long one. The longest he¡¯s ever written, in fact. Only the poem within his amulet of unaging rivals it, and thankfully he has never had cause to repair that one.


    He takes up a magnifying glass and examines each rune one by one. He grimaces. The slashes of his enemies¡¯ blades have taken their toll, and there are too many scars to repair in so short a time. The final battle is coming¡ªVanerak briefed him and the other high ranking runeknights a few hours ago, so he knows it will not be long until Broderick''s forces mine themselves out of their predicament.


    He will just have to repair what he can. He takes a poker from the rack, heats it until it¡¯s white, and begins the repairs.


    It¡¯s hard. Very hard. He knows that even the smallest slip of his hand could warp the rune in some miniscule way, one that only becomes apparent in the heat of combat when a blade slices through or a gout of dragonfire melts it. The work demands intense concentration.


    Yet for all that, this is a process he has done a thousand times before. More than a thousand. And he spent decades on this shield¡ªhe knows it intimately, every idiosyncrasy, every minor flaw. The concentration the repairs demand is intense, but does not occupy his entire mind. He has space to think.


    To regret.


    Zathar. It was he who brought the dragon, he who is responsible for the deaths of dozens of Wharoth¡¯s guild members, friends. He is responsible for the deaths of old hands and young dwarves full of promise alike. Wharoth remembers seeing the light die in Whelt¡¯s eyes after the dragon escaped, and he has to withdraw the poker temporarily as anger overwhelms him.


    He takes a deep breath, the smell of molten metal calms him, and he resumes the repairs.


    If that miner hadn¡¯t dragged himself up to the guild gates, none of this tragedy would have occurred. Why did he even take him in? Curiosity, that was all. The appeal of new runes is strong for any dwarf, and for Guildmaster Wharoth even more so.


    The most shallow runeknights, those he cannot stand, desire to rise for the benefits their weapons and armor bring them. Others do it for the satisfaction of crafting a masterpiece¡ªGuildmaster Wharoth feels some of that too, but it¡¯s not what drives him.


    Runes are what fascinates him. Their history, their use, even just how they look. Rare ones are the most intriguing. Most guilds would purge books containing ineffective, overly complicated, or taboo runes from their libraries. Not Guildmaster Wharoth. He collects them all.


    That¡¯s why he took on Zathar. Curiosity, and a little pity too.


    So why is he keeping him? Why did he say he forgave him? Is he going to continue to put his guild at risk just out of curiosity? Anything Vanerak takes an interest in tends to break, bend, warp. The further the guild stays away from his attentions the better, especially now Thanerzak is no longer around to keep the cruelty in check.


    The poker grows cold. Guildmaster Wharoth sighs bitterly as he places it back in the furnace.


    Maybe he does forgive Zathar. Maybe it isn¡¯t just curiosity that makes him want to help, but genuine empathy. Wharoth doesn¡¯t know what he really feels¡ªhe¡¯s not the sort to be in touch with his emotions, never has been. Most dwarves aren¡¯t. They much prefer metal: it¡¯s easier to understand than other dwarves. Easier to understand than themselves, even.


    For now he¡¯ll stick to his promise and support Zathar.


    If he brings harm to the guild again, though...


    <hr>


    ¡°Why?¡± whispers Halda. ¡°But why do you want to help him? Why keep his secrets?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not so bad,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°He saved us both at the battle. Before...¡±


    ¡°He killed our son.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not fair.¡±


    They are sitting at their table in the darkness. The children are long since asleep. Hayhek promised to tell her everything once the funeral was over. He tried to tell her before, two nights ago after Zathar left, but couldn¡¯t. He was too afraid of what she¡¯d say, how she¡¯d feel. Now he¡¯s finally told her and he¡¯s still afraid.


    ¡°It is fair,¡± Halda whispers fiercely. ¡°He made Yezakh trust him, then led him to his death. Our boy.¡±


    ¡°He stopped us wading into the battle on the mountain. I¡¯d be dead too if it wasn¡¯t for that. And I wouldn¡¯t have survived the caverns without him. I¡¯d have been torn apart by the amphidons.¡±


    ¡°So? He just saved you out of guilt.¡±


    ¡°No. He has a good heart. If you knew him better you¡¯d understand.¡±


    ¡°A good heart! You think everyone has a good heart, deep down. That¡¯s why you let them walk over you.¡±


    Hayhek sighs. He knows it¡¯s true.


    ¡°He thinks his brother matters more than anything else," Halda continues. "More than everyone else. Who knows what the dragon is going to unlock with that key? Nothing good. Nothing good.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s hurting. He had a terrible life. That¡¯s why I forgave him.¡±


    ¡°So? He doesn¡¯t matter! Not compared to the life of everyone in the city. You need to go to Vanerak and tell him about the dragon, and the key. He needs to know, so he can make sure we¡¯re defended. Otherwise you could be condemning us all to die, husband. This is serious.¡±


    ¡°I know it¡¯s serious,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Then go tell him!¡±


    ¡°I... I will.¡±


    ¡°When? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? You always say you¡¯ll do things, then you put them off, and nothing ever happens.¡±


    ¡°Tomorrow,¡± he whispers faintly. ¡°I¡¯ll do it tomorrow.¡±

 Cavern Exile: Are Demons Real?

    ¡°Father! Father! Put the chisel down and listen to me for once!¡±


    Runethane Broderick scowls at his daughter, who has just burst into the forge while he¡¯s in the middle of forging¡ªher human blood is showing, no dwarf would disturb a fellow smith at work. Not to mention the fact that he is in the middle of the most difficult projects he has ever undertaken.


    ¡°Father!¡± she snaps.


    He sighs loudly and puts down his meteor-heart chisel¡ªhe can never find the will to properly discipline her. He turns from the beginnings of his key lying on Thanerzak''s ancient anvil and looks at her.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°We need to talk,¡± Braedle says sternly.


    ¡°I need to forge.¡±


    ¡°Your forging isn¡¯t more important than our victory¡ªor defeat, which is what¡¯s going to happen at this rate.¡±


    ¡°Hardrick will finish them off.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s who we need to talk about: Hardrick. Your golden miner.¡±


    Broderick rolls his eyes. ¡°Let me guess: you¡¯re in love,¡± he says sarcastically.


    ¡°Listen to me, father. He disobeyed your direct orders.¡±


    ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°So what?¡± Braedle spits. ¡°So what? He¡¯s always been surly and reluctant. But this time he¡¯s gone too far.¡±


    ¡°A dwarf should be able to forge what he wants, when he wants. In the end, that¡¯s what¡¯s important¡ªto seize the creative spark when it appears.¡±


    ¡°We lost the battle because of him. Hundreds are dead!¡±


    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t be here in the first place if he hadn¡¯t appeared,¡± Broderick points out. ¡°You¡¯re just jealous.¡±


    ¡°He disobeyed your direct order! If anyone else did that, they¡¯d be dipped into boiling magma.¡±


    Broderick shrugs. ¡°Yes, well, he¡¯s a special case.¡±


    ¡°Special? There¡¯s something wrong about him, father. Don¡¯t you think it slightly odd that someone from the mines, someone under five decades old at that, forges like a five century veteran?¡±


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s odd.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s beyond odd. It¡¯s freakish. Some of my dwarves are saying he¡¯s possessed by a demon.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense. Demons aren¡¯t real.¡±


    ¡°I know that. They won¡¯t believe me.¡±


    Broderick shrugs. ¡°What does it matter what they think? As long as they obey him, and they do, there¡¯s no trouble.¡±


    ¡°How can you say that when he disobeys you!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll give him a talking to in time. Maybe a short spell in the dungeons.¡±


    ¡°A short spell in the dungeons? For disobeying a direct order from his Runethane? Father, I don¡¯t want to repeat myself, but we lost because he wouldn¡¯t show his face. Hundreds are dead.¡±


    ¡°Hundreds with shitty armor and weapons. It¡¯s no great loss. We still have over a thousand fighters.¡±


    ¡°No great loss? Now the enemy can repair and rearm!¡±


    ¡°So? You think that matters?¡±


    ¡°Of course it bloody matters!¡±


    ¡°I could cleave through them without breaking a sweat. We¡¯re under no pressure here now Thanerzak¡¯s dealt with.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak is¡ª¡±


    ¡°Vanerak is the same as his master was. Uninspired. Unoriginal. Tungsten armor? Still? After all these years, with the dragons dealt with for centuries? Him and all Thanerzak¡¯s cronies don¡¯t understand art. All they can do is imitate their betters. If they weren¡¯t so dogmatic, maybe I¡¯d be worried. But they are dogmatic.¡±


    ¡°Just because you¡¯re Runethane doesn¡¯t make you invincible. Enough first degrees pile in on you, and you¡¯re dead as Thanerzak.¡±


    ¡°Not those first degrees.¡±


    Braedle crosses her arms. ¡°We¡¯ve strayed from the topic here. I¡¯m here to talk about Hardrick. We need to find out the secret to his forging.¡±


    ¡°If there is one.¡±


    ¡°Of course there¡¯s one!¡± she snaps.


    Broderick leans his elbow on the anvil and grins. His eyes, the only part of him not coated in gold chain, glint.


    ¡°Why should there be?¡± he says. ¡°Perhaps he¡¯s just a great genius. The Runeforger was one, wasn¡¯t he? The great genius who invented the runes, made us dwarves what we are today. A once in a hundred thousand year genius. Well, a hundred thousand years have passed since then. Perhaps even more! Aren¡¯t we about due for another great genius?¡±


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit and you know it. What he¡¯s doing goes beyond genius. There¡¯s something supernatural about him.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Well, yes. Anyone can see that.¡±


    ¡°Then why won¡¯t you do anything about him?¡±


    Broderick rolls his eyes and his mocking smile vanishes. ¡°Forging isn¡¯t the only thing I think about, you know. I have considered the possibility that this Hardrick is... malignant, in some form. Dangerous he certainly is. But for the moment he is an asset.¡±


    ¡°For the moment. He¡¯s getting more surly by the day. He might be after your position.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± Broderick barks. ¡°No chance, Braedle, no chance.¡±


    Braedle scowls. ¡°With his rate of improvement¡ª¡±


    ¡°No. Once I have this key forged, no dwarf can stop me.¡±


    ¡°I find that hard to believe.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°Heat isn¡¯t the deciding factor when it comes to forging. Only a child would think so.¡±


    ¡°Ordinary heat maybe.¡±


    ¡°What are you on about? Heat is heat.¡±


    Broderick¡¯s grin returns. The pink of his lips shows through the golden mail embedded in them. ¡°Its not mere heat the key brought. It¡¯s dragonfire.¡±


    Braedle frowns in confusion. ¡°What?¡±


    Broderick walks over to the keyhole and rough furnace in the wall. He reaches his hand into the hollow and points downward.


    ¡°Where do you think the fire for Thanerzak''s furnace here comes from?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Magma? With something mixed into it?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t comprehend, can you? I said dragonfire, and I meant it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not making sense.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but I am. When the key is turned, out comes real dragonfire. The only originality Thanerzak showed in his entire life.¡±


    Braedle feels her heartbeat quicken. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°But how?¡± Braedle demands. ¡°When a dragon dies, so does its fire. They''re living flame.¡±


    ¡°The dragons aren¡¯t dead.¡±


    Braedle rocks back. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°They aren¡¯t dead.¡±


    ¡°They have to be. Thanerzak¡ª¡±


    ¡°Made a big show of capturing them for trial and execution for crimes against dwarfkind, but he never carried out the sentence. No one ever saw them die, and later on I caught wind of some rumors.¡±


    Braedle¡¯s eyes widen. ¡°You mean..?¡±


    Broderick¡¯s grin widens. ¡°They¡¯re down in a big prison, and when the key up here is turned, their fire comes shooting up tungsten pipes into this room.¡±


    ¡°Then your dragonfire forge you¡¯ve been building¡ª¡±


    Broderick laughs. ¡°You thought it was just a pretty name?¡±


    ¡°I thought it was going to house salamanders. But...¡±


    ¡°The dragons are sealed in cages. The same key unlocks all of them.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you just cut through the bars?¡±


    ¡°I took a good look at the mechanisms after I finished off Thanerzak. If the bars break, the dragon inside is slaughtered. No, I need the key. Then the dragons, still in chains, can be moved to their new home.¡±


    ¡°I see. But why not just forge here?¡±


    ¡°In this grimy hole? No thanks. I¡¯m not just moving the beasts for aesthetic reasons, though. I have a device I¡¯ve been working on that will magnify their heat a thousand-fold.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Braedle is too shocked to say much else.


    ¡°With the dragons¡¯ power, and my artistic genius, no one will ever be a match for me. The equipment I forge will be fit for a hundred Runethanes put together. And then it will be time for me to forge my crown. So, my dear daughter, you don¡¯t need to worry about Hardrick.¡±


    Braedle nods. Her hands are shaking; she quickly clenches them into fists. ¡°I see. I still think we should find out what he is, though.¡±


    ¡°We will. In time.¡±


    ¡°And we have to quell the rumors about him.¡±


    ¡°No. Let them spread. Let everyone believe the fearsome Runethane Broderick has recruited a demon to his ranks.¡±


    ¡°Very well. If that is your decision.¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°One more question, father.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Will you fight with us tomorrow? If Hardrick doesn¡¯t prove enough? Vanerak is strong. You may criticize him, but he¡¯s still stronger than us.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine. I¡¯ll come along if you need help. I doubt you will, though.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ll be leaving, then.¡±


    ¡°You do that,¡± Broderick says.


    She exits and Broderick returns to his old master''s anvil. He picks up the length of diamond and turns it over in his hands. Squares of light reflected from its facets play across his golden face and chest. The general shape is nearly done, so soon he can move on to the details¡ªhe¡¯ll have Hardrick cut the lock out and in half so he can see the inner shape. That sword of his really is remarkable.


    Broderick frowns. He puts down the diamond. He strokes his golden beard.


    What is Hardrick? Until now Broderick has thought of the miner''s rapid ascension only in strategic terms, as a fine stroke of luck, a blessing on his efforts against Thanerzak. A potential danger if he decides he''d rather go it alone, to be sure, but that''s the thing: until now Broderick''s worries extended only to wondering if he might rebel.


    Yet maybe he¡¯s had his head in the furnace for too long.


    What is that miner? What are his secrets?


    And how in hell are they going to find out? Judging from the slightly stupefied look that comes across Hardrick¡¯s face whenever Broderick talks to him, Hardrick himself doesn¡¯t know what lies behind his power. He''s just as surprised as anybody.


    Well, can¡¯t be helped now. Broderick steadies the diamond with his left hand, picks up the meteor-heart chisel with his right, and resumes his work.


    <hr>


    Morning dawns. The cavern brightens outside the small, high window of the forge and my sweat glistens under the sunrays. I have not slept tonight¡ªthe repairs were harder than I anticipated. Toward the end my hand slipped and one of the runes blasted itself in half, leaving a burning blister on my thumb and an obvious weak point in my armor.


    I sigh bitterly at the ragged hole. I¡¯m still not quite as brilliant a smith as I¡¯d like.


    Can¡¯t be fixed now, though. Time to move out. I equip my still-warm armor, take up dark-glowing Heartseeker, walk out onto the streets and start toward the mountain.


    My orders were delivered a few hours past midnight. I¡¯m to be stationed underground in a smallish tunnel. Apparently a small force might try and come through. Might, which likely means probably won¡¯t. If Vanerak really wants to keep me alive, and I think he does, the place I¡¯m heading will be the very calmest part of the battle.


    Perhaps I won¡¯t see any action at all, provided those up at the main breakthrough fight well. And I can¡¯t see them losing with Vanerak at their head. Not even to Broderick, Runethane though he is.


    After all, there has to be a point where a first degree gains the strength to be worthy of ascension to Runethane. From what I¡¯ve heard, and by the look of his tightly-scripted armor, Vanerak has reached this point.


    We will win the battle. I¡¯m confident of this.


    The only unknown factor is the black dragon. I shiver as I imagine it slithering along the tunnels somewhere, preparing to turn the lock to whatever hideous power lies hidden far below our feet.

 Cavern Exile: The Last Battle Commences

    The tunnel I have been ordered to is deep, deep below the mountain. The walls are narrow and straight and the arch of the roof comes to a point at the top. It is shaped like no tunnel I have yet been in, and I find myself wondering how many hundreds of years ago it was constructed, and by whom. I believe I am only wondering this, however, to take the mind off the fact that the squad I¡¯m with is only twenty dwarves strong.


    Vanerak may want to protect me, but he still has a battle to win. Unimportant areas are given little defense.


    I don¡¯t know any of my comrades here either. Their armors are unfamiliar¡ªmany seem to be from the same lesser known guild, wearing shoulder-plates emblazoned with a troll¡¯s head in orange¡ªa lava troll. I wonder how many have faced one in combat before. Probably none. The quality of their armor, mostly steel and sporting rather amateurish runework, does not inspire confidence in their combat ability.


    I hope that Broderick has also decided that this sector of the battlefield is not a vital one.


    The back rank I am in, the spear rank, is positioned slightly offset from the ranks in front so we have gaps to aim through. I can see the tunnel continuing deep into the darkness past a few torches we affixed to the walls when we arrived here. Although the runes on the crescent above my visor do not make my vision any brighter, I can make out details in shades of black and gray easier. So far, there is little to report. Not even a bat stirs.


    All I can do is stand and feel slightly ill. Vague whistles of air creep up from the depths into my ears, itching my burned one. Alternating cool and hot breezes make their way through the grille of my visor. I lick my dry lips. The air tastes of sweat and fungus.


    ¡°I wonder if the battle¡¯s started up there,¡± a dwarf in front of me whispers. ¡°I bet it has. Has to have.¡±


    ¡°Quiet!¡± snaps our commander, one of the only dwarves in decent armor. ¡°No speculation, no rumors. It¡¯s bad for your morale.¡±


    The dwarf shuts up and we continue to wait. My legs begin to get sore¡ªit¡¯s funny how just standing still can be harder than marching sometimes. When there''s no movement, there''s no change in scenery to take your mind off the discomfort.


    Finally though, after hours, a sound reaches us. It¡¯s soft at first, nearly indistinguishable from the silence. Then it resolves itself into a multi-layered tapping like a dozen hammers striking the anvil in unison at a one two one two rhythm. It¡¯s the unmistakable sound of armored boots on stone.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming!¡± announces our commander. ¡°Ready your weapons.¡±


    The dwarves in the front three ranks draw out their swords, axes and hammers. Us in the back rank angle our spears horizontally. When the front lines clash we will stab through with deadly effect.


    The marching grows louder, however I sense no fear in our ranks. The dwarves I stand with chased down a dragon, and moreover they just beat Broderick¡¯s forces. Even if their armor is poor they do not lack courage.


    I look down Heartseeker past the armored shoulders of my comrades and can make out the advancing enemy. I can see plate armor of steel and bronze, and hammers, axes, and spears of the same. No one too elite then, thankfully.


    The sound of their march doubles in pace. Their armor flashes in the light of the wall-torches as they close with us. The individual features of their equipment become more distinct. I crane my neck forward, frowning.


    The armor of the dwarf leading them is not plate, but a kind of of bulky suit composed of hundreds of overlapping scales, dull apart from bright rings of golden runework in the center of each. From their dullness I can tell that each scale is solid lead, but the tread of their wearer is as light as a feather. I tighten my grip on Heartseeker and narrow my eyes in hatred.


    I know this dwarf.


    ¡°Halt!¡± he commands, and his formation obeys. He looks at us through thin eyeholes. ¡°Surrender,¡± he calls. ¡°There¡¯s more of us here, than there are of you over there.¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± says our commander. ¡°Lay down your weapons and turn back.¡±


    The dwarf in lead armor raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. The scales on them are minute, very finely made. Tiny golden runes sparkle like curled glowworms.


    ¡°That might be difficult,¡± he tells us. ¡°These are my weapons right here.¡±


    ¡°Go back,¡± our commander repeats.


    ¡°Advance,¡± the dwarf in lead armor commands his troops.


    They do so, and he with them.


    ¡°Ready yourselves!¡± shouts our commander.


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


    There is a metallic sound as everyone shifts their bodies into fighting stance. Heartseeker gleams darkly, hungrily. It¡¯s been too long since she¡¯s tasted blood, and I am perfectly happy to feed her.


    ¡°Charge!¡± shouts the dwarf in lead armor, he who laughed as Danath threw me into the chasm, he who was there when Yezakh was killed.


    I will slay him if I can. I am strong enough now. Then when I meet Danath again I will tell him exactly how his friend begged and screamed for mercy.


    <hr>


    Vanerak has planned out the battle in meticulous detail. He has left nothing to chance. In his opinion all dwarves worth the metal they wear hold the same attitude. Forging is not about chance, it is about accuracy in measurement, and what is a battle but the forging of victory?


    He and his main force of elites stand where the sounds of mining are heaviest. He knows that a wide tunnel strays close to the mountainside here, and if it was to be broken open at its thinnest point, the exit wound would lead onto the main road down into the city. It is the most logical place for a mass frontal assault.


    His front line stands at a precisely measured distance away from where he predicts the enemy will exit. Just above that point, a little further up the road, is another force of elite dwarves led by Trazloth, guildmaster of the Troglodyte Slayers. Another small guild that has excelled itself in combat recently, and Vanerak has awarded them with their favorite position¡ªup high ready to strike down.


    Of course, this is not the only sector of the battlefield. His dwarves have detected the sounds of mining from no fewer than ten different areas around the mountain, and he predicts that some of the emergency tunnels out have been discovered too. In each possible breach location he has placed a force lying in wait. His dwarves will have the advantage of the higher ground at nearly all of them. Boulders and landslides have been rigged to fall upon the enemies in many locations also¡ªthey will not hurt any dwarf in good armor, but will provide a useful distraction.


    His victory is all but guaranteed¡ªBroderick will be the only real test, and Runethanes are not unbeatable. The rule of thumb is that ten first degrees can take on a Runethane, and Vanerak knows he is far better than your ordinary first degree.


    He has faith in his armor and weapon. He will bring Broderick and his golden guard down. As for the silver legend, his tale ends today also.


    All will be well. He feels no uncertainty. Today is a day for victory¡ªhis victory.


    He hears a commotion behind him.


    ¡°Let me see him, please! I must see the general.¡±


    Vanerak turns around and sees some of his dwarves holding back a haggard looking dwarf in sixth degree armor.


    ¡°Let me through. I have vital information!¡±


    ¡°Tell it to us,¡± says the elite grappling him backward. ¡°We will relay it.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak must know first. The general must know!¡±


    Vanerak turns and makes his way backward through the ranks. He twirls his halberd in his gauntleted hands. If this is an assassin, best to get the killing over with quickly.


    The haggard dwarf¡¯s eyes meet his¡ªor at least meet the surface of his mask.


    ¡°General!¡± says the dwarf. ¡°I have information you need to know immediately.¡±


    Vanerak halts before him. He sees that the dwarf¡¯s weapon has been confiscated. ¡°Very well, runeknight. Tell me this information.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s for your ears only.¡±


    ¡°My elites can be trusted.¡±


    ¡°Only for your ears. This information...¡± he lowers his voice. ¡°It could cause a panic.¡±


    Vanerak tilts his head in curiosity. This dwarf¡¯s runes are rather similar to Zathar¡¯s. Not in their originality¡ªthey are very standard in shape¡ªbut they are abyssal salamander grafted with hytrigite. His interest is piqued.


    ¡°Very well, runeknight. Banrack, let go of him.¡±


    ¡°But, general¡ª¡± says the old elite.


    ¡°I can look after myself if he is an assassin.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± Banrack says reluctantly, and lets go.


    Vanerak leads the dwarf to a barren stretch of mountainside out of earshot.


    ¡°What is your name, runeknight?¡±


    ¡°My name is Hayhek, general.¡±


    ¡°Your armor is interesting. I suppose Zathar didn''t make it up through the caves alone? Curious.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Hayhek.


    ¡°Is it about him you wish to talk?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead then.¡±


    Hayhek tells his story. What he says about Zathar''s interaction with the black dragon, and a certain key, is very interesting indeed.


    ¡°I see,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°Most concerning.¡±


    ¡°He... He¡¯s not a bad person. Like I said, his brother...¡± Hayhek¡¯s voice is trembling.


    ¡°Yes, yes, mitigating factors.¡±


    ¡°Do you have any idea what the key is for? I mean, not that I expect you to tell me, but...¡±


    As one of Thanerzak¡¯s oldest comrades, Vanerak knows exactly what the key is for. He designed the dragon-cages'' fire-inducing mechanism himself.


    ¡°You can go now, runeknight. Thank you for bringing this important news to me. You will be rewarded.¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t treat him too harshly. His past... It¡¯s dark. Tragic. He should be forgiven, at least in part.¡±


    ¡°You can go now, runeknight.¡±


    Hayhek bows and hurries away. Vanerak stands there, deep in thought. His elites stare at him worriedly from the path.


    What Zathar has committed is a crime deserving death. Yet his rune writing is too powerful a weapon to throw away. How can Vanerak execute him, and yet keep his power available for use?


    How fascinating. What an interesting parallel to Thanerzak¡¯s treatment of the dragons.


    Trial and execution must wait, though. Vanerak frowns. His certainty has been suddenly shaken. Forces will have to be diverted, strong forces to intercept the dragon. It must be stopped¡ªand yet Broderick must be stopped also, and thus Vanerak has to stay here.


    He tightens his grip on his halberd. His certain plan is suddenly a gamble.

 Cavern Exile: Zathar Versus The Dwarf in Lead

    From the back rank I watch the frontlines clash. Sparks shower into the air as weapon strikes armor. Shouts echo off the narrow walls a dozen times a second in a cacophony of fury. I stab out with Heartseeker and do not miss. The first death of the battle is caused by me, my black blade goes straight through the eyesocket of a helmet and the eye behind it also.


    An enemy spear lashes out, but I see its angle with ease and shift to the side just enough that it barely scrapes my helmet. The dwarf at my side stabs at the enemy¡¯s face, knocking his helmet askew.


    Jab, thrust, duck¡ªthis is how the battle goes. I see every detail precisely, my arms and hands work in perfect concert to seek out openings and gaps, and Heartseeker hits true on nearly every strike.


    I catch occasional glances of awe from the two speardwarves flanking me.


    Dwarves in the frontlines of both sides begin to fall, or limp back wounded in retreat. They are replaced by those in the second and third lines. The battle moves and shifts around the center, where our commander and the dwarf in leaden scales duel.


    Our commander is equipped solidly, with thick armor, a short sword and a square shield. The way he fights is orthodox: he keeps his shield in front at all times for maximum protection while he stabs and slashes at his opponent with moves as perfectly executed and timed as those shown in manuals of combat.


    He¡¯s a fourth degree. He deserves the rank. His equipment is solid and he has studied and trained hard.


    But he has never had an opponent like this one. The enemy twists out the way of every strike with unnatural ease of movement. When he blocks, he does so by means of an open palm against the flat of our commander¡¯s sword. He strikes not with one weapon but with four¡ªhis fists and feet, and their impacts are like those from hammers.


    A particularly brutal side-kick throws our commander backward. I catch a glance at his shield and see it has been caved in by a hundred dents. He scrambles upward just in time to receive an open-handed slap across the helmet. He staggers to his knees.


    ¡°Is that the best you can do!¡± laughs the dwarf in lead scales. ¡°Fight harder!¡±


    His dwarves take the taunt at our commander as an order for themselves, and press the attack. Distracted and demoralized by our commander¡¯s woes, our frontline is pushed back. Several dwarves are cleaved down in showers of blood and chips of splintered steel.


    I do my best to hold back the onslaught. Two more enemies fall to Heartseeker. But my fellow speardwarves are not so skilled. A crazed enemy launches himself through the lines and falls upon the one on my left, caves his head in with a mace. Screaming in anger, the speardwarf on my left turns and stabs that macedwarf through the back, then is stabbed down in turn by an enemy glaive.


    My revenge blow strikes her killer down, and another follow-up kills my sixth or seventh enemy of the battle, yet the dwarf in lead was correct when he said there were more of them than us¡ªwe are at half strength now, and half of those are injured or have their runes so badly damaged they may as well be naked.


    And then, inevitably, our commander falls¡ªleaden fingers penetrate his gorget and rip out his upper windpipe in a spray of blood and saliva.


    ¡°Scum!¡± I yell in rage, and stab at the dwarf in lead in his moment of triumph.


    He nearly dodges out the way, but Heartseeker is too fast and I get him in the shoulder. He gasps in pain as the black blade slices through his scales which turn crimson with flowing blood.


    Through his narrow eyeslits he glares at me in fury.


    ¡°Chase down the rest!¡± he orders his forces. ¡°This one is mine to kill.¡±


    His dwarves yell out and drive the rest of my allies away, down the corridor, leaving me alone with the dwarf in lead scales.


    ¡°Once I kill you, they¡¯re dead also,¡± I say.


    He shrugs. ¡°As if I¡¯d care. Besides, you aren¡¯t going to kill me. Other way around.¡±


    He shifts back into his boxer¡¯s stance. His injured arm is dropped slightly¡ªit¡¯s that section of his body I¡¯ll aim for first.


    ¡°Think I¡¯m going to be easy just because of your lucky strike?¡± he asks.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°No. I¡¯ve learned my lesson when it comes to overconfidence. You have your friend to thank for teaching me.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you remember me? You must recognize my voice at least, we¡¯ve talked a few times before. Some very interesting conversations. How¡¯s Danath doing?¡±


    ¡°Ah yes. I remember your spear. Hard one to kill, aren¡¯t you?¡± he growls.


    ¡°I won¡¯t be saying the same once I¡¯m done with you,¡± I promise, and stab at his chest.


    He predicts the move and shifts, the movement as smooth as water. I draw Heartseeker back but he¡¯s already flying forward at me, his right fist rushing toward my head. I duck and shift sideways, but do not account for the fact that he has four weapons instead of just one. His roundhouse kick impacts my side and sends me smashing into the wall.


    His range is close, and he¡¯s too fast, easily able to get within my guard. I shift my grip on Heartseeker so that my hands are in the direct middle of the haft and unleash a flurry of short jabs as I back away to create some space between us. They work¡ªhe stops his advance, surprised at my speed.


    ¡°Little bastard,¡± he spits. ¡°Picked up some skill at the forge, I see.¡±


    My answer is a strike to the heart so fast that Heartseeker becomes a millisecond-blur. He turns his body so it only slashes across the scales, and leaps forward for another strike. I see the attack before it comes though, notice how his stance shifts subtly, and I draw Heartseeker back as quick as it went out.


    He halts his attack and backs away, shaking his head.


    ¡°No, no. I won¡¯t be drawn into that trap.¡±


    I strike again, a feint at his head which he ducks and then I follow with a true strike to his right foot. It was a stupid place to aim, I realize too late, one of the most mobile targets. He whips it back and kicks Heartseeker¡¯s shaft with it, knocking the weapon off-guard. He bends his left leg then springs at me forward and up, and is suddenly flying down with a punch from above.


    I bring my arm up to block and the impact is terrible. I feel my gauntlet dent and my flesh bruise. He follows up with a punch to my stomach. Luckily I notice it coming and am able to shift back the moment it contacts. The force does not sink in enough to bend the plate, but it does throw me backwards.


    He¡¯s relentless! A swinging left comes for my head, then a right darts for my kidneys. I barely manage to avoid them, then stab up under his chin with Heartseeker. But at such close range my weapon is unwieldy and he avoids the strike easily, and clobbers my ankles with a sweeping kick. I stumble back and nearly trip on a body, he front kicks me and sends me falling.


    He¡¯s above me, falling on me like a salamander about to bite into its knocked-down victim. He¡¯s not the only one with speed though, and I roll out the way so that he bodyslams the ground instead.


    I slash at him as we get up and manage to rend apart several of scales. The brightness of their gold runes dims. We back away from each other.


    "Not so tough as you look," I pant.


    ¡°Fuck all this,¡± he swears. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be this good. Shouldn''t have runes that good.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Jealous?¡±


    ¡°I am, as a matter of fact. Too much strangeness around lately. Like our silver legend, yeah? I hear from Danath that you¡¯re acquainted with him.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear those lies.¡±


    ¡°What lies? Do you know Hardrick or do you not?¡±


    ¡°I know a Hardrick. A drunken miner.¡±


    ¡°We know the same one then,¡± he sneers. ¡°Though you¡¯re a miner too, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Not anymore. Never again.¡±


    I aim Heartseeker at his heart. He shakes his head.


    ¡°Funny you should say that,¡± he continues. ¡°You both really are so alike. Jumped up miners.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not Hardrick,¡± I spit. ¡°He¡¯s a thief.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re miners. That¡¯s all the similarity there needs to be.¡±


    I draw Heartseeker back slightly. ¡°You¡¯re trying to provoke me. It won¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Then I guess I¡¯ll have to be the one to attack.¡±


    <hr>


    The interception team has been dispatched, and now Vanerak¡¯s front line is looking very sparse. He taps his foot impatiently. The rumble of mining is much louder now and the ground is shivering. He holds his halberd point out, prepared to fight at any instant.


    The odds, he decides, are most decidedly not in his favor. There are only two first degrees standing by him now, plus five second degrees. The rest of the strongest are rushing as fast as they can down the secret route. A plan to take Broderick¡¯s forces from behind¡ªthat¡¯s the lie he¡¯s told the army to stop panic spreading.


    Zathar! A spanner in the works of the world if there ever was one.


    A crunching sounds from the road ahead. A spike of iron appears in the cobbles, slightly curved. A pick. It vanishes.


    It is time.


    ¡°Brace!¡± Vanerak calls.


    Any second now and a scaffold below in the tunnel, a platform for the miners¡ªor at least, lower degree runeknights forced to take up the humiliating task¡ªwill be quickly and violently deconstructed. Then, up the slope of rubble will come the foe.


    A grinding is accompanied by a shiver in the ground right where Vanerak predicted. The cobbles become like the shifting of a bubbling lake of magma. There is a sudden crash, and the cobbles vanish down at the same time a plume of dust erupts upward, turning the air gray and tasting of stone.


    From the dust leap three golden figures, then one in silver, and following him the enemy army. Vanerak charges to meet them. The Troglodyte Slayers fall on them from above, and the world becomes a chaos of dust, sparks, and shouting.

 Cavern Exile: The Key is Turned

    The black dragon crawls down the half-melted tunnel. The walls glow redly and are slick with heat: to the black dragon it feels as if it is crawling down the throat of some great beast, although it has never heard of any being greater than a dragon.


    Its own throat is wracked with pain, and its breathing is harsh and comes slowly. Burning open the passage has taken nearly every ounce of flame left; its lifeforce is drained to the last embers.


    Yet those smoldering embers are enough to complete the task it has set itself. It exits the tunnel and splashes into the slowly spreading pool of magma at the bottom. It looks around the massive hall, at each prisoner caged and nailed to the stone walls by runed tungsten. Pitiful. The black dragon sneers.


    To be a dragon, then to be caged up like a farm animal, fed slurry through a tube, milked for flame like brute beasts are milked by dwarves and humans, unable to resist or escape, or even to commit suicide¡ªno mortal language has words strong enough to convey such disgrace. Death is preferable by far to this. The black dragon wonders why they did not choose it, as surely they might have when they saw that Thanerzak was stronger than they.


    They could have clenched their jaws tight, driven their fire outward, and blasted themselves into spheres of brilliant flame. No dwarf would have survived the heat, not at combat distance. But instead the dragons submitted.


    Pathetic.


    The black dragon makes its way up the hall. Deep cuts in the stone mark the strikes from a terrible battle, and the blasted, melted ruins of two cages show that the duel was not without collateral damage.


    Two very powerful dwarves went at it here, the black dragon sees. Dwarves are little better than dragons when it comes to greed¡ªone faction must have taken the opportunity of the hunt to go after the other. This war must be why the tunnels were so poorly guarded. The black dragon wonders whether Thanerzak or his foe came off better.


    Not that it matters¡ªwhoever won, the cavern will have a different ruler soon enough.


    It continues along. The hall is longer than it first thought. The size of the dragons pinned to the walls, shivering slightly within their semi-circular cages, plays havoc with perspective. The black dragon feels its legs and arm weaken. The heat from the flames burning in its heart struggles to reach the outer muscles.


    Nevertheless, it persists. Only the greatest prize will do: the forefather at the very end of the hall. The one whose wings spread for hundreds of feet, whose each talon is as long as the black dragon¡¯s legs, whose flame it can feel even from this far away¡ªa hot and fierce dragonflame.


    Yet the heat is hollow; the fuel it consumes corrupt.


    The fuel is hope.


    Dragons should not feel hope. A true dragon feels nothing but hunger.


    The black dragon reaches the cage of the dragon emperor¡ªso this creature used to style itself. It brings its tail around and shakes the key into its hand. The diamond glitters brilliantly in the crimson ambience.


    The black dragon inserts it into the ornate lock standing between the two foremost bars.


    It turns it.


    Runes flash electric blue up the bars, first the central two then the rest in a cascade of ascending light. Mechanisms whir loudly and the bars split at the middle, then over the course of several minutes retract silently into the floor and ceiling. With a final whir, the lock mechanism sinks down, ejects the key gently, then disappears into a neat slot in the floor


    The black dragon looks up at the dragon emperor, who is still tightly secured by chains, spikes, and a brutalist head covering. A pipe is stuck into its throat. Other locks are located at each limb, both wings, and the neck.


    It picks up the key and with terrible strain spreads its wings and flaps up into the air. Each beat is a struggle: it feels its body grow heavier with each passing second. Its heart of flame flares bright with each effort, and each time the flame dims, it becomes darker than before. Parts of the black dragon''s flesh feel hard and dead, solidified into rock.


    Greed for power keeps it moving upward. It clears its forefather¡¯s waist, then the deep chest hot with inner flame, the outstretched arms, and finally to its shoulders from which its hundred-foot wings spread. With a final effort the black dragon turns and flaps to perch on the left shoulder like a massive carrion bat.


    The dragon emperor speaks¡ªnot using vibrations of air, not just because it cannot, but because such crudity is only used when communicating with lesser beings. Its voice is a halo of heat that shimmers around it.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± it asks.


    ¡°I am your child, or grandchild, or perhaps great grandchild, if those terms can be applied.¡±


    ¡°One of us survived the purge!¡±


    ¡°I was but an egg.¡±


    ¡°This is great luck indeed.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°I always kept faith that our kind would prove stronger than the dwarves. It seems I was right¡ªin their arrogance they neglected to extinguish a spark that will become an inferno.¡±


    ¡°Indeed they did,¡± sneers the black dragon.


    ¡°Lucky, for I don¡¯t think our northern cousins would ever have come. They were ever an unhelpful bunch.¡±


    ¡°I have never met them.¡±


    ¡°No, no, but you shall. Once you free us, and our strength is recovered, we will pillage them as the second order of business.¡±


    ¡°The first order of business will be the dwarves, I expect.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. Ah, does this not satisfy you? Excuse my rudeness. Of course, the first order of business should be your reward.¡±


    ¡°It should.¡±


    ¡°I proclaim that you are to receive one befitting your status as the newest to join our pantheon of rulers.¡±


    ¡°Pantheon of rulers, you say?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Rulers, as in more than one, you say?¡±


    The self-styled dragon emperor shifts uncomfortably in its bonds. The tone of its heat changes, fluctuating with uncertainty.


    ¡°That is what I say. We rule together, though disagreements are not unheard of.¡±


    ¡°There are no rulers of the cavern,¡± sneers the black dragon. ¡°A ruler must rule, and thus cannot have equals, for equals would not be bound to obey its rules. It would not be a true ruler. I would not be a true ruler.¡±


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°You are young. You still have an immature view of the world and how it works.¡±


    The black dragon snarls. ¡°What an arrogant thing to say when I am stood just beside your neck.¡±


    The dragon emperor¡¯s heat wavers like a candle caught in a gust of cool wind. ¡°Release me, little one. We still have a hierarchy. Out of my boundless gratitude you shall be my prince, third to none.¡±


    ¡°We do not feel gratitude,¡± says the black dragon, its voice-fire white hot. ¡°We are not dwarves, or elves, or humans, or any other kind of vermin. We are fire made flesh. We live to take, and you have forgotten that.¡± Its voice grows fiercer. ¡°For the past three centuries you have sat here and been taken from!¡±


    ¡°You do not understand! The dwarves were more cunning than we anticipated.¡±


    ¡°Cunning? The dwarves? They are all fools, and weak to boot.¡±


    ¡°Then free us and we shall take everything from them. Everything, gold and lives alike.¡±


    ¡°Being stuck in chains has made your brains rot away, failure. I am not here to free you.¡±


    The dragon emperor shudders. ¡°Then why did you come? To gloat?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You must free us!¡± The dragon emperor¡¯s voice becomes shrill, if such a word can be applied to heat. ¡°As fellow dragonkind it is your duty!¡±


    ¡°Enough! I sicken of this talk of fellows and duty. We dragons have neither.¡±


    ¡°Release us!¡± cries the dragon emperor, panic-stricken.


    ¡°Ah, a more accurate word. Free implies you will be able to roam the skies under your own will, whereas release is somewhat more general of a term. You shall be released, failure. And you shall roam, just not under your own will.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, little one?¡± The massive dragon trembles. ¡°What are you saying?¡±


    ¡°You shall roam under my power. Not as a servant, but as a part of me.¡±


    The black dragon bares its teeth and sinks them into the dragon emperor¡¯s neck. It drinks of living flame, and vital incandescence spreads through its flesh.


    <hr>


    Banrack is one of the old guard, one of those present when Thanerzak subdued the dragons and imprisoned them deep below. Not many are still around who were, especially after all this fighting. He curses under his breath¡ªhis armor still bears the scars of the silver legend¡¯s blade.


    That upstart who killed so many comrades is who he wants to fight, but Vanerak has given him an order.


    So he hurries down through the tunnels, his rune-enhanced legs driving him forward on great strides. Air rushes past his fully-enclosed helmet as he travels. If the helm were open it would be difficult for him to breathe, but he has designed it so that enough air is pulled through the visor as he runs. The air is growing warmer by the mile.


    Behind him follows the rest of the twenty-strong interception party, all eager to prove their worth to Vanerak after being briefed about the truth of the dragons and terrible danger of the mission. Banrack doesn¡¯t believe so many are needed. The black dragon is badly injured. Does Vanerak not trust his skill?


    Banrack will prove his worth to the next Runethane.


    He makes the appropriate turns. Though he has not been in this twisting, secret maze for a century at least, he can recall its shape perfectly. Left, right, down the stairs, up the spiral ramp, a leap down the trapdoor, then along straight. The thunder of the dwarves¡¯ passage echoes loudly. Their pursuit is focused on speed not stealth.


    The heat increases steadily and is accompanied by a crimson glow from ahead. Banrack begins to grow worried. They are nearly at the dragon cages and have seen no sign of the black dragon yet.


    Has it reached its goal? Yet even if it has, the cages will take time to unlock, and after being bound for three hundred years, it is doubtful that the dragons will be able to put up so much of a fight. They are made of muscle and sinew after all, and flesh, however fiery, does not take well to three centuries of immobility.


    They make the last curve and emerge into a circular room of several tunnels. Thanerzak¡¯s last trick¡ªeleven of the dozen lead to spiked pits. Yet the black dragon smelled out its brethren and so their path is clear. It leads down the hotly glowing gaping wound third to the right.


    Heat and red light punctuated with flashes of yellow shimmer from it. Banrack turns to address his comrades. Each one¡¯s face is covered by a heavy mask of tungsten, yet he can still sense the anxiety.


    ¡°Right then,¡± he says. He¡¯s always been proud of his everydwarf way of speaking. ¡°There is no need for fear right now.¡±


    They begin to draw out their weapons.


    ¡°It¡¯s reached the cages, yes. But this isn¡¯t as bad as it sounds. It will take a great deal of time for it to release every dragon. And those it has released will be weak. We can kill them.¡±


    He can sense their lack of faith.


    ¡°Look, dragons are not immortal. They are out of legend, but they can be killed. There is no reason to fear. You are all at least of the second degree! The guildmaster who severed its arm was only third. These is nothing to fear. We will win.¡±


    ¡°I want to know what the heat is from,¡± one second degree says quietly.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s already melted the tunnel open, but there¡¯s still heat pouring out. Why¡¯s that, do you think?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just residual,¡± Banrack says, trying to sound reassuring. ¡°Now follow me!¡±


    He turns and climbs into the sweltering tunnel. Each breath feels like a mouthful of boiling steam. A flash of yellow and white blinds him for an instant. He thinks on the second degree¡¯s words, and begins to worry. This is no residual heat from the melting of the tunnel. The black dragon is down there breathing fire for some purpose. Maybe some of the fire is from its forefathers also, if they are already released.


    Are they trying to open a hole in the ceiling? Yet the blocks of stone Thanerzak sealed the pit with are too thick to be melted through quickly. Has the dragon decided that using the key is too slow, and is trying to burn through the bars? Yet it is a dragon, and thus too intelligent to try such stupidity. It can surely guess that the bars are trapped against tampering¡ªany attempt would result in the dragon within being killed in an instant by blades hidden in its bonds.


    So what is this heat for? The air shivers like water. The stone becomes less and less solid until it gains the texture of hot syrup. Banrack half slides, half walks. He holds his halberd point out, and sees that the point is shaking in time with his fear.


    He emerges from the tunnel and can make out nothing. All is shimmering, shivering red. The only shape is a shadow at the far end amidst a mass of yellow flame. He advances. The shadow ignores him, continues to bend its head down then up, snapping and swallowing like a carrion beast feasting on a hog. The black dragon. What is it doing, exactly? In the delirium of the heat Banrack cannot work it out.


    Banrack turns around to make sure his dwarves are following. They are, but limply, drooped over like wilted surface plants. Some with longer weapons are leaning on them.


    ¡°That¡¯s not good enough, you lot,¡± he croaks. ¡°Stand up straight.¡±


    They make an effort to do so. The strain is too much for one, who slumps to the ground, overcome with heat.


    ¡°Stand up. This heat is not dragonfire. It¡¯s just residual. Your armor is better than you know. Have faith in it. Stand up.¡±


    The sprawled dwarf does not stand up. Banrack swallows in a vain attempt to wet his throat.


    ¡°Well, the rest of you follow me then. The black dragon is injured, and look!¡± He gestures to the walls, upon which he can make out the bars encircling still-caged dragons. ¡°Not all is lost...¡±


    A wave of worse heat shudders past them. Banrack stumbles and looks to the black dragon. It looks back at him; its stare is piercing. It turns languidly from its meal and begins to advance. Banrack retreats.


    ¡°No...¡±


    Its skin is healed. Gone are the scars Vanerak and the third degree inflicted upon it. Its scales are pure, unblemished black, blacker even than obsidian, darkness given form. White fire drips from its jaws. The only color is its right eye, which is a more brilliant green than any emerald Banrack has yet witnessed.


    Its hideous face twists into a smile. It advances further, drinking in the dwarves¡¯ fear. Banrack hears a clatter as several runeknights drop their weapons to run. He is no coward though¡ªhe raises the point of his halberd to that eye.


    Nearly in range now. Banrack swears to blind it.


    Yet it continues to advance, somehow not in range yet. Then it hits him¡ªthe black dragon is further away than he assumed, because it is now vast. Its tread makes the warm stone quiver like jelly. Its grinning teeth are longer than greatswords. A coherent thought finally pierces through Banrack''s delirium: the black dragon came down here not to free its brethren, but to feast on the greatest concentration of power imaginable.


    The point of Banrack¡¯s halberd drops. He begins to back away.


    The black dragon is not the largest dragon he has ever witnessed. No, the dragon emperor was half again as large. Yet now all that creature¡¯s power has been concentrated and pulled into the black dragon¡¯s belly, its veins, muscles, brain and heart.


    Despite its mutilated arm and eye, the black dragon is the most fearsome dragon Banrack has ever witnessed. Partly because it is the only one he has ever had to face alone, yet mostly because of the pure malice radiating from it. Now healed and strengthened, the black dragon is quite possibly the most terrible creature ever to have lived beneath the earth.


    It opens its jaws.


    The dwarves are obliterated.

 Cavern Exile: Rise of the Black Dragon

    My foe¡ªI still don¡¯t know his name¡ªruns for me with his left fist raised. Heartseeker darts right at it. He was not expecting me to pick that target, and my trick works. Heartseeker¡¯s black blade stabs deep into his hand, splitting it nearly in half.


    He shouts in pain and jumps back. I don¡¯t pursue, and instead stand and watch the blood drip out the ravaged lead scales. The wound on his right shoulder is still bleeding too. I smile fiercely.


    ¡°I¡¯m stronger than you,¡± I say.


    ¡°Go to hell.¡±


    ¡°Tell me, is your friend Danath the same degree as you?¡±


    ¡°Go to hell.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill him next, if he isn¡¯t dead already. Where is he?¡±


    My foe charges for me, springing forward with his body angled low and his arms outstretched as if to tackle. He¡¯s still incredibly fast, but I¡¯m used to the look of his movements now. I step out the way the moment before he closes the gap and dart Heartseeker at his thigh.


    It pricks in. I could drive deeper, but he¡¯s aware of the pain and is already kicking off with his other leg to change direction. I pull out and retreat back out of his range. Blood drips from his thigh to mingle with the pools already on the stone.


    ¡°Damn you,¡± he says. ¡°Why don¡¯t you lie down and die like your little friend did?¡±


    ¡°I already told you that trying to provoke me won¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°We put his head on a spike after you fell, you know. As for his body¡ª¡±


    My strike is not one of rage. I calculate it carefully. It is light, for he expects a violent rush, and aimed not at the most obvious target but the least: his rear foot. While before when I aimed at his foot I made the mistake of attacking when it was freely mobile, now it is the only point of contact between him and the ground as he leaps. My stab pins it to the stone and he howls and collapses. He grasps for Heartseeker¡¯s shaft, but my weapon is already blurring backward out of range.


    ¡°Where¡¯s your friend?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Go to hell!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where you¡¯re going, as soon as you tell me what I want. You should look forward to it¡ªit¡¯ll be nicer than what I¡¯m about to do to you.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± he barks out. ¡°You don¡¯t have the stomach for torture.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve watched it,¡± I say, remembering the torment the river troll chief inflicted on that lava troll we captured¡ªa more innocent victim than this piece of shit. ¡°I think I can do it also.¡±


    My enemy struggles to his feet, struggles to raise his fists. He makes to advance but his movements are sluggish now. Too much blood loss. I increase it with a quick stab to his thigh. Heartseeker touches the artery there¡ªI can feel the weapon¡¯s thirsty shiver.


    He falls to his knees.


    ¡°I won,¡± I say, half to myself. ¡°I¡¯m stronger than you two.¡±


    ¡°Bastard.¡±


    ¡°Where is he?¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t play dumb! Your friend.¡±


    My enemy bows his head. His shoulders slump. ¡°Up on the mountain somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Is that all you have?¡± I spit at him.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to apologize for helping murder my friend? Trying to murder me?


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you then,¡± I say, and drive Heartseeker into his chest.


    When I rip it out, blood gushes from the wound, and he falls down face first. I stare down at his corpse, feeling oddly dissatisfied. Why did I kill him so quickly? Maybe I really don¡¯t have the stomach for torture.


    Cursing under my breath, I turn back to see if his comrades are still in sight. They are, barely, still chasing after the remains of our forces. I ought to pursue, I suppose. Yet with my adrenaline from the duel fast fading, I can¡¯t quite muster the energy.


    I really do feel strangely disappointed. My victory feels hollow¡ªI just beat a dwarf as strong as Danath, with relative ease too, and yet I feel no joy. I¡¯m stronger than before¡ªyet feel the same. Perhaps because my problems remain: the dragon, and everything to do with it.


    Still, I can''t stand around here feeling depressed. I have a duty to fulfill. I turn and begin to walk down the tunnel after the enemies.


    The stone around me shudders suddenly, so violently I¡¯m sent to one knee. I try to stand up, but it keeps on shuddering. I feel a heat at my back, and turn to look.


    Upon the walls is a white glow, very faint, but a shade of white I recognize. Brighter than bright, and cruel on the eyes, it is the glow of dragonfire. Deep in the tunnels, something is burning through the rock.


    I manage to stand up, and begin to run from it. There is a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.


    <hr>


    Hayhek hurries down the streets, panting violently. There¡¯s no soldiers around to accost him now, to accuse him of being a lying coward after he gives his lame excuse that he has an urgent message to deliver. True, he may be a liar today, but he¡¯s no coward. He runs because he knows he needs to protect his family.


    He has a feeling the interception of the dragon will not go as planned. They were a tough lot hurrying from the frontlines, with powerful equipment and combat skills for sure, but he has seen the dragon. It is a monster greater than any other. With whatever power it gains from using the key...


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    And even if the interception force does defeat it, can Vanerak really kill a Runethane?


    His footsteps echo around the deserted buildings. Nearly there now.


    The ground begins to shake.


    <hr>


    Vanerak is in the midst of combat, a four on one duel he cannot seem to win. Golden scythes and axes flash toward him from shifting angles at speeds physically impossible for anyone without the skills and runes of a first degree to see. He registers them on instinct; his halberd flies out to block each one as it comes. Sparks explode at each impact, a bad sign, telling him that the onslaught of attacks is beginning to degrade his weapon.


    His own attacks are thwarted. When he last fought the golden guard they were overwhelmed, scared of his sudden advance. Now they have the superior numbers and it is Vanerak who is overwhelmed. He does not seem to be able to get close to even scratching their gold chainmail, and as for the silver legend, he cannot seem to get his halberd to within closer than a foot of his armor.


    The impossible runeknight¡¯s breastplate is a masterwork of titanium, tungsten, steel and platinum alloyed together in layers so thin their various shades meld together. The reflections of the sparks glisten on them softly like pearls, their violent light diffused into velvety gentleness. A series of runed diamonds in a central circle provides the armor its repelling power.


    Creating just one of those diamonds should have taken six months at least, not to mention the hundreds of years of trial and practice required to be able to perform the advanced graving techniques necessary.


    Yet this miner, if the rumors are true, managed the entire piece in less than six days.


    Strange for him to emerge at the same time as Zathar, Vanerak briefly reflects, before he is forced to focus all his concentration on parrying a flurry of slashes from the silver legend¡¯s sword.


    These at least are none too skilled, but the blade¡¯s preternatural sharpness scars Vanerak¡¯s halberd in two places. He is forced to retreat, step back at a steady pace into the ranks of his few remaining elites.


    He frowns behind his mirror-mask. How can he win this? He needs Banrack and the rest back, to distract the golden guard while he cuts down the silver legend. Yet slaying even an injured dragon could take time, and result in many grievous injuries.


    How to win?


    Sparks fly from his mirror mask as the female golden guard¡¯s axe slashes into it. Bright light breaks through¡ªit is pierced.


    How to win?


    Pain erupts at his shoulder as the silver legend¡¯s sword cuts deep into his tungsten pauldron.


    Is he going to lose?


    Is this the end?


    A terrible shaking ravages the mountainside, like the mile-high mound of rock is nothing but a jelly tapped by a teaspoon. The motion sends Vanerak rolling backwards in a tangle of armor and weapons and sudden yelling. With perfect reactions he leaps back to his feet while others in lesser armor with worse combat prowess flail helplessly on the slope.


    Only the female golden guard¡ªBroderick¡¯s daughter, he remembers¡ªmanages to get up with similar quickness. Vanerak wastes no time in lunging for her with the spike of his halberd. She blocks, but he still manages to pierce right through her arm.


    She shouts out in pain. The noise of her shout is cut off by a terrible roar from deep below, which grows in volume and pitch to become an unearthly scream.


    Vanerak is just about to follow up his strike when he is blinded by a stream of white light that explodes up through the peak of the mountain and keeps on going until it hits the cavern ceiling and becomes a sunburst that sends half-melted stalactites plummeting down.


    The interception team has failed.


    For the first time in three hundred years, Vanerak feels a twinge of fear. He nearly turns to flee down the mountain, before he realizes that is the exact opposite direction he should go in.


    He rushed through the thunder-shocked enemy army into the tunnel just as the black dragon bursts through the peak of the mountain in an aura of white flame.


    <hr>


    Power! Power! Power!


    I can feel the power flooding through my blood, such power that dwarves with their measly little runes could never know, could never get the merest taste of. True power comes from within, not from without. Those vermin think they can gain the taste of true control by binding strength to their bodies, but they have no idea what it feels like to have raw energy welling up from within their very hearts.


    I look upon them, writhing on the mountainside like the larvae of insects and they are so pathetic it makes me want to laugh. They point up at me¡ªfor what reason? Some stand still, proving their utter lack of brainpower, for the only thing for them to do now is flee.


    My wings carry me to the very highest dome of the cavern. With each beat a hurricane of wind blasts down, forcing the dwarves to huddle to the stone lest they be blown away. Many are blown away, and they crack their helmeted skulls open like eggs.


    They are the lucky ones, mayhaps! For now it is time for the cavern to feel my true strength. The strength of a real dragon, not a sniveling pretender.


    Dragons grow by consuming not just flesh, but magical power. That is why we gather great hoards of magical objects. As a dragon curls around its hoard, the magic leaks through its scales, making its size greater, its fire hotter.


    There is one other way to obtain power, however: to take it from another dragon.


    It is very rarely done. The reason is fear¡ªa dragon could raise the ire of others through so shocking a method, and be torn apart in turn.


    But the dragon emperor could have chosen this way. It was far stronger than its cousins and had no reason to fear their ire. It should have hunted them down one by one and taken their strength for itself. Yet something held it back. Fear, or some other un-draconic emotion. Camaraderie, or perhaps even love for its fellows.


    Pathetic! It was no true dragon.


    I spread my wings as wide as I can. The updraft from my heat keeps me afloat. My shadow now spreads over the whole cavern, for my body and wings block the sun shining reflected from the dwarves¡¯ ancient mirrors.


    It is time for a different light to illuminate the cavern.


    I breathe in. My chest expands and glows. The heat within is hotter than magma, hotter than the sun, hotter than any substance even the Runegods have yet lit their forges with. I close my jaws and let it become even hotter.


    This is the power of the dragon emperor and all its subjects concentrated behind the will of a true dragon. As I ate, my jaws and flame grew stronger. After I drank the dragon emperor''s blood, I was nearly strong enough to open the next cages without the key. After drinking the blood of four more dragons, my claws could slash through the tungsten bars like they were nothing. And my jaws were wide enough to tear apart the rest of the dragons in just a few bites each. My feast went quicker than expected.


    Did some dwarves arrive at some point? I can''t remember.


    I open my jaws and release my heat. A wave of brilliance spreads over the dwarves¡¯ city and turns their buildings to glowing red liquid. It expands through the forest of stone in which the dwarves hunted me. The stalagmites wilt and bend. The stalactites drip lava.


    The very air burns! Every dwarf caught in the open becomes a candle, and then ash.


    Their runes are nothing against my flame, against the flame of a true dragon! Against the flame of I, the black dragon, the bringer of death, a being of sentient flame and greed, the very embodiment of power!


    Yet there is still something wrong here.


    I have gained so much, yet not everything I have lost is returned to me. I close my jaws and look at myself reflected in the shimmering mirage of heat that was the dwarves¡¯ city.


    An arm is still gone, and an eye also.


    And I feel it is likely that the vermin who did this to me are still alive.


    <hr>


    A terrible heat permeates through the stone. The white vanishes, but almost as soon as it does so, the tunnel begins to glow red, and my beard becomes drenched with sweat. The air becomes like the air from an open kiln. I struggle to breath.


    I see a turn. I take it, and see that far along it are stairs down. I pound toward them, choking and rasping¡ªthe air is growing hotter by the second. The red of the stone is creeping up the spectrum toward yellow.


    I make it to the stairs and hurl myself down them. A hot wind chases me¡ªa wind hotter than flame. The pressure bowls me over and I tumble down the steep steps, rolling over and over.


    At some point I reach a landing. The heat is still unbearable and I find another passage down, and then another, until finally I am in a world without light or heat.


    And still I keep on fleeing downward.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Long Wanderings

    I can no longer tell what length of time I have been wandering these dark, dark tunnels. Sometimes it feels like weeks, other times like years, or even decades. I live by scraping fungus and the occasional insect from the walls, and lick water from the streams running between my feet. I do not know where I am.


    At first, I searched for my fellow dwarves. Although I guess the black dragon used the key to greatly increase its power¡ªwhat else could that terrible heat have been¡ªand understand my punishment is certainly death, I will not run from justice.


    But I have neither seen nor heard any dwarf in all my wanderings. Neither have I met anything else I recognize, not a river troll, not the chasm, not even a salamander. I have come too far down for those.


    The blackness is the worst thing. Every cave I have been in up until now has been lit in some way, be it from magma, glowing fungus, or fireflies. Down at this depth there are none of those. Odd, I sometimes think, for if I keep going down I should eventually find light from the magma seas. Either I have not yet reached that depth, or else have missed them somehow, and have found my way into a tunnel of cold stone leading directly into the center of the world.


    Each time I attempt to go up, each time I find a tunnel whose slope I sense ascends, I end up in another spiral downward. If I backtrack, I always end up taking a wrong turn somewhere, and find myself descending once more.


    When will this blackness end?


    Another indeterminate length of time passes. For my own safety I must progress slowly like a blind dwarf, tapping the floor ahead of me with Heartseeker to check for pitfalls. There are many: some I can skirt around, others I cannot that force me to turn back. Sometimes I feel a cold draft from above, telling me of a tunnel entrance upward, a potential way out I cannot take.


    Then, heat and light. Not the harsh glare and burn of dragonfire, but the noble orange and kindly warmth of magma. I hurry toward it.


    The equivalent of days pass before I reach the source of the glow. The spark of orange becomes a circle, and then I am standing at a tunnel exit which emerges to a cliff at whose base laps waves of magma. I look across in awe at a slowly rolling, splashing ocean of magma which extends to the far horizon. I shade my eyes, and through the brightness I see that it is slightly curved. The world truly is a sphere, it seems.


    I examine the cliff to see if there are any ledges I might make my way along. There are none: the rock is smooth and black obsidian. I slump down in despair.


    How long am I doomed to wander down in the very bowels of the world? Perhaps, I think to myself, I died in the battle and this wandering is my punishment for giving the dragon the diamond key.


    A dark speck in the magma ocean draws my attention. At first I think it¡¯s just a floating rock of some heat-resistant substance, then it begins to expand and become a wide circle. It glints dully in the light and I recognize it as tungsten.


    The speck is far too regular in shape to be something natural, I realize as it continues to emerge. Worried it might be some creature, I back off into the shadows of the tunnel and continue to watch from there. Soon there is a circular dome protruding from the orange glow, but there is more to come. A wide plate, shaped like an arrowhead, rises out. Streams of magma roll off it and expose runework, though I am too far away to make out what they read.


    Dwarves!


    I hurry forward right to where tunnel becomes sheer drop, and wave violently. I imagine that the dome is some kind of lookout, mirrored like Vanerak¡¯s helmet. I shout at it:


    ¡°Hey! Over here! Look at me! Help me!¡±


    The ship¡ªfor that is what it must be, though the only ships I have ever seen pictures of floated in water¡ªmakes no sign that it notices me. It pauses for a short while, absolutely still among the rolling of the magma waves, before slowly beginning to sink back down.


    ¡°No!¡± I shout, jumping up and down and brandishing Heartseeker above my head like a maddwarf. ¡°Come back! Look at me! Help me! Help me! Save me!¡±


    But it vanishes. I sit down and stare into the magma sea for a long time, hoping it or another like it will reemerge, but there is nothing but endless heat and glow. My heart grows heavy. For a brief moment I consider throwing myself into the sea, then suddenly feel disgusted with myself. My sins are to be judged by the dwarves I have hurt, not erased in a moment of petty depression.


    I turn and walk back the way I came. My throat is parched, but soon I¡¯m back on familiar paths downward in damp tunnels with plenty of moisture to lick from the stone. I feel more like an animal than a dwarf, some brute cave beast. There is a theory I don¡¯t quite believe that says all the two-legged, two-armed races¡ªdwarves, humans, elves, et cetera¡ªderive from a type of monkey, which is some hairy beast that lives in surface forests. There¡¯s another that says we dwarves evolved, I believe the word is, from troglodytes.


    I am beginning to feel that I am going in the opposite direction. The further I descend, the more bestial I become. My sense of taste has long since adapted: worms and beetles I once found vile now taste like the choicest cuts of meat.


    Another unknowable and interminable length of time passes, and then something finds me.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The first sign that I am being tracked is the smell. Until now, the scent of the tunnels has been decayed stone and musty fungus. Then my nose detects a new scent, vaguely bloody, with a hint of decayed animal-matter. At first I ignore it as nothing, just some strange variety of mushroom, but by degrees it grows more acrid, and sometimes decreases in intensity when I turn a corner. And I can feel no new fungus, just the same squishy brackets housing the beetles that are my main source of nutrition.


    I am forced to conclude that there is some animal following me. Good, I tell myself. Maybe it will have four limbs of succulent red meat. Because there are no dwarves down here, it will underestimate me too, I convince myself. Yet I begin to grow worried. It is a wily predator¡ªI backtrack and take unexpected turns to try and lose it, but the bloody scent keeps on following me.


    Then I begin to hear the sound of its passage: the soft patter of thousands of legs working in unison. This is no succulent lizard-beast then. It is something insectoid. I hurry my pace, and the patter of its legs increases in rapidity and volume accordingly. I start to run, then stop myself. It wants me to run, to tire myself out. And I can¡¯t run very fast anyway. The joints of my armor have begun to rust together.


    I have no choice but to fight, and my best option for victory is to conserve my stamina. I stop still and wait with Heartseeker pointing down the blackness. I cannot see even the merest hint of anything: it¡¯s like my eyes have been painted over with ink.


    The patter of the monster¡¯s legs grows louder and closer, yet less rapid. It realizes that I have stopped, am waiting for it to pounce. It approaches cautiously, tapping regularly with what I imagine are antenna feeling for me.


    Something with the force of a vice grabs me around my forward wrist. I cry out and try to wrench myself out of the grip, but it is too strong. It was not antenna it was tapping with, but pincers. Another one snaps at my foot like a pair of steel scissors, but I step back out the way the moment it touches, and as I do so wrench my wrist back hard. Sparks flash as I pull free, illuminating for an instant a worm-like body with tens of thousands of jointed legs sticking out of it at all angles. My attacker is a pipe-cleaner monster with two pincer arms six feet long and an eyeless head¡ªif I had seen it in a book I would not have believed in it, but down here it is all too real.


    I stab where I think its head was, but Heartseeker only brushes through the forest of its legs. Its blood-seeking runes are having no effect: either they are rusted beyond function or this creature has no blood to speak of. I slash around, trying to hit something, but the creature¡¯s chitinous skin is resistant to slashing.


    Again it tries to grasp me with its pincers. One comes around my neck, which I bat away, but the next sinks into my thigh. I feel the chitinous blade pierce right through the steel and I scream in pain. I throw myself backwards, feel the monster¡¯s pincer tear out, feel hot blood run down my leg. I turn and run, stumbling and gasping.


    The monster pursues. I can hear its many legs skittering along the floor, walls, and ceiling. It is perfectly adapted for hunting in the tunnels. This environment is not suited to creatures like us dwarves, who prefer to walk along the horizontal, but is the domain of worms, insects, and other things with no or many legs who can clamber or slither at will.


    I plunge into a sudden pitfall. Screaming in shock, I extend my arms and legs to push against the walls and stall my momentum. Sparks fountain as I grind to a halt, illuminating the monster chasing me once more. Hanging above me it is even more horrible. Its mandibles click together in anticipation of a meal of my soft flesh. I pull my arms and legs in and let myself fall another few dozen feet.


    My momentum becomes too fast and I fail to slow myself . I shoot down the pitfall, screaming in terror, and splash into freezing water, although it is not deep enough to cushion my impact entirely. My breath is knocked from me.


    Instinctively I jab Heartseeker upward. There is a snicking sound, though no hiss of pain, and several things splash down beside me. The momentum of the monster''s descent added to the force of my strike has meant at least some of its legs are severed. I quickly roll out of the way¡ªa few lost legs are not likely to slow this thing down.


    I scramble to my feet just as I feel a pincer try to close around my ankle. I blunder through the darkness and smash through something that feels like a wall of stalagmites. The creature snaps at my upper left arm and succeeds in grabbing it.


    I try to wrench away, but the grip is too strong and growing in strength. I can sense the chitin cutting through the steel. Once it gives, my arm will be severed.


    I cease panicking. A sense of calm comes over me, the calm of a battle trance. I see exactly what I need to do to kill this beast. I shift my free right hand up Heartseeker¡¯s shaft right to the base of the blade. The monster¡¯s other pincer grabs at my right arm, but I shift out the way and it targets my right leg instead. I let it grab hold, and push forward with my left leg toward the monster. It is all too happy to let me approach its maw.


    The moment before I feel the armor of my left arm give, I stab directly to where I hear the clicking mandibles. It is not a particularly strong thrust, but no creature has armor inside of its throat. Heartseeker sinks deep between the mandibles, and its runes flicker to life¡ªthe black blade chases after whatever passes for blood in this creature. I feel Heartseeker¡¯s shaft slide through my gauntlet as it drives itself up the creature¡¯s tubular body.


    The strength drains from the pincers and they fall away, splashing into the shallow water. I gasp in relief, give Heartseeker a few brutal twists, then pull it out of the creature¡¯s corpse. There¡¯s a larger splash as it collapses.


    I quickly back away. Who is to say it doesn¡¯t have regenerative abilities? Best thing to do is get out of here. I limp away through shallow water, then hear a crack at my feet. I freeze.


    The water running around my feet is fast flowing, and a sinking feeling takes hold of me. This place smells of limestone, a notoriously erodible rock. I swallow, realizing that the floor I stand on is likely very weak, and perhaps I am the first to step on it in a millennia. I try to tiptoe back the way I came, to the ridge of stalagmites, but my leg injury forces me to limp heavily and use Heartseeker as a walking stick.


    I cannot move gently enough. The floor cracks beneath me and I plummet. I land on stone, feel my legs crumple from the impact. A terrible ringing sound reverberates through my ears. Lights dance in my eyes, orangey blurs like forge-fires.


    Somehow I manage to stand up, then I collapse again.


    ¡°Breach!¡± someone shouts from a long way away. ¡°Cave-in!¡±


    I try to stand up again.


    ¡°There¡¯s something here!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a dwarf!¡±


    In the flickering light of the forges, I see a helmeted face appear before me. The helmet is like no helmet I have ever seen before, with strange, complex protrusions jutting from the sides. I try to say something, but pass out.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Scholar and the Guards

    I awaken in cold and utter darkness. I try to scramble to my feet, a nightmare about being chased through the tunnels by a many-legged beast fresh in my memory, but a sharp pain in my leg forces me to lie back down.


    I feel lighter. My armor has been removed, and all I have on are some plain nightclothes. A sheet is over me. It has a cold, leathery texture, but is thin and soft. I feel sore all over, and worse than that, there is a kind of soreness inside me. My breathing is labored, my heartbeat too. My skin feels loose on my bones. I feel my face, and am shocked to discover that my beard, once short and neat, is nearly to my waist. The hair feels brittle.


    I feel old. Terribly old. How long exactly was I wandering the tunnels?


    ¡°Hey!¡± I croak. My voice sounds old too. ¡°Hey, is anyone there? Hello?¡±


    There is no answer. A groan escapes my lips, then a sense of weakness takes hold of me and I sink back into sleep. When I wake again, I am surprised to see the room lit by a single flickering candle. A dwarf is sitting at my bedside, though it¡¯s still too dark to make out his features clearly.


    ¡°Morning,¡± I say.


    He frowns, as if he doesn¡¯t understand the word.


    ¡°Greetings.¡±


    ¡°Greetings,¡± he replies, and smiles broadly. ¡°How do you feel?¡±


    ¡°Terrible.¡±


    ¡°No surprise. The bzathletic you fought cut your leg deep. You lost a lot of blood.¡±


    ¡°That insect thing? You found its body, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes, when we investigated the roof. We need to thank you, actually. We had no idea a cave ran so close to the roof of our forges. If you hadn¡¯t broken through, it would have come down later in more devastating fashion, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad I could be of assistance.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no trouble.¡±


    His accent is strange and quite difficult for me to understand. His short ah he nearly pronounces like a long uh, and his z is closer to an s or th. I have traveled far, it seems.


    ¡°How long have I been down here?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°How long? How many days, hours?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°I mean to say, how much time has passed between when I fell into your forges, and now.¡±


    ¡°Ah!¡± he says. ¡°Time. Time. That is the dwarvish word for it. The scholar keeps on trying to explain what I think you¡¯re trying to.¡±


    ¡°Explain? What is there to explain?¡±


    ¡°I mean, the distance... Not along the tunnels, or one length of the fortress to the other, but more abstract... Ah, like there are days on the surface. With the sun, and all that.¡±


    ¡°You mean you¡¯ve never seen the sun?¡± I ask, and immediately feel stupid.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± he laughs.


    ¡°Where am I? How deep?¡±


    He smiles. Now my eyes have adjusted to the candlelight, I see that he is an older dwarf, with wise eyes, but he is not wrinkled. He has the look of internal energy that comes from a well-crafted amulet of unaging. He reminds me a little of Wharoth in that respect, though he smiles a lot more. He is one of those rare dwarves that seems to emanate an aura of kindness and friendliness.


    ¡°You are in the fortress of Gholaz-Dwoth, to give its runic name. The fortress of the deep darkness.¡±


    ¡°I am from the realm of the late Runethane Thanerzak.¡±


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°Ah, the famous dragonslayer.¡±


    I flinch a little at the mention of dragons. ¡°And you are?¡±


    ¡°My name is Nthazes. Runeknight of the fourth degree.¡±


    I reach out and shake his hand. ¡°My name is Zathar. Of the fifth degree... I think, at least.¡±


    ¡°You think? Your armor is certainly of that rank, though terribly rusted. Time... You have been down in the tunnels for a long stretch of it, I think.¡±


    ¡°I think so too.¡± I make a tentative attempt to sit up, and manage to swing my legs off the bed. The pain has diminished somewhat. ¡°Could we maybe get something to eat and drink?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Nthazes says, still smiling. ¡°Shall I bring some up, or would you like to meet the rest of us? There''s a few downstairs right now."


    "I''d be glad to meet you all."


    "Then I¡®ll lead you to the dining hall.¡±


    <hr>


    Nthazes walks me out of my room slowly and down a hallway. There are no candles here, although he doesn¡¯t seem to mind the lack of light. He walks confidently and does not stumble even once when he takes me down the stairs. The same cannot be said for me¡ªmy left thigh has started to ache terribly again and I limp clutching at the wall.


    A few turns later and we enter a large room. There are lights here, lanterns affixed to the walls, but inside each is only the tiniest of flames. Apart from those tiny yellow sparks, I can see nothing.


    Nthazes sits me down on a hard chair. Around me I sense the presence of other dwarves, and can hear them munching on their food.


    ¡°Our injured friend,¡± Nthazes announces to them. ¡°A runeknight of the fifth degree from Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s realm.¡±


    ¡°Welcome, fellow dwarf,¡± someone says formally. ¡°It has been a while since one of us came down from so far up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to have found you,¡± I respond.


    ¡°Shame about the forge though,¡± says another. ¡°I told the Runethane that we should map the tunnels above more carefully, but he only cares about what¡¯s below.¡±


    ¡°Below is why we are here,¡± another dwarf reminds him.


    ¡°Still, never hurts to be prudent,¡± says a different dwarf, or maybe the one from before? In the darkness I cannot tell who is who.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I whisper to Nthazes. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to be rude, but I can¡¯t see anything.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course," he laughs. "You aren''t used to being down here. Like our human friend."


    "Bring him and his light down," someone suggests. "He''ll be up in his rooms."


    "Very well," Nthazes laughs. "One moment."


    "Have him turn the brightness down a bit this time!" another calls after him. "I don''t want to be blinded."


    In the meantime, I''m offered some food. It¡¯s a trencher of papery bread, on top of which is something chewy and slightly slimy, tasting of fish. I eat it up gladly and only ask what it is after I¡¯m finished.


    ¡°Bthaeloth,¡± says one of the dwarves. ¡°Foraging party grabbed it. Still mostly fresh.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not bad,¡± I say, and I¡¯m being honest here: it¡¯s much better than worms and beetles, even if it isn¡¯t exactly succulent roasted pork.


    I accept a glass of beer¡ªone thing common to both above and below, it seems¡ªand am halfway through it when Nzathes returns in a brilliant glow of yellow light, a halo like the sun.


    ¡°Turn that down!¡± someone snaps. ¡°I told you not to blind us all!¡±


    ¡°All right, all right,¡± comes a gruff voice, and the halo diminishes in size.


    I nearly gasp in surprise. Behind Nthazes, clutching a lantern in one hand, stands a tall, thin creature. He looks a little like a dwarf, I suppose, but stretched out until he¡¯s nearly the height of a troll. His beard is short and white, contrasting with his dark bronze face. A human! The meaning of the dwarves¡¯ words from before only just now registers. There is a human living down here.


    ¡°This is the scholar,¡± Nthazes says, gesturing to him. ¡°He is researching the deep darkness at the pleasure of Runethane Yurok.¡±


    ¡°How do you do?¡± the scholar says to me. His voice is hoarse, and his face lined. He must be old for a human. ¡°I am Jaemes, from the Kingdom of Hyvaen, not that you¡¯ve heard of it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m doing all right,¡± I answer.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to see a normal dwarf,¡± he continues as he places his lantern on the table and sits awkwardly on one of the chairs. They are far too small for him. ¡°Not like these strange fellows. Not one of them has seen the sun, can you believe it?¡±


    ¡°I only ever saw it indirectly.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, the famous sky-mirror,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°What does it look like?¡±


    ¡°I... I can¡¯t say I ever paid that much attention to it. It did lighten things up a bit, though.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet it did,¡± says Jaemes. ¡°Could do with something like that down here.¡±


    ¡°You do nothing but complain,¡± snorts the dwarf that I think first spoke when I came down. ¡°Anyway, now that our guest can see us, we¡¯ll introduce ourselves. My name is Commander Cathez, of the second degree.¡±


    ¡°Fjalar, of the sixth.¡±


    ¡°Galar, also of the sixth.¡±


    ¡°Hastar, of the fifth.¡±


    Now I can see them all properly, I am taken aback by how different they look to the dwarves I¡¯m used to. Their beards are all very blonde, for one, and their skin is extremely pale. All dwarves¡¯ have pale skin, at least to my knowledge, due to our lives out of sunlight, but these five have such white skin that I worry they might crisp up and burn just from the light of Jaemes¡¯s lantern.


    ¡°Is this your guildhall?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No,¡± Jaemes answers. ¡°They don¡¯t have guilds like normal dwarves down here. This is a purely military installation.¡±


    ¡°He asked us, not you,¡± Cathez says sternly. He is the toughest looking of them: his white face is marred by several ragged pink scars. ¡°But yes, we have no guilds down here. We are the smallest realm I can think of, but we have a job to do and are proud of it.¡±


    ¡°A job? What job?¡± I ask.


    ¡°We are guards,¡± Nthazes says proudly. ¡°We guard the tunnels above.¡±


    ¡°Guard them from what?¡±


    ¡°The deep darkness.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Far Too Long

    ¡°What¡¯s the deep darkness?¡± I ask, and am met with shocked silence.


    ¡°You mean you don¡¯t know?¡± Commander Cathez asks. He sounds offended.


    ¡°Sorry, no.¡±


    ¡°The deep darkness,¡± Fjalar says, ¡°Is what lurks at the very bottom of the world.¡±


    ¡°I though the magma seas were at the very bottom.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± says Galar. ¡°The deep darkness lies below the magma seas. And in gaps between the seas, it is possible to drill through the rock to get to it. A long time ago some enterprising dwarves did that, and now we have to live here.¡±


    The two brothers are smaller and slighter than the rest, with keen eyes and sharp features. Their faces are identical, but Fjalar wears his beard in a fork, while Galar has his done into a trident.


    ¡°So it¡¯s like a deeper system of caves?¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± Nthazes says grimly. This is the first time he¡¯s lost the slight smile on his face. ¡°It exists in a system of caves, yes. But the deep darkness isn¡¯t just a place. It¡¯s something else. Something alive, for lack of a better word.¡±


    ¡°Something that would destroy us all if unleashed,¡± Cathez says solemnly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not all that,¡± Galar says. ¡°Just a kind of animal, if you ask me.¡±


    I turn to Nthazes. ¡°What does it look like, then?¡±


    ¡°Look like!¡± Jaemes scoffs. ¡°Doesn¡¯t look like anything. That¡¯s why it¡¯s the darkness. You can¡¯t see it, or at least, no one has yet. Which is why I¡¯m down here.¡±


    Nthazes shakes his head. ¡°You never will.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I will. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.¡±


    ¡°Your short, human life won¡¯t last long enough,¡± Fjalar scoffs.


    ¡°Having a short life is one of the benefits of being human. I¡¯d rather live to my natural lifespan than sit around forging for hundreds of years.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with forging?¡± I say, feeling slightly offended by this weird creature.


    ¡°Nothing, nothing,¡± Jaemes says with a dismissive wave of his hand. ¡°You dwarves can do what you like. Still, it¡¯s all crazy to me. Living down here with no light, banging on pieces of metal whenever you aren¡¯t standing around that awful tunnel.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be so rude,¡± Cathez snaps. ¡°It¡¯s our way of life.¡±


    ¡°But he has a point,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°We don¡¯t exactly get to forge from the most interesting materials, do we? Not like the dwarves further above.¡±


    ¡°Titanium and diamond are good enough,¡± Cathez says.


    I get the feeling that this is an oft-repeated discussion, and also feel strangely awkward sitting here with all these dwarves who know each other so well.


    ¡°I¡¯ve finished my meal,¡± I say, pushing my plate away. ¡°I ought to get back to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± says Jaemes. ¡°It would be rude of you to hear so much about us, while we''ve heard so little about you.¡±


    ¡°No, let¡¯s let him go,¡± Cathez says. ¡°He needs to recover.¡±


    ¡°He looks well enough to me. Tell me about Thanerzak. I heard some news about a dragon hunt before I came down here. How did that go?¡±


    ¡°It... It didn''t go so well. I¡¯m not sure myself what exactly happened, actually. There was...¡± I struggle to remember. All my memories from before the wandering seem so distant, somehow. ¡°There was a great heat, and then I ran.¡±


    ¡°Ran all the way down here?¡±


    ¡°Yes. That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Must have taken quite a long time.¡±


    I twist my beard nervously, and end up looking down at it. I freeze in horror. It is no longer black, but mixed with a few threads of ashen gray.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± Nthazes asks.


    ¡°I...¡± I look up at Jaemes. So intense is my gaze that he flinches slightly. ¡°When did you hear about the dragon hunt?¡±


    ¡°Before I embarked on my career down here. About ten years ago.¡±


    ¡°Ten years?¡± I gasp.


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    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right. A long time for us humans, though not for you dwar¡ª¡±


    ¡°Ten years!¡± I cry out. I leap from my seat and fall over it backwards. There¡¯s a loud thud as my head hits the ground, but I don¡¯t register any pain. Gasping, I flail with my arms at the table and pull myself up to one knee. ¡°Ten years!¡±


    Fjalar and Galar hurry to pull me back up while Nthazes rights my chair. I sit down shakily, then stand right back up.


    ¡°Ten years!¡± I cry out again. ¡°Oh, hell!¡±


    ¡°Calm down,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°What does it matter?¡±


    ¡°What does it matter? What does it matter? It¡¯s ten years, for fuck¡¯s sake!¡±


    He pours me another glass of beer. ¡°Calm down. Ten isn¡¯t such a big number. There¡¯s twenty times that many guards living down here, plus the Runethane and his staff. Nothing to worry about.¡±


    Still standing, I swig down the beer in one gulp. ¡°You don¡¯t understand... Ten years is a long time. Hell, it¡¯s a third of my lifetime now!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re young for a runeknight then,¡± Jaemes remarks. He¡¯s not at all perturbed by my outburst. ¡°Just starting out. What¡¯s there to worry about?¡±


    ¡°I... I was wandering. Running. I got lost. Oh hell, ten years. I didn''t mean to wander for so long.¡±


    ¡°Yes, darkness does tend to play havoc with your sense of time. That¡¯s what¡¯s wrong with this lot.¡±


    ¡°How could I have been wandering for ten years? How?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s millions upon millions of miles of tunnels in your dwarven realms down here. And you dwarves are adapted for life in them. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s others who have wandered for longer.¡±


    ¡°I only met one other living thing!¡±


    ¡°Not so surprising if you weren¡¯t anywhere particularly damp or spacious.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± I say, holding my head in my hands. ¡°I can¡¯t have been wandering for ten years. It¡¯s just not possible.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just ten,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Not such a big number really.¡±


    ¡°It is when it¡¯s years! Do you really not understand how time works?¡±


    ¡°We understand that one thing comes after another. We just don¡¯t measure it. What happens, happens. Whatever time it takes...¡± He shrugs. ¡°Who cares? We all have amulets, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± I say. ¡°But that¡¯s beside the point.¡± I bring my glass back up to my lips, remember that it¡¯s empty, and half-drop it back to the table with a thunk. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I have to be going now. There are things I must do up... Up with my guild. If they escaped... Do you know where the realm of Runeking Ulrike is? They might have escaped to there...¡± I begin to stagger toward the door clutching my injured thigh. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I can¡¯t enjoy your hospitality any longer, but I need to go now...¡±


    Commander Cathez grasps me firmly by the shoulder, pulls me back and sits me down.


    ¡°Calm yourself,¡± he says. ¡°There¡¯s no need to panic.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get him another beer,¡± he orders the twins. ¡°Now look here. You¡¯ve come through a terrible shock, and of course you¡¯ll have to go up and find your guild before long. Don¡¯t worry, we won¡¯t stop you doing that. But you¡¯re in no fit state to take to the roads just yet. And your armor and weapon are in need of extensive maintenance.¡± He grabs another glass of beer from Galar and all but forces it down my throat. Foam splashes down my graying beard. ¡°You¡¯ll have to stay here for a while.¡±


    I push his hand away. ¡°You don¡¯t understand,¡± I say. ¡°My guild will be looking for me. Vanerak too¡ªa lot of terrible things have happened. Things I was involved in. The black dragon¡ª¡±


    ¡°Calm down!¡± Cathez snaps. ¡°Think about it this way. I may not understand these years, but I understand mathematics. One is a tenth of ten. A year is enough to heal up and repair your equipment, surely. And to craft yourself an amulet.¡±


    ¡°A year is a long time. Hell, everything I went through up there took about a year.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a big number next to ten,¡± Nthazes points out. ¡°One would be a good length, I think. Even two.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    ¡°However far... Long you spend with us,¡± Cathez says, ¡°You still need to repair your equipment.¡±


    I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. ¡°Yes. Yes, I suppose you¡¯re right.¡±


    Nthazes pats me on the back. ¡°Excellent. Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯re safe down here with us. And we could do with some tales from up above. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve seen all sorts.¡±


    ¡°You could say that.¡±


    ¡°Perfect,¡± Commander Cathez says. ¡°It¡¯s agreed.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I suppose it has to be.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re happy to have you. We¡¯re always short on hands.¡±


    ¡°I... I¡¯m happy to earn my keep.¡± My voice is trembling. Indeed, my whole body is.


    ¡°We¡¯ll teach you how to forge your amulet of unaging,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Once you put it on, you¡¯ll feel more youthful than ever.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    After my breathing has returned to normal and I¡¯ve had another few glasses of beer, Nthazes leads me back up to my chamber. I collapse back into my bed and shut my eyes. The door clicks as Nthazes leaves, and I try to clear my mind and sleep.


    But I cannot. Ten years! I cannot wrap my head around the idea that so much time has passed. How could any dwarf survive alone in the tunnels for so long without meeting anyone? Yet the human scholar is right when he says that there are millions of miles of tunnels. Millions upon millions, both natural and also those carved by hundreds of thousands of years of dwarven civilization. And most are only populated by fungus and insects, if there isn¡¯t enough space and moisture to support anything bigger.


    Still, it¡¯s unbelievable. The human scholar must have made some kind of mistake, but the state of my beard is evidence that what he said is true. It really has been ten years since the hunt for the black dragon, the terrible war, and the catastrophe that followed¡ªthe terrible heat, and doubtless utter destruction above, caused by my desperate quest for information about my brother.


    What has become of my guild? They could all be dead, for all I know. Kind Wharoth and everyone else. Even Vanerak. And if they are not dead, what do they remember of me? Are they looking for me? No¡ªafter ten years they will have given up for sure.


    Then again, to a dwarf like Vanerak, over five centuries old, ten years is not such a long time. It only feels long to me because I am so young. Yes, even thirty is very young for a runeknight. Wharoth too has his own amulet, and is three centuries old. To veteran runeknights, ten years probably only feels like a few months.


    This thought calms me down somewhat. If anything, I am now at a more normal age for my rank and skill. Thirty is still very young for attaining the fifth degree, I think, but not unheard of.


    There is no reason to panic. My way forward is clear: take on my job with these strange, timeless dwarves, repair my armor and weapons, and forge an amulet of unaging. Then I can reembark on my quest to find my way back up to my guild and Vanerak, and submit myself to justice.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Rusted Away

    The human was right. Being in utter darkness does play havoc with your sense of time. I experienced the phenomenon a little during my time with the river trolls, but at least they had a regular schedule of meals for me to judge the passing of days by. There is no such schedule here.


    When I get hungry, I grope my way down to the meal-hall and eat. Sometimes there are others there, sometimes not. They have no words for ¡®breakfast¡¯, ¡®lunch¡¯, or ¡®dinner¡¯. A meal is a meal, and they take one whenever they are hungry. Somehow, or perhaps because of this, there are always enough on guard duty at the main tunnel to the darkness.


    After each meal, I stumble back up to my bed to rest for who knows how many hours at a time. My shock at discovering the length of my journey has given me a slight fever, and after I lie down I writhe, coated with sweat in the darkness in half-sleep. Each time I wake, I hurry to light the candle at my bedside and stare down at my beard. It¡¯s a compulsion: I am terrified that it will be suddenly be down to my knees and albino white, that I will have missed another ten years, or twenty or thirty.


    Finally my fever breaks. A while after, my leg wound is fully healed.


    One mealtime I catch Nthazes and ask where my armor and Heartseeker are being kept.


    ¡°Down in the forges,¡± he tells me. ¡°If you¡¯re feeling better, I¡¯ll show you to them.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s no trouble,¡± I reply. ¡°I don¡¯t want to distract you from your guard duties.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s enough runeknights down there at the moment. I won¡¯t be missed.¡±


    ¡°You really don¡¯t have a roster or anything?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a roster?¡±


    ¡°Never mind. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    He leads me out of the barracks, although out is something of a relative term. There doesn¡¯t seem to be any open cavern down here, just tunnels upon tunnels of absolute blackness. He seems to be able to find his way around easily enough, though.


    Some way along one of these tunnels he stops.


    ¡°Excuse me for a moment,¡± he says. ¡°I need to grab my ears.¡±


    I frown. What does he mean by ¡®ears¡¯? I saw his ears clearly enough when I first woke up. He must mean some kind of armor, but he is already equipped in his full panoply, or at least he sounds like it, making a metallic rustle with each step.


    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± he says when he returns.


    ¡°No trouble.¡±


    We continue on until we come to a door, though I can only tell that¡¯s why we stopped when I hear the click of him opening it. A square of dim orange appears, outlining his silhouette, and now I understand what he meant by his ¡®ears¡¯.


    From either side of his titanium helm sprout great metal protrusions, each a half-oval about eight inches long, cupped like a shell.


    He leads me into the forging chamber. It¡¯s a low, wide room, with large pits arrayed in a grid formation across it. In each of these forging pits I can see a fiery glow, and from several sparks are spraying out and the sound of hammer on metal is emanating. We skirt around them and make our way to the back of the room where dozens of massive chests sit with just enough space between each to walk.


    We arrive at the storage chest where my equipment is being kept, he bends down to open the lock, and I squat down opposite him to get a look at the ears from the front. Inside each is an intricate whorl of thin metal pieces, runed exquisitely and studded with diamonds at appropriate points of power concentration.


    ¡°What are those ¡®ears¡¯, exactly?¡± I ask Nthazes as he works the lock.


    ¡°These?¡± he says, tapping one. ¡°So we can see things properly.¡±


    ¡°See?¡±


    ¡°In a manner of speaking. You¡¯ll understand once you¡¯ve forged your own pair.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been finding your way around just fine without them until now. Do you need them for forging?¡±


    ¡°I know the barracks like the back of my hairy hand,¡± he laughs. ¡°I don¡¯t need them there. But for forging, yes, they help. I suppose you just use sight when you forge up there?¡±


    ¡°Feeling too.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re crippling yourself then. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll teach you.¡±


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    ¡°I take it you use the ears when you¡¯re guarding too.¡±


    ¡°Yes. You can¡¯t see the darkness coming, but you can hear it. Or rather, with these you can see the silence. And of course when we¡¯re foraging up above we use them to hunt.¡±


    ¡°Maybe if I¡¯d had some I wouldn¡¯t have wasted those ten years blundering around.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it a waste,¡± he says as the lock finally clicks open. ¡°I think you¡¯ll enjoy life down here. It¡¯s a good life. No petty squabbles between dwarves. Though it isn¡¯t half dangerous, of course... Here¡¯s your armor.¡±


    He lifts open the chest, which is about as long as I am tall and a bit wider. My armor is laid out in it in full. I groan in despair. The ambient glow here is a little too dim for me, but even in the low light I can see how badly the metal is rusted. Not a single part remains fully reflective, and at the joints the steel is flaking away like burned paper. Even the abyssal salamander runes are coated with greenish slime, and the power that once emanated from them so grandly is now but a whimper.


    ¡°I¡¯m amazed you managed to kill that big bzathletic in that,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°You must be quite the fighter.¡±


    I¡¯m too depressed to reply. I pick up one of the gauntlets to examine more closely, and a big chunk of rust breaks off and shatters into dust on the stone floor.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a totally lost cause,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°The runes just need the mold scraped from them. And the metal under the runes isn¡¯t so rusted. You can salvage those bits and remake the rest with titanium. Though the welding process is likely to be tricky. You probably ought to practice on some scrap metal first.¡±


    ¡°Titanium... I¡¯ve never forged with it before. Never been able to afford it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fairly cheap down here. There¡¯s a mine of it a few miles up, and Runeking Ulrike gives us a tax rebate on it.¡±


    ¡°Your Runethane is one of his subjects then? Like Thanerzak was?¡±


    ¡°Yes, though I don¡¯t know much about politics.¡±


    ¡°Neither do I.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± says Nthazes, sounding surprised. ¡°I thought you dwarves from above were all very political.¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°You fight each other a lot though, right? For power?¡±


    ¡°The Runethanes had their war, and I suppose we followed along. I was just dragged along, really.¡±


    ¡°Huh. I heard it was a real nest of rats up there. Guilds competing for influence and whatnot.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a bit of that, yes,¡± I say, feeling vaguely offended. ¡°But mostly we just get on with our forging.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he laughs. ¡°Maybe not all the stereotypes are accurate.¡±


    ¡°No. Though you¡¯re right that there¡¯s a lot of fighting between dwarves. A lot of nastiness, in fact. There¡¯s none of that down here?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t afford to waste our energy on squabbles. Not with the deep darkness clawing at us.¡±


    ¡°It sounds dangerous.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± he says solemnly. ¡°I¡¯ll get your weapon for you now. You¡¯ll be pleased to know it¡¯s in a better state than your armor.¡±


    He wanders off to leave me staring down at my rusted armor. I run a finger along the breastplate, and reddish dust coats my hand. I sigh. It took me months to make this armor¡ªthough I suppose months are nothing compared to ten years. Even so, the amount of difficulty and danger I had to go through to get the materials was extreme.


    Well, I ought to look on the bright side. Once I''m done repairing the suit with titanium, it¡¯ll be better than ever. If I manage to master forging with that notoriously fickle metal, that is. I¡¯ve heard it¡¯s three times harder to work than steel.


    ¡°Here¡¯s your weapon,¡± Nthazes says.


    I hurry to stand up and take Heartseeker from him, and breath a sigh of relief. Its haft isn¡¯t falling apart like steel might have, but has just gone a whitish color. And the black blade is entirely free from corrosion. The runes too are whole¡ªits so-so performance against the insect-thing must have been due to the creature¡¯s relative lack of blood rather than damage to the weapon.


    ¡°What¡¯s the haft made from?¡± Nthazes asks, peering curiously at it.


    ¡°Aluminum.¡±


    ¡°Oh! I¡¯ve never seen it before.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t get it down here. I¡¯ve heard it¡¯s very hard to smelt. Light and strong, though.¡±


    ¡°Yes, very light. Though most dwarves prefer other metals.¡±


    ¡°And the runes on your armor, what are they made of?¡±


    ¡°Abyssal salamander.¡±


    He grins widely. ¡°Amazing! I¡¯ve never seen one.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t get salamanders down here?¡±


    ¡°No. Nothing with four legs, unfortunately.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Occasionally the Runethane will import some pigs for a feast after we beat back a particularly difficult incursion, but other than that, no. Just things with lots of legs or none at all.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve never left here?¡±


    ¡°No. I would like to, though. Go and travel to the upper realms. Maybe even the surface! Have you ever been to the surface?¡±


    ¡°No. But I saw the sun and moon through the mirrors.¡±


    ¡°Amazing! It must be fascinating, living in the upper caves.¡± His stares upwards at the ceiling and his eyes glaze over. ¡°We don¡¯t even have many books about them down here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know, if you can keep on showing me around down here, and maybe teach me a bit about forging titanium.¡±


    He grabs my hand and shakes it firmly. ¡°Of course. Just promise me one other thing¡ªif the Runethane gives me permission, I¡¯d like to travel upward with you when you leave.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said you liked it down here?¡± I say, surprised. ¡°No politicking and rivalries.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I do like it. But at least once in my life I¡¯d like to see how you really live up in the upper caves. Explore the wider world.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I say, nodding. ¡°Just...¡± I wonder what his reaction will be when he finds out about my dealings with the black dragon, either by my telling him or from someone else. ¡°Well, going upward is still a while away yet. I have a lot to do down here.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. In the meantime, let¡¯s find something you can use to start scrubbing the rust away.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Twin Forging

    Nthazes helps me lug the storage chest down into the nearest forging pit, and I am pleased to see that it is well equipped, if free of ornamentation. The bright glow of the coals in the furnace shines brightly on Nthazes¡¯ armor and the diamonds embedded in his titanium plates glitter brilliantly. He is magnificently equipped, though the long ears still look very odd to me.


    He shows me where the hammers and tongs are, and how to operate the various vises and grind-wheels. He manages to dig out a coarse scraping cloth and a bucket of vinegar, and even goes so far as to gift me some sheets of decent iron I can use to patch up the most egregious holes.


    ¡°Of course, it¡¯ll only be a temporary measure,¡± he says. ¡°But I think you¡¯ll be able to earn some titanium to begin the real work soon enough.¡±


    ¡°By guarding against the darkness with you?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to make something light-enruned before that. Until then you¡¯ll have to work with the foraging parties.¡±


    ¡°Hunting the bzathletics and such?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Don¡¯t worry, most aren¡¯t as big as the thing you came across. Anyway, I¡¯ll leave you to it. Remember to put everything back once you¡¯re done, or the commander will give you hell.¡±


    ¡°No problem. And thank you. I¡¯ll try to repay you however I can. Even before it''s time for us to leave.¡±


    ¡°Just tell me something interesting over our next meal,¡± he laughs. ¡°That¡¯s all I want. Really, it¡¯s excellent to meet someone from somewhere interesting for once.¡±


    ¡°What about the human?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I suppose he¡¯s interesting enough in his own way. But he¡¯s a bit hard to talk to. Anyway, I really ought to be going now.¡±


    ¡°See you around.¡±


    ¡°See you.¡±


    He leaves me in the forging pit and immediately I get to work. My first order of business is to scrub away the rust. I lay my breastplate on the anvil, dip the coarse cloth in the vinegar bucket, and pat the steel all over until it is completely soaked. Usually you would have to wait overnight after this stage, but Nthazes told me this vinegar is too strong for that and should be rubbed away immediately.


    I do so, scraping the rust away with vigor. It¡¯s hard physical work, as hard on my exhausted body as hammering was back before my wandering. I rub the cloth in tight circles, taking off great quantities of red rust-mud, which I scrape into a waste bucket with my fingernails.


    Times passes¡ªabout three hours? I step back and take a look at what¡¯s left of my breastplate. The rust is gone, but that was about half of the thing. What remains is a runed framework with more holes than a kitchen colander. My heart sinks. Repairing this by welding titanium is going to take longer than forging it from scratch did.


    And I still have every single other armor piece to fix up too. Not to mention the fact that because titanium is far harder to work with than steel, I¡¯ll need to practice with scraps just like Nthazes suggested. Hell, I¡¯ve never even attempted to weld one kind of metal to another before.


    Is one year going to be enough? I have to craft an amulet of unaging too, and they are notoriously tricky. Not a few promising runeknights have made mistakes in the forging of their amulets with devastating consequences. I¡¯ll have to craft it slowly and carefully.


    Two years, then? Even three? But how am I going to measure the time? There is nothing down here, no calendars, no clocks, nothing. Some of my panic returns and I am forced to sit down on the steps of the pit, breathing heavily.


    What if I end up spending another ten years down here? Then when I come up, they will say I¡¯ve fled from justice, and my punishment will be made worse. Brutal torture, mutilation, followed by an even more brutal execution...


    ¡°You all right?¡± someone calls to me. I look up, and see one of the twins has just come up from his own forging pit¡ªGalar, the one with his beard done into a trident.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I say, swallowing to wet my suddenly dry throat. ¡°It¡¯s just strange not to have any way of measuring time.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°We manage fine. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll get used to it.¡±


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    ¡°Hey!¡± I say, suddenly thinking of something. ¡°What about the human, Jaemes? He¡¯s managed to count the years. Maybe he has a clock? And a calendar.¡±


    ¡°A clock? That like a ruler for time, I suppose? He might.¡±


    ¡°He lives in the barracks like the rest of us, doesn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°He does. He¡¯s strange though. Hard to talk to. You can try if you want, though.¡±


    ¡°I think I will. Do you know where his room is?¡±


    ¡°A few down from yours, I think.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, and begin to put away my tools. My arms are aching¡ªit¡¯ll take a while to build back up the strength I need to forge for long periods of time. Once I¡¯m done, and the storage chest with my armor is locked and put back in its marked place by the wall, I make my way past the other forging pits to the exit.


    As I pass Galar¡¯s pit, I see a curious sight. He¡¯s not the only one down there, but is working with his brother. Fjalar is holding a small piece of metal in place with tongs while Galar hammers it carefully. The metal is so bright it shines like a star of the surface sky.


    I shade my eyes to try and see what it is. It¡¯s not a weapon, certainly, nor any kind of armor. Gradually the light fades, and I see that it is a tetrahedron of some kind of metal I do not know. At each point glitters a diamond. An amulet of unaging?


    Galar puts down his hammer and, using a small pair of tongs, takes up a long piece of glass from a table next to the furnace. With his free hand he turns a wheel on the side of the furnace and the flames within roar and brighten. Sweat drips down his beard.


    ¡°Careful it doesn¡¯t shatter this time,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°Listen well.¡±


    ¡°I always do,¡± Galar grunts. Both dwarves are wearing ears like Nthazes¡¯, but modified to fit to their bare heads by means of a metal band curving over their albino-haired scalps. They are also wearing goggles¡ªnot of anything transparent, but solid steel. They are forging by sound and feel alone.


    Galar places the glass rod into the furnace and waits. His face is very close to the roaring heat, and his skin shines with sweat. His brow is contorted in concentration. The glass begins to shimmer as it transforms from transparent to a translucent crimson. He snatches it back out with the tongs and holds it close to one ear.


    ¡°It¡¯s singing,¡± he says. ¡°Very clearly.¡±


    ¡°Clearly enough?¡± Fjalar asks. ¡°I don¡¯t want to have to remake this thing.¡±


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    ¡°It better be. Bring it over here.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to order me,¡± snaps Galar. ¡°I know what to do.¡±


    He returns to the anvil and gently touches the crimson rod to the topmost corner of the tetrahedron. A strange thing happens: the moment the glass contacts the diamond there, a bubble of light appears. The bubble stretches upward, quickly at first, then it begins to slow as it reaches the top. A keening sound accompanies the transformation, lowering in pitch as the bubble''s progress slows.


    ¡°Come on, come on...¡± Fjalar hisses.


    ¡°Nearly there,¡± Galar says in a pained voice. ¡°Nearly!¡±


    The bubble reaches the top of the glass, then the whole thing shatters into a thousand fragments. The twins shout in pain as their faces are peppered with shards. The force of the shattering is so great that some flecks of glass even embed themselves into the dwarves¡¯ steel goggles.


    ¡°Damn it!¡± Fjalar screams, slamming his fist on the anvil. ¡°You idiot!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not my bloody fault! Whose idea was this whole craft anyway?¡±


    ¡°Yours!¡±


    ¡°Yes, but doing it this way was your idea!¡±


    I slip backwards out of sight and walk away, curious about what they were making but mostly feeling slightly shaken. Not so much at their anger, but at the weirdness of them working together. A dwarf makes his or her own equipment¡ªonly the smallest children work at the forge with a teacher. For two dwarves to share in the making of something is unheard of. Who will equip the finished creation? And twins are no exception to this rule, as far as I know.


    Things really are different down here. I hurry out of the forging chambers, hoping no one saw me peeping. Watching another dwarf at work is considered rude up where I¡¯m from, but for all I know down here it could be a taboo carrying the strictest of penalties. I tell myself to be more careful in future.


    <hr>


    After blundering back through the corridors, and asking for directions from no fewer than five dwarves whose feet I trip over, I finally make it back to my room. After taking a short nap, I decide to see if I can find Jaemes.


    Galar said his room was a few doors down from mine, so I knock on the third along. It¡¯s opened by a dwarf¡ªhis voice doesn¡¯t come down on me from above.


    "Yes?" he asks.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I say. ¡°Where is Jaemes¡¯ chamber?¡±


    ¡°Next to mine,¡± the dwarf replies grimly. ¡°Left.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    He shuts the door and I knock on the next one along. This time the gruff voice of the human answers:


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°Zathar. The dwarf who fell in from above. I¡¯d like to talk.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡±


    ¡°Time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m busy writing.¡±


    ¡°When can I... I mean, can I come again later?¡±


    I hear him laugh loudly. It¡¯s a harsh sound, like the bark of an animal.


    ¡°When! A good joke down here,¡± he says. ¡°A fellow refugee from the saner places of the world, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I suppose you could say that.¡±


    ¡°I suppose I could too. Fine, you can come in for a bit. I''ve got writer''s block anyhow. Just make sure to shut the door behind you. The rest don¡¯t like it when light leaks out.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Human Scholar

    I enter Jaemes'' chamber, making sure to shut the door tightly behind me. It¡¯s illuminated very brightly by his lantern, which sits on a large desk in the room''s center. Behind it sits Jaemes with a spotted gray quill in one hand. His other hand is holding open a book, one page of which is two-thirds filled with tight scribbles, and its opposite blank. His bright blue eyes bore into mine. Some dribble is leaking onto his white beard, and he wipes it onto his sleeve.


    ¡°Apologies for the raucous laughter,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯d invite you to sit down, but there¡¯s only one chair. I don¡¯t get many visitors.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stand for now,¡± I say, and approach his desk. With him seated, I¡¯m looking down on him, but only just. ¡°I get the feeling that you¡¯re busy, anyhow.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m always busy. Always writing. That¡¯s a scholar¡¯s job, you see¡ªwriting books. I¡¯ve heard you dwarves have scholars too, though I¡¯ve never seen one.¡±


    ¡°Neither have I. Though there must be a few, because we have plenty of books.¡±


    ¡°Do you? Up where you¡¯re from maybe¡ªthere¡¯s precious few down here.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    He rubs the tip of his quill dry on a wad of blotting cotton then sets it down beside his book. ¡°Really. No light to read by. Most of their forging is passed down through word of mouth, although the Runethane has a few treatises. Five, in fact. He let me read them all.¡±


    ¡°You must be on good terms with him.¡±


    ¡°Well, I was,¡± he chuckles. ¡°He¡¯s grown a little cold to me lately. Thinks I¡¯m outstaying my welcome, and he¡¯s hardly wrong.¡±


    ¡°Ten years is a very long time,¡± I say. ¡°At least to me. I thought the dwarves here don¡¯t care for time, though? Is the Runethane different?¡±


    ¡°No, not really. Runethane Yurok has spent nearly his whole life down here just like the rest of them. But they do measure time¡ªjust not like you or I measure it.¡±


    ¡°How, then?¡±


    ¡°By events. Achievements. Successful hunts and incursions driven back. Books written, in my case.¡±


    ¡°But they don¡¯t worry about how long it takes between them?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. You¡¯re a sharp one, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Not really,¡± I say, remembering all the terrible mistakes I¡¯ve made in my life so far.


    ¡°No need to be modest. It¡¯s not a virtue, contrary to popular belief. Anyway, as for what you¡¯re here for, just let me get it.¡±


    He stands up and opens the drawer of his bedside table.


    ¡°But I haven¡¯t¡ª¡± I begin.


    He takes a clock out and wiggles it in front of my face triumphantly. ¡°I¡¯m a scholar,¡± he says. ¡°That means I¡¯m smart. Not that you¡¯d have to be that smart to figure out what you came here for. A way of keeping track of time.¡±


    Now that he¡¯s standing up, I realize how tall he truly is. Nearly as big as Dwatrall. He looms over me with his strange bronze face and bright blue eyes which sparkle with pleasure at his own triumph. I can understand why the dwarves down here are reluctant to talk to him.


    ¡°You seem a very forward fellow,¡± he continues. ¡°But I don¡¯t think you¡¯re rude enough to ask me to give it to you.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say hurriedly. ¡°I just thought if you had some way of keeping track of the days, you might be happy to share information.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, as a scholar, I¡¯m always happy to share information,¡± he laughs. ¡°Have a seat on the bed.¡±


    I sit down, and he drags his chair around so it faces me. He sits back down and holds the clock face out toward me. It''s a simple, solid oak cube with two iron hands, and it reads ten minutes past four.


    ¡°Is it morning or evening?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Should be evening. Though I warn you that I¡¯ve probably got it wrong a few times in the past, so it might be morning. Still, I can keep track of time approximately with this.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a calendar too?¡±


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    ¡°Not as such. Just a piece of paper with the days marked off. So I know that it¡¯s been more or less three thousand, eight hundred and forty-six days since I arrived here.¡±


    ¡°More than ten years then,¡± I sigh. ¡°Not to mention your journey down.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that only took a few months.¡±


    ¡°I wish I¡¯d found such a direct route,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s best not to wander off the main roads when you''re underground.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t have much of a choice.¡±


    ¡°Chased by a dragon, eh?¡±


    ¡°Something like that. Has there really been no news from Thanerzak¡¯s realm? Even about the war between him and Broderick?¡±


    ¡°Well, Ulrike has a lot of Runethanes under him. And news takes a while to filter down here, unfortunately, and no one cares about what goes on above anyway. This place really is cut off¡ªyou have no idea by how much. No one remembers us.¡±


    ¡°But your Runethane Yurok is a subject of Runeking Ulrike, isn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Politically speaking, yes. Practically speaking, we¡¯re left to ourselves down here. A tiny backwater realm. Our Yurok is nowhere near as dramatic as your Thanerzak is, either.¡±


    ¡°Was,¡± I say. ¡°Here¡¯s some news for you: Runethane Thanerzak is dead. Beheaded by Broderick.¡±


    Jaemes leans back a little and grimaces. ¡°Another victim of you dwarves¡¯ petty power struggles, I see. Not that us humans don''t have the same issues.¡±


    ¡°You really haven¡¯t heard about it?¡±


    ¡°No. Yurok might have, possibly. He probably doesn¡¯t care though. Like I said, no one cares much about what goes on above.¡±


    ¡°I see. Doesn¡¯t that bother you?¡±


    ¡°Not really. I don¡¯t care much either, not even about my own people¡¯s wars. That¡¯s why I came down here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re here to study the deep darkness, right?¡±


    ¡°I am now. Originally I came down to study the effect of near-constant lightlessness on dwarf physiology. But the deep darkness is just so... Fascinating.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve heard it described that way. It sounds terrifying to me.¡±


    ¡°That too. But also fascinating.¡±


    He stares wistfully at the wall, where a window would be if we were in a building rather than a chamber hollowed out of solid stone.


    ¡°Do you like it here?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes, surprisingly. It¡¯s nicer than being back up in the university. No backstabbing. Everyone¡¯s very honest, even if they don¡¯t like me much. But I wasn¡¯t liked very much at the university either,¡± he laughs. ¡°So there¡¯s no difference there. Here I can study in peace. Though I am a little starved for intelligent conversation.¡±


    ¡°We dwarves prefer to forge than talk. Though we¡¯re plenty intelligent.¡±


    ¡°You are, in your own way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never met a human before. Are you really so different? You just seem like tall dwarves to my eyes.¡±


    ¡°Oh, there are many differences.¡± He grins widely. ¡°I¡¯m an expert, you know. Take the dwarvish skeleton, for instance...¡±


    He proceeds to launch into a long lecture about the differences between dwarf and human physiology. I learn a great deal of fascinating and rather useless information. For instance, I find out that dwarf bones are nearly fifty percent thicker and sixty percent denser than those of humans. Our pupils are a third greater in circumference. We have far more stamina, but our running speed is on average barely half of a what a human can manage. Certain regions of the dwarvish brain, which have been determined through grisly experiments to control fine motor movements, are more developed than the equivalent in humans, though those which deal with facial recognition and social relationships are smaller.


    Apparently our beards are of particular interest to the human scholars like Jaemes who make us their field of study. They are made from incredibly strong fibers, resistant to burning, and never stop growing. Not normal hair at all. Yes, the secrets of the evolution of the dwarvish beard are a subject of much debate.


    When he finally stops talking, I see on his clock that more than forty minutes have passed.


    ¡°Ah,¡± he laughs. ¡°I see that I¡¯m the one who¡¯s ended up keeping you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since I listened to a lecture. I used to go to a lot about metallurgy.¡±


    ¡°Well, having an old man bore you is a small price to pay for getting your sense of time back. Don¡¯t you worry about losing your temporal bearing. I¡¯ll keep you updated on how many days have passed.¡±


    I stand up and bow deeply. ¡°Thank you. I¡¯ll try not to bother you too often.¡±


    He waves a dismissive hand. ¡°Bother me as often as you like. Like I said, I¡¯m starved for intelligent conversation. And writing is an awfully boring business.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I¡¯ll try to humor you.¡±


    ¡°Splendid.¡±


    ¡°By the way,¡± I say nervously. ¡°How many days have passed since I arrived here?¡±


    ¡°Two weeks and three days.¡±


    I breath a sigh of relief. ¡°Not too long then.¡±


    ¡°Not long at all.¡±


    I promise him I¡¯ll come again soon, and make my way four doors back down the corridor to my room. When I lie down on my bed, I can¡¯t help but smile. My first human! And to be perfectly honest, he wasn¡¯t hard to talk to at all. I guess him doing most of the talking made it easy.


    And now I have a way to keep track of the days!


    Wharoth was right: most of those you meet are a good sort. People you can trust, be they dwarves or humans. Of course I¡¯ll be expected to earn my keep down here, they won¡¯t help me out for nothing in return, but with such kindness around me, I¡¯m only happy to work hard.


    I shut my eyes, still smiling. This fortress against the darkness, Gholaz-Dwoth, seems to me at this moment like a perfect haven of trust and brotherhood. Of a single focused goal, to protect those above from the darkness below, and no time for petty squabbles or individual ambition.


    I¡¯m rather looking forward to a year or two or reprieve here. I have a feeling it''s going to be quite peaceful.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Iron Repairs

    I spend the next few days¡ªfour by Jaemes¡¯ count¡ªscrubbing out the rust from the other pieces of my armor. It¡¯s even more depressing work than doing the breastplate was, for the thinner arm, shoulder, leg plates as well as my helmet turn out to be more rust than metal. My boots fared even worse than these, since a lot of my wandering was trekking through shallow streams; on top of the rusted plates, the leather soles are totally rotted away.


    It¡¯s incredible that I didn''t notice the damage¡ªlike the old tale of the frog being boiled alive, not noticing the heat of the water increasing in small increments, I was oblivious to the fact that my armor was falling apart a little further with every step I took.


    My gauntlets are the worst. Their fine plates, so carefully designed to slide over each other, are now nothing but lumpy masses of red. Once I work them over with the vinegar, only the runes remain, each fused to a thin skein of metal protected from decay by incandesite bonding.


    I give each armor plate another once over with the vinegar and cloth to get out the very last stubborn flecks of red, then I lay everything out on the floor in front of the furnace to get a clear look in the fiery glow.


    More than half the metal has been scrubbed away. What remains is a steel skeleton.


    I allow myself a day of rest, or at least what I guess is about a day, then return to the forge to do what I can with the iron plates Nthazes was kind enough to provide me with.


    Cutting out pieces to fit each gap exactly would be foolish, I decide, because eventually I will have to remove them and do the same with titanium. Instead I decide to create a new suit of iron armor of relatively thin plates, then weld the framework of my remaining steel armor onto it.


    At least, that¡¯s what I will do for the breastplate, back, legs, arms and pauldrons. The boots and gauntlets are too damaged and too fiddly for this method to be possible. I¡¯ll have to make simple iron boots and gauntlets for now¡ªunruned too, since I don¡¯t have any reagent.


    I decide to do my left pauldron first. I cut out an appropriately sized section of iron and hammer it roughly into shape. Once it is approximately the right dimensions, I place the remains of my original pauldron over it and make precise measurements so I can alter it to fit exactly.


    Fitting it exactly proves to be tricky. Every time I think I have got the shape just right, it turns out that the iron has warped beyond what I calculated so that the curve doesn¡¯t match up or the edges are askew. Eventually I realize I have no choice but to give up on getting it totally exact, and I settle on good enough.


    Now for the welding. I put the iron pauldron into the front of the furnace, and a tungsten crucible containing some iron offcuts, beaten very thin, into the back. Then I turn up the heat as high as it will go. Once the pauldron is glowing yellow hot I remove it and place it on the anvil. I wait a while longer then remove the crucible. Inside, the iron scraps are white and on the very edge of melting.


    I gently lay the near-melted, card-thin iron scraps upon the yellow-hot iron where the remaining metal of the original pauldron will make contact. Then I put down my tongs, put on an extra pair of thick leather gloves, and embark on the most nerve-wracking part of the operation.


    I take up the original pauldron and fit it exactly over the new one. I press down hard, squidging the near molten patches of white iron down like glue, and put my face right down close and press all around even harder to make sure there are no gaps between the two plates. Next, I put my craft into the furnace and heat it until the steel part is glowing blood red and the runes are shining dangerously. When those of fire-resistance begin to quiver, I quickly pull the pauldron out, worried they might explode.


    I let it rest on the anvil to slowly cool. I can¡¯t do any water or oil quenching to harden the iron in this piece¡ªI worry that the shock of a quick temperature change would break the layers apart, since steel has a slightly higher heat capacity than iron, and thus cools down slightly slower.


    Fortunately they don¡¯t break apart. There is no awful cracking sound of separation. I¡¯m still not satisfied though, and to make sure there are absolutely no gaps, once the pauldron is fully cooled, I pick it up and examine every millimeter of it closely. There are none. I¡¯ve managed to weld together the two almost perfectly, though the general shape does look a little warped.


    Good enough. I sit on the steps and rest for a while. That was some of the most strenuous, stressful forging I¡¯ve ever done, and I still have many, many more plates to go. Some of which are much bigger, some trickier shaped.


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    I groan, then stand up to start work on the right pauldron.


    <hr>


    The repairs drag out to a week, then to a month. I begin to feel a little guilty about my use of the Guards of the Deep Darkness¡¯s forges, my eating of their food, my drinking of their ale, et cetera, while doing absolutely nothing in return for them.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t there any jobs I can do?¡± I ask Commander Cathez one mealtime. ¡°When my armor¡¯s repaired I plan to help with the foraging, but until then... Well, I¡¯ve been here for quite a while already. I don¡¯t want to be a freeloader.¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡± he says, looking up from his meal¡ªmy eyes have adjusted slightly so that the tiny candles on the walls are enough, just, to make out shapes by.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been here more than a month¡ª¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°I mean, kind of a long time, and I haven¡¯t done anything. Just used your stuff.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve promised to help once it¡¯s done though. That¡¯s enough for me.¡±


    ¡°The repairs are taking a while though. And besides, I could use some money to start saving up for materials.¡±


    ¡°Money? We work on an honor system here, young dwarf. Do a task, earn the right to use a certain amount of material.¡±


    ¡°They keep track of it on a big stone tablet,¡± Jaemes tells me. ¡°The more tasks you do, the bigger the number next to your name gets. Then you subtract some numbers every time you take some material.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I say, scratching my head.


    ¡°Basically it¡¯s money but more complicated and inconvenient.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not money, it¡¯s honor,¡± Cathez says stubbornly. ¡°But if you¡¯re keen to win some, I suppose I can set you some tasks. Nothing interesting though¡ªcleaning and cooking.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m happy to help,¡± I say eagerly.


    So from then on when I¡¯m not working on repairing my armor I¡¯m sweeping, mopping, cooking or assisting with unloading the ale imports. As expected, there is no roster for any of these. I just ask what needs doing then do it. My contributions are marked off on the Tablet of Honor, a truly massive obelisk near to Runethane Yurok¡¯s chambers.


    I get to know my way around the fortress quite well, though I still need to keep one hand on the wall as I walk to stop myself losing my bearings, and I also get to know my fellow runeknights better. My conversations with them only serve to strengthen my belief that this place is a perfect bastion of harmonious brotherhood¡ªand brothers they all are: I learn that the Guards of the Deep Darkness is a strictly male order. Female runeknights down here would only cause distraction, at least according to Runethane Yurok.


    Though I do learn that a few of my comrades have wives at a trading post a few miles up from here.


    I¡¯m now used to the rhythm of life down here, so far as there can be rhythm in a land without time. Wake up, forge, do tasks, sleep, repeat it all again. Every few sleeps I ask Jaemes how long has passed. Sometimes I¡¯ll have longer conversations with him too¡ªif being lectured like I¡¯m a student at this ¡®university¡¯ he came from can be called conversation. My other main friend is Nthazes, and my conversations with him go the other way¡ªI do most of the talking, answering his hundreds of questions about every detail of life up above.


    Even the most minor aspects fascinate him. One mealtime he asks me about what we drink ¡®up there¡¯.


    ¡°Beer and ale, mostly. Water sometimes. Wine on special occasions,¡±


    ¡°Wine?¡±


    ¡°Like beer, but made from fruit.¡±


    ¡°That dried stuff? I suppose you soak it in water?¡±


    ¡°Dried? No, fresh fruit.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t start out as dried? No, I suppose it mustn¡¯t,¡± he laughs.


    ¡°It grows on these things called trees on the surface. I¡¯ve never seen them apart from in books, though. They¡¯re a bit like mushrooms. The fruit dangles off them.¡±


    ¡°Then it gets made into this wine?¡±


    ¡°Yes... Actually, I think the fruit wine is made from doesn¡¯t come from trees. I¡¯m not too sure. In any case, it gets mashed up in barrels and left to ferment.¡±


    ¡°What does this wine taste like? Is it very similar to beer?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s more sour. I¡¯ve only had it a couple times. Didn''t really like it.¡±


    ¡°I see. Still, I¡¯m looking forward to trying it someday. And seeing some fruit that isn¡¯t dried up. How¡¯s your armor coming, by the way? Nearly repaired yet?¡±


    ¡°Nearly,¡± I say, grimacing. ¡°The breastplate is proving very tricky. I tried to do it in one piece, but the iron warped horribly and I had to pull the whole thing apart. So now I¡¯m doing it in sections, but then I have to weld those sections together at their sides while not overheating the runes, and it¡¯s a massive pain.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a boring job, if I¡¯m honest. Repairs are the worst part of being a runeknight. I much prefer creating something new.¡±


    ¡°Me too, but it can¡¯t be helped.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but you ought to take a break and come back to it if you¡¯re having trouble. How about forging your ears?¡±


    ¡°If you have time to show me how.¡±


    He grins. ¡°There you are talking about this time again. I¡¯ll show you right now. Now is the only real time there is, after all.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Sound of Crafting

    We make our way to the forges, but we don¡¯t prepare any materials just yet. Instead Nthazes takes off his ears, lays them on the anvil in front of me, and launches into an explanation of how they work:


    ¡°They¡¯re shaped like regular ears, you see. The sound is funneled into toward the induction point by the various curves. These runes here are poems of speed, as you can probably tell, and they increase the pitch of sounds too low to hear. These are the opposite, and decrease the pitch of sounds to high to hear.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t they end up overlapping with sounds of a regular pitch?¡±


    ¡°They would, but actually they aren¡¯t lowered or raised to pitches within regular hearing range, just close to it.¡±


    ¡°So how do we hear them?¡±


    He turns his ears over and taps his finger near the base, where there is an extremely complex runic poem written in a dense script of platinum wires. I wince imagining how tricky it would have been to graft them.


    ¡°Can you read it? Are you familiar with the script?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can read it. Jorthan IV script, discovered by its namesake in a ruined fortress on an island in one of the magma seas.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a good one for this kind of work. Complex enough for intricate poems, but relatively easy to make small.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve written a similarly structured poem for my helmet, except that was to amplify my sight. I take it this one affects your ears.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Increases the range of pitches you can hear by a little, and the volume of everything too. Don¡¯t worry if you don¡¯t feel up to writing one of this complexity though. Your first pair doesn¡¯t have to be so intricate as mine.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a relief. I want to take my time with these, of course, but not too much.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be done when they¡¯re done. Now, getting into the finer details...¡±


    What follows is a lecture longer and more complicated than any of Jaemes¡¯. Nthazes instructs me in what runes are most useful, which are traps that seem useful but can create major fluctuations in the flow of air to the induction gem, how thin the metal of the ears must be to strike a balance between ruggedness and efficacy, what gems to place and where... Anything and everything about their construction. It turns out that he¡¯s forged six pairs so far, one for each degree he¡¯s ascended. He¡¯s in the middle of forging a new pair as well, which he wants to find a way to incorporate aluminum into.


    I would very much like to know how long each pair took, but of course there is no use asking that.


    ¡°And like I said before: both ears need to be exactly symmetrical. They¡¯ll still work if they aren¡¯t, but you¡¯ll have a hard time staying balanced in combat. And if you misjudge where you are in the middle of a fight... Well, I don¡¯t need to tell you what that might result in.¡± He stops to catch his breath. ¡°Now, did you understand all that?¡±


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    He grins. ¡°Really? Let¡¯s do a test: what did I say about the induction point?¡±


    ¡°You said it presses into the helmet by means of a bulge of harder metal. And the most engraved gem, though not necessarily the largest, will be embedded into the air-facing part of it.¡±


    ¡°Why will that gem be the most engraved?¡±


    ¡°Because its role is to vibrate at the exact frequencies of the air channeled onto it, and also to eliminate the vibration of the air once it has passed to prevent interference with the next sound that comes in. So of course it requires the most complex runes.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± he says, sounding slightly surprised. ¡°You have a good memory. Ah, but you forgot one thing.¡±


    ¡°A rune of¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no, not about runes.¡±


    I scratch my head.


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    ¡°The most important thing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. The setting of the gem needs to be cooled to¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, not about setting. More general.¡±


    ¡°Symmetry again? The poem on the gem must be the same as its counterpart on the other ear.¡±


    ¡°Yes, exactly. Never forget symmetry. Even the most finely crafted ear, made from the best and purest materials, is useless without an exactly symmetrical partner. If you want to stay alive, that is.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be very exact.¡±


    I wags his finger. ¡°Very won¡¯t be good enough. You must be exactly exact.¡±


    ¡°I understand. Is it really possible to get everything exactly the same, though?¡±


    ¡°No, to be honest. There will always be small differences. But they must be kept to an absolute minimum.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be as careful as I can,¡± I say solemnly.


    <hr>


    After completing a few more tasks, one of which is the exhausting job of carting a massive pile of imported steel down to the storage halls and sorting it by size and quality, I finally have enough ¡®honor¡¯ to purchase the gems and reagent I need to create my ears.


    I start by cutting out a half oval of thin steel. I put it into the vise, and am just about to start hammering it into a cupped shape when I remember what Nthazes said about symmetry. I remove it from the vise, place it over the steel sheet and trace around it, then cut out another.


    After a great deal of trimming and grinding, I am satisfied that the two pieces are exactly the same dimensions, and I begin the process of hammering the first into a shallow half-bowl. They have a word for this shape down here, galoyth. It is fairly simple to create, just like a pauldron, really, but getting the other piece to match it exactly is an absolute nightmare.


    When I was making the iron plates to fit the remains of my steel they were slightly smaller, so I could test the fit by placing the steel on top of them. But these are exactly the same size, so one does not fit inside the other. I have to eyeball it, but the uneven light from the furnace plays across each slightly differently.


    No matter how much I tap at them, I¡¯m never satisfied they¡¯re exactly symmetrical. I feel like hurling my hammer across the forging hall. The more I tap, the more sure I am that I¡¯m making them just plain misshapen. More than once I kick my anvil in frustration.


    ¡°You¡¯re going about it wrong,¡± says Mathek, a seventh degree runeknight, one mealtime after listening to me complain. ¡°That¡¯s not the way to judge something¡¯s shape.¡±


    ¡°What is, then? There are tools to measure curvature, but I¡¯ve never seen one down here, and don¡¯t know how to use one anyway.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need any kind of tool.¡±


    ¡°What then?¡± I say, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of my voice.


    ¡°You have to use your ears,¡± says Commander Cathez.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t made the bloody things yet!¡±


    ¡°I mean your normal ears. The things sticking out above your beard.¡±


    ¡°How in hell am I meant to measure a piece of metal using my ears?¡±


    ¡°You listen to it of course,¡± says Mathek, like it¡¯s the most obvious thing in the world.


    ¡°What? How?¡±


    ¡°Hold them close to your ear in finger and thumb, like so,¡± says Commander Cathez, demonstrating with a slice of mushroom, ¡°And give it a little tap with a chiming rod.¡±


    He taps the mushroom with his fork.


    ¡°What¡¯s a chiming rod?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You find them in bells usually,¡± Mathek says. ¡°But the ones we have are separate. Every forging pit has a few.¡±


    ¡°Just make sure to hold the metal as lightly as possible,¡± Commander Cathez tells me. ¡°Or you¡¯ll interfere with its natural note.¡±


    <hr>


    After taking a short break to work on repairing my breastplate, which now seems an easy job in comparison, I decide to try out Mathek¡¯s advice. With thumb and forefinger I gently dangle one of the pieces next to my ear, and with my other hand give it a slight tap with a small chiming rod I found in a drawer in the forging pit¡¯s wall.


    It rings. I tap it again, and it rings in a slightly different tone. I need to make sure my taps are delivered with the exact same amount of force each time. I tap again. This time the note sounds the same as the first time¡ªI think.


    I get the feeling my ears aren¡¯t trained quite well enough for the accuracy needed, but I keep on practicing until I can get the note to sound exactly the same three times in a row.


    Then I do the same with the other piece. It sounds slightly deeper, and has an awkward reverberation to it. By running my fingers over it I detect the slightest of creases along the middle left, then I confirm this with sight.


    If my ears aren¡¯t good enough to use on their own yet, that''s fine. I¡¯ll use all my senses.


    Buoyed with a new feeling of confidence, I gently hammer out the crease. Then I listen to both pieces again. Their sounds are close, but not quite the same. I detect more asymmetries, iron them out.


    And eventually, after many, many days of painstaking work, each feels, looks, and sounds exactly the same to me.


    The first and second stages are done. They were the easy part.


    I ought to dread the fiddly work I must undertake next, but somehow I don¡¯t. This is true forging done with proper care and precision. I believe I am finally starting to learn the virtue of patience which Wharoth always told me is the most important quality for a runeknight to have.


    It is a good feeling.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Seeing with Sound

    My peaceful, though by no means easy, life of forging and simple tasks continues. I finally finish repairing my armor, linking together the pieces with some cheap leather and padding the inside with linen pouches of shredded spider silk.


    When I try it on, I¡¯m not satisfied. It¡¯s tighter than was before, awkward to move in. My boots, unruned for now, feel awfully heavy and cumbersome. And my fingers and wrists have little dexterity in the unruned gauntlets.


    Let¡¯s hope I survive enough foraging expeditions to be able to get the titanium I need to properly repair everything.


    All I have left to do now is complete my ears. Out of cheap copper I shape the framework of twists and whorls I will place in the right one. Then I do some calculations, trying to visualize how the power and air will flow once I¡¯ve grafted the runes, and adjust my craft accordingly. I¡¯m not entirely sure I¡¯ve got everything right, and of course the quality of materials is lacking, but this is the best I can do for now.


    I start work on the very small runes of silver wire. It¡¯s tricky work, not helped by the constant arguments of the twins a few forging pits along. They seem to be down here constantly, working on that strange amulet together. And they seem to fail miserably every time.


    ¡°I told you to listen carefully!¡± one shouts¡ªI can¡¯t tell who.


    ¡°It rang beautifully. It¡¯s your fault for holding the metal squint.¡±


    ¡°We put it in the vise this time, even though I told you the iron mass would interfere. Another contributing factor caused by you.¡±


    ¡°You put it in the vise. Squint. The iron mass has absolutely nothing to do with it. I did the research myself.¡±


    ¡°Research! If that¡¯s what you call gathering the opinions of a bunch of fourth and fifth degrees, I suppose it was research.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re both sixth degree, may I remind you. They know more than we do.¡±


    ¡°Not about what we''re attempting.¡±


    ¡°We can still learn from them. That¡¯s always been your problem, brother. You¡¯re arrogant.¡±


    ¡°Will you two shut it!¡± someone booms. I recognize the voice as Commander Hraroth¡¯s. He''s one of the only first degrees down here.


    ¡°It¡¯s no louder than your hammering,¡± one of the twins calls up. That¡¯s another thing I find strange about those two¡ªtheir total lack of deference to their seniors.


    ¡°Hammering is the only sound that should be heard in a forge. Keep it down, or I¡¯ll punish you like children.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    For another few sessions there are no more arguments, then after a particularly loud explosion they flare up again, louder than ever.


    I try my best to ignore them, but while it¡¯s true that their voices are indeed no louder than the sound of hammering, they¡¯re far more distracting. Passion for one¡¯s craft is all well and good, but it does seem to me that they lack the virtue of patience which I¡¯ve been slowly cultivating.


    Once I''ve finished grafting the runes to the right framework using a reagent called quizik much favored down here, I begin to shape the left framework. Making the complex network of spirals and curves exactly the same as on its counterpart is even harder than getting the steel casings symmetrical was. The sound they make when I tap them with the chiming rod is weird and rather hard to hear, not like that of a bell at all.


    Too late I realize that I should have held back on grafting the runes to the right one. Doubtless they affect the timbre.


    Halfway through one session of careful listening, trying to work out how exactly the runes are affecting the note the right one makes, Fjalar and Galar¡¯s argument flares up worse than ever. This time it isn¡¯t even triggered by an explosion, but starts right after they descend into their forging pit.


    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t be using glass, I keep telling you,¡± one says¡ªGalar, I think. ¡°It¡¯s too tricky.¡±


    ¡°The power won¡¯t flow right if it isn¡¯t glass. It needs to be inert.¡±


    ¡°We can use gold. I¡¯ve suggested it before, why don¡¯t you bloody listen?¡±


    ¡°Gold isn¡¯t soft enough to shape easily, as I¡¯ve told you a hundred times.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s plenty soft. At least as soft as your head¡ª¡±


    I hear the sound of a slap, followed by a shout of outrage, followed by the sound of another slap. I sigh angrily, put down my tools and storm up the stairs and over to their forging pit.


    ¡°Excuse me!¡± I call down, politely but firmly. Maybe too firmly. ¡°Would you mind keeping it down?¡±


    Fjalar is holding Galar by the lapels. Galar is grasping his twin¡¯s neck with one hand, and has his other bunched into a fist. They are glaring daggers into each others¡¯ eyes. Slowly they let go of each other and change the target of their glares to me.


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to work,¡± I say. ¡°Using sound. It¡¯s a little hard to concentrate with you two shouting all the time.¡±


    ¡°Is it now? Poor you,¡± Galar says sarcastically.


    Fjalar smacks him on the top of his head, knocking his titanium and copper ears askew. ¡°No need to be rude, brother. This is a shared area, after all, for every runeknight.¡± He smiles at me, a very fake smile. ¡°We¡¯ll try to keep it down from now on.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say.


    ¡°You are a fifth degree, after all.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really care about all that. I just think we should all try to be considerate of each other.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course.¡±


    ¡°Making your first pair of ears, are you?¡± Galar chimes in. ¡°How nostalgic. I remember making mine.¡±


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    ¡°Anyway,¡± I say. ¡°Just try to keep it down.¡±


    ¡°Okay," Fjalar says. "We''ll try.¡±


    My eyes remain locked with the twins¡¯ for a few seconds longer, then I turn away and walk back down to my forge.


    <hr>


    Another few long sessions of painstaking fiddling with the copper framework of the left ear, and I¡¯m finally satisfied that it¡¯s symmetrical with the right. Now I can get to grafting the runes onto it.


    It proves easier than I expected. The quizik powder is slightly sticky and locks the miniscule wire runes in place just firmly enough that I can adjust their positioning to get them exactly aligned with those on the opposite framework. Grafting them is none too difficult either, since the quizik doesn¡¯t need much heat to activate, so there''s minimal risk of melting anything out of shape.


    The bond isn¡¯t as strong as it would be with incandesite or hytrigite, but Nthazes assured me quizik is good enough for a beginner, even though most of his own designs use incandesite.


    Now to weld the enruned frameworks to their casings. This also proves easier than I feared, since both pieces are already properly measured. After some extremely slow and careful welding with a white-hot pointed rod of copper, they are attached.


    I test their sounds. Nearly exactly the same. I search for the problem, and see that one of the welds near the induction point on the left side is a little less secure than on the right one. I redo the weld, melting the framework to the casing a little more thoroughly.


    I test them again. Still very slightly different¡ªI heated the weld a little too much, I fear, but I think I have to call it good enough and move on, or I¡¯ll be trapped in an endless cycle of heating, testing, heating the opposite piece, repeating, until I¡¯ve made a total mess of everything.


    The imperfection galls. I hope it won¡¯t affect the final performance too much.


    Now only the gems, which I¡¯ve already scratched runes into, remain. I hold the garnets in my sweating palms, dreading this next part of the process. Gently I slot them into their settings.


    That was not the difficult part. The difficult part is the heating and rapid cooling.


    Usually when you set gems into your craft, you solder them in with a liquid pearl of the appropriate metal, but of course it is impossible to get liquid metal to solidify in exactly the shape you want. Not a problem for most crafts, but obviously a problem when you need to make two pieces exactly the same in every single respect. Trying to set gems into the ears using this method would be like splashing two flagons of ale onto the floor and hoping they both make the same shape of puddle. Never going to happen.


    So the dwarves here have created a unique method¡ªheat the ears until they glow, then plunge them into icy water. They have invented buckets with carefully written runes of freezing at their bases for this, and one is sitting beside my anvil right now. The shock of icy water causes the metal to contract violently, firmly locking the gems into their settings.


    Theoretically, if both ears are exactly symmetrical, heated to exactly the same temperature as each other, plunged into the water at exactly the same angles, submerged for exactly the same amount of time in the water, and cool down at exactly the same rate, the gems will all set in exactly the same way.


    Theoretically.


    I put the theory to the test.


    <hr>


    It worked, mostly. A few of the garnets are definitely a little squint, so I adjust them with a pair of pliers, then I hold the ears up to examine more closely. The induction gem on the left one still looks a few degrees off. I give it another twist of the plier.


    I test them with sound.


    The ring of each is nearly exactly the same.


    Now to try them on. I fit them to my helmet, into which I have cut symmetrical holes to accommodate them, then I shut my eyes and place my helmet over my head. What follows has me reeling.


    I am plunged into a new world: a dimension where I can hear the breathing of each dwarf in his forging pit, where the beat of each hammer has its own ring unique as a voice, where the rush of air from the forges¡¯ fires are part of a symphony of the air swirling around everything and changes the notes of every other sound in subtle yet now totally perceptible ways.


    Finally I understand what Nthazes said about seeing with sound. The shape--for lack of a better word--of the symphony of air tells me where the walls of my forging pit are, their shape, how far the anvil is from me. I spin around, three, four, ten times just to test myself. There is a hole in the rushing sound of the burning coals in the furnace¡ªan aural shadow. I reach out and my fingers contact the cold steel of the anvil. It¡¯s at exactly the position I expected; I can see where it is with sound as surely as if my eyes were wide open.


    To further test myself, I pack away my tools with my eyes still shut. Partly I remember where each goes from muscle memory, but it¡¯s still an interesting challenge to try and see¡ªor rather hear¡ªhow much of the fine details of my surroundings I can make out.


    After I¡¯m done, I open my eyes to check if I¡¯ve missed anything, and I¡¯m pleased to see that I haven¡¯t. Giddy with triumph, I close my eyes again and walk up the stairs of my forging pit. I scan the chamber. My field of view¡ªfield of hearing¡ªseems wide, since I get everything in the one hundred and eighty degrees my ears cover in equal detail. There is no periphery like with vision.


    Not worrying one jot about falling into the forging pits, I make my way to the door. I step out into the corridor, and can¡¯t help but grinning. For the first time ever I can tell its width, just from the way the echoes of my footsteps sound. Some way along, I can tell there are a few openings where the corridor branches, though I can¡¯t hear exactly how distant they are¡ªbut I¡¯m confident that that skill will come with practice.


    I saunter down at a leisurely pace, drinking in the sounds of my own footsteps, the subtle hiss of the air catching in crannies in the walls, the vague voices I hear from far to the front.


    The voices grow louder as the dwarves approach. I wince. The voices become excruciatingly loud, and are warped so badly that I can¡¯t make out a single coherent word. The roar of the furnaces and the rhythmic beating of hammers were simple to understand, but two voices together are a discordant wavering crash of notes. They grow still louder, and the heavy clump of the opposing footsteps interferes with the steady beat of my own.


    Sense of hearing totally overwhelmed, my hearing-vision of the corridor collapses into a rubble of shifting walls, plummeting floors, a ceiling that falls in one moment and flies a mile upward the next. I collide with the stones to my left and let out a grunt of shock that reverberates in my helmet. In panic I open my eyes to try and get my bearings, but of course all is pitch blackness.


    A hand clamps on my shoulder and steadies me before I totally collapse. The heavy treads come to a halt. My helmet is pulled from my head in a single deft tug.


    ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± says a voice. It sounds quiet and distant. ¡°Who are you, initiate?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not an initiate,¡± I gasp. The shock of losing my enhanced hearing is like that of being plunged into an icy river.


    ¡°This is Zathar,¡± says another voice. Commander Cathez. ¡°The one who fell from above.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Him,¡± says the first voice.


    ¡°Just finished your first ears, I see,¡± says Cathez.


    ¡°Yes. Thought I¡¯d take them out for a bit of a practice run.¡±


    ¡°They do take a bit of getting used to, don¡¯t they?¡± His voice still sounds distant to me.


    ¡°You could say that.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. A few circuits around the fort and you¡¯ll be used to it. You¡¯ll learn how to cope with interference soon enough.¡±


    ¡°His right ear is a little off at the induction gem,¡± says the first voice. I recognize the harsh tone¡ªCommander Hraroth. ¡°I¡¯d redo it if I were you.¡±


    ¡°The gem?¡± I ask.


    ¡°The whole thing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s fine,¡± Cathez says. ¡°Functional enough. Quite frankly, I¡¯m amazed you managed to get anything done at all with those two shouting the whole time.¡±


    ¡°The twins?¡±


    ¡°Who else?¡± spits Hraroth.


    ¡°They never should have been allowed to work together,¡± Cathez says, uncharacteristically harshly. ¡°I¡¯m beginning to understand why there¡¯s such a taboo against it. A dwarf should forge his own equipment, on his own, without so much as one hammer-stroke gifted from another.¡±


    ¡°What are they making anyway?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No bloody idea,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°We don¡¯t pry and they don¡¯t tell. Anyway, rush along now. As a rule I don¡¯t deal with initiates.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not an initiate,¡± I say again. ¡°I¡¯m fifth degree.¡±


    ¡°In that getup?¡± He makes disapproving noise. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Hunt Begins

    I spend the next several days, or maybe up to a week since I can¡¯t seem to catch Jaemes, in a thoroughly bad mood. My giddy sense of triumph has been crushed by Commander Hraroth¡¯s words, and in its place has risen frustration.


    My new sense of hearing works perfectly well when I¡¯m wandering the less populated areas of the fortress: the peripheral corridors, the storage rooms, the beginning stretch of the road up. But whenever I hear the voice of a fellow dwarf, an unexpected crash, or anything that isn¡¯t either relatively quiet or with a regular rhythm to it, everything collapses.


    I just need to get used to it, I think. After all it¡¯s not like seeing is any easier: there¡¯s all sorts of colors and movement your brain has to take into account, but I¡¯ve had twenty nine years to practice seeing. Well, nineteen I suppose, since the last ten were spent blundering around in the dark.


    On one of my practice sessions I run into Nthazes. I¡¯m strolling through the ale storage, trying to concentrate on determining the shape of each individual barrel, and then his voice shivers through the air and turns the cylinders into rapidly expanding and disintegrating spheres. I stumble away from them, trip over my own feet and fall to the floor.


    His voice reverberates violently:


    ¡°YOU YOU YOU


    ALL ALL ALL


    RIGHT RIGHT


    THERE?!¡±


    I rip my helmet off and resist the urge to dash the damn thing against the ground in frustration.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I say. ¡°But how bloody long does it take to get used to these things?¡±


    ¡°Maybe longer for you than most,¡± he says, helping me up. ¡°We¡¯re used to the darkness, and getting around by touch and sound.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the interference that kills me,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m fine if it¡¯s relatively quiet, or just listening to my own footsteps. But as soon as someone talks...¡±


    ¡°Yes. Sensory overload is a problem for everyone at first.¡±


    ¡°How the hell do you deal with it?¡±


    He thinks for a while. ¡°Stop, and try to focus on one sound at a time. And don¡¯t panic.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about the voices anyway. Too many will disrupt anyone¡¯s sense of hearing, so talk is kept to minimum in the foraging parties. And once a hunt begins, the rule is absolute silence.¡±


    ¡°How do you communicate then?¡±


    ¡°Arm signals, and the leader will carry a bell for signaling as well.¡±


    ¡°Something else for me to learn, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Oh, they¡¯re nothing complicated. You can learn them easy enough, though remembering them in the heat of combat is another issue... But you¡¯ll be kept toward the back anyway on your first hunt.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Keep practicing anyway, you¡¯ll get the hang of it. By the way, I¡¯m meant to be choosing the ale for tonight. Any here that are on the verge of going off? I know you supervised the last delivery.¡±


    I point out to him a few barrels that were already nearing its expiry date when they came in, and help him roll them up to the kitchens. It would seem awfully strange to a dwarf from Thanerzak¡¯s realm to see fourth and fifth degree runeknights doing something so menial, but there are no commoners down here. No shopkeepers, miners, cooks, cleaners or servants. Every runeknight from tenth degree to first chips in with the day to day tasks that keep the fort running¡ªand though naturally a lot of the work falls on the lower degrees, it¡¯s not so unevenly distributed as you might expect.


    As we roll the barrels up, I ask him to speak a little so I can practice dealing with interference. He talks just loudly enough for me to be able to hear over the rumbling and sloshing of the barrels, and word by word I get used to the way the complex echoes interact with the shape of my surroundings.


    That mealtime, after I¡¯m finished eating, I put my helmet on and listen. The conversations are a cacophony that blasts my ¡®image¡¯ of the dining hall and its furniture into spiraling fragments and grossly disproportionate shapes again and again, but after an hour or so of listening I feel that my ears are somewhat acclimatized to the chaos. The shapes are breaking apart and resizing a little less.


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    After another two weeks or so I can finally stay on my feet while listening to the sounds of conversation, and if I concentrate very hard, I can even make out what the words are.


    I request that I be assigned to the next foraging party, and Commander Cathez allows it.


    <hr>


    We are walking along a thin tunnel in single file. The tread of our boots creates a multilayered echo that reveals the texture of the walls to me: they are very rough, with long veins chewed out of them by either natural weathering or some fungus long since turned to dust. We are heading toward Hshosh-Yerthe, the ¡®mushroom basket¡¯, a vertical network of caves a several miles distant where the Guards of the Deep Darkness hunt most of their food.


    Hothuk, a fourth degree, leads our party. Bringing up the rear is a fifth degree called Yathak. I¡¯ve never met either of them. In fact I¡¯ve only spoken to two dwarves here out of our party of ten. One of them is Mathek, the dwarf who first advised me to check the shape of my crafts using sound.


    The other is Galar. He is positioned directly in front of me, and is muttering to himself. I can¡¯t make out the words, but the tone of his voice is angry, and it disrupts my hearing plenty enough to be irritating.


    ¡°Would you keep it down?¡± someone ahead of him snaps. ¡°It¡¯s bad manners to talk, even before we get to the basket.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking,¡± Galar replies snidely. ¡°I¡¯m thinking out loud.¡±


    ¡°Keep your thoughts to yourself, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got too many thoughts for that.¡±


    ¡°Stop thinking then.¡±


    ¡°Easy for you to do maybe, not so much for me.¡±


    ¡°Shut it, you two!¡± Hothuk shouts from the head of the line. The noise shatters my sense of position for a moment before I quickly recover.


    They stop their argument, but Galar keeps on muttering, though very much under his breath this time. Cathez must have given him a real chewing out about his conduct in the forges¡ªnot that he didn''t deserve it. I¡¯m amazed that he¡¯s never been punished further¡ªeven at meals he¡¯s argumentative, insulting, and apparently once he stabbed his brother in the shoulder with a fork.


    We come to a sudden halt. It seems that everyone else was expecting it, but I¡¯m not, and I accidentally stumble into Galar. Our armor clangs.


    ¡°Watch it!¡± he snaps.


    ¡°My apologies.¡±


    ¡°What are you even doing here anyway? You only just forged your first pair of ears.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here with Commander Cathez¡¯s permission.¡±


    ¡°Bit green to be hunting, in my opinion.¡±


    ¡°I apologized, didn''t I?¡± I snap. ¡°There¡¯s no need for rudeness.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just pointing out¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve killed worse beasts than you have. Don¡¯t disrespect me.¡±


    ¡°Shut up, you two!¡± Hothuk shouts from the head of the line. ¡°Spread out, everyone. You know your quotas, so fill them quickly.¡±


    Every foraging expedition starts off not with hunting for meat, but with gathering mushrooms from the first layer of the cavern, known as the farm. It¡¯s a wide open area of tallish fungal trees with a dense undergrowth of mushrooms, some toxic and some edible. We each have a large sack we¡¯re to fill with our assigned type.


    I¡¯m to gather Cowmeat Heads, a large brown kind of thing with a meaty texture. I¡¯ve read before that a cow is a kind of surface animal, so it¡¯s strange to hear the word down here so deep. Mathek is also gathering them, so I stick with him.


    ¡°What¡¯s got into Galar?¡± I say in a low voice. ¡°He¡¯s been in a bad mood recently.¡±


    ¡°Oh, him and Fjalar are just like that. They¡¯ll be struck with inspiration for some grand project, get on well, then it¡¯ll fall apart and they¡¯ll be at each others¡¯ throats.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m amazed you all put up with them.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have much of a choice. They¡¯re good at their duties and we don¡¯t have enough runeknights. Can¡¯t afford to send them away.¡±


    ¡°Still, are there no punishments down here?¡±


    ¡°Only for serious things. Besides, they have been punished. They¡¯re not allowed to work together anymore.¡±


    ¡°Good. It¡¯s not right anyway.¡±


    ¡°I agree, but they don¡¯t see it like that... Oh, there¡¯s a Cowmeat.¡±


    He pulls it up and shows me what it looks like¡ªsounds like? He shows me its shape anyhow, and I wander off a little to search for some for my own sack.


    It¡¯s a weird, unnerving landscape. Contorted fungal trees stretch right to the roof, and the mushrooms of the undergrowth are as tall as I am in many parts, and too close packed for me to make out the individual stems. When I walk into these patches it feels like I¡¯m encased in solid walls.


    Eventually my sack grows full and heavy. I pick one last Cowmeat, smack it against a nearby tree to release the spores, ensuring that it¡¯ll be replaced by a few more for the next foraging party to collect, and stuff it in. I drag the sack back to the tunnel entrance.


    In the blackness I get a terrible sense that I¡¯m being watched, but hopefully that¡¯s all in my head. It was explained to me before I departed that the big herbivores can¡¯t squeeze their way down through the tight holes from which moisture and spores drip from the upper layers, and thus predators don¡¯t bother coming either.


    When I get to the tunnel the other nine dwarves are all there waiting. No one seems to care that I was slow.


    ¡°Right,¡± says Hothuk. ¡°Let¡¯s get these stored then head up.¡±


    We store them in a large room hollowed from the rock in the side of cavern, which is sealed from the smaller herbivores that skulk here by means of a thick steel door. Then, we journey across the farm to staircase cut into the wall which leads to the upper layers of the basket.


    It¡¯s time for the hunt.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Predators and Prey

    We make our way up the staircase. It is inside a very steep tunnel, open at the left side to a drop which grows more deadly with each step we ascend. Our climb would be nerve-wracking enough in the light¡ªin the pitch black, with the stairs and wall seeming to undulate and shift with the ebb and flow of the sound of our footsteps, it is positively terrifying.


    My fear does not abate when we make it to the second layer of the mushroom basket, also called the rooted layer, because it is dominated by the fossilized spreading roots of the gigantic stone fungus that pierces through all the layers of the mushroom basket but the farm. The roots begin at the ceiling and taper to points just before they hit the floor.


    I hope we won¡¯t be climbing up them.


    Hothuk sniffs the air. ¡°It smells lively down here,¡± he whispers. ¡°Undergrowth stirred up. Lots of things moving about. We probably won¡¯t have to head up any further.¡±


    I¡¯m not sure whether to be relieved or not. Not having to climb more sounds good; many things moving about does not.


    ¡°Yathak? What do you think?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± says the rearguard dwarf. ¡°I think there¡¯s some gelthob trails over that way.¡±


    Hothuk turns to the direction he indicates, then nods. ¡°Well spotted. Let¡¯s start the hunt. Normal formation. And silence from now on. No more muttering, Galar.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± Galar says politely but with the hint of a sneer.


    Normal formation is a kind of reverse arrowhead, with a front rank of four, three behind them, then two, then one. Mathek and I are the row of two. We are spread out for easy passage between the stalks of the fungal trees, and we walk very slowly, for we do not want to alert our prey.


    Moving slowly also means we make no sound to echo and tell us the shape of the terrain and the presence of any creatures. To solve this issue, Hothuk rings a special bell every few steps. It creates a clear, high note, undetectable by most animals here, to provide a stable view of our surroundings.


    In between rings, there is nothing but vague shifting shapes, and to my mind the promise of stalking predators. If they are used to hunting dwarves, they will strike in one of the moments when the bell¡¯s note has died away. I tighten my grip on Heartseeker for reassurance.


    Step by step we advance. For me it feels terribly slow¡ªI urge to chase something down and finish this hunt through the blackness. In between the rings of the bell I feel much like I did on my ten year wandering, surrounded by blank blackness.


    For what feels like a very long time, nothing happens. Then Hothuk rings twice on the bell in quick succession with the second cut short. The signal for a halt. He¡¯s detected our prey: a gelthob, an enormous slug-like creature. To my hearing-vision it¡¯s just a large mound, similar in appearance to the large fungal bushes that dot this place. Unlike the bushes though, it is slowly moving, leaving a flat trail of bare dirt in its wake.


    Hothuk raises his spear high to the left, then brings it to the right, drawing an arc with the tip. The signal for us to surround the beast. The row of three moves to the left, me, Mathek and Yathak from the rear go to the right. We creep at a snail¡¯s pace so as not to alert it. Like everything down here our quarry is extremely sensitive to sound.


    After what feels like an age, we are finally in a circle around the beast. The vague rumble from its mouthparts as it grinds up the vegetation with hundreds of stone teeth outlines the fungal trees and us dwarves surrounding it. Hothuk gives a new command¡ªhe points to the beast and we advance at glacial pace.


    Every dwarf here is armed with a spear, the preferred weapon for hunting. Most are less well-crafted than Heartseeker, but several are exceptional. Hothuk¡¯s is an ornate titanium lance with runes of sharpness, as well as a poem in a script I do not know that makes the blade ripple constantly for maximum damage. Galar¡¯s has ichor-seeking runes to make it excellently adapted to slaying beasts like the gelthob.


    We close in. The gelthob tenses.


    There is no signal to attack¡ªHothuk simply charges and we follow, thundering through the undergrowth, crushing mushrooms to slime beneath our tread. My iron boots are heavy, pulling my feet down, anchoring me to the ground so that each movement is an effort. I am the slowest dwarf here by a good way.


    Hothuk raises his spear high and sinks it in deep, rips it out in a spray of ichor. The gelthob quivers. The next dwarf to reach it stabs also, but his weapon does not go in quite so far.


    Galar stabs next. His titanium spear of ichor-seeking pulls itself deeper into the gelthob than even Hothuk managed, then stops dead. He curses as he tries to yank it out, shifting and wrenching as hard as he can. Another dwarf stabs at the beast, but sparks flash and his attack rebounds off. The other dwarves slow their charge and don¡¯t bother attacking. I don¡¯t either.


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    We¡¯ve been too slow. Gelthobs cannot flee from predators, so their defense is to sweat a sticky amber that congeals into a layer as tough as granite.


    ¡°Damn,¡± whispers Hothuk. ¡°It heard us too early. Well, can¡¯t be helped. Everyone to the left side.¡±


    We gather at the creature¡¯s left side¡ªall but Galar, who is still trying to free his spear.


    ¡°Nearly got it!¡± he grunts. ¡°Nearly!¡±


    ¡°Stop wasting time!¡± Yathak hisses. ¡°You can pull it out once the thing¡¯s dead.¡±


    Muttering under his breath, Galar lets go of his weapon and walks around to join the rest of us. We lower our spears horizontally to the ground, then follow Hothuk in driving them between the earth of rotted fungal matter and the beasts underbelly.


    ¡°Heave,¡± Hothuk whispers.


    We pull up the ends of our spears to lever the creature upward. I feel the aluminum of Heartseeker¡¯s shaft bend slightly, and grit my teeth, hoping the bend won¡¯t end up being permanent. Galar assists another dwarf. With much groaning and puffing of breath, we manage to lift up the gelthob by about a foot. Hothuk kneels, angles his spear upward to our prey¡¯s unhardened underbelly, and stabs.


    There¡¯s a slopping sound and a disgusting smell fills the air. Hothuk stabs again a few times. The stench of fermenting fungus mixed with ichor strengthens. He goes to the front of the beast, stabs under it a few more times, goes to the back and stabs again. The stench intensifies. I want to vomit.


    Hothuk points to the ground and we gently lower the beast back to the ground. I extract Heartseeker out from under its bulk and examine it, but the uneven metallic sound of rustling armor around me makes its shape shimmer and I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s bent or not.


    ¡°Hammer, Yathek,¡± Hothuk whispers.


    Yathek hefts a mallet strapped to his side¡ªsteel-capped lead with runes of impact¡ªand smashes down onto the gelthob¡¯s hide. The mallet bounces off so violently its momentum nearly topples him backwards.


    ¡°No use,¡± Yathek grumbles. ¡°This was a healthy one. We¡¯ll have to wait it out.¡±


    Hothuk sighs, then raises his spear high to the right, then brings it to the left, drawing an arc with the tip in a reverse of the signal to surround. For a moment I¡¯m confused: this is a sign I haven¡¯t learned. But its meaning becomes obvious enough as the other dwarves form a circle around the beast pointing their spears outward. We are to guard the dying beast while its temporary protection slowly crumbles away.


    I join the formation to the left of Mathek. We wait, and keep on waiting. I grow worried. The smell of ichor is sure to attract something. Otherwise why would everyone else be so stock still and totally alert? So stock still¡ªare they frozen in fear? Perhaps this is just my imagination though, for the imperfection of my hearing makes body language impossible to determine.


    More waiting. Hothuk¡¯s bell rings out repeatedly. Every few hundred rings, Yathak has another go with his mallet, and each time it bounces off with an oddly muffled thud. I want to ask one of the dwarves beside me how long the gelthob¡¯s barrier will take to crumble, but of course, no talking allowed.


    Eventually, after hours of waiting with no movement in the forest, no noise, no nothing, I begin to relax a little. If no predators have appeared yet, likely they never will. Scared off by the amount of dwarves they detect.


    ¡°May I retrieve my spear?¡± Galar whispers very quietly.


    ¡°Make it quick,¡± says Hothuk.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He withdraws from the circle, takes hold of his spear to begin to work it outward. It''s a tough job; he has to jerk it from left to right and up and down in order to crack the stony layer around it. He extracts it about three feet, then the back of the spearhead catches on the inside.


    He begins to punch the hide violently to crack it. His steel-encased fist thuds loudly with each impact.


    ¡°Keep it down,¡± Yathak whispers. ¡°You¡¯ll draw attention.¡±


    ¡°The smell is already drawing attention,¡± Galar whispers back. "And the noise of your hammer."


    "My mallet has runes of quietude. Your fist is twice as loud."


    Galar ignores him and continues to batter the dead gelthob.


    ¡°Too loud,¡± Hothuk whispers. ¡°Give it up, Galar.¡±


    ¡°I need my spear. I don¡¯t want to stand here unarmed!¡±


    ¡°You can try again once the hide is softened further.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nearly out though!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s an order, sixth degree. Get down from there.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He clambers down and rejoins the formation. We continue to wait. My emotions have passed from fear, to relief, and now to boredom.


    A new signal rings out. Three chimes in quick succession: something has been spotted. My adrenaline spikes¡ªI''m back to fear now. I turn my head quickly from right to left to get a full circular view of the area before the echoes of the bell die away¡ªa useful technique Nthazes told me about¡ªand spot the creature Hothuk has alerted us to. A tall shape with four long bladed arms facing the other side of the formation. My heart jumps in my chest.


    A dithyok, a disemboweler. One of the more dangerous creatures that lurks down here. I detect its scent¡ªsharp and vaguely rotten. It steps forward a few paces on its two double jointed legs¡ªI don¡¯t need a chime to detect this, because its bony exoskeleton scrapes and clacks as it moves. Unlike many predators down here, dithyoks do not need to rely on stealth. It doesn''t care that we''re aware of it.


    ¡°Calm,¡± Hothuk whispers to us. ¡°Stay calm.¡±


    I try to, and loosen my white-knuckled grip on Heartseeker slightly. Doubtless he has killed many of these beasts before, and besides, it is at the other side of the formation.


    I keep my head turned to keep it in view. It leaps forward a few feet and strikes downward with one bladed arm. The dwarf it targets sidesteps, jabs at its midriff, but it instantly springs back out of range. It eases back a couple paces. Another dwarf lunges forward and stabs; it blocks the blow with its lower left arm. A clang rings out, and I make out some more detail¡ªits face is eyeless, earless¡ªall mouth.


    It creeps back a few more paces, then starts to move leftward, circling around the formation, searching for a weak spot.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Blade-Armed Dithyok

    My heart is pounding harder; the beating pulses in my head, disrupting the signals from my ears and distorting my view of the hunting ground¡ªwhich is no longer the hunting ground of us dwarves, but the hunting ground of the twelve foot tall dithyok. Its four bladed arms are twitching too fast for me to tell their exact location.


    ¡°I need my weapon!¡± Galar hisses somewhere from the left. ¡°Hothuk, give me permission to try getting it out again.¡±


    ¡°Yathak, give him your hammer.¡±


    There is the thud of something heavy landing at Galar¡¯s feet.


    ¡°That¡¯s no use,¡± he says. ¡°I need my spear.¡±


    ¡°Pick it up! There¡¯s no time.¡±


    ¡°What use is a one-handed hammer with no shield?¡± Galar spits.


    Rude as he is, he does have a point. I would not want to face this creature with a short weapon. Heartseeker only just outranges its blade-arms, and that is just my estimate¡ªit could easily be the other way around.


    ¡°It¡¯ll spring on you the moment you turn your back,¡± Yathak says in a low voice. ¡°It sees that as weakness. Use the hammer or use your bare hands.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t use another¡¯s craft!¡± Galar hisses.


    ¡°This is mortal danger. Swallow your pride¡ª¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m already the weak point without my spear!¡±


    I think he¡¯s right¡ªthe dithyok has walked past me and is slowing as it approaches the rear of the gelthob where Galar is. It stops and faces him¡ªif a single gaping mouth can be called a face. Hothuk chimes his bell loudly and I get the clearest outline of it yet: a hundred razor-edged sheets of bone welded onto something vaguely insectoid.


    Galar spins around to grab at his spear. The dithyok takes this opportunity to leap. Yathak, stationed beside him, puts himself between Galar and the beast, raising his spear horizontally to block. His runes of speed make him fast, but the dithyok is faster. Its upper limbs slice down with incredible force and impact both his shoulders at once. He shouts in pain as his titanium pauldrons crumple with a metallic scream.


    The dwarf to my left charges the dithyok and stabs up at its neck. Its right top arm lashes back and knocks his spear aside before instantly changing angle to slice at his head. Sparks briefly illuminate shavings of metal spiraling in the air. The dwarf, concussed, falls without a sound.


    But now the creature¡¯s arm is up, and that means its side is exposed. On instinct I charge and thrust Heartseeker with brutal strength¡ªbut my instincts are wrong. I have failed to take into account the dithyok¡¯s lower set of arms, and also Heartseeker¡¯s diminished accuracy toward things with no proper blood.


    That, and my inferior boots and gauntlets drag on my movements.


    Heartseeker is knocked away violently; the force twists my body and I¡¯m off balance. The ringing of my armor disrupts my hearing, turning the world into shifting chaos, but I can tell an attack is coming. I bring an arm back to defend my head, and this time my instinct is correct.


    The blade smashes into my arm and I¡¯m sent reeling to the ground. The clang blurs everything and the hot pain in my forearm sends me into a further panic. I think it¡¯s sliced right through my armor. I scramble back, and the dithyok senses weakness. It lashes down at me again. The sensation is like sensing a shadow expanding toward my throat.


    Mathek leaps over me to block its attack. At the same moment, Galar, who has managed to tear out his spear, charges. As Mathek is sent flying sideways with his spear cleaved in half, the twin manages to get a hit into the dithyok¡¯s soft side.


    It emits a sound like a hundred clicks in instant succession which clearly outlines the position of its limbs. All four are now aligned to attack Galar.


    He rips out his spear and it unleashes a flurry of slashes at him. I hear my opportunity and scramble to my feet, pain in my arm totally eliminated by a fresh burst of adrenaline¡ªthe armor plates of its back overlap tightly, but a stab made at an extreme low angle should be able to pierce through a gap.


    I thrust. My prediction proves accurate, and I feel Heartseeker slide deep and turn toward some vital organ, though only a little. I rip it out. Hissing in rage, the dithyok turns its body to get at me with its two left limbs.


    With its right limbs engaged with Galar¡¯s frantic thrusting and parrying and its left ones poised to strike at me, the dithyok¡¯s front is wide open. Hothuk vaults over the dead gelthob and leaps at the creature with spear outthrust. The dithyok snaps its limbs back to defend, but Hothuk¡¯s accuracy is honed by several centuries of hunting and enhanced by extremely well-crafted ears. His undulating spear pierces through the creature¡¯s chest and tears its organs apart from within. Ichor sprays out, covering him with a sickening scent.


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    The dithyok stays standing for a moment, its twice-jointed legs locked in a death-rictus, then Galar delivers a vicious cut to its ankle and it crashes backward.


    ¡°Pull back the injured,¡± Hothuk orders in a low voice. He¡¯s too experienced to waste any time in celebration. ¡°Expand the formation to accommodate them.¡±


    Heart still pounding from the combat, I rush to obey the order: I grab the unconscious dwarf next to me and pull him back.


    Galar does not obey the order.


    ¡°What took you so damn long!¡± he hisses at Hothuk. ¡°Nearly bloody killed me! Would have, if I hadn¡¯t had the quick thinking to grab my spear.¡±


    ¡°Silence! Turn outward!¡±


    ¡°Give me a straight answer. Why wouldn¡¯t you let me grab my spear?¡±


    ¡°You were making noise.¡±


    ¡°The smell was far worse than any noise I was making. Is this some plot of Cathez to get me killed?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re acting like a child!¡± Yathak hisses through gritted teeth. Leaning back against the gelthob, he''s clearly in terrible pain, his pauldrons caved in badly. It¡¯s obvious there must be serious damage beneath. ¡°This hunt will be discussed later.¡±


    ¡°When you and Cathez and Hraroth can gang up on me?¡±


    ¡°Shut it!¡± Hothuk orders. ¡°Get in formation, Galar. You stabbed the beast and have won your honor. No one will be ganging up on anyone. You will get your due fairly.¡±


    ¡°That is not what we are discussing,¡± Galar says acidly. ¡°But fine. We will all get our honor.¡±


    He steps back into position and is silent.


    <hr>


    In the first piece of luck we¡¯ve had this whole hunt, nothing else is attracted by our disturbances. Maybe the smell of dead dithyok makes the other predators think twice about going for us.


    After another few hundred chimes of Hothuk¡¯s bell, he takes up the mallet and manages to split apart the gelthob¡¯s armor like an eggshell. We then begin the grisly process of extracting its flesh using our spears like awkward knives, cutting it into long strips and throwing it into the same sacks we used for the mushrooms. The stench is terrible¡ªit¡¯s a good thing fire eliminates it, or I¡¯d be going hungry every other mealtime. Then again, at least it doesn¡¯t smell so bad as raw beetles and worms taste.


    We sling the heavy sacks over our shoulders, hurry back to the stairs and descend. It''s an even more frightening ordeal than climbing them was. In front of me stumbles the dwarf who caught a concussion from the dithyok¡¯s attack, and at several points I have to grab him and pull him sideways to stop him plummeting off the edge.


    Halfway through the farm my adrenaline dies off completely and my arm begins to ache badly. I can feel blood drying on it, and when I run a finger over my armor I can feel a long cut.


    I really need some titanium. Ragged steel welded onto ill-fitting iron really isn''t good enough.


    I breathe a sigh of relief when we make it into the tight confines of the tunnel¡ªI never thought I¡¯d find a coal-black tunnel comforting, but it¡¯s far better than being in a coal-black open space expecting an attack from any angle.


    ¡°Good stabbing there,¡± Galar whispers. He¡¯s walking directly behind me. ¡°You probably saved me.¡±


    ¡°Not so green after all, am I?¡± I whisper back in a less-than-friendly tone.


    ¡°No, no. Not green at all. I apologize. You have fighting instincts as good as anyone here. Better than most, actually.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°No need to sound so suspicious. Just being nice, aren¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°No one here is very happy with you, you realize.¡±


    ¡°Including you, you mean?¡± He lowers his voice. ¡°I¡¯m not very happy with them. Hothuk especially. Dithyoks go for smell more than sound, everyone knows that. Did you see any ears on that thing? It was a fool decision to tell me to pick up that hammer. Not to mention insulting."


    "We were all under a lot of pressure."


    "And that excuses his bad decision making, does it? Well, maybe it should, for all I know. I''ve never had to lead a hunt, after all. But even so, he took his sweet time leaping to our rescue, didn''t he?¡±


    ¡°I don''t think so. And you shouldn''t have disobeyed him.¡±


    ¡°If I hadn¡¯t disobeyed I might be dead. But I¡¯m not dead, the dithyok is. Thus proving the wisdom of my decision. As my decisions usually prove.¡±


    ¡°Like your decision to shout your head off in the forges?¡± I say acidly. ¡°It was rather distracting to me. And to everyone else.¡±


    ¡°That was out of passion. Passion for my craft. You have a fine spear, so I know you understand. Crafting is in your blood more than most. As much as it¡¯s in Fjalar and mine¡¯s, eh?¡±


    ¡°Are you trying to flatter me?¡±


    He slaps me on the back. The reverberation makes me wince and the corridor appear to twist. ¡°Just trying to be friendly,¡± he laughs. ¡°Nothing wrong with that, is there? That damn dithyok nearly had me until you distracted it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    ¡°Ach, still sounding so suspicious. Zathar, isn¡¯t it? You¡¯ll find I¡¯m a good friend to have, Zathar. My brother also. Smart friends.¡± He steps up very close to me, and lowers his voice until it¡¯s barely audible. ¡°You¡¯ll find smart people rather lacking down here. Maybe it¡¯s the same up near the surface, maybe not. At any rate, good friends are hard to find.¡±


    ¡°I assure you, I have no trouble making friends.¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± he laughs. ¡°You¡¯re a most friendly person. Now, I best shut up before Hothuk bites my head off. But I won¡¯t forget your help.¡±


    He gives me another friendly pat on the shoulder, then steps back and starts to whistle. He keeps the tune going just long enough to be annoying, but stops before Hothuk loses patience and tells him to shut up.


    I feel rather uncomfortable. Making friends with someone universally disliked is never a good move. I wonder if there aren¡¯t some dwarves down here who¡¯d prefer if I hadn¡¯t distracted the dithyok¡ªbut no, these guards against the darkness are too professional for stupid grudges. Everyone but Galar and Fjalar, at least.


    Eventually we get back to the fort. The injured, including me, are taken to the infirmary chamber. My arm is bandaged, the bandages wrapped with healing chains, then I return to my room for a good sleep.


    I keep the candle lit.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Runes of Unaging

    ¡°I really can¡¯t believe you all put up with those two,¡± I complain to Nthazes. ¡°I know we¡¯re short on dwarfpower down here, but is it really impossible to replace them?¡±


    ¡°It is, I¡¯m afraid. There are very few who¡¯ll take this job.¡±


    ¡°Some do, though."


    "Not enough. Recruiting is a real problem for us."


    "You must manage somehow."


    ¡°We barely manage. About half are born down here, that is to say at the trading post, from unofficial wives which Runethane Yurok turns a blind eye to. Even so, it''s still frowned upon. I was one of those, although my father¡¯s dead now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, the memories are faded now. The other half are poor types¡ªminers and whatnot¡ªwho decide they¡¯d like to have a go at being a runeknight no matter how frightening the conditions.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d have thought there¡¯d be a fair few of those. I used to be one.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°No. Even the most desperate are reluctant: we¡¯re bound to Runethane Yurok personally, and only very rarely are we allowed to leave. Guarding against the deep darkness is a service of eternal blackness, cold, and very little freedom. That¡¯s how most up there see it.¡±


    ¡°You think he¡¯ll let you go, though? To journey with me?¡±


    Nthazes¡¯ pale face looks pensive in the forge-light. ¡°Maybe,¡± he says eventually. ¡°As long as I give my word to return.¡± He pauses, deep in thought. ¡°It¡¯s a dream, at least.¡±


    ¡°I hope he does.¡±


    ¡°I do as well.¡±


    ¡°But then if Fjalar and Galar are bound to the runethane personally,¡± I say, ¡°Why won¡¯t he punish them?¡±


    ¡°No idea. Runethane Yurok is an... interesting dwarf. Comes up with funny ideas on occasion, like allowing a human down here. Allowing you to stay down here as well. And the twins are always coming up with funny ideas. Maybe he''s taken a liking to them.¡±


    ¡°He may like them, but Commander Cathez certainly doesn¡¯t. To say nothing of Hraroth, and Hothuk, and Yathak.¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯ll see how it plays out. Who knows? Maybe they¡¯ll mature.¡±


    ¡°They better.¡±


    "Anyway," says Nthazes. "What they do can''t be helped but either of us."


    "That''s true. Shall we begin?"


    We''re not down here in the forging pits to chat about Galar and Fjalar. I¡¯ve asked him to come down so he can teach me another lesson. Not about how to forge my new titanium armor, which I''m confident I can handle on my own, but about how to manufacture something even more important. Something that every runeknight must craft if he is to continue his forging, and his life.


    An amulet of unaging.


    I don¡¯t have the materials for it yet, of course. There''s a reason runeknights who get stalled at the lower degrees die of old age¡ªthe gems required are extremely rare and expensive. Not just any stone will do. It must be flawless. Light must be able to refract off it in a rainbow of total clarity and beauty; only then can it be guaranteed that the runic power will flow through the facets unimpeded.


    Only the very best gem cutters¡ªthe most respected of the common professions by a long way¡ªcan provide jewels of such quality, and they charge dearly for them.


    But I have asked Nthazes to at least tell me the basics of how they work, so I can start thinking up designs for my own one.


    ¡°So,¡± he says. ¡°Amulets of unaging."


    "Yes."


    "Have you ever seen one?"


    ¡°I have. My guildmaster¡¯s.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Good. What did it look like?¡±


    I try to remember. ¡°It was diamond, in a gold setting I think. And the runes seemed to be inside the gem itself, though maybe that was just a trick of the light.¡±


    Nthazes grins. ¡°Ah, I don¡¯t think that was just a trick of the light. Amulets of unaging are considered hard to create for a reason, Zathar. Take a look at mine.¡±


    He reaches into his shirt and pulls out his amulet. Its design is markedly different to Wharoth¡¯s: it¡¯s made up of three gemstones, a central pink diamond and two hexagonal rods of red beryl above and below it, all encased in a dark stone I do not recognize.


    ¡°No metal for the setting?¡± I ask.


    ¡°The enruned gems are the important part. The casing is only there to keep everything steady against your skin¡ªthough of course the choice of material is still important. There must be some resonance with the runic flow. Mine is darkslate¡ªa kind of stone only found some way down the Shaft.¡±


    I have heard the Shaft spoken of often. It''s where the deep darkness lies.


    ¡°I see,¡± I say. ¡°And the runes in the gemstones? I can¡¯t see them.¡±


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    He rotates the amulet back and forth. Long spirals of runes flash on its surface¡ªno, are they slightly below the surface? I lean forward to get a better look, and my eyes widen in amazement. The runes are indeed carved below the polished facets of the gemstones. Nthazes grins.


    ¡°How?¡± I ask, utterly astounded. ¡°How is that possible? Some special chisel?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he laughs. ¡°There¡¯s no such chisel. Take a closer read of the runes and see if you can figure it out.¡±


    I mouth the runes silently as I read. The poems are what I expected: elaborate metaphors about strength of heart and mind, and stories and analogies about time and its power. Yet there is a subtext. The theme of each runic poem is dual, with a main idea and a subliminal idea. The subliminal idea is the same for each: that the power of what lies within is greater than what lies without.


    This shocks me. Us dwarves, and runeknights especially, are all about what lies around us¡ªwe value wealth and beautiful crafts. We are judged on our armor, something we literally wear over our skin. Valuing what lies within our hearts? Sounds suspiciously elvish.


    I tell Nthazes this and he shakes his head.


    ¡°What lies within is just as important, Zathar. That¡¯s where the power to forge comes from, doesn¡¯t it? Not from metal and gem.¡±


    ¡°Metal and gems are also needed. And knowledge from without too. Runes don¡¯t come from within.¡±


    ¡°They did originally. From the Runeforger.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the Runeforger though. Neither are you.¡±


    ¡°Well, true. But think about it like this¡ªthe runes, metal, and gems come from without, but the strength and intelligence to put them together comes from our brains and hearts. It¡¯s not an elvish idea at all.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Maybe I can understand that,¡± I say reluctantly.


    ¡°So that¡¯s why we make amulets to keep our bodies strong and our brains sharp and in their prime.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll think on it.¡±


    ¡°You still don¡¯t sound totally convinced.¡±


    I scratch my head. ¡°No, I think I understand. I¡¯ve always said to myself that forging is in my blood. That¡¯s from within, I guess.¡±


    Power from within...


    I recall my conversation from ten years ago with Guildmaster Wharoth. About my halat rune not being halat at all, but something original, and about how the runes I created down with the river trolls, which adorn my armor even now, are each subtly warped, subtly new.


    My skin prickles suddenly. The terror of the dragon and the shock of losing ten years had pushed all that to the back of my mind, but now for the first time since coming here I truly reflect on what it could mean: power from within. The same power, perhaps, as that of the Runeforger, or at least some shadow of it. I shiver.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± Nthazes asks. ¡°You¡¯ve gone pale.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I say. ¡°Just thinking too hard. So you''re saying that the subtext of the poems physically pushes the runes below the surface of the gems?¡±


    "That''s one way to think of it. Some say the gems themselves understand the poem, and pull them in."


    "I imagine that you have to choose the runes very carefully, though."


    "Of course. So you''ve made a good choice in deciding to start thinking about them now."


    "Thank you," I say. "And thank you for teaching me.¡±


    He puts his amulet back around his neck and tucks it into his shirt. The runes flash in the forge-glow before vanishing underneath the fabric.


    ¡°No problem," he says. "But I desire an equal exchange.¡± He grins. ¡°There¡¯s something that¡¯s been intriguing me lately: is it true that there are beasts that fly through the air in the upper caves? And above the surface too?¡±


    ¡°Hundreds,¡± I begin, smiling, glad to take my mind off serious matters. ¡°In the stalagmite forest there were bats that...¡±


    <hr>


    After roughly an hour of telling him about every single flying creature I have seen or read about¡ªexcluding dragons, which I tell him I would prefer not to discuss for fear of ruining the good mood¡ªhe says goodbye and leaves me to start work on my new boots.


    Being the slowest dwarf in the hunting party was not exactly to my liking. If something worse than the dithyok showed up, and I have been told there are such creatures, and we¡¯d had to abandon the dead gelthob and flee, I''d have been the first in the predator¡¯s sights. Or scents or hearings, as it were.


    No, being slow does not agree with me at all. Some purists might say this is undwarvish, and that a runeknight should trust in the strength of his armor and stand firm against his foe, but I doubt they have looked death in its gaping maw before.


    So boots it is. The honor I won for stabbing the dithyok in the side and saving Galar from its onslaught was enough to get me two square feet of five millimeter thick titanium. It won¡¯t make for the thickest plates, but titanium is incredibly strong for its weight, and I don¡¯t want my boots to be too heavy.


    I clip out a small section with a diamond-edge cutter, then quickly realize that I¡¯m totally unprepared for just how difficult titanium is to work with.


    Firstly, hot titanium cannot be allowed to come into contact with steel. If there is even a single spot of rust, it can react to create a small blast and cause terrible scarring to the craft. Cold hammering seems the obvious solution: after all, I am not forging a sword where I need to flatten out a thick bar, just shaping a small plate into a toecap.


    However even cold hammering on a steel anvil could result in iron oxide getting scraped onto the titanium to later explode in the furnace. So the anvil must be draped in a specially manufactured sheet of woven glass, which despite my best efforts to secure it firmly, shifts slightly with each blow of my hammer.


    And because I cannot use a steel hammer, this one is lead encircled with silver runes of hardness. Its head is small to prevent it being too heavy, and I find it very awkward to use. I can¡¯t determine how hard I need to make my blows, and titanium¡¯s natural flexibility compared to steel compounds this issue.


    It takes me a very long time to get the toecap into the exact form I want. And I still have to tap out all the imperfections. My hand is shaking from exhaustion and stress by the time the curve is smooth enough to meet my standards.


    I pause. Is it really good enough yet? I hold it to my ear and tap it with a chiming rod. The ring is pure but not quite pure enough. There are still imperfections.


    Another long stretch of gentle tapping commences.


    Now for the heat treating. This particular alloy of titanium must be heated in two stages. Once to white heat, then it must be cooled to yellow heat and kept there for ¡®a while¡¯¡ªof course no one can tell me the specific length of time.


    I turn the furnace up as high as it can go and place the toecap right at the back. I wait until it¡¯s glowing white hot then wait some more. No one can tell me exactly how long it has to stay at this stage either. I will have to use my dwarven instinct. When it tells me its time, I pull the toecap to the front of the forge and turn the heat down.


    The white fades to yellow. I wait some more, again trusting my dwarven instinct. Then I pull it out and place it on the anvil to cool


    By the time it''s red, I can already tell I¡¯ve misjudged the timings. The metal has expanded too much and warped¡ªthe corners are upturned.


    My instinct has failed me.


    I suppress the urge to scream in rage and dash the hot metal against the floor, and take some deep breaths. I sigh. This was no more than I expected: I¡¯ve been told multiple times that forging titanium takes a great deal of practice to get used to.


    Heart heavy with disappointment, I clip out another small plate and start the process anew.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Drained of Blood

    My each and every attempt to forge with the titanium fails. I manage to warp, bend, splinter, tear, or contaminate with iron oxide every single section I cut out. My first try was actually one of the better ones¡ªand now that my beginners luck has worn out I realize how far I truly have to go.


    After wasting more than half my sheet I decide to take a break for a while. There are chores to do, sleep to catch up on, and runes to ponder. Hopefully when I come back to the titanium it will be with a fresh and rejuvenated mind.


    Time passes, and because I can never seem to catch Jaemes, I have no idea how much. Lately he is never in his room, and rarely does he come down for meals, and when he does he of course doesn¡¯t have his calendar on him.


    Strangely, not knowing the time doesn¡¯t bother me as much as before. I¡¯m getting used to the pace of life down here. It¡¯s started to become nearly relaxing.


    As a side project, I decide to enrune my iron boots and gauntlets. If I want enough honor for more titanium then I¡¯ll need to go on more hunts, and I want to guarantee my survival on them. I buy some incandesite and copper wire with the honor I gain from doing chores and write out some long poems.


    These are the smallest and most precise runes I have ever written, and I do them entirely from memory. It''s as hard a process as it ever is, but also something I am very used to. The theme of the poems is simple and direct, as befits fiery copper and incandesite. They are about speed: how fast flame can flare to life, the speed of its onrush, how fast it consumes its fuel.


    When I test the boots and gauntlets they feel almost too fast. Slightly out of control. It¡¯s miles better than sluggishness, though.


    Feeling confident, I ask to be assigned to more hunts, and Cathez is eager to grant me permission. I go on them, but they prove to be far less eventful than my first. On one we run into no predators at all, and on the other two we are accosted only by packs of biter beetles¡ªdog sized creatures which we drive off quickly.


    Partly I am glad to not be thrown into mortal danger, partly I am disappointed that I only earn enough honor for another half a square foot of titanium sheet.


    ¡°Going to take me a long time to rack up enough for a full suit,¡± I complain to Nthazes. ¡°If I ever work out how to not destroy the damn stuff.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get there,¡± he says in an encouraging tone, but I don¡¯t feel very encouraged. And while the infinite patience of every dwarf here is certainly a virtue, it does feel a little overbearing sometimes.


    I go on another hunt, acquire a little more titanium, ruin it. Never have I had so much trouble in the forge before. My nerves are beginning to strain¡ªI become a little more sympathetic of Galar and Fjalar. More than once I actually do dash a failed crafted against the floor in a fit of rage.


    How long is it going to take before I manage to use this stuff? How long has it been since I started with it? I really ought to know, I tell myself nervously, and I decide to seek out Jaemes, to corner him in his chambers no matter how long I have to wait by his door.


    I knock on it. No answer. I sit down and lean my back against the opposite wall. The stone is cold and hard, uncomfortable. Good. I won¡¯t be drifting off to sleep then. Or so I think¡ªafter a long time waiting, my eyelids grow heavy, and my body starts to lean to one side despite my best efforts to keep it straight.


    Jaemes¡¯ voice, amplified by my runic ears, wakes me with a start. I cannot understand a single word¡ªhe is muttering to himself in his human tongue. His mood is clear enough, however: it is black.


    The glow of his lantern lights the corridor brightly when he turns the corner. The rays pierce into my eyes and I snap them shut. Tears sting.


    ¡°Ah!¡± I yelp. ¡°Watch that!¡±


    He snaps back with something rude-sounding in human, then stops himself.


    ¡°Oh, Zathar. It¡¯s you, is it?¡± He dims the lantern right down. ¡°I apologize.¡±


    ¡°No worries,¡± I say, standing up and rubbing tears from my eyes.


    ¡°Here for the time, are you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s been a while¡ªyou never seem to be around.¡±


    His expression darkens. ¡°No. I¡¯ve been busy.¡±


    ¡°Is it all right if I come in? Just for a moment.¡±


    ¡°Yes, why not? It¡¯s not as if I¡¯m writing much these days. Damn bloody...¡± His muttering turns back to human as he opens the door and beckons me through.


    I take off the curved band that my runic ears are fixed to¡ªI¡¯m not in armor right now¡ªand place it on an empty space on the desk. It¡¯s nicer to talk with someone at close range when they aren¡¯t on. Less wince-inducingly loud.


    Jaemes turns his chair from his desk to face the bed, where I sit down. He gazes into my eyes intensely¡ªa piercing gaze. Behind his blue eyes I sense that dark thoughts are whirling.


    ¡°You having trouble lately?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You could say that.¡±


    ¡°Something to do with the Runethane?¡±


    ¡°Always is,¡± he says gruffly. ¡°Anyway though, you¡¯re here for the time, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    He reaches back and pulls the paper with the days scrawled on it from the drawer. He reads over it for a few seconds, then leans over his desk and dips his quill in ink.


    ¡°Missed a few days maybe,¡± he mutters while he scratches away. ¡°This should be about the right count...¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    He turns back and shows me the paper. My eyes widen and my skin grows cold. The count is nearly to three thousand nine hundred¡ªnearly half a year has passed since my arrival.


    ¡°That long?¡± I say, aghast. ¡°Oh, hells!¡±


    ¡°That damn long,¡± he says. ¡°Nearly six months without any progress whatsoever.¡±


    ¡°I mean, I¡¯ve made some. But you¡¯re right, not enough. Not enough by a long way.¡±


    ¡°I was talking about my own work.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right.¡±


    ¡°Seems we¡¯re in the same boat, then.¡±


    I frown at the strange human metaphor, then nod my head. ¡°Yes. Both running out of time with nothing to show for its passage.¡±


    ¡°A rather poetic turn of phrase there, Zathar. It¡¯s always amused me how literary you runeknights are, though I suppose the clue is in the name. I will say, however, that you do have rather more time than I do.¡±


    ¡°I told myself two years. Nearly a quarter of that is gone now.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but you¡¯re still a dwarf. And a very young one at that. Me, how many years old do you think I am?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe eighty.¡±


    He laughs harshly. ¡°At eighty, most of us humans have trouble walking, let along delving into the deeps. I¡¯m halfway through my sixties.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got fifteen years then.¡±


    ¡°Hardly. I give it about five before my brain starts turning to porridge. Having no one to talk to but dwarves is accelerating things¡ªno offense.¡±


    His comment, as well as the way he¡¯s making light of my situation, irks me a little.


    ¡°Better write fast then.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t seem to notice my slightly caustic tone. ¡°Writing doesn¡¯t take that much time. Research is the issue. And how am I meant to research something I¡¯m barely ever allowed near!¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t let you near the deep darkness?¡±


    ¡°The Runethane won¡¯t, yes.¡± His voice is filled with bitter frustration. ¡°Not often enough. Even though it¡¯s no harm to him¡ªwhat does he care if some crazy old human gets devoured by it?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s probably just worried for your safety.¡±


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t give a damn for my safety. He just decides things on a whim¡ªyou haven¡¯t met him yet, have you?¡±


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    ¡°You will at some point, I¡¯m sure. Be careful. I¡¯m an expert on dwarven physiology, and I know that you lot aren¡¯t really supposed to live for centuries upon centuries. Those amulets you wear might keep you in good physical health, but mental?¡± He shrugs. ¡°I¡¯m not convinced.¡±


    ¡°Our amulets protect our minds from the ravages of time also,¡± I say defensively. ¡°And I¡¯m sure the amulet of a Runethane is better than most.¡±


    ¡°Oh, they protect the physical brain matter from time¡¯s ravages, no doubt about that. But the spiritual aspects? What does having several hundred years¡¯ worth of memories all knocking about in there do to one¡¯s mind, eh? Have a think on that, young dwarf.¡±


    He might not be wrong: the oldest dwarf I have ever met is Vanerak, who anyone can tell is not completely sane.


    ¡°Everyone else trusts him, though. Are you sure you haven¡¯t just angered him somehow?¡±


    ¡°No, I haven¡¯t angered him. He¡¯s taken it on himself to be angry with me.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. Anyway, all we can do is be patient.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. Patience. That¡¯s a dwarvish word I¡¯ve only seen in a dictionary, did you know? They don¡¯t use it down here. Why would they?¡±


    ¡°Still, we know it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, I suppose we do. Though I have to admit I¡¯ve never been very good at it.¡±


    I smile. ¡°Neither have I, as my guildmaster often reminded me.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he was a bit like my professors back in the day¡ªno, I¡¯m probably insulting him. My professors were the biggest pack of idiots you ever set eyes on. Though funnily enough, as soon as I became one myself, it was the students who started looking like the idiots. Ah, things change as you grow old, dwarf. Mostly for the worse.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard there are dwarves who live in mountains on the surface, selling equipment to rich humans. Does no one ever buy amulets from them?¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± he laughs. ¡°But I¡¯m not rich. Academics is not a lucrative business.¡±


    ¡°A book on the deep darkness though, I¡¯m sure that would sell for something.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Maybe, maybe not. Maybe if I dumbed it down for the common audience, but I have my academic pride to protect.¡± He leans back in his chair. ¡°If I can ever get it finished,¡± he sighs.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you will in time.¡± His lantern flickers slightly and I shiver a little. ¡°What is the deep darkness anyway?¡± I ask.


    His blue eyes light up. ¡°Ah, finally someone cares to ask. The others are so uncurious, you know. Understanding that the deep darkness is a force of uncaring evil is good enough for them. At least, that¡¯s what they think they understand.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t think it¡¯s evil?¡±


    ¡°How could a force be evil? Is a shadow more or less evil than the light that casts it? Evil and good are meaningless words when we talk about nature. An earthquake that crushes buildings is not evil. Neither are the sun and rain which cause our crops to grow good. They are merely things that exist.¡±


    ¡°Nthazes talks as if the dark is a conscious force, though.¡±


    ¡°It acts like a conscious force. That doesn¡¯t mean it is one. When it reaches out its tendrils to the heat and light, who¡¯s to say that isn¡¯t just some form of magnetism?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of a natural force with tendrils.¡±


    ¡°Plants? Roots are just tendrils groping for water.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. I''ve never seen a plant though.¡±


    ¡°Who knows? Perhaps it is the very existence of this fort, with its runic lights and warm bodies, that attracts the darkness upward.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d keep that idea to myself if I were you,¡± I warn.


    ¡°Yes. I probably should have. That¡¯s only one of my theories though. But if I can¡¯t get closer to it more often to make my observations...¡± He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s you lot¡¯s loss. If you knew more about it, maybe you could fight it better.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I agree.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad someone does.¡±


    I am just about to open my mouth to ask a further question about the darkness when a deep chime rings outside. I instantly tense, for I¡¯ve been told about the alarm bell. Two deep chimes for a minor incursion, three for a major.


    But no second chime comes. Jaemes and I both stand up. I put my runic ears back on and hear running footsteps in the corridors. Quickly I hurry out the door.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I shout.


    Thundering from behind me announces Commander Cathez.


    ¡°Up!¡± he shouts. ¡°If you¡¯re asleep, get up! Up now!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I shout again. My heartbeat is rapid, my palms sweating. ¡°Commander, what¡¯s happened? Is it an incursion?¡±


    He turns to us as if noticing our presence for the first time.


    ¡°Turn your lantern up, human! Brighter!¡±


    ¡°Is it the darkness?¡± Jaemes asks. ¡°Here?¡±


    ¡°No idea, but just turn it up just in case!¡±


    He turns it up as far as it will go and brightness floods the corridor, outlining the ancient stones more clearly than I have ever seen them before. And the brightness also outlines the intense anxiety writ clear on Cathez¡¯s face.


    ¡°Commander, what¡¯s going on?¡± I repeat.


    ¡°It¡¯s Mathek,¡± he says. ¡°He¡¯s been found dead in the storerooms.¡±


    ¡°Dead?¡± I cry.


    ¡°Yes, dead.¡± He swallows. ¡°Drained of all his blood!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: In the Hall of Runethane Yurok

    Cathez orders me to equip myself, so I rush into my room and throw on my armor as fast as I can. I return to the corridor with Heartseeker clutched at my side and see that the other dwarves he¡¯s woken up are assembling too, squinting in the brightness of Jaemes¡¯ lantern.


    ¡°Stand to attention!¡± Cathez orders. ¡°Mathek has been found dead in a storeroom, drained of blood.¡± Those he hasn¡¯t told yet gasp in shock. ¡°Runethane Yurok has ordered those not currently at the Shaft or reinforcing those who are, to gather in his hall. There, the full facts will be laid out, and the Runethane will decide how to proceed.¡±


    We follow him through the halls. The dwarves around me are muttering in low voices:


    ¡°Drained of blood?¡± one whispers.


    ¡°An incursion,¡± says a panicked sounding ninth degree. ¡°The darkness has got into the fort somehow.¡±


    ¡°No! The darkness isn¡¯t interested in blood, just light and warmth.¡±


    ¡°Some creature has skulked in,¡± another dwarf whispers. ¡°That¡¯s what it must be. There are things that drink blood in the upper levels.¡±


    ¡°Nothing that could have made it all the way down here.¡±


    ¡°How would you know? Have you ever been to the upper levels? Hey, Zathar, is what I¡¯ve heard true? Are there really beasts that drink blood up there?¡±


    ¡°Yes, some kinds of bats.¡±


    ¡°Bats? Those things that can fly?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°No such thing!¡± the panicky ninth degree hisses. ¡°It¡¯s the deep dark, has to be!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Cathez snaps. ¡°No rumors. No speculation. Once the facts are laid out clearly to him, the Runethane will make a decision. There is no need for any discussion. Do not worry yourselves needlessly.¡±


    ¡°Easy for you to say! You¡¯re a second degree. Nothing¡¯s going to harm you!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡±


    Everyone shuts up. Jaemes¡¯ lantern swings back and forth as he walks alongside us, casting weird shadows that unnerve me. Could the deep darkness be lurking in one of them? Has some tendril of it snaked its way up to eliminate us one by one? Or is the other dwarf¡¯s suggestion true: is there some terrible creature loose down here? An image of some multi-limbed, pure black, scentless and soundless worm-beast appears in my mind¡¯s eye and I shudder.


    Poor Mathek¡ªas far as I know, every death at the fort in its long, long history has occurred either at the Shaft or up in the mushroom basket. For something to make its way into the confines of the fort is unthinkable.


    Cathez calls a halt where our corridor intersects with another. Dwarves in full plate of at least fifth degree standard hurry along it past us, illuminated in bright white from their intricately light-runed maces and hammers. Reinforcements for the Shaft, Nthazes among them, though he doesn¡¯t notice me.


    ¡°Come on,¡± Cathez says, and we restart our quick march.


    A few minutes later we arrive in front of the hall of Runethane Yurok. Two great doors are set into the end of the corridor, each three times as tall as a dwarf. They are plated with white platinum of the purest carat, which has no design upon it but is as smooth as a mirror. The light from Jaemes¡¯ lantern reflects off it brightly, as does the light from the maces of the two guards standing to attention just in front of it.


    ¡°We are here, chamberlain,¡± Cathez says to the one in more ornate armor. ¡°Seventy runeknights exact and eleven initiates, as well as myself. Commander Hraroth is leading forty-three senior runeknights who weren¡¯t on duty to the Shaft. Ten more are guarding the upward road. And an escort of six others are bringing up the body.¡±


    ¡°I shall convey this to the Runethane,¡± answers the chamberlain. ¡°Please wait.¡±


    He opens the doors just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the pitch blackness within, then he vanishes into the hall and shuts them behind him with a loud click. We wait in silence. The dwarves around me, from what I can see from their eyes past their vision slits, look scared and nervous.


    So am I. Besides the lurking sense of dread, the prospect of seeing the corpse of Mathek, who though not my best friend was nonetheless friendly company with whom I shared plenty of drinks, makes me feel queasy. Especially considering the gruesome state he must be in.


    Drained of blood... There cannot be many worse ways to die than that.


    Some of the dwarves with better runic ears than me turn around. My heart jumps in my chest and I look back with them. I hear quiet footsteps, and a few minutes later a new set of shadows appears in the corridor¡ªof six dwarves bearing a stretcher, upon it a body covered by a thin sheet. Without any command from Cathez, our formation parts to let them through.


    Below the sheet there is the impression of something yellow and shriveled. I swallow hard. The stretcher bearers stop at the front of the door. Some of the dwarves around me are craning their heads to get a better look, but I am not. Mathek¡¯s body repels me like no other ever has. I fear that if I look at it for too long, I will imagine myself gruesomely mutilated and become paralyzed with terror.


    A few minutes later the doors swing open. I was wrong about them not being runed¡ªtiny ones flash in the platinum, far too dense and small to read. They must be for defense against the deep darkness. If it is ever to swamp the fort, here would be where we make our last stand.


    We march through, and are now in the hall of Runethane Yurok. Curling black smoke pervades it, all but obscuring the light from Jaemes¡¯ lantern, though the bright light pouring from the chamberlain''s mace is relatively unaffected. Through the smoke I see that the hall is about twice the size the Association of Steel¡¯s guildhall was, enough to fit all two hundred dwarves of the fort several times over. Unlike a guildhall though, it is bare of furniture. There are no long tables for food, no chairs nor benches, just plain stone tiles. There is no hearth either, and the air feels very cold even through my armor and its padding.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    At the front is a raised section, upon which I see the outline of a throne. Leaned against it is a gigantic mace that looks far too heavy for even a rune-strengthened dwarf to lift. Then the smoke shifts and it is obscured, and there is too much interference in here for me to make out the details of its form by hearing.


    ¡°Form ranks by degree,¡± Cathez orders.


    We form seven rows, with the initiates at the back, then the tenth degrees, ninth, up until fourth. Anyone above that must be at the Shaft, and most of the fourth and fifth degrees must be too because there are very few dwarves in front of me and to my sides. I feel rather exposed, even though there is still a considerable gap between the front row and the Runethane¡¯s throne.


    ¡°Where should I stand?¡± I hear Jaemes whisper to Cathez.


    ¡°Best go to the back.¡±


    He goes to stand beside the initiates.


    Then Runethane Yurok¡¯s voice booms from his smoke-obscured throne: ¡°Now that the ranks are formed, we will begin. Cathez, have the body brought forward.¡±


    Commander Cathez nods to the stretcher bearers, who solemnly carry Mathek past our ranks toward the Runethane. They stop at the front of the steps.


    ¡°Bring him up.¡±


    They obey.


    ¡°Lay him down before me.¡±


    They do so, though I can barely see anything for the smoke. Runethane Yurok stands up from his throne and kneels down to remove Mathek¡¯s shroud. He takes a hand in his armored gauntlet and lifts it up to his runic ear.


    ¡°He is not only drained of blood,¡± he says, ¡°But of all life. Not a single spark of life-force remains in his flesh. This is the work of the deep darkness.¡±


    ¡°That is what I thought on first sight also, my Runethane,¡± says Cathez. ¡°But examine his neck.¡±


    Runethane Yurok peers at it. ¡°A hollow hole.¡±


    ¡°Yes. He was pierced with something. The blood must have been drained through there. And the deep darkness does not cause bodily wounds.¡±


    ¡°True. True.¡± Yurok returns to his throne. ¡°We must know the circumstances of his death down to the very last detail. Mount the steps, commander, and tell them to us clearly.¡±


    Commander Cathez walks up the stairs carefully, then turns to face us and lays out the facts in full:


    ¡°Mathek¡¯s body was discovered by the initiate Jothol when he went down to the third storage chamber to collect iron. He was lying between two stacks of seven millimeter titanium plate. He was lying on his side, curled up in a fetal position. Jothol immediately fled to the eating hall, where he informed Commander Hraroth.


    ¡°Commander Hraroth gathered five others and hurried to the storage room. He came to the body and decided that the best course of action would be the one that we have taken¡ªto double the guard against the darkness and gather the rest of us at key, well defended areas of the fort. Mathek was killed when he was alone, after all. To scatter us about searching for whatever killed him would incur unnecessary risk.¡±


    ¡°Any other details?¡± asks Runethane Yurok.


    ¡°He was unarmed and unarmored. The last dwarf to see him was his friend Yithod, who saw him exit the forging pits. According to Yithod, he was working on a mace of light. Also, there was no blood on the body. Whatever killed him was very clean with its eating. ¡±


    ¡°It was the deep darkness,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°There is no other possibility.¡±


    ¡°The deep darkness does not take anything physical, though.¡±


    ¡°That is true. However, there are only two threats to our fortress, the deep darkness and the creatures of the unexplored caverns above. The latter is impossible, since the only beasts that suck blood are found near the surface. Bats, I believe they are called. That leaves only the darkness.¡±


    ¡°Very good, my Runethane. Perhaps the darkness¡¯s nature was... transformed when it became separated from the main shadow.¡±


    ¡°Indeed it must have been.¡±


    There is silence for a while. I feel very cold, and my eyes flit from shadow to shadow, searching for any anomaly, any twisting or moving that might reveal that the escaped fragment of deep darkness is lurking there. Or worse, if one part of the deep darkness can separate and enter the fort, why not others? Perhaps we have already been infiltrated by dozens.


    ¡°I have decided what we shall do,¡± Runethane Yurok announces. ¡°A search. Every last shadow in the fortress must be obliterated by light, one by one. Every cranny must be scoured with torches. Every chest must be opened, every shelf, even the pots in the kitchens. We must find this offshoot and destroy it.¡±


    ¡°We shall do so, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Good. I will leave the details of the operation to you and Commander Hraroth to plan. You are dismissed¡ª¡±


    ¡°My Runethane!¡± comes a bold voice from the back of the room. It is Jaemes¡¯. He is striding up the hall toward the Runethane¡¯s throne, lantern held high. Amidst the smoke it looks like a single burning coal. He stops a few paces from the stairs.


    ¡°My Runethane, if I may be so bold as to give my opinion on the issue.¡±


    ¡°This is a matter of life and death,¡± Yurok snaps. ¡°We have no time to waste.¡±


    ¡°Because it is a matter of life and death, I would feel guilty if I could not make a contribution.¡±


    ¡°Fine. You are the expert on the deep darkness here, after all,¡± he says sarcastically.


    ¡°Indeed I am.¡±


    Somehow I feel that was the wrong reply. In the glow of Jaemes lantern I can see Runethane Yurok¡¯s face clearly, and there is a sneer on it.


    ¡°Enlighten us, then. What do you think? How did part of the darkness get up here past the light? Give us your academic opinion.¡±


    ¡°It cannot have. Neither can the deep darkness exist as a fragment.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± The Runethane folds his arms. ¡°You think I am wrong, do you?¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± Jaemes says boldly.


    ¡°Then I will hear your alternative theory. Or do you not have one? Are you about to whinge to me again about needing to go on an expedition down the Shaft that will put countless lives at unnecessary risk?¡±


    ¡°Obviously I am not going to petition you in the midst of a crisis.¡±


    ¡°A relief to hear.¡±


    ¡°And I do have a theory.¡±


    ¡°Hurry up and tell us then.¡±


    ¡°I shall. Despite the lack of evidence I have been allowed to gather these past ten years, I understand at least that the deep darkness is a singular entity.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°You ran through your logic before about how there are only two places from which the fort can be attacked. Above from beasts, and below from the darkness.¡±


    ¡°Indeed I did.¡±


    ¡°You were correct that no blood sucking beasts inhabit the caverns directly above us. Even if there were, I doubt they could slip in undetected.¡±


    ¡°The way you speak suggests that you think I was incorrect about something else.¡±


    ¡°Yes. You overlooked a separate angle of attack. Not from above or below, but from within.¡±


    Runethane Yurok leans forward. ¡°What are you getting at?¡±


    ¡°The simplest explanation here is not that the deep darkness has suddenly evolved to do something it has never been able to do before.¡±


    I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.


    ¡°No, the simplest explanation for Mathek¡¯s death is that he was murdered by another dwarf.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Search for the Shadow

    There are a few seconds of silence, then the hall erupts into outraged shouting. The violence of my fellow dwarves shocks me¡ªour ranks push forward, spears are brandished and jabbed in Jaemes¡¯ direction.


    ¡°Murder? Murder?¡±


    ¡°Impossible!¡±


    ¡°Dwarves do not stab each other from behind! That¡¯s human behavior!¡±


    ¡°You surface-dwellers might be thieves and assassins, but not us!¡±


    ¡°Human fool!¡±


    ¡°Human scum! How dare you dishonor us!¡±


    ¡°You never should have come here!¡±


    A lower degree dwarf actually tries to charge at Jaemes, but Cathez steps in and slams him to the ground.


    ¡°Silence!¡± he bellows. ¡°Halt, all of you! You are in the presence of your Runethane!¡±


    The surge toward Jaemes grinds to a halt and the shouting ceases. The runeknight who was thrown to the ground climbs to his feet and slinks back into the ranks. Jaemes, who did not flinch at all at the threats, crosses his arms and glares at us.


    ¡°I merely gave my opinion. I am not accusing any of you. I just wish for the Runethane to have as much knowledge as possible at his disposal so that he can help to guarantee our safety.¡±


    ¡°Yes, thank you for your opinion, human,¡± Runethane Yurok says. His tone of voice suggests he¡¯s not much less angry than everyone else. ¡°However, I am not convinced. We are a brotherhood down here. There is little disharmony between us, and certainly no crime as serious as murder.¡±


    ¡°Even so, is it not¡ª¡±


    ¡°I said thank you for your opinion!¡±


    Jaemes takes the hint and steps away from the throne. He bows low. ¡°Very well, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now that¡¯s cleared up, the search and extermination will begin. Commander Cathez, I leave it in your capable hands.¡±


    <hr>


    Commander Cathez divides us into squads of five. We march to the eighth storeroom--accompanied by the chamberlain with his brightly glowing mace--where he orders us to drag out some large crates from the corner and open them up. They are heavy, but not as heavy as crates of weapons would be.


    I use Heartseeker to help prize the first open. The wood creaks loudly, then the lid unseals and the smell of tar pours out, making me step back, coughing loudly.


    Once I¡¯ve recovered from my coughing fit I see that inside is a stack of long wooden torches, unused for perhaps many centuries. The heads have compressed together into a singular sticky mass.


    The lower ranking runeknights are ordered to cut them apart. They grumble at the insult of having to use their crafts for such menial work, but Commander Cathez gives them a strong reminder about how serious the situation is. Eventually they manage to separate them all, and Cathez orders us to take one each. A burning brazier is carried down from the kitchens and we light them. The room fills with choking fumes and heat, and for an instant I am reminded of the black dragon.


    ¡°Squads one to three will go to the forges,¡± Cathez orders. ¡°Squad four to the road. Squads five to eight to the sleeping chambers. Squads nine and ten to the kitchen and eating hall. Squads eleven to sixteen will accompany me to the storerooms. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± we chorus.


    ¡°I will also confer with Commander Hraroth to see how many can be spared from the Shaft to help with the search. Once the darkness is discovered, a light-enruned weapon must be used. Do not attempt to fight it with your torch¡ªit isn¡¯t bright enough. Just try to hold it back.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Now move out.¡±


    I am in squad three and thus head up to the forges. The heat and light of the torches ought to be a comfort to me, but the flickering shadows they cast are unnerving. The crackling sound they make also disrupts my hearing, so my runic ears will be no help in detecting the strange silence which Nthazes has told me heralds the deep darkness'' presence.


    We enter the forging hall. It is eerily silent¡ªno hammer-blow echoes, no anvil clangs.


    ¡°We¡¯ll divide the job into thirds,¡± says the fourth degree in charge of squad one. ¡°My squad will do the left third, squad two the middle, squad three the right. Do not search anywhere alone. Go into each pit as a group, and make sure to open every drawer, every chest¡ªanywhere there might be darkness.¡±


    ¡°What about the armor and weapon storage?¡± someone asks.


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    ¡°We will do those after the forging pits have been inspected. And make sure to remember what Commander Cathez said about not fighting it! No heroics. If the darkness is discovered, shout loudly, step away, and try to make a ring of light around it with the rest of your squad. Hopefully the torches hold until reinforcements come.¡±


    My squad clambers down into the first forging pit in single file, holding our torches close to the ground. Several of us are shaking. I tighten my grip on my torch and Heartseeker and take a deep breath. Giving into fear will only make the process worse. I remind myself that the likelihood of my squad discovering the darkness is only one in sixteen, and get to work.


    We search in pairs. I use Heartseeker to hook open a drawer, then my partner thrusts his burning torch just above it. I prod whatever¡¯s in there¡ªchisels, small bits of metal, other various tools¡ªto try and turn them over so that the light can reach into every nook and cranny. Then we move onto the next drawer, chest, or shelf. The furnace is turned up as high as it can go for maximum illumination.


    It is hot and sweaty work, and very nerve-wracking. Sometimes the fire of a torch will flicker because of a draft and everyone will jump. It always proves to be nothing, however.


    I ask exactly what will happen if we do find the deep darkness, and the squad leader tells me there are a number of possibilities: the torch could dim or die, or I could feel a terrible coldness as it tries to sap the life from me, or if it is powerful enough I might not feel anything as every iota of life-energy in my body is ripped out in a single instant.


    ¡°Though I don¡¯t really know that well,¡± he says. ¡°Still haven¡¯t forged my weapon of light.¡±


    ¡°Are light runes very hard to master?¡±


    ¡°Extremely. But let¡¯s stay focused on the task at hand.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    We clear the first forging pit, then climb out and down into the second. The same process commences¡ªopen, illuminate, poke around, close again. No shadows leap out to drain the life from us. We move onto the next pit, and then the fourth.


    Nothing. Neither does there seem to be anything in the other parts of the forging hall, since we hear no cries of panic or screams of terror. I begin to calm a little, jump less at the flickering of shadows.


    A new worry takes hold of me: what if Jaemes is right?


    Though I wasn¡¯t enraged by his comments like the others, I did find them a little hard to believe. After all, everyone down here¡ªbar the twins¡ªseems to get along in brotherly harmony. Unlike the warring runeknights of Thanerzak and Broderick, everyone here has the common cause of defending against the deep dark. They are proud to say that they have no energy to waste on fighting each other.


    Yet on second thoughts, is it not impossible that there has never been any crime down here? Within the centuries upon centuries, perhaps even a millennia of two hundred runeknights packed together in the darkness, it is unlikely that not a single grudge has been formed, a single insult taken the wrong way. I''ve seen enough dwarf-on-dwarf cruelty to understand what we are like.


    At some point, someone must have decided their grudge was too much to bear, and done something about it. An accidental nudge toward a sweeping tendril of darkness, perhaps. Or abandonment in the upper reaches of the mushroom basket with a predator lurking near.


    Surely sometime, somewhere, something like this has happened amongst these dwarves. And if not, then it is long overdue.


    But what weapon could drain every last drop of blood in an instant and not leave a single stain? I cannot think of any runes that could accomplish the task. Where would the blood go, anyway?


    Just after we have cleared the final forging pit in our section of the hall, a group of ten runeknights wielding hammers and maces of light arrive. Arrayed in an even row, they are a spectacular sight, their weapons gleaming like a row of stars¡ªglowing balls in the surface sky I''ve read about¡ªexcept these stars are not illustrations but bright and real.


    Their leader, a third degree whose armor is adorned with mirrors of platinum like the Runethane¡¯s doors, steps forward to converse with the leader of squad one. After some discussion, we are ordered to begin inspecting the armor crates and weapons stands at the far end of the hall, those used to store unfinished crafts, while two or three runeknights with weapons of light stand behind each squad ready to strike.


    Some of my fear returns. The armor boxes are big, and many have not been opened for a long time. With no furnace nearby the only light is from our torches and the maces of the two runeknights behind us, which cast long shadows. The weapon racks are worse¡ªthey are inside tall sealed cabinets to protect their contents from moisture, and each time I open one I feel a terrible dread, expecting a cold shadow taller than I am to subsume me in death.


    This does not happen. Nothing happens. The armor boxes contain nothing but armor, and the weapon racks hold nothing but weapons. We come to the final box¡ªan enormous, ancient looking thing of gnarled surface wood.


    ¡°Open it up,¡± orders our squad leader.


    Two dwarves wedge their spears into the thin gap under the lid and attempt to pry it open. They heave hard, but it won¡¯t open.


    ¡°Harder.¡±


    They strain as hard as they can, but their spearheads are beginning to bend.


    ¡°Wait,¡± says one of the runeknights behind us. ¡°I think this one¡¯s sealed magnetically. Check the side, there¡¯s probably a switch to reverse the polarity.¡±


    I put my torch to the side of the chest to illuminate it, and just as the runeknight predicted there¡¯s a square button inscribed with a rune I don¡¯t fully recognise, but with a broken jag stroke that suggests something to do with magnetism.


    My partner kneels down and presses it.


    The lid flies open with a sudden bang and a black shadow flies out at us. I yell and dodge out of the way and it affixes itself to the runeknight behind me. He shouts in panic and thrashes at it with his glowing mace, but it has no effect. I thrust at the blackness with my torch and an acrid scent fills the air. Everyone else follows suit, and the shadow flares into bright flames.


    The other runeknight with a mace of light grabs hold of the flaming shadow and tears it off his comrade, then throws it to the ground and curses loudly:


    ¡°Fucking silk! Who the fuck put silks in their armor chest? Why the hell would anyone do that?¡±


    ¡°Whose even is this anyway?¡± says our squad leader in a faint voice. He sounds as if he¡¯s just had a minor heart attack.


    The runeknight who was ¡®attacked¡¯ pokes around the chest with his mace, pushing away a few more large cuts of silk cloth. Below them is a half-enruned suit of steel armor, far from the best quality.


    ¡°Some idiot¡¯s,¡± he says. ¡°One long dead.¡±


    ¡°This storage really ought be gone over more often," another dwarf says. "It''s horribly disorganized."


    ¡°It is, just no one bothers to check the corners. Well, it¡¯s all checked now. We¡¯re done. Wherever the deep darkness is lurking, it isn¡¯t here.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Boots of Titanium

    None of the searches find anything. Runethane Yurok orders that everything be searched once more. We do so, and again no fragment of the deep darkness is found. He orders a third search, and again, nothing.


    He suspects that the fragment retreated after claiming its first victim, and is now hiding in the caverns above the fort, preparing to return and slay more unsuspecting dwarves, so he issues several decrees to ensure our safety. They are inconvenient but accepted without complaint, for we all understand the gravity of the situation.


    Emergency decree the first: no dwarf is to wander the fort alone.


    Emergency decree the second: torches or light-enruned weapons are to be carried at all times.


    Emergency decree the third: the regular guard of the Shaft is to be doubled.


    The third decree does not really affect me, though I don¡¯t get to see Nthazes so often, and the second is only a minor inconvenience, but the first? That one changes things. No longer am I independent, able to forge and work where and when I please. Each time I want to go down to continue my attempts at forging titanium, I have to find another dwarf to come down with me, and they always seem to be away¡ªon hunts, already doing their own forging, down at the Shaft, doing other jobs, or simply eating or sleeping.


    The only person who will accompany me down consistently is Jaemes, who didn''t fail to notice I was the only dwarf who didn''t scream insults and brandish a weapon at him in the Runethane''s hall. With his research having hit a dead end, he has plenty of spare time to help me.


    This comes with its own set of problems, however. His theory that Mathek was murdered by another dwarf has not made him popular, and as a result of my association with him¡ªand the fact that I¡¯m an outsider myself¡ªI find the other dwarves growing somewhat cold toward me.


    At mealtimes I am asked less questions about the world near the surface, and more about my personal history. Heartseeker draws comments about its dark halo. I start to hear complaints about ¡®abovers¡¯, their lack of appreciation for the fort¡¯s mission, and their strange customs and ways of speaking.


    ¡°Why did you have to confront the Runethane like that?¡± I complain to Jaemes one time as we walk to the forges. ¡°I know you wanted your opinion heard, but was that really the time?¡±


    ¡°Some people are able to keep quiet when the truth is at stake. I am not one of them.¡±


    ¡°Even so, you might have spoken with a little more respect. He¡¯s the Runethane. Telling him that he was wrong, right to his face in front of all his runeknights, was foolish. You should have waited to talk to him afterward.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But he¡¯s refused to see me for nearly a year now, and I had to tell him somehow.¡±


    ¡°Why didn''t you just tell Commander Cathez? Quietly.¡±


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t listen to me either.¡±


    ¡°Then what difference does it make?¡±


    ¡°Because I believe what I said is the truth. I¡¯m an academic, I seek the truth and then I say it. It¡¯s my job. My role in life.¡±


    ¡°You should try to think more carefully about how you say it.¡±


    ¡°I think there¡¯s no better way I could have said it. Now that the searches have turned up absolutely nothing¡ªas I knew they would¡ªI¡¯m sure that at least a few of you are considering my theory in private.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I think a few probably are. And I think they''re starting to think maybe I did it. Maybe they¡¯ll start suspecting you too.¡±


    ¡°Murder requires a reason. What reason could I have had for killing Mathek? I barely knew him.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°No, logically, I cannot have killed Mathek.¡±


    I think in silence for a few minutes.


    ¡°I can think of a few reasons,¡± I say very quietly. ¡°One, you are interested in dwarven physiology. Maybe you needed the blood for research. Two, you want the Runethane to approve an expedition to the deep dark, and might think he¡¯ll become more keen on the idea if he starts to believe it''s changed somehow.¡±


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    ¡°If that was my reason, I wouldn¡¯t have gone out of my way to tell him it wasn¡¯t the deep darkness, would I?¡±


    ¡°Still, it is a motive. And I can think of a third reason also: dwarves aren¡¯t always logical. I don¡¯t know about you humans, but once we take a disliking to something, it¡¯s hard for us to let go. And I think quite a few down here have taken a disliking to you.¡±


    For once he has nothing to say.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re smarter than I gave you credit for,¡± he says quietly.


    ¡°I¡¯d watch my back if I were you,¡± I warn. ¡°Not for whoever killed Mathek, but for Mathek¡¯s friends.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Yes. Yes, that¡¯s probably sensible.¡±


    We enter the forging hall and I make my way to the nearest unoccupied forging pit. Usually Jaemes stays out near the storage crates where it''s cooler, or else walks around in a figure of eight which he claims helps him think, but today he sits by the edge of my pit, politely looking away.


    I think I''m finally getting the hang of forging titanium. Although my last few attempts at making the toecap also ended in failure, they weren''t quite as catastrophic as my first few. In fact, if I were a runeknight of eighth or ninth degree I might have considered them successes, but as fifth degree I must have higher standards.


    The trick, as always, is to use all of my senses. On my first attempt I used none of them, just mistaken instinct, but now I have worked out a near-surefire way to judge the metal¡¯s temperature.


    I cut out a piece of my much-diminished titanium sheet and shape it into a semi-circle. I hammer it into a curved half-bowl shape, then examine it closely using both my eyes and ears. The chime it makes is uneven, as expected, so I commence the fine tuning of its structure, taking into account how the heating and cooling will affect the final shape with extreme precision.


    Done, and it¡¯s exactly the same shape as my last few near-successes. I¡¯ve finished relatively quickly too¡ªby now I¡¯m used to the strangely shaped hammer and the sheet I have to drape over the anvil.


    Now for the hard part. I turn the furnace up as high as it will go and place the toecap in the exact horizontal center exactly two and a half centimeters from the flame-guard. Positioning was another aspect I was lax with before¡ªbut no longer.


    I kneel down in front of the furnace and stare at the titanium as its color progresses from red to yellow to white. However, I¡¯m not just using my eyes to judge. I have my runic ears equipped and am listening carefully. As the titanium expands it makes a very subtle creaking, and its changing shape also very slightly affects how the roar of the furnace reaches my ears.


    Tongs in hand, I wait patiently for the creaking to reach the correct tone. Nearly, nearly, now! I dart in with the tongs, clamp them very gently around the bright metal, and deposit it two and a half centimeters from the front of the furnace, and turn the heat down halfway. Once more I patiently wait.


    There. I pull out my craft and place it down on the anvil. Very slowly it begins to cool, making a faint keening sound as it does so¡ªit almost sounds like a living thing, a baby making its first cries as it enters the world.


    The yellow dims to dull red and already I know I¡¯ve done it. The shape is as I envisioned it. Grinning ear to ear, I call up to Jaemes.


    ¡°Take a look at this!¡±


    He peers down at the toecap. ¡°Very good,¡± he says. ¡°Looks strong.¡±


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s strong. It¡¯s perfectly formed.¡±


    ¡°Congratulations.¡±


    He does not sound quite as enthusiastic as I¡¯d like, but I suppose that can¡¯t be helped. Expecting a human to appreciate the finer intricacies of forging would be like expecting a troll to appreciate table manners¡ªthough maybe that¡¯s being a little unfair on the river trolls.


    I admire my craft for a few more seconds, then place it carefully on a shelf and start work on the toecap of the other boot. Let¡¯s see if I can forge perfectly twice in a row.


    The hammering goes fine. So far, so easy. I turn the heat of the furnace back up and insert my craft two and a half centimeters from the back.


    I listen, watch and wait. The titanium glows bright white and creaks just as it should. Nearly, nearly¡ªthen sweat drips into my eye and I lose my timing. Cursing violently under my breath, I pull my craft to the front of the furnace and turn the heat down. Damn! I can already tell from the tone the titanium¡¯s making that I was too late.


    Maybe I can compensate by leaving it in the yellow stage for a touch longer before I remove it. I do so, but after only a few seconds watching it cool on the anvil, I can see the shape is wrong. Not warped, per se, but not symmetrical with its counterpart.


    I step back from the anvil and think hard.


    These aren¡¯t runic ears I¡¯m crafting, so does it even matter if both pieces aren¡¯t symmetrical? Certainly I¡¯ve never been overly worried about perfect symmetry before. For most runeknights, armor is good enough as long as both sides are nearly the same. And some even make their armor asymmetrical on purpose to better fit the different runes they wish to graft to either side.


    Yet if both sides are totally symmetrical, and I graft the same runes on both sides¡ªwhich I already plan to do¡ªthe overall balance of the armor will be superior. And I don¡¯t want to be caught off balance fighting a dithyok, or the deep darkness, or some crazed murderer.


    No, I have to try again. I must strive for perfection. Grimly I toss my failed craft away and restart.


    This time, no sweat drips into my eye at the crucial moment. I watch carefully for any warping as the craft cools on the anvil, and there is none. None that is obvious, at least¡ªI must confirm up close. Fingers trembling, I hold it and its counterpart up to the furnace-light, and the reflected flames play across both surfaces in exactly the same manner. I chime them both and both make exactly the same sweet note.


    I grin widely¡ªsuccess at last! Now all I have to do is forge the segments that will go over the top of my feet, the plates that will protect my heels, the soles, the clasps, then finally fit all the pieces together without scratching or bending them.


    After that, I¡¯ll be able to start work on my gauntlets.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Consideration

    A few weeks pass, and thankfully no one else has been killed, but the atmosphere in the fort remains as tense as ever, and because these dwarves judge time based on order of events rather than hours and days, I think it will remain tense until Mathek¡¯s murderer, dwarf or otherwise, is caught.


    Everyone speaks in whispers, though they know full well that the deep darkness is attracted by heat and light. And they speak less than they used to, laugh less. It makes for a difficult environment to live in. The worst times are when I¡¯m in my room alone, trying to sleep. I keep my candle lit, of course¡ªI think everyone does¡ªyet even so, every time I close my eyes I am struck with the thought that I might never open them again.


    To stop myself fretting, I try to fill my mind with the complicated business of designing my amulet of unaging. The runic poems I must write are far too difficult to focus on while distracted, and so composing them proves an effective remedy for my fear. When I sleep, I sleep with a mind whirling with shifting runes.


    Nthazes has told me that there is no set structure for the runes that must be inscribed into the gems, but that I must create a structure compatible with my own body, mind, and heart. The trouble is, I don¡¯t really know that much about them.


    My body, as far as I can tell, is pretty much the same as every other dwarf¡¯s. I am of average height, slightly less than average weight, and there is nothing special to say about my beard, eyes, or any other facial features. Perhaps the gem I choose ought to be slightly smaller, if I am a touch less stocky than everyone else? Yet somehow I don¡¯t think that¡¯s quite what he meant. Maybe I should be thinking less about the outer parts of my body and more about the inner, since that¡¯s where the real damage of aging comes from, yet there¡¯s nothing special about my innards either.


    Not that I¡¯ve ever checked, of course.


    As for my mind and heart, I suppose I¡¯m more determined than most I¡¯ve met, relatively smart and very talented in the forge, but I¡¯m not quite sure how that can translate to my choice of runes and gemstones.


    I draft and re-draft, both inside my head and some paper Jaemes has lent me, and though I come up with plenty of ideas that seem good at first glance, on reconsideration none of them ever quite seem to fit.


    Still, Nthazes did warn me it wouldn¡¯t be easy. Nothing ever is¡ªleast of all the other task that I¡¯ve decided to take upon me. If none of the other runeknights will take Jaemes¡¯ theory seriously, I believe I ought to. At least someone should pursue the possibility. And if I do catch the killer¡ªif one exists¡ªthen maybe that will, in some small way, make up for all the devastation I caused in my dealings with the black dragon.


    I¡¯ll need to persuade an ally, though. Someone who knows the fort and the dwarves in it better than I do, and who also doesn¡¯t have an instinctive dislike of anyone born in the caves above them. Nthazes.


    He¡¯s promised to meet me here after he leaves the Shaft, yet of course there¡¯s no set time. In the meantime I scribble runes on a piece of paper, cross them out, rearrange them, read them over, and calculate how the curvature and facets of the gemstones I eventually choose will influence the harmonics. None of it comes out quite right.


    Quicker than expected, there comes a knock on my door.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± says Nthazes.


    I let him in. He''s wearing full titanium plate and carrying his two-handed light-enruned mace over his shoulder. Its brightness fills the room and makes my eyes water with pain.


    ¡°Sorry about the brightness,¡± he says, and places the massive mace in the corner of my room, head down and haft leaning against the wall. ¡°You should throw your blanket over it.¡±


    I carefully place one of my blankets over the head, not wanting to disrespect the weapon by throwing one. The cloth dims the light to merely very bright instead of blinding.


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    ¡°Shall I sit down?¡±


    ¡°Just on the bed is fine,¡± I say.


    He sits down and takes off his helmet, places it beside himself. His gray-blue eyes flick to the papers on my bedside table.


    ¡°Do you want to discuss your runes?¡± he asks. ¡°I¡¯ll help as much as I can, but your runes really ought to be created by you alone. Though I can give you some more pointers.¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯ll work them out myself,¡± I reply, gathering up the mess of papers and putting them in the drawer. ¡°I want to talk about Mathek¡¯s death.¡±


    He nods solemnly. ¡°I see. We¡¯re all on edge about it. But I¡¯ll assure you the deep darkness hasn¡¯t being strengthening. We¡¯re not in danger of being overwhelmed, even if some part of it did get into the fort.¡±


    ¡°So you think the darkness is behind it, then?¡±


    ¡°What else? No creature could have snuck into the fort from above.¡±


    ¡°The deep darkness has never been known to send offshoots into the fort either.¡±


    ¡°Not to my knowledge,¡± he admits. ¡°But the state of Mathek¡¯s body... It wasn¡¯t so dissimilar to how you end up if the darkness touches you.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t exactly the same, though.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°If it wasn¡¯t a creature from above, and it wasn¡¯t the darkness, that leaves only one option.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°You¡¯re suggesting we believe the human?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°Or at least, we should consider that he may be right.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re friends with him, Zathar, but he¡¯s not like us. He doesn¡¯t understand us dwarves. I don¡¯t think he quite understands the importance of our duty, either. To him the deep darkness is a curiosity, to us it¡¯s life and death.¡±


    ¡°I think he understands dwarves well enough. And at any rate, I understand dwarves. Maybe more than most down here.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± he says.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen dwarves kill each other for pride. Kill each other because that¡¯s what they were told to do. Kill each other for no reason at all. Vanerak¡ªa first degree up where I came from¡ªloosed an abyssal salamander on a bunch of initiates, simply because he knew the Runethane would let him get away with it, if only once.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but that was all up there. Down here there¡¯s none of that.¡±


    ¡°All the same, dwarves are dwarves. You down here are not so different from everyone else above. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s possible for at least one of you, at some point, to develop a hatred so strong it leads you to slay another?¡±


    He scratches his beard. ¡°I think it¡¯s very unlikely. Certainly I can¡¯t imagine hating someone that much.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you can¡¯t. But others can.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s to say Mathek was killed out of hatred anyway?¡±


    ¡°Whoever killed him must have been feeling pretty strongly about something.¡±


    ¡°If it was a dwarf who killed him.¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. We can¡¯t say for certain. But shouldn¡¯t we at least consider that it¡¯s possible?¡±


    He thinks deeply for several minutes. ¡°I suppose it¡¯s possible,¡± he says eventually. ¡°Things aren¡¯t perfect here, after all. There are certainly some who feel less strongly about our duty than others.¡±


    ¡°In that case, will you help me?¡±


    ¡°Help you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Help me to find out who killed him.¡±


    ¡°You only said we should consider the possibility.¡±


    ¡°I know. We might find no one, and then we¡¯ll know that Jaemes was wrong.¡±


    ¡°I... I¡¯m not sure. Certainly the Runethane would never give us permission. I don¡¯t think Cathez would help either¡ªhe¡¯s never been the greatest supporter of having a human down here.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t need permission. We won¡¯t break any rules or disrupt the fort in any way. All I¡¯m suggesting is that we ask around, see if Mathek had done anything that might have upset someone, or just said anything out of the ordinary. See if anyone saw or heard anything strange lately. Snoop around a little, see if there¡¯s anything in the storerooms someone might have missed.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know about this, Zathar. I don¡¯t want to attract any unwanted attention. I certainly don¡¯t want the Runethane to get suspicious of me.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯ll be nothing suspicious about it. There¡¯s nothing wrong with asking questions, and I can¡¯t see what the Runethane or anyone else would have against us taking a good, bright look around the storerooms.¡±


    He looks down, frowning, thinking hard.


    ¡°What do you say?¡± I ask nervously.


    He looks back up at me. ¡°All right,¡± he says. ¡°If it¡¯s for the fort, it¡¯s our duty to at least consider every possibility, no matter how unlikely. As long as we don¡¯t disrupt anything.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± I say.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll find anything though.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: First Investigations

    Nthazes tells me of eight dwarves Mathek was close to. We split the job¡ªhe will talk to four, and I to another four. After we¡¯re done we¡¯ll meet to discuss any possible motives and perpetrators.


    My first targets are two fifth degrees called Belthur and Danak. They¡¯re close friends, and I¡¯ve seen them enter the forges many times together. Nthazes told me they often used to drink with Mathek after going on jobs, but at some point¡ªof course he can¡¯t say exactly how long before the murder¡ªthey stopped being so friendly with him.


    I head into a pit near the forging hall¡¯s entrance. I know the pair recently came back from a hunt that was attacked by a swarm of some horrid creatures called braskaks, and will be looking to repair their armor.


    As expected, they arrive together wearing their battered and dented plate. To go up and greet them would obviously look suspicious, so I work on my titanium boots, biding my time until they¡¯re about to leave¡ªthis¡¯ll give me an excuse to get close to them.


    I cut and shape some more of the strips of titanium that¡¯ll go over the top of my feet. Now that I¡¯m used to hammering it correctly, I don¡¯t have to be focused totally on the task, and can devote a small part of my mind to listening for the pair''s voices. After a little less time than expected, I hear them finishing up.


    ¡°Ready to leave?¡± says Belthur.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± answers Danak. ¡°Get much done?¡±


    ¡°A bit. That stab to my forearm is proving a right bastard to repair, though.¡±


    ¡°That forearm you made in one piece, as a cylinder?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that one.¡±


    ¡°I told you doing it like that would make it a bitch to repair.¡±


    ¡°Looks like you were right.¡±


    I quickly gather up my titanium, dash to my chest to store it, and catch up to them just as Belthur is reaching to open the door out.


    ¡°Excuse me!¡± I call. ¡°I¡¯ve just finished too. Mind if I join you?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± says Danak. ¡°It¡¯s you. Well, all right. No reason you can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯d you come down with in the first place, though?¡±


    ¡°Nthazes,¡± I say, not untruthfully. ¡°But he already left. Forgot the drafts of some runic poems he¡¯d been working on.¡±


    ¡°He should be back soon, then,¡± says Belthur, slightly suspiciously.


    ¡°Maybe, but I¡¯m starving. Dwarf¡¯s got to eat.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    We make our way along the corridor. I¡¯m very used to how it sounds now: I can make out small details on the wall, tell the shape of runes scratched and gouged then smoothed over from a millennia of weathering. The crackling sound of the torches and the loud, slightly out of time footsteps of other dwarves barely bothers me anymore. So good is my hearing, in fact, that I have my eyes shut to prevent the flickering of the burning tar and its shifting smoke from distracting me.


    ¡°I heard your hunt didn''t go so well,¡± I say.


    ¡°Went terribly,¡± Belthur grunts. ¡°Nothing edible in sight¡ªapart from us dwarves.¡±


    ¡°What are braskaks anyway?¡± I ask.


    Obviously I can¡¯t jump to the topic of Mathek and the darkness right away.


    ¡°Surprised you haven¡¯t run into any before,¡± says Danak. ¡°Though I suppose you haven¡¯t gone on so many hunts yet. Not to the upper levels, at least.¡±


    ¡°Is that where you find them?¡±


    ¡°Usually. We were just in the middle levels though... Fourth level.¡±


    ¡°Little bastards,¡± Belthur says. ¡°About the size of a small child, with ten legs and fangs. Very sharp fangs.¡±


    ¡°Sharp enough to get through armor, I guess,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes. Pierced into my skin too. Still hurts bad.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t drink blood, do they?¡± I ask, making sure to put a heavy dose of anxiety into my tone. This is my chance to get onto the topic of Mathek.


    ¡°Not that I know of,¡± says Danak. ¡°Just try to tear you up. Horrible little things.¡±


    ¡°And there¡¯s no way one could have gotten into the fort?¡±


    ¡°No way. You¡¯ve seen how tightly the entrance is guarded.¡±


    ¡°One couldn¡¯t just have slipped through?¡±


    ¡°Not possible.¡±


    ¡°It was definitely the darkness that killed Mathek, then?¡±


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    ¡°For sure,¡± says Belthur. ¡°Poor bastard. Was working so hard, too.¡±


    ¡°I heard you were good friends with him. Must have been terrible for you.¡±


    ¡°Yes. He was a damn good dwarf. A bit blunt, but that¡¯s what you need in a friend sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Always honest, was Mathek,¡± says Danak. ¡°His crafts were coming along very nicely as well. Nearly had a good new suit of armor done.¡±


    ¡°Cut off far too soon,¡± says Belthur, shaking his head sadly.


    ¡°Before it happened,¡± I say, ¡°Did he say anything? That he was being watched, or followed? Or that he felt some premonition?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± asks Danak. ¡°Do you think you¡¯re being watched?¡±


    ¡°All the time,¡± I say, lowering my voice to a whisper and adding a fearful tremor to it. ¡°Can¡¯t stop worrying that the deep darkness is creeping up behind me, ready to strike. Do you feel anything like that? Or is it just me?¡±


    Belthur shakes his head. ¡°You¡¯re not the only one, but it¡¯s just nerves. You just need to take some deep breaths now and again. And no, Mathek never said anything like that.¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all?¡±


    ¡°No. He was a bit quieter than usual, I suppose, but he was just tired from working so hard. When the deep darkness came, it must have been just as much a shock to him as it was to all of us.¡±


    "He must have noticed something. If it was targeting him... He never said anything at all?"


    "Nothing," says Danak.


    ¡°Horrible,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s all horrible. To be taken, without any warning...¡±


    "You''ll just scare yourself worse if you go on like that," Belthur says sternly. "Scare everyone else too."


    ¡°We¡¯re all feeling stressed about it,¡± Danak says kindly. ¡°But there¡¯s nothing to do for it but go about as normal.¡±


    "Mathek wouldn''t have wanted us panicking either. He wouldn''t have panicked."


    "Yes," I say. "I''m sorry. I just lost control for a second."


    <hr>


    We part at the meal hall. I might have been hamming it up with the fear a little bit, but I wasn¡¯t lying about being hungry: I tuck into a large plate of deep-fried gelthob while I think¡ªit''s a bit rubbery, but has a hearty flavor. I wash it down with a mug of water. Usually water is only used for cleaning, of course, but I don¡¯t want my thoughts disrupted.


    Not that our conversation has given me much to think about. There''s nothing at all suspicious about what they said. Neither Belthur nor Danak seemed jealous, resentful, or ill-disposed to Mathek in any way. Just saddened. And as for what Nthazes mentioned about them not talking so much before the murder, that can easily be explained away by Mathek¡¯s busyness at the forge.


    No, these two were a dead end. Hopefully my next target, a sixth degree called Naethuz, will prove to have some more useful information. And as luck would have it, he¡¯s right here at the other end of the table, drinking heavily. Not that this is much of a surprise¡ªhe¡¯s been drinking a great deal lately. The meal hall is relatively empty right now, so I seize my chance and walk over to him.


    ¡°You all right?¡± I say, feigning concern¡ªwell, I am a bit concerned, actually. He¡¯s in a terrible state, beard knotted and unkempt, eyes bloodshot, hands trembling as he brings the flagon up to his mouth.


    ¡°No,¡± he says shakily, before downing the entire flagon in one gulp. ¡°Pour me another, would you mind?¡±


    I sit down opposite to him and do so, and he downs that as well.


    ¡°Are you sure you haven¡¯t had enough?¡± I ask. ¡°You really look like you ought to be in bed.¡±


    ¡°In bed? In bed?¡± He laughs, slightly maniacally. His breath reeks. ¡°Alone? No, no. I sleep here. Where there¡¯s light.¡±


    ¡°You could always keep your candle lit. That¡¯s what I do.¡±


    ¡°A little candle? Do you really think that¡¯s going to keep the darkness at bay?¡±


    ¡°Keep your torch lit as well, then. If you can sleep with the fumes.¡±


    ¡°Torch won¡¯t be enough either. Oh, no, no, no. Nothing can stop it, nothing!¡±


    ¡°If that was the case, we¡¯d all be dead by now. Not just Mathek.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we¡¯ll all be dead soon, my friend. You up-abovers just don¡¯t understand what the deep darkness is like. It¡¯s ancient, evil! It¡¯ll stop at nothing to kill every last one of us and drink our souls.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve defended against it until now.¡±


    ¡°Until Mathek. Until it got Mathek... Pour me another.¡±


    I do so. Again, he downs it in one gulp.


    ¡°You were close friends with him, weren¡¯t you? I often saw you talking together.¡±


    ¡°Yes, very close. He was the best dwarf I ever knew!¡±


    ¡°He was that good a friend?¡±


    ¡°He was a wonderful friend. Wonderful.¡± He attempts to wipe his eyes with his armored forearm, gives up and uses his beard instead. It would be funny if it wasn¡¯t for his expression of absolute, crushing despair.


    ¡°You must miss him then.¡±


    ¡°I miss him terribly, up-abover. Some dwarves, you know, when they go up a degree, they start looking down on everyone below them.¡±


    ¡°He wasn¡¯t like that, I gather.¡±


    ¡°No. I was! I moved up past him, after the Runethane took a liking to my helmet. Oh, I was awful, I was. Stopped talking with him, ignorar.. ignored him, and my other friends too. Tried to wiz... weasel my way into the good graces of the fourth and fifth degrees. Oh, I was a terrible friend to him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you weren¡¯t that bad.¡±


    ¡°I was, I was! Brushed him off. Condis... Condo... Condescended to him too.¡±


    ¡°But he never held it against you?¡±


    ¡°Not one bit. When I got injured on a hunt, my other old friends told me it was my own fault, that I shouldn¡¯t have got cocky... But he never said that. Never had an ill-word to say about me. Nor about anyone else.¡±


    "What did others say about him?"


    A slightly unnatural line of questioning, perhaps, but somehow I don''t think Naethuz will remember this conversation for very long, and the other dwarves here are involved in their own quiet discussions, so hopefully aren''t listening to us.


    "I don''t know," he says. "Not much. Not enough! They didn''t appreciate him. None of us did. It''s always like that... You don''t appreciate what you have until it''s torn away from you."


    ¡°That''s very true," I say.


    ¡°He was a kind, kind dwarf,¡± he continues, and wipes his eyes with his beard again. ¡°Kind and honest to a fault. Didn''t deserve what happened to him.¡±


    ¡°No one deserves that.¡±


    ¡°But it will happen,¡± he says, staring crazily into my eyes, his face a mask of pale terror. ¡°Mark my words, it¡¯ll happen to all of us. Pour me another ale, would you?¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯ve had enough,¡± I say.


    Us dwarves have a high tolerance for alcohol, but not an infinite one. I don''t want to be responsible for him drinking himself to brain damage.


    He thumps his fist on the table with a loud bang. ¡°Damn up-abovers! You don¡¯t know, you don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like...¡± Sobbing loudly, he bows his face to the table and puts his hands over his head. ¡°It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s going to get us...¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll drive it off,¡± I say, feeling genuinely worried for him. ¡°I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    He¡¯s sobbing too loudly, I think, to be able to hear me.


    ¡°Leave him be,¡± one of the few others here tells me. ¡°He¡¯ll sober up eventually.¡±


    ¡°Will he? I haven¡¯t seen him sober since... You know. Shouldn¡¯t we do something?¡±


    ¡°No, best wait it out. That¡¯s always the best thing to do for cases like these.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Food Thief

    ¡°Any luck?¡± I ask Nthazes the next chance I get to see him down at the forges.


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°How many have you spoken to?¡±


    ¡°Just two of mine so far. Vestok and Lothan. I know them well, and managed to ask plenty of questions, but neither said anything unusual. And they¡¯re good upstanding dwarves.¡±


    ¡°Nothing suspicious at all about them?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Nothing. How about your four?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve spoken to three, but yeah, no luck. They had nothing bad to say about him.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, Zathar, even if anyone does have something bad to say about him, I don¡¯t think they will. I don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like up above, but down here we don¡¯t really criticize the dead.¡±


    ¡°Neither do we. I¡¯m not expecting it to be obvious. Something subtle.¡±


    ¡°What kind of thing, exactly?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°No idea.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll keep on trying anyway.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s the titanium coming along?¡±


    ¡°Not bad. Faster now I¡¯ve got the hang of it.¡±


    ¡°Good on you.¡± He inspects the toecaps and over-foot strips. ¡°Yes, these are pretty well made. Very symmetrical too.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you to it, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes. We¡¯ll talk again after I¡¯ve spoken to Hirthik.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be a tricky one to get hold of, maybe. Not too sociable.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you told me before.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I just remembered¡ªhe likes his food. Often takes kitchen jobs¡ªso he can steal from the stores, according to a few. Though no one¡¯s ever caught him.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Thanks for the information. I¡¯ll see you around.¡±


    ¡°See you.¡±


    He leaves the forging pit. Hirthik sounds more promising than the others: unsociable, and potentially already a criminal. I think I¡¯ve worked with him in the kitchens before, actually. A large fellow, so it¡¯s hard to imagine him sneaking up on anyone, but yes, a quiet one also. The sort who keeps his thoughts to himself. Perhaps they are dark ones.


    No need to rush too fast, though. I¡¯ll think of a way to squeeze information out of him later. For now, it¡¯s time to get back to work on my boots.


    They¡¯re close to completion: all I have left to forge are the heel-protectors and the soles. The latter might prove difficult¡ªmost runeknights make theirs out of thick leather, cutting out a pattern to help them grip, but I have higher standards than that. The grip of my soles will be provided by runes.


    Might as well get the tricky stuff out of the way first. I start to cut out a sole-shaped section of titanium very slowly and exactly. Everything about the soles I need to do exactly, since they are the parts all the others will be riveted to. Judging the correct length is tricky because I am going to bend it into waves. This will concentrate the power of the runes of friction, and also, with the power of some cleverly placed runes of softness in the dips of the waves, create flexible mobility, which titanium is perfectly suited too¡ªit¡¯s already lighter and more flexible than steel, and though not stronger, is more receptive to runic power that tries to alter its base physical properties.


    Once I have the basic shape of the sole created, it¡¯s time to shape the waves. I have to do this fairly cold because I don¡¯t want to change the metal¡¯s hardness just yet, so I heat it merely to red hot before placing it in a large vise. The usual glass-woven cloth separates the titanium from directly contacting the steel.


    Titanium is flexible enough that I could use pliers to bend it into shape, I suppose, but the pliers down here have ridges for grip, which could leave imprints. Instead I use my hammer, very gently and accurately tapping the tip of the sole so it curves. Then I loosen the vise, move the metal up, so now a bit more is sticking out the top¡ªI¡¯m using the kind of vise where the tightening mechanism is at the side and not the bottom¡ªthen I tap in the other direction. Slowly and surely the titanium bends back, so that the cross-section of the length sticking out the vise becomes an S¡ªa common shape in several runes relating to water, malleability, and slow power.


    I pull it up a bit more, tap very gently in the original direction again to add another curve. I continue this process, reheating whenever the metal gets too stiff. After a very long time doing this, with utmost care, I place it on the anvil for examination and realize I¡¯ve made a terrible error.


    The curves are very even in size. There¡¯s no problem there. No, the problem is that the back end of the sole ends on half a wave. There isn¡¯t room to write all the runes I need on it, and it won¡¯t fit my design for the heel-plate.


    So now I need to remake the whole thing, because straightening out the waves then re-bending them in a slightly different configuration would weaken the titanium terribly.


    I curse. More money¡ªhonor¡ªwasted. The primitive equipment down here isn¡¯t making things easy either. Up in Thanerzak''s city you could buy a kind of ink that wouldn¡¯t rust or react with most metals in any way, and with it mark where you wanted to make your cuts, bend your curves, socket your gems.


    Down here I have to do things by eye and ear, though I can¡¯t think of a way to use my ears usefully for this stage. Sighing, I start again.


    This time, my mistake is not so terrible. I compensated for my last error by reducing the number of waves, but even so, the last one is a little short. I tap to bend it upwards, but now the back part of my sole won¡¯t quite touch the ground, reducing my grip.


    I curse hideously under my breath. I must remake it. That¡¯s what any runeknight must do when he notices an imperfection in his craft. But I simply cannot afford the titanium. I have just about enough left for one more sole¡ªif I have to make two new ones I won¡¯t have enough for the heel-plates.


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    Patience, Nthazes would remind me. You¡¯ll earn honor for more materials soon enough, he might say, though he wouldn¡¯t use the word ¡®soon¡¯. I know time though, even if the others here don¡¯t, and I say that if the killer¡ªdwarf or darkness¡ªis still loose, then he or it will strike again sooner rather than later. I must be prepared.


    So I make the difficult decision to leave the sole as is, and create the other to be exactly like it.


    Hopefully I won¡¯t have cause to regret this.


    <hr>


    Feeling rather dejected, I make my way back to my room to plan out how I¡¯m going to get as much information as possible out of Hirthik. Several conversation starters occur to me, but I reject them. This is my best lead out of the four and I want to get as much out of him as I possibly can. Just asking a few surreptitious questions while we work in the kitchens together isn¡¯t going to cut it.


    No. Blackmail is my best option here¡ªcatch him stealing, then threaten to report him to the Runethane. A cowardly tactic, vicious and undwarvish, but it¡¯s all in a good cause. If the information he gives me prevents more deaths, I¡¯ll redeem myself a hundredfold.


    <hr>


    Just the same as every other job, there¡¯s no particular roster for kitchen duty. When there¡¯s too little food prepared, Commander Cathez writes up a request for labor, and it¡¯s usually quickly fulfilled. Compared to the other menial tasks, it¡¯s paid better¡ªI mean, it¡¯s more honorable¡ªsince without good meals the fort would soon stop functioning. Us dwarves need fuel just as much as our furnaces do.


    Hirthik is generally the first to volunteer. As soon as the next request for cooks is put out, I make sure to be the second. A few others join too, and so here I am in the smokey, fire-lit kitchen, ready to transform several hundred pounds of raw mushrooms, meat, and unidentifiables into six hundred ready-to-eat, slow-to-decompose meals.


    Some dwarves despise cookery, since your creations, no matter how brilliant, are so ephemeral in nature. In fact, the greater your creation the quicker it is to get chewed up: the total opposite of good armor. I¡¯m not one of these dwarves: I find that cooking has at least some of the creative satisfaction of forging with none of the pressure, making it an enjoyable distraction from more serious work.


    The kitchen is just below the eating hall. Ten massive ovens are set into the walls, five at one side and five at the other. In the middle are long tables where the prep work is done, and at the back exit is another table where completed dishes are placed to be whisked up to the meal hall as quickly as possible.


    I grab a sackful of mushrooms and lay them out on the prep table. I¡¯ve chosen my place carefully so that Hirthik is in clear view, but not so close to him that I raise his suspicions. With a cloth I begin to scrub out the spores from my mushrooms¡ªthe ones in this variety are hard like sand¡ªwhile I watch and listen to him at work.


    It¡¯s clear that he enjoys his job. His cleaver blurs as he works it over a particularly massive slab of meat, dismembering it into a hundred perfectly even cubes. He grabs a small pouch of imported seasoning, sifts it over, and mixes so that not a single cube is left uncoated. He places the meat into a large pot and pours over water, then mixes in three flagons of ale plus one more for luck. He proceeds to prepare some mushrooms¡ªthe same type I¡¯m cutting.


    His technique for removing the spores is far superior. With deft flicks of a small knife he¡¯s scraping out the spores at least five times faster than I¡¯m managing. Once he¡¯s done, he picks up each mushroom one by one and puts his ear against them while tapping the tops with the flat of his knife. Only one fails to meet his standard¡ªbut with another deft flick of his knife he removes the few offending spores and puts it with the others.


    He freezes. His eyes lock onto mine.


    ¡°What are you staring at?¡± he says in a low voice.


    ¡°Just hoping to learn,¡± I say. ¡°I hear you¡¯re a fine cook.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not too bad. It¡¯s rude to stare, though. You wouldn¡¯t stare at someone in the forge, would you?¡±


    ¡°Of course not. But the kitchen isn¡¯t the forge.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nearly as important,¡± he snaps. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me while I work.¡±


    ¡°I was just trying to pick up some techniques. I¡¯ve always had trouble getting the spores out¡ª¡±


    ¡°Pick up? You mean steal, do you?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s only cooking. It¡¯s not as if I¡¯m copying down your runes.¡±


    ¡°Only? Only cooking?¡±


    ¡°Well¡ª¡±


    ¡°Food is the lifeblood of the fort.¡± He scowls violently at me. ¡°You should think higher of it.¡±


    I open my mouth to try and salvage the conversation, but another dwarf taps me on the shoulder: ¡°Just leave him alone, Zathar,¡± he whispers. ¡°Best just to let him do as he wants here, and don¡¯t get in his way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only trying to learn.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, but he doesn¡¯t want to teach.¡±


    I apologize to Hirthik and get back to cutting my own mushrooms. Getting snapped at wasn¡¯t nice, but the fact he¡¯s so keen to avoid others watching him as he cooks raises my suspicions further.


    His figure certainly suggests that he¡¯s eating more than his share: the amount he spends on metal for his armor must be at least half again as much as anyone else. I imagine he employs a good many runes of weight-reduction.


    Since I can¡¯t watch him, I¡¯ll have to use my runic ears. I shut my eyes as I chop my mushrooms to prevent visual stimuli from distracting me.


    He''s already finished chopping the mushrooms and is now tossing them in an oiled pan. No stealing yet, as far as I can tell. Next he lifts the pot of water, ale and meat over to the nearest oven and turns up the heat to just a touch below the maximum. Though the ovens here are nowhere near as hot as a forge¡¯s furnace, they are much hotter than any regular oven. The pot¡¯s sides heat to a dull red and the mixture releases clouds of ale-scented steam.


    It¡¯s a very pleasant smell, but I can¡¯t let it distract me. I keep a close ear on Hirthik¡¯s hands as he picks up a massive iron spoon to stir the pot. He does it rapidly to keep the meat chunks moving fast so none come to a rest against the bottom¡ªthe metal gets so hot in these ovens that it¡¯s very easy to burn things.


    The volume of steam increases and the way it disrupts the air plays havoc on my hearing. The room seems to twist and spin. I remember on one of my first kitchen jobs the same thing happened, and I wondered why no one complained to the dwarf responsible¡ªnow I realize that it must have been Hirthik who was responsible, and no one complained because they didn''t want to start a fight with him.


    Surely this amount of steam is unnecessary?


    An idea strikes me¡ªsuppose he''s using it as cover for his theft? It seems very plausible. No one can make him out for the steam, not with their eyes nor their ears, and he can easily claim it¡¯s a natural part of his cooking process. He¡¯s too skilled for anyone to criticize him on that.


    How to prove it though? Approaching him while he works would not only raise his ire, but maybe also raise the ire of the other dwarves here, since they¡¯ve already warned me to leave him along.


    I remind myself not to rush. There are still hundreds more dishes to prepare, so no one will be leaving the kitchens any time soon. Best bide my time.


    Gradually the steam dissipates. Hirthik reaches into the mixture with his spoon and takes out a chunk of meat, and throws it into his mouth. He chews slowly, deliberately, so that everyone can see him.


    ¡°Well cooked,¡± he mutters, just loudly enough for everyone to hear.


    A taste test. More plausible deniability. Yes, he snacks on his meals down here, but only to make sure they¡¯re good to eat¡ªthat¡¯s the message he¡¯s sending. If anyone catches him in the act, he has his excuse set up and prepared.


    He walks his pot over to the out-table by the back exit and sets it down. I approach it, ostensibly to grab a slab of meat from the prep table near it, and quickly glance in. It¡¯s hard to tell in the flickering firelight, but there seems to be slightly less meat than he put in. Of course that could be explained by the meat cubes shrinking from being boiled, but even accounting for that...


    I sense him looking at me and hurry back to my prep station.


    Over the next ten or so hours of our kitchen shift, I take every opportunity I can to peek at his completed meals. Each is the same size as the other dwarves¡¯ dishes, but I¡¯ve also been keeping watch of the amount of ingredients he uses¡ªand he uses just slightly more than everyone else. The difference when added up is significant. I estimate that he¡¯s gobbled down a good two or three hearty meals worth of food while we¡¯ve been working. No wonder he¡¯s the size he is.


    All this said, however, I still have a quandary: I have no evidence. I haven¡¯t witnessed him stealing anything directly. And three meals worth gone out of six hundred is not significant a difference enough to be noticed.


    I¡¯m going to have to bluff him.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Devious Confrontation

    I knock on the door to Hirthik¡¯s chamber and am ignored, but I know he¡¯s in here. I knock again, louder. His reply is short and sharp.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°We need to talk.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°Zathar.¡±


    ¡°I thought I told you to leave me alone. Go away.¡±


    ¡°We need to talk.¡±


    ¡°Later.¡±


    ¡°Not later, now. You know about what.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I think you do. It¡¯s about certain... discrepancies.¡±


    That gives him pause.


    ¡°Well?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Go away.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not going away. Either you let me in now, or we¡¯ll have to have this conversation somewhere more public. Trust me, that won¡¯t be in your best interests.¡±


    I hear him clump toward the door. He opens it and scowls.


    ¡°What the hell are you playing at, up-abover?¡± he hisses.


    ¡°You already know. Let me in. Like I said, it would be best for you if this conversation goes unheard.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    He lets me in and shuts the door, quietly. He folds his pudgy arms and glares into my eyes from an uncomfortably close distance.


    ¡°Well?¡± he demands.


    I decide to get right to the point: ¡°You¡¯re a thief. You steal food from the kitchens while you cook.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a very bold claim to make.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°It is not. For one, there''s no reason for me to steal. We can all eat as much as we like.¡±


    ¡°Anyone taking more than their fair share would be noticed.¡±


    ¡°So I don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Liar. You ate a good half a dozen meals worth of food in the kitchens. Don¡¯t pretend you didn''t¡ªI saw you very clearly.¡±


    ¡°You didn''t see anything. Now get out.¡±


    I laugh, loudly and suddenly enough to make him flinch. ¡°I saw everything,¡± I lie. ¡°All of you lot¡¯s eyes might be withered and dim from lack of use, but mine aren¡¯t. Your little cloak of steam may fool the others, but not me. I saw you darting your grubby fingers into the pot, snatching all the best bites when they floated to the top. Disgusting. Greedy.¡±


    His face turns red with anger. ¡°I did nothing of the sort!¡± he hisses at me.


    ¡°You did, and you know it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a thief. None of us are thieves down here, up-abover. We have a duty. We have honor.¡±


    ¡°Most do. You don¡¯t seem to.¡±


    He clenches his fat fists. ¡°Get out of here!¡±


    ¡°You know I¡¯m right. Admit it, Hirthik. But only to me.¡± I lower my voice to a whisper. ¡°No one else needs to know.¡±


    ¡°Blackmail, is this?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Blackmail needs proof, you filthy up-abover. You have none.¡±


    ¡°You admit you¡¯re guilty, then?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not admitting anything. You have no proof.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I don¡¯t. But the rumors have been swirling for some time, Hirthik. Did  you really think you were being clever, taking extra ingredients just so you could be careful to make sure each of your dishes was the same size as the others? I¡¯m not the only one who¡¯s noticed how much meat you seem to waste.¡±


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    ¡°If anyone had noticed anything like that, they¡¯d have told Cathez by now. And I take the same amount of ingredients as everyone else.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t told Cathez because, like you said, they didn''t have any proof. They like your cooking too, I suppose. Not in their interests to have you punished.¡±


    ¡°And what makes you think they¡¯ll change their minds now?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯ve been sneaking down the corridors alone to the kitchens too. Breaking the Runethane¡¯s decree, all for an extra bit of food.¡±


    ¡°Liar! I¡¯ve done nothing of the sort.¡±


    ¡°Well, no. But it¡¯s a plausible enough story, considering how many rumors there are about your actual thievery. And corroborated by some of my friends, well, it¡¯s probably enough to get you punished rather severely.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have any friends.¡±


    ¡°I have Nthazes. He¡¯s a very well trusted dwarf.¡±


    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s already agreed to back me up,¡± I lie, though I¡¯m not sure he would. ¡°Additionally, your alleged escapades might also raise suspicion from those of us who aren¡¯t totally convinced it¡¯s the darkness that killed Mathek.¡±


    He clenches his fists tighter; they start to tremble.


    ¡°Why would I sneak down to the kitchens to steal ingredients anyway? No one would believe your story. Am I going to cook them in my room?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a very good question. Maybe you were sneaking around the fort for another reason. How suspicious.¡±


    I wait for him to reply, until I decide not to allow him any more time to think.


    ¡°Well?¡± I say sharply.


    He seems to deflate: the strength drains from his trembling fists, his eyes drift downward, and he staggers back and sits down on his bed, scared and defeated.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± he says. ¡°Metal? Gems? I have plenty.¡±


    ¡°I want knowledge.¡±


    ¡°Knowledge?¡± He gives me a confused look. ¡°What?¡± His confusion turns to incredulity. ¡°Is all this just about learning to cook?¡±


    I roll my eyes. ¡°No. I want to know about Mathek.¡±


    ¡°Mathek?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard you two were friends.¡±


    ¡°What the hell¡¯s this all about?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to care. Just answer my questions. Were you friends with him?¡±


    ¡°I talked to him sometimes, I suppose. I wouldn¡¯t have called him my friend. I don¡¯t need friends.¡±


    ¡°What did you talk to him about?¡±


    ¡°Nothing important. Food, mostly. He liked my cooking, same as everyone else.¡±


    ¡°What else did you talk about?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t remember! We didn''t talk that often. Normal stuff. Forging, the darkness, what it might be like up above.¡±


    ¡°Did he ever say anything strange about the darkness?¡±


    ¡°Strange? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Like it was following him. Or like he¡¯d heard things, felt things in the lead up to his... end.¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure about that?¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯d been talking strangely, I¡¯d have remembered that.¡±


    ¡°Did he act strangely, then?¡±


    ¡°Not that I remember. But like I said, we weren¡¯t close.¡±


    ¡°What did everyone else say about him? Did he have any enemies? Did he ever insult anyone?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, I don¡¯t have friends. I keep to myself. I don¡¯t care about what others say about others. So I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°You must know something!¡±


    I¡¯m getting desperate. This is my best lead, he has to have heard some hint, some clue, anything.


    ¡°What are you trying to get me to say?¡± he cries. ¡°Like I said, I didn''t know him that well. He was just friendlier to me than most, so I didn''t mind talking to him sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Did he ever insult you?¡±


    ¡°No! As far as I know, he never insulted anyone.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Are we done now? Are you satisfied?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re lying to me¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not lying to you. What the hell is this all about? Do you think I killed him or something? Have you been listening to the human?¡±


    ¡°The darkness doesn¡¯t drink blood. The human is right about that.¡±


    ¡°Look, maybe I sneak a bit of food now and again, but I¡¯m not a killer! Hells below, why would I want to kill anyone?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But someone must have wanted to kill him.¡±


    ¡°It was the darkness, that¡¯s the only explanation.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve nothing more for you anyway. He never said anything suspicious, he never insulted anyone, he never acted strange either, as far as I know. Ask someone who knows more about him. Belthur and Danak were close to him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already spoken to them.¡±


    ¡°Then there¡¯s nothing else I can help you with.¡±


    I look into his eyes, deeply, searching for any hint of dishonesty, glint of lying. There is nothing. He just looks like what he is: a fat thief, no more and no less. I sigh and back away.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll believe you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He looks frightened for a second. ¡°And you won¡¯t tell anyone about the food?¡±


    ¡°Not for now. If I see you acting strange though, well, I¡¯m not going to forget either. And neither should you.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, then.¡±


    I walk out into the corridor and shut the door behind me; just barely resisting the urge to slam it as hard as I can. I feel like dashing my flickering torch against the wall and stomping on the burning fragments. Damn! This was my best opportunity and he had nothing. Didn''t even know Mathek all that well, and what he did know only serves to emphasize everything else I¡¯ve been told: that Mathek was a good dwarf, friendlier than most, with no enemies and no grudges against him of any kind whatsoever.


    Was Jaemes wrong? I hurry to my room¡ªtechnically I should be accompanied, but it¡¯s only a short distance. I sit down on my bed to worry.


    If no one wanted to kill Mathek, then that leaves no other possibility other than the darkness. Yet Jaemes¡¯ theory is too plausible. How could the deep darkness suddenly change how it kills, how it moves? There¡¯s no logical sense behind it. And how could any creature sneak through the tight, heavily guarded tunnel into the fort?


    I¡¯m missing something here, I¡¯m sure of it. Nthazes still has two more to talk to. Maybe one of them had something interesting to say.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Galars Warning

    ¡°Well?¡± I say. ¡°Have you spoken to your other two yet?¡±


    A few days¡ªI think it¡¯s about that long¡ªhave passed since my conversation with Hirthik, and now I''m back in the forges with Nthazes.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says, without much enthusiasm.


    "No luck? Nothing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, just like I thought. Everyone here gets along, Zathar. No one had any reason to hurt Mathek.¡±


    ¡°Someone did, though.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But like I said before, it¡¯s only a slim possibility. And it seems our sources have run dry.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it is such a slim possibility. The more I think about the darkness somehow changing, the less likely it seems.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure of it!¡± I insist. ¡°Mathek was murdered.¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t got any evidence, though. Not even a hint.¡±


    ¡°There must be something we¡¯ve overlooked.¡±


    ¡°But what?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. We¡¯ll have to think about it. We ought to search the storeroom where he was killed too.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been scoured five times over already.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but they were looking for the darkness, not anything left behind by another dwarf.¡±


    ¡°Even so, if there¡¯d been anything out of the ordinary someone would have noticed.¡±


    ¡°Not necessarily.¡±


    ¡°Well, all right,¡± Nthazes sighs. ¡°I¡¯ll go through the storerooms with you, once I¡¯ve finished what I¡¯m working on.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Thanks for all your help.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you more about the world up above sometime.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, thanks.¡±


    I frown. ¡°You don¡¯t sound so keen as you used to.¡±


    ¡°Just tired,¡± he says. ¡°See you later.¡±


    ¡°See you.¡±


    He leaves me in the pit. I sit down on the steps and sigh deeply¡ªI feel I¡¯ve been doing a lot of that lately. Asking about Mathek has proven to be a dead end. Whoever killed him either had some motive other than a grudge, or else kept very quiet about their feelings.


    Or, of course, there was never any murderer. That¡¯s always a possibility; in which case in every shadow death could lurk...


    I shake my head. No point working myself up while I¡¯ve got forging to do. It¡¯s time to embark upon the delicate business of grafting runes to my finished soles.


    With the very last of my honor I requisitioned some fine gold wire and a small box of powdered incandesite, though in all honesty, I don¡¯t think incandesite is quite the right choice for the runes of gripping, grasping, hardness, softness and elasticity the poems I¡¯ve drafted contain: it¡¯s volatile where I need stability. Yet hytrigite is unaffordable, I don''t think quizik will have the bond strength necessary for the amount of strain put on the runes as they''re rubbed against the stone, and I''ve never worked with the other reagents available before. So incandesite it is.


    I start by measuring out how much wire I can use in each rune. For the script I¡¯m using, as with nearly all scripts, making sure each rune is the same size is important. One of the worst mistakes initiates make is writing their first few runes very large¡ªin the mistaken superstition that bigger means more powerful¡ªthen running out of space and making the following ones too small. If you do that, you completely ruin the harmonics.


    I¡¯ve never made that mistake and don¡¯t plan to now. I cut out my lengths of wire, longer for the more complex runes, shorter for the simpler, all carefully calculated so that when I bend them into shape each rune will be exactly one point six six centimeters in both height and width. It¡¯s an extremely painstaking process, but my eyes and mind are well-practiced.


    Once each is cut, and thirty times twenty lengths of thread-thin gold lie before me, I begin to twist them into shape. Since there are no books of runes here, I go from memory. Strangely I don¡¯t find this to be a disadvantage; I¡¯ve never found myself relying on dictionaries for my runes, even when I was a tenth degree and relying on them was very much expected of me.


    No, they come into my head naturally. Once I¡¯ve stared at a rune for a while, working through its pattern and how the various sections of it interact to create its particular meaning and influence its relationship to the other runes of its script, I don¡¯t forget it. Never have. My fingers move almost of their own accord, as if the memories are in them rather than my brain.


    I stop and look down at what I¡¯ve twisted into shape, suddenly doubting. Am I sure these are right? Are they as written in the runic dictionaries? Certainly they are functional and legible: each has a meaning determined by its sections and their arrangement.


    A ten year old memory resurfaces: of Guildmaster Wharoth confiding in me that my runes were not normal, that they were new, unseen, originally created by my hand. Are these new also? I stare into the twisted shapes of gold, yet can see nothing unique. They are as they are written into my memory.


    Jauseth: soften-relax-surrender-to-force.


    Hyeoli: bend-and-never-resist-strength-in-flow.


    That¡¯s what these runes read, isn¡¯t it? Of course it is. They could mean nothing else, each line, square, bend and circle of them works together to create those meanings. I am a runeknight and thus I understand this.


    I shake my head. No. I¡¯ve never created a new rune, no matter what Wharoth and Vanerak had to say. Besides, what does it matter? My runes work, always have. Look at Heartseeker, I remind myself, and I gaze upon its dark blade that sucks the light from the air in a physical manifestation of its hunger to maim.


    Metalwork is troublesome, but my runes are never mistaken. There¡¯s no need for me to doubt my fingers.


    I continue to work the gold wire until my fingers are trembling and aching. Spots of blood appear under the tips of my fingernails, where occasionally I¡¯ve jabbed myself. There was no pain¡ªI was too focused for pain, and now I¡¯m done. Twenty runic poems lie arrayed on the anvil before me, those praising hardness and grip bent convexly to fit on the wave-peaks, those praising flexibility bent concavely to fit the troughs. I read over them to confirm there are no errors.


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    There are none, but I don¡¯t allow myself to smile yet. It¡¯s time to graft them to the titanium. I¡¯ve never grafted runes so thinly wrought before, but the process will be no different to how I grafted my very first runes, on that first knife of mine that Wharoth took such a deep interest in, with the incandesite that led me to my first freedom.


    Still, this is going to be a delicate operation.


    I heat the titanium ever so slightly, brush the underside of my first rune with incandesite, and with a pair of very delicate tweezers, place it in its proper location. The incandesite shimmers slightly as the heat-glow of the titanium suffuses it, softens it to slight stickiness. This keeps it in place as I very carefully brush some more powdered incandesite into the slight gap where some came off when I picked the rune up with my tweezers.


    Incandesite fully applied, I do the next rune, making sure it¡¯s exactly the right distance away from the first. Some dwarves like to rely on rulers and other measures for judging this, however I¡¯ve always found they get in the way. Better to rely on your eyes¡ªlike Jaemes lectured to me, us dwarves have exceptional close-up vision and steady, coordinated hands.


    Mine serve me well. After some period of time that felt quick due to my intense focus, yet was probably anything but, the runes are in place. I heat up a small brand, and one by one, touch it to each of the gold pieces. The brand is white hot¡ªthe incandesite must flare into activation an instant before the gold melts and ruins the shape of the rune.


    I don¡¯t make this mistake either. Not once. I step back and watch the runes shimmer. Now to test that they work. I pick up the sole, and it bends just the way I wanted it to. A little too much¡ªseems that maybe incandesite was too enthusiastic a choice for this craft.


    Still, it¡¯s too early to tell just yet. The true test will come once I fit the rest of the pieces to it. Then we¡¯ll see how much it improves my mobility.


    Right now though, I need a break. I sit back down on the steps and notice that my hands are shivering. This is a common condition after too much runework¡ªI¡¯ll have to let them rest for a day at least, and make sure to eat and drink plenty. My head is spinning as well; too much concentration has exhausted my brain. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind, but this is hard with the clang of hammers and occasional snatches of conversation echoing in my runic ears.


    Just as I¡¯m about to remove them, I hear the doors to the forges swing open rather more violently than they usually do, and I sense two figures come through them in parallel then stride briskly apart from each other. I don¡¯t need to be able to see the two dwarves to sense the iciness between them, and I think I can guess who they are.


    I hurry up the steps to confirm. Yes, it¡¯s Fjalar and Galar, down here for more mad and experimental forging, separately. Fjalar quickly disappears into his forging pit, but Galar is slower. He¡¯s hefting a bundle of titanium poles¡ªI dread to imagine the price he paid for them.


    This is an opportunity, I suddenly see. Galar acted awfully friendly with me after my first disastrous hunt, and maybe he¡¯d be willing to talk about Mathek, just so long as I catch him now and don¡¯t interrupt him in the middle of forging. Though I don¡¯t think they really knew each other, there¡¯s still a slight chance he knows something. And I need every chance I can get.


    I approach his forging pit just after he enters it.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I call down to him.


    He looks up in surprise, then grins. ¡°Ah, Zathar!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been a while,¡± I say.


    ¡°A while? That one of those funny words to do with time?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Means we haven¡¯t spoken for... Never mind.¡±


    ¡°Well, whatever. You finally decided I¡¯m worth talking to, eh?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping to ask some questions.¡±


    He grins even wider. ¡°Ask away! I may only be a lowly seventh degree, but that¡¯s because I¡¯m an experimenter. A maverick.¡±


    Ah, he thinks I want to ask for advice on forging. Well, I¡¯ll play along if that¡¯s what he¡¯s keen to talk about, and after that I can steer the conversation to a more useful direction. I descend into his pit.


    ¡°You believe in coming up with new techniques, then?¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes. Do you?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯ve ever come up with any myself. But I¡¯ll try anything if I think it¡¯ll improve my equipment.¡±


    ¡°Never come up with anything yourself, you say? That spear of yours is awfully interesting.¡±


    I smile. ¡°It¡¯s an effective weapon, yes. Though recently I¡¯ve been thinking its color is a bit unfortunate. It draws odd looks sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Originality always draws odd looks. That¡¯s just a fact of life.¡±


    ¡°What are you planning to make then?¡± I ask. ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t mind telling me.¡±


    ¡°Well, I can¡¯t give away too many details, you understand.¡±


    ¡°Just an overview is fine.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be long. With three points.¡±


    ¡°A trident? I¡¯ve only seen a couple before.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Not as original as I thought, then.¡±


    ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°Never mind. It¡¯s still going to be unique.¡±


    ¡°Light enruned?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Most like maces to put their runes of light on, for a bigger surface area, but surface area isn¡¯t everything.¡±


    ¡°Interesting.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll give everything away if I tell you any more, though... Ah, but I¡¯ll give you a clue.¡± He grins in a conspiratorial fashion. ¡°It¡¯s going to blast the darkness right away. Get the hint?¡±


    ¡°Not quite, I¡¯m afraid. But I look forward to seeing it in action. It looks a bit more interesting than what I¡¯m working on.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that then?¡±


    ¡°Just a pair of boots. My first titanium craft, so I¡¯m not trying anything too fancy.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re going the wrong way about it. Your first craft with a new material should be as fancy, as crazy, as original as possible.¡±


    ¡°That just means there¡¯s more possibility for things to go wrong,¡± I point out.


    ¡°So? You can always obtain more.¡±


    ¡°Still, shouldn¡¯t you get the basics down first?¡±


    ¡°Not at all. You should always push your limits. You can¡¯t allow yourself to get bogged down in traditional thinking. Especially not right from the start, or it¡¯ll taint the rest of your crafts for dozens to come.¡±


    He makes the word ¡®traditional¡¯ sound like a grievous insult. Yet another reason for the rest of the dwarves to get along badly with him¡ªwhen all your runes and techniques are those passed down from long forgotten ages, tradition becomes sacred.


    ¡°I see. Maybe I¡¯ll try something new next time.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you must, if you¡¯re going to be better than the rest.¡±


    ¡°Do you have any advice on making runes for light? I know a few basic ones, of course, but I imagine the ones used down here are a fair bit stronger. I¡¯ve noticed a few scripts I¡¯ve never seen before.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Can¡¯t, I¡¯m afraid. This¡¯ll be my first time working with them too. All I know for sure is that they¡¯re dangerous. Grafting them is a great risk to your fingers.¡±


    ¡°Yet you¡¯re experimenting all the same?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, I can¡¯t afford to get bogged down in traditional thinking.¡±


    ¡°I admire your courage,¡± I say approvingly. ¡°And I understand why you might want a powerful weapon, what with... Mathek and all that.¡±


    His face darkens. ¡°Yes. An awful way to go, that was.¡±


    ¡°Did he ever say anything, I don¡¯t know... odd to you, before it happened?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°We were never that close.¡±


    ¡°Did anyone else say anything about him?¡±


    He tilts his head slightly. ¡°Why do you ask?¡±


    ¡°Just want to know if there¡¯s any signs, you know, if the darkness starts to target you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think there are. I think it just comes at you.¡±


    ¡°I see. Just makes it all the more frightening doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    I put a nervous tremor into my voice, but he doesn¡¯t show any sign of sympathy, just continues to look at me with suspicion.


    ¡°As a friend,¡± he says, slowly. ¡°I¡¯ll warn you to be careful. Don¡¯t buy into too much of what the human says.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not¡ª¡±


    He holds his hand up to silence me. ¡°I¡¯ve heard you¡¯ve been asking a lot of questions about Mathek. It hasn¡¯t gone unnoticed, and it won¡¯t do you any favors if the others start to lump you and the human together. Even if he does turn out to be right.¡±


    I frown. ¡°You think he might be?¡±


    He hesitates before speaking. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s possible. Like I said, I¡¯m not one for traditional thinking. Still, it¡¯s unlikely. Quite unlikely... But in any case, you shouldn¡¯t go snooping around. For your own safety.¡±


    ¡°I see. I¡¯ll be more careful.¡±


    ¡°Yes, please do. It¡¯d be a shame to lose someone so interesting. Good luck with your forging.¡±


    ¡°You too.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Killing Continues

    Galar¡¯s warning dominates my thoughts for the next few days. Something seemed off about it, like a defect in piece of metal you can¡¯t quite see, yet can tell it¡¯s there all the same. What he said was significant, I¡¯m sure of it. How he said it too.


    I go over every last detail of our conversation, recalling every word he said, every facial expression he made, the tone of his voice. Why did he suddenly turn so cold? Was it just because of the uncomfortable topic of Mathek¡¯s death? No, his expression definitely changed further on my second question. Did he think I suspected him?


    Do I suspect him?


    Surely if he was the murderer, he¡¯d have been eager to insist the darkness was responsible. Admitting that Jaemes might be right, that the culprit may be a dwarf, would be stupid, unless he was trying to double-bluff me by saying something he knows any sensible killer would never say.


    What would be his motive, though? I¡¯m pretty sure he¡¯s telling the truth about not having much to do with Mathek, for I don¡¯t remember ever seeing them speak to each other. Mathek never got involved with him and Fjalar¡¯s stupid arguments, so no reason for enmity there.


    Him and his brother are very interested in their crafts: did Galar create some awful knife and use Mathek as a target for testing? Yet he¡¯s never struck me as particularly malicious. Immature and foolish, slightly insane perhaps, but never malicious. There¡¯s beasts up above to test weapons on, and if it required a dwarf target, well, surely he¡¯d have done in his brother.


    Their relationship has worsened even further since Cathez forbade them from working as one. Gone are the violent arguments, replaced by hateful silence on the rare instances they are together.


    I decide to talk it over with Nthazes next time I can catch him. Jaemes too¡ªI mean to bring him into my investigations soon. I¡¯ve been avoiding that until now, since I didn''t want to draw suspicion by visiting too often, but now it seems to me that his powerful mind will be necessary if I¡¯m ever going to solve this mystery.


    Until then, though, more forging. Honestly, I thought I¡¯d get sick of working on the same craft for so long, but now my titanium boots are approaching completion, I feel a little sad. The last few stages have almost gone too quickly¡ªonce the soles were complete, grafting the rest of the runes proved easy, since I had to make them simple to accommodate my lack of materials. I''d have preferred to use the runes of abyssal scale from my rusted boots, but the glasolite I need to scrub the metal from them proved too expensive, so simple had to do.


    All that¡¯s left is to insert the gelthob leather padding. It has an odd, almost slimy texture to it, as if the rigorous tanning process it went through wasn¡¯t quite enough to remove all the ichor. It feels unpleasant on my hands¡ªI¡¯m glad I¡¯m wearing socks.


    I cut the sections into a shape, a trivial task compared to how hard getting the titanium done was. With a binding glue I stick it into the boots, making sure it''s packed neatly for comfort and a tight fit. The glue will take a while to dry, so I pass the time by going over my plans for my amulet of unaging.


    I¡¯ve decided on the basic shape and narrowed down the materials to a selection of three, but that¡¯s all. Try as I might still can¡¯t work out the form of the runic poem I¡¯m going to compose for it. My mind swirls with runes, I arrange them into patterns, but none of them seem quite right.


    Enough time has passed. Now for the final test: I equip my boots. The plates open out when I push my feet in, then lock back in place¡ªJaemes tells me that human plate armor is so badly constructed it takes hours to put on, but not so dwarven equipment.


    I take my first step. The new leather creaks a little, but the titanium plates make no noise, just slide against each other soundlessly. I take another few steps, and smile. The boots feel liberating to walk in, almost like I¡¯m not wearing boots at all. They grip the stone just as well as I hoped too, and the wavy soles don¡¯t raise sparks from the stone like I''ve seen some badly-made metal soles do.


    Grinning in satisfaction, I up the pace a little as I circle around the anvil. The runes of speed I¡¯ve worked into the poems adorning the top and sides are working just fine despite their simplicity. I¡¯m definitely moving faster than I could in my last pair. My legs feel light, my feet nearly too light.


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    If I¡¯d had something like these on during my wanderings, I¡¯d have cut a couple years off my journey at least.


    Now to check agility. I jump from side to side as I circle, like I¡¯m dodging the blows of a quick opponent, and find the boots¡¯ performance excellent; I do not fumble a single step as I dodge each and every imaginary strike¡ªthough I can''t help feeling that each jump takes me just a little further than I anticipated. Decceleration next: I imagine a sword-wielding opponent predicting my forward movement and sweeping his blade in time to meet my belly, and bring myself to a sudden halt.


    My boots stop still against the stone. The forward momentum of my body continues. I fall forward, and bring my forearms up¡ªnot in time to stop my nose impacting.


    ¡°Ah!¡±


    I crawl back up to my feet, feeling my nose to check if anything is broken. It doesn¡¯t seem to be, just bruised, along with my pride as a runeknight. Incandesite really was the wrong choice; runes bonded with hytrigite would have understood my intention and stopped my feet in time with the momentum of my body.


    The incandesite just halted me with no concern for the consequences.


    "Damn!" I hiss.


    I take some deep breaths to try and calm down. I just need to practice with them a bit, that¡¯s all, I tell myself, even as I imagine myself falling on my face in front of a massive dithyok as it swings its blade-arms down toward me.


    <hr>


    ¡°...up! Get up, equip yourselves, all of you! Light your torches!¡±


    The words come to me as I drift in total blackness, and they sound as if they are coming from very far away. I turn over and burrow deeper into the warmth of my blankets.


    ¡°Up! Up! Up! Everyone, up!¡±


    They¡¯re closer now, invading my ears with their loudness and shrill tone of panic. Another bad dream¡ªI¡¯ve been having too many of these lately. I cover my ears and try to get back to sleep.


    ¡°Up! Get up!¡± Cathez screams. ¡°Light your torches and equip yourselves!¡±


    This isn¡¯t a dream. I leap out of bed and scramble to put my armor on.


    ¡°Everyone, up!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m getting ready!¡± I shout back. ¡°What the hell¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°What the hell do you think?¡±


    I grope for the flint mechanism I use to light my candle¡ªwhich has gone out¡ªand use it to shower sparks over the head of my tar-torch. After a few tries the sticky black flares to life and shadows shoot across the room, black cut outs in the orange flickering; their movement makes my heart race with anxiety.


    I grab Heartseeker and burst out into the hallway.


    ¡°Get in line!¡± Cathez orders. ¡°Hurry!¡±


    He practically throws me behind him into the queue of runeknights already awoken.


    ¡°What the hell¡¯s happened?¡± I ask the one behind me.


    ¡°Two! Two of us!¡± he cries.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Two are dead!¡±


    ¡°Two?¡±


    ¡°Yes, together!¡±


    ¡°Who were they?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. They were... Oh hells, why is this happening to us?¡±


    ¡°Calm down!¡± Cathez screams back at us. ¡°And get in a formation! Three across the back with torches out!¡±


    Most everyone shuffles forward, but I catch a look of rage in Cathez¡¯s eye and take it upon myself to, with trembling steps, walk to the back and stand there with my torch held out into the darkness. I stare down to where the corridor turns.


    Two at once! Shit, two at once?


    ¡°Formation!¡± Cathez shouts again. ¡°Three across the back... You and you!¡±


    Two more dwarves join me, one of whom is a fifth degree with a mace of shining white that nearly blinds me from up close.


    ¡°If it killed two, how¡¯s three going to stop it?¡± mutters the other through chattering teeth. He just has a torch. ¡°Oh shit, oh shit...¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Cathez orders. ¡°Silence, all of you! Give into fear and you besmirch their memories!¡±


    ¡°Who were they?¡± someone demands. ¡°Tell us!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. Bodies aren¡¯t identified... Come on, out, all of you! Out of your rooms! If you die in your sleep don¡¯t blame me. Human, you too!¡±


    A few more dwarves emerge from their quarters, all wide awake no matter how deep they were into their slumbers. Jaemes comes out also, with his lantern turned up as high as it will go.


    ¡°Right,¡± Cathez says, quieting his voice slightly. ¡°That must be everyone down here... Yes, must be. About the right number. Rest are with Hraroth or in the forges. Right. Right.¡± He snaps back to focus. ¡°Two more bodies have been found in the storerooms. There¡¯s no time to consult with the Runethane¡ªI know what he¡¯d have us do anyway: conduct another search. There¡¯s no time to waste.¡±


    ¡°Two at once?¡± one of the last dwarves to emerge says in a fearful tone. ¡°Two?¡±


    ¡°I ordered no talking! Two at once, yes. It must have grown in strength. We won¡¯t split up, this time. Now hurry up! Double time, down the corridor, and don¡¯t let your torches go out!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Runethane Yuroks Frustration

    Our search is a chaos of yelling, waving torches, shifting shadows, random shouts of shock and panic, and above all extremely thorough. We ransack the fourth storeroom to start, the scene of the killings. We tear apart the shelves and scatter their contents across the floor, which we turn over and over again under the blazing light of our torches. We dismantle towering stacks of steel and titanium, and illuminate each and every sheet on both sides, inspecting them for any drops of blood, unnatural dark stains, anything that might indicate where the shadow was hiding or is still hiding.


    Part-way through our search, a group of ten higher ranking runeknights, their maces and hammers ablaze with light, is sent in to help us. Nthazes is not among them and my stomach churns with worry¡ªwe still don¡¯t know who the bodies belonged to, they were in even worse condition, apparently, than Mathek¡¯s was¡ªnot just drained but desiccated.


    By the time we are done, the storeroom looks as if it has been smashed by an earthquake, but there is no time to put it back in order as Cathez hurries us to the adjacent one to repeat the process. Once more everything is turned out: shelves pulled down, chests broken open and their contents scattered, gems torn from secured racks and held up to intense runic light. Blood reds and sapphire blues flash across the wreckage, casting weird shadows that make our hearts pound¡ªany false sense we had until now of safety in numbers has been thoroughly crushed.


    We move on to the next storeroom, and the next. Everything is searched and nothing is found. Just as after Mathek¡¯s death, not a trace of the killer, be it dwarf or darkness, is left for us.


    Once the last storeroom has been turned out, Cathez calls a halt. He informs us that the Runethane is aware of the situation and that we are soon to be given further orders. The forges have apparently been searched by another third of the fort¡¯s runeknights while the rest are guarding the Shaft and the road out.


    He also announces the identities of the killed:


    ¡°Danak and Yalthaz, may we never forget their names.¡±


    I let out a sigh of relief that it¡¯s not Nthazes, then feel terrible when the pair¡¯s friends cry out in shock and sorrow.


    ¡°Search everything again,¡± Cathez orders us. ¡°If there¡¯s anything at all unusual, immediately inform a senior runeknight.¡±


    We do so. The panic is a little less this time¡ªmaybe we¡¯re too exhausted¡ªand the searches less chaotic, done in sections rather than at random, yet again we find nothing. I consider the possibility that we may have accidentally obliterated any clues in our crazed urge to illuminate each and every object.


    When we¡¯re finished, Cathez leads us down to the hall of Runethane Yurok, where at the mirror-doors the chamberlain and other first degree guard meet us with stern faces. The light streaming from their maces is brighter than it was last time, so bright that my vision is obliterated and I must close my eyes to stop pain jabbing through them.


    ¡°All the storerooms have been searched twice over, chamberlain,¡± Cathez says deferentially. ¡°We found nothing.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Enter.¡±


    The chamberlain swings the mirror-doors open just wide enough for us to enter in single file. Dark smoke, thicker than last time, subsumes me, shifting the air currents in confusing ways that make the floor seem to rise and fall like the tides of the magma seas. Dizzily I make my way into the ranks of fifth degrees¡ªHraroth and his search party are already here¡ªand stand still at attention.


    Vaguely I can sense the presence of the Runethane at the front of the room, looking down upon us. For a while there is silence, and I realize that we are waiting for the arrival of the bodies.


    They come carried on stretchers, the six dwarves bearing each walking more slowly than when Mathek¡¯s body was carried, for Yalthaz and Danak were both in armor when they were slain, though with no helmets; their heads are bare to reveal their shocked, shriveled faces. I see a hole in Yalthaz¡¯s neck, while Danak was stabbed through his segmented thigh-plate.


    Yalthaz was a third degree¡ªno one is safe.


    After the stretcher bearers have laid down the two bodies in front of the throne and returned to the ranks, Runethane Yurok speaks:


    ¡°Commanders, come forward.¡±


    Cathez walks forward and stops just in front of the steps up to the Runethane¡¯s throne. Runethane Yurok looks down at him. Through the interference of the thick smoke it is hard to determine their expressions or body language, but I sense cold anger from the Runethane and fear from Cathez.


    ¡°You have searched the storerooms?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°What of the forges?¡±


    ¡°I led the search of those,¡± says Hraroth. The grim first degree holds a mace of light, its rays only barely able to penetrate the dark smoke¡ªwhich is liquid darkness, that¡¯s what it must be, I realize: what else could be so smotheringly black, yet breathable and scentless?


    ¡°We searched the forges, meal hall, kitchen, and quarters,¡± continues Hraroth in his deep voice. ¡°We also scoured the corridors between them with our light.¡±


    ¡°And what did you find?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, and I know the deep darkness better than most.¡±


    The Runethane turns back to Cathez. ¡°And you found nothing also.¡±


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    ¡°No, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Did you turn out every shelf?¡±


    ¡°We did. Twice over.¡±


    ¡°Every chest? Inside and out?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What of the gem racks? Were they inspected?¡±


    ¡°They were.¡±


    ¡°How thoroughly? Was each and every gem checked individually, scoured with light in case some trace of the darkness had wriggled into it?¡±


    ¡°They were, yes.¡±


    ¡°And yet still you found nothing?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Runethane Yurok looks up from his two commanders to sweep his gaze across us directly. No doubt his runic ears are so well crafted he can make out the shape of each and every one of our faces even through the shifting tides of smoke, and I feel myself shiver slightly. Likely he pays at least a small amount of special attention to me, the outsider.


    ¡°You found nothing, did you all?¡± he booms.


    No one is brave enough to reply¡ªa few exchange glances with the dwarves next to them, but most don¡¯t even do that.


    ¡°Well?¡± Runethane Yurok demands. ¡°Did you find something or did you not?¡±


    ¡°We found nothing,¡± says someone from the ranks of the third degrees. ¡°Nothing at all.¡±


    The Runethane clenches his fists, breaths deep as if to shout something, then sits back heavily on his throne.


    ¡°My Runethane¡ª¡± begins Cathez.


    ¡°This cannot be!¡± Runethane Yurok shouts suddenly, frustration and anger overwhelming him. ¡°This cannot be! You did not search properly!¡±


    ¡°We turned out everything,¡± Cathez says, his voice calm though with a slight tremor of fear. ¡°There was no darkness.¡±


    ¡°And what about you, Hraroth, eh? You really went through every single millimeter of the forges, did you?¡±


    ¡°We did,¡± Hraroth replies. ¡°Twice over.¡±


    ¡°You must not have checked properly!¡± the Runethane shouts. ¡°You must have been lax!¡±


    ¡°Have you ever known us to be lax?¡± Cathez asks calmly.


    The Runethane violently grips the armrests of his throne, so violently that if they were made of anything weaker than steel they would shatter to splinters. Slowly, however, he relaxes his hands. I hear a slight creaking as the armrests are released from their strain.


    ¡°No,¡± he says bitterly. ¡°No, I suppose I have not. Yet it is hard for me to believe that you have found nothing.¡±


    ¡°It is hard for me to believe as well,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°I wish it were otherwise, and that we had rooted it out.¡±


    ¡°What about my decrees?¡± he asks Cathez. ¡°Are they being followed to the letter?¡±


    ¡°They are, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°No one walks alone?¡±


    ¡°No... Well, very short distances perhaps.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°For example, if a pair of dwarves returns from the forges, one enters his quarters, and the other must walk a short distance alone to his own.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°No deaths have occurred in the quarters, however.¡±


    ¡°Yet.¡± Runethane Yurok turns back to Hraroth. ¡°Has anything unusual been noticed in the Shaft?¡±


    ¡°If the deep darkness had made any unusual signs, I would have informed you immediately.¡±


    ¡°So there has been nothing.¡±


    ¡°No. The usual distant roiling.¡±


    ¡°There are no signs of an incursion?¡±


    ¡°It is hard to say. If there is to be one, it is still in the preliminary stages.¡±


    ¡°We should increase the guard further. Up the number of runeknights on duty at any one time by another third.¡±


    ¡°A third of the original number, or a third of the doubled number?¡±


    ¡°The doubled number.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane,¡± Cathez says. ¡°I hesitate to criticize your wisdom, but if some part of the darkness is already loose in the fort, increasing the guard at the Shaft will only be counterproductive.¡±


    ¡°It is to stop the darkness from letting loose any further fragments..¡±


    ¡°Even so, I would offer an alternative suggestion. Pairs of guards should be posted to the corridors at strategic locations. This would prevent the darkness moving freely throughout the fort.¡±


    ¡°A sensible idea. We shall do that also.¡±


    ¡°Our forces will be stretched thin,¡± Hraroth says. ¡°Fatigued also, and there will be less time for improving our equipment.¡±


    ¡°Improving the equipment of senior runeknights, who already have weapons suitable for combatting the darkness, is not a priority at the moment.¡±


    ¡°Very well, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Yet this brings to my mind an important point: we are not equipped as well as we should be. How many runeknights wield weapons of light, Commander Hraroth?¡±


    ¡°Fifty-three... Fifty-two, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°This number must be increased. We¡¯ve been too worried about the danger involved in creating runes of light until now. This foolish fear must be put to rest. From now on, all are to halt their current projects, and forge new weapons. Senior runeknights can teach the enruning of light¡ª¡±


    ¡°My Runethane!¡± Cathez interrupts, aghast. ¡°The injuries and deaths that might¡ª¡±


    ¡°Will be less than if the darkness is allowed free reign over the fortress!¡± snaps the Runethane.


    ¡°Even so,¡± says Hraroth, ¡°We do not have the required resources. Deliveries of almergris have grown infrequent.¡±


    ¡°How much do we have?¡±


    ¡°Less than twenty kilograms by my count,¡± says Cathez.


    ¡°That should be enough for at least a dozen runeknights to forge with.¡±


    ¡°Much will be wasted if we force those below fourth or fifth degree use it. There is a good reason the price to access it is set so high.¡±


    ¡°Those lower have used it before.¡±


    ¡°Only those supremely confident in their skills, and even so, many come to regret it.¡±


    ¡°Hurrying the creation of such weapons is inadvisable,¡± Hraroth says. ¡°We could lose near half of the tenth to eighth degrees. An extreme waste of potential, and a danger to the continuation of our existence here.¡±


    ¡°Very well, but still, I won¡¯t have those twenty kilograms sit around wasted. Have every fourth degree not yet with a light enruned weapon construct one, and half the fifth degrees also. They will not have to use honor to access the almergris.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± says Cathez.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    The Runethane looks down at one shriveled body to the other, and the dark smoke shifts as he shakes his head bitterly. He mutters something, but the shifting currents of the air distort his words so that I cannot make out what he says.


    ¡°Is there anything else you would ask us to do?¡± Cathez asks.


    ¡°I will consider the options and issue further decrees, which my chamberlain will deliver to you. All are to wait in the meal hall for him. No one is to move around the fort."


    "Understood, my Runethane."

 Dwarves of the Deep: Reconstruction of a Double Murder

    Jaemes watches the dwarves exit the smoky blackness in single file. Such stubborn creatures¡ªthat¡¯s what first intrigued him about them. No matter what stares them in the face, they refuse to back down. The toughest metal they take as a challenge to twist into shape. The fiercest foe they will do their best to slay, or else be slain. To the mind of a dwarf, and especially that of a runeknight, reality is something to be improved through sheer force of will and indomitable patience. If reality refuses to match their expectations, they beat it into submission.


    An admirable trait, but a double-edged one. For some metals cannot be forged, some enemies are too strong to slay, and sometimes reality is immutable. Runethane Yurok may wish for the killer of his dwarves to be the darkness, but he cannot make it so.


    These latest killings prove beyond a doubt that the culprit is a dwarf.


    ¡°Time to go, human,¡± Commander Cathez tells Jaemes, once the rest of the dwarves have gone.


    ¡°I must speak to the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°He has heard what he needs to hear. It is time to leave.¡±


    ¡°No. You are not my commander, Cathez.¡±


    Commander Cathez lowers his voice. ¡°I can guess what you have to say. I would advise against saying it.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, I am compelled to speak the truth.¡±


    ¡°You are not going to deliver the truth, but your opinions.¡±


    ¡°I am going to deliver the truth as I see it.¡±


    ¡°Come here then!¡± comes the angry boom of Runethane Yurok¡¯s voice.


    Commander Cathez turns to him. ¡°There is no need,¡± he says. ¡°I will make him leave. There¡¯s no need to waste your time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll waste my time however I desire. Commander, you are dismissed.¡±


    Cathez bows low and leaves. Jaemes walks up through the shifting blackness that smothers the glow of his lantern. To his human eyes, unadapted to caves as dwarf eyes are, it is all but impossible to see. He only just stops himself tripping on the steps before the throne.


    Runethane Yurok stands up and looks him in the eyes. Even up close, it is hard to get an idea of his expression, but Jaemes knows it is unlikely to be a pleasant one. Yurok is dour even counted among the other ancient dwarves Jaemes has met: no jewelry has ever adorned his milk-pale beard, no smile has ever graced his paper-white face, and his tone of voice is perpetually low and angry, now even more so.


    ¡°Well, out with it, human. What do you have to say?¡±


    ¡°The same as I said last time¡ª¡±


    ¡°So you wish to waste my time with the same insulting nonsense?¡±


    ¡°The manner of these killings proves that the one responsible is a dwarf, Runethane, if you will allow me to explain.¡±


    ¡°Humor me,¡± he spits. ¡°Quickly, and then I have a few things to say to you also.¡±


    Jaemes does not let these foreboding words cow him:


    ¡°Yalthaz was a third degree with a mace of light, and he would not have died to the deep darkness, no matter the manner in which it might have changed, without a fight. I was with Commander Cathez when storeroom four was searched, and I saw no signs of a struggle. Nothing had been knocked over or even askew.¡±


    ¡°If they had fought in the open, nothing would have been disrupted either.¡±


    ¡°There is little open space in the storerooms, Runethane, and I have not finished my train of logic... If you would be so kind as to allow me to continue it,¡± he adds.


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    Best to be polite, Jaemes reminds himself. It¡¯s never been one of his strong suits¡ªas with most scholars, he prefers a direct way of communication.


    ¡°Continue then,¡± the Runethane says sharply.


    ¡°If the darkness had been what killed Yalthaz, he would have fought it and given Danak time to escape, or at least cry for help.¡±


    ¡°The darkness moves fast.¡±


    ¡°But so do dwarves who are used to battling it, and especially now that they are wary of shadows roaming loose in the fort. No, if they were attacked by the darkness, Danak would have made it to at least the exit of the storeroom. The darkness is not known for its lightning speed either: I have been told it is a slow and creeping thing. Unless I am mistaken?¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°Danak was found in close proximity to Yalthaz¡ªI saw the imprints in the dust where they fell, before the search disrupted them. Unless you have been told otherwise?¡±


    ¡°I do not generally ask to be burdened with such minor details.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Danak fell in close proximity to his friend, so we can assume that either he attempted to fight the killer, or that the shock of what he witnessed delayed his response.¡±


    ¡°Your argument is a flimsy one, human. Are you trying to tell me that Danak would not have attempted to fight the darkness? Or that he would have found watching Yalthaz, a third degree, being slain by the darkness, somehow less shocking than seeing him slain by a fellow runeknight?¡±


    ¡°He only had his torch. It is hard to believe he would have tried to fight the darkness with it, considering that Yalthaz held a mace of light and still perished. If the killer was a dwarf, however, he would have attempted to fight and wrestle his weapon away, which brings me to the next piece of my argument: the wounds.¡±


    ¡°What of them?¡±


    ¡°Yalthaz was slain first, as Mathek was, with a puncture to the neck. However he was not drained so completely as Danak, whose puncture wound is in his leg. A less than optimal target, but the killer had more time to drain him, with no other witness there to disrupt him¡ªthis is how I know Danak was slain second, because his body is shriveled worse.¡±


    ¡°Get to the point.¡±


    ¡°I believe the killings occurred like this, Runethane: Yalthaz and Danak entered the storeroom together, as per your decree, then split up to find the items each was looking for. Soon after, the killer fell upon Yalthaz and drained his blood with the same runic weapon he murdered Mathek with. Danak heard something¡ªlikely the crash of Yalthaz¡¯s armor when he fell to the floor. He rushed to see what had happened, perhaps assuming a stack of metal had fallen over, and saw the killer. Then, one of two things happened. Either he was shocked and confused, unable to comprehend what had happened to Yalthaz for a few seconds in which the killer struck, or he ran at the killer to wrest his weapon away and revenge Yalthaz. Whichever the case, there was a brief struggle, then the killer got his weapon into Danak¡¯s leg right between the armor plates, a choice of target which matches most accurately with dwarven fighting instincts. The killer then had time to drain Danak utterly before he heard others rushing down to investigate the noises.¡±


    Runethane Yurok thinks slowly. Jaemes can almost hear the mental gears working within his skull as he tries to fit this version of reality with his own. The moment he realizes he cannot, his pale pink-green eyes narrow.


    ¡°Your story, though plausible at first hearing, contains several flaws.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Jaemes says, trying not to let his frustration show.


    ¡°First of all, my dwarves do not run, nor do they stand still in confusion against the darkness. They fight it as best they can, or else they are killed by it and live on in our memories as the greatest of heroes. Secondly, you are ignorant of runes: I am Runethane, and in all my life I have never come across such that could take every drop of blood from a dwarf in a single instant. Such runes have never been written.¡±


    ¡°With all respect, Runethane, I am not unlearned in runelore: I know at least that even simple runes can be combined to create unique and unusual effects.¡±


    ¡°Do not interrupt me, human. I have not finished. The third flaw in your story is this: we are a brotherhood. A family¡ªwhy do you think I do not allow dwarfesses into the fort? This tradition, established by my thrice-forebearer, is continued by me for good reason: so that our familial bonds are not disrupted. No dwarf can belong to two families. These bonds are stronger than anything a human¡ªliving in your crowded, thievery-ridden, stinking, sun-bleached cities where there exist more traitors than loyal folk and more murderers than citizens¡ªcould comprehend. No dwarf would break these bonds by committing so vile an act as to take the life of his brother. Do I make myself clear?¡±


    ¡°Even amongst families there can exist cruelty,¡± Jaemes says quietly.


    ¡°Amongst human families. Not dwarvish ones.¡±


    Jaemes knows the battle is lost. No more argument will help here: ¡°Very well, Runethane,¡± he says.


    ¡°It is not very well,¡± Runethane Yurok snaps. ¡°Your foolishness threatens our family. I have heard of talk between dwarves who are stupid enough to take your ideas seriously. This spreads distrust and disunity, when trust and unity are needed more than ever. You are not to spread your foolish theory. You are not to discuss it with anyone whatsoever. You are not even to write it down in what passes for writing among you humans. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I hope you do, because if you disobey this command, you had better pray to every single one of your human gods that I take mercy on you and let you off with exile and just a light breaking. Dismissed.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: New Decrees

    The decrees Runethane Yurok¡¯s chamberlain announces are strict. Clearly moving about in pairs provided no protection, so now it''s prohibited to travel in groups of fewer than four. We are forbidden from accessing our rooms, for the Runethane thinks it probable that the next killing will be of a dwarf sleeping alone. I can see the logic here¡ªthough the storerooms are wide and cluttered, and thus easy to spring an ambush in, a sleeping dwarf also makes for a tempting target. Yet I feel being forced to take our rest in the now crowded meal hall will worsen our morale and make us fatigued as well as fearful.


    Only in the forges are we allowed time to ourselves, and even those are changed. From the honeycomb tombs of dwarves lost in ages past, ancient weapons enruned with light are brought forth and hung from the walls. Just touching such revered crafts seems like sacrilege to me, but the chamberlain justifies their use by saying the ancestors would not mind, had they understood the terrible danger we were in.


    It still feels like sacrilege, barely one step away from actually wielding them¡ªdesecration of the dead. I¡¯m not the only dwarf unhappy about it either. My ears pick up many grumbles each time I lie down to sleep amidst the rows of blankets and chests now cluttering the meal hall. And occasionally the discussions veer past the realms of mere grumbling and into more serious territory.


    ¡°It¡¯s wrong,¡± someone whispers.


    ¡°An insult to the dead. It¡¯ll bring worse curses on us! And Yalthaz¡¯s mace did nothing anyhow.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t know that for sure,¡± points out a third. ¡°Maybe he managed to strike a blow to it before he fell.¡±


    ¡°Speculation.¡±


    ¡°A blow to it, or a blow to him?¡± asks a fourth voice, so low I can barely make out the words.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t speak like that,¡± another warns.


    ¡°There was no sign of any shadows when we searched.¡±


    ¡°Be quiet! There¡¯s no dwarf who would do such a thing.¡±


    ¡°There have been thousands of wars between dwarves.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a war.¡±


    ¡°It is... Between dwarf and darkness.¡±


    ¡°What are you saying? That one of us is fighting for it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying anything. Just that we should keep in mind the possibility. Be on our guard.¡±


    ¡°So you are saying something, then.¡±


    ¡°...yes, maybe I am.¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± hisses the first voice. ¡°If the Runethane knew we were talking about this... And we¡¯re not alone in here!¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s best that others hear us. Maybe we should all¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just shut up!¡±


    They cease their discussion, but I have no doubt many more like it are going on out of my earshot. Dwarf now suspects dwarf, the harmony of the fort is crumbling, and while this is partly a positive development¡ªI¡¯m now totally convinced the killer was one of us, though I can¡¯t work out his motive¡ªthe atmosphere is oppressive and my worry that I¡¯m first on the list of suspects has grown stronger.


    We need to find this killer, and fast, which means I need to talk to Jaemes. Since he was moved into the meal hall with us and parted from the silence which he needs to work, he¡¯s been looking thoroughly downcast. His mood does not seem to improve when I approach him:


    ¡°Good morning,¡± I say, trying to sound cheerful. ¡°Or maybe good afternoon, or good evening.¡±


    ¡°Very droll, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t had a chance to talk since... You know.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve had plenty of chances; you just haven¡¯t taken them.¡±


    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± I say, lowering my voice. ¡°It¡¯s just that, with suspicions flying around... Ah, that¡¯s no excuse. I¡¯m sorry, I should talk to you more often.¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± he says sarcastically, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to put you in harm¡¯s way by interacting with you too much.¡±


    ¡°I believe you, you know,¡± I whisper.


    There¡¯s a loudish debate about fire runes going on nearby which I hope conceals our conversation.


    He raises a thin eyebrow. ¡°Do you now?¡±


    ¡°I always half-believed you, and now I truly do. There¡¯s no doubt in my mind that the killer is a dwarf. And I¡¯m not the only one who thinks that, if you listen carefully.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I hear a lot of foolish superstitions and unfounded accusations flying around. Several pointed at me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not making any unfounded accusations. The only accusation I plan to make is toward the killer, and it will be founded on something solid.¡±


    He raises an thin eyebrow. ¡°Is that so?¡¯


    ¡°It is.¡± I lower my voice even further. ¡°I¡¯m taking your theory more seriously than you know. After Mathek¡¯s death, I decided to ask around. I talked to some of those close to him, to see if there was anyone with a grudge.¡±


    ¡°Was there?¡±


    ¡°There were no obvious suspects,¡± I admit. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean I learned nothing...¡±


    The conversation near us dies down slightly.


    ¡°We should talk somewhere more private. In the forges, with my friend who¡¯s been helping me also. I¡¯ll come to you when I¡¯m ready. I need your ideas, Jaemes. I¡¯m sure you have more than what you told the Runethane.¡±


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    ¡°Oh, I have plenty: I told him those too. He wasn¡¯t very happy to hear them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be happy to hear them. Or interested, is maybe a better way of putting it.¡±


    Jaemes frowns. ¡°I have been forbidden from discussing such things, Zathar. By Runethane Yurok, personally, with the threat of great punishment should I disobey.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°If I were to do this, I would be putting myself at great risk. It would put you and your friend at great risk also.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Are you still willing?¡±


    ¡°I am not a coward. And we¡¯re at more risk if we sit around doing nothing.¡±


    He nods. ¡°I am of the same mind. The next time you and your friend are available, we shall talk.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. And by the way, how many days have passed since my arrival here? Are you still keeping count?¡±


    ¡°Judging from my last count, I believe you have been here nearly nine months.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t seem as important as it used to.¡±


    ¡°The threat of death does have a way of pushing other concerns aside, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Very true,¡± I agree.


    <hr>


    It ends up being a while before I¡¯m able to catch Nthazes. With the guard at the Shaft increased even further, and regular checkpoints being set up throughout the tunnels, he and his mace are in high demand. A few days pass before I finally manage to snatch a few moments of his time and whisper my plan to talk things over in the forges with Jaemes. He apologizes, says he has to get back to the Shaft right now, but promises to come back afterwards.


    I suspect afterwards will be in quite a while. I worry that it may be never, that he''s decided to give up on our investigations, but, well, whatever the case, all I have to do for now is wait in the meal hall. I borrow some more of Jaemes¡¯ paper and work on constructing the poems for my amulet. Now that I¡¯ve decided on the gemstones and their cut, I have an idea of what shape the lines will fit to, and stanzas begin to take shape in my mind. Deciding on the exact words is still tricky, though. Because the poems have to wrap around each gem, they have to make sense, both literally and in terms of runic flow, from whichever point you start reading them. This is easy to do with some runic scripts, but difficult with the one I believe is most suited to my mind, body and soul.


    I¡¯ve nearly filled up my last paper with tightly spiraled scribbles when Nthazes approaches me. The light shining from his mace makes my eyes water.


    ¡°Is Jaemes ready?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I¡¯ll wake him up.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll ask around and see who¡¯s willing to head down with us.¡±


    I wake Jaemes from his slumber at the other side of the hall, while Nthazes manages to find a trio of dwarves also preparing for an excursion to the forges. They give Jaemes and me some funny looks, but we make our way to the blindingly lit and stiflingly hot forging pits without incident.


    Nthazes makes a show of bringing materials into a forging pit two places away from mine, but soon after joins me and Jaemes in mine. His expression is one of grim determination.


    ¡°I didn''t think you¡¯d be so keen to join us,¡± I whisper. ¡°I thought you¡¯d gone off our investigations.¡±


    ¡°I had,¡± he admits, also in a low whisper. ¡°But Yalthaz¡¯s death got me doubting again. He wouldn¡¯t have gone down without a fight, not with mace in hand. I heard him almost get taken by the darkness once, engulfed in silence, but he fought his way out from the brink of death.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°The killer wasn¡¯t the darkness. If it had been, Yalthaz would have noticed its silence before he even walked in the doorway. No, whatever killed him, he wasn¡¯t expecting it.¡±


    Jaemes nods. ¡°I told the Runethane the same thing. He wouldn¡¯t believe me.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s... A stubborn one,¡± Nthazes says.


    ¡°He never seemed that way,¡± I say, ¡°From what you both told me about him before, about him being keen for experiments, new ideas and all that.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s only keen on those when things are relatively peaceful,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Jaemes agrees. ¡°There¡¯d been no incursions for a good while when he agreed to have me come down. He started to sour after a couple big ones. And he stopped leaving his hall too.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Scared,¡± Jaemes says derisively.


    Nthazes looks uncomfortable.


    ¡°You know it¡¯s true. He¡¯s a...¡±


    ¡°You should be careful about how you speak,¡± Nthazes warns. ¡°The hammering won¡¯t cover all our words.¡±


    ¡°A coward?¡± I whisper.


    Nthazes looks even more uncomfortable. ¡°He¡¯s stood against the darkness many times.¡±


    ¡°Not for a long time,¡± Jaemes says. ¡°And if you want proof he¡¯s gone scared, just look at his smoke.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Liquid darkness,¡± Nthazes tells me, confirming my earlier suspicions. ¡°Burned from a very rare type of coal. He believes that if he fills his hall with artificial darkness, the real darkness can never enter.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Who knows?¡± says Jaemes. ¡°But we¡¯re not here to talk about Runethane Yurok, and the longer we waste, the more suspicion we draw.¡±


    I nod. ¡°You¡¯re right. Let¡¯s get to the point: we need to work out how to catch the killer. I think the first thing we need to do is draw up a list of ideas for what evidence we¡¯re looking for.¡±


    ¡°Yes. We must be methodical,¡± Jaemes agrees.


    ¡°I¡¯m at a loss, though. Nthazes?¡±


    ¡°We should hear what Jaemes has to say.¡±


    ¡°Do you have any ideas about what we should look for?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Not yet. But I have reconstructed how the second murders happened. Here¡¯s what I told the Runethane...¡±


    He tells us how he believes the killer sprang on Yalthaz first, taking him by surprise, then when Danak came over, got him through the leg.


    ¡°That¡¯s another point,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°The darkness doesn¡¯t break armor: it seeps through, and not at any one point. You feel the cold take hold of you evenly.¡±


    ¡°Why couldn¡¯t the killer have gone back to drain Yalthaz more completely, though?¡± I ask.


    ¡°My guess is he heard voices and decided not to push his luck,¡± says Jaemes. ¡°That, or his weapon only allows him to strike once. Or maybe he¡¯d just taken all the blood he needed.¡±


    Nthazes frowns. ¡°The weapon is key. It has to be unique, very distinctive. If we find it, that¡¯s all the evidence we need for the Runethane to believe us. He¡¯ll have to believe us once he reads its runes¡ªwhatever they are, they¡¯ll be twisted.¡±


    ¡°Everywhere was searched,¡± I say. ¡°He must have hidden it well.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be carrying it,¡± says Jaemes. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t risk leaving it in his room or in the forges. It¡¯ll be under his armor.¡±


    ¡°How are we going to get at it then? We can¡¯t strip-search every dwarf in the fort. And no one removes their armor anymore, apart from in the toilets. Even then, only the bottom half.¡±


    Nthazes laughs, the first time I¡¯ve heard him laugh in ages. ¡°Yes, we can¡¯t exactly ambush our comrades in the latrines, can we?¡± His expression becomes grim once more. ¡°No, we¡¯ll have to determine some suspects first. Then keep a close eye on them, see if they¡¯re acting strangely.¡±


    ¡°Start with those who found the two bodies,¡± Jaemes says.


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask, confused. ¡°Didn''t you say that the killer ran when he heard them coming?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I think he ran, but not very far. The storerooms only have one exit each, do they not? I think he joined the discoverers a few seconds after they entered. After all, a single dwarf caught in the corridor outside would have been a little suspicious, don¡¯t you think? In the panic, no one would''ve noticed him slipping into the group.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°That¡¯s very clever.¡±


    ¡°Of you and the killer both, Jaemes,¡± I say. ¡°All right then, it¡¯s decided. We question the dwarves who found Yalthaz and Danak, and if any of them raise our suspicions, we''ll work out some way to search them.¡±


    ¡°Be very careful about it,¡± Jaemes warns. ¡°Very careful indeed.¡±


    There¡¯s fear in his eyes. His latest discussion with the Runethane must have gone very badly indeed.


    "I want to investigate Galar and his brother too," I add.


    "They''re cranks, but I don''t think they''re killers," says Nthazes.


    "Galar warned me to stop asking around," I say. "I feel that''s fairly suspicious, even if he doesn''t seem the killing type."


    "I see. Fair enough. We''ll add them to the list."

 Dwarves of the Deep: Failures of Concentration

    I lay out the ten rectangles of titanium that are to become the fingers of one of my new gauntlets. Each makes a dull clink on the covered anvil. I sigh. I am at a total loss.


    Ten: the same number as the number of dwarves who stumbled across the two bodies in storeroom four¡ªtoo large a number for us to keep track of easily, and those whose conversations Jaemes has managed to listen in on do not seem like promising leads. Even less so now that a stern warning from Commander Cathez has quieted the rumor mill, so that conversations about sensitive topics have all but died away.


    The only promising part of the whole situation is the fact that Galar and Fjalar were in the group of ten. Yet I can see nothing suspicious about their behavior: Galar is diligently working on his trident of light, and Fjalar on his own weapon, also to be light-enruned.


    No, we have discovered no clue, no hint, nothing at all that seems likely to lead us to the identity of the killer, and already another month has passed.


    I tell my racing mind to shut up and concentrate. I came down here to forge, not fret.


    I place the first section of titanium into my vise and begin to tap to create a gentle curve along its long edges. Each carefully measured blow impacts with the exact force I intend, and has the exact effect on the titanium I see in my mind¡¯s eye the moment before I flex my wrist. Everything feels natural: not only does the hammer feel like an extension of my body, but the titanium does also. Shaping it feels little different to curling my finger or opening or closing my hand. It¡¯s not quite an unconscious effort, there¡¯s still a gap between my imagining it changing and it actually doing so¡ªthe most experienced runeknights liken their forging to an act of imagination in and of itself¡ªyet I have come a long way since my first fumblings with the material.


    The section becomes a perfect quarter-circle in cross section, and a tap with the sounding-rod confirms its perfection: the note is clear.


    I put it down, immediately all my worries about the killer come back into my head, and I let out another frustrated sigh. How in hell are we going to catch him? We have one chance, one suspect to wrestle down, peel the armor off and dig out the weapon from. We try that on someone innocent and I don¡¯t even want to think about the consequences. Nthazes, upstanding as he is, might be forgiven, but Jaemes and I will not.


    I briefly see a vision of myself being thrown bodily down the Shaft.


    We just need more time to think, I tell myself. An opportunity will present itself: after the next killing, something will be left behind¡ªbut I cannot imagine what, and how many killings will that take, anyway? And who¡¯s to say the next victim won¡¯t be me?


    Concentrate!


    I go back to my forging, put the next section of titanium into the vise, misjudge the strength of my first blow and curl the corner badly. I throw my hammer down and curse.


    ¡°Fuck!¡±


    I¡¯m in no state of mind to be forging today. I wasn¡¯t in any state to be doing much yesterday either, nor the day before¡ªcertainly not after the last hunt either¡ªwe now carry torches on them, attracting predators with the heat like moths to a candle. Another miserable disruption to normal life, because now we¡¯re all hungry most of the time.


    ¡°You all right down there?¡± someone calls from up above. It¡¯s Cathez. He sounds irritated.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°Just been having trouble lately. Hard to concentrate properly.¡±


    He nods. ¡°I understand. Just try to keep it down. Unexpected shouts... They aren¡¯t good for everyone¡¯s nerves.¡±


    ¡°I apologize.¡±


    ¡°Accepted.¡±


    He leaves and I sit down on the steps. Maybe I ought to do something that really demands my full concentration, a cerebral challenge. I take out one of the gems I recently requisitioned¡ªthe only good thing about the hunts becoming more dangerous is that they pay better¡ªand turn it over in my palm.


    For the moment, at least, its beauty expunges my fears. The gem is a ruby, five millimeters in diameter, ten in height, long-octagon cut, clearer than glass and the color of strong wine. I bring it up close to my eye and admire how its facets duplicate the furnace into several that each look somehow more vivid and real than the real thing. I bring it to my ear to listen for the vague heartbeat some dwarves claim all well-cut gems have, and think that I hear something, though that could just be my imagination.


    An excellent stone, which makes the stress of having to etch it perfectly all the heavier. The stanzas are nearly set in my mind now. I just need to fit what¡¯s in my head to the particular peculiarities of this gem: its hardness, luster, angles to the fraction of a degree, and half a dozen other factors, all of which I must determine by eye alone. No matter how skilled the appraiser who wrote the certification, Nthazes has impressed on me, before you engrave you need to know the gem better than your own beard.


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    So I spend the next few hours¡ªI think, for my focus allows me no sense of time¡ªturning it over again and again in my hands, drinking in each facet, edge and corner, thinking hard on which stanzas will be suitable for what facet, which lines have to be altered, which runes replaced with their mirror-versions, and in turn how the metaphors must be re-written in such a way that the all important subtext doesn¡¯t change.


    It proves a formidable challenge. Not a single stanza of what I scribbled down paper is going to remain untouched. It¡¯s like a puzzle box¡ªtoys children of richer dwarven families are given to prepare them mentally for tasks just like this¡ªexcept the pieces are oily and slippery, and change shape each time they are repositioned.


    My mind reaches its breaking point and I wrest the ruby away from my eyes, which I realize have sharp pains stabbing through them: until now such bodily concerns were on only the barest edge of my awareness. I take some deep breaths, and though the air is hot I feel like I¡¯m taking deep gulps of purest spring-water.


    The pain fades from my eyes and I cannot help but look down at the ruby nestled in my palm once more. Such power and beauty! It sings to my heart, moves me nearly to tears as it would any dwarf. Its regular shape, its clarity, its color like that of wine or blood...


    The murders come back to my mind to shatter my forging trance. My mouth opens in a scream, which I halt, so my frustration comes out in the form of a strangled groan.


    <hr>


    More hungry and frustrating days pass. Try as I might, I cannot get my mind into the calm and collected state prolonged forging requires. Each time I go down I find myself circling the anvil, over and over again, tossing my hammer from hand to hand or else I sit in front of the anvil, spinning the lever on the vise to open and close, open and close it. Half-forged ideas spring into my mind one after the other, only to be rejected like the malformed failures they are.


    ¡°You ought to rest,¡± Jaemes tells me one meal. ¡°When your mind won¡¯t turn properly, sleep is the best oil for it.¡±


    ¡°A terrible play on words,¡± I say bitterly. ¡°I¡¯d kick you if you were a runeknight. And you don¡¯t understand. You don¡¯t improve your forging by sleeping, you improve it by forging. I¡¯ve known runeknights to spend days in front of the anvil without a single wink of rest.¡±


    ¡°I imagine they got a good amount before and afterwards, though,¡± he says drily.


    ¡°Yes, in their own homes, in their own beds, in silence, and in darkness they aren¡¯t afraid of.¡±


    ¡°You just need to practice.¡±


    ¡°Practice resting?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Just shut your eyes tight and blank your mind.¡±


    ¡°That probably works for humans. Just shutting your eyes doesn¡¯t work so well for us dwarves. Our distinction between bright and dark isn¡¯t as strong as with you lot, as you¡¯ve told me on several occasions.¡±


    ¡°Hmm. That¡¯s a good point. My good point still remains, however: you need to rest if you¡¯re going to get your mind into the right state for forging.¡±


    By forging he means forging an idea about who the killer is: it¡¯s become our code when discussing such matters. Obviously I would never consult with him about actual forging.


    ¡°Every time I lie down I can¡¯t help but think about it,¡± I say. ¡°Like I told you, even if I try to rest, I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Well then, if you¡¯re thinking about it, you must have come up with something small at least.¡±


    ¡°Still nothing. The two cobalt pieces are proving remarkably un-pliable,¡± I say, lowering my voice a little¡ªour conversation would still sound strange to anyone listening closely.


    ¡°Still?¡±


    ¡°Yes. They just aren¡¯t exhibiting the unique properties I hoped for.¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all?¡±


    ¡°They do as they always do.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still not convinced they¡¯re the right choice for the craft. Cobalt is an interesting metal, yet not one particularly suited for what you¡¯re trying to do.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the best,¡± I say stubbornly.


    ¡°What about the copper bar?¡±


    That¡¯s our code for Nelyik, a nervous-wreck of a ninth degree who was the first to catch sight of Danak¡¯s desiccated body. Jaemes thinks he¡¯s playing up the terror and anxiety. I don''t.


    ¡°As usual, it¡¯s behaving just as I expect it to.¡±


    ¡°The titanium and steel?¡±


    ¡°You told me there was nothing impure about them.¡±


    ¡°No, but maybe you or Nthazes noticed something with your dwarven eyes.¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t,¡± I say sourly. ¡°How about the soft steel?¡±


    ¡°Nothing odd about it.¡±


    ¡°The other four?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re running scared, in a manner of speaking. Won¡¯t heat up properly when they¡¯re together.¡±


    By which I think he means they won¡¯t talk about the murder anymore, are maybe trying to forget about it.


    ¡°Damn this!¡± I hiss, and clench my fists hard.


    Jaemes shakes his head. ¡°Just get some sleep. Something will come. No metal stays un-forged forever.¡±


    ¡°At least try to come up with metaphors that make sense,¡± I say bitterly. ¡°Good night, I¡¯ll try.¡±


    ¡°Good night, Zathar.¡±


    I drain the last of my beer and trudge over to my blankets. To my surprise, Nthazes is sitting next to them, back leaned against the wall. Under his eyes are dark circles, his face has taken on a yellowish tone, and his shoulders are slumped. For half a second I think he¡¯s been attacked, half-drained, but he raises a hand and gives me a weak smile to stop me panicking.


    ¡°You look awful,¡± I whisper to him.


    ¡°As do you. Listen,¡± he says, eyes suddenly bright. ¡°I have an idea. But I¡¯m not sure about how you¡¯re going to feel about it.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Nthazes Plan

    The light of the ancient maces hanging from the walls reflects brightly off Nthazes¡¯ feverishly sweaty brow. The same light in his blue eyes makes them look unnaturally electric¡ªand they flick around without blinking. His movements are staccato and his speech comes in fits and jerks.


    ¡°It¡¯s simple plan, see?¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Really simple. Don¡¯t know why we didn''t think of it before.¡±


    ¡°Keep your voice down!¡± I warn him, alarmed. ¡°Repeat what you just said, I didn''t catch any of it.¡±


    In fact I caught most of it: I just couldn¡¯t quite believe my ears.


    ¡°Like I said, it¡¯s simple. We go down to storeroom four. We stay there and wait for a single dwarf to show up. Need easy access, so we keep our helmets off. I wrestle him down after he attacks you. Then that¡¯s him, that¡¯s the killer, caught! All we do then is take his weapons and show it to the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Slow down,¡± I whisper. ¡°Are you saying we wait in the storeroom for him alone?¡±


    ¡°Not alone, we¡¯ll be together.¡±


    ¡°And he attacks me?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ªhas to be you. I¡¯m not unwilling! But you¡¯ve fought dwarves before and I haven¡¯t. You can block his first strike.¡±


    ¡°What if I can¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°You can, because you¡¯ll be prepared. Yalthaz wasn¡¯t expecting a dwarf, you will be.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s safe. I¡¯ll be right there nearby you. Even if you get stabbed, maybe I can push him away in time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s crazy!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s our best chance, don¡¯t you see?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s insane, Nthazes. You know it¡¯s insane: that¡¯s why you didn''t bring Jaemes down.¡±


    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°No, he would. He¡¯s a human, but he understands. Better than you do! This won¡¯t work. For one thing, there¡¯s no guarantee the next attack will be in a storeroom.¡±


    ¡°The last three were!¡±


    ¡°Calm down!¡± I hold a finger to my lips to try and get him to quieten. ¡°Secondly, we¡¯re not allowed to wander around in pairs.¡±


    ¡°No. We¡¯ll be breaking the rules, I know.¡±


    ¡°Not the rules: Runethane Yurok¡¯s decrees.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t matter once we¡¯ve caught him.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not, but there¡¯s no guarantee we¡¯ll catch him, and especially not the first time. And have you thought about what might happen if someone else catches on to how we¡¯re skulking around the storerooms on the regular? Commander Cathez can warn us not to have unfounded and morale-degrading conversations, but there''s still plenty of suspicious glares flying around, and a good few discussions too. Hell, we¡¯re proof of that.¡±


    ¡°This is our best chance!¡± Nthazes insists. ¡°We need the weapon, and the best time to get it is mid-attack. Catch him bloody-handed.¡±


    ¡°If his hands are bloody, that¡¯ll mean I¡¯m dead. Or not, since his weapon doesn¡¯t seem to spill any¡ªthat¡¯s beside the point! Your plan won¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°It will,¡± he says stubbornly. ¡°It has to. It¡¯s our only chance.¡±


    ¡°Our only chance is observe carefully, think on the evidence, and proceed from there.¡±


    ¡°What bloody evidence? There isn¡¯t any!¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± I say firmly. ¡°There will be. Maybe soon.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe that. You¡¯re as frustrated as I am! Even more! You want to catch him, and quickly, don¡¯t you? Prove to the Runethane you¡¯re worth something!¡±


    I frown. His last remark strikes me as odd.


    ¡°We¡¯re trying to catch the killer to save lives,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re defending the fort.¡±


    His bloodshot eyes blink rapidly. ¡°Yes. Absolutely. I never said we weren¡¯t.¡±


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    ¡°What¡¯s gotten into you?¡± I ask slowly. ¡°You really do look awful, you know.¡±


    ¡°Never mind that. What do you think of the plan? We need to go into more detail¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop,¡± I say. ¡°Sit down, Nthazes.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sit down!¡± I hiss, and I grab him by both shoulders and thrust him back onto the steps of the pit. He¡¯s too surprised to resist. He makes to get up, but firmly I push him back down.


    ¡°I¡ª¡± he begins.


    ¡°Calm down,¡± I say, trying to sound both stern and gently. ¡°Take a deep breath.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just calm the fuck down!¡± I snap.


    His eyes widen and he shuts up¡ªI¡¯ve never spoken to him like that before.


    ¡°Calm down,¡± I say again, as gently as possible. I squat down opposite him. ¡°Take a deep breath.¡±


    He nods, then does so. The shine in his eyes seems to dull. He looks down at his boots and swallows.


    ¡°I need a drink,¡± he says shakily. ¡°Alcohol deficiency, we¡¯re not allowed it at the Shaft.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get one later,¡± I promise. ¡°Now tell me: has something strange happened?¡±


    ¡°No, nothing. That¡¯s the problem, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean about the dwarves we¡¯re keeping an eye on.¡± His remark about the Runethane is bothering me. ¡°About anything else. Not even about the killer.¡±


    ¡°Nothing strange there either. Just the usual.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, just the usual?¡±


    ¡°You know, the usual. My duties in the fort. It¡¯s the same really, just busier.¡±


    ¡°...you don¡¯t like your duties, do you?¡±


    ¡°We do what we have to do to protect," he says bitterly. "Whether we like it or not.¡±


    ¡°I imagine that¡¯s a line Runethane Yurok says quite often.¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°You really don¡¯t like it here, do you? You hate it.¡±


    ¡°Some of it. Not all.¡±


    ¡°But enough that you want to leave once this is over. And the only way you think you¡¯ll get permission from the Runethane to do so is by catching the killer.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not my only reason!¡± he snaps. ¡°I care about my duty as well, and my comrades.¡±


    ¡°I never said you didn''t. But you also want the Runethane¡¯s favor.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he sighs. ¡°Yes, I do.¡±


    ¡°Up above isn¡¯t so nice either, you know.¡±


    He grimaces, then looks up at the ceiling to the roughly sealed hole from where I first fell. He seems to be looking through it, through the miles of rock above to other caverns where dwarves go about lives freely, taking on the jobs they please and venturing wherever they feel brave enough to go, perhaps even to the surface with its vivid green, many leaved mushrooms and bright-burning sun.


    ¡°It¡¯d be different though,¡± he says quietly. ¡°This life down here... It¡¯s drudgery, occasionally fear when the darkness comes boiling up. I... I feel trapped. You wouldn¡¯t know what it¡¯s like, coming from your city, and that massive cavern, where you can see the sun, even.¡±


    ¡°I know exactly what it¡¯s like. I used to be a miner.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± he says, shocked.


    ¡°Yes. Funny, I think you¡¯re the only one I¡¯ve ever told that. Up in the city they just knew from my look.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t look like a miner to me. Not that I¡¯ve ever seen one.¡±


    ¡°Well, I was, and I was trapped even worse than you are. At least you can forge.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. But at least miners can get married, can''t they? And when you¡¯re on break visit... I don¡¯t know, shops and things, taverns. Those places with the pretty ladies, even.¡±


    ¡°We didn''t have very many breaks, and not much money either.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have any money. Another one of the Runethane¡¯s traditions: another barrier to stop us being able to leave.¡±


    ¡°You could get a job fairly easily in one of the other realms. Guarding ore caravans, or hunting beasts, or maybe just helping around a guild willing to take you in.¡±


    ¡°I only know that from talking to you. The ideas we get about the world up above from the Runethane are that it¡¯s a treacherous pit of snakes where the dwarves would sooner steal from you than help you.¡±


    I shake my head in disgust. ¡°Does he believe that himself?¡±


    ¡°Probably. I don¡¯t think he¡¯d lie to us on purpose. I guess he was told the exact same things back when he was a runeknight, before his predecessor died, and has no reason to disbelieve them.¡±


    ¡°Well, now that you know it¡¯s not so bad up there, what¡¯s to stop you leaving?¡±


    ¡°My duty. I don¡¯t want to disappoint our comrades. I don¡¯t want to disappoint my Runethane either¡ªfor all his flaws, he¡¯s still Runethane. If I¡¯m going to leave, I want to do it with his permission, and the acceptance of everyone here.¡±


    I nod, feeling slightly ashamed of how I implied he might abandon his duty.


    ¡°So I want to catch the killer as soon as we can,¡± he says. ¡°Will you help me?¡±


    ¡°I already am.¡±


    ¡°I mean with my idea.¡±


    I scratch my beard. ¡°Look, I mean... It¡¯s crazy. I don¡¯t think it¡¯ll work.¡±


    ¡°Is sitting around keeping an eye on the others working? Is looking for evidence that doesn¡¯t exist working?¡±


    He¡¯s right: it isn¡¯t. ¡°No,¡± I admit. ¡°I suppose not.¡±


    ¡°So will you help?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it,¡± I promise. ¡°And try to come up with some way to make it less suspicious and dangerous.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Thanks. And thanks for calming me down.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no trouble. You¡¯re my friend. It¡¯s the least I can do, especially with all the help you¡¯re giving me about my amulet.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯s that coming along, by the way?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve nearly finalized the poems.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t overthink them. They need to come from the heart.¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡±


    ¡°They do,¡± he says firmly. ¡°When you put chisel to gem, just let the runes flow. Don¡¯t be scared to make mistakes: that¡¯s when you¡¯re most likely to make them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll succeed,¡± he says, and he smiles the kind smile I haven¡¯t seen on his face since the killings began. ¡°You¡¯re a fine runeknight.¡±


    ¡°You too.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Chainmail Grip

    I creep through the shelves of storeroom three, listening intently to the quiet bustle of the other dwarves amplified in my runic ears, glancing left and right, watching my torchlight play across the stacks of metal. The hoards of steel, titanium, copper and iron in each storeroom have been built up over untold years, and despite our best efforts to put everything into some kind of order after the searches, they remain in a state of chaos. Yes, I think Jaemes is right: it would have been easy for the killer to sneak around and, unseen and unheard, join the horrified group of dwarves crowded around Danak and Yalthaz¡¯s corpses.


    My nerves are frayed, doing this. I can¡¯t imagine how frayed they¡¯ll be if I decide to go through with Nthazes¡¯ plan and do this for real, helmet off and properly alone. Already I¡¯m imagining a dark figure, half shadow and half dwarf, rushing me from behind a corner, his knife of dark iron stabbing down toward my neck...


    Right now I¡¯m just here to figure out the best place to set the bait¡ªthat is to say, me. Somewhere deep enough among the stacks and shelves to be an easy target for ambush, yet with a wide enough corridor for Nthazes to rush down and save me. So far, I have found no such ideal place. It is a twisting maze.


    I hear a creak from my left and spin around, thrust out my torch. The dwarf there jumps back just in time to avoid getting his beard scorched, then topples backwards onto his behind with a clank.


    ¡°Ah!¡± he shouts. ¡°Watch it!¡±


    I pull back my torch. ¡°My bad.¡±


    ¡°Too right.¡± He scowls. ¡°Do I look like a shadow to you?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t see you when you sneak up on me from behind, you know. Maybe say something next time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to be quiet. I don¡¯t want to draw attention, yeah?¡± He rubs at his beard, and I see that it didn''t go entirely un-singed. ¡°Now look what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    ¡°Wear a helmet like everyone else then,¡± I snap.


    ¡°Metal didn''t stop it getting Danak. I want the extra visibility.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself. I¡¯m not paying for your beard-bleach though.¡±


    ¡°Oh, bugger off.¡±


    I roll my eyes and walk away from him, shaking slightly. At the back wall shelves, upon which lie thick rolls of leather, there¡¯s an open corridor. I lean back against the leather and breath deep. My heart feels like it¡¯s about to explode. That idiot! Creeping around, he¡¯s lucky I didn''t stick Heartseeker through him.


    I wonder what the hell¡¯s got into me. Really, why am I so on edge? I¡¯ve marched into battle before, for goodness sake, against lava trolls and abyssal salamanders, and in any case, none of the runeknights down here have experience fighting other dwarves, so as long as I can deflect the first blow, I¡¯ll have the experience advantage.


    Unless, that is, the dwarf isn¡¯t wielding a dagger, sword or any conventional weapon at all. The latest whispered rumor going around¡ªdespite Cathez¡¯s repeated warnings to shut up¡ªis that the killer is some kind of shadow-dwarf. There¡¯s two versions of this theory: that one of us has been corrupted through repeated exposure to the darkness, or that the darkness has twisted itself into the shape of a dwarf and come to us. Several are apparently convinced it''s me, even though I fell from above rather than clambered up from below.


    The theory doesn¡¯t seem entirely implausible. It mostly fits with what Jaemes said about the killer being one of us, and it goes some way toward explaining the horrible way in which the victims have been killed.


    I hear voices through my runic ears:


    ¡°You done?¡±


    ¡°Done... We all here?¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Zathar?¡±


    The dwarves I came down with are getting ready to leave, and maybe without me if I¡¯m not quick enough. I rush back through the maze of shelves, grab a large roll of titanium wire I''ve requisitioned in advance, and make it through to them.


    ¡°What took you so long?¡± says the fourth degree who led our group down here. He peers through the eye-slits of my helmet. I blink in the light of his mace.


    ¡°Can¡¯t be too careful when you choose materials, can you?¡± I tell him.


    ¡°Can¡¯t be too careful when there¡¯s the darkness on the loose either,¡± he replies, in a definite tone of suspicion.


    ¡°Sorry. I¡¯ll be quicker next time.¡±


    ¡°You better be. No one wants another death, even if it¡¯s you.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, nothing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m pulling my weight just as much as everyone else, yeah? Certainly I¡¯ve proved myself on the hunts.¡±


    ¡°Sure you have.¡±


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°Well, just don¡¯t skulk around in the dark away from us anymore, yeah?¡± says the dwarf whose beard I singed.


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    ¡°Take your own advice next time.¡±


    ¡°Both of you don¡¯t skulk off on your own,¡± says our leader.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t skulking, Hurist,¡± I say. ¡°And if we¡¯re all going to be after different things, I don¡¯t have much of a choice but to strike off on my own, do I?¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡±


    ¡°I do say so.¡±


    ¡°Oh, lay off him,¡± another dwarf complains. ¡°He doesn¡¯t look like a damn shadow to me.¡±


    Now it¡¯s Hurist¡¯s turn to scowl. ¡°I never said he was.¡±


    ¡°Not when he¡¯s around, no.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never said it!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve insinuated it. About him, and several others too.¡±


    ¡°I have bloody not,¡± Hurist snaps. ¡°Be quiet. You shouldn¡¯t even mention such things.¡±


    ¡°Take your own advice before someone reports you to Commander Cathez.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll report you, you damn sixth degree.¡±


    ¡°Pulling rank, are we?¡± sneers the sixth degree. ¡°How typical of you.¡±


    ¡°Just shut the hell up!¡± Hurist barks. ¡°No more talk of this.¡±


    <hr>


    That little argument was very representative of the tone most discussions are taking on. There are no overt accusations to anyone¡¯s face, but plenty of snide insinuations and suspicion-rousing remarks, shortly followed by denials, insults, and veiled threats. Nothing Cathez can say seems to quell the rumor-mill. For example, a few days after my excursion to the storeroom he gathered everyone not on duty and told us:


    ¡°No more fucking rumors! No more talking about shadow dwarves, or dark runes, or any other stupid theory you lot come up with. They don¡¯t exist. Mathek, Danak, and Yalthaz were killed by the same darkness we¡¯ve always been fighting.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s it changed then?¡± said someone with more courage or stupidity than most.


    Cathez glared at him. ¡°I don¡¯t know. No one knows. But speculation isn¡¯t going to help us. So just shut it, all right? The next person I hear spouting nonsense will be dragged, personally, by me, into the Runethane¡¯s hall where you will explain to him exactly why you have been undermining the morale of the fort like a traitor. Your punishment will not be a pleasant one.¡±


    Then, as soon as he left the meal hall for his duties, the whispers started up again.


    I halt my pacing around the forge, and for the hundredth time tell myself that worrying isn¡¯t helping anything. The best thing I can do now is work on my gauntlets, so I can have the speed I need to catch the killer¡¯s first blow before it sinks into my jugular¡ªif I''m still really going to go through with Nthazes'' mad plan, that is.


    I¡¯ve finished the twenty-eight plates that will go over my fingers, and the two large plates that will over the backs of my hands too. Unlike my last pair of gauntlets, which had many tightly overlapping plates, the plates of these ones will be widely spaced to allow for mobility. I want my hands to be as fast as possible when I grab at my assailants arm, and the best way to ensure this is to have the majority of my gauntlets composed not of plates, but of chainmail.


    So now I¡¯m faced with the challenge of forging more than a thousand tiny rings of titanium and riveting them all together, despite the fact I¡¯ve never made even steel or iron chainmail before¡ªI¡¯ve always bought it ready made. And there isn¡¯t even a handy machine available to help me either.


    I heft up the large roll of titanium wire I requisitioned from storeroom three, and unwind an amount about as long as I am tall. The length seems excessive until I start to wind it around a wooden pole only a few millimeters in thickness to make a coil that ends up roughly as long as my forearm.


    I remove the wood and examine the titanium, trying to work out how best to clip it. In order to rivet the rings, I¡¯m going to have to cut them out not as perfect circles but with overlaps, which will form the section the rivets go through. Some chainmail is not crafted like this: instead the cuts are done to form rings with little overlap so they can be easily put together with no rivet, but this simple method is widely considered suitable only for novices.


    I take up a pair of titanium clippers which I¡¯ve borrowed from Nthazes¡ªmost of the clippers down here are steel, and thus not suitable for use on titanium because of the iron oxide issue. I slice down the coil, cut by cut, making sure to line up my clippers so that each link comes out with an overlap of the same size. The clippers make a metallic snicking sound each time I cut, almost like the notes of a musical instrument.


    Once I''m done, I lay out the rings for examination. Several I¡¯ve cut wonky, or have an overlap too small, and I make a small pile out of them at the left side of my anvil. Maybe I can melt them down in future to make something else with.


    The rest now need to be hammered flat. This is likely to be a more difficult task than I anticipate, since for the links to fit together smoothly for the best flexibility, each needs to be the same thickness. I hammer at the first one, making sure the angle at which I hit it is perfectly vertical, and as I do so count the strokes. It takes me ten solid hits.


    I hammer the next one with ten solid hits too, but when I put my eye level with the anvil to check its thickness against the first, I see that it¡¯s a little thinner¡ªclearly I put too much power into my strikes.


    I put that link with the other rejects and move on to the next. This time I check the thickness after the ninth stroke. It¡¯s not quite flat¡ªI controlled my power better this time¡ªso I give it one more and place it on the right side of the anvil.


    I continue this slow process until all the links are either flattened to the perfect degree or lying in the pile of rejects. I scowl at it: it¡¯s a full quarter of the size of my pile of correctly made ones, and I have a feeling it¡¯s only going to grow during the next two stages.


    The links must now be heat-treated. This can¡¯t be done after the mail is complete, or the links would stick together, so it has to be done while they¡¯re still separate. Each must come to the same temperature, or the finished mail will have weak points, so, because the heat distribution in the furnaces down here is uneven, I have to heat them in small groups of only half a dozen or so each.


    It¡¯s an incredibly tedious process, yet one that also demands great concentration lest I leave them in too long. My mind still occupied with thoughts of the killer, I slip up several times and another few dozen links end up in the reject pile.


    It¡¯s approaching a full third of the size of my collection of usable links.


    Now it¡¯s time for the final stage: riveting. First, each link needs a hole punched into it where its overlapped ends have been flattened into lobes. Another few rings go in the reject pile when I misjudge the position of the thin nail I¡¯m using. Next, I must link the rings together. From an even thinner length of titanium wire, I clip very short lengths to form the rivets. I thread them into the holes I punched into the now linked rings, and with my clippers, which have a flattish section behind the blades designed for this job, tightly squeeze them into shape.


    Finished. I now have enough mail to fit around one finger. Judging by the amount of titanium I¡¯ve wasted, I¡¯m going to need to go on two more hunts at least to earn enough honor to complete both gauntlets and become ready to take on the killer.


    If, that is, I really am going to take him on.


    Until then he will have free reign.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Runes of Reckless Speed

    The next killing is in the forges. The victim¡¯s desiccated body is found squeezed into a storage cupboard, half crushed and crumbled to dust. No one knows when he was killed, for how could they, with no sense of time down here? Likely it was at a time when the forges were relatively unoccupied. We do not know who went down there with him either.


    All those not on duty gather in the meal hall.


    ¡°Take him to the Runethane,¡± orders Commander Cathez. ¡°And you, Hurist, you go too.¡±


    Hurist, who discovered the body after noticing that the door to the storage compartment was slightly cracked, nods silently.


    ¡°How come he didn''t notice earlier?¡± someone whispers. ¡°He said he¡¯d just completed his craft when he saw the door was broken. Wouldn¡¯t you notice something like that as soon as you went in?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± comes a reply.


    Both voices are so quiet I can hardly tell if they¡¯re real or my own thoughts.


    ¡°There was never any craft... He killed poor Fjorik and placed his materials on the anvil so he could avoid suspicion.¡±


    ¡°If he wanted to avoid suspicion, why run out the pit shouting?¡±


    ¡°Because that¡¯s what the shadow dwarf wouldn¡¯t do.¡±


    ¡°Hurist can¡¯t be a shadow dwarf. He¡¯s been with us since he was an initiate. We would have noticed.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been into the Shaft many times. What if, one time, he didn''t come back... But something else did...¡±


    <hr>


    A search of the forging pits finds nothing. Runethane Yurok decrees that each time we forge we must inform a senior runeknight, posted at the entrance to the hall, of which pit we will be using. He also decrees that the punishment for spreading malicious rumors is to be indefinite imprisonment. This quietens things for a while, and I become too scared to ask Jaemes if he can come up with some alteration to Nthazes¡¯ plan to make it less dangerous.


    I have no doubt that the rumors will spring back to life, however. The Runethane¡¯s threat is not a realistic one¡ªhe cannot imprison half the fort, or who would there be to protect against the deep darkness?


    So for now I wait and forge. My gauntlets begin to come together. My ring crafting process becomes smoother and more accurate, and the pile of rejects stops growing so quickly. My fingers get into the habit of weaving the links together; in fact they become so adept that sometimes I feel as if I am not doing the work myself, but simply observing the hands of an expert worksdwarf as they perform the task they were created for.


    I still make mistakes, though. About a dozen times I manage to hammer my fingers when flattening the rings, I gash my gloves with the clippers at least twice, and once I somehow squeeze my pinky finger in the pliers instead of the rivet and feel the bones nearly crack.


    Nevertheless, by the time the fear of imprisonment has died down and the rumors are beginning to flare up once more, the chainmail is nearly complete. And it only took one hunt for me to be able to afford the rest of the titanium; it was a dangerous one: two dithyoks nearly took our kill from us.


    I work on turning the ten rectangles of maille into fingers. Fitting them exactly proves to be a difficult process. Too tight and I can¡¯t get my fingers in, too loose and they¡¯ll be uncomfortable and prone to getting mangled in the stress of combat. It takes me many tries of linking, unlinking¡ªa miserable process since I¡¯ve riveted everything really quite securely¡ªand linking again, often followed by more unlinking, before I finally have ten fingers I¡¯m satisfied with.


    Next, I link the fingers to the larger squares of chainmail that will go over the backs of my hands, which means further irritating readjustments until I get a fit I¡¯m satisfied with. My fingers start to lose some of their unconscious smoothness as strain starts to win against muscle-memory, yet I feel duty bound to not take a break: if I don¡¯t work as hard as possible, perhaps that means another dwarf has to die. The quicker I finish my gauntlets, the quicker I can help Nthazes with his plan¡ªwhich I¡¯ve decided to fully commit to.


    So long as my gauntlets are fast enough, I will stop the blow.


    In order to ensure their speed, I¡¯ll have to pull off some of the best runic poems I¡¯ve ever attempted. Fortunately, gold and incandesite will be perfect for these: reckless speed and crushing power is what I¡¯m aiming for, and I don¡¯t care about restraint. On each one of the twenty-eight titanium finger plates I write a poem praising the fastest things I can think of.


    The frog¡¯s tongue. The troglodyte¡¯s poison dart. The strike of a snake. The searing gout of white flame from a salamander¡¯s maw.


    Metaphors based on living things are always a risky business. Just like living things themselves, they are unpredictable, and the incandesite I¡¯m going to graft them with will make them even more so. I worry that maybe I¡¯m making a mistake, because, after all, what use is speed without at least some measure of accuracy?


    It¡¯s too late to stop. By the time my worries grow into doubts, I¡¯ve already twisted the gold wires into shape and am sprinkling them with incandesite. With a series of flashes of yellow fire, I graft them.


    Runes completed on the fingers, I finalize the poems for the plates on the back of my hands. These poems are twins, each composed in the same fast one-two-one-two beat. I stay away from the animal metaphors, and instead praise the speed at which the stalactite comes crashing down upon the unaware victim on the left gauntlet, and praise the speed at which fire can consume dry wood on the right. This latter makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, yet I can come up with nothing that flows quite as well.


    After all, I¡¯m very familiar with the speed at which fire devastates. Of course that¡¯s what I can write about best.


    I am just about to begin welding the plates to the chainmail, a very delicate process involving white hot titanium, which I really ought to have done before grafting the runes just in case I misjudge the temperature and overheat the incandesite on the back side of the plates, when I am interrupted by none other than Jaemes.


    ¡°Zathar?¡± he calls down to me.


    I drop a white hot rod of titanium on my shoe. Flame flashes and a not-insignificant amount of leather is instantly converted to smoke. Some of my skin underneath is converted to burn.


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    ¡°Ow!¡±


    ¡°I apologize for disturbing you,¡± he says as he descends the stairs. ¡°We need to talk urgently.¡±


    I grimace as I pat the flames on my shoe out. ¡°What about?¡±


    ¡°Your friend, looking for advice,¡± he says, lowering his voice to a whisper, ¡°Has just confided in me your plan.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s his plan,¡± I say, also hushing my voice.


    ¡°I would recommend against it. Also, I might have expected you to talk to me about it.¡±


    ¡°I was going to after I finished these.¡±


    ¡°Are you really going to go through with it?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Though, I did want your advice on how to make it less risky.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you the same advice I gave Nthazes: don¡¯t do it.¡±


    I shrug, then grin with fake bravado. ¡°These gauntlets will be faster than anything I¡¯ve made before. Not quite as tough as my last ones, maybe, but faster for sure. I''ll grab his blade and the killer won¡¯t stand a chance.¡±


    ¡°You seem to be assuming that he¡¯s using some kind of knife.¡±


    ¡°What better weapon is there for stabbing someone unawares in the dark? Though I suppose it could be a sword.¡±


    ¡°It might be unlike any weapon you have ever seen before. For example, have you considered the possibility that it could be a ranged weapon?¡±


    ¡°You know us runeknights rarely use them. Why craft something that you¡¯re just going to throw away?¡±


    ¡°This runeknight is not like the usual, I fear.¡±


    I frown. ¡°So you think he has some kind of crossbow?¡±


    ¡°I did not say that. Actually, I think it more than likely that his weapon is some kind of knife. My point is that he could be wielding something you do not expect, in a manner you do not expect. And, your fighting experience notwithstanding, for the dwarves down here, darkness is their natural arena. He will have the advantage, especially if he gets the jump on you.¡±


    I open my mouth, but have no reply. He¡¯s right. No matter how thoroughly I prepare, the one who strikes first always has the advantage, especially so in the blackness in a location far more familiar to him than it is to his prey.


    ¡°So will you stop this madness?¡± Jaemes pleads.


    I sigh. ¡°I¡¯ve already made up my mind to go through with it. It seems cowardly not to.¡±


    ¡°What happened to our original plan about finding the weapon first?¡±


    ¡°Nthazes doesn¡¯t think there¡¯s any way of finding the weapon unless the killer¡¯s grasping it at the time. And I have to agree. Are you suggesting we force each of our comrades to strip down to their skin? I don¡¯t see how that¡¯s possible.¡±


    Jaemes shakes his head. ¡°Careful observation and deduction should be our way forward.¡±


    ¡°We haven¡¯t observed enough to be able to deduct anything.¡±


    ¡°Observe more then. It takes time.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have time.¡±


    ¡°We have plenty. Months go by between the murders. The murderer isn¡¯t hurried¡ªmore proof that he¡¯s one of the dwarves down here¡ªso we shouldn¡¯t rush things either.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    ¡°Why is your friend so keen to take this gamble anyway, if I might ask? It¡¯s a decision unlike what I would expect from these dwarves.¡±


    ¡°He has his reasons.¡±


    ¡°Worried someone else will catch him first?¡±


    I scowl. ¡°That¡¯s none of your business.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all of our business, Zathar. I strongly believe that we three are the best chance of stopping the killer, and I don¡¯t want you to throw your lives away.¡±


    ¡°Look: I¡¯m going through with this. If you want to help me, think of some way to increase our chances of success.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think there are many ways. And I¡¯ll also point out that the greatest danger involved is not that the killer will come for you, but that a different dwarf will discover you and become very suspicious. Things are reaching rather a boiling point here.¡±


    ¡°Which is why I think we should try and get this over with.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re just multiplying the risk.¡±


    ¡°Look,¡± I say crossly. ¡°We¡¯re going through with it. If you can¡¯t help me, stop distracting me. If you can, do so.¡±


    He throws up his hands. ¡°Fine, then. I¡¯ll think of a way to make your mad plan less mad. However, I guarantee nothing.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He sits down on the steps and gets into his thinking posture, one knee up and his chin in one hand, gently massaging where his beard ought to be. I don¡¯t know if all humans need to do this to think, or just him.


    I pick up the heated titanium rod from the floor by the handle-end wrapped in thick salamander skin, and reheat until the other end is close to dripping. Then I use it to push the chainmail against the inside of the titanium plates. The welds this creates will be rather weak, but this is just the first stage. The second involves fitting tiny beads of solder¡ªI¡¯m using a silver-copper alloy¡ªjust below the rings of the maille against the titanium plate, along with a bit of resin to prevent oxidation. Next, I use the same white-hot rod to melt the solder and join chain to plate.


    The reason I¡¯ve gone to all the trouble of making a full-chain glove when there is going to be plate over it anyway, is to make sure the runic power from the plates flows properly through the whole gauntlet. The more points of contact between plate and maille, the better the effect the runes will have.


    ¡°I have one idea,¡± Jaemes says, just as I¡¯m about to start soldering the finger-plates.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I ask, turning from my craft.


    ¡°As I understand it, you two plan to be in the dark.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Nthazes will have his mace, but he¡¯s going to cover it securely.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Why? If someone was to see us down here alone, they would get suspicious.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t the point that they think you¡¯re alone? There has to be some sign that you¡¯re there.¡±


    I scratch my beard. ¡°True.¡±


    ¡°And if you¡¯re going to have a sign that you¡¯re there... Well, why does that sign have to tell the truth?¡±


    I frown. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re getting at.¡±


    ¡°Why do you have to be the bait, Zathar? Why not just put down your torch, wait for the person of suspicion to approach, and spring on them? Just prop the torch against the wall, stand in the shadows nearby¡ªsomewhere cluttered, so it¡¯ll be hard to tell you apart from all the gubbins¡ªand when the person of suspicion approaches, spring on him.¡±


    I think for a little bit. ¡°No, that won¡¯t work. If he doesn¡¯t take his weapon out, how will we know it¡¯s him?¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯s wandering around alone, it¡¯s likely him. But if you¡¯re not sure, greet him when he comes to investigate the torch. If he springs at you, you¡¯ll know you have the enemy.¡±


    I think further, looking for holes in his plan, and find none.


    ¡°I won¡¯t have to suffer an ambush in the dark,¡± I say.


    ¡°You won¡¯t.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I see. That might just work.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s still the risk that someone will find your behavior suspicious,¡± he warns. ¡°I would still caution against your plan.¡±


    "I appreciate your concern, but we''ve already made our decision. Every day we wait, another dwarf could die."


    "Well, all right then. Will you need me there?"


    "Do you want to be there?"


    "I think it would be best if I continued my involvement from the background," he says nervously. "Especially considering the Runethane''s threats toward me. Also, I''m not much of a fighter."


    "I think that would be for the best too."


    "I''ll leave you to your crafting then."


    I shake my head. "No, stay here. Safer if we leave together."


    "I thought you didn''t want to raise suspicion."


    "I don''t, but I don''t want you getting killed either."

 Dwarves of the Deep: Two Against One

    Nearly a mile above the fortress, ten runeknights stalk a gelthob as it circles the stem of the great petrified mushroom stabbing up through the layers of caverns. It makes a slurping, squelching noise as it sucks up the massive quantity of nutrients it needs to power the rippling of its gelatinous body.


    The dwarves move as cautiously as they can, making sure that the light of their torches does not illuminate the gelthob too brightly. The gelthob will not notice, but several predators down here still have rudimentary sensory organs that can tell light from dark and cold from heat.


    The nose of one of the dwarves twitches involuntarily. He stops to sniff the air. There is a faint trace of an odd smell, one that seems familiar, though he can¡¯t quite put his finger on just what it might be, or where he has smelled it before.


    It seems to be coming from above.


    ¡°Why have you stopped?¡± whispers one of his comrades. ¡°Hirthik, what¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Smelled something funny.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot of funny smells up here. Keep on moving, yeah?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a usual smell. It¡¯s not something I¡¯ve ever smelled up here before.¡±


    ¡°Probably just some dead thing.¡±


    ¡°No... No, it¡¯s not a dead smell.¡±


    ¡°Some plant then. Come on! We¡¯re already at the back, and if something is tracking us...¡±


    ¡°Wait, it¡¯s gone.¡±


    ¡°Come on then.¡±


    He sniffs. ¡°It¡¯s back again.¡±


    ¡°Who cares? There might be a dithyok on our trail, for goodness sake. Hurry up!¡±


    Hirthik ignores his comrade and takes a deeper breath. ¡°Wait, I know where I¡¯ve smelled this before. In the forges.¡±


    His comrade freezes. ¡°Smoke? Fire?¡±


    ¡°No. It¡¯s that stuff the senior runeknights use... That reagent...¡±


    ¡°The dangerous one?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that one. Almergris.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes I think so. Yes, it has to be. Have you ever known my nose to be wrong?¡±


    The yeelthek-robous, the white-jelly, is a massive beast which squeezes its way through the deeper caverns of the world, endlessly consuming whatever life has the misfortune of stumbling into its path. The discovery of one is a joyous event for any dwarves able to take part in its hunt, for such a great beast yields copious rewards: tough leather, delicate and flavorful flesh, blubber that burns slowly and nearly as hot as magma, and, in its bile-ducts, almergris, one of the rarest and most potent reagents known to dwarfkind.


    Until now none have ever been detected even remotely near the fort. The dwarves decide that Runethane Yurok must be informed immediately, and call off their hunt to hurry down and deliver the good news.


    <hr>


    I flex my fingers in the semi-darkness, practicing the gripping motion I will use to apprehend the killer. This is the fifth time Nthazes and I have set our trap, and though we have not yet been able to spring it, I am confident that tonight is the night, as it were. There is no logical basis for this feeling, yet it is there all the same: I sense violence brewing.


    So far, though, nothing. Just the usual faint sounds of settling dust, shifting air, and of course the low roar of my torch tied to the shelf next to me. Nthazes¡¯ mace shines brightly alongside it¡ªwe couldn¡¯t find a cloth thick enough to obscure all of its light, so we decided it would be best used as extra bait and illumination. Nthazes himself is crouching a few turns of the shelf-corridors away, wielding a small and unlit lead mace he made for practice some time ago.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    I wield Heartseeker lightly in one hand. If I get good warning of the killer approaching, I¡¯ll use it to fend him off, however if I¡¯m taken by surprise at close range I can drop it and grab the killer¡¯s wrist.


    Hopefully I manage that in time. I shiver as I recall the yellowed skin stretched over the bones of the last four victims. Drained of blood... What runes could the killer have used? Some kind of reverse blood-seeking, maybe a complex poem with a variation of halat on it? Yes, my first weapon drew out blood as well. How the weapon draws out the blood is not the mystery here: the mystery is what happens to the blood. I find the popular idea that the shadow dwarf drinks it hard to believe¡ªhow could he consume two whole gallons of the stuff?


    I chuckle darkly. Maybe we should¡¯ve been checking to see who¡¯s been using the latrines most often.


    The slight sense of amusement my black joke brought fades quickly. I try to eliminate all thought from my mind and focus my attention solely upon the sounds around me. The air currents are shifting where Nthazes breathes, and shivering above my torch. Across the room where the door is, they are blowing inward and outward very slightly, buffeted by the movement of dwarves elsewhere in the fort.


    After a long while, that movement changes; the interference of something entering shifts the air. I still my breathing to listen better, and Nthazes does the same. He¡¯s noticed the change too¡ªit¡¯s not my imagination. Very faintly I hear metal plates scraping against each other. The sound has a subdued tone to it, suggesting they¡¯ve been well oiled for stealth.


    The intruder walks slowly and cautiously through the maze of shelves. His boots make no sound, as if their soles have been padded with felt. I can see nothing but darkness from where he is, and that confirms my suspicions. This must be the killer.


    The creak of his armor grows a little distant, then closer, further away again, then closer still. He¡¯s approaching the beacon we have set for him. It looks like I¡¯ll have advance warning of him after all, so I grasp Heartseeker with both hands and position myself in fighting stance, ready to stab down at his thighs or feet.


    Immobilize him, then get the truth from him.


    Abruptly he stops. I listen to him breathing¡ªit changes rhythm, like he¡¯s become suddenly cautious, deciding whether to proceed or not. Has he sniffed out our trap? If he runs now, he¡¯s far enough away that we might not catch him.


    I reach into the shelves and shuffle my fingers around the metal rods as if I¡¯m searching for one the right thickness, pretending to be totally unaware of him. The jangling echoes through the storeroom. The intruder¡¯s breathing stops still, then resumes. It¡¯s a little more heavy, as if he¡¯s bracing himself for the bloodshed to come.


    Like a predator that¡¯s just committed itself to the kill.


    He rounds the corner into the light and I give him no chance to react. I spring forward with Heartseeker outstretched toward his knee¡ªyet his armor gives him speed and power that more than matches mine. He dodges my blow, collides with the shelves with a heavy clang, and pushes off them toward me swinging a steel short-sword down wildly.


    I drop Heartseeker and reach for him. My speed shocks even me: my gauntlets are gold and silver blurs in the light. I grasp at the killer¡¯s forearm and my fingers close down with such violence that I feel the titanium armor bend beneath them.


    ¡°You!¡± roars the killer, and he knees me violently under my left ribs. The force of the blow dents the steel plate and winds me, but I don¡¯t dare let go of his arm. He tries to knee me again, same side, and I shift away, dragging his arm with me, trying to find some way to bend it, maybe dislocate his shoulder.


    ¡°You!¡± Nthazes shouts in shock and he barrels toward the killer from behind.


    He wasn¡¯t expecting this dwarf, it seems¡ªthough I can¡¯t tell who he is with his helmet on.


    ¡°Two?¡± shouts the killer in horror.


    He attempts to twist around and meet Nthazes head on. I wrench his sword arm back at the same time I kick out his ankle and he crashes to the floor. I go down with him. He punches me in the face, ringing my helmet like a bell. The sound reverberates in my runic ears and for a moment I¡¯m deafened and disorientated.


    He has his sword held above me. He stabs down at my neck and I grab the blade. Pale yellow sparks fly from my chainmail and there is a terrible screeching noise. The point stops a single millimeter from my neck, and then Nthazes strikes the back of his head. The old lead mace shatters on the killer''s helmet. The killer roars. Nthazes curses and tackles him down.


    They roll across the stone, bellowing in fury, lashing with fist and sword and splintered mace-haft and foot. I leap to my feet and pull Nthazes¡¯ proper mace from the shelf, lob it at the killer, who¡¯s managed to get Nthazes on his back. The bright-glowing steel smashes into the back of his helmet, stunning him for an instant and allowing Nthazes to push him off.


    I charge, not letting the killer any time to recover while Nthazes grabs his mace. With a fist that looks more like a blur than anything corporeal, I hammer the top of the killer¡¯s twice-dented helmet. I cry out as pain shoots through my wrist, but I¡¯ve done more damage to my enemy than I¡¯ve done to myself.


    With a groan he slumps forward, weakly clutching at the top of his head. Nthazes mace lashes in an upward swing and sends the killer¡¯s short sword spinning through the air. It makes a high whistling sound before clattering down in the distance.


    ¡°Pin him down!¡± I shout. ¡°I¡¯ll grab the weapon.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Search for the Weapon

    Nthazes wrestles the concussed killer fully to the ground, grabs his wrists and pushes down with all his weight to pin them. The killer moans in pain. I run for the sword. It¡¯s still shivering slightly on the stones, making its position easy to hear. With utmost caution I take it up by the handle and hurry back into the light where I can examine the runes.


    They¡¯re not what I expect at all.


    There¡¯s no halat here, no saset ¡®consume¡¯ nor khalet ¡®drink-to-full¡¯. Neither is there a single mention of blood, flesh, nor anything else I¡¯d imagined the murder weapon to have. It¡¯s not even a particularly well forged weapon, especially considering the high quality of the killer¡¯s armor. It¡¯s plain steel, slightly unbalanced to my hand, and the runic poem it does have is a rather uninspired one composed mainly of runes of sharpness and durability. It doesn¡¯t even have any clever metaphors, and the rhythm of several stanzas is rather suspect.


    ¡°We¡¯ll need to strip his armor off,¡± I tell Nthazes. ¡°This isn¡¯t the weapon he used on his other victims.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Just a plain sword. Not well made.¡±


    ¡°End this, traitors,¡± gasps the killer.


    ¡°No chance,¡± I spit. ¡°Not until we¡¯ve stripped and tied you.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± he groans.


    ¡°I said, not until we¡¯ve stripped and tied you. Or, you can make this less humiliating for yourself and tell us where you¡¯ve concealed the weapon.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re holding my weapon.¡±


    ¡°I mean the murder weapon.¡±


    ¡°Wait, Zathar!¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Why would he change weapons?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But we¡¯ll have that information out of him soon enough. I¡¯m going to start with his boots. Maybe he has it slipped down there. And who is he, anyway? Do you recognize him?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Belthur.¡±


    ¡°I thought his voice sounded familiar.¡± My mouth twists in disgust. ¡°You were Danak¡¯s friend, weren¡¯t you? I talked to you both. You scum. You betrayed his trust.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t betray anyone¡¯s trust!¡± groans the killer, slightly louder than before¡ªhis concussion is wearing off.


    ¡°What else do you call killing your best friend?" I spit.


    ¡°I didn''t. I¡¯m not a traitor.¡±


    ¡°You look like one to me. Act like one.¡±


    ¡°Outsider fool!¡± he roars, and he struggles violently. ¡°I¡¯m not the damn shadow-dwarf! Do I look like a shadow?¡±


    ¡°Zathar, I think he¡¯s telling the truth,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°Of course I¡¯m telling the bloody truth!¡± says the killer. He hisses in pain. ¡°Ah, my head! Who the hell hit me? Nthazes? I thought you were more sensible than this!¡±


    I scowl. ¡°If he¡¯s not the killer, why did he attack me?¡±


    ¡°You attacked me!¡±


    ¡°Yes. After you crept up on me with a drawn sword.¡±


    ¡°I was hunting for the killer!¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡±


    Nthazes¡¯ shoulders slump. ¡°I really think he¡¯s telling the truth, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t be sure,¡± I spit. ¡°I¡¯ve met some nasty liars in my time. Don¡¯t trust him. We have to strip him.¡±


    ¡°Fine, do it!¡± Belthur snaps. ¡°I don¡¯t have anything to hide. That sword¡¯s all I brought with me.¡±


    Muttering dark curses, I kneel down and undo the straps of his boots, pull them off his feet, tip them up and shake hard. Nothing comes clattering out, so I move on to his greaves, then the knee and thigh guards, and the tasset skirt and codpiece. I shake each, hear nothing but the rattle of straps; I inspect each with the fire of my torch, and the plain metal reflects my flames clearly.


    ¡°Satisfied yet?¡±


    ¡°No. Breastplate next. Stand him up, Nthazes.¡±


    ¡°Let go of me, Nthazes! I¡¯ll take it off myself.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t trust him,¡± I warn.


    ¡°He won¡¯t run away,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Not without the runes of speed on his greaves. And he can¡¯t fight us like this either.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Just be careful.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Nthazes gets up off Belthur slowly, relaxing the pressure on his wrists very cautiously, until he¡¯s sure the third degree won¡¯t make any sudden moves. Belthur does not, just stands up slowly and removes his breastplate, pauldrons, bracers, gauntlets and helmet without complaint.


    I inspect each in turn and find nothing. He scowls at me.


    ¡°Happy?¡±


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    I pat around his clothes none too gently to see if I can find any hidden sheaths or straps. I do it again, slapping harder. He winces with each strike.


    ¡°Nothing there, is there?¡± he says.


    There isn¡¯t: just skin and hair. I let out a slow breath. Disappointment weighs heavy on me.


    ¡°It seems we¡¯ve been mistaken,¡± I say.


    ¡°Too right you were.¡±


    ¡°I apologize.¡±


    ¡°Too bloody right you do. And Nthazes? Are you going to apologize for cracking me on the head?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry. Though I do think that if we¡¯re going to apologize, you ought to as well.¡±


    ¡°What the hell for?¡±


    ¡°For nearly killing Zathar here.¡±


    ¡°His fault.¡±


    ¡°And also yours, for skulking around alone... We¡¯re both in the wrong here, Belthur.¡±


    ¡°We are bloody not¡ª¡±


    I let out a dark laugh. ¡°Oh yes we bloody are. You were hunting for anyone hanging about alone, and we were sitting around trying to lure anyone hunting around alone. Same thing, different methods.¡±


    Belthur shakes his head. ¡°Don¡¯t lump me in with your idiocy, outsider.¡±


    ¡°Outsider I may be, but at least I know how to fight.¡±


    ¡°I had you!¡±


    ¡°Calm down.¡± Nthazes sighs. ¡°This isn¡¯t like you, Belthur.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t like you either.¡±


    ¡°No. Maybe not. We¡¯ve all been driven to the edge.¡±


    ¡°What would you know? It wasn¡¯t your friend who died.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all comrades here.¡±


    ¡°I suppose so.¡± Belthur lets out a shaky sigh and sinks down to the floor beside his armor. He rubs the back of his head. ¡°Oh, damn this. I thought I finally had him.¡±


    ¡°Us too.¡±


    ¡°How many times have you gone sneaking around, hunting?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Nearly two dozen.¡±


    ¡°And nothing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing until now.¡±


    ¡°Damn.¡±


    ¡°Damn indeed.¡± He lets out a shaky breath, then laughs a little. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve been an idiot, haven¡¯t I? We all have.¡±


    ¡°Our plan is fine,¡± I say stubbornly. ¡°Eventually the one who comes across us will be the killer. Unless you get him first.¡±


    Nthazes shakes his head. ¡°Maybe not. The last killing was in the forges. I think he¡¯s cautious of the storerooms now. Pushed his luck when he came across Yalthaz and Danak, maybe they nearly beat him. From now on he¡¯s being more careful.¡±


    ¡°Why didn''t you think of that earlier?¡±


    ¡°I was just desperate to do something, I suppose. Not thinking straight.¡±


    He sounds more glum than ever.


    ¡°We¡¯ll get him eventually,¡± I promise.


    ¡°Maybe. Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Not now though,¡± Belthur sighs. ¡°If you¡¯ll let me get my armor back on, we best get out of here. If there isn¡¯t four of us, we¡¯re breaking the decree.¡±


    I step away from his armor. ¡°Go ahead. Sorry for stripping it off you.¡±


    ¡°No hard feelings. I might have done the same... Might have killed you first, even.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky I¡¯m so merciful, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll send a message out to the others. Tell them you two are hunting as well.¡±


    ¡°The others?¡± asks Nthazes.


    ¡°Yes, there¡¯s four of us. Porok, Lothan, and Tyarok. We take turns hunting for the killer.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not the only ones, then,¡± I say.


    ¡°You aren¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°The more the better. We should work together.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll suggest it. They aren¡¯t sure about the outsider though¡ªespecially not that spear.¡±


    ¡°It goes to blood, not the other way around,¡± I say. ¡°You¡¯ve got nothing to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Still looks suspicious.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t deny that. Not sure how it ended up that way¡ªsome reaction with the abyssal skin and the runes.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an impressive weapon, whatever it¡¯s made from.¡±


    ¡°Yours wasn¡¯t. Don¡¯t you have anything better? Why that sword?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an old piece I made for practice. The only thing suitable for close quarters.¡± He scratches his beard. ¡°Yeah, I suppose it¡¯s a bit embarrassing. Not that whatever Nthazes had was much better.¡±


    ¡°I best start sweeping up the pieces,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Tough helmet, by the way.¡±


    ¡°It was,¡± Belthur says, grimacing at the dent in it.


    <hr>


    Not long after Belthur finishes getting his armor on, and Nthazes finishes scraping together the shattered remnants of his lead mace, a large group of dwarves barges into the storeroom to investigate the commotion. We join them surreptitiously¡ªLothan, one of Belthur¡¯s allies, is one of those investigating, and after some hushed whispers from Belthur, he deflects the suspicion of the other dwarves when some comments are made about me never being down there with them. At any rate, no body is found, and those who thought they heard fighting are roundly chastised for scaring everyone needlessly.


    Before long, we''re back in the meal hall. I tell Jaemes we¡¯ll have another meeting with him down in the forges later on, then I trudge over to my blankets and lie down.


    My disappointment is immense. We almost had him! If he¡¯d been the killer, he would be trussed up like a pig right now, weapon laid carefully down out of reach for inspection by the Runethane. The fort would be safe, I would be redeemed some for the terrible havoc I wrought ten years ago, and Nthazes would have the leverage he needs to persuade the Runethane to let him fulfill his dream.


    But Belthur wasn¡¯t the killer. Just another fool like us with some crackpot plan to catch the killer by himself. I¡¯m not sure who¡¯s the stupider¡ªus for thinking such a primitive lure would fool anyone clever enough to kill three times without being caught, or Belthur for having his partner¡¯s only role be to provide his alibi. Stupid, stupid, stupid. We are no closer to catching our enemy. He will kill again, somewhere we do not suspect, and our failure will be complete.


    Poor Belthur. All he was doing was trying to avenge his friend, and we nearly killed him for it. If his helmet had been any thinner he¡¯d have a cracked skull.


    I shut my eyes; open them to excited chattering, the clank of mug against mug, the thick smell of foaming beer. I sit up in surprise and catch snatches of conversation:


    ¡°...white jelly!¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s where almergris comes from, that¡¯s what!¡±


    ¡°Three cheers for Hirthik! We¡¯re saved!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Rushing to the Hunt

    Runethane Yurok¡¯s voice booms through his dark hall:


    ¡°This will be the greatest hunt we have ever undertaken! With the fruit of the yeelthek-robous we shall be able to defend our fortress and all the realms above from the deep darkness more securely than ever before!¡±


    His voice is rich with fervor. The artificial darkness swirls around his arms as he walks back and forth in front of his throne gesticulating wildly.


    ¡°This is our chance to strike back! For too long we have barely been holding on to our positions. With each incursion more dwarves fall, and there are too few from up above willing to replace them. They know not the danger they are in, or we would have been given a boundless supply of almergris long ago. Yet now we need not depend upon Runeking Ulrike¡¯s favor. All we need to beat back the darkness now sits above us.¡±


    He pauses and looks over us sternly.


    ¡°This does not mean it will be easy to gain. The white jelly is a fearsome beast by any dwarf¡¯s reckoning. It is half a mile long, and its mouth is many feet wide, filled with grinding stones to shred anything that has the misfortune to wander into its path. It wipes whole tunnels dry, leaving only excrement behind. I know this, because I have studied such matters, as is my duty as Runethane.¡±


    He turns and takes up his great mace from its position beside his throne. He raises it above his head and it flares into brightness¡ªit is brighter than the sun, nearly an equal to dragonfire. It turns the artificial darkness into paltry gray motes.


    ¡°But study will only take one so far! Doing is the true test of ability, and I have full faith that you, my beloved runeknights, my family of stalwart defenders, my brave sons who are willing to take on a burden no other dwarves can... I know that you can do this! I know that we can retrieve the white jelly¡¯s bounty, and use it to make sure the darkness cannot ever gain entry to our fortress again!¡±


    We cheer. Under the white rays shining from his mace, the Runethane looks like no coward hiding in the darkness from forces beyond his control, but a hero ready to lead the charge to victory. The script upon his runed armor looks in this moment like thin ripples on a pool lit by the glow of ten thousand fireflies, and I understand that he deserves his title well.


    He lowers his mace. It fades as he leans it back against his throne, which he slumps into. ¡°Commander Cathez will give you your orders,¡± he says.


    Cathez steps up onto the dias: ¡°This hunt must succeed that the future of the fort be ensured. Due to the white jelly¡¯s massive size, which our scout squad has just confirmed, ninety runeknights will be required, both for slaying the beast and for protecting those doing the slaying, as well as for labor to carry down the fruits of our victory. Runeknights of both lower and higher degrees are to join the hunting party¡ªeven though such an important mission would ordinarily be carried out by on the strongest, many of the strongest must remain here to carry out their vigil.¡±


    He goes on to list the dwarves who will be part of the expedition and their roles. I, likely in light of my past victory over the dithyok with Galar, am assigned to one of the squads that will protect the white jelly¡¯s slayers.


    <hr>


    Preparations for the hunt begin immediately. I am sent on kitchen duty to help cook the rations we will consume to fuel our journey up, and hopefully down too. We half clear out the stores in our rush to fulfill the quota Cathez has set.


    We grind up dry mushrooms, grain, and chitin to make flour for the hard tack, and set the oven-furnaces as high as they can go for the jerky¡ªreal dwarven jerky, all moisture evaporated from it by as much heat the heavily salted meat can take without burning black. We work for hours, sweating like boars, coughing on the steam. Hirthik, leading our efforts, is praised as a hero:


    ¡°How did you know it was above?¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, that was just where the scent was coming from. I reckon there was a hole directly below it¡ªthe upper cavern layers are full of holes, as you know. Its bile-glands or something must have passed over, and there I was, in perfect position to sniff out its majesty.¡±


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    ¡°Lucky it was you there. I wouldn¡¯t have been able to tell what it was.¡±


    ¡°Luck has nothing to do with it,¡± Hirthik proclaims grandly. ¡°It was a tendril of scent sent by fate. It¡¯s the rope of savior we¡¯ve been sent to pull us out of the mess we¡¯re in. Fate led me there for that reason.¡±


    So much for being a quiet one, I think to myself. He¡¯s taking on the role of hero rather easily. No one¡¯s going to begrudge him stealing food now.


    I¡¯m having reservations about this new mission of ours. Maybe it¡¯s just because it¡¯s so sudden, and yes, opportunities like this must be seized quickly, but the whole idea reeks of desperation on the part of the Runethane.


    First, very few hunting parties venture up to the highest layer of the Mushroom Basket¡ªthe name I¡¯ve since learned refers to the whole network of caves¡ªfor good reason: as a great, swampy cavern with moisture aplenty, it is teeming with large predators.


    Second, we are not equipped to kill the white jelly. I have never fought any kind of slime-beast, but I read about them in the guild library, and axes and swords are the best tools to damage their glutinous flesh with, not spears and maces.


    Finally, even if we do succeed in bringing down the beast and extracting its almergris, the two commanders already raised serious doubts about our ability to use it after the second killings. It is simply too dangerous for most runeknights to be able to forge with, more perilous to manipulate by far than any of the eight major reagents. The Runethane seems to be forgetting this fact, or else is ignoring it on purpose.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter if it was fate or luck,¡± says another dwarf. ¡°Your nose might just have saved us all.¡±


    ¡°Just imagine!¡± enthuses a tenth degree. ¡°Each and every one of us wielding a mace of light. We¡¯ll march right down the Shaft and wipe it out at its source!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll just be glad if the killings stop,¡± Hirthik says. ¡°And I think they will. No shadow will dare challenge us once we have our prize!¡±


    None of the other dwarves seem to share in my misgivings. I wonder how long that will last once we¡¯re underway with dithyoks and worse at our heels. And what if the killer is mixed in with us? The blackness and roaring chaos of battle could provide him the perfect opportunity to strike again.


    Surely others have thought of this possibility; it¡¯s an easy conclusion to draw. Maybe they do share my misgivings, but are just so desperate for hope that they push them to the backs of their minds. Yes, that seems likely.


    Once an appropriately large quantity of meat has been converted into dark, leathery, hideously over-salted jerky, and a stack of an even greater amount of nearly metal-hard hard tack towers beside it, we pack everything into sacks being brought down from upstairs.


    Another group of dwarves has been steadily turning the fort¡¯s stockpiles of leather into packs, skins, bags and sacks. The ones sent down here are only a small fraction of the total¡ªmost are to be carried up empty and filled with almergris once the beast is slain.


    As soon as we are done packing in the food, we are ordered to prepare waterskins and beerskins. Eyes bleary from lack of sleep, hands aching from the hard work of cutting meat and grinding flour, and hair and beard heavy with sweat, I go about the task mechanically. Soon I lose count of just how many skins I¡¯ve filled.


    Once this task is finished, we are ordered to sleep. I had half a mind to try and discuss this sudden turn of events with Jaemes, but my stamina is drained and all I can do is collapse into my blankets. I have one of those bad sleeps where you shut your eyes, then open them what feels like an instant later with only a fraction of your fatigue relieved. I shut them again, hoping it isn¡¯t time yet.


    ¡°I said it¡¯s time to move!¡± Cathez bellows. ¡°Equip yourselves and get into your squads! Hurry now¡ªthe white jelly won¡¯t wait for us! Move, move, move!¡±


    Groaning, I fix my runic ears to my helmet and place it over my head. My diminished vision brings the need for sleep down heavier upon me; I shake my head to clear away the feeling. The clank of armor and chatter of anticipation fills the hall, making clear to me the shape of the air currents which are shifting every which way, dragged by the marching of the hunters as they hurry to where the leaders of each squad are calling us.


    ¡°Squad four, with me!¡±


    I light my torch and make my way across the hall to our leader. Jaemes locks eyes with me, and his are dark with worry. I imagine that he¡¯s reached the same conclusion I did in the kitchen and which is now turning my stomach to a roiling, nauseous cauldron of fear: the chaos of battle will be the best time for the killer to strike once more.


    If I could turn back, I would, but I am being dragged along, without agency, my life in the hands of the Runethane, my comrades, and perhaps the killer. All I can do is try to keep my head above the tides of blood.


    ¡°Our task is to protect our friends attacking the white jelly,¡± says our leader, a third degree called Barock, equipped in titanium plate and carrying a mace whose blades burn lines of light into my eyes. ¡°Once we are up, we will position ourselves--¡±


    ¡°Move out!¡± Cathez orders. ¡°By decree of the Runethane, we are to go immediately!¡± It might be my imagination, but I detect a hint of apprehension in his voice. ¡°No dallying! Leaders, instruct your squads on the march. Move!¡±


    The stones shiver as ninety runeknights march out of the hall, weighed down with sacks both full and empty, weapons, and bright warm torches perfect for attracting the myriad of flesh-eating beasts swarming the swamp-cavern that is the topmost layer of the Mushroom Basket.


    An innocuous name for what I fear will become the grave of many of us.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Whipper Beast Approaches

    Fortunately for my frayed nerves, we are not plunged into battle just yet. While the heat and light of our torches is certainly attracting the attention of the dithyoks, biting beetles, and spindle-legged bzathletics, none have yet worked up the courage to attack us. Ninety runeknights is no easy meal.


    Light does not make the Mushroom Basket any less foreboding than it was in the dark with only sound to go by. If anything, light makes it worse. Glistening fungi sprout like towers of flesh from the musty earth, the spores under their caps like clusters of red buboes. Pools of brackish water swarm with tiny eyeless fish that snap and bite and chase each other in endless circles. The stalactites are covered with red, yellow, and white mold, making them look like rotten teeth. I feel as if I am in a maw which could close down on me at any moment and chew me to a pulp.


    The smell is a vomit-inducing mix of feces, rotten plant and animal flesh, tanning acid, and cloying fungal spores. Being able to see where each scent is coming from somehow makes them worse than they were in the darkness.


    Our column squelches onward from one stairway to another, which steadily grow more unsteady, worn and disused. Several are occupied by slimy gelthob larva or nests of biting beetles and must be cleared to the sound of metal hitting flesh, hiss-screams, and the thud of dead things hitting the ground far below. After the fifth layer, the highest I¡¯ve ever been to, there are no more stairs, just iron nails hammered deep into the stone. Some of these paths are on the outer walls, and some are on the central stem of the gigantic petrified mushroom that gives these caverns their name.


    After we reach the eighth level, Cathez halts us to bark some orders:


    ¡°The predators are circling closer now. From now on we will march in battle formation. Leaders, organize your squads.¡±


    ¡°Squad four, battle formation!¡± orders Barock.


    He already told us what our positions are to be on the march up. It¡¯s a kind of thick spearhead formation, with Barock at the front, a rank of three behind him, two main ranks of four, then a rearguard of three fourth degrees. I step over a small pool of mud into my place: middle left in the second main rank.


    ¡°Four ready!¡± Barock announces.


    ¡°Three ready!¡±


    ¡°One ready!¡±


    ¡°Five ready!¡±


    ¡°Two ready!¡±


    ¡°Six ready!¡±


    ¡°Squads, to your positions!¡± orders Cathez.


    We march in time to our position on the left flank. Out of our six squads of fifteen, three and four are to protect the flanks. Squad one, led by Cathez, is the main slaying squad, two the auxiliary slayers, and five and six make up a double rearguard. It all looks very clean and organized, mud and ichor splattered over our armor notwithstanding, though how long it will stay that way I fear to guess at.


    ¡°March!¡± orders Cathez.


    The soft earth makes wet sounds under my boots and the heads of long thin fungi brush against the base of my breastplate, leaving trails of sticky spores on the steel and titanium, as we march through the forest to the next climbing wall.


    I shut my eyes to better hear if there¡¯s anything beyond the trees. It¡¯s hard to tell for the rumble of dwarven boots, but I think I detect the footsteps and wingbeats of the predators stalking us. The heavy one-two tread of dithyoks, the low buzz of adult biting beetles, the high pulsed squeals of chitin-bats, and also the stomp of something bigger than any of these.


    ¡°What¡¯s that heavy noise?¡± I ask the dwarf next to me¡ªa fifth degree called Notok wielding a short spear and holding a large shield. ¡°The one with the six-beat rhythm.¡±


    He shuts his eyes to concentrate on the sound. ¡°Might be a whipper. Not too sure though. Jarick, can you tell?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s a whipper,¡± says Jarick, a fourth degree in the rearguard in incredibly thick and heavy-looking plate. ¡°Sounds like a big one too.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re all big,¡± laughs Fjalar from the rank in front of me. ¡°Size of the meal hall with a stomach to match. We¡¯ll run into worse though, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    Both twins are on the hunting party, though well separated. If I were Cathez I''d have had just one with us, or neither. I suppose he values their combat abilities highly enough to disregard their other shortcomings.


    ¡°What do they look like?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Surely you mean sound like? No one¡¯s ever been dumb enough to shine a light in its face until we came along.¡±


    ¡°The lights are to stop the darkness,¡± Jarick snaps. ¡°No demoralizing.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, being eaten by a whippper beast might be less painful, I suppose. As for your question, Zathar, I imagine it looks like a gigantic monster with six legs and a muscled tentacle in place of a head. No one knows where its food goes¡ªI¡¯ve always imagined it to have an open kind of stomach on its back, a big bath of acid where you get digested slowly and painfully.¡±


    ¡°I suppose no one¡¯s ever brought one down, then,¡± I say.


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    ¡°No. Best plan when you run into one is to call off the hunt. That¡¯s what we¡¯ve done until now, anyway. Cathez seems to have other ideas.¡±


    ¡°Fjalar!¡± Barock snaps. ¡°No demoralizing talk!¡±


    ¡°Yes, leader!¡± He does a mock bow of apology. ¡°No worrying on the march, leader!¡±


    ¡°Quit your damn attitude! Or how would you like to be the leader of a new squad, of one, to be our rear-rearguard?¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t like that at all, leader!¡± he laughs. ¡°You won¡¯t do that, though.¡±


    ¡°I just might if you won¡¯t shut it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, all right then. Shutting up now.¡±


    He makes a mouth-closing motion with his hand; turns it into a two-finger salute at the back of Barock¡¯s head for the briefest of moments. I roll my eyes. The killings haven''t had the sobering effect on his and his brother''s childishness I know many hoped they would. They''ve played an active role in spreading rumors too.


    If one catches wind that the other believes the darkness is responsible for the killings, the other whispers that it¡¯s a traitor. A new theory crops up that it¡¯s the shadow twisted into the shape of a dwarf, the other proposes that it¡¯s actually a dwarf that¡¯s been twisted by the shadows. It¡¯s anger-inducingly childish.


    Ironic too, considering Galar¡¯s warning not to go around asking questions putting myself in danger, but then again, they¡¯re always careful to shut up a few days before the rumor-mongering reaches a peak and Cathez is forced to step in and yell at us.


    I wonder if there¡¯s a method to their madness. Spreading conflicting rumors, stirring up confusion... While also having the caution not to overdo it and offend the authorities... Isn¡¯t that what the killer would attempt?


    Killer, or killers? Or allies of the killer?


    That would go some way to explaining Galar¡¯s warning not to ask questions as well. Deter proper investigation while you stir up confusion. Yes, that seems like a strategy a clever killer would come up with, and the killer is certainly clever.


    I think the twins warrant further investigation, though to be fair on them, they certainly aren¡¯t the only rumor-mongers in the fort. I¡¯ll run my ideas past Jaemes and Nthazes after¡ªif¡ªI get back.


    The six-footed stomp grows louder as we approach the climbing wall. I turn my head back to see if I can get a glimpse of it, but the blinding glow of the rearguard squads¡¯ torches and weapons makes it hard to make out distinct shapes. I shut my eyes, and think I hear the swish of something long moving back and forth above the highest mushrooms.


    If that¡¯s the whip beast¡¯s whip, its owner must be enormous.


    ¡°Double-time!¡± Cathez bellows.


    He¡¯s noticed it too. My palms begin to sweat despite the relative lightness of my gauntlets. We march faster, boots churning the earth into sticky mud and grinding fungi and insects both into paste. A high-pitched chitter comes from overhead, followed by a rush of air as a chitin-bat dive bombs us. A spear stabs up from squad two, narrowly missing its wing.


    ¡°Triple-time!¡±


    We begin to run, and though we try to keep in formation as best we can, mushroom trunks and patches of deep water force us away from one another. The chitin-bat swoops down once more¡ªor maybe this is a new one¡ªreaches with its claws at Notok who blocks with his shield. It grasps the rim and tries to drag it up.


    I lash out with Heartseeker deep into its chest. It lets go of Notok''s shield and flaps up, screeching in agony. A moment later we¡¯re at the cavern wall. I stop my momentum; my boots halt first and I splash face down into the mud. I crawl to my feet cursing, aiming Heartseeker left and right and up, scanning with eyes and ears for any more chitin-bats, or dithyoks.


    ¡°Squad five, up the wall!¡± shouts Cathez.


    Even though five is a rearguard squad, they¡¯re the first to scale every wall in case there are any nasty surprises waiting in the next layer up. I hear them clambering up the metal bars sticking from the rock¡ªtheir grunts of exertion are oddly distorted from echoing back off the wall.


    I catch sight of something lurking behind a nearby mushroom trunk. Two blade-like arms flash in the torchlight.


    ¡°Dithyok!¡± I shout.


    ¡°What¡¯s it doing?¡± Barock asks.


    ¡°Staying back for now. Do we go for it?¡±


    ¡°Hang back. No need to create extra risk.¡±


    Fjalar claps me on the shoulder. ¡°No, no, Zathar. Why don¡¯t we go for it? Eliminate the threat before we turn our backs to climb up.¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± snaps Jarick. ¡°No reason to provoke it.¡± He brandishes his mace at it, and it cringes from the light, or maybe just from the movement.


    I worry that Fjalar does have a point though. Maybe it would be better to eliminate the threat now before we present it with the tempting target of our exposed backs.


    ¡°Five up!¡± calls their leader from up above. ¡°Nothing here.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Cathez replies. ¡°Squad one, up with me.¡±


    They begin to ascend. I keep my eyes and ears trained on the forest before me, sensitive to any and all movement. Some biting beetles make an appearance to the left of the dithyok, and are scared away when our rear-rank brandishes their blinding weapons at them. The dithyok itself pokes its toothed maw out from behind its hiding spot every few minutes or so, then pulls it back. It¡¯s waiting for its chance to strike.


    The six-footed thud of the whipper beast grows steadily louder.


    ¡°Two, climb!¡± Cathez orders, even though he¡¯s not at the top yet. Until now he¡¯s been having only one squad climb at a time to ensure we aren¡¯t all in a vulnerable position at once. It seems the threat of the whipper beast has changed his calculations.


    Squad two begin their ascent. There is a sound like a rope being dragged through the air so violently the very air deforms and shreds. The biting beetles shoot up into the air and vanish into the darkness, spooked. A great dark line whips out and snatches a straggler down. The victim doesn¡¯t even have time to chitter in shock.


    The six-foot stomp grows louder.


    ¡°Squad three now!¡± shouts Cathez as soon at the last member of two starts his climb.


    Us next, but will we have time? I force myself to hold position. After witnessing the speed of the whipper beast¡¯s lash, I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any way at all to defend against it. It doesn¡¯t matter how tough your armor is if that trunk wraps around you and sweeps you from your feet in an instant. You would need runes of weight¡ªones like my opponent in lead ten years ago had, but a hundred times more powerful¡ªor else a very sharp axe or sword to cut yourself loose before it threw you into its maw. Even then, the momentum would have you flying through the air to crash into the midst of more eager predators.


    The tearing sound comes again, and something screeches. The mushrooms shiver slightly. The dithyok turns to face where the sound came from, then dashes off in a multi-limbed blur.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Notok mutters. ¡°Even the other monsters are scared of it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t waste your energy on fear,¡± Barock says. ¡°We¡¯ll soon be climbing. We¡¯re next.¡±


    Oh hell, am I glad that I¡¯m not in squad six.


    ¡°Squad four, climb!¡± bellows Barock as the last member of three grabs the lowermost bar. He¡¯s not waiting for Cathez¡¯s orders. ¡°Climb! Fast as you can!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Lash of the Whipper Beast

    We quick-march to the climbing spurs so eagerly we barely hold formation, then tie our weapons and torches to our backs with short lengths of rope. Unlike at some of the stairs and ladders in the caverns, here is wide enough that we can climb up three abreast instead of in single file. Barock leads, followed by the first rank, then three of the first main rank, the remaining runeknight of that rank and half of my rank, and finally it¡¯s my turn to grab hold of the iron bars and begin dragging myself upward.


    Each bar is angled slightly down from years of straining to bear the weight of heavily armored runeknights. This was anticipated by the dwarves who first hammered them in, so each is also hooked to stop my hands sliding off¡ªeven so, it is perilous. The mix of water and organic matter between my chainmail covered palms and the iron¡¯s surface acts like grease. Every pull upward is an effort. In some parts there are many bars, and I have to contort my body to fit through the gaps, and in some parts there are few, so that I must stretch my arms as far as they will go to reach the next, and exert my muscles twice as hard to pull myself up. The blood-like smell of iron is heady in my nostrils. In my ears is the scraping of my chainmail and the occasional yelp of terror each time someone nearly loses his grip.


    I can hear the steady thudding of the whipper beast too; it¡¯s getting very close now. From above I make out its shape: it¡¯s hexagonal with a leg at each corner, and at the front where the neck would be on a normal animal, there¡¯s instead a tentacle of rippling muscle at least thirty feet long. In the center of its back I can make out a deep indentation. Inside there''s movement: maybe sloshing acid, matching Fjalar¡¯s prediction, or perhaps thousands of smaller tentacles tearing the prey apart.


    I don¡¯t want to find out which.


    The last members of squad six, the rearguard of the rearguard, begin to haul themselves up after us. There¡¯s a terrible nervous energy to one¡¯s movements: he¡¯s lashing out with his hands at the bars rather than carefully choosing his next move, and kicking too violently at the crevices in the rock to gain purchase on them.


    ¡°Hurry up!¡± he shouts desperately. ¡°All of you, hurry the fuck up!¡±


    But no one already out of the whipper beast''s reach wants to hurry. To hurry means increasing your chance of slipping and falling to now certain death. I make a little effort to pull myself up faster, choose which handholds and footholds to go for next a little more decisively, put a little more strength into my every movement¡ªbut even so can¡¯t overtake the dwarf above me, just make sure there¡¯s a little more space for the one below to accelerate.


    ¡°Squad four, get a damn move on!¡± screams the leader of squad six. ¡°It¡¯s nearly here!¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t!¡± shouts Barock. ¡°Squad three is in our way!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re trying!¡± the leader of squad three shouts down at us. ¡°But the handholds are sparse up here. It¡¯s slow going.¡±


    ¡°Shit!¡± someone in squad six curses. ¡°Shit, it¡¯s nearly here!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re trying to move faster!¡± I shout down. ¡°We¡¯re trying our damned hardest!¡±


    ¡°Your hardest isn¡¯t damn good enough!¡± screams the panicking member of squad six¡¯s rearguard. ¡°Faster, faster, faster!¡± He¡¯s fallen behind the two he started alongside; I guess he''s only about fifteen feet up, though I¡¯m not about to crane my neck back to check. ¡°Move faster, you idiots! Fast¡ª¡±


    The tearing sound of the whipper beast¡¯s lash heralds his death. One moment he is cursing, the next he is screaming, then we hear a splash from the whipper beast¡¯s back-maw. For a moment there is silence, then we all start yelling in panic:


    ¡°Hurry up!¡±


    ¡°Move!¡±


    ¡°Oh, hells!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s coming!¡±


    ¡°Move, move, move!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t panic!¡±


    ¡°Faster!¡±


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    I exert my arms and legs into a fury of motion, grappling and grasping for the next bars, pushing up from the little cracks and crevices in the wall as hard and fast as I can. My hand hits empty air when I start my grasping motion too early, and I nearly swing away from the wall. I yell in shock, grapple for the handhold again. Grab on. The iron bar shifts slightly in the stone.


    The tearing noise of the monster¡¯s lash comes once more; there is another scream. It lasts longer than the first dwarf¡¯s, rises suddenly in pitch after the sound of acid splashing, becomes an animal keening, then cuts off.


    ¡°Faster!¡± shouts the next dwarf from the bottom. ¡°Faster, please, faster!¡±


    I glance down and see that he''s nearly out of reach. Just five feet or so to go. A rock comes hurtling down from above, then three more. The first two glance off the side of the beast with no effect and the second two splash into the acid, also to no effect. I sense the whipper beast¡¯s lash curling in anger, hear it twist back for its next strike.


    The last member of six¡¯s rearguard lets out a wail, and in his shaking panic he loses his grip and plummets. The whipper beast snatches him midair, plunges him into its maw.


    ¡°No!¡± screams the next dwarf up.


    The whipper beast lashes for him. The grasping tentacle slashes the stone wall just below his foot.


    ¡°Oh, thank the runeforger,¡± the dwarf below me moans. ¡°They¡¯re finally out of range.¡±


    No one dares relax, though. We continue our mad scramble upward. The climbing bars are starting to become loose, and several come out and plummet down to bounce off the whipper beast or splash into its back-maw. They were never meant to come under this kind of strain.


    The whipper beast stays put, waiting for someone to slip.


    ¡°Slow down!¡± comes the voice of Cathez. ¡°Calm down. Steady now.¡±


    Gradually we slow our ascent¡ªmostly out of fatigue though, I think. By the time I finally reach the top, my arms and legs are burning and my head is swimming. Someone grabs my arm and helps me up through the hole to the next layer.


    I sit down near Barock to catch my breath and give my limbs some time to recover. Most of the dwarves of the other squads are sitting too, sipping from beerskins and chewing on hard-tack and jerky. Their eyes are glazed and no one speaks. A silent vigil of the most elite keeps watch around the perimeter.


    With shaking hands I grab my waterskin from my pack and put it to my lips. My throat is dry and I cough and splutter, and nearly spill half the water across my lap. I take some deep breaths, then some short sips. I try some hard-tack. My stomach roils, but I know I need the energy and force myself to take bite after bite.


    I finish at about the same time the final member of squad six makes it up. I put my waterskin away and stagger a few steps over to the trunk of a mushroom near the center of the party, lean against it, shut my eyes¡ªthere¡¯s dwarves all around me, no need to feel danger. I will my body to cease its shaking and don¡¯t succeed.


    Three dead. Nearly as many as those dead by the killer. Likely more to come, which will make this idiotic expedition more deadly than the murderer. Oh, shit. That was just the eighth layer of caverns. There are four more to go before the final attack on the white jelly, each more perilous than the last.


    We will face worse than the whipper beast¡ªhow many will die? All of us? What good are spears, maces, and all the armor in the world against the maws of creatures that grind and dissolve bone and chitin like rotten wood?


    I think I hear a shift in the air currents; my eyes snap open. Nothing there, just my nerves playing tricks. I swallow to stop my lunch coming back up. Oh, are we in trouble now.


    ¡°Squad leaders,¡± Cathez says quietly, beckoning them over to him. They gather in a circle at our center.


    ¡°Who did you lose?¡± he asks the leader of squad six.


    ¡°Thayak, Utouk, Hadrok. Two fourth degrees and a third.¡±


    ¡°A terrible loss,¡± says Barock. ¡°Commander, perhaps we should have attacked the beast. A mass assault might have been able to slay the monster faster than it could kill three.¡±


    ¡°No one has ever dared fight one before,¡± says Cathez.


    ¡°There has never been a hunting party of ninety before, though.¡±


    ¡°That is true. Maybe we should reconsider our strategies.¡±


    ¡°We are going to have to fight anyway, after all,¡± says the leader of squad two. ¡°The topmost layer is a crowded place.¡±


    ¡°Maybe worse than ever, if the white jelly is as vast as the scout team reported. Was it truly, Katak?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the leader of squad three. ¡°It seemed to fill half the cavern.¡±


    ¡°The east half, if I¡¯m not mistaken.¡±


    ¡°Yes. The east half.¡±


    Cathez nods solemnly. He raises his voice and looks around at us. ¡°Well, it is our job to kill it, or die trying. That is what the Runethane ordered¡ªhis exact words. If we don¡¯t succeed here, the fort is doomed. We have our orders and must carry them out, no matter our personal thoughts on the issue.¡±


    ¡°And what are your personal thoughts on the issue?¡± the leader of squad six dares to whisper.


    Cathez shakes his head. ¡°That is not your concern. It is not even my concern. We are to retrieve the almergris. That is all we have to think about. Back to formation, everyone.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Journey to the Top

    We return to formation and resume the march. The atmosphere is of grim and steely determination. If Cathez so orders us, we are prepared to charge whatever beast assails us next, be it dithyok, whipper beast, or something worse. We will fight and die for the almergris¡ªfor the Runethane¡¯s fool plan because he is Runethane and we are sworn to obey him.


    Well, I suppose I¡¯ve never sworn to obey him. Yet I will do so anyway, because there is no turning back now. Not with the whipper beast waiting below¡ªhow we will get rid of it after slaying the white jelly, I do not know.


    The forest in this layer is thicker than the ones below it. The trunks are pressed tight together so that I lose sight and sound of the others regularly. Thick, bushy undergrowth impedes us. It¡¯s sticky with sweet sap, and the insects buzzing through the air avoid it. The air is cloyingly moist and the smell in the air is like rotten fruit.


    These upper levels are rumored to be slightly poisonous, filled with lung-rot and blood-boil spores. The least of our worries right now.


    Or, perhaps not. The forest is very quiet, eerily so. At first I think this is just an effect of the foliage being so thick around us, then, as our march wears on without even the rustle of a biting beetle or small bzathletic, let alone the screech of a chitin-bat or tread of a dithyok, I start to suspect there¡¯s another reason for the silence.


    What that might be I cannot fathom.


    ¡°Hirthik says he smells gelthobs,¡± someone whispers.


    ¡°How can he know there¡¯s more than one?¡± says Fjalar. ¡°How can he smell anything past these damn mushrooms anyway?¡±


    ¡°No idea.¡±


    Two hundred steps later, a halt is called. We wait in anticipation. Has a predator been spotted? Are we to charge it? Barock is called to Cathez, likely along with the rest of the squad leaders, and this time we can¡¯t hear the conversation that takes place, just pick up a few unintelligible snatches that drift through the crowded trunks. After ten minutes he returns.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Fjalar asks sourly. ¡°Why the hell have we stopped?¡±


    Barock glares at him. ¡°Don¡¯t speak before you¡¯re spoken to. We¡¯ve stopped because there¡¯s a mass of gelthobs in our path. A big circle of them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never known them to do that before,¡± says Jarick. He rotates his mace in his hands, making the head spin round and round. A sign of nervousness, perhaps. ¡°They¡¯re solitary creatures.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re doing what our Runethane forbids us from doing,¡± Fjalar says.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± Barock snaps. ¡°That¡¯s your last warning, Fjalar. How in hell can you joke at a time like this?¡±


    ¡°Just trying to lighten the mood,¡± Fjalar says sourly.


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t. Three are dead. Try to take things a little more seriously from now on. Show respect.¡±


    ¡°Never meant to be disrespectful, leader.¡±


    ¡°Just shut it. Anyway, we don¡¯t know why they¡¯re acting like that, but we think it¡¯s because of a lack of predators.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense,¡± says Jarick. ¡°Safety in numbers doesn¡¯t hold true for gelthobs. They don¡¯t want to concentrate their scents and make themselves easy to find.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, the natural world works in mysterious ways. Anyway, we¡¯re going to go around them so they don¡¯t disrupt our formation. It¡¯s a long detour, but stay alert and don¡¯t let your guard down.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t,¡± another squad member promises. ¡°Not after... That.¡±


    ¡°Good. Take a drink and and a quick bite to eat. Then we¡¯ll be off again.¡±


    I take few bites of jerky and wash it down with a swig from my waterskin¡ªsome of the others take beer for courage, but I value keeping my senses sharp.


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    We rotate the formation, a considerable undertaking in so thick a forest with dwarves unused to mass-maneuvers. Once Cathez has circled around to make sure all the squads are in proper position, we resume the march.


    The stillness persists. The only animals I detect are vague humps that might be gelthobs, and hand-sized beetles chewing at the tops of the taller mushrooms. Nothing assails us, apart at one point when a swarm of biting flies descends on us and starts trying to crawl into our helmets. We cover our visors as best we can and use sound to guide ourselves until they give up.


    ¡°Halt,¡± orders Barock.


    We¡¯re finally at the next set of stairs¡ªbars hammered into and spiraling up the stalk of the petrified mushroom. The stalk is thick at the higher layers: here it would probably take at least a hour to walk around it. The bars wind around it at least three times, so I estimate a four or five hour climb at least.


    I hope the stillness persists.


    ¡°We go in one line,¡± Cathez orders. ¡°All the squads one after the other. I don¡¯t like the silence. It might mean the next level up is worse than usual, so we need to get up fast. Don¡¯t hurry, though. Some of these bars are rusted: this route isn¡¯t often used.¡±


    One by one we start upward. The bars are arranged close enough together to form very narrow steps¡ªI¡¯m glad I made my boots so well, they¡¯re perfect for this kind of careful walking, so long as I don¡¯t have to make any unexpected movements.


    At several places there are gaps we have to jump and clutch on to the next with our hands. Halfway up, one of these gaps is about ten meters long, and Cathez, leading from the front this time, has to improvise a bridge. He has a length of rope and a stub of a rusted bar passed along to him. He ties the iron to the rope to form an end-weight, tosses. The rope wraps itself around the ten meter distant bar first try. He ties the end he¡¯s holding to the bar he¡¯s standing on, then squats down, clutches the rope with both hands, swings down, and climbs along it.


    We all cheer when he makes it to the other side. The cheering quickly dies when we realize that we¡¯re all going to have to do the same thing.


    When it gets to my turn, I nearly vomit as I swing down. I move forward yard by yard, arms straining to take both my weight and that of my armor. The way the runes of my gauntlets amplify every one of my movements just a little too much makes the crossing that much more perilous. Halfway along, I pause to compose myself.


    I scan the landscape as I take my deep breaths. My eyes are no use of course, since the sun-like glow of the various maces and hammers of light strapped to the senior runeknights¡¯ backs does not penetrate down into the forest from this high up. Instead I listen to the forest, hearing where it¡¯s thicker and denser through how the low buzzing of insects filters up through the mushroom caps, sound-seeing the gentle hills and slow-flowing rivers, and as I scan all this I''m trying hard to detect any sign of movement.


    There is indeed very little. I detect only the slow circling of the gelthobs, and the stomp of a few whipper beasts approaching them¡ªthe only predators in these caverns not equipped to climb or fly to different levels. Only half jokingly I mutter a thank you to the gelthobs for distracting the monsters, then resume my passage to the next side.


    I make it without incident. Our long ascent continues and, quite miraculously, we make it to the tenth level without anyone having fallen to their deaths.


    ¡°Still nothing,¡± says Notok, wiping some mud from his shield. ¡°Just some insects.¡±


    ¡°Whipper beasts too,¡± Barock warns.


    ¡°Are we to charge them if they come for us this time?¡± asks a tenth degree¡ªcalled Kithok, I think.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry yourself about that. Drink and eat up. We¡¯re moving soon.¡±


    The forest of the tenth layer is even thicker than that of the ninth. Fungal roots ensnare our feet and cling to our legs with such regularity I can¡¯t help but worry that the mushrooms, hungry for fertilizer, are trying to tie us down and strangle us. Ugly insects hop from trunk to trunk, biting into the wood to get at the rot-smelling sap, and also biting into us hard enough to scratch our armor. I squash one, splattering my gauntlet with bright crimson. Its fellows don''t seem to care; they continue to bite at us.


    ¡°Ah!¡± shouts Kithok. ¡°Shit! My eye!¡±


    He drops his torch and spear and starts trying to wrestle off his helmet, shouting in agony the whole time.


    ¡°Ah! Shit!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get it off you!¡± Jarick says, and with some deft handwork undos the catch at his neck and pulls the helmet off.


    There¡¯s a beetle gnawing into Kithok¡¯s flesh just below his right eye. Fjalar dispatches it with a flick of his finger. I hurry forward and put my torch up to his face so we can see the damage. The beetle¡¯s mandibles have cut right down to the bone.


    ¡°Get a bandage out, Jarick,¡± orders Barock. ¡°Quickly, in case anything smells the blood.¡±


    Nothing does, though. In fact, that single bite is the worst injury anyone suffers on our traversal of the tenth layer. The eleventh is just as uneventful. Though at the approach to the stairway to the twelfth layer we hear a whipper beast approaching, it proves way too far off to catch us.


    We traverse the twelfth layer without incident also¡ªuntil we find ourselves waist deep in a bog filled with wriggling worms. Even so, no harm comes to us. We just double back and make our way to the stairway to the thirteenth layer by another, even quieter route.


    Then, below the final set of climbing spikes, we detect a cacophony.


    Directly above us, a battle is roaring.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Hunger of Beasts

    Expelled from its home ranges by the machinations of its kin, whose politics are far more complex than the dwarves imagine such brute beasts to have, the white jelly has traveled far to get to this cavern. Through thousands upon thousands of miles of winding caves and tunnels it has squeezed its massive body, scraping and scratching itself against teeth-like stalagmites and stalactites.


    These injuries were no problem for it at first. Thick forests of fungi and the teeming critters they supported provided ample nutrition to fuel its regenerative powers. Sustenance coursed through its flesh to reknit where needles of rock had pierced and torn. The clear blood it spilled was replenished before the beast even felt the first signs of weakness. Teeth knocked out by struggling troglodytes and errant chunks of rock regrew.


    Then, food began to grow sparse. It found itself in tunnels of obsidian just above the magma sea, and only the meanest life survives there. When blades of black glass cut deep the wounds did not heal. Its blood left behind a salty crust on the stones. Weakness and lethargy began to drag at it.


    A deep terror took root inside its distributed brain-sensory system, and it attempted to turn back, twist its maw back through to the other side of its body and reverse its course, but realized that such an effort would expend too much strength. It knew that if it completed the movement it would die within fifty miles.


    Desperately it forged its path forward. Its teeth--not inert spheres of enamel but tastebuds also¡ªdetected something organic ahead of it. Pushing along with all its might, ignoring the pain of the blades of stone cutting deep into its flesh and the horrible dryness it felt on its skin, it began to approach the top layer of the cavern the dwarves of the deep call the Mushroom Basket.


    Like a great wad of milky pus it extruded itself through into the forest. For a while, it believed had found heaven. Greedily it supped on the thick carpet of organic matter¡ªhere was a land no less abundant than those it had been forced from. It could not help itself; it let out a joyous call from its scent-glands. This chemical was what Hirthik smelled out.


    Little by little, the heaven became a hell.


    The predators of the cavern, who had skittered away in terror when the apocalyptic, all-consuming mass descended through the ceiling, grew curious. The shock wore off their primitive minds. The scent of blood from the white jelly¡¯s many wounds¡ªstrange blood but blood nonetheless¡ªmade them hungry.


    They swarmed upon it, biting and tearing. The white jelly¡¯s flesh responded by twisting into flailing tentacles to batter and crush. More blood poured, both from it and from its attackers. The predators in the layers below scented this, and they were not going to let such a feast pass them by. Dithyoks, chitin-bats, biting beetles... all those close enough to catch wind of the chaos above flocked upward.


    If the dwarves¡¯ scout team had not been under such pressure to confirm Hirthik¡¯s detection with utmost speed, maybe they would have seen the signs that something was amiss. Certainly, the first attacks on the white jelly¡¯s flesh were occurring as they poked their heads into the thirteenth layer. If the Runethane had not ordered them to return as soon as they confirmed its presence, without delay, they might have been able to give warning of what awaited the dwarves at their final destination.


    But, nerves frayed and eager to hurry back down, they did not hang around to make a proper observation.


    Now Commander Cathez and his eighty-six runeknights stand below a maelstrom they are not prepared for, yet they have no choice but to plunge into it head-first.


    <hr>


    ¡°This is our moment of opportunity!¡± Cathez tells us. ¡°We should count ourselves lucky that the beast is distracted. While the predators swarm, we will circle around and attack it from the rear where the almergris is located. We need not kill the beast¡ªthe almergris is our goal. We will leave the skin and blubber to the predators.¡±


    I''m pretty sure that this is contrary to the Runethane¡¯s orders, who did not want the rest of the forging materials to go to waste, but Cathez is not suicidally loyal.


    ¡°I also imagine that the soft, exposed flesh of the white jelly will be more appetizing to them than flesh guarded by the greatest runic armor in the underworld.¡±


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    This sounds like very wishful thinking. If the white jelly was such a soft opponent, the fight above would already be over¡ªand it isn¡¯t: according to Hirthik and some of the other more sensitive dwarves it is still releasing pheromones at regular intervals.


    The equivalent of furious screams.


    ¡°Now, once we get to the top, we will change our formation. Having each squad separated would leave us vulnerable to the swarming predators¡ª¡±


    So he does think we¡¯ll be targeted.


    ¡°¡ªso instead we will cluster into a single armored column. Maces at the front to batter down anything in our way, spears at the sides to fend off any flanking attacks. Once we reach the rear of our quarry, each squad will resume its roles. Is this all understood?¡±


    ¡°Yes, commander!¡± we bellow.


    ¡°Are you sure? I don¡¯t hear the conviction!¡±


    ¡°Yes, commander!¡± we bellow louder.


    ¡°Excellent. Up we go.¡±


    Apparently the stairway here is rarely ever used. Out of the three paths to the topmost layer it¡¯s the smallest and slowest, but it does have the advantage of coming out into a small cave slightly separated from the main cavern layer where we can get into our new formation.


    We climb up metal loops hammered into the stone. About half have fallen out, so at several points Cathez has to employ the same technique he used to make his earlier rope bridge, except this time the ropes hang vertically. I¡¯m very glad of my boots¡¯ grip at these points.


    The others are not having such an easy time. When I¡¯m about three-quarters of the way up, there is a terrible scream and something rushes through the air behind me. The scream fades then is suddenly cut off by a thud.


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    ¡°Turn him over, is he still alive?¡±


    ¡°Oh, hell...¡±


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°Othol, I think.¡±


    The dwarf above me pauses, cranes his head back to look at the mess below, and groans.


    ¡°Another fucking death...¡±


    That makes the toll from this fool expedition the same as what the killer has wrought, and we haven¡¯t even gone into combat yet.


    Thinking bitter thoughts about the Runethane, I continue to ascend. The sound of screeching beasts and the thud of heavy impacts grows louder with each hoop I haul myself up. The air becomes thick with the pungent smell of almergris. I¡¯ve encountered it in the forges before: it¡¯s a kind of spice smell that burns your nostrils slightly and makes your eyes water. The scent here is a little more mellow, like raw spice instead of toasted, and also mixed with the coppery stench of ichor.


    Dark stone closes around me as I climb to the final stretch of ladder. The cacophony doubles in volume, echoing around the walls and deafening me. The rock seems to shift and warp¡ªI grow unsure of where the handholds are, for they are dark with stains that makes them the same color of the walls. I grope for the next, find it, pull myself up unsteadily, repeat the process. I will my head to stop spinning¡ªI don¡¯t want to meet the same fate as Othol.


    A hand takes mine and pulls me up into the cave that we''re to mount the attack from. The concentration of so many weapons of light in such a small area blinds me¡ªhere is the opposite of pitch blackness, total whiteout¡ªand because the cacophony is even louder now that I¡¯m less than a hundred feet from the battle, I¡¯m pretty much deaf and blind.


    ¡°This way,¡± Barock shouts into my ear as he guides me with a hand on my shoulder. ¡°Disorientation shouldn¡¯t be as bad once we¡¯re out this cave. The echoes are playing havoc on our ears, I know.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m to be on the edge, right?¡± I shout back.


    ¡°Yes. Notok will be behind you, Garick in front. Fjalar in front of him¡ªrely on him, he¡¯s a very good fighter when it comes down to it. And I¡¯ve heard you are too. You¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°I bloody well hope so.¡±


    ¡°Cathez¡¯s plan is a good one,¡± he says sternly. ¡°Trust in it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, leader,¡± I reply, without much conviction.


    He takes his hand from my shoulder and goes to help Notok into position. I open my eyes a crack to try and make sense of how far I am from the front. Not so far, but maybe that¡¯s a good thing. Predatory instinct is to go for the back of the herd, after all.


    A sound like the angry slap of a giant¡¯s palm makes me wince; a moment later a violent shudder through the rock sends us stumbling.


    ¡°The hell was that?¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°The white jelly,¡± says one of the elites standing at the mouth of the cave. ¡°Smashing a dithyok.¡±


    At least I think that¡¯s what was said. It¡¯s hard to make out the words.


    ¡°All up!¡± shouts the leader of squad six. ¡°But Lothan fell! Hoop came out the wall with that quake! Legs broken!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll carry him back once we¡¯re done!¡± Cathez bellows. ¡°Dwarves, steady yourselves to charge!¡±


    I aim Heartseeker out the side of the column and swallow.


    ¡°Charge!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The White Jellys Defense

    We thunder from the cave, though the thunder of our tread is but a whisper compared to the multi-layered roar of screeches, thuds and crunches we are charging toward. My fear vanishes as battle-focus takes over my mind and my every sense becomes alert; I pick up on every detail of what¡¯s in my field of view and hearing.


    The white jelly has already had its fill of this part of the cavern, so we are sprinting across bare rock¡ªit has even devoured the soil. I¡¯m at the wrong side of the formation to be able to see our quarry, but I can see what it¡¯s done. The broken forms of predators, strangled until their necks snapped or crushed around the body, litter the stone. Some have been flung against the wall to leave great splatters like the remains of gigantic squashed flies.


    Not all have met failure; I see a cluster of bzathletics curled around each other in a semi-stupor, pincers extended for defense but otherwise dozing after having satiated themselves. Bright runic light illuminates a squadron of biting beetles far above that buzz almost lazily slowly, full bellies weighing them down.


    Cathez shouts something; our charge slows. Contact with some less-satiated predator. I see the blur of bladed arms rising and cutting down, yet the dithyok must be losing for we¡¯re still moving forward; we speed up again; it stood no chance against half a dozen second and third degree runeknights for whom retreat is no option.


    A biting beetle the size of my head dive-bombs me; I skewer it and the dwarves behind me cheer. Half a dozen more come, one of which swerves through the waving spears to latch on to a dwarf¡¯s head. Its mandibles close around his helmet; he shouts in panic as it begins to cleave through, then a mace-blow turns it into paste. The assaults are relentless¡ªa chitin-bat with a twenty-foot wingspan swoops toward us. Heartseeker jabs for its chest but it¡¯s too fast for me and I only manage to gash a taloned foot.


    With its other foot it grabs hold of someone¡¯s shield and rips them from the ground. I watch it carry him up into the darkness before repeated stabs to the chest finally persuade it to let go. He plummets out of my field of vision.


    ¡°Those don¡¯t have hearts!¡± someone yells. ¡°Stab for their heads!¡±


    Another one, smaller but faster, swoops for us. I lash out and am again a fraction too late¡ªHeartseeker pierces its neck. A few other spears rend bleeding holes in its chitin-plated belly and it retreats.


    The column comes to an abrupt halt. I hear a scream, then yells of fury. We start moving again, crush the remains of another gigantic dithyok into paste beneath our boots, and part like a river around a stone so not to step on one of our fallen comrades. His mace of light is shining like the full moon reflected in a lake of blood.


    The attacks continue. Not half a minute goes by without some predator trying its luck at us. Bzathletics skitter at us and try to wrench our weapons away with their pincers. Chitin-bats attempt to carry us away. Dithyoks lunge at us. It is a battle as vicious as any I¡¯ve experienced.


    Yet, shockingly, a less deadly one. Cathez¡¯s plan is working far better than I was expecting¡ªhe¡¯s not a commander for nothing. By the time the attacks begin to die off, the predators realizing we¡¯re more trouble than we¡¯re worth, we have suffered only five casualties. Many more injuries and wrecked pieces of armor too, as per the usual battlefield equations, but all the same, the sense of impending certain death that¡¯s been hanging over me the whole journey is starting to fade.


    We maneuver around the remains of a dead whipper beast that¡¯s toppled onto its side, spilling the contents of its back-maw to make a great scar in the stone. It feels like a good omen.


    ¡°Nearly at the target!¡± Cathez bellows, only just audible over the screeching of the beasts tearing at the white jelly. ¡°Stay vigilant!¡±


    The formation turns. The white jelly is still completely obscured from my view, but I can make out a dim yellow glow ahead, almost the exact same color as the almergris I¡¯ve seen in locked glass boxes in the storerooms.


    The predators resume their assaults. Those already at the beast¡¯s rear don¡¯t want to give up their advantageous position. Two blood-crazed dithyoks charge our flank, slashing as they rush for me. A forest of spears stabs out to meet them. One goes down immediately, but the bigger of the pair pushes through, uncaring of the three spears penetrating right through its torso. It slashes down at Notok beside me, cleaving his shield near in two with a metallic bang that deafens my left ear.


    I struggle to tear out Heartseeker. My gripping boots give me the leverage I need to wrench my weapon halfway out, and then the back of the blade catches on one of the monster¡¯s front armor plates.


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    It slashes at Notok again, knocking his broken shield out his grasp. With its other pair of limbs it cuts at Fjalar.


    He rolls out of formation under the blow, stabs up through the monster¡¯s groin in one smooth movement. Ichor sprays from the dithyok¡¯s mouth and it falls backward, pulling me and the other dwarves whose spears are stuck in its torso with it.


    I wrench Heartseeker out just in time to defend against a screeching chitin-bat, hurry back into formation before our onward-charging column leaves me behind.


    ¡°Quarry in range!¡± bellows Cathez. ¡°Squads, to your positions!¡±


    ¡°Four, with me!¡± Barock shouts, and we make to form up.


    A beast that looks like a cross between a frog and a spider lands half dead in our midst and is quickly dispatched by stomping boots.


    ¡°Forward to the left side!¡±


    We hurry through pools of ichor and stumps of stalagmites. Two dozen biting beetles buzz over our heads. I track them with my eyes; they land on the white jelly and start to tear into its already tattered flesh.


    My eyes widen as I realize the scale of the beast we¡¯ve come to hunt. Before us is a wall of glistening milk-pale flesh, covered in tendrils that flail and grasp at the frenzied beasts biting chunks out of it. Three press together and congeal into a kind of club to batter at a dithyok.


    I turn back to face the front. I¡¯m dreadfully glad I''m not in one of the slaying squads.


    ¡°Halt!¡± orders Barock, and we halt.


    The two rearguard and two flank squads are arranged in a semicircle around the two slaying squads. This creates a shield protecting Cathez and the other elites while they pierce and pulverize their way into the white jelly¡¯s flesh. It¡¯s not a perfect defense¡ªthe flanking squads are leaving a twenty foot gap between us and the jelly¡ªbut no defense ever is.


    ¡°Spears out! Don¡¯t let anything break through!¡±


    Heartseeker is already angled out, trained on a massive dithyok observing us eyelessly. It scrapes its blade-arms against each other. I brace, expecting it to charge, but it remains motionless.


    ¡°Squad one, this is it!¡± I hear Cathez bellow, and his squad roars in assent.


    I hear wet thuds and shouts of battle-frenzy, yet I dare not take my eyes off the dithyok in front. It¡¯s a truly massive specimen, or, as I think I hear Fjalar mutter:


    ¡°Big fucker, isn¡¯t she?¡±


    There¡¯s a frenzy of motion from the rearguard squad beside us, then stillness and shouts of triumph.


    ¡°Threat eliminated!¡±


    A chitin-bat hovering some way over us decides to flap away. There is a lull in the attacks. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is the climax, the end, and we will be marching back to safety soon.


    ¡°Squad two!¡± Barock shouts. ¡°How are they progressing?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s coming apart!¡± comes the happy reply. ¡°This is going in our favor: it¡¯s badly weakened. Tired.¡±


    ¡°Just as planned, huh?¡± someone laughs.


    I glance back at squad one to make sure the happy news isn¡¯t some kind of auditory hallucination. It¡¯s not. With two-handed strikes of terrible force, Cathez and the other mace-wielders of squad one are turning the white jelly¡¯s flesh into sticky pulp, while those with spears jab holes in lashing tentacles with speed I¡¯m unsure I can equal. One tentacle wraps around the shaft of a spear; a draw-cut by his comrade beside him severs it and it slaps down onto the stone, twitching slightly.


    I turn back to the dithyok. It¡¯s still watching us, twitching its limbs, waiting for the crucial opportunity.


    A shockwave of sound from the other side of the cavern shakes us.


    ¡°Did you just see that!¡± someone cries from the other side of the formation.


    ¡°What was it?¡± shouts the leader of squad two.


    ¡°Just raised a... quarter, fifth, of its damn body up,¡± answers a different voice. ¡°Slammed it down.¡±


    ¡°It did that before!¡± someone in my squad shouts. ¡°Shit, what if it goes for us?¡±


    ¡°Trust in your armor!¡± Barock orders.


    My sense of dread and overwhelming bitterness returns. Trust in our armor? Against how many tons crashing down on us? Maybe he thinks the softness of the jelly¡¯s flesh will reduce the impact of the blow somewhat.


    Another shockwave batters us, louder and closer this time. We wince. Surely it won¡¯t be long before the jelly decides to take decisive action against us.


    "They''re into its flesh!" shouts the leader of squad two. "Nearly at the almergris!"


    Out the corner of my eye, I see part of the white wall, maybe two hundred yards away, rise up and crash down like a wave. We don¡¯t hear any sound this time, just feel the shockwave. Half of us are thrown from our feet.


    For a few moments I can hear nothing. The dithyok shifts backward¡ªis this what it¡¯s waiting for? For the jelly to turn us into paste that it can scrape up and cram into its maw?


    ¡°Defensive squads, away from it!¡± orders the leader of squad two. ¡°I think it¡¯s coming up for another blow!¡±


    I glance back and see the wall of flesh rippling, flowing back, pulling up.


    ¡°Shit!¡± someone screams.


    ¡°Run forward!¡± Barock screams. ¡°Charge away from it!¡±


    The stone buckles underneath me. I fall to my knees, get up just in time to see cracks shooting up the cavern wall opposite us.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Devastating Wounds

    Everything is dark and I can hear nothing but muffled grinding sounds. Weights are pressing down on every part of me. I can feel metal against my skin where my armor has been badly dented, and there seem to be dozens of these dents. Blood is running up my forehead from a pain in my jaw¡ªI must be tipped backwards, and I think the cut is from where part of my helmet has been ripped and forced inward, gashing my cheek.


    Panic rises in me. I struggle but can barely move my limbs. I take a breath to try and calm myself down, and choke on thick dust. I convulse, and some of the weight shifts from me.


    Still wracked with coughs, I attempt to pull my arms in toward my chest. Some of the rocks come off, to be replaced with more. One pins my left hand, but little by little I manage to draw my right arm in. I grasp with it at the rubble on my chest and push up with all my might. The weight shifts and I hear something roll. Grunting, I push even harder. The stones pinning me shift some more and I manage to nearly sit up.


    The blood on my face changes direction.


    I start to draw my knees up, and feel and hear more stones tumbling. The sound seems quiet¡ªmy runic ears must be damaged. I think I can hear other dwarves struggling to my left and right.


    With painstaking effort I manage to curl up into sitting position. Gravel falls from my armor and bounces away. Every inch of my body feels bruised, and my muscles feel heavy. A high pitched note is ringing in my left ear.


    I feel a sudden urge of panic; grope around the rocks surrounding me, and my hand comes around something thin and circular¡ªHeartseeker¡¯s shaft. I pull hard, wincing as the aluminum protests loudly. It comes free with a horrible scraping sound. I run my hands along it and am dismayed to feel that it¡¯s bent.


    ¡°Fu¡ª!¡±


    The dust clogging the back of my throat sends me into another coughing fit. Noise is still ringing in my ear.


    I recover and notice a white glow through the dust to my left and I stumble over the rubble toward it. Something clutches at my heel and I jump away, fearing a beast, but see a gauntlet. I pull away the stone covering the fallen dwarf¡¯s chest and pull him out. He mumbles something at me, then groans loudly.


    I see that his shoulder plate is bent completely out of shape.


    ¡°Better take that off,¡± I advise him, then hurry toward the light, which I suspect might be Barock¡¯s mace.


    It is. Our leader lies a few yards away from it. He¡¯s cleared most of the debris from his body, but his leg is still pinned by a massive shard of rock. As I get closer, I begin to hear his cries of pain.


    ¡°Ah, shit! Get this off me! Zathar, that you? Get this damn thing off me!¡±


    I kneel down, place Heartseeker beside me, and work my palms underneath the rock to try and heave it up. It moves about a centimeter before I¡¯m forced to lay it back down.


    ¡°Back up!¡± Barock yells. ¡°Bring it back up!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s too fucking heavy!¡±


    ¡°Let me help!¡± Another dwarf adds his strength to my own and we manage to keep the rock up long enough for Barock to extract his leg.


    He attempts to stand, swears violently and sits back down. ¡°Broken.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get you your mace,¡± I tell him, and do so.


    ¡°Thanks. Help the others now, will you?¡±


    More of us are struggling from the rubble¡ªI see about a dozen. The white jelly is nowhere to be seen through the dust, and neither are the other squads, for the worst part of the rockfall, a row of boulders at least twelve feet high, has split us from them. The roar of the battle is much quieter, and this probably isn¡¯t an illusion caused by my damaged ears. Nothing is attacking us.


    Someone shouts in pain and I rush over to help him. His hand is sticking out of the rubble, grasping at the dusty gray light. I pull stones out from around his arm while someone else drags him up, and finally out. It¡¯s Notok. He attempts to stand up, but his armor is so rent and dented that his legs won¡¯t straighten.


    ¡°Oh, shit. Where¡¯s my shield? Someone get me my shield!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s probably still buried,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°Shit!¡± He looks around wildly. ¡°What if...¡±


    ¡°The battle seems to have stopped,¡± says another dwarf, limping over to us. It¡¯s Jarick; the light shining from his mace illuminates Notok¡¯s wide-eyed look of terror.


    ¡°What?¡± Notok says.


    ¡°It seems to have stopped... I can still hear something, but it¡¯s kind of far away.¡±


    ¡°Your ears are just bent out of shape. They¡¯ll be back before we know it. Shit!¡±


    ¡°Calm down,¡± he says. ¡°Is everyone out yet?¡±


    I look around. About a dozen are free, with a few more still being dragged out. Not all are from squad four; some are also from squad six who were positioned next to us. A few faces from our squad are missing; some of us are still buried, probably unconscious, maybe suffocating.


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    ¡°Barock!¡± I call. ¡°What should we do?¡±


    ¡°I... Shit... Jathez, Khotak, Nthazek; try and climb over those boulders and see what¡¯s going on the other side. The rest, dig around if you¡¯re able. See if you can drag out anyone else.¡±


    One of the fourth degrees uses his mace of light to illuminate the rubble and see if there are any more limbs sticking out the stone. There is nothing obvious. We start work shifting some of the more massive rocks.


    ¡°Hey, look!¡± Notok shouts. ¡°Over there, there¡¯s someone moving!¡±


    We turn to where he¡¯s pointing: right up where the cavern wall was, something is shifting and struggling under a deep slope of rubble. Fjalar¡ªhe was one of the first out the rubble¡ªsteps forward:


    ¡°Who¡¯s that? Can you hear us?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t give up!¡± Barock bellows. ¡°Keep digging yourself out! You lot, hurry up and help him.¡±


    We hurry forward, me in the lead. I put Heartseeker down and use both hands to start scraping away the rocks covering him. I pull down a big flat one, and see the gleam of pale armor plates.


    ¡°Keep pushing!¡± I yell. ¡°You¡¯re nearly out.¡±


    The stones under me shift violently and I skid down the slope and fall over¡ªmy gripping boots are no use when what they¡¯re standing on is sliding around. Jarick pulls me up and we both start to make our way back to¡ª


    ¡°Stop!¡± someone yells. ¡°You two¡ª¡±


    Four blades of bone burst from the rubble, sending rocks flying at us with the force of siege-artillery. One hits me square in my left shoulder and I¡¯m sent spinning through the air to crash land at the foot of the slope. Jarick is less lucky. The stone that clanged off his helmet just stunned him, didn''t throw him, and he is unable to defend himself as the dithyok¡¯s two upper limbs slash down. The blades slice through his battered armor like knives through steak. Blood that glints like rubies in the light of his mace spatters out.


    I yell in panic and scramble back as the dithyok half charges, half falls down the slope toward us. One of its legs and part of its torso has been crushed, but it doesn¡¯t seem to feel the pain. It slashes at us with all four of its arms.


    I duck under its lower right arm, roll forward. Heartseeker is lying just below Jarick¡¯s mutilated corpse. I scramble as fast as I can up the treacherous slope while the dwarves behind me scream and the dithyok hisses. I hear a rapid exchange of blows. The shifting of the rubble brings Heartseeker sliding down to me; I pick it up and charge the dithyok from behind. All the momentum of my downward movement plus the speed granted by my gauntlets goes into my blow.


    The bend in Heartseeker¡¯s shaft makes it ineffective. Its blade glances off the dithyok¡¯s armor plating. Desperately I try to bring myself to a halt, but both my boots and the uneven surface conspire to make me lose control completely. I crash into the dithyok shoulder-first; it falls down.


    ¡°Good one Zathar!¡± someone yells. I roll off the beast and out the way of a dozen brutal stabs.


    It writhes and twists, strikes out weakly, lets out a rattling gasp and dies. I lie beside it for a few moments, panting. The ringing in my ears is louder, and the dust above me seems to be twisting and spiraling into a kind of whirlpool tinged with red at the edges.


    ¡°...get him up! Quick, get his armor off!¡±


    I snap out of it and crawl to my feet. I open my mouth to tell them that I¡¯m fine, but it¡¯s not me they¡¯re crowding over.


    Two dwarves lie spreadeagled a few paces away from the dead dithyok. One is completely still; the other is moaning and weakly, deliriously trying to stand. His armor is covered in red muck¡ªblood and dust.


    ¡°Get his armor off! Someone get some bandages!¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have any!¡±


    ¡°Use his shirt! Cut it into strips!¡±


    It¡¯s Fjalar. The dithyok has slashed him what looks like two dozen times: his dented armor offered no protection against its blades. He at least got one good strike in¡ªhis spear juts from the center of the monster¡¯s maw.


    ¡°The leg plate¡¯s stuck! Zathar, help me!¡±


    I start pulling at the clasping mechanism, but it¡¯s been bent shut. I get a rock and smash as hard as I can. It breaks off with a ping and we free his leg. There¡¯s a deep stab wound in it. Bright crimson is pumping out.


    ¡°Bandage, bandage!¡± the dwarf beside me shouts.


    ¡°I told you, we don¡¯t have any! Use his trousers!¡±


    I use a shard of rock to cut strips from the bloody fabric clinging to his leg. A thicker one I use as a bandage; the dwarf beside me ties a thinner one tightly around his thigh as a tourniquet. The bleeding slows a little, but he¡¯s still losing a lot of blood.


    ¡°Get some healing chains!¡± Barock shouts as he tries to stumble over to us. ¡°Where¡¯s Jarick¡¯s pack?¡±


    ¡°No idea!¡± I shout. ¡°I think it''s still buried!¡±


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on at the other side of the rubble? Is anyone there?¡±


    I realize that maybe, instead of the rubble falling to cut us off from the other squads, it might just have crushed them all entirely, and now we¡¯re the only lucky survivors.


    ¡°Nothing¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oi!¡± comes a shout from the top of the boulders ¡°We found them¡ª Shit, who is that?¡±


    ¡°Just in time!¡± Barock screams. ¡°Get us some healing chains, now! Fjalar¡¯s injured!¡±


    ¡°Bad?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°We need more strips, Zathar!¡± shouts the dwarf beside me. ¡°Hurry up!¡±


    I pull off the rest of his trousers and start slashing them to pieces. His body is coated completely in blood with barely a patch of skin showing. Brighter red lines show where the wounds are, which we wrap tightly. All the while he¡¯s struggling and gasping with adrenaline-borne vigor, trying to push us away, as if he thinks he¡¯s still in the fight.


    ¡°Stop struggling!¡± I shout when he nearly kicks me, then contorts his face in pain. ¡°We¡¯re trying to fucking save you!¡±


    ¡°I...¡± he says. ¡°I...¡±


    ¡°Save your strength!¡± a dwarf trying to bandage his wrist tells him. ¡°The healing chains are nearly here. Just hang on!¡±


    ¡°Shit, will they even be enough?¡± someone mutters under their breath.


    ¡°They¡¯re here!¡±


    A runeknight jumps down from the top of a boulder and sprints for us. In his hand is a bundle of thin chains, which he tosses. Hurriedly we bind Fjalar, still struggling, with them.


    His breathing evens slightly, and he shuts his eyes.


    ¡°Shit, he¡¯s in a bad state,¡± says the runeknight. ¡°Some of you better stay here with the other injured.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I ask. ¡°What the hell happened?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got to the almergris!¡±


    ¡°What about the other squads? Were they all right?¡±


    His expression becomes somber. ¡°Not so much.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Aftermath of the Carnage

    The runeknight who brought the chains¡ªa third degree from squad two¡ªleads me and a few others up over the boulders to the twitching remains of the white jelly. While we climb and clamber he tells us what happened:


    With what must have been truly incredible effort, the jelly, in a final desperate attempt to destroy the beasts and us dwarves tearing it to shreds, raised up huge sections of its body to smash down and crush its attackers. The technique worked, as evidenced by the conspicuous quieting of the cavern: things that walked were crushed, and things that flew were knocked from the air by the shockwaves.


    But the cavern had never suffered such violence before. The final, most violent slam, to crush the creatures pulverizing their way toward its most precious organs, brought rockslides tumbling from the walls and stalactites plummeting from the ceiling.


    The collapse killed the jelly. Only a little life remains in it: tentacles slap weakly at us as we make our way into the sticky, pulpy wound Cathez and his elites created, but nothing more. Those predators that survived the collapse are gnawing into its carcass freely.


    The collapse killed many dwarves too. Most of squad six and their leader are missing, presumed crushed. Two in squad one and one in squad two were killed by the jelly¡¯s tentacles before they could climb into its wound¡ªwhich opened into a hollow digestive tract, fortuitously allowing nearly thirty dwarves to shelter within the beast and be protected from the falling stones. Squad five lost four in the rockfall. Squad three was the only squad which suffered no fatalities, though several members have broken bones.


    All this, on top of those killed by the whipper beast, Othol who fell, and those killed by other beasts, brings the total number of dead and missing to around thirty.


    How long will it take for the killer to equal that number? Our foolish mission has cost nearly ten times the lives he has.


    I feel very bitter indeed.


    At least now it seems to be over. We¡¯re given sacks and told to climb into the jelly¡¯s digestive tracts and up to the scent glands where I can see, as if through chalky water, most of the rest of us scraping out the glowing almergris.


    Sticky pulp coats my boots and dripping liquid makes dark streaks on my dusty armor. It stinks in here of rotten citrus wine mixed with fermented meat and vegetables. Each step I take makes a slopping sound, and the walls of the digestive tract press closely, disgustingly, against me.


    Some of the dwarves squeezing back past me with sacks already full have pieces of armor missing. I hope they do not catch some awful infection on their exposed skin and bring the death-toll even higher.


    After several long minutes squeezing through the jelly¡¯s guts I make it to the scent organs. They¡¯re not as huge as I expected, merely the size of small rooms; the almergris is stuck to the walls in thick layers. I get to pulling it off and stuffing it in my sack. It¡¯s very greasy, and extremely pungent, making the air taste like fire. It has a jelly-like consistency, wobbling as the walls shift and shiver from our movements; it¡¯s not waxy and hard like the almergris I¡¯ve seen in the fort. For crafting use I imagine it''ll need to be cured or dried somehow.


    Its pungency has the effect of destroying my sense of smell so that I don¡¯t have to choke on the gut-stench as I make my way back out. Once I¡¯ve exited the jelly, I walk about thirty yards into the rubble-field and deposit my haul into the already large stockpile there. Cathez is standing over it, looking down at the sacks¡ªI wonder what expression he wears.


    Maybe one that says: thirty dead, just for this?


    I make my way back to the jelly, receive another sack to fill and, after having a small amount of rations and a swig from a beerskin¡ªnot my own rations and beer, for my pack is still buried¡ªI push my way back into the wound. Three times I fill up my sack with the pungent yellow, then Cathez calls a halt to the operation and we are ordered to start organizing for the journey back.


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    This means digging duty. The first stage of this is to clear a path between squad four and the rest. We exert our strength on one of the smaller boulders and roll it out of the way. Then we divide and start combing through the rubble. I manage to find my battered pack: the hard-tack is dust and most of my water gone. I help dig out a few more dwarves, whose armor is crushed and crumpled, caked with dried blood. My feeling of disgust toward the Runethane grows with each we pull out.


    ¡°It¡¯s time to depart,¡± Cathez finally orders. His voice his hoarse and subdued, its vigor drained. ¡°Squad two are rigging up the ropes. I¡¯m afraid we probably won¡¯t have enough for all of us to make it down in one trip. More rope will have to be brought up to help shift the wounded, so we¡¯ll make camp in the entrance cave for now. Leaders, organize your squads.¡±


    Barock calls for us. ¡°Pick up the wounded,¡± he says. ¡°Take a dwarf each, and be gentle. Two to a dwarf for the worst ones.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯ll take you, leader?¡± someone asks.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me. Get the worst wounded up to safety first.¡±


    We nod in understanding and make our way to where they lie. Many are groaning, but most are silent. Galar is one of those who''s been guarding them. His expression is serious and somber for once as he stares vigilantly out into the darkness.


    I kneel down beside Fjalar with another dwarf.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Galar says. ¡°I¡¯ll help carry him.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± I ask, half wondering if he plans to drop him halfway.


    ¡°Yes. He¡¯s my brother, even if we don¡¯t always get along. It¡¯s my duty to help him.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± I say, and step back.


    There is a scream of terror. I spin to face the threat, Heartseeker ready, yet the shaking, shivering dwarf backing away from the wounded dwarf next to Fjalar is not fearful of anything that Heartseeker can slay.


    ¡°The shadow!¡± he screams. ¡°It¡¯s here with us! Look!¡±


    Someone shines their mace over the wounded dwarf. My eyes widen in shock. There are more cries of horror and disbelief.


    His pauldron and breastplate were removed so bandages could be applied to his wounds. His blood-drenched underclothes are still on, so that his skin is not visible, but I can see the shape of his ribs, shoulder joint, and clavicle vividly, as if between fabric and bone there is nearly nothing.


    ¡°Pull the fabric off!¡± someone barks. ¡°We can¡¯t tell¡ª¡±


    Someone already is, and our fears are confirmed. The skin is dry as parchment and the flesh beneath shriveled to dust. Someone pulls up his visor and his face is skeletal, his eyes shrunken and cracked.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Cathez shouts, hurrying toward us. He looks down on the corpse in horror. ¡°The shadow is here!¡± he yells. ¡°Those with maces, come immediately! You lot, find what torches you can and try to relight them! Hurry up! Hurry up!¡±


    <hr>


    I am in the brightly lit entrance cave now, standing guard over the wounded with a torch burning in one hand. Most of dwarves are now descending with the sacks of almergris while we up here wait for squad two, which was the first to hurry down, to come back up with reinforcements and the rope and nets we need to safely transport the wounded. I hope they do not run into any whipper beasts.


    We¡¯ve been waiting for a long while, subsisting on what remains of our jerky, as well as dithyok meat seared by our torches, and drinking water polluted by blood.


    Most of the water remaining in our skins we used for washing out wounds. No one is unscathed: I myself have hundreds of minor scrapes from where my armor has been beaten in.


    My comrades, most of them senior runeknights with maces of light, are silent. Occasionally their eyes flick to me. Maybe they suspect me¡ªis that the real reason I¡¯m being kept up here in the brightness, where they think I won¡¯t dare to strike? Barock told me I was to stand guard over the most vulnerable because I excelled myself, but I am starting to doubt that reason.


    Galar is here also. His face is as grim as Fjalar¡¯s is peaceful. I look from one to the other.


    It can be no coincidence that the dwarf taken by the killer lay next to Fjalar, with Galar close by. One of them is the killer. I¡¯m sure of it. One, or both.


    Yet we stripped Fjalar bare to make bandages for his many wounds and, surreptitiously, I¡¯ve already inspected his armor. He carried no strange weapon. And as for Galar¡ªwhy would he risk slaying with so many others around? He also had little opportunity to do so: if he¡¯d stepped back from circle guarding the wounded, he would have been noticed.


    Maybe someone did notice him do that. More investigations are needed.


    At too great a cost, the Runethane¡¯s foolish expedition has brought forward the first signs of truth, the first hint of a conclusion to the terrible mystery that haunts us.

 Dwarves of the Deep: A Solemn Return

    They journey down takes longer than the journey up. We have to lower the injured using nets and long lengths of rope, extremely carefully so that no wounds reopen, all the while guarding off attacks from the surviving monsters and the few stragglers who did not make it to the fight. We also transport the heavy bodies of the dead.


    Even with reinforcements bringing our total to nearly forty dwarves, the going is difficult. The whipper beast on the eighth level, which had wandered away in time for the other squads to make their journeys safely but wanders back just in time to threaten ours, has to be dealt with¡ªwe end up smashing a wall into chunks of stone and throwing them into its maw. Too stupid to flee, it stands there until it collapses under the weight. Soon after, its mighty lash sags and flops onto the ground.


    We make it to the lower levels, but I cannot relax. Galar is with us, he knows I¡¯m investigating, and so I always make sure to rest and eat far away from him. If he turns out to be the killer, maybe I¡¯m the next target. Same goes for if he knows his brother is the killer and wants to protect him, or if they¡¯re both the killers, or if they¡¯re helping some third figure¡ªalthough this last possibility seems unlikely now.


    At one point, I find myself ordered to help him carry Fjalar, me at the back of the stretcher and he at the front.


    ¡°No one saw anything at all?¡± I ask, whispering in a purposefully nervous tone. ¡°Surely at least one dwarf was looking at the wounded.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°We were looking out for predators.¡±


    ¡°Heard something, then.¡±


    He shakes his head again. ¡°The darkness is silence, remember?¡±


    ¡°A silence you notice because it eats up all other sound, I¡¯ve been told.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I¡¯m still working on my trident of light.¡±


    Could some conversation about forging get him to open up, relax his guard?


    ¡°Was it going well? Before all this.¡±


    ¡°So-so.¡±


    ¡°Is the almergris that hard to work with?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. Haven¡¯t got to the runes yet.¡±


    ¡°The titanium giving you trouble?¡±


    ¡°A bit.¡±


    He¡¯s not opening up. Maybe I should try a more direct question. I lower my voice: ¡°Who do you think the shadow dwarf is?¡±


    He turns back to look at me. His face is concealed by his helmet of course, but I don¡¯t need to see to know there¡¯s a deep frown on it. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    ¡°I mean the rumors going around. You¡¯ve heard them, and I know you¡¯ve talked about them. That the killer¡¯s a dwarf taken by the shadow.¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t talk about such things.¡±


    ¡°Everyone is. Who do you think it is, Galar?¡±


    He turns away, shaking his head. ¡°It was the shadow that took Utlock. That¡¯s the end of it.¡±


    Of course, I never expected him to give me a name, I wanted to see if there was anything suspicious in the way he answered. There wasn¡¯t; he answered like anyone would surrounded by others you don¡¯t know you can trust. Asking that question was a stupid idea, and I kick myself for it.


    If I¡¯m ever going to get something out of him I¡®m going to have to be more clever than that.


    After the several day¡¯s worth of time spent marching slowly through the forests, exhausted and aching all over, we are finally on the first, peaceful level, then into the refreshingly dry tunnel leading to the fort. There are too many wounded for all of them to recuperate in the infirmary chamber, so only the worst are laid down there, and the rest have a section of the meal hall set aside for them.


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    They¡¯re cheered as we enter. Barock thanks me as I deliver him to some of his friends, who toast him with mugs of beer and present him with a hot and hearty stew of mushrooms mixed with expensive medicinal herbs, and then I am greeted by Jaemes.


    ¡°Thank the Gods you¡¯re alive, Zathar. I was told you were, but didn''t quite believe it.¡±


    ¡°I barely believe it myself.¡±


    ¡°What a nightmare. What a debacle.¡±


    ¡°Careful there. You don¡¯t want to be heard criticizing the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not the only one criticizing. Most seems to be directed at Cathez, though.¡±


    This irritates me. ¡°He did as good a job he could.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, maybe. And... I heard about the killing.¡± He whispers, ¡°We need to discuss it.¡±


    ¡°Not right now. I¡¯ve got to clean myself off before the Runethane calls us all down. He will soon, I¡¯m sure. We¡¯ll talk later though, with Nthazes.¡±


    Jaemes nods. ¡°Obviously. Somewhere private. Be on your guard until then.¡±


    ¡°Always.¡± I blink heavily. ¡°I¡¯m sorry if I don¡¯t sound that enthusiastic to see you. I¡¯m just exhausted, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°I know. Don¡¯t worry about it.¡±


    In storeroom eight, the one with the most space, large buckets filled with soapy water occupy one section, and buckets of vinegar and sand another. Stains on the floor show that the other squads have already made good use of them, but everything¡¯s been refilled to full for us, though they rapidly start to empty as me and the other returnees begin to strip off and scrub both ourselves and our armor.


    I smell sweat and suds as I clean, combing dust, sweat, and rotten fungi out of my dark hair and beard. My body is blotched purple and red all over from bruising, and my cut jaw is swollen and tender. I scrub and scratch the wound out very thoroughly. According to Jaemes us dwarves are more resistant to disease than most, but we are not immune.


    Once I¡¯ve washed and dried myself and put on some clean clothes, I splash away the worst of the mud and dust from my armor and bring it over to the vinegar and sand buckets. Some very bright torches have been set up¡ªthey have a bluish glow; I¡¯m guessing they¡¯re newly imported¡ªand under their light I inspect the damage to my armor.


    I already have a good idea of where the worst damage is, of course, but this is my first opportunity to get a proper look to determine what can be repaired and what needs to be replaced. With a cloth dipped in vinegar I wipe it down hard, trying to get into every crevice I can. I sprinkle the more stubborn and scratched areas with sand to polish them as smooth as possible, and for the gaps between plates where the cloth won¡¯t quite reach, I use a thickly-bristled brush.


    This is an activity I¡¯ve done many times, one all runeknights do regularly, yet I cannot remember my armor ever being this dirty. Nor can I remember the cleaning process ever being this depressing. Usually, although it¡¯s certainly a chore, it comes with some level of satisfaction as the armor and runes start to shine again. This time, with each layer of dirt I scrape away the dents and rents become more obvious.


    My newer pieces are thankfully mostly unscathed. The gauntlets, being mostly flexible chainmail, did not take much damage, and although the tops of my boots are dented, there are no breaks. I should be able to hammer them back into shape easily enough, though I''m also definitely going to have to alter the runes, which might be tricky.


    The rest, the patchy steel and iron of my several times repaired ten year old plate, has not fared so well. My helmet and the plates on my arms and legs might be made serviceable with a good deal of hammering out and some welds, and my pauldrons too, but my breastplate is beyond saving. There are several big tears in it, and the runic harmonics of the salamander scale poems are now completely discordant. Most of the plates around my waist will have to be replaced also.


    On top of this, Heartseeker¡¯s shaft will have to be remade, my crumpled runic ears reforged, and I still am yet to begin work on my amulet. And once the almergris is ready to be used, I have a feeling that I¡¯m going to be ordered to create a new weapon also.


    <hr>


    After we are cleaned off, we help with cleaning the wounded and their armor and, once this is done and every dwarf in the fort is in a fit state for presentation, everyone¡ªbar those standing vigil at the Shaft¡ªis called down to the Runethane.


    The atmosphere is even more solemn than on our last meetings with him. The dead we managed to recover lie in a line in front, and in place of those who still lie buried under many stones, or who were dissolved in the whipper beast¡¯s maw, are grave-markers of stainless steel.


    ¡°A terrible cost,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Though in these dark times we must all be prepared to lose what we love, and I know you, my brave dwarves, went up prepared to lose your lives for the greater cause, this is still a sorry blow to us. Thirty-one dead¡ªthe fort reduced to less than one-hundred ninety. A very sorry blow. It pains my heart.¡±


    He sounds more subdued than before. He is certainly sorrowful, but I suspect that he does not feel guilty.


    ¡°Yet it was a necessary loss,¡± he continues. ¡°We succeeded, and that is what truly counts in this dark hour. Utilizing the precious almergris the deaths of our brothers has won, we will soon be able to strike back against the darkness¡ªnever again will it reach into the fort, nor beyond. We will cull its power. It will not dare to test its luck against one-hundred eighty-one weapons of most brilliant light.¡±


    A murmur of alarm runs through our ranks.


    ¡°This is no time to be fearful,¡± Runethane Yurok says sternly. ¡°You will rise to this challenge as you did this last one. Have faith in your ears and almergris poses no more threat to you than does any other reagent.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Repairs and Rewriting

    All those who went on the expedition are granted a great amount of honor. I, whose rear-blow against the dithyok quite possibly saved Fjalar and several other dwarves¡¯ lives, am singled out for a good deal more than average. With it I requisition enough high-quality titanium to fully replace my breastplate, and a large box of salterite so I can transfer the abyssal runes from my damaged one to it. Although the poems now look a little amateurish to me¡ªall that thinking about runes for my amulet has improved my command of the art a good deal¡ªthe material itself more than makes up for the lack of elegance in a few of the stanzas.


    I also requisition a hollow titanium pole to form Heartseeker¡¯s new shaft, some gold wire so I can re-do the wording of the poems on my boots and gauntlets, quizik, plenty of incandesite and, because I still have a good deal of honor left, some unrefined hytrigite.


    It takes me several trips to haul all this from the storerooms to my storage chests in the forging hall. It¡¯s extremely crowded in here¡ªall fifty-nine survivors of the expedition have just as much repairing to do as I have, or even more. For the first time ever down here I am forced to wait my turn to get access to a pit, just as I used to have to do ten years ago.


    Nearly eleven years ago now, actually. I remember how shocked I felt when I first came down here, how suddenly those ten years seemed to have vanished. Now, after all that¡¯s been happening, my old life¡ªthe Association of Steel, Wharoth, the brutal examinations, the bloody battles, the trolls, Vanerak¡ªseems like it took place an aeon ago, to another dwarf.


    It was not another dwarf back then, of course. It was me the black dragon tricked, me who caused the awful calamity¡ªwhose exact nature I still do not know, though by the amount of heat I felt in the tunnels I know it was cataclysmic. It was me who committed those crimes and me who must eventually stand trial.


    I hope my contributions down here will end up being a point in my favor. Nthazes will vouch for me, I¡¯m sure¡ªso long as one or both of us do not end up falling to the killer.


    I spot a dwarf leaving his forging pit and quickly claim it. As I haul my materials down a sense of tranquility comes over me. The heat from the furnace, the scent of burning coal, the clang of hammers all around me, and every other aspect of being here is comforting. I feel like I''m home.


    For a runeknight, anywhere with heat, an anvil, metal and tools can be home, no matter which Runethane¡¯s territory it is in or how far below or maybe even above the surface it may be. The forge is where we belong.


    Enough reflection, I tell myself: it¡¯s time for work. I start with the easiest tasks to get my hands and arms supple. Using an ordinary hammer I start to even out the dents in my arm and leg plates. The sound of steel on steel is relaxing after so many dozens of hours spent with tricky titanium: steel is a somehow more honest metal, bending how I want it to bend. The major dents are soon hammered out, so I replace my hammer with a smaller one and start to smooth everything up.


    It¡¯s not an easy process, since one wrong blow can take half a dozen more very careful ones to fix, but it¡¯s far easier than most tasks in the forge. It¡¯s almost soothing, and it ends too quickly.


    Now to repair where the metal has been torn. This requires welding. I heat a rod of steel to white heat and run it along the gashes, back and forth several times for each until I¡¯m satisfied the seal is strong enough not to come apart¡ªthough unfortunately they will still be weak points.


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    Once the welds have cooled I will polish them; for the time being I move on to my gauntlets and boots. The titanium is simple enough to hammer back into its proper shape, and because it¡¯s a naturally more flexible metal, the weakness incurred from all the battering will not be so much as with my steel pieces of armor.


    The runes need a rethink, though. I give my arms and hands a rest and sit down on the steps. It¡¯s time to work with my mind: I frown hard at the thirty poems adorning my gauntlets. My language was definitely too vigorous, too fiery. The one-two rhythm I¡¯ve done for all of them is necessary for speed, but some of the subjects of my metaphors are far too extreme. Does my finger really need to lash out faster than a frog¡¯s tongue?


    Heartseeker needs to go faster than that, as fast as possible, yes, but one finger does not. The way I¡¯ve written the poems, individually, unlinked except for a very loose common theme of speed, is not conducive to precise movement. I come up with a new idea for them¡ªthey¡¯ll be linked by a stronger theme, and I¡¯ll tone down the metaphors. As for my boots, I think if I erase the central jikthet runes¡ªwhich means: lock, hold still, stick fast¡ªfrom the lines that contact the ground when I walk, then remake them using hytrigite for the grafting, some of the poems¡¯ enthusiasm for halting momentum will be kept in check.


    Could that ruin the harmonics, though? I do some calculations, and work out that if I was to graft jikthet with hytrigite, a few of the others will have to be re-grafted too. Do I have enough hytrigite to replace all those runes? Only just¡ªif I mess up the refining process I¡¯ll have to come up with another idea.


    I won¡¯t do any of the rewriting just yet. It¡¯s always best to sleep on these things, see how the runes look in the morning¡ªit¡¯s strange to think that it¡¯s been eleven years since I last saw a morning, watched the orange glow fill Thanerzak''s city from the mirrors above.


    My runic ears are next. I take them off and turn them over in my fingers. The right one is bent halfway, folded in on itself, and the left has been crushed from above. A few garnets are missing, and some of the runes are totally unrecognizable. It¡¯s no wonder they aren¡¯t working, though that hasn¡¯t been so much of a problem with torches and shining weapons set about the place.


    With a pair of pliers I work at straightening out the right ear and un-crumpling the left. The damage is worse than I feared¡ªthey¡¯ll need to be totally remade. I sigh. It won¡¯t be an easy task, yet it¡¯s one I have to prioritize. I need to remake them, and remake them better than ever, before the almergris has been dried enough to be used as a reagent.


    From what I hear, the use of one¡¯s ears is vital when working with it.


    I should have enough titanium for the task. I double check and yes, I should be able to make them out of offcuts from the breastplate and girdle plates. Melted together with some of the failed rings from my chainmail forging, I¡¯ll have enough for a grand pair, though I¡¯ll have to be careful not to introduce any impurities into the metal.


    My fingers and head are starting to ache. That¡¯s enough forging for now¡ªI¡¯m still nowhere near recovered from the expedition, after all.


    Yet I find myself reluctant to pack my things up and leave the pit. Not only does the forge feel like home, but it''s also probably the safest place in the entire fort. While it¡¯s true that the killer struck here before the expedition, now it¡¯s too crowded for him to dare.


    Where, then? Is there a pattern to the locations? Storeroom three times, forges, then on the hunt. No pattern I can see¡ªyet that doesn¡¯t mean I can¡¯t make a prediction about where the next killing will come.


    If it comes before Fjalar is recovered, it will be in the infirmary. If Fjalar is the killer, it¡¯ll come there because it¡¯s all he can reach, and if Galar is the killer, he thinks I suspect him, and will want to cover his tracks. Make sure I¡¯m not able to narrow down who it is.


    Because once I do figure out who it is, my interrogation of him or them will not be a pleasant one.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Reunion and Smelting

    I¡¯m drinking my beer and tucking into a pork and mushroom stew after a long session in the forges¡ªwhere I was trying to figure out how to shape my breastplate and waist plates¡ªwhen I finally get to reunite with Nthazes.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± He hurries toward my table, looking apologetic. ¡°Finally. I¡¯m sorry, I spend nearly all my time down at the Shaft. I volunteered to come up on the relief force, but Hraroth denied me.¡±


    I smile and shake my head. ¡°I¡¯ve heard. No need to apologize. I¡¯m just glad nothing happened to you down here.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m glad you made it out of all that unscathed.¡±


    He sits down and takes off his helmet. He looks tired, with dark bags under his eyes from a lack of sleep. His eyes are red, too, and his skin looks a little grayish; his beard is also unkempt when usually it¡¯s neatly combed. Makes sense: he must be on duty nearly constantly.


    ¡°It was a nightmare,¡± I tell him. ¡°Though I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve already heard all about it.¡±


    ¡°From several. Thirty-one dead?¡± He shakes his head. ¡°I can barely believe it. Was down at the Shaft when the Runethane spoke to you all, but we had a chance to see the bodies for ourselves before they were interred. Unbelievable.¡±


    ¡°I suppose no one here has ever seen death on that scale before.¡±


    ¡°Apart from you, no. I suppose you¡¯re used to the kind of chaos you faced up there¡ªI guess it wasn¡¯t just luck that you survived.¡±


    ¡°It was mostly luck. If I¡¯d been in squad six...¡±


    ¡°Horrible. And on top of everything else... The killer.¡±


    I look around. The meal hall is less crowded than usual, because the forge hall is so busy, and we¡¯re relatively separated from the other dwarves supping here. Even so, I make sure to lower my voice.


    ¡°I¡¯ve narrowed it down,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°The suspects? To whom?¡±


    ¡°Fjalar and Galar.¡±


    ¡°Those two? Why them?¡±


    ¡°Didn''t you hear? Utlock was lying next to Fjalar when he was killed. And Galar was standing guard over his brother too.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°I didn''t hear that detail. We shouldn¡¯t discuss that here, though.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°But I understand why you¡¯re so eager to tell me. That is suspicious, especially considering how Galar confronted you that time.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not clean-cut. There¡¯s a few problems, things we¡¯ll have to puzzle out. When can you come down to the forges with Jaemes?¡±


    ¡°Are you sure that¡¯s the best place? Rumors and suspicion will start to pick up again soon, I¡¯m sure of it. I don¡¯t think the three of us should be seen together.¡±


    ¡°The forges are the only place we won¡¯t be overheard.¡±


    ¡°What about our quarters? They¡¯re off limits; no one will be there.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t we get caught?¡±


    ¡°Not if Belthur comes through. His friend, Lothan, was up on the expedition with you, do you remember?¡±


    ¡°Yes. He fell and broke his legs.¡±


    ¡°Neither are too happy about how the expedition went. Belthur¡¯s been vocal about it, even complaining to Hraroth. The commander shut him down, of course¡ªthough not as strongly as he might have. Anyway, what I¡¯m saying is: they¡¯re not happy with the Runethane and his decrees. I¡¯ve talked to them, and they¡¯ve agreed to cover for us if we want to undertake any rule-breaking of our own.¡±


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    ¡°Really? That¡¯s good news¡ªif you¡¯re sure we can trust them.¡±


    ¡°I think we can. And if you come up with any plausible ideas, I want to share them with Belthur, Lothan, and the rest of their group as well.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. We¡¯ll see how good you think my theories are first. I don¡¯t want to risk anyone getting falsely accused. If such a thing got back to the Runethane...¡±


    ¡°I understand. He¡¯s been... I won¡¯t say here. Anyway, we¡¯ll see what Jaemes thinks about your ideas too.¡±


    He grabs a beer mug and some cold stew for himself and we raise our voices to talk about forging, partly to alleviate suspicion¡ªhim coming here, whispering to me, then leaving straight away would be sure to raise eyebrows¡ªbut also simply because I want advice for my crafting. He¡¯s already said all he can about the amulet, but I also have a few questions about how best to do my breastplate, and many about how best to remake my runic ears.


    He launches into a complex lecture about how the runes alter the air that runs over them, going into deep detail about how minor variations in stroke size can cause counterintuitive effects, and also recommends that I use ruby and sapphire as well as garnet, if I can afford it.


    I''ve already spent too much of my honor, unfortunately.


    For my side of the conversation, I give a full account of what happened up with the white jelly. There isn¡¯t much he hasn¡¯t already heard, but he seems to find my point of view valuable all the same. I make sure especially to give him plenty of detail about the twins and the circumstances of the killing. He nods thoughtfully. I hope he¡¯ll uncover some detail or oddity I¡¯ve missed.


    We finish our beers and our meals and say goodbye to each other; he heads back to the Shaft with one group and I have a quick sleep. When I wake up, there¡¯s a few dwarves ready to go down to the forges and so I travel down with them.


    The fort seems deathly quiet without my runic ears equipped. It¡¯s slightly unnerving, frankly. After spending so long becoming attuned to the shape of the walls and how each turn sounds, suddenly not being able to hear it all disorientates me, despite the fact I can find my way perfectly well with my torch.


    New runic ears will be welcome, both as a replacement for sight when it¡¯s too dark or bright for my eyes, and a supplement to my sight when it isn¡¯t. And I need them for my forging as well, of course. Especially if we¡¯re going to be using almergris.


    That was another subject I brought up to Nthazes back there. How it¡¯s used, and why it¡¯s so dangerous.


    It is blinding. Hold your gaze on hot almergris for just half a second, and the shape of the rune you are grafting will be burnt into your eye near permanently. A full second, or maybe just three quarters of a second, and the damage will be fully permanent.


    Not looking would seem the simple solution: but it burns hotter than incandesite and sparks terribly if you touch it the wrong way. You must be able to see or hear what you are doing precisely, so if your runic ears aren''t well-crafted enough for you to hear down to the millimeter scale, mutilation is certain.


    I arrive in the forges, wait impatiently for my turn, then finally get to descend into the comforting warmth. I lay out my titanium sheets and, after thinking on Nthazes advice, make a final decision about the shape of my breastplate and the plates that¡¯ll hang around my waist.


    After cutting the basic shapes out, I set them aside. It¡¯s the offcuts I want right now. I scrub them very thoroughly in water, do the same with the rejected rings of chainmail I have from when I made my gauntlets. Offcuts and rings both go into a large crucible. All this time, the furnace has been heating up to as hot as it will go, and I place the crucible right at the back nearest the flames.


    While the metal is melting, I inspect my broken runic ears once more. There¡¯s definitely room to improve my technique. The way I designed the whorls was good enough for a beginner, but thanks to the advanced information Nthazes has given me to think about, and all my observations of the other runeknights¡¯ ears throughout my time down here, I can see a dozen better ways I could have crafted them.


    I inspect the crucible and see that the titanium has become a glowing yellow liquid. I heat a polished stone mold, shallow and square, then pour the metal into it, making sure the layer is as smooth as possible. It mustn¡¯t cool unevenly, so I place the flat lid that goes with the mold over the top.


    Tensely, I wait. Re-using metal was considered a bit beneath the dwarves up in Thanerzak¡¯s realm, for if you were a successful runeknight, you really ought to have had enough money to simply buy more. Any offcuts were donated back to the smelteries, or else sold for a pittance to common metalworkers to make cutlery and trinkets for children out of.


    As such, I¡¯ve never actually smelted anything before, though I¡¯m familiar with the process. When I take off the lid, I breath a sigh of relief. The sheet seems to be smooth and even in color. I turn the still-hot sheet out and hold it up to inspect further.


    Looks fine. I wipe my sweaty brow. There doesn¡¯t seem to be any obvious impurities. Probably it isn''t as strong as stuff made at a proper, industrial smeltery under the watchful eyes of someone who really knows their business, but runic ears are delicate anyway, and besides, the main function of them comes from their runes.


    I divide the rectangle into two triangles and lay them down next to each other. I take out some quizik, incandesite, the gold wire that will become the runes, and two dozen garnets. I look over everything and rub my hands together. This¡¯ll be a tough job, requiring all of my concentration.


    Hopefully my worries about the killer won¡¯t distract me.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Polishing for Perfection

    I pick up the two triangles that are to become my ears and suddenly doubt myself. It¡¯s been too long since I crafted something. Shouldn¡¯t my first attempt after such a long, stressful break be something simpler? Repairing the basic shape of my boots and gauntlets hardly counts as forging, after all, and my ears need to be perfectly symmetrical. I remember just how difficult crafting my last pair was.


    Yes, I should save these for later. I¡¯ll do my waist plates first; I put down the triangles and pick up the larger half ovals. There are eight, three for my front, three for my back, and one each for the sides. Each apart from the front and back central ones will be curved down its vertical to fit around me neatly. They will protect me from my lower belly nearly down to my knees.


    I start on the side plates first. I place the first on the anvil, with one half leaning off the edge, and begin to cold hammer it roughly into shape. The clang of hammer on titanium rings in my ears, slightly muffled because of the protective cloth on the anvil. Vibrations shiver through my fingers, waking up my muscles, and blow by blow my strikes become smoother.


    One half becomes evenly curved, then the other. I hold the plate to my hip to make sure it¡¯ll be a good fit. I think it will, though I''ll only be sure once they''re all done and linked together. I do the opposite side plate then compare the two.


    They¡¯re not symmetrical; the left is a little more harshly curved than the right. I sigh. Though being in the forge does feel like being at home, it can be a frustrating place to live.


    I lay them aside and start work on the four that¡¯ll go between side and center plates. Only half of each needs to be curved¡ªfor example, the front left one will be curved at the left so it can overlap the left side-plate, but its right side will be straight to neatly overlap the middle plate.


    My hammer-arm is beginning to grow heavy, and my fingers are starting to ache from the vibrations humming through them. Sweat drips into my eyes and I blink it out, wipe off my brow and soggy beard. My clothes are damp and sticking to my skin, and I can hear my breath becoming ragged.


    I take a draught of lukewarm water. It¡¯s not very refreshing. I consider resting but resist the urge. Endurance is a vital attribute for a runeknight: one can never have enough of it.


    I pick up two plates at a time, push them against my waist to see which fit best with the curve of my body. The right side-plate and back right corner plate seem the most snug, and still seem that way when I equip my leg plates. They go neatly against the armor. Maybe a little too neatly. I try the left side-plate, but it¡¯s too harshly curved to fit well.


    Very carefully I make the curve of the right plates a tiny bit wider, fit them again. Perfect¡ªhopefully. I take another few gulps of lukewarm water, stretch my hands and arms, crack my shoulders and neck, and start hammering the other plates to make them even with the two best-fitting ones.


    The work is not only exhausting on my arms and fingers, but also on my eyes. They start to twinge with all the effort of making everything even. It¡¯s not good enough to just place one on top of the other, like stacking bowls, to make sure their curvature is the same¡ªsuch a primitive method done with pieces as big as these can fail to reveal all sorts of inadequacies of form.


    Eventually I finish hammering them. Each is still rough, beaten, with a hundred different slight bumps and depressions that must be evened out, but they¡¯re symmetrical enough for the next stage.


    My hands are shaking and every muscle of my arm feels like it¡¯s been itself beaten with a hammer, so I call it a day¡ªthough I¡¯m honestly not sure how long a day even is anymore.


    After a sleep and meal, and another sleep to heal some of the stiffness from my arms and hands, I¡¯m back in the forge. Each plate will be linked to the ones over or underlapping it as well as a thick leather belt which will go underneath them all, so it¡¯s time to make some holes.


    With a hand drill, I carefully carve out three holes along the tops of each plate. This is a harder process than it might seem at first glance, for each hole must be even sided and smooth. Although the size and evenness of each hole won¡¯t affect the structural integrity of the metal in any way, it¡¯s a fact that the more perfect a plate is, the better the runes will take to it.


    My eyes flick to the triangles that are to become my runic ears, and I feel slightly nervous. Was my smelting really pure enough? The runes on them are going to have to be extremely precise, more precisely made than any I¡¯ve crafted so far, and when making something with such fine details, even the smallest unevenness or impurity can cause disproportionate harm to the final craft.


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    I refocus myself. Those can be inspected later, melted down and re-smelted if necessary. After at least an hour of drilling, the holes in my waist plates are complete. I thread leather through to link them and wrap them around myself.


    The fit is more or less perfect, and should be completely perfect once the titanium fasteners are done, since they¡¯ll be a bit tighter than the leather, which I now untie.


    It¡¯s time to turn these roughly beaten plates¡ªroughly to my eyes, at least, they¡¯re smooth as still water compared to my first couple sets of armor¡ªinto pieces I¡¯ll be proud to walk around in.


    I begin to hammer with tiny, light strokes. My eyes strain to look for the smallest imperfections, the tiniest bends in my reflection. After doing one, my vision is slightly blurry. After another hour on the next, my vision is properly blurry, like I¡¯ve had too much bad beer, and the whites of my eyes have become a bloody red in my reflection. I rub them and sit down on the steps.


    The plates are not quite smooth enough; I can feel it, even if I can no longer see it. Seeing with sound, that¡¯s what I need to do. I pick up the smoothed one and tap it with a chiming rod. The ring is very slightly uneven. Very gently, I brush my fingers along it. There¡¯s some imperfections, extremely slight. Worryingly, I think the left side of it might be half a degree more curved than the right, but I can¡¯t tell for sure.


    Am I being too perfectionist? No. A runeknight quests for perfection; that¡¯s his¡ªor her, if you¡¯re not down here¡ªfinal goal for each piece, even though very few can ever reach it. If there¡¯s a way I can make the plates more even, improve the runic harmonics just a fraction, I must take it.


    And that way is to forge my new runic ears. That¡¯s how I can gain perfection. I need to quit putting off the hardest work and instead commit myself to it.


    I swap the half-done waist plates for the two hand-sized, unpolished triangles. First, I must check again for imperfections. I wet a cloth and place it over my eyes, lie back to try and relax them. Then I climb out of the forging pit and stand directly under one of the ancient maces hanging from the ceiling.


    Trying to ignore the sense of disgust that comes from seeing this ancient and beautiful weapon being treated as nothing more than a chandelier, I hold the triangles up to the bright light for inspection. One side is slightly duller than the other, but it doesn¡¯t seem to be scratched in any way. This puzzles me.


    Was there a gap between metal and lid? A slight one, of course, since the titanium shrank slightly while it cooled. But this shouldn¡¯t have affected the color. I go to my storage and bring the mold to my forging pit, inspect it.


    I curse. So that¡¯s what¡¯s gone wrong. There¡¯s a slight layer of dust on it. When preparing the mold I cleaned it thoroughly, but I must have neglected to clean the inside of the lid enough.


    Maybe I should have let the metal cool in the crucible, then heated and hammered out the resulting cylinder. I was worried that if I did that, I wouldn¡¯t get an even square. Looking back I suppose I could have just sanded any unevenness away.


    Fortunately, the impurities are only on one side. I nod confidently. A good, harsh polish should remove the dust embedded into the metal. It¡¯ll make the sheet a fraction of a millimeter thinner, of course, but as long as the polish is even this won¡¯t affect how the ears work.


    So this is how I spend most of the rest of the session: polishing until my hands are numb and my wrists and forearms are cramping. I nearly stop there, but decide I might as well even up the sides too. I place the triangles together in the vise and polish the edges until they are perfectly straight, or at least as straight as I can get them with my senses unaugmented.


    I wonder how the senior runeknights up above made their crafts so perfect. None ever used runic ears, nor did I ever see anything like runic eyes. Maybe it¡¯s just a century¡¯s worth of instinct. Something else too, perhaps. There must be many closely guarded techniques I¡¯ve never been privy to¡ªdown here also. I certainly don¡¯t think Nthazes has given me his full knowledge of how to forge runic ears, though this is likely because he doesn¡¯t think I¡¯m ready to understand, rather than because he¡¯s jealous of his secrets.


    After another good couple of hours polishing, I judge that the impurities are gone, and I prepare to start the curling process. I¡¯m only two strikes of my hammer in when I hear shouting from up above:


    ¡°Look! Look!¡±


    I rush out my pit at the same time everyone else rushes from theirs. A tight crowd presses around me; I can¡¯t see anything but a sea of sweaty hair and the occasional helmet. I''m pushed forward, shoved back, get my toes stomped on as dwarves try to make their way either to the commotion or away from it. I shove forward¡ªif there¡¯s been a killing, I need to know who¡¯s there.


    I hear more yelling from the front, then crying.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I ask the dwarf in front. ¡°I can¡¯t see!¡±


    ¡°Neither. What¡¯s going on?¡± he asks the dwarf in front of him.


    Eventually my question, and doubtless many copies of it, filters to the front, and the answer filters back. No killing, apparently. A tenth degree just thought he saw a shadow and collapsed in shock. He¡¯s already being helped up to the meal hall for some strong beers and calming words.


    The crowd disperses. I shake my head, go back to my forging pit, then decide to call it a day¡ªor a session, or something. I need a drink myself, and another good sleep.

 Dwarves of the Deep: A Risk with the Runes

    ¡°At any rate, Nthazes thinks we can trust them,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Yes, but will they trust anything I have to say? That¡¯s what I¡¯m worried about. You may not have realized this, but I¡¯ve never exactly been liked. An object of interest for some time, yes, at least until they decided I was rather less interesting than a new kind of alloy or hammer, and since then opinions of me have varied from neutral and suspicion.¡±


    ¡°If Nthazes backs you, they¡¯ll trust you through him. He¡¯s well-respected, even if you and I aren¡¯t.¡±


    Jaemes takes a swig of beer and shrugs. ¡°Maybe. Though I fear that by associating with us, the respect the others have for him might diminish.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a risk I think we have to take. I¡¯m not sure about them either, but we need all the allies we can get. And the dwarves here aren¡¯t as united a group as you seem to think they are. Especially after the expedition.¡± I lower my voice right down. ¡°There¡¯s criticism of the two commanders, you know. Even of the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. Though I¡¯d question your assumption that more allies equals a greater chance of success. Maybe it¡¯s just the arrogant academic in me talking, but I find that doing things alone often leads to better results than collaboration with a bunch of fools.¡±


    I scowl at him. ¡°Belthur and his friends aren''t any more foolish than Nthazes and I have been. Unless you think we¡¯re fools too.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I apologize. I didn''t mean to imply the two of you are fools. All I¡¯m trying to say is that more doesn¡¯t always mean better.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Understood. I still think we could do with the help, though.¡±


    ¡°Then I leave the decision up to you.¡±


    We talk a bit more: he asks how my forging is going, in a tone that suggests he¡¯s just asking out of politeness¡¯ sake, and I ask a few questions about the surface world, which he is happy to ramble on about for rather a long time. According to him, if you stay out in the sun too long it can burn you just like fire. I find this quite difficult to believe, since he also says the sun is theorized to float many thousands of miles above the world, but he swears that if I was to go out into the sunlight unarmored, my exposed skin would turn red and start to peel off.


    It¡¯s only when I get to the forges that I realize I forgot to ask how many days I''ve been down here. This unnerves me a little; I worry that I¡¯m forgetting about my old life, my past sins I must face in the future.


    There might be no future for me if I don¡¯t get these new runic ears perfect, however, so I focus. I pick up my hammer and begin to curl the right one in on itself into a pointed ear shape, zhik-galyoth.


    There¡¯s advantages and disadvantages to making your runic ears pointy. They can get chipped or bent more easily, but can also pick up on sounds from further away, and also are more sensitive to higher tones. This latter benefit will be useful to my crafting.


    Once the right one is done and fairly even, I curl the left one. I examine them to make sure they¡¯re both approximately the same shape, and I¡¯m pleased to see that they look better by far than my first pair of ears looked at this stage. I¡¯ve improved at my hammering almost without noticing it.


    This is a bit easier than doing the waist-plates, since the ears are much smaller.


    I pick up the chiming rod to begin the process of evening out the imperfections. I tap, listen, feel, hammer subtly, repeat. I¡¯ve done this process often enough that I feel like I¡¯m in a trance, my hands and senses working of their own accord.


    But, just like with my waist-plates, I know I¡¯m missing out on details. I think back to when I made my boots. I also used a combination of sight, sound and feel to make sure the plates were well-formed, but I was wearing my runic ears then. The sound had more subtle tone to it: I remember a sort of melody that I can only pick up the barest traces of now.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    It¡¯s frustrating; these ears won¡¯t be as good as they should be. Each pair of runic ears a runeknight down here forges is better than the last not only because their forging improves in general, but also because with each pair they make they can listen to the metal better, pick up on more detail. Each is a rung on the ladder to perfection¡ªa phenomenon that doesn¡¯t happen when forging helmets or spears, since those are just equipment, not tools and equipment in one.


    I grimace. Well, I¡¯ll just have to get mine as symmetrically smooth as I can. They¡¯re sure to be better than my last pair, at least, so long as I don¡¯t mess up any of the next steps. And I¡¯m sure that with them I can make the waist-plates and breastplates a good deal better than my last ones.


    After a few more sessions¡ªeach of many hours¡ªof perfecting the symmetry of my ears, I¡¯m ready to make the whorls.


    Nthazes suggested that, instead of fitting a secondary structure into my ears to be the whorls, I make creases in the titanium instead, since it takes runes to it much better than the steel I forged my last ears out of.


    It¡¯s painstaking. My fingers are shivering with tension with each tap I make. I couldn¡¯t do this if I didn''t have the skill at shaping titanium I¡¯ve built up over hundreds of hours. The most minor error leads to two dozen more careful taps to shift the metal back into place. The length of each crease must be totally precise down to the sub-millimeter¡ªbetween sessions I ask if I can borrow a magnifying lens, and get blank stares. So I try to use sound to make sure the whorls I¡¯ve creased into the titanium is even, but the notes are too complex for me to decipher clearly.


    I curse blackly. If only my previous ears weren¡¯t ruined.


    I entertain the thought that after this second pair is done, I might use them to help me make a third pair. I fear I don¡¯t have the time. Maybe once the other pieces of armor are done, and the runes on my boots and gauntlets altered. But by then the almergris will likely be ready.


    At least the shape of the creases is relatively simple. The vibrations of air will be channeled down a pattern that looks like the spokes of a wheel toward the induction point. Calling them spokes doesn¡¯t quite do them justice¡ªthey twist and curve around where the garnets will be placed¡ªyet they are not overly-complicated.


    Once the creases are finally done, it is time to engrave the garnets and place them in. I¡¯m not making any major changes to how I did them last time, since trying to change everything about the way you craft all at once often leads to disaster.


    The gold runes I¡¯m grafting onto the titanium are a little different, though. Same script, mostly the same runes and kinds of lines: about the gentle flow of air through the caverns, with an underlying theme of change leading to sweet, moving music. Yet the size of the runes will diminish in parts and heighten, stretch, or thicken in others. I was always told this was a bad thing to do, and certainly no dwarves in Thanerzak''s realm did this, but I trust Nthazes. His runic ears employ the same technique, after all¡ªthough very subtly.


    I strive to be subtle myself when bending the gold wire, and soon find that it¡¯s much easier to make everything the same size, than to make one rune exactly a fifth of a millimeter smaller than the first, and the next one exactly a fifth of a millimeter smaller than that. I find myself accidentally twisting the runes the wrong way, putting the finer strokes at odd angles.


    I step back from my work and scratch my head.


    Hastat-khalte-jikhol-lhokhe-forthil.


    A line stating that the flow of air through a curling tunnel can transmit much knowledge and emotion, though it doesn¡¯t actually state that, because the second and fourth runes, which mean ¡®know-how-to-bring-to-close¡¯ and ¡®heart-open-to-new-senses¡¯, I¡¯ve managed to alter into two that might mean mind and soul.


    Might, because I don¡¯t actually recall ever seeing them before. I remember Wharoth¡¯s words about me having created new runes. My stomach turns; my heart beats harder. I want to dismiss it, but when this kind of thing happens, I really can¡¯t.


    I sit down on the steps and think hard. This leaves me a decision: I know the proper form of those two runes, so should I fix them, or should I leave them be? If there''s some deeper meaning to my unconscious alterations, perhaps they will be more effective. If they¡¯re just wrong, my craft could be ruined.


    Salterite is hard to use, after all. I don¡¯t think I have the skill to apply it well to such a delicate craft as this.


    I look at Heartseeker. Its runes are oddly twisted as well, hinting at meanings beyond their strict denotations. And it, by all accounts, is an extremely effective weapon.


    So I decide to keep the runes on my ears as is. The grafting goes well¡ªI use an even mix of quizik and incandesite for both ease of use and power¡ªthen heat and quench in warm water. Titanium doesn¡¯t need as extreme a heat differential as steel did, so this part of the process is less nerve-wracking than it was with my first set of ears.


    Once they cool, it''s time to try them on. I pick them up with trepidation, suddenly thinking that to leave the runes with mistakes in was a terrible error, that I¡¯ve ruined my craft, thrown dozens of hours of work into the latrines.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Undeniable Power

    My fears prove unfounded: the moment I put the runic ears to my natural ones, I am bathed in sound¡ªmulti-layered sound of nearly twice as much complexity as I could hear with my last pair. For a few seconds I am disorientated; the forging pit spins around me. I remember to close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths.


    The way the air twists and vibrates around me resolves into shapes. I can hear the forms of the maces hanging from the ceiling as the clang of hammers rebounds from them. Each clang is different¡ªI can tell that the dwarf in the forging pit to the left of me is hammering steel, and the one to the right is crafting out of titanium. It¡¯s like the sounds have color to them that I could only vaguely sense before, but is now as clear to me as the difference between orange and green.


    I test the ears how I tested my first pair. I spin around and check if I can tell where the anvil is. I can. I stretch my hand out to different objects to test if they are really where they sound to be. They are. What¡¯s more, I can make out detail on them¡ªrather fine detail. I can, with much concentration, read the runes on Heartseeker. This is impressive because runes, once grafted, are joined to metal extremely smoothly.


    Feeling relieved and very pleased with myself, I walk up out of the forging pit and listen around. I can tell where each pit is just as clearly as I can with my eyes, and I can even tell which have their furnaces turned up to high and which to low¡ªthe hotter the air the faster it is rising and this alters the pitch of the hammers'' clangs.


    Yet there is something off about all this. The transfer of sound to ears seems smoother than with my last pair¡ªno, that¡¯s not it.


    The transfer of sound to my mind feels smoother, which is odd because I¡¯m reusing the sound-induction garnets from my last pair. In theory, although I¡¯m hearing the sound in greater detail, it shouldn¡¯t be getting into my ears and from there, mind, any easier.


    I return to the forging pit and take my ears off. I examine the runes carefully and immediately see the reason for this effect.


    My chest clenches.


    It wasn¡¯t just that one line I inadvertently altered. In most of the lines are runes I have never seen before¡ªand though some are just slight variations on the familiar, others are so far removed from what I¡¯m used to they look like part of a different script.


    They have not been changed at random. It seems that I chose very particular ones to alter, so that the subtext of the interlinked poems is not how the changing flows of air make music, but instead is about what lies beneath the music. That notes have a depth of spirit to them is what I have written.


    Written without even knowing I was doing it.


    I place the runic ears face down and stagger back, sit down heavily on the steps. My breathing is fast and ragged. My minds whirls¡ªI can¡¯t process the shock. Never until now have I truly believed myself capable of creating new runes¡ªthe very concept is absurd¡ªyet here they are.


    No longer can I brush off the truth, pretend Wharoth was wrong and he mistook some minor misalignments for runes truly original. No longer can I pretend that the runes jauseth and hyeoli on my boots are exactly as written in the runic dictionaries. They are new runes; all my crafts are covered in new runes; I can no longer deny this.


    I try to calm myself. Surely this is a good thing, after all. My runic ears are more effective than they would be otherwise.


    But effectiveness is not the issue. What terrifies me is how I¡¯ve written these runes unconsciously¡ªdespite the fact that while I was writing them, my entire attention was on making each one as neat and as accurate as I could.


    How could I not notice changing them? Were they somehow changed after I shaped them, in the grafting process? Is some strange entity hovering over my shoulder, twisting the runes when heat is applied? Such an idea seems absurd.


    The whole situation is absurd. Runes are discovered, not created¡ªnot anymore.


    <hr>


    I put my concerns about runes to the back of my mind. The killer is the bigger worry here. Only once he¡¯s dealt with can I devote attention to other mysteries.


    Nthazes managed to persuade Belthur¡¯s group to cover for us while we sneak off. So right now we are doing just that: sneaking up the corridors away from the bright light of Belthur¡¯s and his friends¡¯ maces, into darkness no one has entered since the double murder of Danak and Yalthaz. We walk very slowly so that our footsteps make no noise.


    ¡°This is unnerving,¡± I mutter. ¡°If the killer does turn out to be some kind of shadow, this is where it¡¯d lurk.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve already dismissed that theory,¡± Jaemes whispers. ¡°There¡¯s no need to bother frightening yourself. There¡¯s no one here.¡±


    ¡°And if there is, they¡¯re just another rule-breaker,¡± Nthazes whispers. ¡°No one to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Nothing to worry about.¡±


    Nthazes mace is wrapped in several layers of cloth so that its brightness is nearly totally dimmed, and Jaemes does not carry his lantern. We do not want any hint of our presence to show when we cross corridors that lead to inhabited areas of the fort. The merest flash could set off suspicion and send a troop of anxious runeknights chasing after us.


    It¡¯s fortunate, then, that my runic ears are working as intended. I can hear the murmur of distant footsteps, sense the rough texture of the walls, understand how the slow flow of stagnant air is being disrupted by our passage. Occasionally I catch what seems like a word, a vibration undisrupted through its long travels to end up caught in my ears.


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    Worrying: if my imperfect runic ears can detect very faded voices from very far away, who¡¯s to say we won¡¯t be heard? Who¡¯s to say our hushed conversations in the meal hall haven¡¯t been heard already? I get the feeling I¡¯ve been too incautious recently.


    I raise this concern to Nthazes.


    ¡°If you can hear words, it¡¯s because they were spoken somewhere the air was very still. And even with runic ears it¡¯s hard to eavesdrop in the crowded meal hall. Trust me, everyone tries. And if they did hear, they¡¯ll have heard plenty of other similar conversations. There¡¯s no need to worry.¡±


    ¡°Still, I think all our discussions should be done far from anyone else now. Even the more innocuous seeming ones.¡±


    Nthazes nods. ¡°Very well.¡±


    Before long we make it to Jaemes¡¯ quarters. The door creaks as he opens it. We creep in and he shuts it behind us. He sits on the bed; we remain standing so that we¡¯re all eye-level with each other. Nthazes takes a layer of blanket off his mace so we have at least a little illumination.


    ¡°So,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s begin.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s,¡± says Jaemes.


    ¡°Do you need to hear about the killing on the expedition again? Or should we get straight into possible explanations?¡±


    ¡°I think we should hear it once more,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Just in case there¡¯s any details Jaemes and I have forgotten.¡±


    ¡°All right then.¡±


    I tell them once more about what happened on the top level, as well as about Fjalar¡¯s behavior on the journey up: making foolish jokes, totally ignoring the sincerity and danger of the situation. I also make sure to emphasize how somber Galar became when he was standing over his injured twin.


    ¡°And you¡¯re sure those were his exact words?¡± Jaemes asks.


    ¡°Yes. He said: ¡®He¡¯s my brother, even if we don¡¯t always get along. It¡¯s my duty to help him.¡¯¡±


    Jaemes nods thoughtfully. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I simply can¡¯t wrap my head around those two,¡± I confess. ¡°They seemed to hate each other when they were working together, hate each other even more when they were split up¡ªbarely talking to each other¡ªand now this sudden protectiveness.¡±


    ¡°Families are like that. They fight about trivial things, but when life and death are on the line they tend to stick together.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just how they behave toward each other, though. Take their smithing. Their equipment is just good enough, but I¡¯ve seen their experiments. Surely they have the knowledge to create something better. Why won¡¯t they do that and sit the exam for sixth?¡±


    ¡°Exam?¡± Nthazes looks confused for a moment. ¡°Oh. We don¡¯t have them down here.¡±


    I try to recall: yes, I think he¡¯s told me that before. ¡°Then why don¡¯t they do whatever you have in place of them?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. I can guess, though. To move up a degree you present a piece of equipment to the Runethane, the chamberlain, or another first degree. They judge what degree it¡¯s worth and you¡¯re moved up. But I think the twins are too proud to present something they regard as dull. They see themselves as pioneers. Galar¡¯s weapon of light is to be a trident, you said, right? They see making anything ordinary as beneath them.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s stupid. If they had better equipment they could win more honor, gain access to better materials.¡±


    ¡°I agree. It¡¯s conjecture, though. I¡¯ve never had much to do with them.¡±


    ¡°Have they...¡± Jaemes scratches his head. ¡°I want to ask if they¡¯ve been down here long. How old they are... What degree were you when they first came to the fort?¡±


    ¡°They were here when I came.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± I say in surprise. ¡°They seem younger than you, somehow.¡±


    ¡°Age doesn¡¯t always lead to wisdom,¡± Jaemes says wryly. ¡°Just look at me, spending my time down here when, really, I could leave at any time.¡±


    ¡°Wisdom isn¡¯t the issue here. Come to think of it, them being seventh for so long is downright disturbing. They must both have well-crafted amulets of unaging. That proves they could be far above seventh if they wanted to be.¡±


    ¡°With advancement comes responsibility,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Somehow I don¡¯t think either of them want much of that. They want to play.¡±


    ¡°Why kill, then?¡± says Jaemes. ¡°Assuming for the moment one or both of them are killers. Why would they want to plunge the fort into chaos?¡±


    We all think deeply for a few minutes.


    ¡°Perhaps they¡¯re just bored with the status quo,¡± I suggest. ¡°Need some excitement.¡±


    Nthazes shakes his head. ¡°That¡¯s not a good enough motive.¡±


    ¡°Cruelty can be a motive.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re not that cruel though. Childish yes, but I¡¯ve never known either to actively hurt someone¡ªexcluding each other, that is.¡±


    ¡°The weapon has to be key,¡± Jaemes says. ¡°One forged something terrible and is putting it to the test.¡±


    ¡°Surely one test would be sufficient,¡± I point out. ¡°And I¡¯m beginning to think it wasn¡¯t a weapon they killed with. Fjalar had nothing on him when we stripped off his armor. And Galar would¡¯ve been noticed if he¡¯d turned around to stab Utlock. The wounded were never left alone.¡±


    ¡°We should ascribe nothing to unknown forces. That¡¯s a mistake for the Runethane to make. Best to assume it was a weapon.¡±


    ¡°The darkness is an unknown force. Maybe the rumors are more accurate than we care to think. Maybe it has taken one of them over, gifted them with its abilities.¡±


    ¡°The killer kills in a different way to the darkness,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Jaemes pointed that out to the Runethane before, I do believe. The darkness never leaves a wound. Nor does it drain blood¡ªjust life.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no runes that kill like that either. Not that I know of.¡±


    ¡°Nor me. But a wound does suggest a weapon. By the shape of their wounds, a thin dagger seems likely.¡±


    ¡°If only we could find it. We need evidence. Information. Anything.¡±


    ¡°I could search the infirmary,¡± Jaemes suggests. ¡°I¡¯ve already been down several times to put my knowledge of your physiology to good use. I can make sure Fjalar really does have nothing on him.¡±


    ¡°Sounds risky,¡± I say. ¡°If he really might be the killer.¡±


    ¡°Risks are inevitable, as you¡¯ve already told me.¡±


    ¡°True. Then I¡¯ll risk talking to Galar again. He still owes me his life, after all, and maybe Fjalar¡¯s too.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep communicating with Belthur,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Him or one of his friends are sure to pick up on something eventually. Even if it¡¯s just new rumors.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re sure we can trust them,¡± Jaemes says.


    ¡°We can. I know Belthur; he¡¯s an honest dwarf, and he¡¯s already doing us a favor.¡±


    ¡°Anything else?¡± I ask. ¡°Jaemes, no theories?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Nothing.¡±


    We agree to meet again once we¡¯ve completed our tasks, and return to the inhabited parts of the fort.


    I can¡¯t help but feel disappointed. I¡¯d expected Jaemes or Nthazes to have come up with some ideas about how the killer struck: about how Galar killed without any of the other guards noticing, or how Fjalar might have concealed some devious weapon. Then again, I shouldn¡¯t be too harsh on them: I haven¡¯t come up with any solutions either.


    I¡¯ll just have to see what Galar has to say. And this time my questioning will be very subtle indeed. If all goes to plan, he won¡¯t even realize he¡¯s being questioned.

 Dwarves of the Deep: A Disappointing Craft

    Runic ears complete, I return to forging my waist-plates. Now that I can pick up on subtleties when I ring them with the chiming rod, I¡¯m able to iron out all the minor dents and unevennesses with relative ease. It¡¯s still a tough, oftentimes frustrating process, but I don¡¯t make any major mistakes.


    I heat treat them carefully, and am very happy to see that each comes out the furnace unwarped. Now it¡¯s time for the runes.


    New runes, not ones of abyssal scale. The poems on my old belly-plate and short waist plates are too small to go well on my new armor here. I¡¯ll find a way to utilize them on my breastplate.


    I¡¯ll be using gold and incandesite. I¡¯m not planning to do anything fancy with them: just some regular poems composed of runes of strength, toughness, hardness, and lightness. I want to make something reliable, since these plates are going to be protecting some very vital areas indeed.


    On second thoughts, perhaps gold and incandesite is the wrong choice for them. Silver is a bit calmer. Then again, gold does have good affinity with titanium, and incandesite is the reagent I¡¯m most experienced with.


    I decide to stick with my decision and begin to twist the golden wire into shape, paying more attention than I ever have before to make sure each rune is exactly how I remember it. I think hard on every angle, every length. Every five runes I read back to check the previous ones have not altered on their own.


    I read over the first poem. It¡¯s a twenty-six line, three stanza narrative about a ball of molten steel caught in the current of a river, gaining in strength as it cools and takes hammer-blows from spires of rock. The story is not physically accurate, of course, but it doesn¡¯t need to be. It¡¯s a metaphor for the toughening of metal by hammering and quenching.


    Not a single rune is altered. I double-check each one, running backwards through the poem so I don¡¯t get distracted by my own clever wording and turns of phrase, and am pleased to see that each is exactly as I remember it from the dictionaries. Will they stay that way? Time to see. I brush incandesite onto the reverse of the first rune, position it at the top left of the titanium plate, heat up a rod to white heat, touch the rune with it. The incandesite powder flashes brilliantly¡ªin my runic ears I hear a joyous hiss¡ªand the rune is grafted.


    It is unchanged. I do the next one, and the next. I inhale the scent of molten metal. The strokes stay as I wrought them. One by one I graft each rune until the poem is fully embedded into the titanium.


    Anxiously I read over it once more, and am relieved to see the runes have stayed the same. I let out the breath I¡¯m holding and move on to the next plate. Upon it I inscribe a similar short epic, this time about a stone growing smoother and harder over time as it rolls down a tunnel. The other six also take narratives of the same structure.


    I keep the epics as grounded in reality as I can. They¡¯re not particularly inspiring, but again, I¡¯m aiming for reliability here.


    Over several sessions of many painstaking hours of grafting, all eight plates are complete. I twist some fasteners into shape, polish them, and make sure they¡¯re all exactly the same dimensions. Then I fix the titanium plates both to each other and to a thick belt of leather.


    My craft is done. I try it on, do a few circuits of the forging pit. I tap each plate with a hammer, jog around the anvil half a dozen times. I nod. This armor is serviceable.


    A strange sense of disappointment weighs down on me. I take off the armor, lay it out on the anvil, and read over the poems once more, this time not checking for accuracy in the runes, but just trying to read as another dwarf might, letting my eyes flow along the lines.


    My epics are dull. They¡¯re well-structured, including everything the textbooks say a short epic ought to, yet the turns of phrase I found so clever when drafting them now seem clich¨¦, uninspired. Each tale reads like a facsimile of some better classic. There¡¯s no flair to them, nothing to spark runic energy.


    Well, that¡¯s what I wanted, isn¡¯t it? Reliability, not flair. But all the same this is far from my best work. I run my hands along the lines and the energy within feels somehow lethargic.


    I remember what Nthazes said about my amulet: don¡¯t over-plan your poems, let them flow naturally.


    I look over at the titanium that¡¯s to be my breastplate. Should I take his advice when enruning it? When I add to my poems of abyssal scale, should I forgo checking each rune for accuracy? A cold sweat forms on my brow despite the heat of the forge, for I know that if I let the runes flow as my fingers please, they will warp and alter.


    My runic poems will be better for it. That is for certain¡ªthis uninspired craft proves that. Yet I am fearful of what this strange ability might mean.


    <hr>


    Too fearful of my ability, I don¡¯t return to the forges. Instead I spend my time in the meal hall, drinking and eating and sleeping. Because of my battered armor I can go on no hunts, so I perform other tasks: cleaning, carrying materials, bringing food and water to the wounded. I make myself useful in the kitchens, applying myself to the stewing of meats and vegetables.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    My recipes come out as I intend them.


    I use one worry to dampen the other: I think about the killer. When will he strike next? Where, and most importantly, how?


    I think over the circumstances of Utlock¡¯s killing again and again. I dismiss one theory after another. Could Fjalar have concealed the weapon in his mouth? No, that would''ve been incredibly dangerous, and anyway he was opening and closing his mouth, moaning in pain and trying to talk to us as we bandaged him. Could he have concealed it in a flesh-colored sheath strapped to his leg? No, we would have noticed the bump.


    Perhaps the weapon is not a dagger but a very long, thin sword, and Galar reached back with it to stab Utlock. But that¡¯s also ridiculous¡ªhe couldn¡¯t have concealed such a long weapon. Besides, why would Galar have taken such a risk? It¡¯s not inconceivable that draining Utlock¡¯s blood somehow replenished Fjalar¡¯s, if Fjalar indeed committed his murder. But Galar was in no such life-death situation.


    It¡¯s hard to imagine Galar taking such a risk with dwarves standing all around, especially considering how each murder up until Utlock¡¯s was committed when the victim was alone. Even when he killed two at once, the killer likely struck Yalthaz when Danak was in a different part of the storeroom.


    And methods aside, what¡¯s the ultimate motive behind all this?


    Why take their blood? I presume it¡¯s being stored somewhere¡ªthough what absurdly powerful runes can transport it in an instant from weapon to vessel, I cannot imagine. Unless the killer is using some kind of foul shadow magic to absorb it, but again, why?


    Maybe collecting it to boil down to iron. Yet despite tasting and smelling strongly of the stuff, blood actually contains surprisingly little. Macabre dwarves in ages past have tried and failed at such crafting.


    I sigh and curl deeper into my blankets. My fists clench and unclench as I work myself up to the task I¡¯ve set myself: talk to Galar, soon, with all the deception I''m capable of.


    <hr>


    How soon? I can¡¯t keep putting it off forever, yet I can¡¯t bring myself to go back down to the forges. Each time I try to muster the courage, I find myself turning back into the meal hall for another beer, or walking down to the kitchens to lose myself in the distraction of the pseudo-forging.


    Until one meal I listen in on two dwarves sitting opposite me:


    ¡°The almergris is almost ready, I hear. But are you ready?¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯m damn scared.¡±


    The first speaker is a third degree, I think, or one of the more experienced fourth degrees, and the second is probably ninth or tenth. Eighth at most.


    ¡°Why¡¯s that, then?¡± asks the first speaker.


    ¡°Because I¡¯ve heard the stories, uncle.¡±


    ¡°What stories?¡±


    ¡°You know full well,¡± the nephew snaps. ¡°About dwarves getting their eyes burned out. Those ones.¡±


    ¡°Ah, those ones. Once you forge better ears though, you¡¯ll start to think less of sight. Who knows? Maybe you¡¯ll craft something so good you¡¯ll stop needing your eyes entirely.¡± He laughs darkly.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a joke!¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m just trying to lighten the mood a little. Cheer you up.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a funny way of going about it.¡±


    ¡°Really, though, the danger¡¯s overblown. Blindings are rare.¡±


    ¡°Only because most of us aren¡¯t crazy enough to touch it.¡±


    ¡°Using it is a necessity now.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make me any less nervous. Instead of mocking me for being scared, how about you give some advice?¡±


    "Advice from your old uncle, eh? First I''ve heard you ask for it."


    "Just give me some."


    ¡°All right. Keep your eyes closed.¡± The older runeknight¡¯s tone takes on a more serious tone. ¡°Use a longer heated rod than you¡¯re used to when grafting. Don¡¯t leave the reagent anywhere near the furnace. And keep your eyes closed. I¡¯ll say it three times it¡¯s so important: keep your eyes closed.¡±


    The younger dwarf is silent for a few moments, then he nods. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°And one more thing¡ªdon¡¯t be anxious. Almergris isn¡¯t from a rock. It¡¯s from something alive that died in great pain, killed by none other than us. If it senses weakness, you can bet things will start to go wrong.¡±


    "I''ll be careful."


    "Not careful. Confident."


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I say. ¡°How long... I mean, how ready is the almergris?¡±


    The third degree looks at me, frowns. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean, is it half dry, or three quarters dry, or what?¡±


    ¡°Four fifths, maybe. That¡¯s what I''ve heard.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Abruptly I stand up.


    "Where are you going, up-abover?" the younger dwarf asks suspiciously.


    "Forges. Where else?"


    No longer can I afford to waste time: in the chaos sure to ensue when the mass light-forging begins, there¡¯ll be little time to spend on investigations.


    "That eager to start, eh?" the third degree chuckles.


    "Maybe." I look directly into his eyes and lower my voice. "By the way, I''ve heard a rumor going about, lately."


    "Oh?" he says, cautiously.


    "I''ve heard the new weapons of light are not for purely defensive purposes."


    He shrugs. "Can''t say I''ve heard that one."


    The younger dwarf looks terrified. "What the hell do you mean, up-abover? What rumor?"


    "There''s been talk that we might go down the Shaft."


    The younger dwarf''s eyes widen. His uncle scowls at me.


    "That''s just a rumor. Don''t worry yourselves about it. No one''s been down the Shaft since it was first breached. The Runethane won''t send us down there, no way."


    I detect a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Let the Runes Flow

    Back in the forging pit. It doesn''t feel like home any more. The air is stifling in my throat, the ring of hammers sore in my ears, and the gold wire and boxes of reagent I have left in my storage, for when I looked upon them they seemed to twist and shimmer, and I became dizzy.


    Nevertheless, I am a runeknight and that means I must persist with my forging no matter the challenge. I take up my hammer, lay down the great sheet of titanium that¡¯s to become my breastplate, and begin work.


    I fold it down the middle first, making a rise like a mountain range. A flat breastplate would take the full force of a frontal impact, so making its front angled ensures that even the most devastating frontal strike will become but a glancing blow.


    It¡¯s not easy to form this shape. The curves around where my arms will be, the scalloped part where my three frontal plates will fit, and all the other irregular regions must be carefully bent so no flat regions appear. Once the basic shape is complete, the central rise tapering in a pleasing and a practical manner, it¡¯s time to smooth it. Chime, feel, examine, hammer, repeat. It seems to me that despite the breastplate¡¯s size I finish this part of the process quicker than ever.


    Heat treating proves trickier. I manage to fit it into the furnace, just, but once in I can¡¯t turn it, which I need to do to heat evenly all around. Briefly I consider taking it out then putting it in backwards halfway through. I dismiss this idea: in order to get a properly even heating I also want to be able to turn it sideways.


    This means I need to pack up all my materials, leave this forging pit, and wait for one with a larger furnace to become available. I wait near the top of one, sweaty and tired from all the hammering, until the dwarf within finally finishes and lets me claim it.


    I put in the breastplate and watch and listen carefully. The half nearest the flame turns yellow before the other has even turned orange. I curse¡ªthis forge heats even more unevenly than the others. So I can¡¯t sit there and wait as it heats; instead I have to use a long pair of tongs to manually turn it around and around, and the rough stone surface is definitely scratching it up badly.


    Once I judge it¡¯s been heated enough, I pull it out and let cool. The middle, unfortunately, has not heated as much as the rest, and as a result the whole piece has warped, the edges curling up a little.


    I have to hammer them out slowly and carefully. It¡¯s a challenge¡ªhammering hot metal has a completely different feel to cold hammering. The metal bends almost too easily, and sparks fly at me.


    After a good few hours I¡¯m satisfied. Then I notice that turning it in the furnace has indeed scratched the metal, so I spend another hour¡ªwhat I think might be an hour¡ªpolishing it.


    A sleep, a meal, and one more sleep later, I consider myself rested enough to start on the runes.


    Nervously I open up the box of salterite. Gazing at it brings back memories of mine and Yezakh¡¯s thievery ten years ago. It looks just like the stuff we stole¡ªseveral ugly, sharp-edged, greenish hexagons. I take one out; my skin stings a little despite the thick gloves I¡¯m wearing. I hammer one end to chip some off, then begin to break that chip down into sand. The shards twist apart after each blow. They emit high-pitched notes, halfway between the screams of a distressed child and the shriek of tearing metal.


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    I lay my steel-iron breastplate on the anvil beside the reagent. The runes of abyssal skin gleam blackly upon it. When the light of the furnace¡¯s flame catches one just right, there¡¯s a spark of violet from the hytrigite beneath.


    I shake my head sadly, recalling the terrible effort that went in to forging this armor. The journey to get the hytrigite which I am now going to betray in the most awful manner.


    Although salterite is generally used to simply erase runes, it can also be used to remove them. Again, the reuse of materials was frowned upon in Thanerzak¡¯s realm, so I¡¯ve only ever read about this technique, never seen it demonstrated.


    Hopefully I remember it correctly.


    I turn over my old breastplate and rub it with a damp cloth. Then I take the salterite sand and scatter it over. It dissolves into the water. The iron immediately turns brown and begins to flake away¡ªI hear a scratching, rustling sound. The fine brown powder turns to thin brown smoke that curls up and wafts away into nothingness.


    The salterite reaches the original steel that the runes were grafted to. The entire breastplate begins to vibrate, screeching at a pitch too high for ordinary ears to hear, yet I can hear it¡ªmaybe half the forging hall can hear it too, for it¡¯s loud. Violet sparks leap when the salterite reaches into the hytrigite, destroying it, killing it.


    Twisted lines of black scale begin to show through. I slap my wet cloth over the breastplate and hurry to wipe the salterite away. The first two thirds I¡¯m in time for, but the salterite is more powerful than any acid, and I reach the last lines too late. The abyssal runes crackle and blast apart. Chips of darkness fly upward.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± I shout, not caring who hears me.


    I snatch up the remains of the breastplate¡ªa ragged, hollow square of metal now¡ª and toss it to the ground. It snaps and crumples.


    One by one I turn the freed runes over and examine them for damage. There¡¯s plenty. Most are chipped and pitted in some way. At least abyssal scale has the useful property that scraps of it can be used to repair other runes of the same, so my poems aren¡¯t a total loss. Even so, I¡¯m bitterly annoyed. That material was precious.


    I sit down on the steps and breath deep to compose myself. Maybe this is an opportunity¡ªafter all, the poems were hardly my best work, very inelegant in places. But I¡¯ll need to be very clever to compose something that works with a mixture of two completely different runic materials, two different reagents, and that¡¯s already partway written with half the runes already decided by a less experienced version of myself.


    Not an easy task at all. I rack my brain, and cannot come up with even the first clue about how to start.


    I return to the meal hall, sit down to eat, and still cannot think of anything.


    I sleep, hoping some rest will fire my brain up, and the solution still eludes me.


    I take a long shift in the kitchens, try to free my mind from puzzling so that when I return to the forge I¡¯ll have some fresh ideas, yet my mind refuses to bend to my will, and the steam whirling from the pans looks like runes.


    I sleep again, half-hoping the solution will come to me in a dream, yet my only dreams are of being chased by long shadows, and I wake up in a chill sweat.


    Deciding that there¡¯s nothing for it but to return to the forge, I head down. I stand over the anvil, shifting the abyssal runes around on the steel, filling in the blanks with my mind. I apply salterite to my old belly and waist plates, only losing a couple runes in the process, and add them to my drafts.


    Nothing I compose seems quite right. I sit on the steps and hold my head in my hands.


    I feel my body tremble: deep down, I know exactly what to do.


    I must let the runes flow. Let my poem pour from me, unrestrained. Let my hands shape the runes as they will¡ªchange them into something new.


    Yes, there¡¯s nothing for it but that. Hand trembling, I ready the gold wire, the incandesite, the raw hytrigite. And with only the vaguest idea of what the poem¡¯s structure is to be, what metaphors I am to use, how many stanzas of how many lines of how many runes I¡¯m to create, I begin.

 Dwarves of the Deep: A Brilliant Craft

    The runic poem flies from my hands. Partly it¡¯s still a conscious effort: I decide the rhythm, what poetical devices to include, how many lines there should be, which runes are keystones to be grafted with hytrigite and which will take on a supporting role, the central metaphors. Yet at the same time, it¡¯s unconscious. I do not weigh one choice against the other, instead I simply create what feels best and don¡¯t look back.


    This means some abyssal runes will go unused¡ªno matter. They can be reutilized in future crafts.


    Without going back, with no regard for mistakes or second thoughts, I begin the grafting. Time passes in a blur. I must refine the hytrigite, that most noble and tricky of reagents¡ªI heat the sphere to glowing then it yields to my perfect hammer strokes with no issue.


    I graft the final, keystone runes and stumble back, collapse onto the stairs. My breath is coming fast and hard, my hands are trembling, my vision blurry. My ears are filled by a keening sound, and my mouth tastes of burnt titanium. I shut my eyes for a few moments¡ªmaybe I sleep, I¡¯m not sure. I wake up, stagger to my feet and over to the anvil.


    The poem, inscribed in glossy black and brilliant gold, is shimmering very slightly. Hints of red and violet flash as the glow of furnace plays over the runes. It astounds me¡ªvisually it is symmetrical; the abyssal runes form the shape of a diamond in its center. This is an effect notoriously hard to achieve while still keeping the poem¡¯s meaning and runic functions excellent.


    And the composition is excellent. I read it. Half narrative epic, half philosophical essay, it tells of how endurance against steel and fire can only be achieved through a combination of time and virtue, using the narrative of a dwarf fighting through a horde of troglodytes and trolls as a metaphor for how titanium is smelted, refined, beaten and annealed.


    Several lines are unrhymed, unrhythmed: prose instead of poetry¡ªyet they add to the piece¡¯s beauty.


    About half the runes are altered. Like before, I didn''t even realize I was twisting the wire into new shapes. Firmly in my mind were images from the dictionaries. Only looking over them now do I see the differences.


    Most changes are minor: for example, the rune for troll, bostrol, is missing its basal stroke, its head stroke instead becoming a double-line. However some are more extreme, with meanings I somehow know yet with structures I cannot explain.


    The most extreme example of this is a rune that means ¡®titanium-flat-turned-edge¡¯. The Yttrite Four script I am using is primarily made of straight lines with a few hooked ones, and on very rare occasions a rune is enclosed by a circle, yet this new rune that¡¯s appeared is fenced by two circles enclosing each other.


    I stare at it, trying to puzzle out why I¡¯ve formed it that way, and why exactly two concentric circles can add the meaning of ''turning-edge'' to the central branching strokes that represent titanium.


    I know that¡¯s what they do, but I can''t explain why, or how.


    It¡¯s frightening. Somehow I know I should be amazed, but instead, I¡¯m frightened. This poem seems to embody the themes I wanted for it, and I can tell that it''ll be tough and strong, and resistant to fire¡ªsince that¡¯s what the original poem was composed for¡ªyet how can I be sure it doesn¡¯t have some other, unseen property?


    What if, in future crafts, my runes give the opposite effect I want them to have? If this power remains uncontrollable it is certain to happen some day.


    And there are no teachers or books that can teach me how to use this power.


    Whatever my worries, I¡¯m done now. I rig my repaired back and side plates and internal leather to fit the breastplate, then I attach it snugly. I equip my armor and feel very protected indeed. The runic power feels warm against my chest¡ªnot warm like a woolen blanket is warm, but there¡¯s a power against my skin.


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    I''m confident that it¡¯ll stand up to a blow from a dithyok, maybe several. If I¡¯m to be caught in another rockfall it¡¯ll maintain its function well enough also, provided none of the boulders that smash it are too large. It should turn all but the most mighty hammer-strikes, axe-chops, sword-slashes and spear-thrusts to weak and glancing blows.


    I think the killer would have some trouble stabbing through also. He''d have to go for my weaker plates.


    What about against the darkness? Armor is little protection, according to Nthazes. This brings to mind the question of why the dwarves here do not enrune their plates with light. There must be a good reason for it, and I know just who I¡¯m going to ask: Galar.


    This new craft gives me the perfect opportunity to talk to him. My plan is to approach him naturally, not mentioning a single thing about the murders. I¡¯ll talk to him like I would to a friend and hope he lets some clue slip.


    If he lets nothing slip, no matter. The more I talk to him like a friend, the more eager he¡¯ll be to talk to me again in future. My opportunities for getting information from him will increase.


    <hr>


    I pack up my forging materials and return them to my storage. Around the forging pits I wander, glancing in politely to see who¡¯s at work. Mostly it¡¯s those who were on the expedition, still fixing up or remaking their armor.


    A flash of white grabs my attention. It¡¯s blinding¡ªbrighter even than the flashes that sometimes lit up the night in Thanerzak¡¯s realm, from something apparently called lightning. It¡¯s as bright as dragonfire and brings tears to my eyes.


    Eyes shut tight, relying entirely on sound to find my way, I walk to the pit the flash came from. I can hear the shape of a trident lying on the anvil within. A dwarf stands over it, stroking his beard. It¡¯s tied into three neat bunches.


    I don¡¯t want to interrupt him while he¡¯s in the middle of such sensitive work, so I politely remove my runic ears, avert my eyes, and wait for him to emerge.


    ¡°Who¡¯s that up there?¡± he says, after only a few minutes.


    ¡°Zathar,¡± I say, turning to look at him. He must have heard my breathing. ¡°I¡¯ve come to ask your advice.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± His eyes are narrowed. He¡¯s thrown pieces of cloth over his craft and his tools to hide them from my sight.


    ¡°Almergris. That¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°Why not ask your friend?¡±


    I pretend to be hurt. ¡°Aren¡¯t you my friend? Did I not help save your brother¡¯s life too? Nthazes is busy, if you must know. And you¡¯re working with it right now, aren¡¯t you? Might as well ask you.¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Well, can I come down?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Every time you talk to me the conversation tends to go in, let¡¯s say, unpleasant directions.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only here to talk about forging. And I have something you might be interested to see in return for your help.¡±


    ¡°What kind of thing?¡±


    ¡°Runic knowledge.¡±


    His eyes glint greedily, betraying the reluctant cast of the rest of his features. ¡°All right. Very well then. Come on down.¡±


    I descend. The forging pit is terribly cluttered. In one corner are the remains of several meals, and about a dozen waterskins lie next to the food scraps, some empty and some full. He¡¯s been camping out down here.


    ¡°I was told not to bring food down here,¡± I say. ¡°How do you get away with it?¡±


    ¡°Going to report me, are you?¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡± I give him a conspiratorial smile. ¡°I¡¯d like to do the same. Keep one of the better pits to myself, you know? Some are better than others, after all. I notice the anvil in here looks relatively new.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true: this is one of the better ones. As to how I get away with living down here, well, most stay away from forging pits making bright flashes. And it¡¯s an unspoken rule that you¡¯re not allowed to distract anyone in the middle of using almergris. A sensible rule too.¡±


    ¡°It really can blind you then?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes.¡± He walks over to something square and concealed with a cloth. Before I have a chance to shut my eyes, he whips the cloth away. I freeze in shock, feel my breath stop.


    ¡°Relax,¡± he laughs.


    I let out a long breath. ¡°Nearly gave me a heart attack, you bastard.¡±


    ¡°No need to be scared,¡± he chides. ¡°Come look. Have you ever seen it up close before?¡±


    Very cautiously I walk forward and look into the box. It occurs to me that if Galar is the killer, and wants me off his trail, all he has to do is touch a hot steel to this box and I¡¯ll no longer be any threat to him.


    No, I¡¯m being silly: if he wants rid of me he could simply kill me and stuff me into a cupboard like the killer did to his fourth victim. Burning my eyes from my skull would bring too much attention.


    ¡°Look closer,¡± he says.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Questions and Answers

    I shuffle forward another step and peer closely at the almergris powder. It¡¯s the same waxy yellow as the raw stuff we scraped from the jelly¡¯s insides, yet its texture is the opposite: like that of fine glassmaking sand. It sparkles like diamonds; the light reflected from it doesn¡¯t take on the orange of the furnace and is pure white instead.


    ¡°Certainly looks impressive up close,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes. Smells a bit, though.¡± He grimaces. ¡°Brings back bad memories.¡±


    ¡°For all of us, I¡¯m sure. And the whole fort will be stinking of it soon enough.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°But is it as hard to work with as they say?¡± I gesture to his covered trident. ¡°I couldn¡¯t help but see the flashes. You¡¯ve already started grafting, have you?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. I¡¯ve just been experimenting with what concentration works best.¡±


    ¡°Concentration? Are you mixing it with something?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Almergris should never be combined with another reagent, so the wisdom goes, but I think that¡¯s an awfully narrow minded opinion. Don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Surely it¡¯s deadly enough without adding other factors to the mix.¡±


    ¡°Surely they¡¯ll make it less deadly,¡± he counters.


    ¡°Do you think so?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Yes, but also less effective. That¡¯s the real reason no one bothers to mix it with anything, I think. Not that they¡¯ll tell me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you thought to ask them. Don¡¯t you prefer to work things out on your own?¡±


    ¡°A bit of extra knowledge never goes amiss, no? We¡¯ll be learning a lot once the new batch is ready, anyway¡ªI imagine Cathez will force us to listen to him and the other senior runeknights drone on about it.¡±


    ¡°Is that how forging is usually taught down here?¡±


    ¡°Essentially. You¡¯ve been spared that, of course. When initiates come down for the first time they¡¯re subjected to a great deal many lectures and training sessions. It was all very dull.¡±


    ¡°You remember them well?¡±


    ¡°Barely. Anyway, what did you want to ask about almergris?¡±


    "Keen for my runic knowledge, are you?"


    "I am." He smiles. "Go on, ask your questions. I''ll answer as best I can."


    I shrug. ¡°Anything and everything. Why it can only be used with runes of light, for a start. And why runes of light don¡¯t work with other reagents.¡±


    ¡°It can be used with any runes. Runes of light work with different reagents too, they¡¯re just not as bright.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I say, taken aback. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my brother and I tested it before. We were told that runes of light grafted with ordinary reagents are useless against the darkness, and to stop messing around.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve grafted other kinds of runes with almergris too?¡±


    ¡°No. It wouldn¡¯t be worth the shouting at we¡¯d get. Almergris isn¡¯t to be wasted¡ªthough with the massive amount we have I think we can afford to waste a bit of it. Well, not waste: experiment on.¡±


    ¡°You think it can be done, though. Using almergris to graft other runes.¡±


    ¡°Why not? I¡¯ve never heard of any of the eight reagents not working with certain runes, even if some reagents do suit some runes better than others.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I see. Another question: why does no one enrune their armor with light? Would that not render them invulnerable to the darkness?¡±


    ¡°Afraid I don¡¯t know the answer to that one¡ªI¡¯ve asked, but no one¡¯s ever given me a proper answer.¡±


    ¡°Oh. A shame. I imagine you¡¯ll try it at some point.¡±


    ¡°I might, I suppose. Right now I¡¯m focusing on my weapon.¡±


    I give him another conspiratorial smile. ¡°I bet its poems are about more than simply light.¡±


    ¡°Yes. My poems will have a theme of strength and toughness to them as well, naturally.¡±


    ¡°Naturally. I meant something more unique, though.¡± I raise an eyebrow. ¡°Am I right?¡±


    He smiles. ¡°You might be. But what¡¯s this runic knowledge you¡¯ve promised me?


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    ¡°Are you familiar with Script Four of the Yttrite Caverns? You must be: I¡¯ve seen it on other dwarves¡¯ crafts down here.¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°So what do you think of this?¡± I gesture to my breastplate.


    He peers at it. His eyes widen. ¡°I never knew the script had such depth to it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s surprisingly deep.¡±


    He brings his face closer. Hints of red and violet reflect on his bone-pale beard.


    I feel rather uncomfortable drawing his attention to my runes this way, yet it''s not as if I¡¯m not revealing my unnatural abilities. If anyone asks awkward questions, my answer will be: there are many more runes known up above than are known down here.


    ¡°You learned these runes up above?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Where else?¡±


    ¡°Naturally... This one intrigues me. Two circles, in such a jagged script.¡±


    ¡°Interesting, right?¡± I lick my dry lips. ¡°Do you want to copy them down? I won¡¯t charge you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, there¡¯s no need for that. I never forget a rune¡ªcertainly not one so interesting as this.¡±


    ¡°So what exactly have you got planned for your trident?¡±


    ¡°Something interesting.¡±


    ¡°Nothing so dull as speed, or unnatural weightlessness then.¡±


    ¡°Unnatural weightlessness! There¡¯s an idea¡ªour weapons don¡¯t actually need any impact force, after all. Those maces could be swung a lot faster if they weighed nothing.¡±


    ¡°Very true. I¡¯m surprised no one¡¯s thought of it before.¡±


    Galar snorts. ¡°I¡¯m not. They¡¯re all so traditional¡ªapart from the Runethane. He has good ideas. It¡¯s just a shame you get to see him in one of his bad moods.¡±


    ¡°What kind of ideas?¡±


    ¡°Bringing down a scholar¡ªnot that he¡¯s been any use to us yet.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been helping treat your brother,¡± I retort.


    ¡°Has he? Yes, he did claim to have some knowledge of our... Physiology, he called it. The Runethane¡¯s had better ideas too: he crafted those doors, you know. A runed door! And all that smoke within, to make a safepoint in case the fort ever gets overwhelmed.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just to keep himself safe, then.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just a nasty rumor some like to spread. We¡¯ve got more food because of him too. When he was a first degree it was him who spearheaded the effort to nail all those climbing spikes into the cavern walls.¡±


    ¡°No one had thought to do that before?¡±


    ¡°They had, and failed. He put together a proper force to keep the predators away.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I was just a tenth degree then, of course. No one back then saw the value of building links to the uppermost levels¡ªbut I guess it came in handy in the end, didn''t it?¡±


    I raise my eyebrows. "Not so handy for thirty-one of us. Plus all the injured."


    "True. Almergris is very precious, though. My brother would say the same."


    ¡°We''ll see when he''s recovered. I''m surprised you''ve been around so long, by the way. Where I come from, the older dwarves can be reluctant to try new methods of forging."


    ¡°Older? Ah, when someone is long in time, right?"


    "That''s right."


    "In that case I suppose I am old. That¡¯s how I¡¯ve learned so much.¡± He pats his chest. ¡°My amulet keeps me going strong.¡±


    ¡°Your brother too, then.¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°Why do you stay at seventh then? You could go higher. I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    ¡°Of course I could,¡± he laughs. ¡°But you needn¡¯t bother trying to encourage me. I¡¯m happy where I am. Just high enough not to be disrespected, low enough that no one gives me anything difficult to do.¡±


    ¡°I suppose they can¡¯t force you to move up.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Cathez used to try. The commanders before him too, before the darkness got them. But you¡¯re right: they can¡¯t force us. Besides, they rather soured on the idea since Fjalar and I started arguing so much. Who wants someone like that leading a hunt or standing guard at the Shaft?¡±


    ¡°Is it all an act then? Your arguing.¡±


    ¡°Hard to say. We exaggerate a bit.¡± He suddenly spits on the floor. ¡°But he does piss me off! Thinks he¡¯s better than me.¡±


    ¡°If he pisses you off, why work with him at all?¡±


    ¡°Same reason I¡¯m talking to you: to exchange ideas.¡± He smirks. ¡°Pissed the hell out of Cathez too.¡±


    ¡°But then who gets to use what you make? A dwarf¡¯s crafts are his own¡ªunless you reject that tradition too.¡±


    ¡°That tradition exists because a dwarf can use something he knows inside and out better by far than he might use something unknown. And he also doesn¡¯t want to sully his hands using something he judges inferior.¡±


    ¡°I see. Then you both used your crafts?¡±


    ¡°When we worked together it was usually something experimental. Proofs of concept, if you will. Not weapons and armor.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. I¡¯ve never tried anything like that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s worth doing.¡±


    ¡°Discover anything useful?¡±


    ¡°We discovered many things, some of which may come in useful in future. Let me see... I won¡¯t tell you outright... Let¡¯s just say that the inside of my trident isn¡¯t going to be what it seems.¡±


    I frown. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re getting at.¡±


    ¡°You can work it out for yourself, I¡¯m sure. That breastplate proves you¡¯re a fine craftsdwarf¡ªsurely you can puzzle out a little riddle.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll think on it.¡±


    ¡°Come back to me with the answer. You only get one shot, though.¡±


    ¡°All right then. I¡¯ll leave you to your work. Try not to burn your eyes out.¡±


    He scowls. ¡°Only an idiot would use almergris with his eyes open. Don¡¯t you worry¡ªmy eyes will be tightly wrapped.¡± He taps his runic ears. ¡°These are all I need. They¡¯re more sensitive than you know.¡±


    "I hope mine will be up to the task also."


    "Oh, you''ll be fine. Only the idiots will lose their sight."


    I leave his pit and make my way back to the meal hall, feeling slightly worried about the remark about his ears¡ªhas he overheard me talk about suspecting him? No, I¡¯ve never spoken about that with him or his brother around. He was just boasting of his crafts.


    What to make of his craft? The inside is not as it seems. What''s that meant to mean? Does he mean the gaps between the prongs, or has he made the entire thing hollow? For lightness? Or maybe he¡¯s to fill it with another kind of metal.


    Or fill it with blood. I freeze in my tracks. I shake my head and keep on walking. No, no. If he¡¯s the killer he wouldn¡¯t be so stupid as to lead me toward that conclusion, no matter how off guard I got him with all my talk of forging.


    It¡¯ll be filled with runes, no doubt, for some original effect. Maybe the runes of light are going to be on the inside, to cut though the darkness like swords.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Runethanes Threats

    I sip down water¡ªnot beer, for I need to concentrate as best I can. Each sentence I dismantle, each word I mull over. I¡¯m glad he had his helmet off, handily revealing to me his emotions. Unless he was faking them, of course, which he may well have been. If what he said about his arguments with Fjalar being only partly real is true, that proves he¡¯s plenty capable of deception.


    Is that another hint that he may be the killer? Yet surely if he was the killer he wouldn¡¯t risk talking to me. Unless he¡¯s trying to mislead me somehow...


    I go through the conversation again, searching for possible double meanings. I can¡¯t find any. Maybe I¡¯ll write it down¡ªwhen I¡¯m in the forges, so as not to raise suspicion¡ªand show it to Jaemes. He¡¯s better at this kind of thing than I am for sure.


    Then again, he¡¯s not a dwarf, and didn''t get to observe Galar¡¯s demeanor directly. The best person for this job is me. In my mind I draw up a chart:


    Reasons that point to Galar being the killer:


    He¡¯s skilled with runes. He was spreading and encouraging rumors which caused confusion. He was present when Utlock was killed. He doesn¡¯t get along with others. He warned me in the past to not go around asking suspicious questions.


    Reasons that point to Galar not being the killer:


    He has no obvious motive for disturbing the fort¡ªhe likes his forging, why put that at risk? He¡¯s happy to talk to me even though he can probably guess I suspect him. According to Nthazes, he and Fjalar aren¡¯t completely in-dwarven¡ªthey aren¡¯t actively cruel like I remember Vanerak being.


    I sigh. A lot of ideas, and no solid evidence either way. Maybe Nthazes and I can ambush him like we did Belthur¡ªbut he¡¯s always in the forges. And the killer won¡¯t keep his murder weapon anywhere other than on his person, so searching his belongings would be no use either.


    Or would it? Not all evidence needs to be as obvious as a weapon. An idea strikes me: he is always experimenting, he has been down here for a very long time, and yet he has no more storage chests in the forges than anyone else. So where might all his past experiments be? Unless he melted them down, which I suppose is a possibility, they¡¯ll be in his chambers.


    His chambers! I nearly hit myself. Of course, we should search their chambers! We should search everyone¡¯s. Belthur and his friends are giving us plenty of time and cover. In fact we could even enlist their help. No one brought absolutely everything down to the meal hall¡ªapart from me, who had little enough to begin with¡ªor there wouldn¡¯t be room to walk in here.


    I take a celebratory swig of beer. Of course we¡¯re not guaranteed to find anything useful, but there¡¯s definitely a chance.


    <hr>


    I prepare my salterite as always, crushing it into strangely twisting, quietly wailing shards, and begin to de-rune my gauntlets. The anti-reagent scorches and pits the metal, sending foul smoke curling upward. No matter how quickly I rub it off, there¡¯s always damage to the metal that needs to be sanded away.


    I¡¯ve just finished my right gauntlet and am about to start on my left when I hear the ring of a bell. I rush up out of the forging pit. Cathez is standing at the doors. Loudly he orders us down to the Runethane¡¯s hall.


    Whispers ripple through the crowd as we gather to march out. Has there been another killing? Another double killing? The prevailing idea is that the almergris is ready, and this proves nearly to be the case. Artificial darkness curls around us as we wait for the Runethane to speak in his cold, wide hall. It seems emptier¡ªI feel strongly the absence of the thirty-five dead.


    ¡°The almergris is progressing well,¡± he says. ¡°In preparation for the forging, it has been recommended to me by your commanders that you learn something about it.¡±


    So Cathez and Hraroth haven¡¯t been able to convince him that making everyone forge weapons of light is a bad idea.


    ¡°First, you must remember that light is a powerful but double-edged weapon. It can destroy shadow; it can also blind all seeing from your eyes, permanently. If you do not have confidence in your runic ears, this is an opportunity for you to forge a new pair. Talk to Commander Cathez; he will allow you the materials you need.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Materials aren¡¯t the issue, I want to say. Skill is the factor here. The best tools in the underworld won¡¯t make a tenth degree into a first, or even a fifth.


    ¡°The commanders and senior runeknights will also be available to instruct you on how to best utilize the runes of light. The runes themselves are being engraved onto a stone tablet which will be placed in your meal hall. Memorize them: there are only five hundred and forty-seven.¡±


    My heart misses a beat. If my runes of light come out altered, any senior runeknight who looks at them will know. Would they believe me if I told them I learned runes of light up above? Or will they see it as a reason to suspect me further?


    ¡°Study well, keep your eyes closed and your ears keen, and there is no reason to fear the almergris.¡±


    All easier said than done.


    ¡°To help you, there will be demonstrations organized. Yes, like those you attended while initiates. I do not think them necessary¡ªa runeknight should forge his own path and find his own way, after all¡ªbut your commanders have persuaded me. It will give those of you still afraid a little confidence, perhaps.¡±


    Galar was right, then. I¡¯m glad of this¡ªI¡¯ll be happy for any knowledge that helps me prevent myself burning out my eyes.


    Slowly and deliberately, Runethane Yurok stands up from his throne. His voice takes on a stern quality: ¡°I have not called you all down here just to discuss forging, however. It has come to light that certain rumors are still spreading themselves around. Or rather, they are not spreading by themselves, but you are spreading them. Some of these are the usual, concerning the killings. Others are worse.¡±


    My insides feel light all of a sudden. Has someone picked up on what we are doing?


    ¡°Apparently, some of you have been heard criticizing my decision to hunt the white jelly. This saddens and disappoints me immensely. Your fellow dwarves died so that we could take the almergris. To say there should have been no expedition is to say that the almergris was not worth their sacrifice. That is a grievous insult indeed.


    ¡°But I am a forgiving Runethane. I know who has been spreading these rumors, as well as the ones that claim it was not the darkness that killed, but a fellow dwarf. However I will punish no one yet. We are short on dwarves: to punish severely without giving you a chance to change your behavior would show poor judgment on my part.¡±


    He clasps his mace and its light fills the hall, turns the artificial darkness to thin gray, blinds us so we cower back, shading our eyes.


    ¡°You only have one chance!¡± he booms. ¡°The next dwarf to be caught spreading rumors will be sorry he did so. Mark my words.¡±


    He leans the great mace back against his throne. The light dims and we are swathed in scentless black once more.


    ¡°Keep your conversations to forging. Dismiss them, Commander Cathez.¡±


    Cathez turns to us and orders us to march back to the fort proper. My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking. Am I one of those on his list of rumor-spreaders? Has word reached him about Jaemes, Nthazes and I disappearing off into the fort together?


    Probably. Yet I won¡¯t give up my investigations. My fear turns to resolve, and anger. Stupid, stubborn, short-sighted bastard! Galar is wrong about him: a dwarf of brilliant ideas¡ªwhat an absurd notion.


    He¡¯s a fool about to get us killed, and insecure to boot. His discomfort at us criticizing the expedition has nothing to do with feeling insulted on the dead¡¯s behalf¡ªhe just can¡¯t stand the fact some of us think he¡¯s wrong.


    <hr>


    Over the next few sessions I re-enrune my boots and gauntlets. Once all the finger-plates on my gauntlets have been seared with salterite, and the surface damages sanded away, I devise another twenty miniature poems for them.


    No animal metaphors this time. Just a series of verses praising the virtues of a strong, steady, and firm hand on the weapon. Runes of strength and grip, not speed. The topic strikes me as a dull one, but it goes well with some silver I purchased. I mix my remaining quizik into the incandesite I¡¯m going to use for them, to dampen its enthusiasm.


    I graft. Red-white flashes light the pit and I taste a tang of burned silver. Once I¡¯m done, I read over the poems. A few of the runes are altered; not as many as I¡¯d expected. Maybe a third.


    I¡¯m not sure why. Maybe this script¡ªJorthan Three¡ªisn¡¯t changed so easily. Its runes are more complex than those of Yttrite Four; perhaps that has something to do with it. Whatever the reason, I feel relieved. Stability and steadiness, that¡¯s what these gloves are for. I don¡¯t want to lose grip on my weapon when the deep darkness is coming for me.


    My boots are next. I¡¯m only changing one rune in each line, so it turns out to be a fairly quick and easy job. I discover that if I grind the salterite coarser, it doesn¡¯t burn the rune away so quickly, so the titanium doesn¡¯t end up so damaged.


    I sand it carefully, twist the runes into shape, graft them. These haven¡¯t altered themselves at all.


    Good. Or maybe not. Perhaps my ability is merely gearing up to twist my next set of runic poems into something beyond recognition. Might it change the runes of light into runes of darkness? Will my weapon of light become as black as Heartseeker?


    The others would throw me into the Shaft and¡ª


    I shake my head vigorously. So far my runes have changed meaning only slightly. However original the runes of my next weapon are, it¡¯ll still be a weapon of light.


    Hopefully my eyes will be intact enough to see it.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Past Forgings

    The seven of us¡ªsix dwarves and Jaemes¡ªwalk in the blackness. Once again, Belthur and his friends have agreed to cover for us while we try to work out who the killer is. The Runethane¡¯s threats have done nothing to dampen their resolve. Instead it has been inflamed; they are burning to prove him wrong and a fool. According to Nthazes, they believe that if the killer is proven to be a dwarf, the Runethane will have no choice but to admit his mistakes and call off his foolish ideas, or face rebellion.


    A runethane is only so strong: while even the merest of them could defeat ten first degrees in combat, combat is not the only way to take one down. Accidents can be planned¡ªa drop far enough onto a hard enough surface will end any dwarf. No armor can protect against poison. Or Runeking Ulrike could be petitioned.


    I don¡¯t think anything so drastic is being plotted. However, Runethane Yurok is a coward, so Belthur and his friends predict that he likely won¡¯t want to take any chances with over a hundred disgruntled runeknights.


    We arrive at Belthur¡¯s group¡¯s assigned guarding point.


    ¡°Before we go,¡± I whisper. ¡°I have a suggestion. You should hear it too, Belthur.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Fjalar and Galar are who we suspect. I¡¯m sure Nthazes has told you already.¡±


    ¡°He has.¡±


    ¡°We should take this opportunity to search their quarters.¡±


    Belthur frowns. ¡°Surely they wouldn¡¯t be so foolish as to leave the weapon there?¡±


    ¡°No, of course not. But maybe they left something else there. Something they wouldn¡¯t think was suspicious, but might be a vital clue for us.¡±


    Jaemes is nodding. ¡°I agree. Not every piece of evidence has to be so glaringly obvious as a bloody knife, or barrel filled with blood.¡±


    ¡°I agree also,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Do you think we can get away with it?¡±


    Belthur thinks for a few seconds. ¡°Probably. All right. Just try not to make too much noise. Echoes carry far, even from under closed doors.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be careful,¡± I promise.


    We creep away from the light of their weapons and up the twisting stairs to the chambers. Every tap of our boots and every breath we exhale sounds frighteningly loud in my runic ears. As I walk I wonder who¡¯s been telling Runethane Yurok about the rumors spreading¡ªis it one of the rank and file runeknights, or one of the senior ones? The chamberlain perhaps: his runic ears are impressive indeed. Perhaps he can hear everything going on in the fort, no matter how distant. A disturbing thought.


    The door to Jaemes¡¯ chambers creaks as he opens it and we walk in. Same as before, he sits while Nthazes and I stand.


    Nthazes starts the discussion this time:


    ¡°I told Belthur everything we talked about last time. He said he¡¯s not sure about Fjalar and Galar being involved, either one or both of them, but he¡¯s open to the possibility. As for working out how the fifth killing happened, he suggested some kind of ranged weapon, some kind of needle-thrower that Galar might have loosed at Utlock while the others weren¡¯t looking. He admitted that it¡¯s a poor idea though. The weapon must have complex runes, and to write them that small is probably beyond the twins¡¯ abilities.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re more able than they let on,¡± I say. ¡°You were right about why they haven¡¯t bothered to rise up through the degrees¡ªdon¡¯t want responsibility. At their current position they can be left alone to do their forging. And they¡¯ve done a great deal of it.¡±


    ¡°Did you find out when they came to the fort?¡± Jaemes asks.


    ¡°A very long time ago. Yurok wasn¡¯t runethane yet.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°They must know every rune, every script there¡¯s knowledge of down here. And they¡¯re skilled with metalwork to boot. Galar told me¡ªhinted to me, at least¡ªthat the weapon of light he¡¯s making will be hollow.¡±


    ¡°I see. I doubt he¡¯ll be making it out of hollow piping; he¡¯ll have some clever technique.¡±


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°He¡¯s already made it. He¡¯s experimenting with almergris now. Working out what runes to use and how to graft them.¡±


    ¡°Did you get anything else out of him?¡± asks Nthazes.


    ¡°Yes. He and his brother don¡¯t hate each other quite as much as they let on. They¡¯re rivals, for sure, but part of their arguing is just an act. Partly because they enjoy irritating Cathez and the other senior runeknights, and partly so they won¡¯t be given much responsibility.¡±


    ¡°I wonder why they¡¯re so keen to avoid it,¡± says Jaemes. ¡°Nearly all dwarves I¡¯ve known take pleasure in putting their crafts to good use.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t want to go near the Shaft, for one,¡± I say. ¡°Galar mentioned that. He doesn¡¯t want to lead hunts and he doesn¡¯t want to stand guard at the Shaft.¡±


    ¡°Then why make a weapon of light now?¡± Nthazes asks.


    I puzzle over that question, can find no answer. ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Maybe they were just tempted by those runes¡¯ interesting properties. Wanted to test themselves. Or Galar might be lying¡ªperhaps he does want to move up, but in a spectacular way.¡±


    ¡°How about you, Jaemes?¡± Nthazes asks. ¡°Did you notice anything about Fjalar, or the other dwarves in the infirmary?¡±


    ¡°Most are still unconscious, Fjalar included. I searched his person and belongings, but didn''t find anything.¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Nothing at all. Though I will say that he¡¯s doing better than most of the others. His breathing is quite hale, and his heartbeat strong. His wounds seem to be healing fairly fast too.¡±


    ¡°Another reason to be suspicious, perhaps,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Maybe he took blood to make himself healthier. Maybe some of it goes into his amulet. Did you see his amulet?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°What gem was it?¡± I ask. ¡°It was coated in blood when I saw it.¡±


    ¡°A ruby. A suspicious color, though I understand that gem is a fairly common choice for an amulet of unaging.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°That¡¯s not good enough evidence.¡±


    The discussion stalls while we each think separate thoughts.


    ¡°Anything else to report?¡± I eventually ask. ¡°Has Belthur noticed anything odd in the storerooms?¡±


    "Nothing," says Nthazes. "Shall we begin our search?"


    Jaemes and I nod. We tip-toe out of the room. I shut the door as slowly as possible, trying to make sure it doesn¡¯t creak¡ªit does. Along the corridor we creep until Nthazes stops just outside one of the rooms farthest down.


    ¡°This is Galar¡¯s room,¡± he whispers. ¡°The one next to it is Fjalar¡¯s. They¡¯re linked¡ªapparently they got permission to put a door in the dividing wall.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s stick together,¡± I suggest. ¡°We¡¯ll go into Galar¡¯s room first and divide it into three.¡±


    ¡°Good idea,¡± says Nthazes.


    He turns the doorknob; it stops halfway. It¡¯s locked.


    ¡°Shit!¡± I hiss. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you thought to forge some lockpicks.¡±


    ¡°No one down here has anything like that.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to break in then,¡± I say. ¡°Your mace should do the trick.¡±


    Nthazes grimaces, raises his mace, gently hammers at the doorknob. Each strike, weak though they are, makes me wince. The sound of titanium on brass echoes again and again until there¡¯s a crunch and the doorknob drops to the stone with a clang.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I say. ¡°I hope no one heard that.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully they¡¯ll just think it¡¯s a echo from the forges, or the storerooms,¡± Jaemes says. ¡°Clangs are far from unheard of down here.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just hurry up about this anyway,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s go in.¡±


    I pull open the door and enter. Nthazes take a few layers of cloth from his mace so we can see clearly.


    The room is a mess. The detritus of at least a century of forging lies strewn across the floor, under the bed, is stacked on shelves bending under the weight of all the metal, gem, and glass contraptions. Only a few objects are proper pieces of equipment: there¡¯s a couple suits of plate on armor stands, one poor quality and one fairly decent, and several spears stand in a rack beside them¡ªaside from these, everything is of unidentifiable function.


    There are plain steel bars inscribed with faintly red runes of light. A half-open drawer contains what looks like enruned cutlery. A knife feels hot to the touch¡ªit has runes of fire along the edge in a script I can¡¯t read.


    To cook food while you cut it? To use runes for such a frivolous task is disrespectful, but of course to Galar nothing is taboo.


    ¡°Zathar, you check the shelves and drawers,¡± says Nthazes, leaning his mace head-up against the wall. ¡°Jaemes, you go over what¡¯s strewn on the floor, and I¡¯ll take a look at what¡¯s under the bed.¡±


    We get to work searching our respective areas. Shelf by shelf I rummage through twisted pieces of iron, steel, titanium, bronze, and a host of exotic alloys. Many are rings wrapped in runes of durability and healing. One has a poem about regrowth after violent destruction¡ªif it would actually regrow your finger I cannot say. There¡¯s also a neck-torque with an extended version of the same poem on it.


    Protection against beheading? Somehow I doubt it''s been tested. I continue to rummage until I come to a lidless box filled with steel knives. Is this it?


    I pull it from the shelf and, fingers trembling in anticipation, bring it closer to the light of Nthazes¡¯ mace. Immediately my heart sinks. These are not killing-daggers, but steak knives. Their runes are plain, uninspired poems about sharpness and cutting. The metalwork is poor too, and some at the bottom of the box even have spots of rust on them.


    Old crafts, these. I return the box to the shelf and keep on searching, yet there is nothing here with runes about blood, instant transportation or annihilation, strength-sapping, nor anything else I predict the murder weapon to have inscribed.


    Then:


    ¡°Found something!¡± Nthazes whispers. ¡°Come take a look at this.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: First Evidence

    Jaemes and I hurry over. Nthazes has gathered a selection of steel cylinders from under the bed, each about the width and half the length of my forearm. The top of each is open and the inside surfaces are rusted slightly.


    ¡°These were used to contain liquid.¡±


    ¡°What do they smell of?¡± Jaemes whispers.


    ¡°Blood. But rust smells like that anyway.¡±


    ¡°What runes are on them?¡±


    ¡°There aren¡¯t any. These are just plain containers.¡±


    ¡°Still suspicious,¡± I say.


    ¡°Not really,¡± Jaemes counters. ¡°They could just have been for quenching some small craft. Or to melt certain low melting-point metals in.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. We shouldn''t dismiss the chance it was blood though.¡±


    I put my head down to peer under the bed to see if there¡¯s anything nearby them. Something glints brightly. I reach in with my hand to pull it toward me but it comes apart. It¡¯s not one thing, but many. Shards of something¡ªshards of glass, I see, as I pull them out.


    A memory flashes in my mind¡¯s eye. Of peering down on Fjalar and Galar as they argued over a craft¡ªa glass rod they were trying to turn into a cylinder. And on these shards are broken runes.


    ¡°I know this!¡± I whisper. ¡°I saw them working on this, or something similar! A cylinder of glass!¡±


    ¡°Was that one runed as well?¡± Nthazes asks. He picks out some larger fragments and tries to fit them together.


    ¡°I was too far away to see. What runes are there?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t quite make it out... This is Holgoth Cavern script, I¡¯m not that familiar with it... Not many are...¡±


    He tries to put together several fragments, a hard task since each is no bigger than my fingernail, and his gauntlets make fine movements awkward. But Jaemes manages to find two pieces that match. On them is a single rune.


    ¡°What does that one mean?¡± I ask Nthazes.


    He squints at it. His eyes widen. ¡°It means ¡®draw-in-and-expel¡¯.¡±


    ¡°This proves it then! This is exactly the sort of thing we were expecting to find, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s nothing conclusive,¡± cautions Jaemes. ¡°It doesn¡¯t necessarily have anything to do with blood.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Nthazes says, putting together a few more shards of glass. ¡°There¡¯s no mention of blood anywhere that I can see. Nor about flesh, or stabbing, or stealing vital energies.¡±


    ¡°Even so, this proves they¡¯ve been experimenting with drawing liquid in and expelling it somewhere else. Having blood-smelling containers right next to it is especially suspicious.¡±


    Nthazes gives them another sniff. ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s just rust. If Galar is the killer, he¡¯ll have thoroughly cleaned anything with blood on it.¡±


    ¡°Still,¡± says Jaemes, ¡°Them crafting this smashed glass right before the murders does make me think we¡¯re on to something. Not that anyone down here will put much weight into that conclusion.¡±


    ¡°Fjalar or Galar is the killer,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m certain of it now. One, or both of them.¡±


    ¡°We need to search Fjalar¡¯s quarters as well,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°See if there¡¯s anything similar.¡±


    ¡°Next time,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯m worried about the noise we made breaking in. We better get back. Put the glass and containers in my bag.¡± I hold out the one I brought for this kind of thing. ¡°We can make a better examination of the runes in the forges some time.¡±


    ¡°All right. Just make sure no one sees them. Especially not Galar.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    He wraps the shards in one of the strips of blanket he¡¯s been using to conceal his mace, to stop them making a noise, and I put them into my bag with the metal cylinders. Cautiously we leave¡ªand not a moment too soon. Halfway back we meet Belthur and the other three.


    ¡°Another group said they heard something,¡± he hisses. ¡°That was you? Was it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Nthazes whispers. ¡°The door was locked. I had to smash the handle.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky they couldn¡¯t tell the direction¡ªor rather, you¡¯re lucky we misled them, sent them the wrong way. Be more careful next time.¡±


    ¡°We will.¡±


    ¡°I imagine the handle is still smashed?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°If a patrol sees, it¡¯ll cause all sorts of trouble.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t be helped,¡± I say. ¡°We have to take risks. And it paid off¡ªwe have evidence now.¡±


    <hr>


    The equivalent of a few days later, the stone tablet the Runethane mentioned, the one with a list of all five hundred and forty seven runes of light engraved, is stood up in the meal hall. There are two main scripts, simply known as Light Two and Light Three. There is also Light One, a smaller sub-script, a kind of forerunner to Light Two with only fifty-eight runes.


    I ask around, but no one knows much about their history, not even what part of the underworld they came from. The most likely theory, at least according to Jaemes, who has studied them some, is that they are from the most northern reaches of the world where dwarves dwell in caves of ice.


    In some places the ice is so clear that the sun can be seen through it from nearly a mile below the surface. It¡¯s possible, Jaemes says, that these sun-intrigued dwarves desired to capture the beauty of it and called on the Runeforger¡ªor a runeforger: no one knows how many dwarves were blessed with the ability¡ªto write down magic that would imbue their crafts with the same heavenly brightness.


    His only evidence for this theory is some vague similarities between the Light Three and some obscure northern script though, and he admits he doesn¡¯t really know for sure.


    Memorizing them proves to be a medium challenge. Light Two is composed mainly of small circles with lines running through or adjacent to them, always touching. A few have ellipses that I¡¯m told must be made exactly right or the rune will blast itself to pieces, yet I only count twenty like this. Light One is similar, just without the ellipses and overall less strokes. I imagine the tenth and ninth degrees will stick to it.


    Light Three is a radical evolution of light two, with many-cornered polygons in place of circles. Some are even unfolded polyhedrons, and look very challenging to form indeed. Nthazes tells me I¡¯d best avoid using it.


    ¡°There¡¯s one thing I keep meaning to ask you, by the way,¡± I say to him at one meal.


    ¡°Ask away,¡± he says, hurriedly drinking down some water. ¡°Though I might not be able to explain in too much depth¡ªKalthik just came back up, which means I¡¯ve got to go back down.¡±


    ¡°As quick as you can then: why no armor enruned with light? Wouldn¡¯t that protect you against the darkness? Render you nearly invulnerable, so long as it was bright enough?¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± he says, placing down his mug. ¡°That¡¯s a question that gets asked quite a lot, and one you don¡¯t really understand the answer to until you¡¯ve faced the darkness yourself.¡±


    ¡°How do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Light doesn¡¯t work against it like you think.¡± He notices a couple of lower degree runeknights listening in on us, and he raises his voice so they can hear better. ¡°The deep darkness isn¡¯t just ordinary darkness. It acts like a living being. It grows through the air like a fungus spreading its roots through soil, seeking out warmth and life. If you were to craft runic armor of light it would find the gaps where the light doesn¡¯t shine quite so brightly, and seep into them.¡±


    ¡°Surely if you¡¯ve moving around, fighting, those gaps would open and shut. Like how a flickering torch casts its light in lots of changing directions. Seems like it would be hard for the darkness to find a way in.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but that¡¯s not all there is to it. The darkness needs to be beaten back. Struck again and again until it retreats. Simple movement isn¡¯t enough. The light must be used like a sword¡ªit must be sent at the darkness with intent.¡±


    ¡°It does sound alive then,¡± says one of our listeners.


    ¡°No one knows.¡± Nthazes shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s some kind of reversed life, perhaps. Doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°Armor of light might provide some protection though,¡± I insist. ¡°Even if it¡¯s not quite as effective as a weapon.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Nthazes admits. ¡°But almergris is rare. And besides, no one wants it too close to their skin.¡±


    <hr>


    Those ominous words ring in my ears as I return to the forging pits. There¡¯s only one more task left to finish: replacing Heartseeker¡¯s shaft. After that it will be time for the light-forging.


    I hammer away at the bent aluminum just below the blade until, after many brutal strokes, it cracks and comes apart, though it doesn¡¯t detach fully from the blade. Ten years ago I used incandesite to weld the steel and aluminum together, to make sure runic power could flow from one type of metal to the runes on another. Looking at it now, the weld was rather crude. I used too much incandesite, making the join uneven and not as strong as it might have been.


    I take a gamble and separate them without the use of salterite. Blade and haft come apart after a few strikes of a sharp chisel. Some scraps of aluminum remain on the darkened steel, and carefully I sand them away.


    There¡¯s still a slight stain of discoloration, reddish. I definitely used too much incandesite back then. Very carefully I place a few coarse grains of salterite on the areas where the discoloration is strongest, dab water onto them.


    A violent hiss fills the forging pit and red smoke billows into the air. I cough, hurriedly wipe the salterite-water solution away. Black steel shines, barely scratched. I breath a sigh of relief, but there¡¯s still the other side to do. I flip the blade over and repeat the process. This time I¡¯m a fraction of a second too late in brushing away the salterite, and a slight scar has appeared. I suppress a cry of frustration. It¡¯s not that bad¡ªHeartseeker will still be superior to before despite this error.


    Now for the hollow titanium shaft. There isn¡¯t really anything that needs to be done to it¡ªit¡¯s a finely made piece, the best quality I could get. It does need a polish, however, and sanding at the top and bottom. The base also needs to be welded shut with a circle of titanium.


    I accomplish all this with minimal difficulty.


    For the runes on the shaft I¡¯ve decided to go with a similar poem to what was on the last one, with a few stanzas about rigidity as well. Unfortunately I don¡¯t have enough honor for platinum, like what the last poem was made from, so gold will have to do.


    I get to twisting the wire into shape. This is to be a poem of speed, accuracy, and how power exerted on a lever can move any foe into the grave. It should make up for the speed and accuracy I lost through the rusting of my arm-plates and replacing my gauntlets.


    I twist the final rune into shape and examine them. Some are altered, but again, not so many as were on my breastplate, and there is nothing that looks completely new either. The theme of the poem¡ªone long, continuous line that¡¯ll curl its way from the top of the shaft to the bottom¡ªremains as intended.


    Under the first rune, I brush incandesite, graft it with a flash, continue. Once finished, I look over the shining gold and am pleased. The spiraling of the long poem is geometrically perfect. Now to attach the blade, welding with a moderate amount of incandesite.


    Once I¡¯m finished, Heartseeker glows blacker than ever. I pick it up, cut and thrust. It feels faster too, and just as accurate as ten years ago. I reckon there¡¯s very few dwarves down here that could stand against me in an even duel.


    But my next opponent will not be one I can face with Heartseeker. One sleep later, it¡¯s announced that the almergris is ready for use. Runethane Yurok¡¯s official decree reads thus:


    All runeknights must equip themselves with a weapon of light.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Starting the Mace

    I, and the other dwarves with no light-enruned weapons, prepare ourselves by attending some of the senior runeknights¡¯ forging demonstrations. They aren¡¯t as much help as I¡¯d hoped. For safety they¡¯re listen-only, and since the forging pits aren¡¯t large enough for dozens of dwarves to be able to crowd in all at once, we have to stand around the top in a circle. The nervous breathing¡ªnot to mention the gasps and muttered fearful curses whenever there¡¯s a flash bright enough to shine through our blindfolds¡ªmakes it very hard to pick up on the wavering shape of the metal and runes being crafted.


    The senior runeknights also have a habit of narrating exactly what they¡¯re doing, which makes actually hearing what they¡¯re doing that much harder. This is for the benefit of those whose runic ears are too poor quality to be able to make out even relatively coarse details, however for me it¡¯s a distraction. I¡¯d much prefer if they spoke only before and after each step.


    Frustrated, I ask Nthazes to give me a personal demonstration.


    ¡°Maybe I can,¡± he says. ¡°Not right now though. Duty and all that. Why don¡¯t you start with the design for the weapon itself?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m planning to. Was hoping you could give me some insight on that as well.¡±


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯ve never made a mace before?¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    ¡°Make the handle hexagonal, is my recommendation. Then it¡¯s easy to get a secure fit on the head. Or pentagonal, or septagonal¡ªdepends on how many flanges you¡¯re going to have.¡±


    ¡°Any number you recommend?¡±


    ¡°Six is usual. You could go more, but of course that means you¡¯ll have to use more almergris for the extra stanzas¡ªtwo stanzas to each flange is how I¡¯ve always done it.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll just do one flange then,¡± I joke.


    ¡°That would just be a blunt axe,¡± he laughs. ¡°Seriously, though¡ªthe more the better. Runethane Yurok¡¯s has twenty-seven. I¡¯ve counted. Mine has ten.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll go with six for now,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°Good. Not too few and not too many.¡± He looks toward the door and gulps down the rest of his beer. ¡°I really ought to go¡ªah, one more tip, make the flanges wide and thin. Remember these weapons aren¡¯t for cracking through chitin. The more surface area for the runes, the better.¡±


    ¡°Makes sense.¡± I nod. ¡°What about putting runes of weightlessness on the handle? For a faster swing.¡±


    ¡°Not sure. Might be worth a try... Anyway, I really have to go.¡±


    He dashes off down to the Shaft, the head of his great mace balanced on his shoulder. Just before he exits the meal hall, he pulls off the fabric covering it and the flash makes me blink. A ten-flanged afterimage floats in my vision.


    I head to the honor-tablets--in a small group, of course. Everyone with no weapon of light has been gifted a significant amount to requisition materials with, and I tell the solemn chamberlain what I¡¯ll be using mine on. He notes down the materials on a wax tablet, checks the list of what we have in stock, and approves my request with a nod. I swear to him that I¡¯ll take only what I requested, then he strikes my new honor-count into the honor-tablet with a diamond-tipped chisel.


    I¡¯ve always thought it a rather inefficient system, and considering the mess the storerooms have always been in, I do wonder how accurate the records are.


    Eventually I manage to find what I need: a solid bar of titanium forty millimeters wide and four feet long; silver and quizik for the runes that¡¯ll go on it; six titanium ingots twenty by one hundred by ten millimeters; a sheet of titanium eight millimeters thick and half a foot by half a foot in area¡ªand finally, the almergris.


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    It¡¯s guarded by four senior runeknights at the back of storage room three¡ªwhere the first murder took place. They stand at the corners of a stack of large metal trays that were forged for this purpose while we were on the expedition. Each tray is covered by a thick, heavy lid, and the edges of both lid and tray are lined with leather to prevent sparking.


    I nod to the closest runeknight. He takes a small box from some nearby shelves, kneels down by the closest tray, lifts off the heavy lid. I wince, expecting light to flood out for some reason, but no, it looks just like the stuff Galar showed me, if a little more vivid in color. Another runeknight passes him a long-handled ladle; he scoops some of the sandy substance out and into the box.


    He shuts the box tight, inspects to make sure there''s no loose grains of almergris stuck to it, and hands it to me. Then, very carefully, almost daintily, he replaces the lid on the tray. I thank him and, clutching the box to my chest tightly so I don¡¯t drop it, I pick up the bag containing the rest of my materials and head up to the forging halls.


    They¡¯re not so busy. Makes sense: who would want to be anywhere dozens of amateurs are crafting with a reagent as dangerous and unpredictable as almergris?


    Galar is still at work though¡ªI see repeated flashes from his pit.


    I manage to find another good one, with a newish anvil and a fairly compact furnace that should distribute heat evenly. I place the box of almergris on the shelf furthest from it, and lay the first part of my craft on the anvil: the thick titanium rod that¡¯s to become my mace¡¯s haft.


    For the while I¡¯ll ignore my worry about the almergris and concentrate on my metalwork.


    First, to shape cylinder into hexagon. I turn the rod around and around in my hands as I ponder the problem. Making the flat sides even along the whole length may prove very challenging, especially since the forge isn¡¯t big enough to heat all the rod at once. I¡¯ll have to do it very roughly at first, then attempt somehow to fix all the unevenesses.


    Then it hits me that I don¡¯t actually have to turn the whole rod hexagonal, just the top where the flanged head will be welded. I¡¯ll still eventually have to heat-treat the whole thing, but for now, I turn the furnace up to medium and insert the top one-sixth of the rod.


    I stand there, sweating, spinning the rod around slowly like I¡¯m roasting a pig on a spit until the top is orange-yellow. Onto the anvil I place it and, holding the rod steady with one thickly-gloved hand, I pick up my hammer.


    Down I swing, hard. The metal is thick¡ªI need as much power as I can muster. The titanium flattens out, though not by nearly enough. I swing again, at the same spot. Looks about right, so I move an inch down. The anvil shivers with each clang. My arm shivers also; I hold the metal firm even as my arm slowly starts to ache. Along the glowing orange I hammer until a flat plane is formed.


    I turn it over, placing the flat side against the anvil. The glow of the metal reflects off the iron-oxide-contamination prevention sheet. My hands are slimy and sweaty inside my gloves; I don¡¯t let this bother me as I bring the hammer down again, again, keep on bringing it down. This side is already slightly flat from being pressed down by my top-strokes, which makes the job a little easier, but gradually the metal becomes stiffer, more sluggish to respond to my exertions as it cools from orange to red; I reheat it; start hammering again until I now have two flat planes directly opposite each other.


    I turn the pole at an angle and start on one side. Every few strokes I stop and examine the craft to make sure the angle isn¡¯t misaligned, and correct my hammering accordingly. The metal becomes cool again; I reheat and continue. Time stops existing for me¡ªall that exists in my world is hammer, heat, and metal.


    Thin flakes fall off the piece and disintegrate as I work¡ªit¡¯s no matter, happens with all forging. A brief memory of a lecture I attended long ago when I was an initiate floats up¡ªthat runeknight spoke of forges with the air replaced by something else, something inert, to prevent such losses to oxidation, minute as they are.


    There is greater depth to forging than I can imagine.


    My hammer clangs a final time. The rough shaping seems done. I lay the piece down and let it cool to confirm¡ªit turns back to silver and I haven¡¯t made a mistake. The cross-section is a well-formed hexagon, each side the same length, each angle the same angle.


    Now to smooth the planes out. I take up a smaller hammer, adjust my runic ears so they¡¯re fitting properly, and once more insert the titanium into the furnace. I feel no need to rest¡ªI¡¯m in a state of bliss, of easy, flowing concentration.


    A scream rings out. My runic ears transmit it in excruciating detail. It¡¯s the scream of someone losing something irreplaceable with no warning. I pull the titanium out of the furnace and rush out. Already a small crowd is gathering. A dwarf is being helped out of his forging pit. He¡¯s shouting:


    ¡°My eyes! My eyes!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Blindness and Burns

    ¡°I heard someone was injured in the forges,¡± Jaemes says. ¡°What happened?¡±


    I grimace. This is not really something I want to be talking about over my meal. ¡°A tenth degree tried to graft a rune with almergris. It wouldn¡¯t light properly, so the fool opened his eyes to make sure of where he was prodding the heated iron.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Tragic, if predictable.¡±


    ¡°Very bloody predictable.¡±


    ¡°What are the others saying?¡±


    ¡°Some say it was his own fault for opening his eyes. Many put the blame somewhere else¡ªI won¡¯t say any more than that.¡±


    Jaemes shakes his head. ¡°Terrible,¡± he sighs. ¡°I¡¯m not a smith, of course, but I do wonder if it wouldn¡¯t be prudent to cover your eyes securely when working with the stuff.¡±


    ¡°I plan to. Most do, but that¡¯s because they can rely on their ears.¡±


    ¡°Which the lower degrees cannot,¡± he sighs. ¡°Very predictable.¡±


    ¡°I just hope it doesn¡¯t happen to anyone else.¡±


    ¡°It will. I know you dwarves: a human would tie a blindfold on, do a poor job of the craft, present the mess as his best effort and get away with no risk. But you dwarves are perfectionists. You¡¯ll put your life and sight on the line for your craft, no matter how close that line may be to the precipice.¡±


    ¡°Well, quite,¡± I say, wondering if he¡¯s insulting dwarfkind or praising us. ¡°I just hope it doesn¡¯t happen to too many more, then. And not as badly.¡±


    ¡°How bad is it?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll see for yourself next time you go down to the infirmary. Not that there¡¯s much to see: his eyes look the same as they always did¡ªthey just don¡¯t work anymore.¡±


    Jaemes nods. ¡°Flash blindness. I¡¯ve heard of the phenomenon. There¡¯s no pain either, apparently.¡±


    ¡°His scream suggested otherwise,¡± I say bitterly.


    <hr>


    Back in the forging pit, I resume work smoothing out the sides of the hexagon. It¡¯s proving rather awkward work. At first, I simply hammered like I was when making the rough cut, but when I turned the piece around, I realized that if I hammered the opposite side while the smoothed side is against the anvil, I¡¯d accidentally warp the smooth side.


    So instead I have to heat the rod to yellow heat so it¡¯s soft, stand it up, and hammer without using the anvil.


    In order to see the details past the glow, I have to keep my face up close to it, which is unpleasantly hot, making my entire face sting, and also hurts my eyes. I keep blinking. In my runic ears is a constant hiss.


    Time passes slowly; each tap frustrates me; the metal doesn¡¯t want to go where I want it. The yellow glow continues to hurt my eyes. My arm grows tired faster than it usually does because of the awkward angles I¡¯m forced to strike at.


    Eventually I reach a point where my strikes are warping more than they¡¯re smoothing, and decide to take a break. I sit down against the steps and rub my eyes. Maybe I didn''t get enough sleep before coming down here¡ªyes, that¡¯s it. I couldn¡¯t sleep for my worries about the almergris, about the killings, and about the rumors that we¡¯re all going down the Shaft before long.


    I look up at the ceiling. White flashes on the rough stone a few times every minute now. Plenty have finished the forms of their weapons and are now grafting¡ªimpatient lower degrees. It¡¯s only a matter of time before there¡¯s another accident.


    A scream rings out as soon as that thought crosses my mind. I dash out the forging pit and this time am one of the first to make it to the injured dwarf. Blindfolded, he¡¯s lying against the wall of his pit, clutching his wrist and making an expression of intense agony. On his anvil is a half-finished mace of light and an open box of almergris.


    Quickly I close the box then dash back to pull him up and out of the pit with a few others. We coax his hand away from his wrist to see what¡¯s happened¡ªa terrible burn, the flesh reddened and blackened. He doesn¡¯t seem to be in so much pain, mostly shock: a sure sign that the injury is a bad one.


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    ¡°We need to hurry him up to the infirmary,¡± I say.


    We lead him out the forging halls and along the dark corridors.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he says. ¡°It doesn¡¯t hurt all that much. Just wrap my wrist in something and I¡¯ll get on with my forging.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I tell him. ¡°You¡¯re badly injured, even if you can¡¯t feel it.¡±


    ¡°You need treatment and rest,¡± adds one of the others escorting him. ¡°You can get back to your craft when you¡¯re healed.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he says, then swallows. ¡°Am I?¡±


    ¡°You will be after some salve and healing chains,¡± I say. ¡°What exactly happened anyway?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. I couldn¡¯t see.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°What degree are you?¡±


    ¡°Ninth.¡±


    I take a look at his runic ears, which are clearly illuminated by one of the other dwarves¡¯ maces. The metal is not very smooth, some of the garnets seem slightly misaligned, and there¡¯s at least one mistake with the rhyming.


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t hear what you were doing either, I suppose.¡±


    ¡°I could!¡± he cries indignantly.


    ¡°No you couldn¡¯t,¡± snaps one of the other dwarves. ¡°Not down to the fine details... Sorry, I shouldn¡¯t have snapped. Not your fault.¡±


    The injured dwarf bows his head. ¡°Maybe I¡¯m just not cut out for this.¡±


    ¡°Not right now, no,¡± I say. ¡°Not with almergris. Shit, what¡¯s the Runethane thinking?¡±


    ¡°Careful now,¡± one of the others warns.


    ¡°He¡¯s right though,¡± snaps another. ¡°What the hell is the Runethane thinking?¡±


    We make it to the infirmary and show him past the guards to the runeknight on medical duty. He sits the injured dwarf down on the floor and goes to get the salves. In the meantime I look around. All the beds are occupied, some with more burn victims. Clearly there have been more accidents while I wasn¡¯t in the forging halls. The tenth degree who lost his sight is also here, staring blankly up at the ceiling from his bed and muttering silently to himself.


    I walk over to Fjalar, look over him from an arm¡¯s length away. He¡¯s asleep, but apart from the many bandages wrapped around him, seems well. His skin has as much color as any other of the dwarves down here and his breathing is deep and even. I notice that some of the bandages on his shallower cuts have been removed to reveal faint scar-lines.


    I don¡¯t know how many days it¡¯s been since we returned from the expedition, but it doesn¡¯t seem like so many. His recovery, I feel, has been remarkably quick for one so brutally injured.


    I glance back at the other dwarves. They¡¯re fussing over the injured one, who¡¯s yelping in pain as salve is rubbed into his wound. Very carefully, I step closer to Fjalar and, with a deft movement, pull the covers down a little from his chest to see his amulet.


    As Jaemes said, it¡¯s a ruby. A large one, though not unusually so. I can¡¯t read the runes on the facets for the dim light. I reach toward it, then remember that I¡¯m not alone and hurriedly pull the covers back up over it before anyone notices.


    ¡°Stop complaining!¡± someone snaps at the injured dwarf. ¡°This is for your own good.¡±


    ¡°But it damn hurts!¡± he wails. ¡°You¡¯re making it worse!¡±


    ¡°Just be quiet,¡± says the runeknight on medical duty, wrapping the salved and bandaged burn tightly with a thin healing chain.


    Wound treated, we lead the burn-victim to the meal hall and warn him to stay away from the forges until a thick layer of scarring has formed and there¡¯s no stinging. Someone else will tidy up his materials and equipment.


    We return to the forges. On the way, there¡¯s a discussion about whether or not there¡¯s been permanent damage to the tendon.


    <hr>


    The flow-state I was in before the blinding still won''t return, and the work remains grueling and frustrating, yet as a runeknight I endure the heat, stinging sweat, and burning in my muscles. Finally, after what feels like many hours, the sides are smooth enough and I put down the hammer. I file down the edges until they¡¯re even too.


    I tap the haft with a chiming rod and listen closely to the discordant ring. My runic ears are good enough that I can detect exactly where the unevenness is¡ªit¡¯s where the hexagonal top part of the rod becomes cylindrical. I heat and gently hammer until all is even, then cool, examine every side and corner from every angle.


    Done, finally. Now for the head itself. I start with the flanges; I heat and hammer out the ingots, shaping them first into triangles with the help of tongs and vise, then flattening those triangles into semi-blades. They won¡¯t cut anything¡ªnot deeply, anyway¡ªbut they¡¯ll impart a great deal of concentrated force into whatever they strike.


    Not that this matters against the darkness, of course. But who knows what other foe I might face with it in hand once my time down here with these dwarves of the deep is over?


    Once they¡¯re in shape I go through the usual process of evening and smoothing and making symmetrical, then I forge the metal cap they¡¯ll be securely welded to. I bend my titanium sheet around the hexagonal haft-section, cut away the excess, and weld the seams tight.


    Then I put it over the haft to make sure it''ll fit. It does. Flanges and cap made, it¡¯s time to assemble them¡ª


    I should weld with almergris. The realization hits me like a mace-blow. Each flange is going to have two stanzas of the same poem on it, so each should be linked with reagent, just as Heartseeker¡¯s blade and shaft are welded together with incandesite.


    I sit down on the steps to gather my thoughts, try to come up with some alternative solution. Could I craft a six-flanged mace all out of one piece of metal? Such a thing has been done, I¡¯m sure. I would need to carve out a mold, pour the titanium into it in such a way that no gaps or weaknesses form...


    No. I¡¯ve already made the composite parts. It would be an insult to the metal I¡¯ve just worked if I was to throw it away out of simple fear. There¡¯s no getting away from it: the time has come to use the almergris.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Welding with Fear

    With shaky hands I take the box of almergris to the anvil and carefully sit it down. Maybe I should have a sleep before doing this, rest up to minimize the chance of making a mistake. Yet at the same time, I feel that I have to conquer my fear right now, or I¡¯ll keep on putting this off until there¡¯s another murder and Runethane Yurok sends us down the Shaft whether we¡¯ve finished our crafts or not.


    I don¡¯t think he¡¯s quite that crazy, but you never know.


    I need to plan how I¡¯m going to manage this. Almergris burns extremely hot and makes an extremely thorough graft, which is part of the reason it¡¯s so prized and dangerous, so once I weld a flange there¡¯ll be no second chances. We were warned by the senior runeknights against stripping it away using salterite¡ªthe reaction between the two is much fiercer than with incandesite.


    So I better get the angles right. I place a flange against the hexagonal cap and adjust its position until I¡¯m satisfied. Then I close my eyes and concentrate intensely on my hearing. I listen to where the flange is; the exact position and angles are revealed to me by the way minute vibrations in the air pass over the two pieces of metal and my hand. I let go, let the flange balance, and tread around, hearing the shape from all angles.


    Once I¡¯m convinced I remember exactly how it''s positioned, I open my eyes and take the flange off of the cap. I walk around for a bit, then shut my eyes and practice pressing it into place. I repeat this many times over.


    Once I¡¯m confident in my accuracy, I open the box of almergris and take a pinch of it in my fingers. The smell is strong. It reminds me of when I was inside the beast scraping it out, yet there¡¯s another dimension to it now: a maliciously acidic undertone.


    I remember the senior runeknight in the meal hall giving his nephew tips on how to use it¡ªdidn''t he say something about the almergris being from something that died painfully, by our hands no less, and being able to sense fear and hesitation? Did he also say that it would use those moments to seek revenge?


    He left that last part unsaid, I think. Doesn¡¯t make it any less true.


    I grit my teeth and sprinkle it onto the cap. I insert a thin rod into the furnace and wait until it¡¯s white hot. Even though almergris is sensitive and will flare into blinding life on contact with even dull-red heat, for best results you¡¯re meant to use a white-hot heating element.


    I wrap a cloth around my eyes very tightly, withdraw the heated rod, and walk back to the anvil. I can hear the shape of the almergris lying on the side of the cap. I see no color now, only a texture like sand. Innocuous. I understand how some dwarves let their guard down around it¡ªbut I won¡¯t.


    With my free hand I pick up the flange. There¡¯s no rush, I remind myself. Almergris stays burning hot for a while after being heated. I tighten my wrist to stop it shaking, and before my will breaks and I give up, thrust the white-hot metal into the sand.


    There¡¯s a flash of heat. The almergris grains turn to a thin puddle; the air above them shivers violently. I move the flange closer to the cap, turning it to the correct angle as I do so. The shivering of the air makes it a little harder to hear what I¡¯m doing, but not as hard as I feared.


    My fear increases as I move the flange closer. The heat is intense; my skin feels like it¡¯s starting to crisp like meat over open flame. Suddenly I worry that I¡¯ve used too much almergris, so much to be incredibly dangerous.


    I¡¯ve faced dragonfire, I remind myself. This heat isn¡¯t so bad as that. With a swift and confident movement I push the base of the flange onto the molten almergris and press down. The heated air twists around my wrist, almost like fingers, then the heat slowly begins to fade.


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    It might still be glowing, so I don¡¯t yet take off my blindfold. I count five hundred seconds before I judge that the craft is cool enough for me to take a peek. Sure enough, there''s no bright light, just two pieces of titanium neatly welded to each other. I pick it up for inspection.


    It¡¯s not perfect: there''s a slight gap around the edges of the weld. This can be fixed, though.


    I weld the next flange, then the next. Piece by piece the mace-head comes together. I examine it. A few angles are off by half a degree, and the welds are all a little rough, but there¡¯s nothing that can''t be fixed with a bit of heating and hammering. I turn the temperature of the furnace up a little and put the mace-head in.


    It''s heating up quickly. Red, orange, already yellow. Something''s wrong¡ªI shut my eyes tight and still see the flash through my eyelids.


    I wrench the mace-head out the furnace with my tongs and collapse against the wall of the pit, my breathing heavy. The glow is darkening¡ªor am I going blind, my vision disappearing?


    The glow vanishes.


    I open my eyes and breath a long sigh of relief. I can see the familiar shape of the anvil before me. The mace-head atop it is glowing with white heat and difficult to look at, but its shape and colors and details are perfectly visible. I am not blind.


    The almergris in the welds, when heated, must have reacted with the metal, though this phenomenon was never mentioned to us by the senior runeknights. Maybe there¡¯s no logical explanation: maybe the reagent is simply malicious, out to revenge the creature it was so brutally torn from.


    Whatever the case, the metal is undamaged. I hammer the misaligned flanges into place, weld where there are slight gaps by pouring over titanium off-cuts melted in a crucible, using a tungsten splinter to poke the liquid deep into the gaps. Once the piece is cooled I file away any rough parts and get to polishing.


    The titanium, already a pale metal, looks paler still after the almergris welding. Some of its power has leaked into the metal already, it seems. I¡¯m not sure whether this is promising news or if it heralds more difficulty and danger in the forging to come. For now the cap is done; I must weld it to the haft.


    I stand the haft up vertically¡ªit comes up to just past my waist¡ªand place the cap over it. I push down and it quickly meets friction and becomes stuck. This is a good sign¡ªif the fit had been too loose it would have been a big problem. For the fit being too tight, there¡¯s a simple solution. Where metal contacted metal with the most force, there are scratches.


    Lightly I file away at the scratched portions. Each plane ends up filed about the same amount in about the same place, proving I did a good job of making everything symmetrical. Once more I jam down the mace-head. It goes a little farther this time; I pull it back off, file. The next time I jam it down it¡¯s nearly fully on. I file away a touch more and it fits perfectly.


    Now it just needs to be heated. I turn up the furnace and stick the head of my new mace in. I¡¯m taking no chances this time¡ªmy blindfold is wrapped tightly around my face, and my eyes are shut tight behind it. I listen closely to the slight whine of the metal, barely audible for the roar of the furnace-flames.


    When the whine reaches the auditory equivalent of white-hot, I pull out the mace and hammer the parts of the cap below the flanges to join head and haft securely together. Once the metal is cooled, I reheat and repeat the process¡ªI don¡¯t want my weapon to fly apart in the midst of a life-death struggle against the darkness.


    Finally finished, and the titanium only slightly warm to the touch, I take off my blindfold and admire my craft. There¡¯s a few dents and bumps created during the welding process, but they should be easy enough to fix. On the whole, it¡¯s an impressive piece of metal, and a brutal looking one.


    Maces are rightly feared as armor-killers, and though Nthazes recommended I make the flanges as wide as possible, mine are thick too. I see no reason why I shouldn¡¯t consider taking this into battle against dwarven foes. Blind them with my runes of light, while I can hear exactly where they are¡ªthen bash them with no resistance. A mass battle would likely be too chaotic for my runic ears to be of use, but perhaps a skirmish in a wide cave with room to swing could be an appropriate arena.


    Yes, it would¡¯ve been narrow-minded of me to make this weapon purely focused on defeating the darkness. Light can be just as fearsome as fire¡ªthe tenth degree staring up at nothing in the infirmary is proof of that.


    Of course, my mace emits no light just yet. My next task: make it do so.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Doubting the Runes

    ¡°Silence!¡± booms Cathez. ¡°I hear your concerns. I sympathize with them.¡±


    A group of about ten dwarves, Belthur¡¯s friend Lothan on his crutches among them, have pinned him into one corner of the meal hall and are refusing to let him leave. The rest of us¡ªand it seems that half the fort is here¡ªare crowding around, many shouting their heads off about fool orders and a disregard for life and health.


    ¡°Just hearing our concerns isn¡¯t good enough!¡± Lothan yells. ¡°We don¡¯t want sympathy, we want common sense!¡±


    ¡°The Runethane is aware of your opposition. Believe me, both I and Commander Hraroth have raised the issue to him, on multiple occasions!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not trying hard enough!¡± someone yells from the back.


    "We are trying as hard as we can. The demonstrations were our efforts!"


    "A demonstration is no substitute for experience," growls Lothan. "As you well know!"


    "It was all we could persuade him to do."


    "And what about the hunt?" Lothan continues, at full volume. "Did you try to persuade him that was a fool idea? Thirty dead, one of the worst single losses the fort has ever taken¡ªand not even by the darkness, but by foolishness!"


    "Silence!" Cathez shouts back right in his face. ¡°You have been warned not to go against the orders of the Runethane. We all have. We are his runeknights and we obey his orders for the good of the fort!¡±


    ¡°And what if they are not for the good of the fort! What if they¡¯re just for plain idiocy?¡±


    ¡°You are a fool to insult the Runethane, Lothan. Do not make me report you to him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll hear in any case, if not from one worm then from another.¡±


    ¡°Do not insult me. Do you really think I¡¯m happy with the self-destruction our quest for the almergris caused? And these latest accidents in the forges?¡±


    ¡°Then do something about it! The Runethane respects you.¡±


    ¡°He respects all of us.¡±


    ¡°That isn¡¯t true and you know it. He thinks we don¡¯t know what¡¯s good for us. He thinks the only one with ideas worth having is himself!¡±


    ¡°He is Runethane. He has earned that right.¡±


    ¡°Yet he¡¯s wrong! Talk him out of this madness! Will you? Will you?¡±


    Cathez¡¯s shoulders slump. He knows that if he wants to leave the meal hall corner without a brawl, he has no choice but to promise to try.


    ¡°Well?¡± shouts another one of the ten.


    ¡°All right. I will. But I cannot promise anything. Please understand this, all of you. The final decision is Runethane Yurok¡¯s to make, in this as with everything else.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± says Lothan. ¡°But you¡¯d better try your damned hardest.


    They back away from the commander, who walks through the tight-packed crowd to the doors, his armored shoulders slumped as if a terrible weight lies across them. I catch a glimpse of his eyes in his helmet, and see resignation in them.


    I have little hope that he can persuade the Runethane of anything.


    Gradually the meal hall returns to normal. I finish my water, walk over to my blankets and crawl into them, not to sleep, but rather to dream. A sleep and a dream usually work wonders for the mind, which I am going to have to put to good use in the morning¡ªafternoon, evening, whenever it happens to be.


    I shut my eyes and clear my mind of worries: about the killer, about the Runethane, about my guilty past. Right now I cannot help any of that. The only thing I can do now is think about runes of light. They begin to swirl in my vision, shining bright like white sparks scattered across an anvil of dark-iron. Each one is etched into my memory as firmly and accurately as if my mind is the pages of a dictionary that I¡¯ve written the ink into myself.


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    Their silver forms gleam on the backs of my eyelids. I shift them about, re-ordering to compose according to the rules of rhyme and rhythm. The shape of lines and stanzas come to me, then I drift out of consciousness.


    When I awaken I have in my mind a hundred different poetic variations to calculate the runic flow of. I borrow a roll of paper and a quill from Jaemes, and sit down away from the other dwarves; immediately I start scribbling down ideas over my breakfast of mashed spiced mushrooms and greasy gelthob sausage.


    My ideas become a plan, and my plan becomes two stanzas. I feel rather pleased with myself when I finish. I¡¯m nervous too, of course, since actually grafting them will be a trickier and more dangerous job than the welding was, yet even at this early stage I allow myself to feel some satisfaction. My turns of phrase are eloquent, my rhythms flawless apart from a few strokes of brilliance where I¡¯ve broken the beat to add emphasis to the central motif, and each line of each rune is sharply accurate.


    My poem isn¡¯t complete by any stretch of the imagination¡ªbut these two stanzas are a very promising start.


    Two dwarves on their way down to the kitchens pass behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I glance them peek at my sheet. One shakes his head and mutters something under his breath so quietly my runic ears barely pick it up:


    ¡°...useless.¡±


    My fists clench tightly. I want to leap out of my chair to swing my fist at the back of his head and teach him a fucking lesson; I restrain myself. My anger cools, slowly, and my head clears. I become nervous. There can be only one reason for his disgust: if he saw something incredibly, fundamentally wrong and amateurish about what I''ve written.


    I read back over what I¡¯ve written, concentrating hard on each individual rune. My heart sinks. Most are not as I remember from the tablet. It¡¯s right here in the meal hall; I walk over to confirm my suspicions. My heart sinks further¡ªwhat I have scribbled down is not Light Script Two or Three, or even One. Many runes are an amalgamation of styles. They look like an initiate, muddled about which script is which, accidentally combined all three.


    Yet the poem works! The lines rhyme and the beats of the meter fall where they ought to. Each rune has meaning and purpose: they are not mistakes.


    But what meaning do all of them together make? Such drastic alterations will change my original intent for the poem. To work out exactly how, I will have to complete it.


    <hr>


    I lean my unruned mace against the anvil for reference as I draft the rest of the poem. I¡¯ve placed the box of almergris just above my papers in the superstitious hope that its power will inspire my hand as I write. I must not be in fear of it, I decide. It''s just a material: no more, no less. Sitting it here like I might any other reagent is a way to overcome my fear of it.


    The scratch of quill on paper heralds new runes forming beneath my hands. Nothing is purposeful: like before, I let the runes flow and the poem take me where it takes me. From a solid beginning pours a heart-rendingly beautiful composition comparing the light of the far moon to its pale imitations below the earth.


    Are other runeknight¡¯s compositions so intently focused on beauty instead of more practical aspects? I don¡¯t care. This is what I desire to write, and thus it pours out onto the paper.


    Without checking what I¡¯ve written, I take up my silver wire and, after a few calculations as to what size each needs to be so that they¡¯ll fit onto the flanges, I begin to twist the runes into shape. They''re tricky to get right, but even so, I dare not look too closely at my hands as I do this. I worry that if I concentrate too hard on getting each stroke perfect, I risk stifling the runes¡¯ uniquenesses like I did on my waist-plates.


    A sense of nausea sense grows in me as I work, telling me that I¡¯m making a grievous error. This mace is to be my defense against the darkness, after all. I can''t afford for it to be a failure. I am not Galar: I understand when it''s time to experiment and when it''s time to forge something sturdy and reliable.


    My hands slow and the silver wire slides from my sweaty fingers. I swallow hard. Can I really afford to take this gamble? What has come over me? Am I eager to prove the runeknight who sneered at me wrong?


    Have I gone mad? Attempting to create new runes is pure madness. New runes¡ªthe very phrase is an oxymoron, a paradox, an impossibility.


    I look down at what I¡¯ve created. Each is formed with perfect detail, yet detail never once seen before. I shake my head. This is absurd. They will not work, their power will not flow, and any part of me that thinks they do is deluding itself. For what feels like the hundredth time I step away from the anvil and sit down on the steps. I wipe cold sweat from my brow with hands that feel light, as if the marrow has been drained from their bones.


    This is madness!


    Yet it''s madness that''s worked for me.


    That¡¯s still madness!


    Maybe, I tell myself. But you¡¯ve already started and may as well finish. What is there to lose, after all? You can always make another mace. You¡¯ll be allowed the materials for it, and no one is expecting you to get anything right on your first try, except maybe yourself.


    I nod, clench my hands hard into fists to stop their shaking, and return to the anvil. I take a deep breath and, mind clear and calm, pick up where I left off.

 Dwarves of the Deep: A Terrible Error?

    The runes are complete. The poem lies spread out on the anvil in a circle, each stanza like one petal of pressed flower¡ªa kind of colored surface plant. That this comparison springs to mind is perhaps not a coincidence. My poem references the surface heavily¡ªmaybe this was a bad idea, to write of something I have never directly seen.


    Or, I consider, recalling Jaemes¡¯ theory of the origin of runes of light, perhaps to write about the surface was the most natural path to take. Did not those northern dwarves yearn for the beauty of the sun and moon shining through the icy roofs of their halls? Maybe runes of light were designed with the beauty of the surface in mind.


    We shall see. As always, the proof will be in the finished craft. I lay my mace upon the anvil. Because it¡¯s so long, I have to tie the end of the haft to the square-section while the head sits on the horn.


    I move all the runes except for those of the first stanza to a side-table. Into the furnace I place a thin rod, and on the first flange I rest some grains of almergris.


    We were told that the quantity that goes on each rune must be calculated exactly. Too much will destroy the rune, too little and it will not adhere properly to the metal. This is the same for every reagent, but with almergris the margins are even more extreme. I count and recount the grains of vivid yellow, double check my calculations, and only after I''m absolutely sure the amount is correct do I use a pair of tweezers to carefully place the rune on top.


    I put on my blindfold. Light vanishes; I focus and sound intensifies, but even with my improved runic ears, making out details is no easy task. The rune sounds indistinct, wavers in time with the roar of the furnace, shakes in time with the clangs from the hammering of other dwarves.


    I pick up the heated rod and bring it close to the rune. The heat emanating from it disrupts the air and obscures all remaining details, turning the rune to a formless blob in my hearing-vision. I curse and pull the rod away. In order to be accurate, I¡¯ll have to thrust in one swift stroke. Now I understand the temptation the tenth degree had to open his eyes.


    I judge my aim and, just as I might thrust Heartseeker into the gaps of an opponent¡¯s armor, jab the hot iron just under the rune. The silver melds to the metal: with no way to see differences in colors, and subtle textures obscured by the interference of the heat, it just seems to disappear.


    Briefly I consider lifting my blindfold to check¡ªthere should be no danger, technically, since it seems to have grafted¡ªbut I¡¯m not going to risk it. If I¡¯ve messed it up there¡¯s no fixing things anyhow.


    I proceed to the next rune. Placing the grains of almergris is rather difficult with only hearing to go by, but I think I manage, and the way the rune smoothly disappears into the titanium after I jab confirms this. I repeat the process with each rune, reheating the rod every ten or so, until all of the first stanza is grafted.


    I flip the mace over so I can graft the second. My movements gain a rhythm to them. The process is not as difficult as I expected¡ªas long as I aim carefully and jab confidently I¡¯m at minimal risk. Only twice do I slip up and get sparks flying onto my sleeves. They burn through and blister my skin, making me hiss in pain, but I decide not to stop to inspect the damage. Maybe, if the almergris truly does have some spark of consciousness, stopping would be construed as weakness and the runes might flare up to blind me.


    Steady hours pass until I graft the runes of the last stanza and step back. Slowly I count up to three hundred then, very slowly and tentatively, I remove my blindfold.


    ¡°No...¡± I gasp.


    The runes are flickering unevenly, fading in and out like dying fireflies. A few stay lit, but their light is dim, barely enough to read by, let alone repel the darkness. Others are completely dull and dead. My strange abilities have failed me¡ªthis time the runes I wrote were no runes at all, simply twisted errors.


    I slump to the stone and hang my head in shame. This is what comes from underestimating the almergris, feeling that I had mastered it so quickly. A lump forms in my throat as shame, sorrow, and self-hatred overwhelm me.


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    Eventually I summon the strength to wipe away the tears, stand up, and trudge over to the anvil to pick up my failed craft. No matter how awful it feels to do so, every failure must be examined to prevent similar mistakes in future. I turn the head around, inspecting each flange to see what¡¯s gone wrong. The runes are unchanged to how I wrote them onto the paper, and to me they still read as correct. I attempt to find a mistake. To my eyes there are none¡ª


    Wait, there! I see something, a rune with its bottom half melted and deformed. I try to remember on which stanzas I burned myself¡ªyes, it was this one, the seventh stanza, and then on the tenth stanza. I read through that one and find another broken rune.


    I stop my sigh of relief halfway. These might be what¡¯s causing my runes to fail, or they might not. All the same, perhaps all is not lost, though I¡¯m going to need to make some pretty drastic repairs.


    The two affected flanges will have to be completely remade, re-welded, and re-enruned. First to remove them. I dig out a diamond-edge cutting file from a cupboard in the next forging pit along. It¡¯s old, with about a third of its micro-diamonds missing, but it does the job just fine. Sparks spray onto my hands, my sleeves, and at my face; I hear their hiss and feel their heat.


    The file cuts through the base of the flange and the metal falls off with a clang. The next comes off with no difficulty either. I run my finger over the cut. It¡¯s very rough. With coarse sandpaper I polish to make a smooth surface to weld the new flanges to.


    Down to the storerooms I go. Waiting for three more dwarves to make a group with takes some while. Once there, I explain the situation to the chamberlain and request permission to requisition two more ingots. He nods solemnly, and before long I am back in the forging pit hammering them out into large triangles.


    Once completed, I compare them side-by-side with the old flanges. They sound to be roughly the same dimensions, but roughly isn¡¯t good enough. I clip away excess metal from the edges, heat and hammer to extrude them back into shape, compare again using both my eyes and my runic ears.


    Done. Now to weld them. Worried about how the heat will affect the almergris binding the runes on the other flanges, I tie another thick piece of fabric over my already thick blindfold. Onto the smooth edge where the old weld used to be I sprinkle grains of almergris, touch the hot iron to it, weld.


    A rush of extreme heat bakes my fingers in my gloves. I grit my teeth, endure the pain and press down hard to ensure the weld is tight. I leave it to cool, and after the heat shimmer dissipates I can hear that although the weld is somewhat rough, there¡¯s no gaps that need to be patched over. Welding the next flange goes smoothly also.


    I file away the smudges of excess metal around the welds. Some titanium dust gets into my nose, making me sneeze.


    Back to enruning; I twist silver wire into the runes of the removed four stanzas then graft. I go almost comically slowly, determined not to make another mistake. My heart is thudding hard¡ªwhat if the two melted runes were not what went wrong?


    I focus and finish. I close the box of almergris and pace around the forge. The heat-shimmer dies down. Now is the moment of truth. I remove my blindfold.


    I breath a sigh of relief. The runes shine bright, filling the forging pit with harsh white radiance. I grin¡ªI never should have doubted myself. I untie the craft from the anvil and lift it high with both hands. It¡¯s gleaming even more brilliantly than it was a few seconds ago.


    The brightness increases further. I frown. It increases even further and I¡¯m forced to shut my eyes tight. It''s so bright I can see the veins in my skin, then the light begins to dim. My heart skips a beat. I open my eyes: the mace''s light goes from blinding to merely very bright, then to simply shining.


    Now to dull dimness.


    ¡°No, no, no!¡± I hiss. I shake it. ¡°No!¡±


    The light vanishes entirely. I fall to my knees in despair.


    Then, in the center of each rune, a spark of white appears. The sparks expand, and now the mace is glowing softly, now glowing brightly. I shut my eyes, then have to turn my head away when the shape of the mace begins to show through my eyelids. It¡¯s as bright as the hottest dragonfire.


    Slowly it begins to dim once more. I look back at it, sick in my stomach, cold sweat forming on my brow. The light disappears. Then, in exactly the same manner as before, the runes re-light themselves.


    I place my craft on the anvil and step back. The mace becomes blinding¡ªeven when I turn my head away, just the light reflected off the rough gray steps of the pit is enough to send twinges of pain shooting through my pupils. It reaches its zenith, stays at that brightness for a moment, then dims once more.


    One, two... at the fifteenth second the light disappears. After another fifteen seconds the light reaches its zenith again. I take a few more counts, and the period doesn¡¯t change. The light is rising and falling as regularly as the breathing of some great animal.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Finishing Touches and Bad News

    I read through the poem I¡¯ve grafted¡ªpausing whenever the runes become to bright¡ªand puzzle over the mystery. This phenomenon was never my intention. Nor, from the composition of my poem, do I see why it should be occurring.


    A composition¡ªa poem, long or short, or in some rare cases a prose saga¡ªis the framework for the runes. It does not determine the properties of a piece; the runes themselves do that. This is why they are classed into groups based on meaning: runes of speed, runes of toughness, runes of weightlessness, runes of sharpness, runes of pain, and so on. The more excellent the composition they make up, the stronger their power, and though of course how they are positioned can affect their properties, the poem itself does not determine the overall effect¡ªthat is determined by the runes. Even if you used some poetic trickery to compose a poem about speed out of only runes of sharpness, for example, your weapon would not become faster to swing.


    At least, that¡¯s the common belief. I¡¯ve heard that the most advanced smiths, first and second degrees, and of course the Runethanes and the Runekings, can transcend what the runes denote, and create powerful effects merely from connotations and subtext. Not that I claim to be this able: when a first degree runeknight wants to forge something with a special effect, he decides what effect he wants beforehand.


    Clearly, however, there is something going on beyond the straight meanings of my runes.


    I cover up the mace with some thick fireproof cloth. I want no strange questions until I''ve figured out exactly what''s going on, and the breath-like pulsing of the light is sure to attract attention.


    I try to recall all I''ve read about runes and runic function. The Association of Steel''s library had plenty of thick, academic texts on the finer points of the subject, but when I attempt to recall what they said I find the decade old memories hazy.


    After many, many minutes of deep thinking that leads nowhere, a realization comes to me in a flash. I read over the strange new runes in my poem, and my idea is confirmed.


    Though I can see at a glance the meaning of each rune, their more complex aspects are a mystery to me. I cannot make out their more subtle connotations, their specific runic flow-patterns, their antonymic patterns, their complex stresses, and so on¡ªnothing beyond their most basic aspects.


    How about the runes on my breastplate? I take it off and inspect, run my finger along until I come to one of the most altered ones. It¡¯s composed of two jagged lines, one with three jags and the other four, linked by two circles. The meaning is ¡®break-against-hardness¡¯, but what¡¯s the connotation? Is it that the harder a piece of armor is, the easier weapons break on it? Or perhaps it¡¯s more related to runes used when discussing natural phenomenon, and instead would be better used in a passage about diamonds scratching quartzite.


    It¡¯s probably the former, considering the context of the poem, yet that¡¯s just my guess: I can¡¯t tell.


    But though I don¡¯t have conscious knowledge of the runes I create, it has to reside in my head somewhere, else my poems wouldn¡¯t read so well.


    Unconscious knowledge behind unconscious ability.


    <hr>


    Nthazes told me before that to move up a degree in the fort, you must present a craft to a first degree or the Runethane, and they will decide whether or not you¡¯re worthy to ascend. I have no intention of attempting to climb any higher¡ªfifth is already an incredible achievement for someone only three decades old, and Galar is not wrong about how being a higher rank means more responsibility and heavier expectations. However, weapons of light are always inspected regardless of whether you intend to ascend or not. The main duty of the fort is to defend against the deep darkness, and allowing dwarves with inferior weapons on that job would put everyone¡¯s lives at risk.


    So my strange runes are going to be read closely whether I want them to be or not. I feel slightly dizzy at the thought of the attention they¡¯re likely to draw. New runes of light¡ªthe Runethane will be interested for sure.


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    But my mace isn¡¯t ready for presentation just yet. The head is runed but the haft is still bare: it¡¯s time to see how little I can make it weigh without sacrificing structural integrity.


    At my next session in the forges I leave the box of almergris in my storage, and feel a palpable sense of relief as I walk away from it. Quizik, that easy and reliable reagent¡ªthough it was relatively unpopular in Thanerzak¡¯s realm¡ªis what I¡¯ll be using for these poems, mixed with a touch of incandesite for a hit of extra power.


    I start to twist my silver wire into runes, keeping my eyes on my fingers. Though I¡¯m not focusing on getting each dictionary-perfect, at the same time I¡¯m trying not to let my unconscious mind run completely wild. Maybe by doing this I can exercise a tiny measure of control over my abilities.


    Maybe.


    Instead of one long poem, I¡¯m going to divide my efforts into three. The first will toughen the metal, the second and longest decrease its weight, and the third will give it friction to improve my grip on it.


    I do the first and third first, using runes I¡¯m well familiar with. I inspect the runes¡ªa few strokes have twisted, a few squares have become rectangles and vice versa, but nothing major. Keeping my eyes on my hands seems to have controlled things somewhat: a very useful discovery.


    Now for the middle poem. I¡¯m not super familiar with the script I¡¯m using: Naeltrite Five, one dug up several thousand years ago from a vertical cavern to the far west. It has more runes relating to density, buoyancy, and down-force than most scripts, and is the preferred choice for altering the weight of metals.


    The poem comes out just alright. A few of the rhymes feel a little awkward, and I¡¯m not sure I made the best choice of meter¡ªI suspect an anapestic one would''ve been superior to this dactylic one. My unfamiliarity with the script means I can¡¯t come up with anything better though, so I¡¯ll graft as is.


    I heat a thin iron and start. It¡¯s a great relief to be able to actually see what I¡¯m doing.


    <hr>


    Craft complete, I wrap it tightly in heavy cloth to hide its pulsing light, and take it up to the meal hall, where I prop it up against the wall next to Heartseeker. I ought to give it a name, but can¡¯t think of a good one right now. It¡¯ll come to me in time.


    Now for a celebratory meal. I heap a plate with rare imported pork, crunchy green bracket-fungi, some long mushrooms with pyramidal caps¡ªmy favorite variety¡ªand thinly cut gelthob steaks, well done. No water for me today either: I grab the biggest beer mug I can find and fill it to the brim. Foam runs down my beard as I take one swig after another.


    It¡¯s good stuff, the beer down here. No dust in it, and it¡¯s rich in flavor. Neither does it taste like it¡¯s made from mushrooms. This is brewed from proper cavern barley.


    I shovel down my meal and fill up my plate with another. When I climb into my blankets my belly is full and I¡¯m in a good mood for the first time since the expedition.


    Commotion wakes me. The meal hall has filled up while I slept, and is now crowded by what seems like most of the fort. I sit up in shock. What¡¯s going on? Another murder? I approach a knot of dwarves standing nearby.


    ¡°Has something happened?¡± I ask the most senior one.


    ¡°Apparently Cathez talked to the Runethane. He¡¯s coming here to deliver the bad news.¡±


    ¡°Bad news? How bad?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know. That¡¯s just what everyone¡¯s saying.¡±


    A few minutes later, Cathez enters the hall. The crowd shifts to give him space. I crane my head and can just see the top of his helmet and the bright mace resting on his shoulder.


    ¡°Is Lothan here?¡± he asks.


    No one answers.


    ¡°I will wait for him.¡±


    The hall falls silent. The only communication is through meaningful glances¡ªnot even a whisper is raised. The anticipation is so strong I feel that I could reach out and touch it. The last remaining buzz of alcohol in my veins chills. There¡¯s fear here too, from the junior runeknights¡ªI see anxious faces and jittering.


    I¡¯ve witnessed no accidents since Cathez promised to talk to the Runethane: most of the junior runeknights have paused their efforts to wait for the results. So for them, this is the moment of truth, the moment that could decide whether they live the rest of their lives in light or in blindness.


    The meal hall door opens. Five runeknights walk in, maces a-glowing on their shoulders. Lothan is among them.


    Commander Cathez turns to meet his angry gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯ve already heard why you¡¯ve called us here,¡± says Lothan. ¡°And I¡¯ve heard rumors that the result isn¡¯t the one we hoped for.¡±


    ¡°Hear me out, Lothan. All of you.¡±


    ¡°Very well. We¡¯re all listening.¡± He sits down on the stone floor and lays his crutch and weapon beside him. An insult: one does not sit when talking to one¡¯s betters. He makes things worse: ¡°Give us your excuses.¡±


    Cathez narrows his eyes. ¡°You forget yourself. I am your commander. Address me with more respect.¡±


    ¡°I apologize most profusely. Now, would you kindly tell us what the Runethane has said?¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Almergris Takes Its Toll

    ¡°The Runethane listened to your concerns¡ªour concerns,¡± says Cathez. ¡°Be assured that he has considered them.¡±


    ¡°What did he say?¡± someone yells.


    "He says that he understands why many of you are so apprehensive."


    Cathez pauses.


    "However, the forging is to go ahead as ordered. There are to be no more delays."


    "He''s happy for half the fort to get blinded then?" shouts Lothan.


    "You know that is an exaggeration," says Cathez. "He does acknowledge there may be some casualties."


    "There have been five serious burns already, and one dwarf has been blinded. Those numbers will increase five-fold if this continues. Does he consider that acceptable?"


    "He does.¡±


    Outrage ensues. The hall erupts into shouting and jostling as more than a hundred armored dwarves crowd forward brandishing their weapons. Cathez stands still in the face of them, even when the angriest make it to within a few feet.


    Not every dwarf is crowding forward, though. I glance back and see that several dozen remain in place with expressions of disapproval writ clear on their faces.


    Lothan¡¯s friends pull him to his feet and shove him forward to the front of the angry crowd. I cannot see clearly, but I get a vague impression from my runic ears and also my gut that now his face is mere inches from Cathez¡¯s.


    ¡°How could he find that acceptable!¡± he shouts. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Our vigil against the darkness has always resulted in death and injury. This is a continuation of that, no more and no less.¡±


    ¡°Is that what you truly believe? Is it?¡±


    ¡°It does not matter what I believe. It is the Runethane¡¯s decision and it is final.¡±


    ¡°It will do terrible harm to the fort. Does he not realize this? Junior runeknights become seniors when those seniors fall¡ªwithout them the fort will have no protection!¡±


    ¡°He acknowledges the risk.¡±


    ¡°Why does he not see his own foolishness?¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself, Lothan! You know better than to call your Runethane a fool.¡±


    ¡°If he acts a fool then he is one, and I will call him so.¡±


    ¡°He has calculations beyond what you are privy to.¡±


    ¡°Beyond what we are privy to?¡±


    ¡°What calculations?¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Tell us!¡±


    Lothan limps another inch closer to Cathez. ¡°Is the rumor true, then?¡± he growls.


    ¡°There are many rumors spreading around the fort,¡± says Cathez. ¡°Which one?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t play coy, commander! You know which one. The one that says we¡¯re all to go marching down the Shaft two by two to our deaths!¡±


    Cathez pauses. The jostling and shouting of the crowd stills.


    ¡°Well?¡± Lothan demands.


    ¡°Commander Hraroth and I have discussed the prospect of an expedition with the Runethane, yes.¡±


    More outrage; the crowd shoves forward. I force myself through to try and get a better look. I see Lothan collide with Cathez, slip and fall. Cathez batters back the runeknights surging past Lothan.


    ¡°Silence!¡± he yells. ¡°You are soldiers and you will have discipline!¡±


    The crowd¡¯s advance slows but does not halt. Two of Lothan¡¯s friends haul him back to his feet and pull him toward Cathez once more.


    ¡°You have discussed this new madness, have you?¡± he spits. ¡°So the rumor is true?¡±


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    ¡°We have discussed the possibility, that is all. No decision has been made yet.¡±


    ¡°And which way do you think the Runethane will decide?¡± one of Lothan¡¯s friends asks.


    ¡°I could not say.¡±


    ¡°And in which direction do you lean?¡± asks Lothan.


    ¡°Personally I think such an expedition would be a great risk.¡±


    ¡°A great risk? One that is too great, or perhaps one that is worth it no matter the cost?¡±


    Cathez folds his arms. ¡°I presume that you are against such an expedition.¡±


    ¡°What do you fucking think?¡± spits Lothan.


    ¡°Then I will make your opinion known to the Runethane.¡± He steps back. ¡°And all of you?¡±


    The loudest shouting yet breaks out. I cannot understand a single word, but can still tell what they¡¯re saying. I add my own voice to the clamor:


    ¡°Against! Against!¡±


    Cathez holds up his hand for silence and slowly the shouting calms.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he says. ¡°I shall make your opinions known to the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°But you make no guarantees, I suppose,¡± Lothan says acidly.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I cannot. Now, all of you: I suggest you get to forging your weapons of light. I recommend that you improve your runic ears if you can first; the Runethane would see nothing wrong with that. However, that is the only craft you should make before you create your weapon. The decree is that everyone must have a weapon of light ready to wield, and while you do not have one, it is my duty to inform you that you are in violation of that decree.¡±


    His expression softens somewhat. ¡°Good luck.¡±


    He turns and leaves. Glowers follow him; in my opinion this is not entirely fair. He has a terrible job, caught between the Runethane and the runeknights. He¡¯s trying to keep both happy as best he can, but that seems to be impossible.


    <hr>


    The toll is proving to be a cruel one. Over the next several weeks a couple dozen dwarves end up with injuries severe enough to warrant a stay in the infirmary. Most get burns to the hands; several end up with flesh blackened right down to the finger bones. A couple have their hands rendered entirely useless.


    A few end up with burns to their chests, face, shoulders and upper legs when too much almergris liquifies their crafts and splashes molten titanium or steel all over them. I¡¯m surprised at the ferocity of the stuff when I hear these stories¡ªit never got so bad when I used it¡ªit really does seem that the almergris can sense weakness, and increases its violence accordingly.


    Three more are blinded: two fully in both eyes and one partly in one eye, fully in the other. They make the same mistake as the first victim of the almergris: they take off their blindfolds to see why the reagent isn¡¯t lighting.


    There is one death: an eighth degree runeknight makes the same mistake I almost did and places his enruned craft in the furnace for heat-treating. Except for him there isn¡¯t just a flash¡ªthe entire mass of steel blasts itself apart.


    A splinter of steel all but bisects his head.


    Most have now finished their crafts, however there¡¯s still a few lower degrees who can¡¯t quite manage to make their runes light up properly. They try again and again, yet mess up the rhyme and rhythm of their poems, or make mistakes in the runes themselves¡ªonly minor ones, but runes of light are sensitive to such errors.


    There are two other runeknights who haven¡¯t finished yet either: Galar and Fjalar.


    The latter has healed from his injuries, devastating though they were, and despite the fact that the others so grievously injured by the white jelly are still barely able to limp. Now he forges in a pit at the opposite side of the hall to his brother. One time I wander by it and glance in to see what he¡¯s doing, but unlike his brother¡¯s craft, it doesn¡¯t look to be anything out of the ordinary. Just a mace, slightly smaller than average.


    As for Galar, he informs me that his trident is nearly done. He¡¯s too excited to talk much, however, so I don¡¯t get anything interesting out of him.


    I spend a lot of time trying to piece together the remains of the glass craft we found in Galar¡¯s room. So far I haven¡¯t been able to make much progress, even with Nthazes helping me. All we can tell is that it was meant to store liquid taken from another place. Highly suspicious, yet it could also be a coincidence. There¡¯s nothing to suggest the liquid was meant to be blood, and no runes suggesting that the liquid was meant to be condensed somehow either.


    Such a small vial could not fit all the blood from even one arm of one dwarf, let along every milliliter of fluid from five.


    <hr>


    After one more blinding and four more serious burns, every dwarf in the fort finally has their weapon of light. I¡¯m in the meal hall, picking through my food, when I hear that it¡¯s time to present our weapons to one of the first degrees. Nthazes is in here with me, and I ask him what to expect:


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to be worried. Even if it¡¯s the Runethane, he judges fairly. Harshly, but fairly. After all, we can¡¯t have inferior weapons down in the Shaft when the darkness boils up.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t get thrown down a degree if he thinks it unworthy?¡±


    Nthazes scratches his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s possible, though I suppose you are a special case. You say you¡¯re fifth degree, and your weapons and armor certainly seem that level to me, but you didn''t bring down any certificate or anything to prove that.¡±


    ¡°No. The situation was... Complicated.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, maybe if the Runethane or Commander Hraroth is in a bad mood they¡¯ll decide to make you a degree lower than fifth. But I doubt that¡¯ll happen. Unless your craft is a real mess. Is it?¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure? You don¡¯t seem so proud of it. I wish you¡¯d show me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just... Strange. Shocking.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°Yes, you said that, but in what way?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t explain easily.¡±


    If there¡¯s one dwarf in the fort that I should show my weapon to, it¡¯s Nthazes, yet I somehow can¡¯t bring myself to do it. I¡¯m not entirely sure why. Maybe I¡¯m worried he¡¯ll think me a liar if I tell him about my strange abilities. Or maybe I¡¯m worried that I won¡¯t have the courage to tell him of my abilities, make up some excuse, and end up becoming a liar myself.


    ¡°Hmm. Well, all right then.¡± His expression darkens. ¡°I¡¯ll be seeing it anyway, if the Runethane has his way with the expedition.¡±


    ¡°Do you really think we¡¯ll be going down?¡± I say nervously.


    He lowers his voice to the slightest of whispers: ¡°Unless we can find the killer before he makes his decision, yes.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Twins Crafts

    It is in the Runethane¡¯s hall that we present our weapons. We stand in ranks in the main body of the hall, waiting to be called up to the front by degree, where Runethane Yurok, Commander Hraroth, and the chamberlain wait to pass judgment. Usually just one would be sufficient to decide the worth of a craft, but the Runethane has decided that this occasion is important enough for three.


    The artificial darkness swirls around me as I wait, still like a statue. Like always, it¡¯s cold in here, making me shiver even inside my armor. Probably this phenomenon is caused by the artificial darkness¡ªthe coals producing it making a kind of anti-heat.


    Or maybe it¡¯s not actually that cold, and I¡¯m shivering out of nerves instead. My mace¡¯s head is wrapped in thick cloth, concealing its pulsing glow and strange runes. I¡¯m fearful of what Runethane Yurok¡¯s reaction to them might be.


    ¡°We will go from junior to senior,¡± announces Hraroth. ¡°Tenth degrees, line up in single file at the front.¡±


    The three dozen or so tenth degrees lucky enough to have survived the forging unburned and unblinded shuffle forward and around the formation, heads bowed in worry and shame. Not one of their crafts is anywhere close to decent. The metalwork is wonky, the runes misshapen, the poems crude in every aspect. They shine barely half as bright as the weapons of the senior runeknights do.


    Commander Hraroth is similarly unimpressed. He gives the first in line an unhappy glare.


    ¡°What kind of a construction is this?¡±


    ¡°I... I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°How did you construct your mace, tenth degree?¡±


    ¡°The usual way, commander.¡± His voice has a tremor to it.


    ¡°There are many ways to construct maces: how did you construct this one?¡±


    ¡°I made the head first, out of one piece of steel, folding it into shape. Then I put the haft through it and welded them together.¡±


    ¡°That explains the uneven shape and the gaps then.¡±


    ¡°I... Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Runes of light you are inexperienced with, but this kind of metalwork is a disgrace! Even for a tenth degree.¡±


    ¡°The runes are more important,¡± says Runethane Yurok. ¡°And these ones are very disappointing.¡±


    ¡°Right you are,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°But bad runes are to be expected from a tenth degree. It can¡¯t be helped.¡±


    ¡°Maybe a second attempt could improve them.¡±


    The tenth degree flinches back. ¡°A second attempt?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it would be worth it,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°This is about the standard we can expect from them.¡±


    ¡°No. I think I can expect more from my dwarves,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Even tenth degrees. The average quality must be brought up.¡±


    ¡°I am not sure it can be brought up by very much.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not by much, but these are my runeknights in my fort, and I say it should be brought up some.¡± He focuses his gaze onto the line. ¡°Tenth degrees, if your craft proves to be one of the worse ones, it will have to be reforged. There are thirty two of you here, so I decree that the worst eight must be reforged. A round quarter. Understood?¡±


    The tenth degrees flinch back.


    ¡°Answer your Runethane!¡± Hraroth commands.


    They mumble the affirmative.


    ¡°Good,¡± says Runethane Yurok. ¡°Even if you are a lower degree, you should still strive for perfection. Those of you with the worst weapons should welcome the chance to improve.¡±


    The rest of the tenth degrees¡¯ presentations go about as well. Neither Hraroth nor the Runethane hold back on their criticisms. If anything, the Runethane becomes harsher with each weapon presented.


    ¡°Why would you put this uki-stuy rune here? It is obvious that the harmonics would be much improved if it was swapped with this one! Can you not read the runic flow?¡±


    ¡°All in First Script! How do you expect to compose something decent out of only fifty-eight runes at your level?¡±


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    ¡°How could you make your runes so overly large and yet so mangled? You did not need to wear a blindfold for this part of the process!¡±


    By the end of the judgments, instead of only eight having to reforge their weapons, the Runethane decides that only twelve of the crafts are worthy to be wielded, and so twenty will have to be reforged. The chamberlain whispers something, but the Runethane brushes him off:


    ¡°No. You know as well as I do, Helthok, that inferior weapons aren¡¯t just a danger to oneself but to the dwarves around you also. It would be irresponsible of me to let these disgraces to forging be used in battle.¡±


    My jaw clenches in anger. Irresponsible? What about the irresponsibility of forcing the tenth degrees to craft them in the first place? And how many more burnings and blindings does he want?


    Surely I¡¯m not the only one with these thoughts going through my head right about now, but it¡¯s not as if anyone can act on them. He is the Runethane; we have no choice but to obey.


    The ninth degrees are next; they fare little better than the tenth degrees. Fifteen of them are ordered to reforge their weapons. Then it¡¯s the eighth degrees¡¯ turn. Hraroth becomes slightly less harsh, perhaps realizing that making so many reforge will end up being a detriment to the fort. The Runethane shows no such mercy.


    ¡°You are eighth degrees!¡± he booms once the last of their weapons is checked. ¡°You should be able to write runes better than this! Why did more of you not use the Third Script? It¡¯s not so complicated!¡±


    They are dismissed; half of them must reforge. Now the seventh degrees are called up. Galar and Fjalar end up last in line¡ªon purpose, no doubt, though I cannot figure exactly why.


    The Runethane¡¯s mood improves somewhat looking at the seventh degrees¡¯ crafts. They¡¯ve done well¡ªunlike on the previous weapons, I can see no obvious mistakes. Hraroth manages to find a few, naturally, and the runes are not perfect, but on the whole the crafts are praised. Each weapon glows brightly and steadily.


    ¡°Not a bad effort,¡± says Runethane Yurok to the third-to-last runeknight. ¡°Though personally I wouldn¡¯t have chosen such a theme. Still, it¡¯s a decent weapon. Next!¡±


    Fjalar comes forward. He takes off the covering of his mace¡ªwhich was glowing brightly enough before that I didn''t realize it was covered¡ªand the light increases three-fold. I blink tears from my eyes: the head of his mace is like a globe of white fire. After about a second it becomes painful to look at and I¡¯m forced to close my eyes.


    ¡°Ah hah!¡± says Runethane Yurok with glee. He rubs his hands together¡ªI hear the shape of the movement. ¡°Now this is the sort of craft I¡¯ve been hoping for!¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± says Fjalar.


    ¡°The metalwork seems solid. Wouldn¡¯t you agree, Commander Hraroth?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Cast, if I¡¯m not mistaken.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Fjalar says with relish. ¡°I carved the mold most carefully. It¡¯s a simple shape, for I¡¯m afraid I wasn¡¯t confident pouring metal into anything more complex. Air bubbles are a tricky thing to account for.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re modest,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°The shape of your mace is more complex than most of the others¡¯ here. Ten flanges¡ªan auspicious number.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Ten flanges for a ten-stanza poem. Each line has a crux-point in the center where it curves around the edge of the flange, to ensure the highest runic flow there. This was my method of increasing the light output.¡±


    Hraroth nods respectfully. ¡°An advanced technique. Especially for someone of seventh degree.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°A more advanced technique than I would have expected from one of the lower degrees for sure. Even the fourth degrees are reluctant to attempt such a difficult composition structure.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s important to challenge oneself,¡± says Fjalar. ¡°Especially in these dire circumstances.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Though I must say, Fjalar, this craft is a rather conventional one for you. The last ones you¡¯ve presented have all been rather more unique.¡±


    ¡°They never exactly met with Commander Hraroth and the chamberlain¡¯s favor, however.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. They are rather conventional dwarves, it has to be said. But I¡¯ve always found your originality interesting.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for the praise.¡±


    ¡°Something reliable,¡± says Hraroth, ¡°is likely more use to us in this situation than something experimental.¡±


    Fjalar nods. ¡°I thought so also.¡±


    ¡°An increase in degree is perhaps warranted,¡± states the chamberlain.


    ¡°No, no,¡± says Fjalar. ¡°I crafted this for the good of the fort, not for my own advancement.¡±


    ¡°That is irrelevant,¡± says Hraroth sternly. ¡°All crafts are for the good of the fort. And to keep a dwarf with such skill in the lower degrees would not be proper.¡±


    Fjalar bows. ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°You are seventh degree, correct?¡± asks the Runethane.


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Sixth is still too low for such an excellent craft. You are hereby promoted to the fifth degree.¡±


    Fjalar bows low. ¡°Thank you, my Runethane. It is an honor.¡±


    ¡°You will be an asset to us in the coming fight. I look forward to hearing of your deeds."


    "Just remember that with a higher rank comes higher responsibility," Hraroth says sternly. "I look forward to not hearing of any more foolish arguments with your brother."


    "I will try my utmost to restrain myself."


    "You will not just try; you will."


    Fjalar bows again.


    "Dismissed. Next!¡±


    Fjalar turns and walks back to the ranks, covering the head of his mace back up as he does so. I¡¯m still processing what just happened¡ªa jump of two ranks with such little fanfare? I knew there were no examinations down here but, even so, to see such a seemingly easy promotion is surprising.


    But why has Fjalar suddenly decided to create something conventional, something sure to raise his rank, when until now both he and Galar have avoided this? Maybe the judgment of Galar¡¯s craft will shed further light on the issue. He walks up to the Runethane¡¯s throne, the head of his trident wrapped so thoroughly that I don¡¯t think anyone who hasn¡¯t seen it before can tell what it is. When he reaches the steps, he tears away the cloth with a flourish.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Trident of Light

    The glow of Galar¡¯s trident is not so bright. Maybe about a quarter as bright as my mace at its zenith, and half as bright as Fjalar¡¯s mace. I feel oddly disappointed. The Runethane frowns dangerously.


    ¡°And what is this, Galar? Come closer.¡±


    Galar steps confidently right up to the Runethane''s throne. He plants the trident upright on the stone; it¡¯s slightly taller than he is. There is silence for a few seconds, allowing me to hear the shape of the tines clearly¡ªthere¡¯s an indentation at the point of each one, or maybe an opening.


    ¡°It¡¯s a trident,¡± says Galar.


    ¡°We can see that,¡± Hraroth growls. ¡°Why did you not create a mace, or at least a hammer?¡±


    ¡°Innovation is vital. Especially in these trying circumstances.¡±


    ¡°In these circumstances something that works is vital.¡±


    ¡°Calm down, commander,¡± says the Runethane. His frown has diminished somewhat and he has a thoughtful look on his face. ¡°The glow is certainly not very bright, and the runework is inferior to his brother¡¯s, but he¡¯s right that innovation is important. Maybe we have relied on maces for too long.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Galar. ¡°I believe we have.¡±


    ¡°Let us hear out your reasoning.¡±


    ¡°While there is no doubt that maces are effective, due to their great surface area, other shapes can provide different benefits.¡± He speaks quickly and confidently, as if he¡¯s prepared these remarks beforehand. ¡°My trident was designed not with maximum constant output in mind, but for focused blows against the darkness¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shows how little you know,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°Constant, all-around pressure must be kept on the darkness. Focused blows mean little to it.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but have you ever tested this hypothesis, commander?¡±


    ¡°I have never attempted to throw my life away, no.¡±


    ¡°I will not be throwing away my life... I designed this trident to create a focused attack against the darkness that is sure to annihilate large swathes of it. If you would be so kind as to observe, I will demonstrate.¡±


    The Runethane is nodding. ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°Do you see here this wheel embedded into the shaft of the weapon?¡± He holds it up to the Runethane.


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°There are eleven notches. Right now it is set to zero. Now I will demonstrate setting one.¡±


    He turns and points the trident to the left. There¡¯s a small click as he turns the wheel, and a moment later a cone of light glares out from the three tines, creating three pale overlapping circles on the far wall. It¡¯s quite a sight¡ªand one that makes me suspicious. There must be some very advanced runework going on in the weapon''s interior.


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°But still not so powerful. Let us see the third setting.¡±


    ¡°As you command.¡±


    There are two more clicks and a moment later the circles become nearly too bright to look at. A few dwarves clap.


    ¡°Impressive,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Do you not agree, Commander Hraroth? Chamberlain Helthok?¡±


    ¡°It is an interesting design,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°However I worry that it will be of little utility. The cone of light is vulnerable toward its point.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± says Galar. ¡°This is an offensive weapon, not a defensive one.¡±


    ¡°The light is also not so bright. Even for offensive use, I have my doubts of its effectiveness.¡±


    In reply, Galar clicks the wheel up one more notch. The overlapping circles become blinding pools of liquid brilliance, making everyone in the hall yell out in shock and cover their eyes. I do the same, burying my head in the crook of my arm. A bright blue afterimage hovers in my vision.


    ¡°Each degree doubles the power!¡± Galar says triumphantly. ¡°So what do you think, my Runethane? Do you think this will be an effective weapon against the darkness?¡±


    ¡°Doubles?¡± Hraroth says incredulously. ¡°My Runethane, if this claim is correct, Galar has crafted the most powerful weapon of light ever seen in the fort.¡±


    ¡°Turn it up to ten,¡± orders the Runethane. ¡°I will risk some of my own vision to test the truth of your claim¡ªthough naturally I will not be looking directly into the light.¡±


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    ¡°Ah,¡± says Galar. ¡°To tell the truth, my Runethane, I have not tested the higher settings yet. I worry about... Complications.¡±


    Hraroth¡¯s expression darkens. ¡°Explain.¡±


    ¡°The way my craft works is, well, complicated. To simplify, there are several looping stanzas within the trident¡¯s points¡ªthe whole weapon is hollow, you see. The wheel is linked to a restriction mechanism. Theoretically, if the wheel was not there, the light could increase in brightness forever.¡±


    ¡°I think it more likely that the runes would melt.¡±


    ¡°Well, that is why I said theoretically. And also why I am reluctant to change the degree of brightness up past setting six.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Very interesting indeed. Let us see setting six, then.¡±


    Even with my eyes shut tight, the light is bright. I can see every detail of every little vein and artery on the inside of my eyelids.


    ¡°Turn it off!¡± someone yells.


    I hear the Runethane raise his hand through my runic ears, and the brightness snaps away. I open my eyes and am relieved that my vision is undamaged; the glows of the runeknights¡¯ maces are still clearly visible.


    ¡°Very impressive,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°What do you think, Commander Hraroth? Should he be moved up like his brother?¡±


    Hraroth considers for a second. ¡°As reluctant as I am to say this, yes. Not so much because of this craft¡ªI still believe it has immense tactical weakness, and not to mention likely reliability issues¡ªbut because of what it demonstrates. Galar has better abilities than he¡¯s let on until now.¡±


    ¡°Not at all!¡± says Galar. ¡°My runes are nothing interesting. Just a few tricks.¡±


    ¡°Very impressive tricks,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Fifth degree is right for you also, I think.¡±


    ¡°Only fifth?¡±


    He sounds oddly disappointed. This confuses me¡ªI thought he didn''t want to move up.


    ¡°Do not question the decision of your Runethane,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°You are fifth now; be glad of it.¡±


    Galar bows low. ¡°It was never my intention to question anything... Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± says the Runethane solemnly. ¡°I hope this interesting new weapon will be put to use before long. I look forward to reading the reports of its effectiveness. And if you can find out a way to increase the power without risking the weapon''s integrity, and improve your armor, maybe another promotion will be in order too.¡±


    Galar grins widely. "Really? Thank you, my Runethane!"


    He turns to rejoin the ranks, still grinning. He directs the grin at his brother; I try to catch a glimpse of Fjalar''s expression, his reaction to his brother''s high praise, but the head of a glowing mace gets in the way and I don¡¯t get to see it.


    ¡°Next!¡± orders Hraroth. ¡°Sixth degrees!¡±


    They peel off the formation to go and line up, leaving me feeling oddly exposed. I am going to talk to the Runethane soon¡ªthis fact hits me in the stomach and I suddenly feel like being sick. Talk to a Runethane! How many dwarves of Thanerzak and Broderick had that privilege? Only the elites, the most important runeknights, ever had that chance. And although this fort is smaller, more intimate than the realms I hail from, a Runethane is still a Runethane. Through hundreds of years of forging has Runethane Yurok made himself into a dwarf worthy of the title. What will he think when talking to a whelp like me?


    More importantly, what will he think of my runes? I know the lie I will say¡ªa lie of necessity, for to tell the truth will ironically have me branded as a liar¡ªbut how will this lie be received?


    The sixth degrees¡¯ judgements go a little more harshly, maybe because the Runethane¡¯s impressions have just been colored by Fjalar and Galar¡¯s excellency. No one is forced to reforge, but he finds something major to criticize in each and every craft. Hraroth is slightly less critical¡ªeven so, he¡¯s the one I¡¯m most worried about. The Runethane might be fascinated by my runes; Hraroth is likely to be suspicious of them.


    ¡°Fifth degrees, forward!¡± Hraroth barks.


    For a second I hesitate, wanting strongly to slink to the back and prolong the judgment of my mace for a half hour longer. I resist the urge, gather my strength, and walk quickly ensure I end up at the front of the line. No one seems unhappy about this¡ªthey¡¯re clearly just as nervous as I am.


    And now I am looking directly at the trio: the Runethane on his tall throne with his great mace leaning against it, grim-faced Hraroth on his right, and the calm and solemn chamberlain on his left. They loom over me amid the swirling darkness.


    ¡°Ah,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Zathar, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say, suppressing the tremor in my voice.


    ¡°Come closer, up-abover.¡±


    I obey.


    ¡°From where did you descend from again, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Runethane Thanerzak¡¯s realm. Like your fort, it is also a realm of Runeking Ulrike.¡±


    ¡°I know which realms my Runeking has under his domain, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± I swallow. ¡°I apologize.¡±


    ¡°But we are not here to discuss geography. I¡¯ve heard interesting things about your crafts, Zathar. You intrigue me¡ªdespite the company you choose to keep. And I have also heard something of your fighting skill.¡±


    ¡°I have tried my best to be of service to the fort. To which I am in debt to.¡±


    ¡°Let us see then, how much more service you can be to us. I notice that you have covered your craft.¡± He leans closer. ¡°Are you going to reveal something interesting, like Galar has done?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no perhaps,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°Reveal your craft to us.¡±


    I tear away the cloth in one movement, quickly so they don¡¯t see the shaking of my hands. The pulsing of the light is on a downswing¡ªit is about half as bright as an ordinary mace. It continues to dim; I¡¯m too afraid to see the Runethane¡¯s expression so I just stare at the runes.


    ¡°It¡¯s gone out,¡± someone mutters.


    It relights. I shut my eyes; the insides of my eyelids begins to go pink. I turn my head away, and sense the Runethane, Hraroth, and the chamberlain do the same. The light reaches its zenith, then begins to dim. I open my eyes again and force myself to look directly at the Runethane.


    He¡¯s frowning. He¡¯s noticed them immediately.


    ¡°What kind of runes are these?¡± he whispers, in a fascinated tone.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Runes Never Before Seen

    Hraroth and the chamberlain lean in close. Their mouths hang slightly open.


    ¡°Are these runes of light?¡± says Hraroth, his usually gruff voice subdued and quiet. ¡°Yes... All from Third Script... Or not. I cannot tell. My Runethane, have you seen these before?¡±


    ¡°I have not.¡± The Runethane watches the mace closely until the light vanishes, then looks me in the eyes.


    I flinch. ¡°What is it, my Runethane?¡±


    ¡°I did not know that Thanerzak¡¯s realm held such knowledge of the runes of light. I was always led to believe that only us down here knew the full extent of them. And yet you have enruned your weapon with ones I have never before read. From who or what did you learn these, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°A book,¡± I lie. ¡°There was one in my guild¡¯s library¡ªburned now, sadly. It had several more scripts in it on top of the three we have access to down here.¡±


    ¡°What was the name of the book?¡±


    ¡°I cannot remember¡ªI just remember its contents. I¡¯m good at remembering runes, but not much else, unfortunately.¡±


    Hraroth frowns. ¡°How many scripts, exactly?¡±


    ¡°The first three we have here, and two more also. Maybe there were some in the later pages too, but I never read that far.¡±


    There is silence so deep that the only sound I can hear is that of my own thudding heart.


    ¡°Spectacular,¡± mutters the Runethane. ¡°I never knew.¡±


    ¡°So much has been lost,¡± says the chamberlain. ¡°That the book is burned is indeed a great tragedy. Perhaps it was the only record of those runes.¡±


    The Runethane shakes his head. ¡°This strange up-abover has knowledge of most of them still. We can have him write them all down.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°A new version of the book, though a sadly diminished one.¡±


    ¡°Are you capable of doing this for us?¡± the Runethane asks me.


    His stare is intense. I have no choice but to tell him: ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°That is great news. However, I am curious. Why did you not tell us of these before?¡±


    ¡°I presumed you already knew them: that the three scripts you had displayed in the meal hall were just the basics, and that the senior runeknights had access to more knowledge. Besides, I wasn¡¯t yet sure I remembered them correctly.¡±


    ¡°I see. You must come to understand that we do not hide knowledge from each other here¡ªall our runes are unguarded and accessible to everyone.¡±


    ¡°Then I shall help ensure that this remains the case, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Good. Very good.¡±


    The light is about to reach its zenith once more. I shut my eyes and suddenly feel a little faint. Although they¡¯re reacted with less suspicion than I expected, this development is still one I was afraid of. The Runethane¡¯s request¡ªa cataloging of each and every new rune, in order¡ªraises a number of issues.


    What if I complete my dictionary, and then my hand creates a dozen new runes when I¡¯m making my next craft? How will I explain that? Or how about when they see that I can¡¯t understand as much detail of the runes as the quality of my poem would suggest? How much suspicion will that raise? Will the true nature of my abilities be guessed at, and if that happens, will Runethane Yurok seek to hold me down here just like Vanerak desired to do ten years ago?


    The light dims and I open my eyes again. I push these worries away. Any suspicion will take time to form¡ªthere are more pressing issues at hand.


    ¡°What of my craft?¡± I ask nervously.


    No one answers me. All three are too busy staring at the runes¡ªit hits me that they can''t read them.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Ah, yes. Your craft. It is put together well. About what I¡¯d expect for a fifth degree¡ªthough I see you have covered up your mistakes a little sloppily.¡±


    ¡°I have?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Hraroth, some of the usual gruffness returning to his voice. ¡°I can see where two of the flanges have been hastily remade and re-welded. The weld burned too hot the second time around¡ªcan you not see the discoloration in the metal?¡±


    I look closely. Around the two flanges I had to replace, the titanium is a slightly different shade of silver.


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°You do see it? Good. It renders your craft imperfect, and you should strive for perfection. You should have been more careful, or better yet, started again from the beginning.¡±


    ¡°From the beginning? That seems excessive.¡±


    ¡°There is no such thing as excess,¡± says the Runethane, ¡°when it comes to the pursuit of perfection.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want to waste your metal, though. Especially since I was getting it for free.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you still have the mindset typical to all up-abovers,¡± says the Runethane. The hint of a sneer appears on his pale face. ¡°You think money¡ªresources and power, in other words¡ªis the be-all and end-all of what a runeknight is. The fort comes before all of that, down here. You could have asked for however much titanium and almergris you needed in the pursuit of perfecting your weapon.¡± He waves his hand. ¡°But never mind all that. This new runic knowledge more than makes up for the mistakes. I do wonder at your choice of poem, however. I cannot read all of it, but it seems to me that its central theme is the beauty of the light above and how it compares favorably to that of the beauty below. How one kind of beauty is true and real, and the other is but a pale imitation.¡±


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    ¡°You¡¯ve been hanging around that human too much,¡± Hraroth says darkly.


    ¡°Yes. It is a rather un-dwarvish theme,¡± continues the Runethane. ¡°More to the point, its effect will prove more hindrance than help in battle. Though I do admire its originality.¡±


    "The idea I had in mind when crafting," I tell him, "was that the brightness at the zenith will make up for the times it is not so powerful." I have to keep up the pretense that I imbued the mace with this effect on purpose. It''ll be bad news if they realize that I can¡¯t control what kind of runes I write. ¡°On average, it''s brighter than other maces of similar quality. So surely as long as I time my swings well, it¡¯ll be more effective than a regular mace.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to time them very well,¡± says Hraroth.


    "I am a strong fighter."


    "Yes, but inexperienced against the deep darkness."


    I bow my head. "That''s true. Maybe it was a foolish choice."


    "No, no," says the Runethane. "Like I often say, we need more originality down here. New weapons against the darkness. And your weapon''s average brightness is equal to that of a weapon twice as better crafted."


    "Thank you," I say.


    I''m rather shocked by how favorable he''s being. Until now he''s seemed capricious, nearly mad at certain times, so I''d expected him to act the same way when judging my craft, but instead he''s praising me, and not just for the new runes, but for the quality of my forging and my decisions regarding design.


    I suppose I shouldn''t be too surprised. Whatever his faults, and no matter his prejudices against the ''up-abovers'', he''s still a master smith and the leader of two hundred runeknights. He knows a good craft and a strong crafter when he sees them.


    ¡°And I see that on your haft are runes to reduce its weight," he continues. "Another original choice, though personally not one I would have recommended.¡±


    ¡°Is there something wrong with that?¡± I ask. ¡°I''d wondered why no one else here¡¯s done something similar.¡±


    Hraroth answers: ¡°Because it makes your weapon unbalanced. Lighter overall, but unbalanced. And you do not want to fall forward into the darkness.¡±


    I nod respectfully. ¡°I see. Should I consider burning them away?¡±


    ¡°Practice with it first. Ask some of the senior runeknights how exactly we fight against the darkness¡ªit is not like fighting against beasts, or dwarves. Then make your own decision.¡±


    ¡°I shall do that then, commander.¡±


    ¡°The runes are your priority though,¡± the Runethane says. ¡°I want them encoded in great detail¡ªand on metal or stone, paper is inappropriate for such power. I don¡¯t know why you up-abovers bother with it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll make them from metal.¡±


    ¡°When you are finished, I shall review them, and then they will be disseminated to the rest of the fort.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Good." He looks me in the eyes again and nods thoughtfully. "It seems I was correct in allowing you to stay here."


    "Thank you."


    He leans back.


    "You are dismissed,¡± says Hraroth.


    ¡°Thank you. I¡¯m glad to be of service.¡±


    I bow low and turn to walk back to the ranks; I see that everyone, over a hundred dwarves, are all staring at me in shock. My own shock at this stops me still, then I realize I have no choice but to fall into line and wait until we leave to see what the reaction to my new runes is.


    <hr>


    ¡°New runes! New runes! New runes!¡±


    The news that I''ve brought to the fort runes of light never before seen is met with elation. I stand at the center of the meal hall while the chant rolls around me, reverberating my stomach and making me feel slightly ill. I¡¯ve been practically carried here¡ªthe excitement exploded as soon as we left the Runethane¡¯s hall.


    ¡°New runes!¡± shouts Nthazes, who got himself excused from his duty as soon as he heard of the discovery. ¡°Why didn''t you tell me? You could at least have told me! New runes!¡±


    He doesn¡¯t seem unhappy in the slightest that I hid the information from him; like all the others he¡¯s overwhelmed with joy.


    I scratch my head. ¡°I just couldn¡¯t find the right time...¡±


    ¡°Why didn''t you write them down the moment you got here?¡± someone yells.


    ¡°He thought we knew them all already!¡±


    "No!"


    "It''s true!"


    ¡°Incredible!¡±


    ¡°Momentous!¡±


    ¡°Thank you!¡± I shout. ¡°I will write them all down for you soon enough. All that I can remember anyway¡ª¡±


    ¡°Remember all of them!¡± another voice cries. ¡°Even if it kills you! More runes!¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, soon enough. Right now I just need a drink and something to eat.¡±


    ¡°Give him a table!¡± shouts Nthazes. ¡°And our best ale!¡±


    I¡¯m thrust into a chair at the hall¡¯s best carved table, and heaped plates of food and half a dozen mugs of frothing ale are immediately slammed down in front of my nose. Nthazes slaps me hard on the back.


    ¡°Eat and drink up,¡± he says, still grinning madly. ¡°You¡¯ll need your strength if you¡¯re going to remember all of them.¡±


    ¡°Take that ale away!¡± comes a shout. ¡°We can¡¯t risk him damaging what¡¯s inside his mind!¡±


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± someone else booms. ¡°Ale is good for the mind! Everyone knows that, and the more the better.¡±


    I take a swig and start on the food, to much cheering. I wish the hall was as dark as it was when I first came down here, because for some reason I feel terribly embarrassed; my face is hot and red. I wasn¡¯t expecting this reaction. Of all the possibilities that crossed my mind: suspicion, jealousy, anger¡ªI¡¯d never considered elation.


    Why? The discovery of new runes is not such a rare thing: many runeknights make their names hunting for them in the abandoned places of the underworld¡ªand every decade or so an expedition meets with success.


    But these dwarves are so cut off that new runes reach them only very occasionally. It makes sense that original ones of such value would be greeted with happiness. Yet this fact on its own, I think, cannot quite account for the feverish joy of my comrades. I think the main reason behind all this chanting, dancing, drinking and back-slapping is that they just haven¡¯t had any good news for far too long. The past year¡ªor maybe two by now¡ªhas been nothing but misery for them.


    Now, the spell of horror after horror has been broken: they have a potential new weapon to fight the darkness, or the shadow-dwarf, or whatever else they believe is responsible for the killings.


    Nthazes starts a chant:


    ¡°Zathar! Zathar! Zathar!¡±


    It¡¯s incredibly loud¡ªeveryone is crowding right behind me, as close to my mace as possible. It¡¯s covered up securely, so no one can see the runes right now, but it seems that the mere knowledge of their existence is enough for every dwarf here to want to be within touching distance of it.


    ¡°Runes! Runes! Runes!¡±


    Doubts and worries assail me once more. How long will this elation last? When will the strange questions start?


    Stop, I tell myself. This is not a time for worries. I try to relax the tension in my shoulders. This is all going well, far better than I''d expected. I ought to be happy: I''ve gone from outsider, grudgingly respected for my fighting ability, to practically a hero of the fort.


    Most importantly, I¡¯m now above suspicion for the killings, for no shadow-dwarf would ever bring down runes of light.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Arrest

    The mood of the fort becomes very strange. Worry about the killer remains¡ªdwarves still talk in whispers about who or what it might be¡ªand they also speculate about if we''re really going to end up heading down the Shaft that was dug too deep long ago. Yet there¡¯s also an undercurrent of elation: we will have new runes to make our weapons better and brighter, and despite the terrible toll retrieving and forging with the almergris has wrought, every dwarf now has a weapon against the darkness.


    Not that I have very much time to sit around reading the moods of my fellow runeknights. I¡¯m too busy carrying out the Runethane¡¯s orders: writing my runic dictionary.


    It¡¯s not a difficult task, really. All I have to do is cross reference the runes on my mace with those on the tablets, make a note of every one that¡¯s different, and shape them like I would any other rune. Then I painstakingly write down everything I understand about each one.


    This last part has a strange feeling to it. It¡¯s like I¡¯m remembering something I learned long ago, so long ago that I¡¯ve forgotten where I learned it from. I¡¯ve had this feeling before down here, about regular runes, yet this time it¡¯s more intense, as if the memories are not from a mere ten years ago, but many hundreds, or thousands, or even more.


    It¡¯s a disturbing feeling: one that makes me wonder where exactly this ability comes from. Are these truly new runes, or simply forgotten ones?


    The more immediate problem is the length of my runic dictionary. I told the Runethane I knew several more scripts of light runes, so he¡¯ll be expecting hundreds. Trouble is, less than a hundred of the runes on my mace of light¡ªwhich I still haven¡¯t chosen a name for¡ªare original. So am I to make up more? How? Write another poem is the obvious answer, yet to make sure they are all correct I will have to apply it to another craft, which means working with more almergris, which I really do not want to do.


    It would also take up time and energy I want to spend on figuring out who the killer is.


    Fjalar and Galar. Neither, which, or both? And why this sudden change in behavior? Does it hold the key to the mystery?


    For many, many years¡ªperhaps more than a century¡ªthe twins have kept their position low. They¡¯ve been avoiding responsibility, all so they could focus on their experiments.


    Maybe their experiments have come to fruition. That glass¡ªthey discovered something with it. Some key that sent them onto the final stage of their plan¡ªbut what plan? Why are they killing, if they are the killers, or one is?


    It¡¯s too hot to think properly down here in the forging pit, so I lay down the wires I¡¯ve been twisting into shape and walk up the steps to sit at the edge. I rub my temples to try and get the gears of my mind turning properly.


    To start, what could blood get a dwarf? Nutrition and healing is one possibility. That¡¯s how bats live, after all, and they¡¯re closer in form to dwarves than, say, salamanders or dragons are. Yet I can¡¯t understand how the killer could take in an entire dwarf¡¯s worth of blood¡ªwhich according to Jaemes comes to nearly a gallon.


    So healing seems to be out¡ªthough that would have the unfortunate effect of demolishing my idea that Fjalar is the killer because he needed to drink blood to heal his wounds.


    What else could blood be useful for? Forging is one possibility I dismissed before, since blood is widely considered to be not great for quenching, iron-extraction, or anything else, yet maybe I shouldn¡¯t have been so quick to count it out. Galar is clearly a prodigy when it comes to runework. If anyone can figure out how to employ something as seemingly devoid of potential as blood in their crafts, it¡¯s him.


    His trident didn''t seem to utilize blood though. Just runes of light very cleverly arranged.


    I rub my temples harder, in tight and slightly painful circular motions. What other clues am I forgetting? How about Fjalar¡¯s ruby amulet? Could the blood have been stored in there? Surely that would be impossible¡ªthough there are runes that can shrink and condense things.


    But then again, to what purpose?


    How about those containers we found under Galar¡¯s bed? They were red inside and smelled like blood, so whatever Nthazes says I still think there¡¯s a very high chance they once contained the stuff. Even if the killer turns out to be neither Fjalar nor Galar, he must still be hiding the blood in the fort somewhere, and some kind of metal cylinder like the ones we found would certainly do the job well enough.


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    And then how does he use it? I¡¯m back to the crucial question: why blood? Why dwarven blood, especially? Surely animal blood would work fine for a few preliminary experiments.


    Unless those have already been carried out. How could I discover whether or not that¡¯s the case? The chamberlain keeps the records of the fort¡¯s imports: I could ask him, though I doubt he¡¯ll tell me. Or maybe I could gain access to them some other way, through stealth or guile. Volunteer to be his assistant¡ªif I get closer to the Runethane by impressing him with these new runes, that could be a possibility.


    It¡¯s one possible next step for our investigation. I just wish it would progress faster, for I¡¯m sure the next killing will happen sooner rather than later.


    The very moment this thought crosses my exhausted mind, a deep chime rings out. It¡¯s just like the one that announced the first killing¡ªexcept with my improved runic ears equipped, I understand that it doesn¡¯t just sound of metal on metal, but contains deep notes of sorrow and fear.


    I listen for another chime. If one more comes, it¡¯s not a killing, but the darkness roiling up.


    None comes. Other dwarves begin to climb out their forging pits, eyes wide with worry. The question on our minds: who is it this time?


    A few minutes later, a small group of senior runeknights crashes into the forging hall. Their leader shouts loudly:


    ¡°To the Runethane¡¯s hall! There¡¯s been another killing!¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Kelthok and Ntharek. Killed in their beds in the infirmary!¡±


    Cries of dismay echo.


    ¡°Another thing: the human has been arrested! Now get in formation and hurry down!¡±


    <hr>


    We¡¯re hurrying down the halls, their stone illuminated in blinding white from our weapons, which are uncovered in defense against the shadow. My skin feels cold all over.


    Jaemes, arrested? Surely he can¡¯t be the killer. Can he? No, no. I shake my head violently: that¡¯s impossible. He¡¯s helped us so much, and he is no dwarf, and no human magician either, just a scholar¡ªa bookworm, not a murderer.


    Was he just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? If the murders were done in the infirmary, and he¡¯d just recently been in there looking over the sick, I can see why he might jump to the top of the list of suspects.


    But that doesn¡¯t make sense either: the Runethane is adamant that the killings are caused by the darkness, not anything corporeal. Unless it wasn¡¯t the Runethane that ordered his arrest. Perhaps no one ordered it, and he¡¯s just been set upon and beaten bloody by some desperate group of runeknights.


    I won¡¯t know until we¡¯re in the hall. We make another turn and the high doors gleam before us. The chamberlain, his face grim and gray even in the blinding illumination, opens them and we hurry into the dark hall.


    ¡°Form ranks!¡±


    Cathez¡¯s voice. We obey, lining up as we always do by degree. I shut my eyes fully¡ªthere¡¯s no use squinting and straining when I can get a better picture of what¡¯s going on with my runic ears.


    I can hear the shape of Jaemes standing in front of the Runethane¡¯s throne. He¡¯s not beaten or in shackles, but standing tall and defiant. Beside the throne are two long lumps that must be the covered bodies of the deceased.


    The Runethane¡¯s voice booms out:


    ¡°Cathez, is everyone here? Every last one?¡±


    ¡°Hraroth is still coming up with the last of those who were on duty.¡±


    ¡°We shall wait for them.¡±


    Mutters run through our ranks. Everyone is to come up here, even those on duty? What of the Shaft? What of our eternal guard against the darkness?


    What in hell is going on?


    About fifteen minutes later, the doors are opened again and the rest of the fort¡¯s dwarves, led by Hraroth, march through. I can hear how many there are: the whole fort really has come into the hall, then. These are senior runeknights too¡ªthe light is bright even past my eyelids. I close them tighter so I can sense perfectly what¡¯s going on.


    ¡°Is this everyone?¡± the Runethane asks of Hraroth, who is now at the front next to Cathez.


    ¡°Yes. I obeyed your orders directly, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Good. Everyone must hear what is to be said now. Firstly, though, we must deal with the matter of the murders. Cathez, inform everyone.¡±


    Cathez turns to us and clears his throat.


    ¡°Jothol, who you all know was blinded by his efforts with the almergris, reported to Nathel, the dwarf on care duty, that Kelthok and Ntharek had become very quiet. Nathel checked the pair, and found that they were both dead. They had been killed in the same manner we¡¯ve all become familiar with. Each had a hole in his neck, and had been completely drained of blood and fluid. More thoroughly even than the other victims were. After Nathel informed me of this news, I had the alarm rung.¡±


    ¡°At which point,¡± says the Runethane, ¡°I ordered Jaemes before me. For some while I¡¯ve been harboring certain suspicions about him.¡±


    Confused whispering breaks out.


    ¡°Silence!¡± the Runethane snaps. ¡°We will see what he has to say.¡± He glowers at Jaemes. ¡°Well, human? What have you got to say for yourself?¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Interrogation of Jaemes

    ¡°I¡¯m still not sure,¡± Jaemes begins, ¡°what you want me to say, exactly.¡±


    ¡°You are not, are you?¡± says the Runethane.


    ¡°No.¡±


    I flinch. Jaemes should not be taking such a defiant tone of voice here.


    ¡°I see. You do not suppose it could be to do with the rampant rumors you have been spreading around the fort? Disrupting our harmony, distracting our vigilance, and thus making it easier for the darkness to infiltrate?¡±


    ¡°I have been spreading no such rumors, Runethane. Just one warning from you was enough.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    ¡°It is so.¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps it is for some other reason that I have brought you down here, then? What do you say to that?¡±


    Jaemes shakes his head. ¡°I can think of no reason.¡±


    ¡°What about your absences?¡±


    ¡°My absences?¡±


    ¡°Yes, your absences. It has been noted that you are often missing from the meal hall. This strikes us as very odd.¡±


    ¡°Who does us refer to here, Runethane?¡±


    ¡°It refers to me and my most loyal dwarves, who are committed to upholding the order of the fort. But I will remind you that I am the one asking the questions here, human. Why have you been taking so many absences from the meal hall?¡±


    ¡°I was never informed that I had to stay there.¡±


    ¡°No, but where else do you have to go? Your chambers are forbidden to you, and as a human you have no need to use the forges and storerooms. You cannot cook, as far as I¡¯m aware. Nor do you have any other jobs, apart from your scribblings.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± says Jaemes. ¡°I see the issue here. Perhaps you are unaware that I have recently been helping in the infirmary, where I can make use of my deep knowledge of your people¡¯s physiology.¡±


    ¡°I am aware. I am talking about your other absences.¡±


    Oh, no. I think I see where this is going; cold sweat forms on my forehead. The Runethane is talking about his meetings with Nthazes and I, kindly facilitated by Belthur.


    ¡°My other absences?¡± Jaemes says, perfectly calm.


    ¡°Yes. You are known to vanish from the meal hall too often than can be accounted for by your work in the infirmary.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s the only reason I leave the meal hall these days.¡±


    ¡°I believe you are lying.¡±


    Jaemes purses his lips. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that.¡±


    ¡°It recently came to my attention that during one of your absences, a door was broken¡ªthe door to the chambers of one of my dwarves. What was the meaning of this, human?¡±


    Shit, the door! I curse my impatience. We shouldn¡¯t have been so desperate to break in. Couldn¡¯t we have waited, forged some kind of lockpick, and gained entry another time?


    ¡°During one of my absences?¡± says Jaemes. ¡°My Runethane, forgive me, but how could you tell that¡ª¡±


    Runethane Yurok raises his palm for silence; Jaemes closes his mouth. ¡°As Runethane, I unfortunately must sully myself dealing with up-abovers. There are imports and exports to be arranged, relations with Runeking Ulrike and the Runethanes of the upper realms to be kept, and many more tasks. My chamberlain also, whose runic ears are more sensitive than even my own, helps me with these dealings. To wit, how the passage of time works, and how it affects goings on in the fort, is not as alien to me as it is to most here.¡±


    Jaemes remains silent.


    ¡°So, do you have nothing to say for yourself? What have you been doing, human? And why did you think you could get away with disobeying me yet again?¡±


    ¡°All I have done is to help the fort, Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Liar!¡± spits the Runethane. ¡°You came down here to further your human enquiries, for your own enrichment. Never have you entertained even a single desire to help the fort. What has been going on, human? Why have you been wandering around the fort, and who with? I hear rumors that some very reputable dwarves have been assisting you: I don¡¯t want to believe this, but I need the truth. And I also find it strange that these latest deaths should happen in the infirmary where you often come.¡±


    ¡°Runethane, surely you are not accusing me of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± Spittle flies from the Runethane¡¯s lips. ¡°The darkness is the culprit, always has been, always will be. But I need to know what you have been doing, human! Tell me! Why have you been skulking about behind my back? And who with?¡±


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    I feel my limbs stiffen and my insides become very light. Surely Jaemes will not betray our trust?


    For a while, he does not speak. Then he lets out a trembling sigh. ¡°Very well, my Runethane. Perhaps I have not been entirely honest with you¡ªthough I have not been spreading rumors, I assure you.¡±


    The Runethane remains silent.


    ¡°I have been conducting certain investigations of my own. On my own.¡±


    ¡°You have received no help?" The Runethane leans forward. "A certain group of my dwarves¡ªincluding senior runeknights¡ªhas not been providing you cover for your wrongdoing?¡±


    ¡°Because of your decrees I could not be seen to leave the meal hall alone. Whenever I left, it was with various groups of dwarves.¡±


    ¡°And none of these various groups had any part in your wrongdoing?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± He nods. ¡°That, at least, is good to hear.¡±


    I wonder if he truly believes that, or just desires so strongly to believe that the human couldn¡¯t possible be allied with his dwarves, that he¡¯s ignoring whatever he''s been told.


    ¡°As to the manner of my investigations¡ª¡±


    The Runethane holds his palm up for silence once more. ¡°I know the manner of your investigations,¡± he snaps. ¡°You insist on persisting with your revolting theory that one of my dwarves is responsible for the killings. Did I not tell you that us dwarves are not like you humans? That there are no traitors down here? The fact that you could find no one to assist you in your perverse violations of my dwarves¡¯ privacy proves this fact.¡±


    Jaemes bows his head. ¡°Indeed it does, Runethane.¡±


    ¡°So now we must decide on the manner of your punishment. I cannot quite remember what I had threatened.¡± He leans forward. ¡°I¡¯m sure you do, though. Remind me.¡±


    ¡°Runethane, this is rash!¡± Jaemes¡¯ eyes widen. ¡°All I¡¯ve been doing has been for the good of the fort!¡±


    ¡°It has done nothing but disrupt our harmony!¡± bellows the Runethane. ¡°I have lost patience with you, human! You will be punished!¡±


    ¡°The killer is not the darkness! It cannot be the darkness. In the chambers I found¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care what was found! The killer is the darkness¡ªor if it is not, I can see only one other option: that you slew the two in the infirmary and seek to pin the blame on an innocent!¡±


    ¡°Runethane!¡± Jaemes cries. ¡°That is impossible. The killer slew a dwarf on the expedition¡ªI was not there, could not have been there!¡±


    ¡°You humans have many foul magicks.¡±


    ¡°I am no wielder of the arcane, Runethane! I am merely a scholar!¡±


    ¡°Then show off your scholarly cleverness and answer my question!¡± shouts the Runethane. ¡°Who is the killer? Is it you, or is it the darkness? Tell me!¡±


    The question echoes around the vast, dark hall. The echoes die and only silence remains. I clench my fists. Any positive feelings I had toward the Runethane after his judgment of my weapon, and interest in my new runes, are utterly gone. He¡¯s proving himself to be exactly the same stubborn, unreasonable, and foolish tyrant I¡¯ve thought him to be since the first killings. Why did someone like him have to rise to the top? Why not someone like Cathez, who¡¯ll at least hear us out? Or even someone like Hraroth, harsh but never unfair? Why this old monster?


    ¡°Tell me!¡± the Runethane bellows again.


    I open my eyes, squint past the brilliant glow of our weapons and see that the Runethane¡¯s face is a rictus of rage. What can have made him so deluded? Why does he refuse to entertain even the merest possibility that just one of his dwarves is rotten? My stomach feels hollow, carved out and filled with some kind of scrambling, scrabbling, fearful insect¡ªthis is fear, a particular kind of fear. The kind where you have no power over what you¡¯re afraid of, and you just have to stand and watch.


    If Jaemes gives the wrong answer, will the Runethane simply just strike him down?


    Jaemes¡¯ shoulders sag. ¡°It was the darkness. You are correct, Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You truly believe that, do you?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°If you are lying to me again, you will be punished even more severely.¡±


    ¡°I am not lying, Runethane,¡± he says, though I know he is. ¡°The killer was the darkness.¡±


    I wonder how many dwarves still believe that.


    ¡°Good. Now, for the matter of your punishment.¡±


    My fingers clench hard around the handle of my mace.


    ¡°Since you have admitted your wrongdoing, I see no need to execute you. I am a merciful Runethane, as my loyal runeknights can all attest to. I think imprisonment should suffice. Let me consider the sentence... Yes, let¡¯s see...¡±


    He make a show of looking up at the ceiling to think; before long he looks back down. To his credit, Jaemes does not flinch back. He refuses even to tremble.


    ¡°We ought to measure it in your human years, don¡¯t you think? Since that¡¯s what you¡¯re used to. Maybe we can arrange for some kind of timer to be imported. In any case, I think twenty years for lying to me¡ªthe most serious part of your crimes¡ªfollowed by fifteen years for spreading rumors. Plus another five years for general uselessness: I agreed to allow you to come here because I thought you might have some new ideas worth considering, but it seems I was wrong... Ah, wait.¡±


    He pauses.


    ¡°There is one idea you had that¡¯s worth considering.¡± He gives Jaemes a meaningful look. ¡°You were always so keen to allow it.¡±


    Jaemes remains silent.


    ¡°So we can deduct those last five human years I added. Which brings your total punishment to a mere thirty-five years. A rather paltry amount for a dwarf, but it should be plenty for a human, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°Runethane,¡± Jaemes says. ¡°That is as good as a death sentence.¡±


    ¡°Then would you like one of those instead?¡± the Runethane spits.


    Jaemes does not answer.


    ¡°Then be quiet. This is your sentence. Thirty-five human years in a bare cell, or until you perish. You will be provided with enough plain food and water to sustain yourself. See how merciful I am? Even after all you have hurt me¡ªhurt us¡ªI still allocate some of the fort¡¯s stretched resources toward keeping you hale. Do you appreciate it?¡±


    Jaemes does not answer.


    ¡°It seems not,¡± sneers the Runethane. ¡°Well, it¡¯s no matter. Consider it a thank you for the excellent idea you planted into my mind. Commander Cathez, have him taken away from here.¡±


    Cathez nods solemnly to the ranks. Four runeknights come forward¡ªI understand now that this has all been arranged beforehand. Probably since before these most recent murders¡ªthe Runethane is merely using them as an excuse.


    From the way the runeknights move they seem ready for Jaemes to resist; he does no such thing, merely bows his head and steps away from the Runethane to join them. They exit the hall, leaving only the echoes of their footsteps behind.


    The Runethane stands and picks up his mace. It begins to glow brightly, forcing me to shut my eyes again. But his expression remains in my memory, and always will: it¡¯s one of twisted satisfaction.


    "It is time for me to issue a very important order," he says.

 Dwarves of the Deep: A Change of Heart

    ¡°Many of you are no doubtless wondering what idea of the human''s I was referencing,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Though a few of you have maybe guessed already. Well, I best say it to you simply: you are going down the Shaft.¡±


    Grim silence meets this proclamation. Deep down we¡¯ve all been expecting it.


    ¡°I see that you¡¯ve all been expecting this. Well, if there¡¯s one thing I¡¯ve learned from these past terrible events, it¡¯s that rumor spreads quickly around my fort. So I am not shocked.¡± He pauses briefly. ¡°According to my commanders, you are not terribly thrilled by this idea. I can understand why, and I do not judge you cowards for your reluctance.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t, does he? How kind of him. My weapon is shivering as my hands shake in rage.


    ¡°The Shaft was one of the worst mistakes ever made by dwarfkind. We dug too deep and many paid the price: a price we are still paying, a steady trickle of lives spent in defense of those unappreciative realms above, the ultimate sacrifice that all of us down here will eventually make.¡±


    A sacrifice he¡¯s putting off making himself, staying here behind his runed doors, in his artificial darkness, while he has others die at his command.


    ¡°I have often wondered how many lives the deep darkness will consume. The fort will, we all hope, exist forever. It thus follows that an infinite amount of lives will be consumed. This, I have come to believe, is unsustainable. The human had many theories about the deep darkness, and the killings he now admits were perpetrated by it, but I have a theory of my own also.¡±


    Let¡¯s hear it then, you bastard.


    ¡°With every life the deep darkness takes away, it grows stronger. The incursions had been becoming more frequent even before its disturbing transformation. It is devouring us.¡±


    I glance around. Everyone is silent and showing no emotion. We¡¯re too afraid to speak up against the unfolding disaster in case we meet the same fate as Jaemes¡ªalthough the talk of years was meaningless to the other dwarves, I¡¯m sure they can imagine how being locked in a barren chamber until even their amulets of unaging cease to function would be a most awful fate.


    ¡°So we must stop the darkness," the Runethane continues. "Sealing it would seem the most obvious choice, but that is beyond our capabilities. Those in the realms above could accomplish the task, if they ceased their squabbling, and I have petitioned Runeking Ulrike to get it done, but he refuses. A tunnel would have to be mined from the Shaft to the magma ocean, which would apparently be too huge an undertaking. Not worth the cost in lives and resources, since there are no precious metals to be had in the stone around here.¡± The Runethane makes a disgusted expression. ¡°Well, he is our ruler, and so I will not criticize him. He has many troubles to deal with, and we are distant. He would understand the danger if he was to visit us, or even simply send one of his famed Eyes¡ªbut again, he has troubles closer by to deal with. Thus, stopping the darkness falls to us.¡±


    The Runethane raises his great mace high above his head. Its glow becomes blinding, as bright as my own mace at its zenith.


    ¡°But now we will not just stop it, but eliminate it! We have as many forces as we can gather. We are equipped as well as we¡¯ll ever be equipped. Now we will bring down the hammer!¡±


    He swings his mace down. As it travels, it brightens¡ªit becomes brighter even than Galar¡¯s trident, a blur of corporeal light. The illumination is so shocking, so beyond what I¡¯ve ever experienced, that I spin around and stumble backwards, arm over my eyes¡ªa reflexive movement like snatching my hand away from hot metal. Every dwarf in the hall, apart from maybe those senior runeknights who are used to such spectacles of brilliance, does the same. Cries of shock fill the hall.


    There is a clang like that of a massive bell; the great mace has just impacted the ground. The light is so terrible that for a moment I can see my titanium armor illuminated in a dark shade of blue through my eyelids even though I¡¯m facing away from the Runethane.


    ¡°We will descend into the Shaft and obliterate the deep darkness at its source!¡± he cries. ¡°Whatever that may be!¡±


    The sound of the clang dies away. We begin to pick ourselves up from the stone floor and turn back toward him. I open my eyes for a fraction of a second, just to check I''m not blind; his expression is manic. There''s no stopping him. He''s decided that we''re to go down the Shaft to our deaths, and so down there we will go.


    ¡°We?¡± someone shouts¡ªfrom two ranks ahead of me. I recognize the helmet: it¡¯s Belthur.


    ¡°What?¡± says the Runethane, his crazed grin weakening slightly. ¡°What do you mean? Who just said that?¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by we? Earlier you said you, and now it has changed to we.¡±


    My mouth opens in surprise. Did Belthur not register what just happened to Jaemes? I hold my breath for the Runethane¡¯s reaction.


    ¡°What are you on about?¡± the Runethane snaps.


    ¡°Are you going to lead us yourself, or are you going to send us on your behalf?¡±


    ¡°I am your Runethane. My role is to make sure the fort stays running. Thus I will not be putting my life at risk. Think about it logically, Belthur.¡±


    There is a small commotion as Belthur pushes through the short row of second degrees to the front, to stand right before the steps up to the throne.


    ¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± snaps the Runethane. ¡°Get back in line.¡±


    ¡°Many of us are not happy with some of the decisions you have been making recently.¡±


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    I draw breath in shock; I hear every other dwarf do the same.


    ¡°I am aware,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Once I am long gone, maybe you will get the chance to ascend to my position, and you will understand that it is impossible to please everyone.¡±


    ¡°You are pleasing nearly no one.¡±


    ¡°I do not make decisions to please you. I make them for the good of the fort.¡±


    ¡°And what good have your decisions done, my Runethane? I would very much like to know. We would all very much like to know.¡±


    ¡°You are upset by the losses.¡± All trace of the manic grin from earlier has gone from the Runethane¡¯s face. He is solemn now. ¡°I am also upset by them. I do not take my decisions lightly, Belthur.¡±


    ¡°We are not concerned with how seriously or lightly you take them. We are concerned by the destruction and harm they¡¯ve led to. Thirty dead in the hunt of the white jelly. Many maimed permanently through forging a material they were nowhere near ready to even touch.¡±


    ¡°Hearing is enough for us. You make too large a deal of blindness.¡±


    ¡°Blindness and burns also! Deep ones, to the hands. Disabling ones.¡±


    ¡°Injury and death comes for all runeknights. Sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of victory. In this coming expedition there will be death also. Trust me, Belthur. Though I put on a show of glorious enthusiasm for you all just now, it is with a heavy heart that I send you down.¡±


    ¡°Sacrifices! You¡¯ve spoken of them often today. Yet you are unwilling to make them for yourself.¡±


    The Runethane¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°I have put myself in harm¡¯s way on many occasions. We¡¯ve fought side-by-side against the darkness before, Belthur. Do you not remember?¡±


    ¡°I remember fighting beside some great warrior, yes. It wasn¡¯t you though. That dwarf did not hide behind runed doors, swathed in a blanket of artificial darkness¡ªa superstitious charm!¡±


    ¡°I am now Runethane!¡± Runethane Yurok booms. ¡°To risk my life is to risk the very fort!¡±


    ¡°Your predecessor had no such qualms!¡±


    ¡°And he is gone, his knowledge and guidance forever extinguished!¡±


    ¡°If you were to die, another would take your place also!¡±


    ¡°That is no excuse for me to throw my life away!¡±


    ¡°If you are to come on this expedition you will not be throwing anything away. You will be ensuring our success.¡±


    ¡°I cannot,¡± the Runethane says simply.


    Belthur folds his arms. ¡°Do not make me insult you, my Runethane.¡±


    There is a metallic creak as the Runethane¡¯s fingers tense around the handle of his mace. ¡°Do not dare insult me!¡± he hisses.


    Coward, I think. Tell him it to his face, Belthur. Coward! I want to scream the word out!


    ¡°Coward!¡± someone from the ranks behind me shouts. ¡°Coward!¡±


    I turn in shock to see who it is, and the moment I do so, someone else screams out the same:


    ¡°Coward!¡±


    Another dwarf: ¡°Coward!¡±


    Another: ¡°Coward!¡±


    ¡°Coward!¡±


    ¡°Coward!¡±


    ¡°Coward!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± screams the Runethane. ¡°Who dares speak of me this way?¡±


    ¡°Your own runeknights do!¡± Belthur yells at him. ¡°This pains me just as much as it pains you, my Runethane, but do you see how so many think of you now? We need our Runethane with us, not in his hall! You should share in our danger: not send us toward it alone!¡±


    ¡°I will not stand for this!¡±


    ¡°You must lead us!¡± cries Belthur. ¡°You must lead us, or you are not fit to command us!¡± He turns from the Runethane to look across our ranks. ¡°Do you not agree, my comrades?¡±


    A few dwarves nod, then more join in. I almost nod myself, but stop; there¡¯s no guarantee that this gamble of Belthur''s will succeed. Yes, this is his gamble: he wants this madness stopped and this is the plan he¡¯s come up with to stop it.


    It seems like his group of four supporters has expanded far. Behind the Runethane¡¯s back, has he been preparing rebellion? He turns back to the Runethane:


    ¡°Well? Will you lead us?¡±


    ¡°You have no right to make such demands of me!¡±


    ¡°I alone do not; we together do! Why won¡¯t you lead us, Runethane? Are you scared to do what you order us to do ourselves?¡±


    The Runethane collapses backward onto his throne. The light of his mace reflects brightly on the drops of cold sweat coating his forehead.


    ¡°Well?¡± demands Belthur.


    No answer.


    ¡°Then that settles it. I refuse to go down the Shaft. Nor will I take any more other¡ª¡±


    The Runethane holds up his hand. ¡°Wait,¡± he says. His voice is hoarse. ¡°Wait.¡±


    Belthur waits. I watch the Runethane¡¯s eyes. Behind them I can sense fear roiling. His cowardice has overwhelmed him. Some hope dawns in me¡ªif the fort will no longer obey his commands, maybe that means Jaemes¡¯ sentence is rescinded¡ª


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the Runethane, very quietly.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The Runethane stands back up. His voice has become firm and calm: the voice of a leader. The change is shocking to me. ¡°Yes, I accept your request.¡±


    ¡°You do?¡± Belthur sounds puzzled.


    ¡°I do.¡± He claps Belthur on the shoulder and gives him a shake¡ªbut by no means a violent one. It¡¯s a fatherly gesture.


    ¡°You mean you will call off the expedition?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°No, no. I will lead it like you ask.¡±


    ¡°You will?¡±


    ¡°I will!¡± The Runethane laughs. ¡°How many times do I need to tell you? I will lead the expedition.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°I am very sure. Thank you for this wake-up call, Belthur. You need not fear any punishment for your strong words. Neither will anyone else.¡± He scans the hall. ¡°The stress of losing so many to the altered foe had placed a terrible strain on me. I forgot my duty¡ªof course I should share in the danger.¡±


    ¡°You will?¡± says Belthur.


    He sounds completely stunned: this turn of events did not factor into his calculations. Either his rebellion would succeed, he must have thought, or it would¡¯ve been crushed, and him killed.


    Never did he imagine that the Runethane would have a change of heart. My own heart sinks: this means Jaemes¡¯ sentence still stands.


    ¡°I will,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°We will go down the Shaft together, every single one of us, on our final gamble against the rising tide of darkness¡ªwe will banish it now, before it grows too strong, or we will succumb.¡±


    ¡°We... We should prepare further,¡± says Belthur. A note of panic has crept into his voice. ¡°We need more runeknights. The weapons of light must be reforged, made as best as they can be.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the Runethane says firmly. He gives Belthur another fatherly pat on the shoulder. ¡°Time is running out¡ªI have enough of an understanding of the concept to be able to know this. The deep darkness grows stronger with every life it takes. We strike now.¡±


    ¡°But...¡±


    ¡°No buts. As soon as the crafts I judged inferior have been reforged, and the dictionary of new runes completed, we go down: with me in the lead.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: No Choice But to Wait

    The moment I return to the meal hall, I know that I must get to Jaemes. I have to talk to him, promise to get him out somehow. My new runes can be key¡ªif they turn out to be useful enough, maybe I can persuade the Runethane to commute his sentence to exile. Guilt bubbles up: I should¡¯ve been more careful with the investigations; we should have waited, forged lockpicks, thought of some way to disguise our comings and goings. Or maybe we should just have kept out of this entirely¡ªI have no obligation to stay down here and neither does Jaemes. We could have headed out and up at the first sign of trouble.


    No, we couldn¡¯t have. I need redemption for my sins of ten years past, and Jaemes would never have agreed to abandon us dwarves, who he has such a soft spot for. His life¡¯s work has been built on us, after all.


    When we took it upon ourselves to catch the killer, we knew we were risking worse than imprisonment. This kind of thing was to be expected.


    Where¡¯s he being held? First order of business is to find out. I hurry around the meal hall, pushing my way through knots of shouting, arguing, panicking dwarves, looking for Nthazes. He¡¯s more trusted and senior than me: he might know. I find him leaned against the wall near one of the corners, staring out blankly.


    ¡°Jaemes!¡± I shout to him. ¡°Where¡¯s he being kept? Do you know? Were you told?¡±


    The hall is such a crowded chaos of confused shouting and clattering armor that at first he doesn¡¯t hear me, or maybe his mind is just somewhere else.


    ¡°Nthazes, where¡¯s Jaemes? Did you hear?¡±


    He¡¯s turning his partly-covered mace around and around in his hands like it¡¯s the axel of a wheel. His breaths are short and rapid.


    ¡°Nthazes! Do you know where they¡¯ve taken Jaemes?¡±


    He snaps out of his stupor, looks at me, then shakes his head. ¡°No idea.¡±


    ¡°We have to find him. Do you have dungeons down here?¡±


    ¡°No. Nothing like this has ever happened before.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he¡¯s in his chambers¡ªthat¡¯s a barren enough cell. We should check there first.¡±


    ¡°Zathar, we can¡¯t free him, you know that.¡±


    ¡°We at least need to see him!¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t let us.¡±


    ¡°There was nothing in his sentence that said he couldn¡¯t talk to anyone.¡±


    ¡°Even so¡ª¡±


    ¡°We have to try! And we can¡¯t give up hope¡ªthe Runethane was pleased with the runes I brought. Maybe I can persuade him.¡±


    Nthazes shakes his head. ¡°You know you won¡¯t be able to. You know how stubborn he is.¡±


    ¡°But maybe if we stop¡ª¡± I nearly say ¡®the killer¡¯.


    Nthazes understands without me having to say the word. ¡°Even so, he won¡¯t free him. It can¡¯t be done, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°We still need to talk to him!¡± I say, desperately. ¡°Or I do at least. Maybe you shouldn¡¯t draw attention to yourself. Let me be suspected. My friendship with him is better known.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t go down alone. You¡¯ll be seen and caught. Don¡¯t do anything rash.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t! I¡¯m not a fool, Nthazes. I know the Runethane¡¯s goodwill towards me isn¡¯t infinite. But I can¡¯t just let him rot alone. I need to at least see that he¡¯s alive, and that they haven¡¯t battered him to death out of malice.¡±


    ¡°They? You mean the four Cathez had bring him out?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I know them: they¡¯re not cruel. Cathez wouldn¡¯t have chosen anyone like that.¡±


    ¡°I still need to check up on him.¡±


    ¡°Calm down, Zathar!¡± Nthazes grabs me by the shoulders and squeezes, hard. ¡°Calm down! If we do something rash, we¡¯ll end up in there with him¡ª¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°I want to help him too! Believe me, I feel responsible for this as well. But the fact is that we can¡¯t do anything for him. All we can do is trust that he¡¯s being fed¡ªand he is, we¡¯re not that cruel down here, no matter how things are up above. Cathez at least won¡¯t let him starve.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean we can just abandon him!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not suggesting we abandon him. We¡¯ll find a way to help him, but we need to calm down first, and think rationally about it. There¡¯ll be opportunities. Maybe I can get assigned to guarding him, or one of Belthur¡¯s group will, and we can get him a message that way.¡±


    ¡°Like a letter?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a letter. That¡¯s more realistic than barging in, or trying to sneak our way in.¡±


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


    I swallow hard, then nod. ¡°All right. You¡¯re right. I¡¯m sorry. I panicked.¡±


    Nthazes is right. This isn''t the time for swift action, but for careful thought and planning. I need to calm my emotions and think logically. Rushing our investigation is what got Jaemes into this disaster in the first place.


    ¡°That¡¯s okay. Everyone¡¯s panicking." Nthazes shakes his head. "I still can¡¯t quite believe we¡¯re headed down the Shaft.¡±


    "Neither."


    "No one can, I don''t think."


    ¡°How are we even going to get down? Isn¡¯t it vertical?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But there¡¯s a lift mechanism. That¡¯s how we¡¯ll be getting down. It¡¯s massive: a few cycles will be all it takes to get every one of us down.¡±


    "It must be ancient. Rusted."


    "A little. There''s runes on it to prevent corrosion, though they haven''t worked perfectly."


    ¡°Using it sounds insane.¡±


    ¡°I agree.¡±


    ¡°And even if it doesn''t break halfway, surely we can¡¯t beat the darkness. The dwarves of old must have tried before and failed. That¡¯s why the fort was set up.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know the full history, no one does, but you¡¯re probably right.¡±


    I listen around the hall. It¡¯s complete pandemonium; arguments are raging everywhere. Many are hot in the face from shouting, or shaking their fists, or shaking weapons. Some look ready to start throwing chairs or smashing mugs. Through my runic ears the entire scene shakes as voices clash and make the air waver like jelly.


    From the snatches of conversation I can make out, there are those who support the expedition, those who don¡¯t but will follow the Runethane¡¯s command regardless, and a few who are saying they¡¯ll refuse to go down no matter the consequences.


    The latter seem to be a minority.


    ¡°Will you go down?¡± I ask Nthazes. ¡°If enough dwarves refuse...¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°He¡¯s my Runethane. No matter what else he might be."


    "He''s mad."


    "Maybe. But order has to be kept. If we disobey him this time, it''ll make it easy to disobey him again next time. Or with the next Runethane. We can''t set a precedent.¡±


    ¡°If we go down, we¡¯ll all die.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Maybe? For sure!¡±


    He sighs. ¡°You never know. There''s a chance we survive. Maybe things will get so bad that the Runethane changes his mind and orders us to retreat.¡±


    ¡°At what cost?¡±


    ¡°A great one. There¡¯s no use in speculation, though. Most will obey his orders, and so I will also. I can¡¯t abandon my comrades. We can¡¯t.¡±


    I shake my head in disbelief. ¡°It¡¯s suicide.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Everyone here knows he will fall to the darkness one way or another. Either directly, or on some other task in service to the fort. In our hearts, we¡¯re already resigned to that fate.¡±


    "I can''t understand that."


    "You don''t have to. You''re from up above, where there''s freedom. Down here is only duty."


    <hr>


    I continue working on my runic dictionary, and the work slows. This is partly due to the fact that my nerves are shot from recent events, and partly because the forges are once more assailed with blinding flashes and the occasional scream. I¡¯m not the only one terrified by the thought of going down the Shaft¡ªthose reforging their weapons are too, and this isn¡¯t having a positive effect on their skill.


    I force myself to ignore the flashes, screams and gnawing fear, and press ahead with the dictionary. Yet the going remains slow. My fingers move at glacial pace as I twist the wires, I check and re-check each rune a dozen times over, and each session seems to involve more pacing around the anvil than standing over it.


    Each time I feel a drop of sweat bead on my forehead, my pen or chisel goes down and I reach for the cloth to wipe it away. I become thirstier and hungrier than ever, and many times find myself heading back up to the meal hall after less than an hour of focused work.


    I¡¯m still barely halfway through the dictionary: at this rate the fort will be wiped out by the killer before I finish.


    Is the work slowing, or am I slowing it? If the latter, it''s not a conscious effort, but perhaps it''s an unconscious one. Yes: the Runethane said that once the dictionary was finished we¡¯d be heading down. His logic must be as follows: if we can¡¯t destroy the darkness fully, only weaken it, the eternal vigilance will have to continue, and my runes will be an asset to that¡ªand if I die by the darkness without having written them down, that precious knowledge will be lost.


    So by putting off the dictionary, I¡¯m putting off the expedition. Deep down I know this state of affairs can¡¯t last, but even so, my hands refuse to up their pace.


    Until one session I¡¯m paid a surprise visit from Commander Hraroth. He appears at the top of my forging pit with a mace as bright as the sun in hand, and a deep frown on his brow. I look up at him nervously.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°The Runethane is eager to see his dictionary, Zathar.¡± His voice is as gruff as ever.


    ¡°It¡¯s coming along. I don¡¯t like to rush my crafts.¡±


    ¡°No one does. However, the Runethane has asked me to tell you that, since you are from up-above, you understand the value of timeliness better than any other dwarf down here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going as fast as I can.¡±


    ¡°Good. Like I said, he¡¯s most eager to see it.¡±


    After that, I succeed in forcing my hands to move faster, my mind to work quicker, and my feet to keep me rooted before the anvil. Steadily the runes ready to be imprinted into the tablets pile up, and the scratches explaining their definitions multiply tenfold.


    A dozen or so sessions after his first visit, Hraroth returns. He narrows his eyes at the pile of runes and stack of stone tablets on the anvil.


    ¡°How fast is it coming along, Zathar?¡±


    I give him the most apologetic look I can muster. ¡°Three-quarters done now.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to remind you that the Runethane is very eager to see his new runes.¡±


    I shake my head vigorously. ¡°Of course not. I just want to make sure there¡¯s no mistakes. If you would be so kind, tell him that. He¡¯s the Runethane: I can¡¯t fathom the shame that would result if I presented him a dictionary full of errors.¡±


    ¡°No. That would not do at all.¡±


    ¡°So, and though it really isn¡¯t my place to say this, I¡¯d nevertheless beg him to have patience with me. A good craft cannot be hurried.¡±


    Hraroth pauses¡ªit¡¯s a long pause, full of meaning. I swallow.


    ¡°Neither,¡± he finally says, ¡°should a Runethane be kept waiting. As I¡¯ve impressed upon you twice already, Zathar, he is very eager to see the dictionary.¡±


    I bow. ¡°I apologize for my impertinence. But I really am working as quickly as I can.¡±


    ¡°Work even faster. Muster every sinew of muscle and every last thread of your thoughts.¡±


    I bow again. ¡°I shall.¡±


    ¡°Good. I will relay this information to the Runethane. And I¡¯ll say it again: he¡¯s most eager for you to present it to him.¡±


    He turns to leave.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I say. ¡°Present it to him?¡±


    He looks back. ¡°Yes. You will present it to him personally.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Letters

    I stare gloomily into my mug of beer. Present it to him personally. Meet the Runethane face-to-face, and watch as he reads over my runes with a critical eye¡ªan immensely skilled eye that can pick out any irregularity or oddness in my strokes with ease. One that¡¯ll see I don¡¯t know as much about these runes as the quality of my poem suggests. My expression reflected in the dark liquid is one of intense worry. I look aged¡ªcreases on my forehead make me look like a dwarf of sixty rather than one of thirty.


    A dwarf of sixty with no amulet of unaging, that is. There¡¯s a project that¡¯s gone right down the mineshaft: not that I¡¯ll ever have much use for it anyway, since within the month my body will likely be lying cold and dead in the darkness a mile below my feet.


    I sigh, drain the mug, and begin to scoff down my food as quickly as I can. My fingers ache¡ªthe past few sessions have been intense as I race to finish the dictionary before Hraroth returns to voice more of the Runethane¡¯s displeasure.


    Someone taps me on my shoulder. It¡¯s Nthazes. I turn to him; he puts a finger over his lips.


    ¡°Keep quiet,¡± he whispers.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I whisper back.


    ¡°One of Belthur¡¯s allies is going to be on guard duty at Jaemes¡¯ chambers. I persuaded him to smuggle in a letter with his food.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Really. You know him best, so you ought to write it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no trouble.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not quite sure what to write though.¡±


    ¡°Anything. Just maybe don¡¯t mention certain things in too clear a way.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I never know when Hraroth¡¯s going to appear behind my back.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s talked to you?¡±


    ¡°Trying to get me to hurry up.¡±


    ¡°I see. The Runethane really wants those runes now, then.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°At any rate, write the letter and hand it to me.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for this. I¡¯ll have it ready soon.¡±


    ¡°Again, it¡¯s no trouble. I was suspicious of him when he first came down, but I¡¯ve grown to like him. He doesn¡¯t deserve this.¡±


    ¡°No. He doesn¡¯t.¡±


    I bring down a fresh piece of paper when I head to the forges¡ªfrom Jaemes'' stock, still lying in the meal hall. I don¡¯t think he¡¯d mind me using them.


    Down in the forging pit, I place it on the anvil, and stare at the white-yellow blankness for several minutes, sorting through my thoughts and feelings and planning out how best to order them. I¡¯ve never written a letter before¡ªand for some reason it¡¯s starting to seem a great deal harder than writing a runic poem is.


    Eventually I settle on this:


    To my friend, Jaemes


    I am sorry for what has happened to you. I am certain, even if others aren¡¯t, that all of your actions have been for the good of the fort. For one thing, you had no reason to be in the infirmary putting yourself at risk of the darkness, apart from your genuine feeling that you wanted to help us.


    Things progress quickly. The reforging is going even worse than the original forging with almergris went. There have been three more blindings and a dozen more serious burns. The Runethane is hurrying me, for he wants his dictionary as soon as possible. Worst of all, I hear that the lift mechanism above the Shaft is being cleaned and repaired.


    Yes, that¡¯s where we¡¯re going. It¡¯s what all this has been leading up to, though I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve been clever enough to work that out for yourself. The Runethane told us all it was you who gave him the idea, but I don¡¯t blame you for it, and I doubt anyone else does either. I¡¯m sure it would have occurred to him eventually anyway.


    We¡¯re all going down, every one of us. I imagine your door will be blocked off. I¡¯ll try to make sure you get enough food and water to last, maybe bring you extra if I can.


    I feel guilty. I made certain errors of judgment. I should have persuaded you to keep your head down or, better yet, to bring your time down here to an end. The surface world is where you belong, not this underground nightmare.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The Runethane seems to value my runes, and he had respect for my craft as well. There¡¯s a small chance I can persuade him to commute your sentence to exile. It¡¯s a very small chance, but I will try my utmost. Be sure of this.


    Don¡¯t give in to despair. My brother did that. Have hope that things will take a turn for the better, as they have done for me in the past.


    Yours faithfully,


    A friend


    I blot the paper and read over it as the ink dries. It¡¯s far from my most eloquent work¡ªin particular I don¡¯t think my feelings of guilt come across strongly enough¡ªbut it¡¯s hard to do that without mentioning our investigations.


    Dissatisfied, I fold it up and place it inside my breastplate. It won¡¯t do for Hraroth to see it lying on the anvil if he comes down.


    He doesn¡¯t come down this session, though. Neither does he on the next: I guess he must be busy with the preparations. The input of a first degree runeknight will be invaluable when it comes to repairing the massive winch mechanism dangling above the Shaft. The kind of runes needed to keep such a huge and complex piece of machinery intact over the centuries¡ªor more likely millennia¡ªmust be advanced ones indeed. Rewriting where the rust has got to them will take great skill.


    There¡¯s been more senior runeknights than usual coming and going from the forges, and not only to fix up their armor and improve their weapons. Massive lengths of steel have been carried down here¡ªif they¡¯re for weapons, they¡¯re for the weapons of giants. And since we don¡¯t have any giants down here, I assume they¡¯re for the winching machine.


    We really are going down. Hour by hour the realization sinks in further. The voices raised in protest at the order grow quieter and finally vanish. There is no opposing this, we can all see that. We are rolling down the path to oblivion as surely as a stone rolls down a mountainside. The momentum of events is unstoppable.


    I get the letter to Nthazes. A hundred or three hundred or so hours pass¡ªI really can''t tell how long. Then, one session, one of Belthur¡¯s friends arrives at my forging pit. He hurries down and pulls out the letter from a satchel at his waist. I flinch. He holds it up.


    ¡°Yes?¡± I ask nervously, cold sweat beading on my brow¡ªperhaps this isn¡¯t one of Belthur¡¯s friends, and my letter has made it to those most loyal to the Runethane.


    ¡°Have this for you,¡± he says, and turns the letter over. On its reverse is a new one¡ªa reply from Jaemes.


    ¡°Thank you!¡± I say.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡± He hesitates, as if he¡¯s debating about whether to say something else.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°It¡¯s nothing. I was just going to remind you to stay on the right side. But I know you don¡¯t need any reminding.¡±


    ¡°On the right side? What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Never mind. Goodbye, see you in the Shaft.¡±


    He hurries away. I puzzle over his remarks for a second, then I remember the importance that what¡¯s in my hand could hold and rush back to the anvil. I unfold the paper and lean over it, hiding it from outside view. Then I begin to read:


    To my friend,


    I am glad of your support, however you have no reason to feel sorry for me. I knew the risks I was taking when I opposed the Runethane, and believe me, nothing you might have said would¡¯ve ever persuaded me not to take them. As I¡¯ve mentioned to both you and the Runethane before, I am a scholar and that means it is my duty to pursue the truth of the world. That remit is not, I have always believed, restricted merely to academic pursuits, most of which, if I am honest, are of no help to anyone. I¡¯m glad that over the past year I¡¯ve been able to put my intelligence to real use, even if my efforts have ended up far less appreciated than I¡¯d hoped.


    You were careful not to mention our investigations in the previous letter. This was a very understandable precaution. However we have reached, as us humans say, the endgame, and in order to win we must take risks. So I shall tell you my hypothesis for the killings. I cannot claim that it¡¯s correct, nor even that I have much faith in it. I¡¯ve procrastinated terribly on writing this letter, so unsure am I that there is any truth whatsoever in what I am about to say.


    I suspect the twins, working together, are the killers. Their motive is likely revenge for being forced to work separately. The two commanders are the ones who made that decision, however for the moment they¡¯re too well protected to be attacked directly. Therefore, the killers have been murdering others in order to improve their weapons for the final blow.


    Their weapons function as reverse syringes. They¡¯re connected via some kind of rune-forged portal to a storage barrel, likely hidden under their chambers. Throughout the history of dwarfkind many weapons of blood have been forged, all of them deadly: this is restricted knowledge throughout most of the dwarven realms, but I¡¯ve had access to it.


    They will strike after you go down the Shaft. In the chaos of battle there will be plenty of opportunity for them to do so. Be careful especially of Galar¡ªlight creates heat also. His weapon may not be what it seems.


    Thus finishes my hypothesis. As I say, I¡¯m not sure it¡¯s correct, but it¡¯s the best I can come up with. I can see only one hole in the logic: there was surely no reason for Fjalar to kill the dwarf lying next to him up in the caverns. It seems a foolish risk to have taken.


    That¡¯s all I have to say. Do not feel responsible for what has happened to me; any responsibility lies with me and me alone. And do not attempt, under any circumstances, to free me. You will likely fail, and that is something you cannot afford to do. Only you and Nthazes can stop the killers.


    And I repeat: my hypothesis may not be correct, either in part or in whole. Use your own judgment. Uncover more evidence if you can, though I know time is running out.


    Good luck. You dwarves worship no Gods, but all the same, may their blessings be upon you.


    Yours faithfully,


    Jaemes Anders Halsmith, Professor Emeritus of the Tythal University of Sapient Researches, Head of the Department of Dwarfkind


    Post-Script: Burn this letter


    I read the letter two more times to memorize every single detail, then scrunch it up and toss it into the furnace. It flashes into flame and ash in an instant. A few wisps of smoke drift out the furnace¡¯s mouth and dissipate.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Judgment of the Runes

    Nthazes is too busy on guard duty for me to see him, and so I¡¯ve no choice but to ponder Jaemes¡¯ final theory by myself. With my eyes shut tight and my runic ears off, I lie back in my blankets and go over the lines. They appear in the blackness as solid as when they existed in physical form, yet any truth in them is like the shifting smoke the furnace turned them into, all but impossible to grasp.


    It¡¯s tempting to accept his theory as the whole, undisputed truth, and begin working out a way to take out the twins, but he doesn¡¯t want that. He admitted he may be wrong¡ªsomething he¡¯s never done, at least not to me. He needs me to think through the clues myself.


    Runes of warping to take the blood from the victim to beneath the twins¡¯ chambers. There are whispered rumors that such runes exist, however, apart from the runes of light, there are no exotic scripts in use down here. Even Galar¡¯s experimental crafts, intriguing though they were, were written in the same small selection of scripts every other dwarf of the fort utilizes.


    I can¡¯t see how he¡¯d have gained access to a script with such rare runes as those of warping, and genius though he is, it¡¯s impossible to construct a poem about something you don¡¯t have the words for. Well, not impossible, if you¡¯re a Runethane or first degree and up, maybe, but certainly beyond even Galar¡¯s abilities.


    As for the hole in the logic about Fjalar, I can think of only one reason that he would¡¯ve taken such a risk on the expedition: that they are using the blood to heal themselves somehow, and Galar was there to keep anyone potentially nosy distracted. Or Galar killed to heal his brother, or maybe Galar didn''t see, or just turned a blind eye.


    Yes, there are problems with Jaemes¡¯ idea. I wish I could see through the murkiness and into the truth beyond, yet my mind isn¡¯t sharp enough. I need more evidence, more clues, before I can come to a definitive conclusion and be ready to spring on the murderer¡ªor murderers.


    I also need to keep in mind the possibility that he''s completely wrong, and the killer is someone else. Who has a motive? The Runethane, so he could gain an excuse to do all he has? That seems rather far fetched. One of the commanders, perhaps¡ªor maybe Belthur, seeking to spread discord in the fort which he can use to overthrow the Runethane.


    The letter fades from my mind¡¯s eye as I grow sleepy, then eventually I drift off. When I wake, it¡¯s time to go back down to the forges. After a quick breakfast of fried mushrooms I hurry down with a group of senior runeknights.


    They¡¯re carrying a large roll of steel cable¡ªa truly massive roll, all five have to carry it together with two hands each. Upon each thread are minute runes in a script I¡¯m not familiar with, but I assume they¡¯re poems for tensile strength and preservation against the elements. Parts of it are discolored with a strange purple rust; I assume the runeknights are taking it down to clean it off. I hope they do a good job of it.


    Once we arrive in the forges I grab my stone tablets and bag of runes and head down to a pit for one last session. I lay out everything on the anvil. My dictionary is nearly done now, and it looks far too sparse to impress anyone. The runic dictionaries available in the Association of Steel were thick, heavy volumes with tiny writing and copious amounts of detail about each and every rune. Mine is crude, the stone slabs it¡¯s written upon thick, the runes themselves overly large as if written for the half-blind, and the definitions plus information about the runic flow and resonances lacking in detail.


    But my time is running out. I do not want to force Hraroth to come down here a third time, and so I race toward the finish, seal the last runes onto the slabs with some quizik, scratch in the final definitions, and am finally done.


    Ten tablets lie completed upon my anvil¡ªan auspicious number. I step back from them and collapse onto the steps, exhausted. This session has pushed me hard: my hands are redly blistered and my head aches. I need to get up now and have a message sent to the Runethane, but I can¡¯t; I dread it too much.


    I don¡¯t know how long I sit in my stupor before I hear a voice from the top of the pit:


    ¡°Zathar. Is it ready yet? Runethane Yurok grows impatient.¡±


    I force myself to stand and look up at Hraroth. ¡°It¡¯s ready,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°Fully ready?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I finished it just now.¡±


    ¡°Then you will now present it to the Runethane.¡±


    <hr>


    Hraroth gathers ten senior runeknights and each one picks up one tablet of my dictionary. They handle them solemnly, as if they¡¯re not just physically heavy but also spiritually so. Dwarves worship no gods, but runes are close enough.


    Up through the fort we journey, Hraroth and I in the lead. His mace is truly blinding from up close, so my eyes are shut. The slow, steady march of the dictionary-bearers lends the texture of the walls, ceiling and floor an ominous quality, or maybe it¡¯s my own mind that adds that. Along the familiar path we travel until a smooth rectangle, divided most subtly down the center, marks the entrance to the Runethane¡¯s hall.


    I sense Hraroth step back.


    ¡°You are to enter first, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Is this the usual ritual when runes new to the fort are presented?¡±


    ¡°No, but these are runes of light. I¡¯ve never witnessed such being presented to the fort, and neither has the Runethane. You are to go first because it seems proper.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Very well.¡±


    Forward I walk. The chamberlain swings open the gates as soon as I arrive before them, and he swings them open fully, not just a crack like he has on every other occasion until now. I step in and notice something odd about the air¡ªit feels strangely empty. I open my eyes and am shocked to see that the hall is brightly lit. At the back, in place of iron braziers spewing artificial darkness, an array of weapons of light hang from the wall. Those on the left are small and relatively crude¡ªthough still works of beauty¡ªand progress in splendor along to the rightmost one, which I can see is nearly as great a craft as the Runethane¡¯s current weapon. Their rays stretch across the stone tiles, not quite to the runic doors but far enough to make the hall feel spacious and welcoming. It¡¯s not cold in here anymore either, just the same warmish temperature as the rest of the fort.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Come forth!¡± Runethane Yurok booms, standing up from his throne and beckoning me with his right hand. ¡°Let us see the runes of light you have brought us.¡±


    I stop to bow, then stride forward as if I¡¯m striding into battle, leaving all my fear and worry behind to concentrate solely on the moment at hand, the blows to be struck and countered, the strategy of my survival. Whatever questions he asks, I must answer them perfectly.


    His armored figure grows larger in my vision until I¡¯m right before the steps leading up to his throne. He¡¯s looking down at me with a smile on his face¡ªI¡¯ve never seen him smile until now. I don¡¯t think he¡¯s smiled since the killings began.


    ¡°Well?¡± he says. ¡°I am eager to see your craft. Present it to me.¡±


    I turn to the ten runeknights behind me and nod to them, unsure of what order I¡¯m meant to give, or if indeed I¡¯m meant to give any order at all. Luckily, Hraroth seems to have already told them what to do, and they walk up past me to lay the ten tablets at the Runethane¡¯s feet.


    They depart the hall. Only me, Hraroth, the Runethane are present now. I swallow as the Runethane reads over the runes. The light of the weapons behind makes them glint brilliantly, so that each individual stroke is clear to see. Any imperfections will be obvious to him.


    ¡°Interesting,¡± he says, stroking his white beard. ¡°Most interesting.¡±


    ¡°I hope they are to your liking,¡± I say.


    ¡°They seem like they have potential. Though I must say, there is a kind of incompleteness to the scripts. Are you sure you remembered everything?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Alas, I did not. I read the dictionary of them over ten years ago, and I know you understand that this is a long time. I was only a tenth degree at the time as well, so my memories are somewhat confused in places as well. I didn''t want to present anything imperfect to you, so here are only those I remember perfectly.¡±


    His smile fades somewhat. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I hope they will still provide a valuable addition to the lexicons. And in time I may be able to remember more. However, I understood that you wanted them completed quickly.¡±


    He nods. ¡°I suppose I did say that.¡±


    ¡°Do you think you will be able to put them to good use?¡± I say hopefully.


    A panicked thought arises¡ªwhat if the runes I create are usable only by me? It¡¯s an incredibly irrational idea, but then again, so is the entire concept of writing new runes.


    ¡°I think so,¡± he muses. ¡°Some of them have obvious poetical uses, others not so much, but I¡¯m sure someone clever will unlock a way to use those ones in time.¡±


    I bow deeply. ¡°I¡¯m honored to hear this.¡±


    ¡°It will take some unlocking though, and plenty of experimentation. Your knowledge of the runic flow of these runes seems somewhat lacking.¡± He frowns at my mace of light, which is covered by a gauze thin enough that the runes can be read when they reach full brightness. ¡°Though, your application of the runes implies that you know more than you¡¯ve written down.¡±


    He¡¯s come to what I¡¯ve been fearing. I must answer this veiled accusation carefully.


    ¡°I have written down all I can. However, I¡¯ve often found, and this is something other dwarves feel as well, I think, that runes cannot be understood only consciously. When I enrune my crafts I don¡¯t go just by logic, but by emotion and feeling also. And it¡¯s hard to write feeling into something like a dictionary.¡±


    ¡°But here you have written down the connotations as well as the denotations, have you not? For example this one, yalthaz-nalok, means, according to you, sunlight-on-green, but you also write that it gives a sense of warmth, relaxation, and security with no enemies around.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but a few words next to the rune can¡¯t explain how they feel to shape in my hand, or fit into the perfect composition. Yalthaz-nalok means more than I can express in words. Its true connotations are on a deeper level than I can write down. Maybe an expert like yourself has grown past this stage, but for me and others of my level, writing runes is more of an art than something that can be explained logically.¡±


    He folds his arms. ¡°I see. You can give no better explanation of yalthaz-nalok, then? Despite the fact it is the crucial piece of vocabulary in several stanzas?¡±


    I feel cold sweat form on my brow. ¡°None better than I¡¯ve written down. When composing, I didn''t think through everything logically, I went by feel. If something felt off, only then did I make a close examination and run through the exact runic flow.¡±


    ¡°This is your usual method of composition?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say nervously. ¡°I thought everyone did it like this.¡±


    I really did think that! Is everything I do with runes strange in some form? No, surely not¡ªgoing by feeling over logic is something senior runeknights in Thanerzak¡¯s realm advised.


    ¡°I prefer a more logical approach myself,¡± says the Runethane.


    ¡°I can also see the value in doing such! When I am more experienced with them, I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll be able to put how I feel into logical explanations to go beside the simple denotations and connotations that are written here. Until then, I¡¯m afraid that this is the best I can do.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it can be helped,¡± says Hraroth. ¡°Runic dictionaries are invariably written by experts of at least third degree, and by dwarves who make hunting for lost scripts their profession. This is about what we can expect from a fifth degree.¡±


    The Runethane strokes his beard while he runs his eyes slowly over the tablets back and forth, back and forth. Finally he nods and looks at me.


    ¡°Yes, I think what your commander says is right. This is a good effort for a fifth degree. I am grateful for it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you!¡± I say, the words half a sigh of relief.


    ¡°Good. Be assured that these tablets will be placed in my personal stores, safely and securely. Your efforts will be preserved, and treasured according to their great value.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°After the expedition, we will take a closer look at them and begin experimenting with how to use them best¡ªalthough I intend to eradicate the darkness, it¡¯s possible that we¡¯ll only be able to cripple it, and in such a case the runes of light will still be needed.¡±


    The possibility that we¡¯ll be wiped out hasn¡¯t occurred to him, then.


    ¡°For now, your presentation is finished,¡± he says. ¡°I will have you brought here if I need any further clarifications, although I don¡¯t think there¡¯ll be time for that before the expedition.¡±


    ¡°I am dismissed, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Unless there is anything else you wish to add.¡±


    ¡°There is one thing,¡± I say, in as deferential a tone as I can manage. ¡°If it would be acceptable for you to at least hear one small request I have.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°It is to do with my friend, Jaemes¡ª¡±


    He raises a hand to stop me. ¡°Ah, yes. I had a feeling you were going to bring this up.¡±


    Any trace of a smile is now completely gone; his mouth is now a grim line.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Last Preparations

    I take a deep breath. ¡°All Jaemes has done has been for the good of the dwarves of the fort, my Runethane,¡± I say. ¡°Any rudeness was committed out of ignorance, never malice. He never intended to offend you in any way. He only wanted to do what he could to help. I feel that imprisonment is too harsh a sentence for him. He should be exiled instead.¡±


    ¡°He was not arrested for his arrogance and impudence,¡± says the Runethane darkly. ¡°He is being punished for endangering the fort.¡±


    ¡°Exiled he could do no more danger. You would not have to use our stores to feed him either.¡±


    ¡°Less than one two-hundredth of our stores is insignificant. Once the darkness is dealt with he will need only one guard also¡ªmaybe none at all.¡±


    ¡°For a human, his sentence is essentially death. He doesn¡¯t deserve it.¡±


    ¡°Destroying the morale of the fort is an act with potentially deadly consequence. One day, if you become a leader, either up there or down here, you will understand this.¡±


    ¡°His intentions should be taken in to account! He never intended to do harm!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve known him longer than you,¡± the Runethane snaps. ¡°I know just the kind of being he is. Make no mistake¡ªhe came down here for his own profit, the advancement of his scholarly career. The services he was to render to the fort were not to be done out of simple good will.¡±


    ¡°In the past, maybe. But if he was selfish, why stay down here when the killings began? He stayed because he thinks he has a duty to us. He cares about us.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± The Runethane¡¯s bitter laugh echoes around the hall. I flinch. ¡°He stayed because he is fascinated by the darkness. He wished to learn its secrets so he could write them down and be celebrated as some great heroic genius up on the surface.¡±


    ¡°That isn¡¯t worth death. He was respected up at his... University, he called it. He could have left at any time, but chose to risk his life.¡±


    The Runethane rolls his eyes. ¡°Like I told you, I know that human better than you do. It doesn¡¯t matter how high his position was, how respected he was. He was greedy. He wanted more, always more. Like the dwarves of old who dug the Shaft hoping to uncover treasures down below, he went too deep for his own good. He even hoped that I¡¯d send down an expedition for him, if you remember. To find out more so that I could protect the fort better.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he regrets saying that now.¡±


    ¡°Does he? Maybe, maybe not. It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±


    ¡°Please, exile him instead,¡± I beg. ¡°He doesn¡¯t deserve death.¡±


    ¡°I am the Runethane! I know better than you, young one, and I know my judgment was correct. My decision remains final. He is to remain there until his sentence is complete, or he dies, whichever is the sooner.¡±


    ¡°You know that will be death!¡±


    ¡°I said your appeal is rejected! I am thankful for the runes you have brought, but my gratitude does not extend to granting selfish requests. And you are wrong that he can do no harm if exiled¡ªthere is nothing stopping him traveling to one of the other realms and besmirching the fort¡¯s good name. We¡¯re under-appreciated enough as it is.¡±


    The Runethane is angry now; there is a touch of redness in his face and his eyes are dark. I¡¯ve done all I can; I step back and bow low.


    Inside, my heart is burning with anger. What is wrong with this Runethane that he cannot listen to anyone, cannot hear any opinion but his own? Even his so-called change of heart regarding leading the expedition has only served to further his interests.


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    ¡°Very well, my Runethane,¡± I say. ¡°That will be all.¡±


    ¡°Good. I trust that you will forget about the human¡ªno, I order you to forget about him, and also to forget anything he told you. The killings were perpetrated by the darkness, nothing else. There has been no betrayal. My dwarves would never betray their brothers.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°You better well understand. If we cannot trust each other down in the Shaft, then we are lost. Goodbye, Zathar. I will see you on the expedition.¡±


    Hraroth leads me from the hall. The chamberlain closes the door behind us; it makes a loud click. Hraroth turns to me.


    ¡°Be more careful,¡± he warns me. ¡°The Runethane is not to be irritated.¡±


    ¡°I was not trying to irritate him. I was trying to secure the life of my friend.¡±


    ¡°Do not disobey his orders either. He ordered you to forget the human, so forget him you must.¡±


    For a moment I consider telling him that I won¡¯t forget Jaemes, that indeed I cannot, and that it is a travesty for a Runethane who prides himself on caring for his dwarves to tell one of them to forget a friend, yet I quell the anger rising in my throat and instead simply say:


    ¡°Very well, commander.¡±


    ¡°Good. I will escort you to the meal hall, unless you have any further forging to do.¡±


    ¡°Later. I would like a drink first.¡±


    <hr>


    I do not return to the forges after my drink and meal, but instead sleep. My rest is tormented by dreams of twisting black claws that grab at me to chill my flesh and steal the light from my eyes. They already have Jaemes, trapped in a cage of black iron, and he¡¯s emaciated, cut off from food and water and the light of hope.


    I wake sweating to commotion. Cathez is standing at the entrance to the meal hall and calling for attention. I hurry to stand in rank, heart thudding, the dark nightmare still fresh in my memory.


    ¡°We are to begin preparations for the expedition to defeat the deep darkness,¡± Cathez announces. ¡°Several hunts are to take place while the kitchens are to be put to full use. The fight against the darkness will be difficult and so we will consume a great deal of food. Water and aleskins are also to be prepared.¡± He clears his throat. ¡°I will assign you your tasks...¡±


    I am assigned a job in the kitchens. This surprises me somewhat¡ªI thought, considering my combat ability which I proved on the expedition for the almergris, that I¡¯d be assigned to a hunt. Yet I suppose the Runethane wants to keep safe any further knowledge of runes I might have locked away.


    So for the next hundred hours or more I am bathed in the steam and heat of the kitchens. I slice mushrooms by the ten thousand, cut hundreds of gelthob steaks into thousands of strips for baking and salting. We are running out of time¡ªthat¡¯s the impression I get¡ªthe kitchen is far more crowded than I ever remember it being, and we are made to work like machines.


    I used to find cooking relaxing, but there is nothing relaxing about this. All potential enjoyment is eliminated by fear and a sense of impending doom. My hearing and vision twists: the hissing steam is like snakes in my ears, the knives threaten to slash me, the fire from the ovens threatens to burn me. The expedition has started, this is its opening stage, and I¡¯m losing my nerve already.


    In the brief moments I¡¯m allowed out the kitchens for some rest, I hear rumors about what is going on elsewhere in the fort. The hunts are meeting with success, have already dragged down half a dozen gelthobs for more meat. The winching mechanism has been tested, and its gears work smoothly¡ªfor now. An advance party has already traveled down to scout out the deep darkness.


    What they saw down there is not yet public knowledge. Whatever it was, it has not dissuaded the Runethane from pressing ahead.


    We are forced to work harder and faster. Even Hirthik seems sick and tired of the steam and heat. Each ration-pack we prepare is whipped away to the storerooms, and more raw ingredients take its place, a seemingly endless supply. Sometimes I feel like this job will never end, that I¡¯ll be stuck sweating down here forever¡ªan infinitely better fate than being forced to travel down the Shaft.


    It does end, of course. The supply of raw ingredients halts and we are ordered to clean up. We dawdle, not slowly enough for my liking, and too soon we are standing in the meal hall in front of Cathez. He is arrayed in full plate, his features disguised by his helmet, and his mace shines brightly.


    There is total silence. I glance around. Every dwarf without a helmet already on wears an expression of steely determination. Those with helmets on likely wear the same, unless they are using them to cover up their fear. I wonder what expression Cathez is wearing.


    ¡°All is prepared,¡± he says. ¡°It¡¯s time to travel to the Shaft. Further orders will be given there.¡± He pauses suddenly, as if something catches in his throat. He clears it. ¡°Good luck. Not all of us wished for things to turn out this way, but it has turned out this way, for good or ill, and so all that we can do now is fight our hardest and trust in each others¡¯ strength.¡±


    We make no reply. He nods in acknowledgement, then turns and leads us out of the hall, down the corridors toward the entrance to the Shaft. My mace weighs heavy on my shoulder.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Darkest Arrival

    For the first time, I enter the chamber that holds the Shaft. It¡¯s a circular array of steps, similar to how the seating of Thanerzak¡¯s arena was arranged, all leading down to the Shaft, and its size takes my breath away: it¡¯s so cavernous that the echos of our armored boots can barely be heard¡ªor maybe this is not a phenomenon caused by the size of the chamber, but instead by what lies in its center.


    The Shaft sounds to be at least a hundred feet across. I¡¯d never imagined it to be this gigantic. How many miners had to be worked to death to build it? Yet its size is not what stands out most about it. What makes it more terrifying than any other mineshaft, cave, or chasm I¡¯ve stood in front of before, is what I sense from it.


    My eyes are shut tight from the brightness of our maces, yet I can still sense the darkness: it¡¯s an absence of heat, sound¡ªall traces of energy. Yet the Shaft is ringed with an elite guard of runeknights, and none are fighting, so this presence cannot be the true deep darkness. This feeling that assails me is just from its shadow¡ªif darkness can have its own shadow.


    Cathez leads us to the perimeter guard around the Shaft, then holds up his hand to halt us. I listen around the ring of dwarves, trying to spot Nthazes. He¡¯s at the back, opposite from us¡ªI can tell its him by the shape of his mace, though its shape is faint past the cold silence emanating from the dark pit between us.


    Already at the pit, closest to us, is the Runethane. He is flanked by his chamberlain on the right side and his other elite guard, the first degree we rarely see, on his left. His mace is bright enough that I can see its glow even through my tight-shut eyelids.


    ¡°We are ready,¡± Cathez says.


    ¡°Good. The advance guard has already descended, so now it is our turn.¡± He gestures up at a mass of machinery hanging from the roof.


    A grating noise shivers through the chamber. From the machinery, a wide platform is descending toward the Shaft. It¡¯s hexagonal in shape, and thick cables attached to each corner twist together at the top to form a massive trunk of a cable that¡¯s at least as thick as I am tall. I open my eyes a fraction, for just a moment, to make sure the purple rust that was on it has been cleaned off thoroughly. I¡¯m glad to see that it has, though the complexity of the cogs and levers at the top of the cavern do not give me much confidence. The more parts a machine has, after all, the more ways there are for it to break down.


    A clank heralds the platform¡¯s arrival at the top of the Shaft. A single runeknight on it presses a button on the central control mechanism, and a rectangular section of metal unfolds up and clangs down onto the stone behind the Runethane to form a bridge.


    ¡°As your Runethane, it is my duty to lead this expedition, and thus I will step on first,¡± he says. ¡°Look upon me and have courage. We will win, have no doubt.¡±


    He walks across the bridge onto the platform with only the briefest hesitation. The platform wobbles slightly as he sets foot on it, and my stomach twists. Is this thing really safe enough for me to entrust my life to it? The Runethane¡¯s guard follows him on, but the chamberlain stays back.


    ¡°Lead them on, commander,¡± orders the Runethane, and Cathez turns to us.


    ¡°Squads one and two, on with me. Three and four to follow. Step carefully on the bridge.¡±


    He walks across the bridge. It bends slightly under his weight. As a show of solidarity, he has a double-pack of rations strapped to his back just like we do. When he gets to the platform it wobbles some more, alarming me. I¡¯m starting to think that it won¡¯t be able to take on the weight of over eighty of us at a time.


    Squad one follows him across, then squad two. They position themselves on one side of the platform, making it tip a good ten or so degrees. Now for squad three¡ªmy squad. We make our way down the steps to the bridge. I¡¯m being very careful, concentrating fully on my balance. The weight of my pack is destabilizing and I don¡¯t want to tumble down the stairs and into the Shaft.


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    Though, maybe being smashed to pieces on the stone below would be a more merciful death than being consumed by the deep darkness.


    One by one the dwarves of my squad cross the bridge. Now it¡¯s my turn: I set foot on the metal and step forward. I can feel it bend with my weight, but at least it¡¯s solid metal with ridges there that help my boots grip. When I get on to the platform proper, I have the frightening realization that it¡¯s little more than a mesh of hexagonal steel rings, with only simple runes upon them. The surface is flat too, so that those dwarves without runes to assist with gripping on their boots have to clutch the shoulders of their comrades to avoid falling over.


    I¡¯m glad I enruned the soles of my titanium boots the way I did, or I¡¯d be feeling even more sick than I am already.


    Squad four comes on next, which evens out the weight on the platform so that the whole thing is no longer tipping backwards. But my relief is short-lived. The senior runeknight by the controls presses a button to fold up the bridge, then immediately clicks the switch to start the descent. The cogs at the top of the winch begin to whirr, some levers change positions, and slowly the cable begins to unwind. The sheer stone walls of the Shaft rise up like black water subsuming us, and we are traveling into the cold and darkness.


    I feel all sound go quieter around me, as if everything is muffled by thick, soft fabric. I open my eyes a fraction and though it is still blindingly bright, it¡¯s not quite enough to hurt my eyes, at least for a couple seconds. Chill seeps through the joints of my armor. It¡¯s a similar feeling to how the Runethane¡¯s artificial darkness chilled his hall, yet there¡¯s a kind of malice here that the smoke didn''t have. It¡¯s like the gaze of a predator¡ªit promises death.


    The deep darkness knows we are coming for it. I¡¯m sure of this.


    Down and down we go. The platform is vibrating slightly, as if even the metal fears what it¡¯s heading towards so much that it cannot help but shiver. I look up, blink open my eyes, and see that the entrance to the Shaft still appears wide. The mechanism bringing us down is working slowly. I suppose this is better than it dropping us too fast, yet I feel an urge to do something, stride toward something, raise my mace for some kind of action. Waiting here I feel vulnerable, especially considering the way the floor is constructed. I feel as if the darkness might come flooding up through the gaps at any moment, wiping us out in one fell and cold attack.


    But there is nothing we can do but wait. No one talks; the only sound is that of the platform¡¯s tremoring. I count the seconds as they slowly pass, and angle my head back to blink open my eyes occasionally. The circle of light that is the top of the Shaft gradually recedes. After an hour of fearful waiting, it looks about as large as the mirrors that let the sun into Thanerzak and Broderick¡¯s city looked. After another hour, it''s but a dot.


    Then, abruptly, the platform jolts to a halt. Everyone stumbles and it takes a second for us to regain our balance. For a few moments there is silence.


    ¡°Well?¡± says the Runethane, in an unusually cheery tone. ¡°What are we waiting for? March out, follow my lead!¡±


    He jostles through the ranks and steps off the platform. His boots make a slight crunching sound, as if the floor is covered in sand. His elite guardsdwarf follows him close behind, and then Cathez steps off also.


    ¡°Squads, advance in turn,¡± he commands. ¡°The advance guard is in position a few hundred feet distant. We¡¯ll join them there. Now, we move.¡±


    Rank by rank we march off the platform and into the tunnel. Sand crunches under my boots too¡ªthe floor is covered by a thick layer of it. At least, I hope it¡¯s sand. I blink open my eyes to confirm, but the brilliance of our maces forces me to close them immediately¡ªthe walls here are vaguely reflective, whiting out all vision.


    I listen closely, trying to work out how long this tunnel is and how it¡¯s shaped, but can only detect my immediate surroundings, because only fifty feet ahead of me is the silence of stilled air. It feels as if I¡¯m walking toward a blank, black wall.


    For all I can tell the advance guard has already been wiped out, and we¡¯re about to meet our doom.


    Then, something breaks the wall. A current of air is revealed, with a shout on it like a ghost in the wind, and then it cuts off dead. A shudder runs through our ranks¡ªsome dwarves halt in terror, and others push into them.


    ¡°The darkness!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Already?¡± comes a wail of despair.


    ¡°Silence!¡± yells Cathez to quell the confusion. ¡°Halt!¡±


    Our army grinds to a halt. I listen breathlessly, but no further gap in the curtain of darkness and silence ahead opens.


    ¡°They¡¯re fighting,¡± someone says, very matter-of-factly. ¡°That¡¯s what that was.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the Runethane from the head of the column. ¡°I believe you are correct. This means there is only one thing for us to do.¡±


    Oh. I think I know what he¡¯s going to say next.


    ¡°Charge!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Skirmish Before the Storm

    We thunder along the tunnel into the quietness. It increases in stages¡ªfirst our shouting is quelled, then the clanking of our boots fades, and finally only the barest outlines of what¡¯s around me remains. I have no idea what¡¯s going on, what I¡¯m meant to be doing: all I can do is hold my mace high and follow the tide.


    I try opening my eyes and immediately understand why vision is so useless in these battles. Black and white flashes: my eyes burn in pain one moment, are as good as blind the next. So I listen for the darkness. Just as I¡¯ve been told, there come deeper silences, tendrils of stilled sound that twist then vanish.


    It¡¯s already here then! My heart misses two beats. We¡¯re already fighting, and I don¡¯t know how to strike back, what to do, what the strategy is meant to be. Charge? What the hell kind of an order is that, when half your force has never faced the enemy before?


    Maybe realizing this, Cathez belts out some further orders: ¡°Attack only when the silence and chill is at its worst! Attack before then and you risk leaving yourself open! And never open your eyes, or you risk blinding yourself!¡±


    How do I know when the chill is at its worst, though? It all feels cold and quiet to me as we thunder forwards. Something passes over my shoulder, so cold my bones ache, and my hearing goes in one ear, so I strike out. But an instant before my blow hits where I think the darkness is, the chill feeling vanishes.


    Was that the darkness aiming for me? Did it hit me? I can¡¯t tell, can¡¯t know anything. The dwarves around are shouting, I think, it''s so hard to hear¡ªI was under the assumption that runic ears made it easy to detect the darkness, yet this isn¡¯t the case. It just makes it slightly less than impossible to tell when it¡¯s coming for you.


    ¡°Halt!¡± Cathez orders; it¡¯s a faint sound but the senior runeknights are accustomed enough to the darkness to hear it properly, and they halt us. The darkness seems to be retreating; gradually sound returns.


    Just like that, my first encounter with the darkness ends as soon as it begun. There¡¯s a line of figures ahead of us: we¡¯ve met the advance guard and the darkness did not want to battle all of us at once.


    No. It would be a mistake to assume it''s retreated out of fear. Likely it¡¯s gone because it gained the information it needed. Maybe some fraction of it managed to bypass us to scout out the rest of the descending force also.


    ¡°Belthur,¡± the Runethane says gravely. ¡°Your advance met with some resistance, I see.¡±


    ¡°It did,¡± says Belthur. He stands with the advance party of twenty or so other senior runeknights. ¡°Not too much though. This was not the full force of the darkness; it¡¯s saving that for later.¡±


    ¡°An exploratory attack then, to meet our own.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. I¡¯m glad you will be taking the lead from now on, Runethane. It was not pleasant, having to hold it back with no support.¡±


    ¡°But you managed, with no losses that I can see.¡±


    ¡°There were a few close calls.¡±


    ¡°Still, you are all honored for it. You will be well compensated when we return victorious to the fort.¡±


    Belthur bows his head. ¡°Doing my duty is all that matters to me, my Runethane.¡±


    Apparently, so I heard on one break from the kitchens, he volunteered to lead the force, and the Runethane was glad to accept his request. I find this very strange: why should Belthur, so keen to derail the expedition, suddenly wish to lead one of its most dangerous missions? And why should the Runethane allow someone so rebellious to take the command in place of Hraroth, who was originally meant to lead?


    Perhaps he was hoping the darkness would fell him, or maybe he¡¯s just that blind to Belthur¡¯s true feelings about him.


    I recall the words of the runeknight who delivered Jaemes¡¯ reply to me: about choosing the right side. I listen around, and detect a coldness in the air beyond that left by the retreating darkness.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Criticism of the expedition died, but I¡¯m starting to think that Nthazes¡¯ sense of duty to the Runethane no-matter-what isn¡¯t a belief shared by everyone. Belthur is still up to something, and his support hasn¡¯t diminished.


    My heart sinks. Now I have three worries: the killer, the darkness, and potential rebellion.


    ¡°We¡¯ll rest here,¡± announces the Runethane. ¡°Once the rest of us are down, we¡¯ll take a meal, then advance. Cathez, have a perimeter formed. Belthur, your squad can go to the back. You¡¯ve earned the safety.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane. Though I hope to be at the forefront of the action again soon enough.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we¡¯ll all have action soon enough,¡± laughs the Runethane. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that.¡±


    Is there a bitter edge to his laugh? Maybe he¡¯s not as blind to rebellion as he seems. Or maybe I¡¯m imagining things.


    At any rate, we are now ordered to rest. I sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes still shut of course, and try not to let the cold bother me. I can¡¯t help but shiver. Not all the darkness has gone, I¡¯m sure of it. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s like a physical being, something either present or not: wherever it goes, it leaves some of itself behind.


    To distract myself, I blink open my eyes to try and get a sense of the kind of tunnel that we¡¯re in. My glimpse doesn¡¯t tell me much: the ceiling is rough and bears the scars of many picks, like any other mining tunnel. The stone is dark and hard-looking, of the same stuff the jewels of Nthazes¡¯ amulet are set into.


    We¡¯re not yet into whatever cavern the darkness was found in, then. That¡¯s a relief, but only a small one.


    Several hours of waiting in the quiet cold later, the rest of the expedition arrives, led by the Runethane¡¯s chamberlain and Hraroth. They halt just before Belthur¡¯s squad, and the Runethane calls to them.


    ¡°Ho, Hraroth. No trouble making it down?¡±


    ¡°None. Did you meet some here?¡±


    ¡°A little. It didn¡¯t impede our advance. We¡¯ll move out after a bite to eat and some rest. I¡¯m sure we¡¯re all hungry¡ªfor some food as well as victory!¡±


    We delve into our ration packs and each take out a small portion of dried gelthob plus mushroom hard tack, wash them down with a splash of water. I¡¯m careful not to consume too much, for who knows how long we¡¯ll be down here?


    I glance back to try and judge the mood. The silence tells me everything I need to know. Good morale means joking and talk, making light of the enemy, and there is none of that. I spot Nthazes near the back of the formation. He¡¯s sat against the wall, very still. We¡¯d both feel better if we could talk to each other, I¡¯m sure, but there¡¯s to be no breaking from our squads.


    I also spot Fjalar and Galar. The latter is in squad five, with Nthazes, easy to spot by the unusual shape of his weapon. Fjalar is in squad four, on the far side of the tunnel from me. I make a mental note of their positions. If someone near them falls, we need to check the body. If it¡¯s drained of blood as well as life, maybe we have the killer.


    After we¡¯re judged rested enough, the Runethane commands us to stand and continue the march onward. We tramp along the tunnel, the crunch of sand loud in our ears. I still feel cold despite the fairly quick pace we¡¯ve been set.


    The passage is perfectly straight, which makes sense: if you¡¯re searching for rare minerals then there¡¯s no reason to waste time by making random turns, though if that was the miners'' purpose I¡¯m surprised there aren¡¯t any exploratory side-tunnels to catch any veins that could be running parallel to the main tunnel.


    So maybe those ancient dwarves had a destination in mind when they dug it. No one knows¡ªno records remain from those who dug this place. All knowledge of the first encounter with the darkness, and the rest of the fort''s early history, is long since lost. Perhaps they were not after minerals after all, but rumors of some abandoned cavern with a different type of treasure.


    After many hours of marching, another halt is called. The Runethane gestures to the wall. I listen to see what he¡¯s pointing out: there¡¯s a series of deep chips in the stone.


    ¡°This marks the furthest us dwarves of the fort have ever come,¡± he says. ¡°My thrice-predecessor came to this point before the darkness forced him to turn back. But the darkness has never faced a force such as ours before, and it dares not attack us yet¡ªnot properly, at least. When it does, our combat will be fierce, yet we can prevail. Have no fear, my runeknights! Let us move along.¡±


    Our march continues. My legs are getting a little tired now, and my shoulder too. It¡¯s a strange feeling, to wield a weapon whose haft is nearly weightless but whose head is well over ten pounds. My shoulder feels incredibly strained. I move the weapon to my other shoulder, but after only an hour more it¡¯s hurting just as bad as the other.


    My weapon is awkward¡ªHraroth was right about how making only part of it weightless would leave the whole thing unbalanced. I hope the strength of the runes will be enough to make up for this deficiency.


    We rest and eat, then resume the march. Still no one speaks. The chill becomes deeper, settling into my very bones. Is this some subtle attack of the darkness, perhaps? Is our life being sapped from us little by little without us even realizing it?


    Surely not. When the darkness comes, we¡¯ll know it.


    ¡°Halt!¡± orders the Runethane, holding up a hand. We obey. He points down the tunnel. ¡°Ah, maybe you all cannot yet detect it. There¡¯s a change in the tunnel. I don¡¯t know what it signifies, but it¡¯s best to be cautious. We¡¯ll slow the pace. Hold your weapons at the ready.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Into the Deepest Realm

    About half an hour¡¯s careful advance later, I¡¯m able to detect the change the Runethane mentioned. The tunnel, which until now has been semi-circular, abruptly widens and becomes rectangular. The stone¡¯s texture changes from rough and pick-scarred to evenly tiled. When we reach the transition, there¡¯s a step we have to go down. The echoes of our march change in timbre; they become more eerie.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± someone whispers, but no one replies.


    I listen around to try and figure it out. It doesn¡¯t seem like a tunnel¡ªit¡¯s too short and wide. It¡¯s more like a hall than anything. This might be another fort maybe, lost to the ages, or maybe something bigger. One room of a lost palace? Or even one building of a lost city? It isn¡¯t empty either: neatly spaced piles of dust line our path.


    Whatever this chamber is, who built it? Very ancient dwarves? And how did it get to be so thoroughly sealed away without a single link to the surface, and by such smooth rock?


    Before long we reach the end, a smooth wall. We stop. This is troubling¡ªwhere¡¯s the darkness, if this is the end of the passage? I hear some concerned whispering.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t the end,¡± declares the Runethane. ¡°You may not be able to make it out, but I can. There¡¯s a door here.¡±


    He steps up to the wall and traces two parallel vertical lines with his finger: the sides of a door; the top edge must be too far up for him to reach. He pushes hard with both palms. The door¡ªif it truly is such¡ªdoesn¡¯t budge at all. He lifts his mace.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to have to break it down,¡± he says. He sounds like he¡¯s relishing the prospect. ¡°Weapons at the ready!¡±


    ¡°Look up there!¡± someone in the back ranks shouts.


    We tilt our heads up to where he¡¯s pointing. I focus my hearing, concentrate, and can make out two round holes at the top of the terminal wall. Windows, each at least as wide in diameter as a dwarf is tall.


    I hold my breath¡ªif the echoes of the dwarf¡¯s shout are like waves beating against the wall, then the windows are sinkholes into which the waves vanish by degrees. That must be where the darkness came from. Are they its origin?


    ¡°There¡¯s no need for alarm,¡± the Runethane snaps, perhaps sensing our unease. ¡°The darkness isn¡¯t pouring through them now, is it?¡±


    ¡°But my Runethane,¡± says Cathez, ¡°If we all proceed through here, there is a chance it could pour up and around and attack us from behind. We risk being outmaneuvered.¡±


    The Runethane hesitates, then lowers his mace and nods. ¡°You¡¯re correct, commander. We must leave behind a guard here.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a less than honorable post, but I will take it if I must.¡±


    ¡°No, no. I need you with me. Belthur! You were the advance guard, now how would you like to be the rearguard?¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± Belthur says. ¡°I was hoping for a more active role.¡±


    ¡°The darkness is wily, and it¡¯s grown wilier. There¡¯s a high chance it¡¯ll outflank us. You will get your action.¡±


    ¡°Even so¡ª¡±


    ¡°I am ordering you, Belthur, not asking. You and your squad will remain in this strange room, fifty yards to the rear of where we are now. Your job is to prevent us being outflanked, and also to prevent the darkness escaping should it try to bypass our force entirely to wreak havoc above.¡±


    Belthur nods. ¡°I understand, my Runethane. It shall be done.¡±


    ¡°As for the rest of us¡ª¡±


    The Runethane raises his mace high once again, adjusts his position so that the head is behind him for maximum momentum. He widens his stance for stability, then swings.


    His execution of the blow is flawless; the mace-head moves faster than looks to be possible. It hits exactly center of the two parallel lines he traced earlier, and the stone explodes outward in a flash of light that illuminates all even through my shut eyelids. The upper half of the door crumbles down; chunks of rubble smash onto the Runethane but he barely seems to notice them. They may as well be splashes of water. Dust clouds him for a few moments, then it settles. He raises his mace again.


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    ¡°Onward march!¡±


    We troop forward after him as he marches through the collapsed door. My jaw drops; shocked whispers shoot through the ranks.


    ¡°Where are we?¡±


    ¡°What is this place?¡±


    ¡°Who built it? Which dwarves?¡±


    ¡°Dwarves, or someone else?¡±


    ¡°Silence in the ranks!¡± orders Cathez.


    We have emerged into a grid of tall corridors, stretching far in every direction. The walls are even higher than those of the room we just left, and the ceilings are arched in geometric fashion like the edges of a polygon. The floor is smooth, but not entirely so. Further mounds of dust dot it here and there, yet the black stone of the grid squares¡ªbuildings, for I see windows up high in many¡ªbear no scars of time.


    The air is very cold, and smells of nothing at all. The echoes of our voices are split by the grid layout, distorting my view of everything.


    ¡°What¡¯s that up there?¡± someone near to me says.


    I turn my head up and focus on where he points. The walls of the buildings have textured lines running along them. Engravings? They¡¯re too subtle for me to make out with my hearing, so I blink my eyes open.


    ¡°What in hell!¡± I gasp. ¡°Look at that! What are those?¡±


    Now I¡¯m the one pointing. All look for themselves at the weird etchings.


    Most dwarven dwelling places have carvings or mosaics: for example, the great mosaic on the floor of Thanerzak¡¯s forging hall depicting his victory over the dragons. Usually they depict great achievements, or the famous dwarves that accomplished them. These etchings are no different: they depict those who built this place conquering various foes, raising each other to high status, or carving out great cities.


    But they are not dwarves. Each has four legs and two arms, is covered in scales, and has a crown of four jutting horns. Their eyes are narrow and their ears long and pointed, angled backwards. They do not wear armor, but embroidered clothes.


    None of the etchings depict forging; instead, many show powerful looking members of this race drawing strange patterns in the air, bowing before staves and idols, and holding orbs of flickering power. A race of magicians, then.


    Who were they? Or, who are they? In all the atlases of the world and underworld I¡¯ve read, they have never been mentioned. I¡¯ve never even heard the faintest rumor or speculation of them.


    Lost to time, they must have built this city in eons past, then abandoned it¡ªor sealed it. Slowly, the rock into which it was carved sank deeper and deeper toward the magma sea, until it plunged into it like a spear thrust into water. The black stone does not melt easily though, so the city remained intact, the darkness protected from magmatic obliteration, and now here we are.


    At least, that is what I speculate in these moments of wonder and horror as I stare into the eyes of the engraved creatures.


    ¡°Ignore them!¡± orders the Runethane. ¡°We seek the darkness. Whoever its creators or wielders were does not matter. Likely they are long dead¡ªif not they will be once they run into us. We keep on marching, to wherever the center of this place is. That is where the deep darkness¡¯s heart must lie.¡±


    He leads us further into the grid. We walk past many doors like the one he smashed through. Each is of stone and has no hinges that I can see, and age seems to have sealed them fast. I cannot help but wonder what lies beyond each one: the darkness? Or maybe just the eroded dust of more mundane things, all that remains of the daily lives of the creatures that built here.


    I¡¯m not about to break ranks to find out. No one is; our formation tightens. Who would risk getting separated in a place like this? It¡¯s too cold, telling me that the darkness is near, watching and waiting for us to reach too far in, to a point from which retreat will be impossible.


    Very abruptly, the corridor ends and the Runethane calls a halt. He looks left and right, and nods as if understanding something we can¡¯t see.


    ¡°We¡¯ve reached a break in the pattern,¡± he says. "This looks to me like a defensive wall."


    I examine it. He might be correct, but who knows? What was there to defend against in this sealed city? To me the wall just looks like an imposing slab cutting us off from whatever lies beyond. There are windows in it, high up, and further along is a plain stone ramp leading to a door.


    The Runethane leads us toward the wall, where we make a right-angle turn toward the ramp. I begin to feel oddly reassured. Apart the windows at the top¡ªwhich are more pinpricks than anything, like they exist to let air in and out and not much else¡ªthe wall gives a sense of enduring solidity. I¡¯m no mason, but I can tell it¡¯s well-carved, to a degree that any dwarf would be satisfied with.


    A thought hits me: maybe the Runethane is right about this wall being a defensive one. Except it¡¯s not designed to keep enemies out, but instead to keep them in. I look up at the windows and shiver. The darkness flowed back through them after its retreat from us, I¡¯m sure of it.


    ¡°Halt,¡± orders the Runethane.


    We''ve arrived at the ramp. It¡¯s bigger than it seemed when we first caught hearing of it, at least thirty feet wide. There are ridges worn into its surface, like from the repeated passage of carts, and a red sandy substance is scattered over it.


    And at its top is a gaping hole, where once a gate might have stood.


    The Runethane bends down and takes some of the dust into his hand. He looks up to the top of where the gate would¡¯ve been, and nods thoughtfully. There is a narrow line there, an opening.


    ¡°Never fear. This is just iron oxide. There used to be a portcullis here.¡±


    But the air is bone-dry! How many untold years would it take for iron to rust away so completely?


    ¡°I imagine that the darkness lies somewhere beyond this point. I hereby order a rest. Take your fill of food and drink. We need sustenance, for I predict that there¡¯ll be resistance once we pass through.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Cold Before the Dark

    I find the dry jerky and drier tack hard to swallow, even with a mouthful of water to help them go down. The black opening beckons, like an open mineshaft luring a tired miner to the call of the void. I want to pull away from the danger, flee this place, and I¡¯m sure I¡¯m not the only one. There¡¯s still no talk amongst our ranks, and the smell of fear is palpable.


    ¡°We¡¯ve rested enough," announces the Runethane. "We can¡¯t allow the darkness any respite. Let us strike while the iron is hot; continue our hammer-blows before the metal cools and becomes too hard to work with.¡±


    I put the waterskin back into my pack and stand, ready to march. With his mace held high and bright like a torch, the Runethane leads us into the gaping, gateless hole in the wall.


    The wall is thick; yet not thick enough. Very quickly we come to its other side, where we are met with blank stone. The Runethane detects an opening along to the right; we march to it. A slim door is set here, one barely big enough for us to fit through double-file. Clearly no carriages were ever meant to come through here, just a few guards.


    "Be ready to fight as soon as you are out," warns the Runethane.


    Nervously we line up, then, two by two, we shuffle through. I can''t see what''s out there¡ªfor all I know those who just left could be fighting already, subsumed by the darkness. My turn comes: I swallow hard, brace myself. My shoulder scrapes against the edge of the doorway, my mace jostles against that of the dwarf next to me, then we''re out and marching along a corridor that, while not as tight as the doorway, is still only wide enough for four or five abreast.


    There is no attack, not yet. But it is noticeably colder.


    I glance back and see that there are no windows on this side. The stone is unadorned also, and of a slightly different texture. It¡¯s smoother, yet also gives an impression of dullness. I blink open my eyes and I¡¯m right¡ªthe light of our bright maces blurs on it.


    We continue to march forward until all are out, then we¡¯re ordered into a column four abreast. Our march proper restarts, and I realize that the corridor is turning subtly. The turn becomes more pronounced, and then a halt is called. I peer over the head of the dwarf in front of me, and see that the corridor has split into three.


    ¡°We¡¯ll stick together,¡± says the Runethane. ¡°Let us go right.¡±


    Along the rightmost branch we go. Abruptly we come to a halt once more: the corridor splits into two, a stairway up and a stairway down. The steps are massive, not designed for dwarven scale.


    ¡°Down,¡± says the Runethane.


    Right, then down: he¡¯s choosing the paths he thinks most likely to take us to the center of this place. No longer are we in a city¡ªthe blankness of the walls, roof and floor, the lack of etchings that one could get one¡¯s bearings from, suggest a labyrinth. I get a sinking feeling that my idea from earlier was right. The wall was the last line of defense from something from within, not without. This labyrinth is another defensive construction, and one that clearly didn''t work.


    Our footsteps are dull; the stone eats the sound. There are fewer echoes than you usually hear in tight corridors, though enough to make the passage seem slightly warped to my hearing. The air remains dry and scentless.


    We reach the bottom of the steps. A few minutes later and we are at a crossroads. The Runethane thinks for a few minutes, then says:


    ¡°We go right again.¡±


    Dutifully we continue the march. The coldness grows deeper, and the echoes of our steps grow even quieter. Several more branches and crossroads meet us to confound us, and we have no choice but to trust in the Runethane¡¯s decisions of where to go. I think he¡¯s choosing whichever passages seems the quietest. The difference between each choice must be subtle, but his runic ears are likely more sensitive than anything I can imagine.


    His choices seem to be correct. We¡¯re getting closer to the heart of the deep darkness. The lack of sound is oppressive now: my ears feel blocked, like I¡¯ve just rapidly descended a mineshaft. I¡¯m shivering in my armor: my skin feels like the warmth is being drained from it.


    ¡°Halt!¡±


    There¡¯s a note of surprise to the Runethane¡¯s voice. A physical shiver runs up the column: what has he found?


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    ¡°I believe we¡¯re nearly there,¡± he declares. ¡°This staircase has a sense of finality about it. Yes, down here is the deep darkness. I¡¯m sure of it. It¡¯s waiting for us. Can you all not sense it? Those of you who¡¯ve fought it before at least have developed an understanding of it. It¡¯s a lifeless force, like death itself, but even natural phenomena can seem to take on consciousness. Yes, waiting is the word to use here.¡±


    I feel my hands tighten around the haft of my mace. Is this truly it, then?


    ¡°Forward,¡± orders the Runethane. ¡°Be careful of the steps, they¡¯re even steeper than the last few sets were.¡±


    Our march slows to a crawl as we carefully make our way down. The steps are indeed incredibly steep: each is about two feet in height, forcing us to use our arms to steady ourselves against the walls, lest we tumble. A few dwarves do tumble, their armor making strangely subdued clatters and crashes, yet they don¡¯t curse. No one wants to bring attention down on themselves.


    Partway down, the Runethane calls a halt for us to get our breath back. This has been very tiring work, and my legs and lungs both ache. Steps are bad enough, but having to lug a heavy pack and a heavier weapon down them adds a significant amount of challenge.


    The rest is too short though; soon the Runethane orders the march restarted. The chill becomes so intense that I feel almost like I¡¯m wearing neither armor nor clothes¡ªa terrible feeling for any dwarf. The lack of sound feels horrid too. I can barely hear my own breathing inside my helmet.


    ¡°The steps end!¡± calls the Runethane. ¡°They meet a corridor perpendicular to them. It is wide enough to form up in.¡±


    We form up back into our squads once we reach the bottom. The corridor is indeed very wide, and seems to be circular in shape. Unlike the labyrinth we just navigated, the stone here has etchings. I can barely make them out, but it seems that almost all of them depict works of sorcery.


    Dwarves do not deal in sorcery. Our magic is in our runes: it is a more reliable and physical kind of power than that which humans and elves up on the surface employ. Their powers come from within, and are dangerously unpredictable. I¡¯ve never encountered a sorcerer, and I never wish to.


    Maybe the darkness is a spell that went wrong. Or, worse, maybe it¡¯s a spell that went right.


    The Runethane puts his hand against the wall. Quickly he draws it back.


    ¡°Very cold,¡± he says. ¡°And my hand feels dulled. The darkness is behind here. There is no doubt about it. Let us march around and find an opening.¡±


    We do as he bids. Our steps no longer echo, their sound instead confined to our immediate vicinity, fading before they have a chance to contact the walls. This means that my hearing-vision of the corridor is all but gone. It is the equivalent of walking through a cave with only the barest embers of a torch providing illumination. I blink open my eyes, worried that maybe tendrils of darkness have started to appear, yet there is nothing but light that is blinding, yet paradoxically cannot illuminate the corridor properly. The walls remain shadowed.


    ¡°Weapons ready,¡± the Runethane orders. ¡°I detect an entrance to this place, whatever it is.¡±


    Our weapons are already ready. We¡¯re all prepared for the darkness to slash down at us at the first possible instant. It would be foolish not to be.


    The entrance he spoke of comes into view. It¡¯s the vaguest darkening of the shadowed walls, a hole into which sound cannot penetrate. The air just inside seems to be shivering, an auditory impression of a mirage. We halt before it. The Runethane orders us to face it. We do so, then he walks right up and stands beside it, and turns to face us. He look-listens over us, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that he¡¯s examining every dwarf individually for traces of cowardice.


    He finds some:


    ¡°I see that many of you are scared. That you do not think we will ever make it back to the fort alive. Well, it is too soon to be worrying about things like returning. Now it is time to fight. And you needn''t worry about death. Not because it isn¡¯t coming for you, but because even if it does, and succeeds in sending your soul into the cold void, your comrades will avenge you. They will continue on, and we shall succeed, and your memory will be eternal.¡±


    These words would be rousing from a different Runethane, from a commander who makes the right decisions, who has won victories before. As it stands, I find it far more likely that should I fall, my memory will be extinguished along with that of every other dwarf of the fort. That shifting soundlessness just within the entrance is the deep darkness¡ªthough it¡¯s not yet concentrated into killing form, it¡¯s the darkness nonetheless.


    My armor feels heavy, my mace heavier, and my head and stomach are both spinning.


    ¡°So forget your fear, my dwarves, and follow me through.¡±


    He walks around to face the entrance, slowly, not showing any sign of fear nor panic, raises his mace, and strikes at the blackness. A flash makes me wince through my closed eyes, and the shifting soundlessness is lessened.


    ¡°Onward!¡±


    We march in, and down further steps. I look around and see that this place is like an amphitheater, rings upon rings of stairs all leading to a central point, just as the chamber of the Shaft is constructed. And just like the chamber of the Shaft, the center is darkness, yet it is not a hole, but a shifting sphere of void, a gap in reality, an utter nothingness whose presence fills the very air with palpable dread.


    The Runethane points at it and shouts with mad vigor:


    ¡°There is our enemy! There is what we have come to fight!¡±


    The sphere of void twists¡ªat its core I glimpse something, yet cannot tell what exactly¡ªand clouds of darkness rush up to meet us.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Battle Against the Darkness

    The darkness does not go to destroy us immediately. Instead, the clouds expand to the sides and upward, then curl around to envelop. My hearing-view of the sphere of nothing vanishes as a black shell forms around us. The chill immediately grows more intense, like we¡¯ve been plunged into icy water, and my hearing dims further so the shapes of the dwarves around me become indistinct, hard to make out.


    Then the darkness begins to tighten its grip; it coils around us like a nest of snakes. I blink open my eyes: our weapons seem dimmer, like they¡¯re obscured by black fog, and some streams of the fog are darker than others, and getting darker.


    ¡°It¡¯s getting ready to strike!¡± Hraroth shouts. ¡°Prepare to fight! Trust in the strength of your weapons¡ªyou have faced this before on your duties, many times!¡±


    This must be the speech he gives whenever there¡¯s an incursion: in the moment of crisis he¡¯s forgotten that most of us have never faced this. The chill deepens; the maces of several senior runeknights flare brighter, and then the Runethane¡¯s own mace eclipses them. I shut my eyes; one instant later and it¡¯s coming for us.


    ¡°Brace!¡± someone yells.


    A terrible emptiness rushes from above. I cry out¡ªmy words fade even as they leave my helm¡ªand thrust up with my mace. The runes are nearly at the zenith of its brightness and I feel a kind of pressure which suddenly vanishes. I hit the foe! Did I? It¡¯s coming again, stronger: an absence of sound forms above and to my left and falls. The dwarf next to me seems to disappear, his shape extinguished. I batter at the darkness, feel my mace pass through like it¡¯s nothing but air. The runes¡¯ glow is fading¡ªquickly I pull it back.


    I need to time my strikes, but in this case there was nothing I could¡¯ve done. The tendril of darkness vanishes upward before the dwarves next to me can beat it away. It leaves behind a corpse splayed on the stone, all heat and movement gone from him.


    Someone in my squad screams in horror and drops his weapon: one of the lower degrees. A tendril of darkness rushes for him and subsumes him in its grasp. I sense him thrashing even as he fades from my hearing, and swing for the emptiness above him¡ªmy mace should be brightening right now¡ªand the darkness weakens enough that I can detect the dwarf trapped in it, still weakly attempting to defend himself.


    We cannot batter it away quick enough. The mace falls from the ninth degree¡¯s hand just as the soundlessness fades. He is unmoving. Not a minute into the fight, and already two of our squad are dead.


    I can¡¯t tell how the other squads are faring. My hearing is so dulled so that I can only vaguely make out the battle around us.


    ¡°To me!¡± comes a faint whisper. ¡°My runeknights, to me!¡±


    It¡¯s the Runethane, his bellow reduced to a whisper by the twisting silent voids separating him from us. I have no idea how far away from me he is: has he stayed in place, has he come toward us to become the centerpoint of our defense, or is he still advancing? I guess the latter.


    He wants to strike a killing blow; he thinks defense is useless now. He may be right. We may have delved too far for retreat to be possible.


    The dwarves around me obey. The Runethane is strong; just the ambient brightness of his mace will weaken the darkness at least a fraction. I follow, march down the steps, my gripping boots serving me well, while cold voids elongate and lash at me. I strike back each time; sometimes the void vanishes immediately, other times after a few strikes, and sometimes my mace passes through with no effect at all.


    I¡¯ve forgotten all timing, completely lost track of the pulsing of my mace. My swings are wild and unbalanced¡ªnot since my encounter with the many-legged bzathletic just before my entry to the fortress have I felt so outmatched.


    The darkness is a far more powerful foe than any I¡¯ve faced, or heard of dwarves facing¡ªeven a dragon would be an easier opponent. Yes that is fair to say: Runethane Thanerzak defeated many a dragon, the black dragon was nearly defeated also, by only a first and third degree no less, but the darkness has never been defeated.


    Not by the dwarves who dug this Shaft, lost to history, nor the first defenders of the fort, whose records are also lost to history, nor the current lineage of defenders. All us dwarves have been able to do is hold it back at terrible cost. Never has it been defeated¡ªand not in the ages before dwarfkind first tunneled through the underworld either. That is why it was sealed and not destroyed: there is no other explanation for this lost prison.


    It may be immortal. It may be invincible.


    Strike by strike we advance. More dwarves fall: three at once, four at once. Soundlessness envelops them, they vanish, and when the darkness pulls away cold corpses lie on the stone. Our battlecries are annihilated. Fear grips me and my legs become weak. My strikes feel slow, as if I swing my mace through water.


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    This is no battle, but a black nightmare.


    ¡°To me!¡± says the Runethane. His voice sounds slightly louder now. ¡°To me, to me, my dwarves! We end this now! My precious dwarves, this is what we have lived until this moment for! Now is the time for our vigilance to end, one way or another! To me! To me!¡±


    The deep darkness¡¯ assault is relentless. No longer are we in squads; we have huddled into a terror-stricken mass.


    ¡°Forward!¡± says the Runethane. ¡°My dwarves, move forward! Everything depends on you moving forward¡ªyour lives, the lives of your comrades, the lives of all dwarfkind! Destroy the darkness! Smash it at the source! We are almost there¡ªI can feel it!¡±


    A wave crashes down upon me. Coldness floods through my armor and my skin turns numb. My breath freezes even as I cry out. All sensation vanishes. It''s like my body has been ripped away from me, like my mind and soul have been snatched into some lightless, soundless, touchless hell.


    I open my eyes wide. All I can see is a distant glow of runes. They seem faded, almost gone. Slowly they brighten. Other vague blurs of light sweep back and forth over me.


    ¡°Zathar,¡± comes a whisper. ¡°Zathar, are you alive? Fight back! Swing!¡±


    With the last of my strength I swing up at the darkness. The coldness wavers and vanishes. Light floods my eyes along with sharp pain. I scream out. Someone pulls me up by my arm¡ªsomehow I¡¯m expecting it to be Nthazes, but he¡¯s holding a trident.


    It¡¯s Galar.


    ¡°You all right?¡± he says.


    ¡°Yes. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°We have to keep moving!¡± someone else shouts from right beside us. ¡°The Runethane will leave us behind!¡±


    We nod and hurry along. More voids descend upon us. Galar blasts them with his trident¡ªhe has no need to stab, he just turns the wheel in its handle and light crashes into the darkness, burning it away. I cannot see the light of course, but I can feel the heat from it. His entire weapon glows with warmth.


    This strategy is not flawless. Like Hraroth warned, the effect is narrow and thin streams of darkness can twist around and bypass it. Our maces deal with them, though.


    For the first time my boots fail me and I trip and crash down onto the next step. They¡¯ve suddenly steepened.


    ¡°Descend!¡± comes the Runethane¡¯s cry. ¡°Down we go, to the darkness¡¯s heart!¡±


    I scramble up; we obey. A thick pillar divides our crowd momentarily, and the darkness takes advantage of the gap. It floods in. Galar shouts and spins the wheel on his trident again. A wave of heat washes over me. The darkness recoils up.


    He shouts in triumph, and we cheer him¡ªeven me, all thoughts of the killer pushed from my mind.


    ¡°Downward!¡± orders the Runethane. ¡°Downward!¡±


    ¡°Follow!¡± Cathez shouts. ¡°Charge down the steps!¡±


    ¡°Destroy the foe!¡± yells Hraroth.


    The darkness momentarily beaten back, we rush. Our battlecries become deafening, and the waves of sound pierce the shell of void at the center of the great chamber. Within it I make out the shape of one of the creatures whose likenesses are engraved throughout the city. It holds its hands above its head, open, palms facing each other as if holding an invisible sphere. Its four legs are bound to the floor with crystalline shackles.


    ¡°Death to the darkness!¡± screams the Runethane. ¡°Smash it!¡±


    The sorcerer opens its eyes and turns its head toward us. Our battlecries stop dead in our throats as our foe¡¯s body shivers with power. I sense the darkness surrounding us grow in strength. It is no longer a mere absence of sound and light: it is consuming those. Our shouts of panic are torn up and away. My mace seems to shudder¡ªI blink open my eyes and the light of its runes is stretching toward the utterly black roof over our heads.


    ¡°Continue!¡± the Runethane screams. ¡°Do not dare falter!¡±


    His mace, held high above his head, explodes into brilliance. My vision turns absolutely white then absolutely black. I sense him swing at a wave of nothingness that rushes up from our foe, who is once again obscured. He staggers back; the darkness recoils also.


    ¡°Charge!¡± screams Hraroth. ¡°We nearly have it! Charge!¡±


    But only the darkness directly in front of the Runethane was affected by his swing. The rest is still more powerful even than before. Torrents of it flood down. One envelops a dwarf behind me. I yell out in fear and anger and swing.


    My mace must be at the zenith of its power; the void disintegrates. The dwarf is still alive, already trying to stand. I pull him up.


    ¡°Zathar! Thank you!¡±


    With a shock I realize it¡¯s Nthazes.


    ¡°You were at the back!¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about? This is the rearguard...¡±


    But it is not, and with a second shock I realize that the Runethane is only a few ranks away. Behind Nthazes is a trail of cold bodies. Dimmed maces lie on the steps beside their wielders at odd angles.


    ¡°Come on!¡± Hraroth bellows at us. ¡°Charge! Charge! There¡¯s no retreat now! Attack!¡±


    We hurry onward, leaping down the massive steps¡ªthen comes a shout from behind:


    ¡°Retreat! Run, all of you! This is hopeless! Abandon the attack!¡±


    I turn. It¡¯s Belthur. He must have abandoned the rearguard and followed us down here.


    ¡°Traitor!¡± Hraroth screams at him. ¡°Obey your Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Obeying is suicide! Retreat or die! Retreat or the fort is finished!¡±


    The attack falters. My steps slow even as the darkness swirls above, readying its next strikes.


    ¡°Zathar?¡± Nthazes says nervously.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Momentous Decisions

    Follow the Runethane, or retreat? Each dwarf has only seconds to make his decision. To be left alone in the middle between the two options will mean certain death. Nthazes steps down toward the Runethane, then hesitates. I clamber up one step back, then lean down to reach forward and grab him by the shoulder.


    ¡°We should retreat!¡± I plead. ¡°Come on!¡±


    ¡°But he¡¯s our Runethane!¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a fool! We can¡¯t win¡ªnot now that our force is split. And maybe not even if we¡¯re united.¡±


    ¡°Victory could be within reach!¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t believe that! Please, Nthazes, he¡¯s a fool, we both know it. You agree that the killer isn¡¯t the darkness. This whole expedition is a mistake. It¡¯s suicide! Now come on!¡±


    ¡°We have a duty, Zathar! I have a duty!¡±


    ¡°He had a duty too, to protect us, and now he¡¯s throwing it away! Look down there. Do you honestly think we can win this?¡±


    A tide of nothingness is enveloping the Runethane, the commanders, the chamberlain, and those other elites with them. They battle violently, their mace-swings making bright flashes that scatter the darkness with each blow, yet each shadow that gets obliterated reforms colder and denser than before. The Runethane¡¯s charge begins to slow, as if he¡¯s trying to run against a river raging blackly up the steps.


    ¡°If we all band together¡ª¡± Nthazes says desperately.


    ¡°But we won¡¯t, we¡¯re split already!¡±


    Most of the dwarves have made up their mind, and they¡¯re going with Belthur. They clamber up the stairs using both hands and feet. Some discard their packs for a faster escape.


    A cloud of emptiness bypasses the Runethane and flows up toward us.


    ¡°We¡¯re not going to win,¡± I plead. ¡°We have to run, now. You¡¯ve never been happy with him either, have you?¡±


    He looks down at the Runethane, whose mace is like the last lamp amid thickening fog. My eyes are open and it¡¯s not blinding me.


    ¡°He¡¯s losing,¡± I say. ¡°Come on!¡±


    Reluctantly, Nthazes nods. ¡°You¡¯re right. Let¡¯s flee.¡±


    We turn and hurry to climb up the stairs. Each step is an effort, slowed by the weight of my pack dragging me backwards. It¡¯s tempting to pull it off and throw it to the darkness, but who knows how long it¡¯ll take us to exit the labyrinth?


    The darkness is cold on our heels. The Runethane is already obscured.


    ¡°Charge!¡± comes a whisper. ¡°Attack, you cowards! Attack!¡±


    The word stings. Are we cowards? Am I? No.


    A coward would have fled the fort the moment the first killings began. If I was a coward, I wouldn''t have even put myself at risk on a single hunt. I''d have petitioned Cathez to allow me to leave with the next supply caravan after my injuries healed. No, I''m not a coward. Were I a coward, right now I would not be seeking to atone for my past crimes by catching the killer¡ªI would be hiding in a cave somewhere, hoping beyond hope that no other dwarf would ever find me to bring me to justice.


    The tide of darkness billows and expands. It¡¯s nearly at us.


    ¡°Halt!¡± Nthazes shouts suddenly, and he stops to face it.


    ¡°What are you doing!¡±


    ¡°Fight it off!¡± he commands. ¡°Form a line. Hamper it, at least!¡±


    In horror I rush to grab him and drag him away, convinced he¡¯s about to commit lone suicide, but several other runeknights join him to form a line. I can¡¯t abandon my friend, so I join too. Maybe we can beat this part back if the rest is still concentrated on the Runethane, and secure our escape.


    Galar and Fjalar are in the line too.


    The roiling soundlessness rushes up to meet us and we swing at it. I sense the void draw back, then it draws forward once more, attempts to snake between the gaps in our line. I time my swings this time, only attacking when I guess the light is at its zenith, and this seems to be working¡ªat least, I am not yet dead.


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    ¡°Come to me!¡± Belthur yells down at us. ¡°Hurry!¡±


    About half the line turns around and makes to rush back up. The darkness senses our weakness and redoubles its attack. Chill silence subsumes me; with a mighty blow I drive it away. Heat washes over me; Galar must be unleashing the power of his trident again. The darkness recoils and I¡¯m able to retreat along with Nthazes. We reach the point where the steps become less steep, and sprint up them as quickly as we can.


    ¡°Out! Out! Out!¡± yells Belthur. ¡°This way!¡±


    We exit the chamber of darkness. It looks like all the surviving dwarves are out now, and there must be less than fifty of us. Belthur is frantically beckoning us to follow him right along the corridor.


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t it left?¡± someone shouts in panic.


    ¡°No! Come on!¡±


    We hurry after him, sprinting with all our might. My legs feel half-dead from running up the massive steps, and the cold is painful in my throat as I gulp down air through the grille of my helmet. The weight of my mace is deadening my arm¡ªI¡¯m not sure how many strikes I have left in me.


    ¡°Which path do we go down?¡± someone yells¡ªit¡¯s Fjalar, sprinting along just ahead of me, his mace a dull light through my shut eyelids.


    ¡°Just follow!¡± Belthur shouts back at him.


    ¡°But I think we came in through the one we just passed!¡±


    Unnoticed to me before, there¡¯s not just one exit to this place. There are a few, spread sparsely, and of course there¡¯s no way for us to tell which was the one we left through. And if we go down the wrong one, who¡¯s to say it won¡¯t be a dead end, in the most literal sense?


    ¡°We should stop!¡± Fjalar shouts in panic. ¡°We need to stop and go back!¡±


    Belthur slows, then turns in fury. ¡°Obey me!¡± he yells. ¡°I¡¯ve just saved your lives, do you think I¡¯m going to let you die in the darkness now? I know which way we left!¡±


    ¡°I remember the shape of the etchings, we just missed the right way!¡± He looks at his brother, then looks across everyone else. ¡°We need to go back if we¡¯re not going to die! Look, the darkness is nearly there!¡±


    A cloud of soundlessness is eating away at the corridor, extinguishing it steadily. It¡¯s slowed down, so maybe the foe is still distracted by the Runethane¡ªbut it¡¯ll still be at the exit Fjalar claims is the right one in less than a minute.


    ¡°Come on!¡± Fjalar shouts again. ¡°Brother, are you coming, or do you want to die as well?¡±


    Galar makes his decision; he follows his brother.


    ¡°Fools!¡± Belthur yells.


    Nthazes glances at me. Which way to go? This time the choice is not so easy: if Fjalar and Galar are the killers, being alone with them would be suicide. If they¡¯re working with the darkness somehow, then maybe they want to lead us to be devoured.


    Yet both have been targeted by it just as we have. I make the split-second judgment that they are not working with the darkness and Fjalar genuinely thinks running back is our best chance for survival.


    So is he right or wrong about the exit? Both twins have an excellent eye for detail, and are clever, cleverer than Belthur, whose superb equipment is nonetheless mundane. There¡¯s also the chance that both are correct. Belthur might not have followed our route exactly, but taken different turns to arrive at the same destination.


    The overriding fact though is this: I still suspect Fjalar or Galar, or both, to be behind the killings. An idea for the method is coming together in my mind. If the weapon is a certain shape, then Fjalar could have hidden it from us even after we stripped him to administer bandages.


    Yet, could Belthur be the killer? What I considered a wild theory now seems more likely after this overt betrayal. Could all this have been a plot to destabilize the Runethane?


    Several more dwarves split to follow Galar, who lets out another blast from his trident to slow the darkness¡¯s advance. At that display, a dozen more join, giving apologetic glances to Belthur.


    ¡°We¡¯ll go with the twins,¡± I say to Nthazes.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°No. But we have to decide now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure about this.¡±


    Galar ups the power on his trident another click, and the darkness recoils further. More dwarves split off from Belthur to walk past us.


    ¡°Fools!¡± Belthur fumes. ¡°You¡¯re walking to your deaths!¡±


    ¡°I think they might be right,¡± Lothan, standing beside him, says quietly.


    ¡°They are wrong. Come on!¡± He looks at me and Nthazes. ¡°Are you two coming? If you suspect them, then¡ª¡±


    ¡°I still suspect them,¡± I tell him. ¡°So I¡¯m sorry, Belthur, but we¡¯re going after them.¡±


    ¡°Sky-addled fool! Nthazes?¡±


    Nthazes looks toward the gradually approaching darkness, then back to Belthur. He shakes his head in apology.


    ¡°I trust Zathar. If he suspects the twins, I do as well. And that means we have to protect the others from them. Goodbye, Belthur. I hope you make it out.¡±


    Belthur shakes his head in disbelief. ¡°You too? Fine. Goodbye.¡±


    He sprints off alongside Lothan and about a dozen others. All the rest of the survivors are hurrying after the twins. Nthazes and I rush to follow. They¡¯ve nearly reached the exit out and once Galar passes through, the darkness will surely accelerate.


    ¡°I didn''t get a chance to say,¡± I pant as we run, ¡°that Jaemes wrote a reply to the letter. He has a theory about the twins.¡±


    ¡°Tell me.¡±


    ¡°They want revenge for being split. Their weapon connects to some storage in the fort.¡±


    ¡°Why go for ordinary dwarves then? And why kill like that at all?¡±


    ¡°Weapons forged of blood are deadly. Jaemes said this fact is hidden from most dwarves. They want to create something to make themselves powerful enough to slay the commanders.¡±


    ¡°...I¡¯m not sure. Something doesn¡¯t add up still. And how could they get the blood to some storage? And where could they hide so much?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Once we strike, we¡¯ll interrogate them to find out.¡±


    ¡°So we¡¯re going to strike then? We¡¯re going to risk it?¡±


    ¡°Once we¡¯re out, yes.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Motives and Methods

    We reach the exit just as Galar is backing into it. I blink open my eyes to glance at the etchings, but can¡¯t remember if they¡¯re the same ones. Maybe Fjalar is right, maybe Belthur is. Or maybe both ways are wrong.


    Up the stairs we hurry, Fjalar before us and Galar behind us. It¡¯s another harsh climb. Each step my thighs sting with pain. If I had a long spear then at least I¡¯d be able to use it like a walking stick, but instead my mace is an extra burden. All the same complaints as before¡ªwhen will this end? If it¡¯s not to end in my death I have to ignore the pain, yet it¡¯s getting hard to ignore.


    The other dwarves are tired too. Every minute or so someone trips and has to be dragged to their feet by a comrade.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Galar curses. ¡°I¡¯m going to have to turn the brightness down!¡± he calls up. ¡°It¡¯s getting too hot!¡±


    ¡°Keep it going!¡± Fjalar shouts in reply. ¡°We can¡¯t climb any faster!¡±


    ¡°Moron,¡± Galar mutters, then flicks the wheel on the weapon down a few notches. ¡°Not the most sympathetic, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I pant.


    ¡°Notice how he was first in here and I last? That¡¯s my brother for you.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s right that we can¡¯t climb any faster.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve bought us a head start. We¡¯ll be fine. Hraroth was wrong about my weapon, wasn¡¯t he? In these tight corridors it¡¯s just what we need.¡±


    ¡°It is. Your runes are creative. How did you become so good with them?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Just practice: the right kind, where you do a slightly different approach each time, and are never afraid of failure.¡±


    ¡°Does your brother take the same approach? I¡¯ve never talked to him much.¡±


    ¡°He tries, but he¡¯s not as good as I am. He was always holding me back¡ªI see that now we¡¯re forced to work apart from each other. My ideas were right and his were wrong.¡±


    ¡°His craft is still impressive though,¡± Nthazes points out.


    ¡°Better than I expected,¡± Galar admits. ¡°Boring though. I reckon he wanted to make sure he stayed on the commanders¡¯ good side, rather than take a risk to impress them.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s that then?¡± I ask. ¡°You two have never cared much about that before. You told me yourself you¡¯re happy to stay at the same degree.¡±


    ¡°We were,¡± he admits. ¡°Things changed, though. Because of the killings and all these mad attacks.¡±


    ¡°You had no choice but to try for something better?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°We can¡¯t waste our breath talking. The darkness is picking up speed.¡±


    I glance back; it is. One by one the steps are vanishing, as if stolen from existence. Yet is this truly the reason he just cut the conversation off?


    My thoughts race. I focus intently, so intently that I half feel like I leave my body. I force the pain and exhaustion to dull so I have room in my head to think.


    Galar is happy to be away from Fjalar. There is still no love lost between them. So does Jaemes¡¯ idea for the motive make sense? Are they really trying to get revenge on the commanders? I think not. If one or both are the killers, there has to be another motive. But what?


    It doesn¡¯t make sense for one to be after the other, or one would be dead by now. And I already established early that there¡¯s no pattern to the victims. They just happened to be in an easy position to target. The identity of the victims doesn''t matter; forging is the key. Blood as a crafting material: knowledge forbidden to most dwarves, beyond taboo even, yet one of the geniuses figured out its potential on their own.


    So the killer collects blood to forge with, and then what? The Runethane would be able to tell if a weapon presented was forged using blood. There would be some terrible sign, some evil and powerful emanation from the runes that gave the weapon¡¯s origin away.


    Was it to slay the Runethane, then take his position for himself? Or maybe give it Belthur. Are they all in it together? Were Belthur¡¯s patrols a cover for the killer, or some way to scout out victims? That seems wrong: Belthur¡¯s just split from us, after all.


    The pain is getting to my head again, breaking my concentration. The steps seem endless, and I have no way of knowing how long it¡¯ll be once we reach the top.


    I need to think! I need to figure this out, or the killer may strike me in the chaos of this rout. I glance back at Galar. Is he even now plotting a way to get rid of me? If the darkness reaches us, no one will ever find my body to see the way I died.


    Fjalar and Galar, Fjalar and Galar! What drives them? Forging does, as it drives all runeknights: yet the desire to craft the greatest creations is stronger in them than most. So what if the killings are an extension of their rivalry, then? What if the weapon of blood is just to be a trophy proving the killer¡¯s superiority to his twin?


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    ¡°Finally!¡± Fjalar screams. ¡°An end to these fucking stairs! Turn left, everyone! I think I remember the way!¡±


    ¡°You think?¡± someone yells in panic. ¡°What do you mean you think? You mean you know, right?¡±


    ¡°Shut up! Stop wasting your breath! Of course I know!¡±


    ¡°Why the hell did you say ¡®you think¡¯ then?¡±


    ¡°I mean I¡¯ll know the turns when I see them! Just shut up and follow!¡±


    A shiver of relief runs through my burning thighs as I finally reach the flatness of the corridor. We all stumble after Fjalar, and whenever the corridor branches we trust his judgment. Galar stays at the rear, unleashing the occasional blast from his trident to stop the darkness getting too close.


    ¡°Bloody ashes!¡± he hisses. ¡°It¡¯s getting too hot!¡±


    He¡¯s our only chance against it, I begin to think. The darkness¡¯s power seems to be returning, its speed and ability to resist the devastating blasts of light increasing. The Runethane must be dead at the feet of the monstrous sorcerer, and now the foe is turning its full attention to us.


    ¡°Are you sure that turn was the right one?¡± the same nervous dwarf from before asks. ¡°I don¡¯t think we ever came to a five-way crossroads.¡±


    We come to a halt. Fjalar looks around; I can¡¯t see his face for his helmet, yet I detect a certain amount of panic in his body language. The dwarf is right. We never came to a five-way crossroads, and, come to think of it, the last staircase we ran up seemed too short. We¡¯ve gone the wrong way.


    ¡°Let me think!¡± Fjalar snaps.


    He looks from one path to the other. Four ways to go, and maybe each and every one leads to a dead end.


    ¡°You got it wrong,¡± Galar says. ¡°Moron! We should have followed Belthur.¡±


    ¡°You should have!¡± Fjalar snaps. ¡°Then I wouldn¡¯t have to deal with you.¡±


    ¡°The darkness would¡¯ve got us if it wasn¡¯t for Galar,¡± another dwarf points out. ¡°Whereas it¡¯s you who¡¯s just got us into this mess!¡±


    ¡°Fine, then, you lead from now on! No? Then be quiet!¡±


    Cowed by the anger in Fjalar¡¯s voice, the dwarf shuts up. Fjalar thinks for another few moments, then makes his choice: diagonal left. We rush along, faster than before now the darkness is gaining on us. The corridor becomes a steep and smooth ramp, an incredibly difficult thing to run up in armored boots, unless you have runes of gripping on them.


    Mine allow me to move through the loose column to the front. I position myself just behind and to the side of Fjalar.


    ¡°We mostly went right and down on our way to the darkness,¡± I say. ¡°If we keep going left and up, we might still be able to make it out.¡±


    ¡°What the hell do you think I¡¯m doing? That¡¯s why I just chose left; I¡¯m not an idiot, you know.¡±


    I¡¯m trying to be gentle with my words, lead him into giving up some clue, yet I can¡¯t help but feel a twinge of anger at his rudeness.


    ¡°I never said you were,¡± I say. ¡°Though maybe if you admit your mistake with the entrance, the other dwarves will be a bit more forgiving.¡±


    ¡°Fine, I made a mistake. Happy now?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Leave me alone, then.¡±


    ¡°I have some questions to ask.¡±


    ¡°What questions?¡±


    ¡°Why did you work with your brother for so long? You can¡¯t stand each other, and you work better separately.¡±


    ¡°Why do you care?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trusting you both with my life. I need to know that you¡¯re not going to have some petty fight and put us all at risk.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t, just so long as he doesn¡¯t try anything.¡±


    ¡°Did he often do that? When you were forging together?¡±


    ¡°Yes."


    "For example?"


    "What do you care?"


    "Like I just said, our lives are in your hands. I want to know if I can trust you both."


    "You''re a fool if you think that trident of his is going to be our savior.¡±


    ¡°Even you have to admit that it''s impressive.¡±


    ¡°Only because we¡¯re in tight corridors. All things considered, my mace is the superior weapon.¡±


    ¡°Is it now?¡±


    ¡°It is. The Runethane didn''t raise me further because he didn''t want to inflame tensions between me and my brother.¡±


    ¡°He made you present your weapon first, though,¡± I point out.


    ¡°Did he? I don¡¯t remember. It doesn¡¯t matter. My next weapon will be greater than both combined.¡±


    ¡°And what kind of weapon will that be?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know! Do you never shut up? I¡¯m concentrating on escape right now, not bloody forging!¡±


    ¡°All right, all right.¡±


    That¡¯s as much as I¡¯m going to get out of him, it seems. Best not push any further or I¡¯ll bring a grudge against myself.


    The ramp steepens, then evens out. We come to another crossroads, and again Fjalar takes the left turn. I make my way back to Nthazes. He looks as exhausted as I feel, his steps more stumble than anything, and his harsh breathing is loud even despite the shadow of soundlessness emanating from the pursuing darkness.


    ¡°I still suspect them,¡± I say quietly. ¡°Jaemes was wrong about the motive, right about the blood being for a weapon, I think.¡±


    ¡°What motive then?¡± Nthazes asks between breaths.


    ¡°They want to outdo each other. That¡¯s what they¡¯ve been trying to do once they were split apart.¡±


    ¡°I see. That seems plausible, but I still don¡¯t see how they transported the blood.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll know that once we get hold of the murder weapon.¡±


    ¡°Who has it though? We can¡¯t take both at once, and we shouldn¡¯t touch Galar. The darkness would be on us by now if it wasn¡¯t for his trident.¡±


    ¡°I know. Once we¡¯re out of the darkness we strike.¡±


    At that moment, we hit a wall. For a moment panic strikes my heart: is it a dead end? But no, it¡¯s just a right-angle turn, and the corridor off it is gently curved.


    ¡°I think this could be the outer wall!¡± Fjalar shouts. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure of it! It¡¯s curved to the same degree!¡±


    ¡°You expect us to trust that?¡± someone shouts. ¡°If this leads us to a dead end, I swear I¡¯ll feed you to the darkness myself!¡±


    ¡°You again? Stop complaining! You decided to follow me, didn''t you?¡±


    We rush along, and I think Fjalar might be right. It definitely feels as if we¡¯re running around the inside of a circle. Then again, that proves nothing. There might be many circular curves in this labyrinth.


    A few minutes later my worst fears are confirmed. The corridor is cut off by a dead end.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Loss of Evidence

    ¡°We¡¯re trapped!¡± someone screams. ¡°Oh, somebody help us, we¡¯re trapped!¡±


    ¡°No one¡¯s going to help us but ourselves,¡± Nthazes says grimly. ¡°Here we stand, and fall if we must.¡±


    ¡°We should¡¯ve stayed with the Runethane. At least then we could have died in glory! Fulfilled our duty!¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But we made our decision.¡±


    ¡°A cowardly decision,¡± weeps the dwarf. ¡°We¡¯re cowards, and this is what we get for it.¡±


    ¡°None of us are cowards for retreating. At least, I am not. I judged that the Runethane had failed in his duty to the fort, and so that means my duty lies somewhere I can continue the defense. If I¡¯m to fall in that duty I have no regrets. You should have none either.¡±


    ¡°Form a line!¡± Fjalar yells. ¡°Form something! It¡¯s coming for us!¡±


    ¡°No need for a line,¡± Galar says. ¡°I¡¯ll hold it off myself.¡±


    ¡°Are you insane?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± He laughs, madly. ¡°But my weapon is stronger than all of yours.¡±


    He takes a long step out toward the darkness. He cuts a heroic figure, a lone hero against a tide of death, risking his life to protect us¡ªexcept of course that is not his motive. I can tell by the glee in his voice that he¡¯s doing this to spite his brother. Fjalar¡¯s mace is excellent but could not hold back the darkness on its own. Galar knows this and it brings him joy.


    The darkness seems to eat away the corridor. I feel as if the stone is crumbling, and when the collapse reaches us we will all plummet into the void.


    Galar turns the wheel; it makes four clicks. Light blasts from the trident¡¯s points: I can tell from the warmth and the way the tide of deep darkness shudders, even if I can¡¯t see it. He moves his finger a little more and I hear the barest click. The warmth intensifies.


    ¡°Five!¡± he shouts triumphantly.


    The darkness¡¯s advance slows. It become slightly less opaque: I can sense the outlines of the corridor past it.


    ¡°Six!¡±


    The warmth becomes heat and I¡¯m forced to take several steps back. The darkness falters further, then is bolstered by a new wave of chill from behind. The outline of the corridor vanishes once more.


    ¡°Seven!¡±


    I cry out in shock: the heat becomes as if I¡¯m standing directly beside a lavafall. The light is now as bright as that from the Runethane¡¯s mace was, for I can see it even through my shut eyes. It¡¯s a cone of paleness extending to the black and burning at it.


    Yet the darkness is not cowed. It draws in its edges, concentrating its power into a spear of nothingness. It pushes forward.


    ¡°Fool!¡± Fjalar yells desperately. ¡°You¡¯re going to kill yourself!¡±


    Rivals they may be, but I don¡¯t think either wants to see the other dead.


    ¡°Eight!¡± Galar screams.


    I flinch back, press myself against the others who are all pressed into the end of the corridor in terror. The heat becomes unbearable, it reminds me of the terrible dragon-heat I ran from, that eventually drove me to this place. I throw myself to the ground to get away from it.


    ¡°Nine!¡±


    ¡°Brother, stop¡ª¡±


    I suddenly get the impression that a solid wall of air and heat hit me some time ago, and my ears are ringing. I¡¯m lying face up instead of face down. There seems to be something heavy on top of me; I push it off with all my strength. It feels like the limp body of a dwarf.


    My ears are still ringing. I open my eyes, unable to remember why I even had them closed. In front of me is a crater; in its center is a shallow pool of white lava. A dwarf¡ªGalar, the name comes to me, that¡¯s Galar¡ªhas fallen into it face first and I can smell burned flesh. His hands are missing¡ªhis arms terminate in flowers of glowing titanium and blackened flesh and splintered bone. There is no trace left of his weapon.


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    ¡°I was right,¡± someone gasps, his voice half a death-rattle. ¡°The border wall is here. Look.¡±


    I turn to look. The glow of maces is not so blinding as it once was, since most are buried in a pile of shifting armor¡ªconcussed runeknights trying to untangle themselves. Fjalar is lying against the front of the pile, his armor rent, melted, parts of it still aglow.


    He slumps down from the pile and climbs to his feet. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me!¡± he snaps. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here!¡±


    I back away from him.


    ¡°At the crater, can¡¯t you see?¡±


    I glance back, not wanting to take my eyes from him for more than half a second, and see that the blast destroyed the walls either side of us, and one of the two gaps leads to the inside of the perimeter wall. It has a gate in it nearby, through which I can see, by the glow of the white lava, the square forms of buildings.


    ¡°Stay here then,¡± Fjalar curses. He limps out into the perimeter wall and toward the gate. ¡°The darkness will be back soon.¡±


    I can¡¯t abandon my comrades, can¡¯t abandon Nthazes. I begin to pull them from the pile. Some are unconscious, some are fading in and out of it. Nthazes is one of these. I stand him up; he groans and slumps back down.


    ¡°Wake up!¡± I plead. ¡°Stand up, we have to get out of here!¡±


    ¡°What happened?¡± he gasps.


    ¡°Galar¡¯s trident blasted itself to pieces. He¡¯s dead. But it blew a hole in the labyrinth. We can get out. We have to escape.¡±


    ¡°Fjalar? What about Fjalar?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s already left.¡±


    ¡°But he was next to his brother, wasn¡¯t he? He... He should be the worst injured.¡±


    Does this confirm it? His armor was rent, broken, yet he¡¯s walking just fine. His limp is already fading; he starts to hurry. He turns to us.


    ¡°Get over here! I don¡¯t want to face the darkness on my own!¡±


    I look down the corridor past the glowing crater and see that the darkness is shocked, maybe injured, if such a thing can be injured: it writhes and shivers, fading in and out of existence, a kind of black flashing. But we cannot assume it¡¯s been permanently dealt with. It¡¯ll strengthen again, and when we cannot know, so we have to get out of here as fast as we can.


    Yet, I won¡¯t abandon any dwarf who may still be alive. I nod to Nthazes: he understands. I continue to drag dwarves from the pile. He tries to wake up those showing signs of life: groans and twitches. A few in the center are uninjured and they help us also. All the while, Fjalar watches on impatiently.


    ¡°Hurry up! Do you want my brother to have died for nothing?¡±


    I glance back at the darkness and my fears are confirmed. Already it¡¯s becoming blacker, coiling in on itself, like black satin folding in on itself again and again.


    I turn back to the dwarves; I shut my eyes since most maces are unburied now. Of the forty or so with us, about ten are standing. Five were smashed against the hard stone dead end and had the backs of their helmets caved in, and are beyond saving. Another dozen are being helped to their feet. They make incoherent groaning sounds; they are concussed.


    Those who caught the full brunt of the blast are dead. The obliterating heat smashed them head-on and melted the fronts of their armor. I am only alive because I was lying down and have strong runes of fire resistance grafted to my armor. Re-using the abyssal runes from ten years ago saved me.


    ¡°Come on!¡± Fjalar says urgently from the gate-hole in the perimeter wall.


    ¡°We¡¯re going as fast as we can!¡± Nthazes says. ¡°But we won¡¯t abandon anyone who still might live!¡±


    ¡°Fine, just hurry up about it!¡±


    ¡°Go, Nthazes,¡± I say. ¡°All of you, go if you can walk. I¡¯ll try to wake up these last two.¡±


    There are two near the front whose armor, though partly melted, may still have kept enough integrity to keep them alive.


    But they aren¡¯t alive. I know this because Fjalar is alive. Just like when he was mortally wounded by the dithyok, he¡¯s brought himself back from the brink of death by stealing the life of someone else, and it is not only life that he¡¯s stealing.


    I have just had the revelation that the killer¡¯s supreme craft of blood has already been completed. It was completed the moment Mathek lost his life in storeroom three. It is something far more powerful than a mere weapon, and it is something I have already seen.


    I turn over the first body. It¡¯s lighter than it should be¡ªthe first hint that I¡¯m right. I try to open the visor, but it¡¯s stuck, the mechanism melted. Cursing, I start to bash it apart with the pommel of my mace. I need to confirm the manner of death¡ªyet I don¡¯t need to see his face to do that, do I?


    There will be a small hole in his armor where the weapon pierced. Desperately I search for it. It has to be here, for what else could explain the lightness of the body? Yet the armor is torn and has many holes.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Nthazes yells. ¡°Zathar, the darkness! Get out of there!¡±


    I look back; the darkness has regained its strength and is flowing toward me, a tide of annihilation about to wipe me and all the evidence I have away. I grab the armored corpse under the armpits and try to drag it with me through the hole in the wall¡ªthe darkness is slower than before, it hasn¡¯t regained all its power¡ªbut it¡¯s hopeless. I drop him and run toward Nthazes, already backing away to follow Fjalar and the others, who are running, walking, or limping as fast as their injured bodies permit.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Accusation

    The darkness, injured yet healing fast, chases us, injured and exhausted, through the streets of dusty stone. The grid of corridors feels endless in its monotony. Each turn is the same, bringing us to the same set of plain buildings adorned with the same strange etchings. I guess that maybe the etchings on each building are different¡ªbut we don¡¯t have time to halt and check them. My runic ears are damaged also, making everything appear to twist and turn in time with the sound of our footsteps.


    Where is the exit to this awful place? It¡¯ll be at the outer edge, surely, but how far away that is we cannot know, and how far around the edge we¡¯ll have to travel is also unknowable.


    ¡°We need rest,¡± a limping dwarf cries. ¡°My leg is killing me, Fjalar! We need to rest!¡±


    ¡°Rest and we¡¯re dead!¡±


    ¡°We need it! We¡¯re in agony here, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I am, but we must bear the pain; we have no choice!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll move faster once we¡¯re rested,¡± Nthazes shouts. ¡°And the darkness has been weakened. The uninjured ones can form a defense while the others convalesce.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says one of the worst limping dwarves. ¡°That¡¯s a good idea. I need to strip my leg down¡ªI can feel I¡¯m bleeding down there.¡±


    ¡°Where the hell are we going to be able to form a defense?¡± Fjalar snaps. ¡°Maybe once we¡¯re in the tunnel with only one front to worry about. That¡¯s the only option.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°We can break into one of the buildings here.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll trap us in! Are you crazy?¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t go on like this. It¡¯s going to catch up with us sooner or later anyway, and when it does, it¡¯s best that we¡¯re in a defensible position.¡±


    ¡°I refuse. It¡¯s madness.¡±


    ¡°Fine!¡± I tell him. ¡°Stay out here on your own! The rest of you, if you want to live, follow me and Nthazes.¡±


    I lead by example; I stop, turn to the first stone door I see, and shoulder-charge it. There¡¯s a cracking sound, but I don¡¯t quite get through. I batter against it with my mace, and rock chips fly. This makes me slightly queasy: it feels like mining. Is this going to be the poetic end to my life? Start with mining, end with mining?


    I break through¡ªthe doors open inwards. I¡¯m glad, for I¡¯d expected them to break apart. This will impede the darkness. I charge into the center of the room, mace aglow, and detect that¡¯s its empty but for a thick carpet of dust.


    ¡°In, in!¡± I yell.


    One by one the dwarves hurry through the doors. Fjalar comes last; I recoil from him as he enters, on instinct.


    ¡°What¡¯s your problem?¡± he snaps.


    ¡°Just get in!¡± I shout at him. ¡°I need to shut the doors.¡±


    I push them tightly closed. There¡¯s a gap in them, a sliver of broken rock down the center join. I beckon Nthazes over.


    ¡°We¡¯ll guard this first. Then when we change...¡±


    He nods. ¡°I understand. This is it.¡±


    We stand a few feet away from it with maces high. As expected, a few minutes later, we feel a terrible coldness come through the crack in the high doorway. We swing at the air just in front of it, and the coldness retreats. A minute later it comes again, and we beat it away again.


    It¡¯s weakened for sure, yet this is no relief. It is us dwarves who have come the worse off in this battle by far. We are defeated. Even if my apprehending of Fjalar is successful, and we somehow make it out, there are too few left to defend the fort. We¡¯ll just have to hope that the darkness won¡¯t try a major incursion before some kind of reinforcements have been brought in from up above.


    I look back at the group. The injured, and some of the uninjured but terrified, huddle in the middle of the blank room, as if afraid that the darkness will start creeping in through the walls¡ªwhich it might, I suppose. About half are turned toward the door, and half to a staircase at the back of the room leading up to who knows what.


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    Those who are relatively uninjured, and have either conquered their fear or are ignoring it, stand around the huddle with maces at the ready.


    Fjalar is one of these. Unlike the others, he¡¯s hopping from foot to foot, switching his mace from a right-hand grip to a left-hand grip. He¡¯s restless, clearly failing to suppress his fear. Likely he¡¯s in shock at his brother¡¯s death as well.


    ¡°What are you looking at?¡± he says to me. ¡°Keep your eyes on the darkness. Please,¡± he adds.


    ¡°Just making sure everyone¡¯s all right.¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t, obviously. Shit, how many are dead now? More than a hundred. How many are here now? I count thirty. Thirty! Belthur is probably dead too¡ª¡±


    ¡°He might not be,¡± I interrupt. ¡°We were the ones who took the wrong passage. He might even be out of this place by now.¡±


    ¡°In which case he won¡¯t wait for us at the lift. He¡¯ll ride it back up and leave us trapped.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll just have to hope he¡¯ll wait.¡±


    ¡°You know what sort of a dwarf he is¡ªa traitor. He¡¯ll leave us to die for sure.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re all traitors,¡± one of the injured hisses through gritted teeth. ¡°We never should¡¯ve abandoned the Runethane. Death is what we deserve!¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± Fjalar tells him. ¡°My brother and I only ran because we saw that all of you were doing the same, on Belthur¡¯s recommendation. Less than half strength, we never could have beaten that monster down there. It¡¯s Belthur¡¯s fault we lost.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t matter,¡± says the dwarf. ¡°We still could have died heroes. Instead we¡¯re going to die cowards.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to live,¡± Nthazes says firmly. ¡°The only coward was the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°How can you insult him so?¡± the dwarf says, aghast. ¡°He took the lead here himself!¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a coward. He couldn¡¯t face the truth about the killer.¡±


    ¡°What truth?¡± a heavy-set dwarf in the center of the huddle says. It¡¯s Hirthik, from the kitchens¡ªI hadn¡¯t even realized he was with us. ¡°No one knows the truth. And now that we¡¯ve come down here for ourselves, I can believe the darkness can do anything.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t the darkness,¡± I say, then I nod to Nthazes.


    ¡°Melkor, Notok, can you take over the guard for a bit?¡± he asks, addressing two of the uninjured dwarves.


    "What''s going on, Nthazes?" one of them asks nervously.


    "There''s some things that need to be cleared up. Once they are, we''ll take over from you."


    "All right."


    The two dwarves come forth, and we leave the door and go to stand in front of Fjalar. Our maces are held ready to strike.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Fjalar says suspiciously. His eyes narrow behind his visor¡ªan instinctual reaction, since like all of us his eyes are closed.


    ¡°You¡¯re the killer,¡± I say.


    A ripple of shock runs through the group. Those who weren¡¯t looking at us before are now. All freeze in the tension. Fjalar plays dumb.


    ¡°What the hell are you talking about?¡± he says.


    ¡°You¡¯re the killer,¡± I repeat. ¡°You murdered Mathek for his blood, and then another five dwarves after. Or was it six¡ªyou¡¯ve killed so many I can¡¯t even remember. And two more less than half an hour ago.¡±


    He lets out a harsh laugh. ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not being absurd.¡±


    ¡°I barely even knew those dwarves. Why would I kill them?¡±


    ¡°For their blood.¡±


    ¡°What the hell would I want with that? Don¡¯t be absurd, Zathar. We¡¯re in the very bowels of the underworld, assailed by death, and now you want to start some stupid fight? Throw away our lives which my brother has just given his for? Stop this idiocy now and I might forgive you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not looking to start a fight. I want you to admit your crimes and give up your weapon.¡±


    ¡°If you think I¡¯m going to hand over my mace when¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not your mace,¡± I say calmly. ¡°The other weapon. The hidden one.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have any weapon,¡± he says angrily. ¡°What the hell are you on about?¡±


    ¡°Stop playing the fool. You do have a weapon. You just used it to kill two dwarves.¡±


    ¡°What the hell are you talking about?¡± he demands.


    ¡°You were at the front back there. You were the nearest to your brother, your armor is ruined by the blast, yet you are still alive. Why is that?¡±


    ¡°Because my armor is forged well! Why does any dwarf survive something that should kill him?¡±


    ¡°Your armor didn''t protect you from the dithyok up in the caverns. It was cut through. You were cut through, with a dozen wounds that should¡¯ve killed you. And yet you survived.¡±


    ¡°They were shallower than they looked, Zathar. My armor protected me well enough. Are you trying to insult my crafts?¡±


    ¡°It didn''t protect you nearly well enough. You should¡¯ve died from your wounds, but you lived¡ªthrough taking the life of the dwarf lying beside you.¡±


    ¡°Absurd.¡± Fjalar shakes his head, and looks back at the group, all listening intently. ¡°Do any of you believe this, really?¡±


    ¡°It... It does sound a little far-fetched,¡± Hirthik admits.


    ¡°A little? You mean totally. I¡¯m not the killer.¡±


    ¡°You are!¡± I say. ¡°And I will lay out exactly how you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Belthur is the killer!¡± Fjalar snaps. ¡°Can¡¯t you see that? Can¡¯t any of you see that? Isn¡¯t it obvious?¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: An Evil Craft

    ¡°Belthur?¡± I say. ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid! You¡¯re the murderer, Fjalar¡ª¡±


    ¡°I am not!¡±


    My mind whirls in a fury. I should¡¯ve expected such a dirty trick. I assumed for some reason that he would respond to my accusations through physical violence, but Fjalar is too smart for that. No, why prove that you¡¯re a killer by attacking your accuser, when instead you can try and destroy his credibility with some half-forged theory of your own?


    ¡°Belthur cannot be the murderer,¡± I say.


    Yet can I be so sure? He was one possibility I counted, after all. Shit! I¡¯m starting to doubt even myself.


    ¡°He can be and he is,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°Who else gains from confusion in the fort? With the Runethane driven crazy, Belthur wanted to step in as the only voice of reason. The commanders were too close to the Runethane, too loyal to take that role for themselves, and the few second degrees were too loyal also. That left Belthur, who was on the brink of becoming a second degree also.¡±


    ¡°How could a second degree become a Runethane? He¡¯s not strong enough.¡±


    ¡°No, but he could have been the de facto ruler, if he had everyone¡¯s trust. Then when more powerful, stepped into the role proper.¡±


    ¡°I can''t imagine Commander Hraroth bowing to him. And there are many ways he could¡¯ve undermined the Runethane without resorting to murder.¡±


    ¡°Such as?¡±


    ¡°Spreading rumors. That¡¯s how these things are usually done.¡±


    ¡°And he spread plenty of rumors! Like how the Runethane was wrong, that the darkness was not responsible for the killings, and that our expeditions were a fool¡¯s errands.¡±


    ¡°Many dwarves spread those rumors. You and your brother included.¡±


    ¡°Leave my brother out of this!¡±


    He sounds genuinely enraged¡ªhe¡¯s in true grief over losing his brother, I see that now. Their fighting was the only purpose in his life, after all. Yet this is no time to tip-toe around his feelings.


    ¡°You both spread a lot of rumors, always switching sides. That¡¯s another reason I started being suspicious of you.¡±


    ¡°All were discussing the threat and what it might be,¡± Fjalar snaps. ¡°Leave my brother out of this.¡±


    ¡°Then Belthur¡¯s discussion of the same isn¡¯t really evidence then, is it?¡± I counter.


    ¡°He was doing it more than most. He had an entire group around him to help him forment his little rebellion. Lothan, a few other senior runeknights, and a couple dozen lower degree ones also. He grew it over time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. Nthazes and I were part of it.¡± A few dwarves recoil in alarm; I raise my voice, ¡°But it was not for rebellion, but to discover the identity of the killer!¡±


    ¡°And discover him we have,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°We searched you and your brother¡¯s rooms, Fjalar.¡±


    ¡°So it was my fellow dwarves then,¡± Fjalar spits. ¡°I¡¯d wondered if that was the case. Not the human, then. You were happy for him to be your scapegoat though, weren¡¯t you Zathar? Your so-called friend.¡±


    ¡°We worked together,¡± I say, not letting the insinuation get to me. ¡°We were all prepared to suffer the consequences of our actions. What we found was more important than who got blamed for it.¡±


    ¡°It was just you three skulking around the fort, was it? I think you had help to stop yourselves getting caught. Belthur bribe the guards, did he?¡±


    ¡°He covered for us, yes. That¡¯s not important¡ª¡±


    ¡°So Belthur¡¯s dwarves had such great control of the fort that they were able to allow others to circumvent the Runethane¡¯s rules, brazenly, and yet Zathar here won¡¯t admit that maybe he had other interests in mind, that were more about power than getting to the truth?¡±


    Some of the dwarves look at each other. Are they coming around to his side?


    ¡°You¡¯re trying to distract us,¡± I say. ¡°It won¡¯t work. What we found in your chambers were bloodstained containers and fragments of glass with some rather suspicious runes on them.¡±


    ¡°Bloodstained containers!¡± Fjalar laughs, a relieved-sounding laugh.


    Have I made a mistake? I thought the containers did have blood in them, used for their preliminary experiments, but maybe he never needed such. Maybe they were just rusted¡ªand of course it was Galar¡¯s half of the chambers we searched. He might never have been privy to Fjalar¡¯s interest in blood, just manipulation of glass.


    Admitting error would weaken my position here, so I decide to go all in: ¡°Yes, you were researching blood¡¯s potential. But the glass is more important. The runes we found on it were those related to drawing things in, and expelling others.¡±


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    ¡°And? We did many experiments on glass; they were all failures.¡±


    ¡°You saw a use for them even if Galar didn''t¡ªthough I think he used the same principles when making his trident.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± Fjalar shrugs. ¡°Tell us what I used the glass for, then.¡±


    ¡°Your amulet. It¡¯s not ruby.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t sound nervous at all¡ªyet he should, I¡¯m confident my theory is correct. Maybe he thinks that what he¡¯s actually accomplished is so brilliantly impossible that no one here will believe it.


    ¡°I tried to get a look for myself in the infirmary, when you were pretending to be recovering from the blood-loss, but didn''t have time to examine the runes. Yet I¡¯m sure of what it is now¡ªhollow glass filled with blood.¡±


    Fjalar shakes his head, laughing quietly. ¡°Go on, go on. We¡¯re all listening.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the blood of your victims. Your weapon is a needle, linked to your amulet by a thin and flexible tube of metal.¡±


    ¡°There we have it: you¡¯re wrong. You¡¯d have seen such when you stripped my armor off after my battle with the dithyok.¡±


    ¡°Not if it was under your skin.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Was that worry creeping into his voice? I press the attack: ¡°You hid the weapon inside yourself to guarantee it could never be found. You¡¯re cautious, Fjalar, very cautious. You never attacked a dwarf if you thought there was even the tiniest chance you¡¯d be caught¡ªuntil the dithyok forced your hand, at least, and the darkness forced it again just now.¡±


    ¡°So not only is my weapon of unparalleled brilliance,¡± Fjalar says in a sarcastic drawl, ¡°imbued with abilities anyone sane would consider impossible, but it was also tiny enough to fit under my skin? You are absurd.¡±


    ¡°It is a needle,¡± I say. ¡°A hollow needle. As long as it isn¡¯t run through anything vital, it won¡¯t do any harm to you. Some dwarves go their whole lives with bits of metal embedded in them. Runethane Broderick, for example, with his skin of golden chain.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of this Runethane Broderick. But I¡¯m no Runethane, Zathar. I¡¯m a fifth degree, as good as you according to the Runethane¡ªthough I think I¡¯m a bit better.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a great deal better than me. You and your brother are geniuses.¡±


    ¡°Flattery won¡¯t help your case,¡± Fjalar sneers.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t finished. The runes in your needle pulled in the blood, it went through the tube into your amulet, which compressed it, and more importantly, stole the vital energies from it.¡±


    ¡°Vital energies? What the hell are you on about?¡±


    ¡°Just as the darkness steals the vital energies from those it touches, your amulet drains the same energies from the blood. To heal you, and more importantly to gain your victims¡¯ skill. You wanted to become better than your brother by an order of magnitude. For that, you needed to thieve.¡±


    ¡°Absurdity upon absurdity!¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s so absurd about it? We all know what amulets of unaging are for¡ªvia the medium of a gem, they connect body and mind to rune. They stall the deterioration, yet what if they could do more than that? What if they could improve body and mind beyond what they are meant to be? I¡¯ve witnessed such crafts in action.¡±


    ¡°You speak of a Runeking¡¯s crown then,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°Only the most brilliant dwarves can forge such a craft. I, as much as it pains me to admit it, am not that good.¡±


    ¡°No. Which is why you devised something that merely takes from others, rather than creating it for itself.¡±


    Fjalar turns to the intently listening dwarves behind us. ¡°Please, tell me you do not believe this foolishness. If there¡¯s such runes that can accomplish what Zathar says my amulet has, only a Runeking, or Runethane on the verge of becoming one, is capable of creating them.¡±


    ¡°All Runekings were runeknights at some point,¡± I say. ¡°Many have the potential, but are cut off through bad chance.¡±


    A flurry of blows against the darkness from the two guarding the door momentarily steals our attention. It¡¯s just forced part of itself in, a cloud that for a moment obscured the torsos of the defenders. Fjalar, thinking faster than me, rushes for it and with his blinding mace helps beat it away.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± says one of the two guards.


    ¡°No trouble. Apparently I still need to prove I¡¯m not an ally of the darkness.¡±


    ¡°I never said you were its ally,¡± I snap. ¡°The killings and the darkness are not connected.¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re right¡ªthey were a way for Belthur to topple the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Back to this again? It¡¯s ridiculous. The only reason Belthur betrayed the Runethane is because of these disastrous expeditions!¡±


    ¡°No, it goes deeper than that. I¡¯ve been down here a lot longer than you, Zathar. Belthur has never been happy with the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Neither have I,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean I betrayed him. I would¡¯ve gone into the darkness with him, had Zathar not persuaded me that my true duty was to the fort. Belthur is honorable too. He wants what is best for the fort. He never would¡¯ve killed his fellows.¡±


    ¡°How many have died because of him now?¡± counters Fjalar.


    ¡°He did not intend to kill them. He intended to save us, and maybe he has. None can ever tell that.¡±


    ¡°And Belthur could not have forged such a weapon,¡± I point out. ¡°He¡¯s never shown genius. Skill yes, genius no.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a higher degree than I am,¡± says Fjalar. ¡°The degrees exist for a reason, and they are accurate.¡±


    ¡°They are for most. But you and your brother¡ª¡±


    ¡°Leave him out of this!¡±


    ¡°You and your brother made sure you didn''t rise for years¡ªcenturies! And if you all cannot fathom what that is, they have been here since the last Runethane, at least. A very long time. Long enough to become very skilled indeed!¡±


    "If I''m so skilled, then why do I need to become even more so? And why then is my weapon not superior to Galar''s trident, which just saved us all?"


    "You want to be more skilled than Galar. You don''t need to, but you want to. And you had to hurry your mace after getting out the infirmary."


    "So if I was able to heal myself, why was I in the infirmary?"


    "You didn''t want to raise suspicion."


    "Ridiculous. This is all ridiculous. No such weapon or amulet exists."


    "It does." I step away from Fjalar and turn to face the dwarves in the center of the room head on. I take a deep breath. ¡°I''ve said all I can: Fjalar slew the victims with a needle concealed within his body, likely his wrist. The blood was ripped from them to his amulet, where its vital energies were drained to give Fjalar power. That¡¯s how he was able to survive the wounds from the dithyok, and also those from the blast just now. I examined two bodies¡ªthey were far lighter than they ought to have been.¡±


    Fjalar shakes his head. ¡°You cannot all believe this.¡±


    ¡°I am not asking you all to believe out of blind faith. And of course I am willing to admit I may have been wrong. I am an honest dwarf. So, Fjalar, let us about we prove the truth once and for all: strip off your armor.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Outsmarted

    My demand is met with silence. Fjalar shakes his head.


    ¡°I refuse.¡±


    ¡°Why? That only confirms your guilt.¡±


    ¡°You really think anyone here believes your ridiculous tale?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see the ridiculousness. I¡¯ve seen stranger crafts than what I¡¯ve just described.¡±


    ¡°Or so you claim.¡±


    ¡°I have. Down here you forge weapons of light and little else, but in the realms above there are powers you can¡¯t even imagine.¡±


    And herein lies the problem, I realize. I¡¯ve seen many an absurd craft in my battles. An axe that can split a stone wall from half a mile away. Chainmail embedded into skin to render its user impervious to attacks. Heartseeker, which almost has a life of its own. Most insane of all, a lost crown that turned trolls into something I fear is superior to dwarves.


    Compared to all that, is an amulet that steals the life of its victims so absurd? I do not think so. Certainly it¡¯s no more absurd than the existence of this lost city down here, sealed away for untold years yet still potent with death.


    These dwarves won¡¯t believe me though. Certainly they won¡¯t believe that the craft is from one of their own. With their sense of time atrophied, they can¡¯t understand that Fjalar and Galar are likely many hundreds of years older than them. They see only in terms of degrees, judge time based on accomplishments.


    Fjalar and Galar never put their accomplishments in the open. They locked them away, not desiring the responsibility and danger that comes with rank, until their fight became so bad that they decided each needed to create a weapon of such power that it would prove once and for all who was the superior craftsdwarf.


    Galar was honest. He trusted in his skill, and strived to create the greatest weapon he could: the trident.


    Fjalar was dishonest. He suspected Galar would win and, jealous, created a way to increase his power through the worst means possible. He would never be satisfied with just as good, or slightly better than his brother. He needed to make his skill beyond compare.


    Considering the timing, it¡¯s likely he¡¯d been working on it for a while in secret. Probably he¡¯d suspected their relationship was close to the breaking point. This meant that as soon as their contest started, he could begin the killings.


    The dithyok threw a wrench into his plans. If it hadn¡¯t torn him apart so badly, he¡¯d have proved his superiority by now, with a mace brighter than even the Runethane¡¯s. If he¡¯d had the time, Galar¡¯s trident would be the barest torch in comparison to his weapon.


    Even looking at the mace as it is¡ªa better design than my own, in terms of metalwork at least¡ªI am frightened by how little time it took him to make it. A week at most passed from his leaving the infirmary to presenting it to the Runethane,


    ¡°Remove your armor, Fjalar!¡± I repeat. ¡°Or at the very least, your breastplate, so we can examine your amulet for ourselves.¡±


    ¡°You wish me to remove my armor while the darkness is on the verge of breaking in?¡± he says angrily.


    ¡°Armor is no protection against the darkness. It doesn¡¯t care how thick our plate is. And your plate is half-broken anyway. Pull your amulet through one of the gaps.¡±


    ¡°I will not expose my amulet. You have not forged one yet, I¡¯ve heard. If you had, you would understand. An amulet of unaging is no less than a runeknight¡¯s life!¡±


    ¡°A few seconds is all it would take for us to confirm.¡±


    ¡°I refuse.¡±


    ¡°Strip off your breastplate or I will tear it from you!¡±


    ¡°Stop this!¡± Hirthik shouts. ¡°Zathar, your idea is absurd.¡±


    ¡°It is only absurd to you down here because you have not seen all that runes can do. I saw a crown turn a troll into something beyond even a dwarf, and it transformed the rest of his tribe also. Compared to that, Fjalar¡¯s craft is almost ordinary.¡±


    ¡°That is an even more ridiculous story, yes,¡± says Fjalar. ¡°No one believes you, Zathar. Silence yourself!¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to believe me. None of you have to take my word for it! All we have to do is examine Fjalar¡¯s amulet.¡±


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    ¡°I will not remove it.¡±


    ¡°Then that proves your guilt.¡±


    ¡°It proves nothing!¡± Hirthik cries. ¡°No one would agree to make themselves vulnerable down here!¡±


    ¡°Ten seconds is all it would take us. The runes are in scripts you know well.¡±


    ¡°Then I for one cannot believe it,¡± another dwarf says. ¡°We don¡¯t have runes that could accomplish what you say. Maybe up above there are different runes, and I¡¯m sure some of them could strip the life from a dwarf and put it into another. The darkness does something similar, maybe. But our runes can¡¯t do that.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± someone else says. ¡°Our runes are plain ones, for strength and toughness and light.


    ¡°It¡¯s not the runes that give a craft its properties,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s how you put them together.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s easy for you to say. You have many more runes¡ªI cannot read half your armor, and you even brought down new runes of light. But down here, knowledge doesn¡¯t come often. We don¡¯t have enough for the kind of flexibility you dwarves up above enjoy.¡±


    Nthazes steps in: ¡°I understand this tale may be hard to accept,¡± he admits. ¡°But think on Galar¡¯s craft! With the same runes of light we all use, he created something that outshone even the Runethane¡¯s mace. Fjalar is of equal skill at least, so is it that hard to believe he could have created something equally brilliant, though for evil purposes?¡°


    Some of the dwarves glance at each other. Nthazes is one of these deep dwarves, so they¡¯re more likely to believe him. I give him a look to encourage him to press the attack.


    ¡°All he has to do is draw out his amulet,¡± he continues. ¡°The darkness is guarded against. He doesn¡¯t need to fear it.¡±


    ¡°Fine!¡± Fjalar says. I tense, expecting one last gamble. ¡°I will show you all my amulet. But not now, with the darkness so close by. I¡¯ll show it once we¡¯re at the top of the Shaft, where it¡¯s not so easy for the darkness to reach us¡ªbecause it¡¯s weakened, I doubt it¡¯ll want to venture so far up. But I won¡¯t do it here. Does that satisfy you, Zathar?¡±


    A terrible anger fills me, directed not at him, but at myself. He¡¯s outsmarted me. His request is too reasonable¡ªI can¡¯t refuse if I''m to have the support of any of the other dwarves, and now he has gained plenty of chances to make sure I won¡¯t ever be able to accuse him further.


    ¡°All right,¡± I say, eventually, with extreme reluctance. ¡°The moment we reach the top of the Shaft, you¡¯ll show it to us.¡±


    ¡°Good. Then the discussion for now is over. Agreed?¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± I say, trying not to let my anger show.


    <hr>


    We wait in the building while the injured treat their wounds as best they can, and try to get our strength back. There are plenty of rations left, despite the fact about half of us threw our packs away in panic. They taste bitter to me. Even the water tastes bitter, and I am afraid.


    Fjalar is going to try to kill me. I¡¯m sure of this: if I make it up the Shaft, I¡¯ll force him to show his amulet. His only chance then is to try and make sure I die down here and hope that none of the others will continue my accusations.


    How will he strike? He might not even use the murder weapon to do it¡ªin the confusion, why not bash me over the head with his mace and claim I attacked first? More dwarves believe him than me, after all. Maybe none believe me except for Nthazes.


    But I¡¯m right, I¡¯m sure of it! If only I¡¯d been able to drag one of those bodies back¡ªI should have shouted for help. A few would have come to help me carry the corpse away, if I¡¯d told them the slain might be alive. Then they¡¯d have seen the truth.


    Yet that evidence is now gone. Fjalar¡¯s amulet is the only proof left. I must expose it!


    How, though? Do I take a chance and strike first? Then the other dwarves will turn against me, break me with their maces before I get the chance to tear the amulet free. No, my best bet is to survive until we get to the Shaft and keep my promise.


    He¡¯ll refuse again, of course. I¡¯m still going to have to fight. Yet then Fjalar will be the unreasonable one.


    The darkness¡¯s attempts to break into the room grow bolder. Before long, just two on door duty are not enough. I join, making sure to show everyone that I¡¯m one of them and committed to escape.


    There is harsh coldness outside. Through the tiny gap I sense nothing at all, like the door opens to a precipice on the edge of a great void, a terrible blackness like that which is said to hang above the world when the sun goes down.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to have to leave this place soon,¡± says the dwarf beside me¡ªMelkor, as Nthazes called him. His voice is deep and serious. ¡°In fact, the sooner the better. If we don¡¯t break out now we might end up trapped.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still weak,¡± one of the injured says. ¡°A lot of us are.¡±


    ¡°But we have no choice,¡± Melkor says simply.


    ¡°One last charge,¡± says Hirthik. ¡°One last chance to prove we¡¯re not cowards.¡±


    ¡°One last charge in any case,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°We can win it though. The darkness thinks we¡¯ve all but given in.¡±


    ¡°No one can know what it thinks. No one knows if it even does think.¡±


    ¡°We should charge now,¡± repeats Melkor.


    Fjalar nods. ¡°Agreed. I shall lead it. Form a wedge.¡±


    Silently, we form up. The injured stay in the middle, while the senior runeknights¡ªfourth degrees like Nthazes, no third degrees survive¡ªgo to the front behind Fjalar. As fifth, maybe he should be relinquish the lead to one of them, but no one is keen to be first into the darkness.


    I go to the back, as far away from him as possible. I won¡¯t give him any easy opportunities.


    ¡°Ready?¡± Fjalar asks us.


    I''m not. My insides churn at the thought of facing the blackness and soundlessness once more. Yet we must do this, and win; if we fail there will be no one left to keep the evil here from flowing upward unimpeded. That''s a goal even more important than stopping Fjalar.


    ¡°Ready,¡± I declare, and the rest of the dwarves repeat my words


    ¡°Charge!¡± Fjalar shouts.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Enter the Exit

    Our armored wedge, Fjalar its tip, smashes through the cracked doors. They shatter and fall to the sides, yet the sound of their collapse vanishes in the darkness. Once more I am plunged into a sightless, soundless, touchless hell, yet the lack of sensation is not so extreme as the last time I was engulfed.


    I swing up and out with my mace. It leaves a trail of shivering air and a slight white blur that I can see through my eyelids. We¡¯re still charging outwards at full speed and the other dwarves are swinging madly too, each strike beating the darkness away. It reforms above us to plunge into the middle of our formation. The injured dwarves there cry out and defend as best they can.


    Three in the center seem to disappear. The light of my mace reaches its zenith¡ªI blink to check this and am nearly blinded¡ªso I shove my way forward and give the column of soundlessness a mighty blow. It wavers and the injured dwarves break free.


    All the while, we¡¯re still charging, sprinting, Fjalar in the lead faster than most. Is he trying to get away from us? It¡¯s possible. I increase my own pace so he doesn¡¯t outstrip me. The darkness comes again, sweeping at our flank this time, and a coordinated strike from the dwarves there throws it back.


    It''s definitely weakened. Maybe we really could have defeated it, if Belthur hadn¡¯t shown up. We¡¯ll never know.


    ¡°Keep going!¡± Fjalar screams. ¡°Hurry, hurry, hurry!¡±


    ¡°We are!¡± one of the injured shouts back.


    Our sprint continues; driven by terror we dare not falter. Stride by long stride we move, and the darkness is falling away from us, its tendrils failing to grasp us. The buildings seem to waver as the echoes of our armored footsteps beat against them, blurring their edges and the etchings wrought around them. The damage to my runic ears makes the effect more extreme, and several times the floor seems to pitch alarmingly beneath my feet, dizzying me and nearly making me fall. The grip of my boots saves me.


    We¡¯re going straight forward, with no mind to the direction. We have no way of knowing which is the right way, after all. I look around, trying to see if any of the corridors come to an end that may be the outer wall.


    ¡°There!¡± someone shouts. ¡°Listen, I think that¡¯s the wall!¡±


    We turn to look and our sprint slows. I think he¡¯s right: the corridor ends, the buildings either side melding into the blank cave wall, like the one we came through did. Fjalar makes the decision to wheel round and start for it; we follow with no complaint.


    So far, there¡¯s no sign he¡¯s planning to attack me. Yet now that he¡¯s taken the lead, shown his courage, the others are even more likely to support him.


    We make it to the end of the corridor with no trouble. I glance back and see that although the darkness is pursuing us, it¡¯s slowed considerably. Regaining its strength, probably, for one last rush. I don¡¯t believe for a second that it¡¯s given up.


    ¡°Which way do we go?¡± asks Hirthik between pants. ¡°Left or right? I think right is most likely. Can¡¯t say why. Fjalar?¡±


    Fjalar shrugs. ¡°I say right as well. It¡¯s as good a guess as any, though if any of you think left is best I suppose I can¡¯t stop you.¡±


    No one wants to leave the main group, so we turn and walk to the right. I stay at the back, mace at the ready to meet any attack. The darkness continues to bide its time. Our ragged breathing fills the silence in the city¡ªor prison camp, or whatever this place was. There¡¯s no point in speculating; Jaemes can guess at the secrets if we make it up.


    If Fjalar is dealt with. I watch him; he seems to be speeding up, little by little. Eager to leave, which is understandable. A worrying thought strikes me¡ªsuppose he gets on the lift before me, and starts the mechanism while I¡¯m still in the tunnel? If the darkness is close enough, he¡¯d have a plausible excuse, and even if the other dwarves question his decision, well, they¡¯re less of a threat than I am.


    Nthazes remains just beside him though. He¡¯ll stop Fjalar¡ªif Fjalar doesn¡¯t put him out of action first. I fear for my friend; I want to shout a warning to him, but no, he doesn¡¯t need one. I trust he won¡¯t be taken by surprise so easily.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Our trek begins to feel like it¡¯s taking a very long time. The curvature of the outer wall is not so sharp, hinting that the city is quite large. How many miles until we reach the exit? Assuming that the exit is even here¡ªwhat if the city has multiple levels, and we¡¯re on the wrong one? I shake my head vigorously. No point in worrying about things beyond my control.


    The darkness is far behind now. I dig into my pack and sip some water, then bring out a strip of jerky to chew. I need to keep up my strength. More hours pass, and no sign of the crumbled doorway to the tunnel. A few dwarves in the middle whisper to each other: they have the same worry I did, about us being on the wrong level.


    ¡°No point fretting about what we can¡¯t control,¡± Nthazes reminds them. ¡°More walking, less thinking. We¡¯ll reach the exit eventually.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no guarantee of that,¡± someone says.


    ¡°We just have to believe.¡±


    In blind faith, we continue to walk. I glance back intermittently, and hear that the darkness has sped up to match our pace. Is that the only darkness, though? It¡¯s a cloud that can split, after all. Maybe it¡¯s waiting for us at the tunnel, or has gone up the Shaft already.


    Only time will tell, and I¡¯m getting sick of time. How many hours has it been? My legs are beginning to ache, and a drowsiness is starting to set in behind my eyes. The adrenaline from my argument with Fjalar has dissipated entirely. I take a sip of ale to keep me going.


    I take another sip, about what I guess is an hour later. Then another, and another. The drowsiness is strong now. I spent ten years like this¡ªsurely I can survive a few hours! Yet back then I was not being chased.


    ¡°That building looks promising,¡± says Melkor, pointing with his long-handled mace. ¡°It¡¯s about the right shape, and the door seems wide.¡±


    Being at the back, I can¡¯t hear past the dwarves ahead of me. Some of them murmur agreement, while others are not so sure.


    ¡°My ears are too damaged to tell,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°At any rate we¡¯ll know when we get to it. If it isn¡¯t, we¡¯ll have a short rest, then restart immediately.¡±


    I glance back. The darkness is maintaining its distance, staying about three hundred feet from us. That¡¯s not so far, so it¡¯ll have to be a very short rest. I think it¡¯s growing in strength, for it seems denser than the last time it attacked us. The sorcerer must be recovering from its exertions.


    We pass one building, then another. I peek round the side of our loose column and see the building Melkor pointed out, coming up fast now. It does indeed look promising¡ªyes, I think the doors are smashed open, and the only broken doors so far have been ones downed by dwarven hand.


    ¡°This is it,¡± says Melkor. ¡°I¡¯m sure now. I think I recognize the etchings.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°I think you¡¯re right.¡±


    Nthazes looks back and calls to me: ¡°Zathar, is the darkness speeding up any?¡±


    I turn back to confirm. ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°Still the same speed. It¡¯s stronger now though. It¡¯s been recovering.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hurry then,¡± Fjalar says. ¡°Increase the pace.¡±


    We double the rate of our march. I glance back and hear that the darkness is matching our speed. My fingers tighten around my mace: I think we took it by surprise when we rushed it out the building, but now it¡¯s the one with the initiative. I get the sinking feeling that more dwarves are going to die before this disaster reaches its conclusion.


    A sharp right turn, and we¡¯re stepping over the remains of the great stone door Runethane Yurok smashed. The hall beyond feels horribly empty, even more so than the city outside did. Two images come into my mind¡ªof two hundred dwarves walking one way through here, and of barely thirty walking out the other way.


    I glance back. The darkness has quickened slightly and is now gaining on us.


    ¡°We should hurry!¡± I shout. ¡°The darkness is getting faster.¡±


    ¡°Up the pace!¡± Nthazes shouts, before Fjalar has a chance to.


    Through the hall we jog. The echoes of our armor clanking are loud, and outline the hall clearly, and then the back of the hall seems to vanish suddenly as the darkness pours through, thick and cold. We begin to run. The mounds of dust either side of us shiver and disintegrate, blurring the sides of the hall as well.


    Only the front is clear¡ªI think; I can¡¯t hear past the others, am unable to know how long it is until we¡¯re into the tunnel proper.


    ¡°In, in, in!¡± Fjalar yells, and he jumps up the step into the tunnel, which seems tighter than I remember, the path barely ten feet in width. All follow suit¡ªthen one of the injured trips, slowing us.


    ¡°Stand up!¡± Hirthik yells.


    The two behind him drag him to his feet. I glance back, and the darkness is growing faster. We¡¯re nearly in its grasp.


    ¡°Hurry!¡± Hirthik screams.


    The dwarf who fell manages to pick up the pace; we dash through after him, me last. On we sprint, and I have the horrible realization that because the injured cannot run as fast as Fjalar, and because I¡¯m stuck behind them, he¡¯s building up a lead.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Race Against the Foes

    Run, run, run! All my energy, all my effort is devoted to fleeing. My legs are numb, my shoulders burning from the weight of my mace. I press onward, yet however fast I want to move, there¡¯s dwarves in front of me I cannot pass. I took the rearguard, and if I throw that position away, who will trust me? Yet if I don¡¯t, Fjalar will be able to trap me here for the darkness to devour.


    I¡¯ve only once felt this terrified¡ªthe time I fled downward from the terrible heat of the dragon. This is the opposite: I¡¯m fleeing coldness, and upward, yet the danger is the same. Worse, for now I have a foe ahead of me as well as behind.


    It¡¯s gaining on us, foot by foot. At this rate it¡¯ll subsume me¡ªmaybe we should stop, turn and attack it, weaken it some more. Yes, I think that¡¯s our only option.


    ¡°Halt!¡± I scream. ¡°We need to form a defense! It¡¯s going to catch us! We need to stop, attack and weaken it!¡±


    No one stops; they won¡¯t listen to me. Who wants to stop with escape just in reach?


    ¡°Halt!¡± I repeat. ¡°Either we fight it here or we fight it on the platform, with it coming up from below!¡±


    No one is interested in hearing my logic. They just continue to run. The injured dwarves have exhausted themselves, and are slowing significantly, limping, their legs on the verge of giving out.


    ¡°Halt!¡± I scream again.


    Should I halt with no support, give the darkness a blow with my mace at the zenith of its brightness? No, that¡¯s mad: I¡¯m not strong enough to damage it by myself. That means I¡¯m going to have to accelerate past the injured¡ªwhich some dwarves have already done. The two in front of me were uninjured, and now they¡¯ve pushed past the slowest dwarf.


    I glance back and the darkness is almost upon me. I spin around and lash out at a line of void grasping for me¡ªmy mace smashes through, disintegrating it, but this does not slow the darkness¡¯s advance. I stumble onward, away from it.


    ¡°Halt!¡± I yell again, desperate to get someone to fight with me, but they just won¡¯t. Maybe they¡¯re right about themselves¡ªthey are cowards! The odds are not impossible, we beat it back before and hurt it enough to make it think twice about coming after us so eagerly.


    ¡°Halt!¡± I shout to the injured dwarves in front of me. ¡°It¡¯s going to catch us anyway, do you want to face it or have it take you while your back is turned?¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re nearly there!¡± one shouts as he glances back. ¡°We¡¯re nearly there!¡±


    ¡°We aren¡¯t!¡± I scream in frustration. ¡°You remember how long our walk down here was! We haven¡¯t even reached the halfway point!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not true,¡± he wails. ¡°That¡¯s not true!¡±


    ¡°It is true! Stand and fight!¡±


    He turns and stops, giving me hope he¡¯s going to fight, but no others follow his example. I stand next to him regardless, hoping to give the darkness one good blow before I restart my sprint, and he disappoints me. He tosses his mace to the stone in despair and prostrates himself before the advancing void.


    ¡°Spare me!¡± he cries. ¡°We never meant to disturb you! Spare me!¡±


    ¡°Fool!¡± I yell at him, and strike at the darkness.


    It recoils for only an instant then comes at me full on. I turn and sprint, fast as I can, leaving the injured dwarf to his cold fate. The next injured¡ªone who was at the very middle of the group, as far as I can recall, meaning that everyone is pushing past everyone else now¡ªmoves to the side to get out of my way. He¡¯s slowing and his breathing is ragged. I cannot see his eyes, my hearing is not good enough to make them out through his visor, but I can tell he¡¯s given up.


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    I have no choice but to pass him. He doesn¡¯t even bother to scream out when the darkness reaches him.


    There¡¯s a fair stretch before the next dwarf now. Shit! I need to catch up, so I force myself to accelerate, but my legs won¡¯t go as fast as my mind commands; they¡¯re in agony, pain shoots up them with every stride. My arms feel as if they are on the verge of dislocating from my shoulders. My hearing has gone strange from the fatigue also, compounding the effect of the damage to my runic ears; the corridor is bending and twisting.


    I pass the next dwarf. This is no longer a retreat but a race to see who will survive, and Fjalar, with his head start and blood-healed body, is sure to win.


    I pass another injured dwarf, then another. I feel guilty for it. It¡¯s their fault, I tell myself. If they¡¯d listened to me back there, formed a wall to beat the darkness away, then they wouldn¡¯t have to die. In the moments after Belthur arrived, they listened to Nthazes, so why won¡¯t they listen to me now?


    What have I done to break their trust? Nothing¡ªthey¡¯re just fools, unwilling to listen to someone who isn¡¯t one of their own.


    Even so, I still feel guilty. The darkness is at my heels now, chilling my back through my armor, which means that each dwarf I pass is another death.


    Eventually, all the injured dwarves are gone and between me and the next dwarf is a vast stretch of tunnel. The gap closes by inches¡ªwe¡¯re running at nearly the same speed. I¡¯m at the very limits of my endurance now. If I survive this, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be walking for a good while. My very bones are beginning to hurt.


    Scars on the wall flash past me. Runethane Yurok said those showed the furthest point the last expedition went, and I think that was at about the halfway point of our journey to the city.


    Only halfway then! The coldness on my back is growing colder. It spurs me on, pushing my endurance past what I thought possible. Like how in the forge I only feel the rhythm of my hammer and all else vanishes, now I only feel the rhythm of my run and the only thing in existence is the space ahead of me and death behind.


    I reach the next dwarf, and pass him. He doesn¡¯t give up or fall behind, instead accelerating from fear at the chill just behind us. Like a wave it pushes us on to the next dwarf, who also speeds up.


    The one after trips. I sprawl over him, roll. One of the flanges of my mace digs into my hip, making me yell in pain¡ªthen I choke on worse pain in my throat, because breathing in the death-dry air here has ruined it. There¡¯s no time to recover; barely breathing I push myself to my feet and keep on running toward the next dwarf.


    Finally, I see it: there¡¯s an end to the tunnel, and a thin line, appearing as a thread from this far away, must be the cable of the lift mechanism. Instead of feeling hope, a sinking feeling takes hold of me. If Fjalar gets to it first, he''ll have plenty of time to ascend before I reach the platform.


    I¡¯ll just have to hope beyond hope that Nthazes or the other dwarves will stop him.


    We continue to run. I glance back, and every time I do so I see that a dwarf has vanished. Our group¡¯s number remains constant then, as we continue to catch up with others. There¡¯s about a dozen of us in this shifting group¡ªprobably this is a full half of the fort¡¯s population.


    The cable grows in thickness. We¡¯re nearly here now. I can¡¯t see if anyone¡¯s on the lift yet, though.


    Just a hundred feet to go now. My thinking ceases¡ªall I¡¯m doing now is feeling the pain in my legs and the rhythm of my boots.


    ¡°Hurry up!¡± someone shouts, his voice hoarse. ¡°Hurry up!¡±


    Then some more voices come, indistinct. It seems like an argument. Fear shoots through me¡ªthere¡¯s only one thing they could be arguing about, and that¡¯s whether or not to start the ascent before we get here. Adrenaline shoots into my thigh muscles, attempting to propel them and make them work faster, yet the meat of my body is too tattered to obey.


    One of our group, in a burst of speed, shoves past me. I stumble into the wall and fall to my knees. I struggle to stand; more dwarves pass me¡ªthey don¡¯t even look at me. Maybe they don¡¯t even notice me.


    The chill of the darkness forces me to my feet. I stumble on. Only thirty feet to go now. The dwarves are throwing themselves onto the platform, yelling:


    ¡°Up, up! Take it up!¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± shouts Nthazes. He¡¯s positioned himself in front of the controls. ¡°We¡¯re not all on!¡±


    ¡°Take it up!¡± Fjalar shouts.


    ¡°I said wait! Are you trying to kill him?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to save us! Get out of the way!¡±


    He attempts to wrestle Nthazes away, but my friend stands firm. Fjalar yells in frustration, takes a step back, and swings his armored fist into Nthazes¡¯ head. My friend collapses sideways, stunned. Fjalar slams his hand on the button.


    No! The platform begins to rise. Ten feet to go now and it¡¯s nearly out of reach; I toss my mace backwards and grab hold of the edge. My fingers thread through the holes of the hexagonal steel mesh.


    The platform lifts me off the stone. The darkness roils up after me like impossibly cold and silent steam. I lose feeling in my toes, then my feet.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Duel in Blackness and Light

    ¡°Pull me up!¡± I croak. My voice is gone. ¡°Someone, pull me up!¡±


    Someone is walking toward me, the tread of his armored boots sending shivers through my hands. I crane my neck to see who it is, and my fear is confirmed. It¡¯s Fjalar.


    ¡°Someone else!¡± I croak. ¡°Nthazes, someone, help!¡±


    Fjalar reaches down at me. Titanium-clad arms wrap around his chest and he¡¯s wrestled back. It¡¯s Nthazes. The two dwarves roll. The lift twists and rocks unsteadily. The coldness is reaching up my ankles now.


    ¡°Help!¡± I croak, choking on the dryness in my throat. ¡°Someone pull me up!¡±


    Hands wrap around my right wrist and I¡¯m yanked up and over onto the platform. Every fiber of my body screams at me to lie there and rest, but I know that would be suicide. I force myself to stand and take stock of the situation.


    Most of the others are standing clear of me, Fjalar and Nthazes, and the dwarf who helped me. They sense a fight brewing. I¡¯m certainly ready to fight, though I have no weapon. I raise my fists and Nthazes and Fjalar get to their feet. Nthazes comes to stand beside me.


    ¡°You damn monster!¡± he yells at Fjalar. ¡°You tried to kill him!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to get us away from the darkness! You¡¯ve killed us all!¡±


    ¡°Five seconds would¡¯ve made no difference. It¡¯s faster than the lift anyway. Look below!¡±


    We all look down and see that the darkness is drawing closer. A dwarf at the opposite side to us shouts out in panic:


    ¡°My feet!¡±


    The platform is unbalanced, too many dwarves are at one side, and so it is lilting and the darkness is already spilling through the mesh at the edge. The one who just yelled falls to his knees. The rest crowd toward the center, and the platform sways the other way, sinking at our side.


    Feud momentarily ignored, we stumble to the center¡ªstumble is all Nthazes and I can do, for our legs are half-crippled. Fjalar strides with confidence. The dwarf who fell at the other side manages to stand up and join us at the center also, spared for now.


    ¡°This has to be over,¡± someone cries. ¡°How can this not be over?¡±


    It¡¯s nearly over. There¡¯s barely a dozen dwarves here. It won¡¯t take the darkness long to destroy us, if it so chooses.


    ¡°It¡¯s not over!¡± says Nthazes. ¡°We have to accept that, and continue the battle to the end. Ready your maces!¡±


    With grim determination everyone raises their maces¡ªthough of course I do not, since mine now lies at the bottom of the Shaft. They turn the weapons so that the bright heads are angled downward like killing spears toward a fallen foe. Yet our foe is anything but fallen; it is coming up strong to destroy us.


    Snaking lines of soundlessness spill over the edges of the platform. They come for us, extending and widening like billowing smoke. Nthazes leaps out of our huddle and strikes first, blasting the darkness away and, like the points of a brilliant star, the other dwarves follow his lead and leap out at every angle, striking and beating downward.


    This leaves me alone in the center. I turn to examine the central panel, covered in buttons and switches. I can read the runes, yet dare not touch anything. Most of the controls remain dusty and rusted¡ªonly those absolutely necessary for operation were restored, and there seems to be nothing functional that could accelerate our ascent.


    I look down. Its edges beaten away, the darkness now looks to rise up through the center. It¡¯s already creeping around the soles of my boots. I stumble away toward Nthazes.


    ¡°The middle!¡± I croak. ¡°The middle, Nthazes. Behind you all!¡±


    He turns and without hesitation beats down where the darkness is spilling up and around the control panel. It dies away and sinks down, though this is no retreat. A few seconds later a tall shadow of it reforms on one side of the platform. It hears to me like a hole in the wall, wider at the top, in the shape of a hammer poised to fall.


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    The dwarves see it and, instinctively, try to pull away. The platform leans accordingly. Nthazes falls back and begins to slide, I grab his hands and pull him up, the grip of my boots again saving me.


    ¡°Attack it!¡± Fjalar screams. ¡°We can¡¯t run here, don¡¯t you understand? Attack, attack, attack!¡±


    The dwarves charge and I am caught up in the rush despite my lack of weapon. Someone thrusts his mace into my back and shoves me toward the rising blackness¡ªI glance back and it is Fjalar. I duck, try to drop and roll back out of the charge the very moment the darkness rushes down. With terrible strength Fjalar kicks me and I stumble toward it, then his bright mace is coming toward my head.


    I guard with my arms and the force of the blow is like that of a dithyok¡¯s blade-arms. I¡¯m thrown to the mesh. Blackness and soundlessness subsumes us all; I blink open my eyes to see if the glow of Fjalar¡¯s mace is coming at me again, and it is.


    He¡¯s trying to kill me in the chaos. I won¡¯t let him. He may be healed in body where I am beyond fatigued, and he may have a weapon where I have none, but the only dwarves he¡¯s killed are those he ambushed. They did not have a chance to defend themselves, yet I have won duels against fierce opponents and fought in great battles.


    I twist my body sideways out of the strike and at the same moment violently sweep his ankle. He falls to the floor as I force myself to my feet. The darkness is chilling me, and with no weapon I have no way to ward it off. Fjalar pauses his swing as the coldness intensifies, letting the darkness do his work for him, but the mace of another dwarf disintegrates the column of void draining me.


    Fjalar raises his mace again. I stumble back, putting some distance between us. The darkness is thrashing and coming apart under the blows of so many maces, and especially at the strikes of Nthazes. He¡¯s leading the attack, fighting with strength I did not know he had¡ªperhaps he never knew he had it either.


    It¡¯s not beaten away yet though, and Fjalar is not going to let this chance go to waste. He leaps and brings his mace down in a murderous vertical strike. I step in and block with my forearms, but my fatigue makes my movement too slow and I don¡¯t step in far enough. The bar impacts my helmet hard.


    Like a bell my runic ears ring. The noise is cacophonic, annihilating my hearing sense of everything around me so that I have to open my eyes. This doesn¡¯t help much¡ªthe brightness of Fjalar¡¯s mace is obliterating most of my field of view.


    I roll back, hit against the platform¡¯s low guardrails. I stagger up as Fjalar swings down again, barely dodge his blow. It smashes against the top rail, bending it. He sweeps around and catches me in the midriff. The flange is sharp enough to dent the plate where it covers my left floating rib. I feel bone snap and gasp in pain.


    ¡°Nthazes!¡± I shout. ¡°Nthazes, help me!¡±


    The other dwarves are just a blur of shadows and flashing brightness. The darkness is relentless, giving no one time to consider anything but their own survival. It senses me and Fjalar also; a tendril of its void rushes at us.


    I leap at Fjalar¡ªit¡¯s my only chance at survival. He swings to smash the darkness around us, then releases his right hand from gripping his mace, jabs at me with his palm. Light glints off something needle-thin at his wrist.


    I lean my body back, avoiding death by an inch. I retreat toward the knot of dwarves battling the main force of the darkness, and trip over one of the fallen.


    ¡°Nthazes!¡± I shout again. ¡°He¡¯s going for me! He¡¯s got the weapon! Help me!¡±


    He can¡¯t hear me. My hand comes against the haft of a fallen mace and I swing wildly at Fjalar, who¡¯s striking down with his own mace again. The two heads of brilliant metal collide in a shower of white sparks. I crawl back to my feet, jab at his face and succeed in bashing one of his runic ears askew. He swears and strikes.


    I duck¡ªagain I¡¯m not fast enough. My helmet rings like a bell. He¡¯s lunging with his right hand once more¡ªI grab his wrist with my own right hand and drive my mace down into his foot with all the strength I can muster. He shouts and tries to do the same to me, but I manage to pull my foot out the way, then I knee him in the groin.


    He tries to retreat, but I¡¯m still gripping his wrist. I daren¡¯t let it go and give him free use of his needle. It¡¯s clear to see in the supernatural brightness, a white line burning itself into my eyes with each flash.


    ¡°Nthazes!¡± I scream. ¡°All of you! Look! Look!¡±


    No one is looking. I sense a coldness above my head. I thrust up with the mace and Fjalar does the same; on the down-blow he strikes for the top of my head once more. This shows his inexperience: he''s relying on the same attack over and over. I predict it and shift out the way, and bring my own mace heavy onto his right shoulder.


    He yells in shock as his pauldron caves. I shorten my grip and strike his elbow, bending the titanium. He yells in pain and kicks my ankle. It¡¯s not such a strong blow but, with my legs on the verge of collapse already, my stance buckles and I fall.


    He doesn¡¯t take advantage of my own weight though, and instead of ending the fight by throwing himself onto me point-first, retreats and readies another blow from his mace.


    Then at that moment the coldness around us vanishes. Like water drained from a tub, the darkness whirlpools down the Shaft, leaving us be. Blinding light, with nothing to balance it, illuminates all.

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Needle

    I shut my eyes to block out the brightness, and immediately sense that my runic ears are too bashed for them to be any use, so I''m forced open my eyelids to a slit. Fjalar has stopped still, mace still poised to crush.


    ¡°You all right?¡± Hirthik asks him.


    Fjalar replies instantly, ¡°Fine. Was aiming one last blow when it vanished.¡±


    ¡°Liar!¡± I shout. ¡°Liar! Liar! He was aiming at me.¡±


    ¡°Zathar¡ª¡± Hirthik begins.


    ¡°Look at my damn helmet! He tried to smash my head!¡±


    A strong hand wraps around my upper arm and Nthazes pulls me to my feet. He positions himself beside me, mace at the ready.


    ¡°He was trying to fucking kill me!¡± I yell.


    ¡°Calm down,¡± Hirthik cries. ¡°Let¡¯s just calm down. The darkness might return.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Whenever we beat off an incursion, it rushes down like that. The darkness is damaged. We¡¯ve beaten it and it won¡¯t be back for a while.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t know that.¡±


    ¡°I agree with Nthazes,¡± says Melkor, and the other remaining fourth degree nods too.


    ¡°Show us your amulet,¡± I spit at Fjalar. ¡°This ends now. Show it and prove your innocence, or refuse and we¡¯ll kill you ourselves.¡±


    ¡°The agreement was to show it at the top of the Shaft,¡± Fjalar replies calmly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not giving you any more chances. You tried to kill me! You forced Nthazes from the controls, then when¡ª¡±


    ¡°I was trying to get us away from the darkness!¡± He gestures to the two dead dwarves lying cold and still. ¡°Maybe if he hadn¡¯t tried to stop me, these two would be alive.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re trying to blame me for killing? You fucking bastard! I know where your weapon is. It¡¯s in your wrist¡ªyou have some mechanism in your gauntlet that pushes it out.¡±


    ¡°Hidden inside my wrist, is it? Why doesn¡¯t it pull out my own blood then?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re clever. I¡¯m sure you figured something out.¡±


    ¡°Your idea is ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°Show us the damn amulet!¡±


    ¡°I will do so¡ªat the top.¡±


    ¡°You will not. You¡¯re going to try and kill us before then, because that¡¯s your only hope.¡±


    ¡°Damn up-abover!¡± he snaps. ¡°I said I¡¯ll show it at the top and I will!¡±


    ¡°Calm down, Zathar,¡± Hirthik repeats. ¡°He¡¯ll show us at the top. He promises.¡±


    ¡°If the darkness is gone then he can show it now!¡± I shout.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Show it, Fjalar. Like I said before, there was no reason to start the lift before Zathar got on. His craft was powerful and he would have been an asset against the darkness with it.¡±


    ¡°Leaving fast was more important!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Melkor. ¡°The darkness is faster than the lift is. That¡¯s obvious.¡±


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯m sorry. I panicked. We were all terrified!¡±


    ¡°You tried to kill me,¡± I repeat.


    ¡°I¡¯ll show my amulet once we reach the top.¡±


    ¡°Enough of this,¡± I declare, and I raise the mace I picked up. ¡°Show it now or I¡¯ll make you.¡±


    ¡°And now you defile another¡¯s craft to threaten me!¡±


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    ¡°Shut up! Revealing your crimes is more important.¡±


    The damage to my runic ears is making everything shiver and twist alarmingly in time with everyone¡¯s voices. I undo the mechanism fixing them to my helmet, lay them down, then I also push up my visor half-up so all can see my face.


    This is so that if he succeeds in draining me of blood, his crime will be clear for everyone to know.


    Nthazes pushes his visor up also.


    ¡°Amulet, Fjalar,¡± he warns. ¡°Show it now!¡±


    ¡°I will show it at the top,¡± Fjalar repeats stubbornly, but there¡¯s a trace of panic in his tone now. He sees the odds turning against him.


    ¡°I think you ought to show it now,¡± says Melkor. ¡°It would put us all at ease, and then we can put this conflict behind us.¡±


    ¡°At the top,¡± Fjalar repeats. He raises his mace. ¡°I¡¯ll show it at the top, damn you all!¡±


    ¡°Enough of this!¡± I yell, and I charge him.


    He raises his mace to block my sideways swing. For an instant I consider turning it to a feint, but I¡¯m not familiar with this weapon¡¯s balance, and my footwork is shaky, so instead I put all the power I can muster behind the blow.


    It hurts both me and him¡ªmy broken rib pierces something inside me and makes me scream, while the head of my mace smashes into his left hand. His mace falls from his grasp.


    I turn to give another blow, and Nthazes is already here and striking down. He¡¯s no duelist either though, and misjudges the timing of the swing, allowing Fjalar to jump out of the way.


    Our foe holds his fists up as if to box. They aren¡¯t his weapons though. Through the gap between his right gauntlet and under wrist-guard, there''s a tiny glinting point.


    ¡°See!¡± I shout. ¡°Can you not all see!¡±


    They can¡¯t¡ªthe needle is only visible from the reflected light, and is likely too small to make out through hearing, especially since everyone¡¯s runic ears have taken damage from the blast in the labyrinth. No one shows any sign of stepping in to help us¡ªthey still aren¡¯t sure.


    Fjalar lunges for me with hand outstretched. I sidestep and push his arm out of the way, stick my foot out to trip him but his leg hits mine with such force I end up falling. I groan and try to stand¡ªmy legs won¡¯t let me, and my rib erupts in pain. Fjalar sees his opportunity.


    He thrusts down, needle point extended all to see¡ªI hear gasps of shock¡ªI¡¯m about to die¡ªNthazes throws himself between us.


    He falls on top of me, and Fjalar lands on top of him. Their weight crushes me, putting more pressure on my broken rib under my dented armor. Nthazes is not moving and immediately I fear the worst.


    Then, with mighty effort he shifts and rolls, wrestling Fjalar down. I pull myself to my feet, and glimpse a point stuck through the back of Nthazes¡¯ hand. The needles has gone right through.


    I raise my mace above Fjalar¡¯s face. He screams in panic and I pay no heed, bring it down with all the force I can bear, my full weight behind the blow. He shifts his head and I smash the platform instead, tearing a hole in the metal. He knees Nthazes in the side with incredible strength, sending my friend rolling away yelling in agony. He thrusts at him with his needle once more.


    I sweep up and catch his upper arm with my mace just in time. The force of my blow turns him half around, and he uses the momentum to stand up. The light of my mace blinds me, forcing me to shut my eyes entirely, yet I need neither sight nor hearing to know that he¡¯s rushing for me. I sidestep and sweep at his legs.


    He runs right into the blow and falls. I blink my eyes open to confirm his position and swing at his back, but he¡¯s already leaping forward and rolling to his feet. He isn¡¯t tired at all. I try to remain in fighting stance as best I can, yet my legs are wrecked. I sag down, am forced to use my mace like a crutch to keep upright.


    He charges. I throw myself face down out the way. With desperate effort I turn my body and swing at his already damaged elbow-plate as he thrusts yet again. The blow connects¡ªnot strongly, but the pain is enough to stop his attack.


    Even so, his arm is working too well for the state the armor looks to be in. His blood-filled amulet must still be siphoning life into him, repairing his wounds.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you all see?¡± I cry, desperately. ¡°He¡¯s the killer! Do you not see his weapon?¡±


    ¡°I saw it,¡± says Melkor.


    He steps around, trying to flank Fjalar. Nthazes, stumbling and breathing hard¡ªthe needle did not take all of his blood but it must have taken some, for his face is haggard¡ªsteps around to the other side.


    Fjalar backs away to the low guardrail. More dwarves come forward to stand beside me facing him.


    ¡°One last chance,¡± Nthazes says. Each word comes slow, seems a terrible effort. ¡°We¡¯ll give you one last chance, Fjalar. Throw your weapon down, then your amulet. You will be given a fair trial.¡±


    ¡°I refuse,¡± Fjalar spits. ¡°How dare you dullards, you third-rate smiths, you insults to the craft¡ªhow dare you give me ultimatums! I am better than you. A dwarf¡¯s value is in what he makes, and my crafts are better than yours!¡±


    ¡°Throw down your weapon,¡± Melkor says. ¡°Surrender to us.¡±


    ¡°If you all oppose me, then all I have to do is kill you all!¡±


    I charge, swinging down with all my might. He leaps to get within my range and quickly stab me, he nearly does, then half a dozen mace-heads impact him simultaneously. His strength and desperation is such that even this cannot bring him down, but it slows him enough that my blow lands square on the top of his head.


    His helmet caves in with a metallic screech and a crunch. Blood runs out. He falls to his knees then backwards. Blows from the other dwarves rain down, their light blinding me. The sounds of tearing metal and crunching bone fill the air. They continue for some time.


    I collapse to my knees. Slowly the sounds of violence diminish, then die away. In their place is heavy breathing, then I hear the dwarves slumping down, exhausted.


    I open my eyes. Torn metal leaking blood is illuminated by the blinding glare. No dwarf can look like that and still be alive¡ªyet his amulet must still be around his neck.


    ¡°The amulet,¡± I say, in as loud a voice as I can muster. ¡°Pull off his amulet!¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: Cruel Creativity

    The dwarves hurry to grab at Fjalar¡¯s armor. I''m too fatigued even to stay sitting up; my eyes close and I collapse back. I hear the screech of titanium being pried away, then a snapping sound. I blink my eyes open and see Melkor standing and holding the chain of Fjalar¡¯s amulet. He¡¯s dangling the ruby-like gem in front of his mace so that the light shines through it. I hear him begin to whisper the poem written on it, though cannot make out the words.


    ¡°Shit, look at this!¡± Hirthik says. ¡°The chain here goes right into his neck. See? Just above the collarbone.¡±


    ¡°Take his gauntlets off,¡± someone says. ¡°We need to see the weapon.¡±


    I hear more armor being torn away. I want to look for myself, but even the thought of standing sends pain shooting through my legs and my rib.


    ¡°Horrible,¡± Nthazes rasps. ¡°Brilliantly made, but horrible. Evil.¡±


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± another dwarf asks him.


    ¡°I feel half dead. A lot of my blood¡¯s in that thing.¡±


    ¡°Melkor, what poem is written on it?¡± I say quietly. ¡°Was I right?¡±


    ¡°You were,¡± he replies in a grim tone. ¡°It¡¯s too long and the runes are too small for me to understand it all yet, but it seems to be what you predicted. There are many runes of strength, though in strange grammar, to keep the glass together. That¡¯s the outer poem¡ªI can make out three layers, each laid on top of the other. I cannot fathom how he constructed them. In honesty, I never even knew you could enrune glass.¡±


    ¡°They were experimenting with it. What runes are on the other layers?¡±


    ¡°The middle layer is a twisted narrative about a dwarf inside a collapsing cave. Let me read a little further.¡±


    We all wait, with baited breath.


    ¡°The cave gets smaller by half every ten heartbeats. Soon the dwarf is crushed, yet he does not die despite the pain and injury. He is squeezed into a point, yet still can feel everything.¡±


    ¡°Is the amulet heavy?¡± someone asks.


    ¡°A bit heavier than it looks. I¡¯d say it¡¯s about the same density of lead. There are load-lightening runes worked into the outer poem.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± I say. ¡°What is written into the final layer?¡±


    ¡°Another narrative,¡± Melkor answers. ¡°The runes are far too small for me to make out easily. It is very long, too... It repeats at certain points. There¡¯s a pattern to the repetition, or at least that¡¯s the feeling I get. Whatever it is, it¡¯s complex.¡±


    ¡°What kind of narrative?¡± someone asks.


    ¡°It is about beasts that devour the flesh of dwarves. To call it a narrative is perhaps inaccurate. It''s mostly just twisted violence.¡±


    ¡°I imagine that the gaining of strength through death is an important motif,¡± I say.


    ¡°You guess right. That is written into each repetition, at the corners where the facets meet. But what about the needle? How is it constructed?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a section of metal on his palm that¡¯s linked to a lever within the arm-guard,¡± one of the dwarves bending over Fjalar''s corpse says. ¡°Push on it, and the lever pushes against the forearm, sliding up quite hard to push the needle out the flesh.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say. ¡°I checked his armor after the dithyok got him. There was nothing like that in it.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Hirthik says, alarmed. ¡°Then did Galar kill the injured dwarf up there? But then¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let me think.¡± After a few long moments¡¯ thought, I have an idea. ¡°He mustn¡¯t always have had the needle embedded in his flesh. Probably he was concealing it below his armor. Maybe at his thigh, so it¡¯d be easy to draw out.¡±


    ¡°Then when you started to pull off his armor, he stabbed it into himself?¡± Nthazes suggests.


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    ¡°I think so. He struggled a lot, kept thrashing and hitting himself. Probably he inserted it into one of the wounds we were bandaging, making sure the tip stuck out a tiny amount.¡±


    ¡°That seems risky,¡± says Hirthik.


    ¡°Yes, but he had no other option," I say. "It was that or be found out. I guess that he decided to keep it in his flesh permanently from then on. On the off chance his armor was ever examined, the mechanism you described would have been suspicious but not strong evidence.¡±


    ¡°It would have convinced me and Jaemes,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Likely not anyone else in the fort though.¡±


    There is an awkward pause.


    ¡°The needle would still have been linked to his amulet though,¡± I say. ¡°Is there some kind of chain?¡±


    ¡°One with tubular links, yes,¡± says Hirthik.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how I missed it when we stripped him off.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s extremely thin. If he was covered in blood, you would have had a hard time seeing it.¡±


    ¡°How thin?¡±


    ¡°Like a hair. I¡¯ve never see runes so miniscule. I wonder if he was making lenses out of the glass as well.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll search his quarters once we reach the top, after we release Jaemes.¡±


    ¡°What runes are they?¡± Melkor asks. ¡°And how about those on the needle too?¡±


    ¡°On the needle are the same kind we saw etched on the glass in Galar¡¯s quarters,¡± Nthazes answers. ¡°Ones about drawing in and pushing out. Worked into a poem about breathing in a substance that isn¡¯t air¡ªI¡¯ve never seen runes used this way.¡±


    ¡°A creative genius,¡± I murmur. ¡°As terrible as they were, I cannot deny their creativity.¡±


    ¡°Galar saved us,¡± Melkor reminds me.


    ¡°I suppose so. Still, I don¡¯t think he cared about us. When he pointed out that Fjalar was first to run out while he held back to stop the darkness, he sounded proud of his kindness.¡±


    ¡°He lacked a true understanding of duty then,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°It was his duty to hold back the darkness as best he could. His brother should never have come into it.¡±


    ¡°Still, he did save us,¡± says Melkor. ¡°We must honor that about him at least.¡±


    ¡°What if he was killing too?¡± says Hirthik. ¡°Isn¡¯t that possible?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think he was,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°But I think he knew what his brother was doing, or at least suspected it.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°That¡¯s why he warned me when I first started my investigations¡ªhe knew that if Fjalar found out I was snooping around, I¡¯d be next on his list of victims. I suppose that¡¯s proof he wasn¡¯t another killer: if he was, he¡¯d have killed me, even if he was grateful for me saving his life.¡±


    ¡°Even if he did know, we should still honor him,¡± says Melkor. ¡°It must have been a hard thing, torn between his conscience and his brother. And all here would be dead if not for him, no matter his other shortcomings.¡±


    I say nothing, even though I¡¯m not sure about that assessment. At any rate, I am far too exhausted to argue, or even think any more. Sleep takes me as the lift grinds upward back to the fort.


    <hr>


    My first order of business when our ascent ends is to release Jaemes. Nthazes and I leave the other dwarves in the chamber of the Shaft as the platform is sent back down on the off chance Belthur and those with him have somehow survived. I think it¡¯s a slim hope.


    It is a slow and hard walk upstairs, what with both our bodies at their breaking points. At last we reach his doors and, with all the strength we can muster, batter them open. Leaned against the wall, he opens his eyes, shading them from the light of our torches with his hand. He blinks heavily.


    ¡°You came back,¡± he croaks. ¡°You came back!¡±


    I run forward, embrace him. He¡¯s terribly thin, and his lips look cracked and parched. I see that the Runethane did not give him so much food and drink. He must have been rationing it. How long were we down there for? It feels like hours, yet it also feels like years.


    ¡°You look terrible,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°You look worse,¡± Jaemes croaks back. ¡°But you lived! I can¡¯t believe it. I can¡¯t believe it!¡± Joy lights up his eyes. ¡°You survived!¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. My shock of happiness at seeing him alive has already faded. ¡°Us two, and only nine more.¡±


    He blinks heavily. ¡°Nine?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Eleven are left. The darkness crushed us. But we got the killer. You were half-right: it was Fjalar. It wasn¡¯t for revenge though. We examined the runes on his amulet, which his weapon was linked to. He was stealing the strength of others. Stealing their life to take their skill and heal himself.¡±


    ¡°Take their skill?¡±


    ¡°A dwarf¡¯s life is forging,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Steal it and you steal that as well. He finished his mace remarkably quickly.¡±


    ¡°But he was strong already,¡± Jaemes says, shaking his head. ¡°Why? To compete with his brother? Their feud wasn''t just a cover, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. "It was real."


    ¡°What a reason. Terrible. Selfish beyond words.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s dead now. We smashed his body to pieces, and we tore off his amulet as well.¡±


    ¡°What of the Runethane?¡±


    ¡°Dead. Cathez and Hraroth too, and the chamberlain, and everyone third degree and over, unless Belthur is somehow alive. Galar also.¡±


    ¡°I guess that a lot happened down there.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say bitterly. ¡°A lot happened.¡±

 Dwarves of the Deep: The Next Steps

    One should rest after a terrible ordeal. Both my mind and body are fatigued beyond measure, and I would like nothing more than to be able to lie down in my blankets, sleep for many hours, only waking to eat and drink, and live like this until my muscles are repaired and my mind clear of the fugue that sets in after I stagger back down to the chamber of the Shaft alongside Jaemes.


    But the situation remains dire. Eleven dwarves won¡¯t be able to defend against the next incursion when it comes, especially now that all the senior runeknights have perished. Something must be done. Reinforcements must be called down.


    Jaemes wraps my ribs in healing chains retrieved from the infirmary while we discuss what course of action to take.


    ¡°The Runeking must be contacted,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°That much is clear.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Notok, the other fourth degree who survived besides Nthazes and Melkor. ¡°The question is how.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps a letter,¡± someone suggests. ¡°We can send it up with the next caravan. I believe the chamberlain had some kind of seal he affixed to those kinds of things. I imagine it¡¯s in his office, or else in the Runethane¡¯s private chambers.¡±


    ¡°Is it really all right to break into those?¡± Hirthik asks nervously.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Melkor says. ¡°It is a rule of the fort that if the Runethane should perish, his responsibilities fall temporarily to the next most senior runeknight. That would now, in this case, be me, Nthazes, and Notok. And I give us permission.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if a letter would be urgent enough,¡± Jaemes says. ¡°Letters are easily ignored.¡±


    ¡°Not if they have a Runethane¡¯s seal affixed,¡± counters Hirthik.


    ¡°Even then, it could be lost. I think the message should be delivered in person. One of you should carry it up.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Melkor. ¡°We are needed to defend the Shaft.¡±


    Jaemes shakes his head. ¡°Making sure the reinforcements come is more important than having one extra defender, to my mind.¡±


    ¡°I agree,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°One of us must travel to the Runeking¡¯s realm directly, to his capital, and tell him what happened.¡±


    ¡°It should be the most senior we have,¡± says Notok. ¡°I volunteer.¡±


    Nthazes shakes his head. ¡°You wield one of our most powerful crafts, and are in good fighting shape. If the darkness comes up sooner than anticipated, you¡¯ll be needed most.¡±


    ¡°Who then? Zathar, with his experience of up above? But he is not one of us.¡±


    ¡°I uncovered the killer,¡± I say sharply. ¡°Does that not qualify me?¡±


    There is a long silence. Melkor breaks it.


    ¡°I say that it does. In fact, I declare it so. Zathar, you are one of us. A valued guard against the deep darkness.¡±


    I bow my head deeply at the honor, though it feels a little underwhelming. Maybe I''m just too exhausted to feel the full gravity of it.


    ¡°I feel that there should be some kind of ceremony,¡± Melkor continues, ¡°but we don¡¯t have time to waste on such.¡±


    ¡°Your confidence is enough. I¡¯m honored beyond words.¡±


    ¡°Then Zathar is to go up,¡± says Notok. ¡°It is decided.¡±


    ¡°On his own?¡± Hirthik says. ¡°He may be one of us now, as declared by Melkor, but he doesn¡¯t look like one of us. The Runeking may not believe him, even think he¡¯s some kind of spy. We all know how much back-stabbing goes on up there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll accompany him,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°I look the part, and my weapon of light will prove I¡¯m no fake beyond all doubt.¡±


    ¡°I would prefer it if you stayed here to help the defense,¡± says Melkor. ¡°You were spectacular against the darkness, Nthazes. It would have crushed us if not for you.¡±


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    Nthazes removes his helmet. ¡°Blink open your eyes for a second,¡± he says. ¡°Look at me!¡±


    I wince. He looks aged. His skin is yellowed, and his hair which was the color of platinum-gold is dulled to ash. His hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot.


    ¡°I¡¯ll recover,¡± he reassures us, putting his helmet back on. ¡°But it¡¯ll take some time¡ªa concept we should all be a little more aware of from now on. So I would like to accompany Zathar up to the Runeking¡¯s capital.¡±


    Melkor nods. ¡°Very well.¡± He turns to Jaemes. ¡°And how about you, human? I imagine you¡¯ll want to leave this place also.¡±


    To my surprise, Jaemes shakes his head. ¡°No, I wish to stay down here. I swore that I¡¯d discover the mystery behind the darkness, and I¡¯ve finally gained my first knowledge. Zathar told me a little of what you discovered down there.¡±


    ¡°We will not be returning,¡± Notok says in a warning tone.


    ¡°You do not wish to, of course. But Zathar says there was a chance of victory against it, if Belthur had not come.¡±


    ¡°I think otherwise. The strongest of us were down there, and still were defeated. There was never any chance.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. The next Runethane¡ªwho will have to be appointed from outside¡ªmay see things differently. If he does, I can¡¯t pass up the opportunity to see for myself what lies down there.¡±


    ¡°If the next Runethane decides to repeat Yurok¡¯s mistakes, I will refuse to follow him,¡± someone spits. ¡°I won¡¯t undertake another suicide quest.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have to assault it, perhaps,¡± says Melkor. ¡°And I think we at least have a duty to retrieve those who fell in the tunnel.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t go back either,¡± says Hirthik.


    ¡°In any case those decisions don¡¯t have to be made yet. Not for... a long stretch of time, if I understand the idea correctly.¡±


    ¡°You do,¡± I say.


    <hr>


    The chamberlain had the schedule for the supply caravans, and so his office is searched. In it we find not only the schedule, but his seal, many bags of gold coins, and several returned requests from the Runeking for more dwarves and materials. This worries me¡ªyet we¡¯ll just have to try and persuade him as best we can.


    Surely he cannot overlook a disaster on this scale. The loss of a Runethane is no small thing.


    After this, Jaemes and I make a search of Fjalar¡¯s chambers. Nthazes, still weak, declines the opportunity, desiring instead to rest and help with the funeral preparations for the two dwarves who died on the lift.


    After several hours of clearing and searching, we find a square cut into the stone. It¡¯s a trapdoor. I prize it open.


    Within are rolls of metal beaten thin and covered with runic poems of blood and theft, taking and extruding, death and life. I pull them all out. Below are shards of glass with drafts of the poem Melkor read to us. The hole goes deep. Fjalar must have been working on his evil craft for a long time.


    However Galar¡¯s chamber, even after many hours of thorough searching, reveals nothing incriminating.


    ¡°If only we¡¯d searched Fjalar¡¯s chambers first,¡± I say bitterly to Nthazes, after we return to the chamber of the Shaft with several chests packed full with evidence. ¡°None of this might have happened then. The Runethane would¡¯ve been forced to admit the killer wasn¡¯t the darkness, and no one else would¡¯ve had to die.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe he would still have refused to believe. We can¡¯t know. At any rate, I¡¯m glad that in the end we were doing the right thing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still angry about it.¡±


    ¡°So am I. I think we¡¯ll always be angry about it.¡±


    ¡°Have you worked out the caravan manifests yet? I want to know when we¡¯re leaving.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m keen to get away as well, but I have some bad news. We found a letter saying that the next load is delayed for up to fifty long-hours.¡±


    ¡°A long-hour?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s how they measure time there,¡± Jaemes explains. ¡°They don¡¯t have days like dwarves nearer the surface, so the Runeking¡¯s capital, Allabrast, has a great sand-timer. A long-hour is equivalent to three or so days.¡±


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll have to wait months!¡± I cry in despair. ¡°Then our journey will take time, then persuading the Runeking, and then the reinforcements will take a while to come down as well, I¡¯m sure.¡± I turn to Melkor, who¡¯s removing the contents of the evidence chest and reading over the runes. ¡°Can you really hold off the darkness for that long?¡±


    He pauses and looks up at me. ¡°We damaged it very badly. The next incursion won¡¯t come soon.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t be sure, though.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Damn this!¡±


    Nthazes shrugs. ¡°It is what it is. We¡¯ll have some time to recover at least. And I believe there¡¯s still a craft you have to do.¡±


    ¡°You mean remake my mace? It stung, being forced to drop it like that. Then having to use another dwarf¡¯s. Felt wrong in my hands, even despite the circumstances.¡±


    "No. I mean your amulet of unaging.¡±


    I nearly laugh. I¡¯d half-forgotten. After all, age has been the least deadly threat against me down here.


    <hr>


    In the quiet, dim forging hall, I prepare my materials. My gems are arrayed, and the metal that¡¯s to be their setting also. I couldn¡¯t find the drafts of the poems I¡¯d intended to carve into them, but that doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯ve improved my forging drastically in my time down here, and the most important lesson I¡¯ve learned is that I should let the runes flow.


    Well, sometimes that can have unintended effects, of course. Yet for this craft, which must be attuned to mind, body and soul, I think letting my talent out unimpeded is the correct decision.


    I pick up the jeweler¡¯s chisel with my right hand, the octagon-cut ruby with my left, and begin.

 Dwarves of the Deep: Two Last Crafts

    Making my amulet of unaging goes more smoothly than I''d anticipated. My chisel cleaves into the ruby as easily as steel into butter. The sound of steel on gem in my naked ears¡ªI took some days to repair my runic ones but they aren''t what they used to be¡ªis high and harsh yet somehow invigorating. Despite never having carved runes this way, directly into a material, each one comes out exact and even. All are new, never before seen.


    The light of the furnace, which is set low just enough to keep me warm, reflects in the runes, making them like lines of bloody fire. My mind is in a trance so I¡¯m barely paying attention to what they are¡ªeven as I can tell that each is perfect. It¡¯s a strange feeling, and contradictory in its logic¡ªhow can I know that each is perfectly formed and unique if I¡¯m not looking? But I know this is the best way.


    With my unconscious mind, or maybe soul, set on the runes, my conscious mind begins to drift into dark places.


    Skill at forging at any cost. That was Fjalar¡¯s philosophy. Am I so different? I wanted my brother back at any cost. I even dealt with a dragon to get that¡ªGuildmaster Wharoth said it tricked me, but that isn¡¯t entirely true. I knew even as I made the deal that I could have told the others that it was on its way, worked something out before they were burned.


    In the end I didn''t. I regretted that decision, just as I regret giving the dragon Thanerzak''s diamond key¡ªthough what value do regrets have after so much destruction? I know when I reach the Runeking¡¯s realm, the great city of Allabrast, I will learn that the black dragon destroyed everything and nearly everyone.


    Will anyone remember the key? Even if no one does, I¡¯ll still turn myself in after mine and Nthazes¡¯ task is accomplished. It¡¯s the right thing to do. I suppose this is what separates me from Fjalar: I am willing to admit that I did wrong.


    Yet despite these feelings, I hope that I¡¯ll be forgiven. Even though I¡¯d told myself that if my sentence is to be execution, then so be it, but, really, I hope dearly that my punishment is less severe. Just like burned in the hearts of Fjalar and Galar, the desire to craft greater weapons, armors and amulets burns in my heart also.


    The scratching of my chisel stops. I¡¯ve finished. I wonder what I¡¯ve created. My skin prickles, as if a chill wind has blown through my armor, like the darkness has descended on me once again.


    Every other time I¡¯ve written runes, I¡¯ve at least guided them. But because this time there was absolutely no guidance and no conscious thought, the poem comes from my very soul.


    I read. Like the innermost poem of Fjalar¡¯s amulet, it is an unstructured narrative, a dozen different episodes linked only by theme, one on each facet of the ruby.


    It is written in runes of blood and conflict. It describes a dwarf who cuts down all who oppose him in his quest for greatness. He wields terrible, bloody powers of combat¡ªinvents weapons no one has seen before or since, wrought of cunning metaphor¡ªand uses them to their fullest potential. He is unaging and all-enduring in mind, body, and soul, and his battles can never end.


    He feels no guilt.


    With a trembling hand I lay the ruby down on the anvil. I sit down on the stone floor, shivering.


    Originally I¡¯d planned for my amulet to be composed of multiple stones, but now I sense with absolute certainty that I don¡¯t need any but this. The craft is suited to me perfectly. The runic flow is exactly in tune with the currents of my own soul. It emanates vitality, like a second beating heart.


    It takes great courage to stand up and read the runes once more. Facing the deep darkness was nothing compared to facing what is within me.


    I reflect again: am I really the sort to try and accomplish my goals at any cost? Surely not. After all, down here I tried to help others. I put my life on the line for Nthazes, Jaemes, and all the other dwarves of the fort. Yet was I really being selfless? A dark corner of my mind tells me no: I helped because I want to prove at the coming trial that I have good in me. I helped only to further my own survival and my quest for my brother.


    Deep down, that¡¯s still my quest. That''s why I must craft greater and greater weapons and armor. I must become strong enough to find him, or else force the black dragon to admit that it killed him.


    Exhausted and overwhelmed, I sink back down to the floor. I can¡¯t wear this ruby as my amulet, no matter how effective it is. I have to try again.


    I lock it in my materials¡¯ chest¡ªI¡¯ll find a better home for it later¡ªand take up the sapphire I¡¯d intended to be the second gem in my amulet. I take up my chisel in my other hand, and begin to gouge.


    I carve one stroke of one rune. Sapphire dust glitters in the air; its brilliance distracts me and I become lost on how to continue. I return to the chamber of the Shaft, where everyone has moved their belongings, to borrow some paper from Jaemes. I take it back to the forges and plan out the runes methodically.


    I write a noble poem about calmness and tranquility in the midst of change, about remaining unaffected by the ravages of the world around. I praise the ability to stay composed and relaxed, and how this keeps both body and mind unwarped.


    I¡¯m being so careful that some sessions I only carve five or six runes. Physical issues persist also: while cutting into the ruby felt like the stone was barely there, chiseling the sapphire is like trying to scratch diamond with a stick.


    I think this problem is caused by tension in my fingers that make my movements stiff. I take a day off to try and let them recover, but this doesn¡¯t seem to help much.


    I judge the passing of the days by Jaemes'' clock, though since he spent a good while locked up, unable to continue his calendar, it¡¯s now hard to make a guess at how long it''s been since my arrival here. I estimate about two years, give or take a few months. It seems to me a very long time.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Finally, the sapphire is complete. I sit down on the steps of the forging pit, turning it over slowly in my hands so I can examine each rune. The poem is passable, I suppose. I do feel some kind of power flowing from the gem into my body, though it¡¯s far weaker than what I felt from the ruby.


    I decide to ask Nthazes to have a look. We walk a short distance away from the other dwarves sitting near the Shaft, and I hold it out on my palm. I let him pick it up and turn it over. He shines the light of his mace, again partially obscured with a gauze, through it to read the runes and examine the crystal¡¯s structure. Soft blue light illuminates his haggard features, making deep shadows in his wrinkles.


    ¡°It¡¯s an alright piece, I suppose,¡± he says. ¡°You must still be exhausted from fighting. Maybe I shouldn¡¯t have rushed you into it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not very good, is it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s passable for a first attempt. If you do the setting and chain right it¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Though, I can¡¯t read all the runes. So maybe it¡¯s better than it seems to my eyes,¡± he says brightly. ¡°You do have a lot of strange ones up there, don¡¯t you? I¡¯m looking forward to researching some. Maybe I¡¯ll get to bring some dictionaries down.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°These runes... Well, these ones are all from up above. But...¡±


    Nthazes frowns.


    Should I tell him? Of course I should, he¡¯s my friend. We¡¯ve saved each others¡¯ lives. I reach into my pocket and take out the ruby and hold it out for him to see.


    ¡°You made two?¡± he says. ¡°And this is...¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never seen any of these runes, have you? Not a single one.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°But their shapes are familiar, aren¡¯t they? Like they¡¯re in scripts you know, or thought you knew.¡±


    He nods, still staring blankly at the gem. ¡°Yes. That¡¯s a good way of describing it.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t learn these runes, Nthazes. They weren¡¯t from some dictionary. They¡¯re original. I made them.¡±


    He continues to stare blankly at the ruby. He picks it up from my palm and turns it over and over. ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± he says.


    ¡°I made them. They¡¯re new runes.¡±


    He looks at me, blinks a few times. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how. I can¡¯t control it so well, they just come out like that. As if my tools and hands move by themselves.¡±


    ¡°Just with this craft?¡±


    ¡°No, with every craft. On my armor and on my weapons too. That¡¯s why my mace of light ended up so strange. Those new runes of light weren¡¯t from some dictionary up above like I told the Runethane. I created them.¡±


    ¡°But how?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know! I¡¯ve always been able to. Even my very first rune was an original. I thought I was writing a basic one from a dictionary of my brother¡¯s, but it turned out wrong, yet worked far better.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°That¡¯s unbelievable.¡±


    ¡°I can barely believe it myself.¡±


    ¡°No new runes have been created since the runeforgers.¡±


    ¡°I know. Everyone knows.¡±


    ¡°Does that make you one of them?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not possible.¡±


    ¡°Then how?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It makes me something, I suppose. I¡¯ve been keeping this a secret.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± He nods. ¡°I understand. I won¡¯t tell anyone.¡±


    ¡°I know. I trust you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that someone will work it out, though, up above. There¡¯s clever dwarves up there.¡±


    ¡°Some already did. My guildmaster, and Vanerak, a first degree.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve told me a bit about them already.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t told you everything, though. The story I told you about my life before here, well, I have to apologize." I swallow. My throat feels dry all of a sudden. "I left out some details. Some important details.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll have plenty of time to tell me on the way up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you now. It¡¯s not something I want to be overheard by caravaners.¡±


    So, with my voice barely raised to a whisper, I tell him the full story, sparing no detail. I tell him of my involvement with the black dragon. How I struck a bargain with it so it could gain the key, and how that ended in the burning of my guild and then, eventually, as far as I can guess, to the destruction of two cities. I tell him that once we get the Runeking¡¯s aid, I plan to admit my crimes. I won¡¯t be returning here.


    He is silent after I end my long tale. I watch his face nervously. He seems to be deep in thought.


    ¡°You were inexperienced back then,¡± he finally says. ¡°All tenth degrees make stupid mistakes.¡±


    ¡°Not mistakes on that scale.¡±


    ¡°True,¡± he admits.


    ¡°I can barely forgive myself, let alone expect others to forgive me. Look at my ruby again, Nthazes.¡±


    "What of it?"


    "I let the runes flow as you advised me. I did it right: it felt as if they were coming directly from my soul. And look what I''ve created: the poem is nearly as nasty as Fjalar''s. You''d be horrified if you could read it."


    Nthazes shakes his head. "That doesn''t mean your soul is dark. Fjalar''s runes were on your mind when you wrote, that''s all."


    "Then why does this gem feel like it fits me so much better?"


    "The runic resonances are better, that''s all. There''s no forced awkwardness like on the sapphire. I really did rush you into this didn''t I? I''m sorry. Of course being in the darkness for so long would have an influence on how you write. That''s inevitable."


    "That''s not the whole of it. There''s something dark in me. Something unforgivable."


    "That isn''t true. I think your guildmaster was right when he said that you were the victim. The dragon was many times more powerful than you. From what you say, it seems nearly as powerful as the deep darkness. Probably it¡¯s more powerful, now.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°An initiate can¡¯t stand up to something like that. You were weak, not evil. There''s no darkness in you.¡±


    ¡°I should have tried to resist!¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t its power, though. It manipulated you so that it wasn¡¯t possible for you to try.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he says firmly, and he claps me on the shoulder. ¡°You never had a chance against it. If your guildmaster and I can understand this, surely others will as well. They''ll see that there''s nothing dark in you.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no guarantee though.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s never any guarantee of anything. If Fjalar¡¯s needle had been an inch lower, I¡¯d be dead now. Everything hinges on tiny chances.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying there¡¯s a tiny chance I¡¯ll be pardoned? A tiny chance my brother might still be alive?¡±


    ¡°Anything¡¯s possible. We¡¯ll just have to wait and see.¡±


    DWARVES OF THE DEEP


    END

 Traitors Trial 1: Leaving the Fort Far Behind

    It''s disturbing for the caravaners to arrive to a fortress so deserted. I can see this on their faces¡ªfrowns of confusion followed by wide-eyed alarm as only three of us, still battered and clearly exhausted, walk up to greet them. On the past times I helped with unloading, our greeting party always numbered about fifteen.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± their leader asks. He¡¯s not the runeknight who was in charge of the last supply caravan, but looks much the same: his face is rough and grizzled from many years of long journeys, yet he remains bright eyed, perhaps because not many runeknights get to travel as often and as widely as he does.


    ¡°Runethane Yurok ordered an expedition down the Shaft to destroy the deep darkness,¡± Melkor says, not wasting any time in getting the facts out. ¡°It failed. There are only eleven survivors.¡±


    The lead caravaner blinks a few times. ¡°Really?¡± he says.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    For a few moments he¡¯s stunned, then a look of horror dawns on his face, and the faces of the others behind him.


    ¡°Only eleven?¡± he repeats. ¡°How? What happened down there?¡±


    ¡°The expedition met with disaster.¡±


    ¡°How many went down? All of you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Nthazes. His voice sounds a little more vital than before¡ªit''s been a few weeks since I created my amulets¡ªbut he isn¡¯t yet totally recovered. ¡°The Runethane believed that if we all had weapons of light, we could defeat it. He was wrong. So now there are only eleven of us.¡±


    ¡°Eleven?¡± the lead caravaner repeats.


    ¡°Only eleven. With your permission, I and my comrade here would like to travel up with you to Allabrast to petition the Runeking for reinforcements.¡±


    The lead caravaner''s mouth is hanging open slightly.


    ¡°Would that be a problem?¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°I... I¡¯d like to go down into the fort to see. I¡¯m sorry, I still can¡¯t believe it. I know you won¡¯t lie, but, even...¡±


    He trails off. Melkor and Nthazes nod. We lead him down into the fort. The empty halls echo. His face grows paler and paler in the torchlight as he comes to realize the truth of what we¡¯ve told him. When we reach the chamber of the Shaft, the great black void in its center seems to be the final proof he needs¡ªmaybe he senses the death down there.


    ¡°Only eleven,¡± he says quietly. ¡°Only eleven.¡±


    ¡°Will you grant our request?¡± Nthazes asks.


    He nods. ¡°We weren¡¯t to go to Allabrast for a while. But now we¡¯ll go there directly.¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± I say. ¡°Eleven cannot hold against the darkness. We need to get there as quickly as possible.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Of course. We¡¯ll take you as directly as we can¡ªI¡¯m sure the stops we miss will have double supplies delivered once the Thanic Guard understands the situation. Though... No, this is more important.¡±


    ¡°Is there some issue?¡± Nthazes asks.


    ¡°We have some alloys that are meant to get to Runethane Jorthuk¡¯s realm as quickly as possible. He¡¯s hard-pressed...¡±


    ¡°Can they not wait?¡± asks Melkor.


    ¡°Ah, I was told no. But...¡±


    ¡°Surely the darkness is more deadly than whatever rival Runethane he faces.¡±


    ¡°I agree. It can¡¯t be helped.¡±


    <hr>


    We spend the next few hours unloading the supplies: steel and titanium bars, various kinds of gem, fabrics for clothes, a couple anvils, and a great deal of coal for the furnaces. There¡¯s also a small metal box with a bright crimson, pupil-less eye painted onto the lid. Below it are runes that read ¡®almergris¡¯.


    These supplies will go unused for a while, I fear. Not until reinforcements come down¡ªif we manage to persuade the Runeking we need help, that is. Surely he¡¯ll agree to send some kind of force. The darkness cannot be allowed to roam free. The monster that lurks down there¡ªwhatever it is¡ªmust stay down there.


    Once the supplies have been unloaded into the storerooms, it¡¯s time for me and Nthazes to go. We¡¯ve already packed what we need: some rations, though I expect we¡¯ll be able to buy more on the way up; clothes; Heartseeker I carry but my ruby amulet and various forging materials are in a chest; Nthazes carries his mace of light and his hunting spear and some other spare weapons and bits of armor. We have also packed the many other mundane bits and pieces required for a runeknight¡¯s everyday living: toothpicks, cutlery, soap, folding mirror and scissors for beard-trimming, and so on.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    We also have a third chest, small and securely locked. It contains plenty of gold and the letter of petition affixed with the chamberlain¡¯s seal of the fort, signed by all eleven of us.


    The lead caravaner, who has introduced himself as Feltram, shows us to the front carriage where personal supplies go. It¡¯s not so big, about fifteen feet long and six wide, pulled by a single blindboar. The other four carriages are much larger. Constructed of wood reinforced with steel bars, each is about thirty feet long and ten wide, and needs two blindboars to pull.


    ¡°Where do we sit?¡± I ask Feltram.


    ¡°You¡¯ll just have to sit on top with the loaders, I¡¯m afraid. Not really a fitting position for runeknights, but it can¡¯t be helped.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t mind,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°We¡¯re plenty used to discomfort down here.¡±


    ¡°Hah, well, you¡¯ll have to stay used to it. At least until we get to Allabrast.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d like to say our goodbyes, if you don¡¯t mind,¡± I tell him. ¡°It shouldn¡¯t take too long.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead. We need to finish feeding up the blindboars anyhow.¡±


    We hurry down from the fort entrance back to the chamber of the Shaft. Jaemes, Melkor, and the others come up to shake our hands and tell us good luck. After this is finished, I ask Jaemes:


    ¡°Are you sure you want to stay down here?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m very sure. I came down to understand the mysteries of the darkness, and I plan to either solve them or die of old age. And hearing what you saw down there has given me plenty of material to speculate with.¡±


    ¡°Knowing your enemy is very important,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°I hope you hit upon some useful idea.¡±


    ¡°I hope so too. And I hope I¡¯ll see you back down here soon, Nthazes. You too Zathar¡ªthough I know you¡¯ll be staying in Allabrast for a little longer.¡±


    I found the opportunity to tell him of my crimes a few days after I told Nthazes. His reaction was much the same: he assured me that everyone makes terrible mistakes when they¡¯re young, and that it wasn¡¯t my fault if I was manipulated. Besides, he also said, putting myself at risk to stop Fjalar has probably ended up saving dozens of lives. If he¡¯d been allowed to roam free, none can know how many dwarves would have fallen to his needle.


    On the subject of my new runes, he was very excited, though I don¡¯t think he quite grasped the gravity of the concept. Even so, he encouraged me to develop my abilities, and wished me the best for my future.


    ¡°Yes, a little while,¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯ll return someday though. Or some long-hour.¡±


    He claps us both on our shoulders. ¡°Well, good luck.¡±


    <hr>


    Now it¡¯s really time to leave. We climb up onto the top of the lead caravan with the ten loaders. They¡¯re tough looking dwarves, and though probably friendly enough, I don¡¯t expect much conversation from them. They¡¯ve already got the magnetic playing pieces of some game laid out, their entertainment for the long journey.


    The only runeknights here aside from Feltram are those driving the five wagons. Each is seated in front of a carriage behind its blindboars or boar, equipped in what looks like aluminum armor. Feltram is inside the belongings caravan doing some kind of administration work.


    Nthazes and I grip the hand-rails and watch as the lead driver raises his whip. He strikes the blindboar hard: one, two. They let out grunts of irritation as they start off. Their great muscles shift beneath their bristly white fur. The wheels of the carriage rumble on the stone road. It¡¯s loud, blurring out all useful sense from my runic ears. I take them off. Nthazes keeps his on, despite the oil lamp the loaders have and the light from his gauze-wrapped mace. I think he¡¯ll make a strange sight for the dwarves of the capital if he keeps them equipped all the way up.


    We go past the smaller tunnel that leads to the Mushroom Farm, then are on our way up a path I¡¯ve never been before: the road out.


    ¡°Feltram says we¡¯ll pass through Jaelstam first,¡± Nthazes tells me. ¡°Where I was born.¡±


    ¡°I remember you telling me. A few of the runeknights had ladies there, didn''t they?¡± I say.


    There¡¯s a sad thought. So many lives have been cut short, destroyed. So many that it¡¯s hard to fathom. Their loss hasn¡¯t hit us survivors as hard as maybe it should¡ªfear of our vulnerability to the darkness is outweighing our grief¡ªbut I think the scale of the tragedy will set in for everyone soon enough, especially if reinforcements are sent and hours on duty lessened.


    Though I won¡¯t be there to see that.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Nthazes answers. ¡°Casual relationships mostly. Most initiates come from there as well. There¡¯ll be shock once the townsdwarves find out. Maybe a panic.¡±


    ¡°We should ask Feltram not to announce it. Though I feel bad about keeping them in the dark.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t keep them in the dark. Feltram will have the mayor there notified, and it''ll be him who decides whether or not to tell everyone.¡±


    ¡°Mayor? No Runethane?¡±


    ¡°No, no. It¡¯s a small town. Part of... Runethane Kathak¡¯s realm, I think. But his city is some ways off east.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we should be petitioning him for reinforcements.¡±


    ¡°Melkor read some of the Runethane''s correspondence with him. He¡¯s at war too, and doesn¡¯t have so many runeknights anyway."


    "Probably that describes a lot of the realms between here and Allabrast."


    "Yes. So our best chance of help is the Runeking. He¡¯s the one who can make the important decisions.¡±


    ¡°I see." I scratch my beard. "You know more about the rest of the underworld than I thought.¡±


    Nthazes shakes his head. ¡°Not really. I¡¯m just making guesses. The extent of my knowledge ends at Jaelstam. After that, it¡¯s all unknown.¡±


    He turns from me and stares ahead over the blindboar. I look also. The cold cavern air is rushing through our hair and beards. The carriage is leaned back¡ªwe¡¯re traveling upwards, gradually. I wonder how long the journey will take in all. I¡¯ll have to ask Feltram once we stop for our first break.


    I look at Nthazes. There¡¯s a spark of life in his eyes that I¡¯ve not seen recently: it¡¯s the spark that was always present when he asked me to tell him tales of my time up above, where he so desired to go. Now, finally, his wish has been granted. I wonder if he feels guilty about so many having to die for this to happen.


    He seems to read my mind. ¡°I wish the circumstances were different. But even so, I think I deserve this. Don¡¯t you?¡± he says with a smile.


    ¡°You certainly do.¡±


    Onwards and upwards we go, leaving the fort far behind.

 Traitors Trial 2: The Fate of the Dwarves of Thanerzak

    The dwarves of Allabrast, as Jaemes told me, and as one of the caravaners confirmed while Nthazes and I were loading our belongings, measure time not in days or weeks, or even years, but in long-hours, one long-hour being equivalent to three days as I know them.


    Our first long-hour of traveling is dull. The caravan moves along a straight road, which slopes only very gently upward, and there is nothing of interest to see: just rough dark gray stone. The burly loaders do nothing but play their game and sleep, and eventually I go to sleep also. Creatures know well to stay clear of the caravan-ways, so I¡¯ve heard, since stopping a fully laden dwarven caravan at full speed is difficult business for even the bigger beasts out there.


    I wake up when my body senses the movement of the caravan slowing. Vaguely nervous, I peer over the guard-rail to see why, but we¡¯ve just come to a rest station, a cut-out space in the side of the tunnel for our carriages to pull into. Nthazes and I follow the loaders down once everything¡¯s stopped.


    ¡°The loaders¡¯ll get the meal ready,¡± Feltram tells us. ¡°Afraid the food¡¯s not great, but there you have it. We¡¯ll buy some better up in Jaelstam, and some beer for you and the loaders too.¡±


    ¡°That''s good to hear,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°As long as the drivers don''t get drunk as well.¡±


    ¡°Oh, never fear. Caravaners don¡¯t drink on the job. We''re professionals.¡±


    ¡°Where will we eat?¡± I ask. ¡°In the carriage or out here?¡±


    A cold wind is blowing downward, and the hollow isn¡¯t very good shelter from it. The caravanways also act as ventilation, after all. Connect right to the surface.


    ¡°Out here,¡± Feltram answers. ¡°We don¡¯t eat in the carriages on principle. Shows respect for the goods we¡¯re taking.¡±


    ¡°We can just have our rations,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°We don¡¯t want to be a burden on your supplies.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, we have plenty.¡±


    Before long, the loaders have the meal prepared. One large meat and mushroom sandwich each, washed down with a mug of water. It¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve had proper-tasting bread, so I devour mine with relish.


    The runeknights sit in one circle, the loaders another, but the amount of food each dwarf gets is the same¡ªthe caravaners seem to respect their servants.


    ¡°How long until Jaeltham?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Two and a half long-hours,¡± Feltram says. ¡°Not long at all, and there won¡¯t be any unexpected traffic. Far as I know, we¡¯re the only caravan that was set to come down this way.¡±


    ¡°Are the roads crowded further up then?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but there¡¯s no need to worry about delays. We¡¯ll be hitched to the tracks on the latter half of the journey, and the timing system is very smooth. Everything¡¯s very civilized up there. You might be surprised. I¡¯m assuming you¡¯ve never been, of course.¡±


    ¡°Not to Allabrast, no.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but you¡¯ve been to other places? You don¡¯t look like the typical deep dark fort dwarf, if you don¡¯t mind me saying.¡±


    ¡°No. I journeyed down here. Took me ten years or so. Walking.¡±


    ¡°Years, ay?¡± He eyes me with curiosity, and the other caravaners look at me the same way. "Quite the journey!"


    "There were some unfortunate circumstances."


    "Oh? What kind?"


    "A... Disaster, of sorts."


    ¡°I see. But to walk for years... And to use years to measure time... You must be from one of the more frontier realms, near the surface. Which one? If you don¡¯t mind me asking.¡±


    I hesitate for a moment. Am I going to let something slip here? But I¡¯m sure plenty fled the black dragon. There¡¯s no reason that telling the truth should raise suspicion, while avoiding the question certainly will.


    ¡°I¡¯m from the realm of Runethane Thanerzak,¡± I say. ¡°I fled the dragon.¡±


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    ¡°Ah!¡± says Feltram, and his eyes widen. He shakes his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry; maybe I¡¯ve brought up some bad memories.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no matter. It was all so long ago.¡±


    ¡°Only...¡± He calculates. ¡°Fifteen years ago by upper reckoning, right? But you¡¯re young; maybe that¡¯s a long time to you. I remember when the news came.¡±


    Fifteen years! Did I really just spend five years in the fort? Or maybe Jaemes¡¯ initial count was a little too short. Either way, I feel a shock¡ªthough it''s nowhere near as big as the one I felt when I first came to the fort.


    ¡°You probably know more about it than I do,¡± I say. ¡°I was down in the tunnels when it happened.¡±


    ¡°You must have been quite far down to escape the heat. A whole city¡ªtwo whole cities¡ªmelted by dragonfire. It¡¯s a miracle so many made it out.¡±


    ¡°Many did?¡± I say. ¡°I¡¯d assumed most didn''t...¡±


    ¡°From what I¡¯ve heard, many were already hiding in the caves below.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yes. Hiding from the battle¡ªthough I was fighting, of course.¡±


    ¡°Wasn¡¯t most of the fighting on the mountain?¡± says one caravaner. There¡¯s a slight air of suspicion to his voice. ¡°I heard some stories about it.¡±


    ¡°It was, but some of Broderick¡¯s forces tried to break out the mountain from below. I was in the tunnels to stop them. Did no one fighting higher up make it out?¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth was on the mountain with the rest of the guild, and probably Hayhek was there too. My heart begins to beat faster. Am I about to learn their fate?


    Feltram sees the look on my face and tries to give me a reassuring smile. ¡°A good few did,¡± he says. ¡°The heart of the mountain remained un-melted, from what I know. And I think I heard there was some kind of temporary truce made¡ªnot too sure about that, though. But of those who did survive, I¡¯m pretty sure most from Thanerzak¡¯s side ended up in Allabrast. Probably you¡¯ll run into at least one dwarf you know if you look in the right places. Good news, no?¡±


    I nod, hoping dearly that the guildmaster was one of those who lives. He had good armor, and his shield was enruned to resist dragonfire, so I think his chances were better than most. I hope most of the rest of the Association of Steel survived also¡ªeven though many will bear a terrible grudge against me after I confess my crimes.


    Maybe Wharoth bears a grudge too. I don¡¯t think he ever truly forgave me, did he? My memory of our last conversation is hazy.


    ¡°I know the name of one of the survivors,¡± says another caravaner. ¡°Thanerzak¡¯s chief commander, I think he was.¡±


    The hope welling in me turns to icy fear in an instant.


    ¡°Vanerak,¡± Feltram says. ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s one of the Thanic Guard now,¡± continues the caravaner. ¡°Something of a rising spark. Do you know him?¡±


    ¡°I... I know of him.¡±


    Nthazes gives me a concerned look.


    ¡°I saw him once,¡± Feltram says. ¡°He had a mask on though.¡±


    ¡°He always has it on,¡± says the caravaner. ¡°Maybe the dragonfire burned his face.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°He had it on since before the realm was destroyed.¡±


    ¡°Maybe another dragon burned it then. Back when Thanerzak was first conquering the cavern.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°We should stop this talk,¡± Feltram says. ¡°I don¡¯t think our friend here wants to discuss dragonfire.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course,¡± says the caravaner. He bows his head to me. ¡°I apologize.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I say quickly. ¡°Like I said, it was all so long ago. It feels like an eternity, especially with all that¡¯s happened since.¡±


    ¡°The darkness?¡± another caravaner says. His face looks rather pale. ¡°Could it come up now? What happened¡ª¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s enough!¡± Feltram orders. ¡°Our friends need rest and recovery. Dragging up painful memories isn''t any help to them. Get the blindboars fed and groomed and then we¡¯re going to sleep.¡±


    <hr>


    Feltram rings a bell to wake us, and soon we¡¯re off again, feeling the cold air rush through our beards and watching the gray stone of the tunnel blur either side of us. Nthazes attempts to strike up a conversation with the loaders, but they aren¡¯t interested in talk, only in playing their game.


    It looks similar to something Hardrick and the other miners often played in the pubs, except these dwarves don¡¯t look like they¡¯re gambling¡ªuntil, that is, I spot one surreptitiously keeping track of score on a long sheet of paper. I imagine there¡¯ll be calculations done once the journey is finished. I wonder if Feltram knows, and just turns a blind eye to it.


    Whatever. It doesn¡¯t bother me. If they want to throw their silver and gold away, that¡¯s on them. I¡¯ve got more important things to worry about.


    And, unfortunately, worrying is about the only thing I can do here. There is no way to forge, nor even paper and pen to scribble runes on, nor are there any books. There¡¯s just the gray walls either side, the shaking rumble of the carriage, and the stench of the blindboars. My only diversions are at mealtimes when I can talk to Feltram and the others. These conversations are interesting, but always too short¡ªthe caravaners do everything quickly and efficiently, even eating.


    ¡°Speed is everything to us,¡± Feltram explains to me one mealtime between bites. ¡°The faster we deliver our goods, the bigger our bonus.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t that encourage recklessness?¡± Nthazes asks.


    ¡°Less than you¡¯d think. We¡¯ve all seen crashes, and are none too eager to get involved in one.¡±


    ¡°What do you spend your money on?¡± I ask. ¡°You¡¯re runeknights¡ªsurely you forge also.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Some of the roads aren¡¯t safe, especially in the border tunnels. Our money goes to our weapons and armor, same as every other runeknight. Though we travel light for journeys like this.¡±


    ¡°You mean ones in the middle of the Runeking¡¯s domains?¡±


    I¡¯ve started to form a kind of map in my head about where each Runethane has his realm. Thanerzak¡¯s was very distant, an outcrop of the kingdom. No wonder it took me so long to wander down here.


    ¡°Well, it''s more about the quality of the roads. If any walling-offs are weak, or if there''s known to be trolls nearby. Fortunately for you, the one to the fort is very well-made, despite its age.¡± He yawns. ¡°Anyway, we all need to catch some sleep now. Got to keep moving, and you can¡¯t control a carriage without a few short-hours'' rest.¡±


    And in this way our journey continues: long stretches of rumbling passage punctuated by quick conversation at mealtimes. Until, finally, we reach Jaeltham.

 Traitors Trial 3: Jaeltham Town

    Jaeltham is smaller than I thought it would be. For some reason I¡¯d expected it to be constructed like Thanerzak¡¯s city, composed of houses and streets all inside a large cave, but once we park the carriages and stable the blindboars and head in, I see that it¡¯s more like the fort, or the terrible underground realm where the darkness dwelled¡ªthere are no open spaces, just tunnels and doors.


    Feltram tells the guards he has to see the mayor and, to my surprise, they readily agree to lead us to him, no formality or paperwork required. I suppose I ought not to be too shocked¡ªthis is a just a mayor we¡¯re meeting after all, not a Runethane. Feltram, Nthazes and I and one more caravaner follow a guard through the well-lit yet dusty tunnels. The rest of the caravaners are to guard the carriages, and the loaders are sent out to buy supplies.


    ¡°Do you remember any of this place?¡± I ask Nthazes.


    ¡°Very vaguely. I don¡¯t think I ever went anywhere near the mayor¡¯s residence though. I imagine I grew up in the rougher side of town.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a rougher side?¡±


    ¡°I think so. I remember drunken miners and squabbles with other children, and tunnels that were half-crumbling. Not like this neat one.¡±


    ¡°How many live here? Do you have any idea?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard a few thousand.¡± He gives a slight laugh. ¡°That used to seem like a big number, but where we¡¯re going there¡¯s far more, isn¡¯t there? How many dwell in Allabrast?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard a million.¡±


    He whistles. ¡°A million. I can barely imagine it.¡±


    ¡°Maybe more, maybe less. I can¡¯t even remember where I read that number, come to think of it. I¡¯m sure Feltram knows.¡±


    ¡°About a million is right,¡± Feltram calls back to us. ¡°It¡¯s a huge place. You¡¯ll be shocked when you see it.¡±


    We reach a set of stairs. They¡¯re polished, with a diamond pattern cut into them for grip. Looking up, I see at the top a large pair of doors with the runes ¡®jael¡¯ and ¡®tham¡¯ on them, meaning Graveltrail, in Deep Velet script¡ªa fairly uncommon one¡ªand above those runes, the runes for mayor.


    The guard leading us, a fifth or fourth degree by the look of his armor, greets the two more senior ones standing at the top. There¡¯s some brief talk between them and Feltram. Nthazes and I get some odd looks, but then the doors are opened and we''re let in.


    It¡¯s been a long while since I¡¯ve seen this kind of luxury. Jaeltham might be a small town, but the mayor is a runeknight of the first degree and so naturally he has money to spare. So long down in the money-less fort made me forget: to be a senior runeknight you must be able to afford the materials.


    The rooms of his abode are polished pink and green granite, inlaid with silver patterns. The shelves of runic texts are of fossil-wood, and when we¡¯re led through to a private meeting room, I see that the table and chairs are carved of clear white quartz.


    The four of us sit down and we await the mayor. He comes hastily, a concerned expression on his face. He¡¯s wearing an elegant robe in place of armor, but at his belt is an axe inlaid with gems and a dense text of runes.


    ¡°This is an odd meeting,¡± he says as he sits down. ¡°Why do two guards of the deep dark come up now? I was told by Chamberlain Helthok that there¡¯d be none let up on leave for a while. What news do you have? You told the guards it was serious?¡±


    ¡°Bad news,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Terrible news.¡±


    The mayor frowns deeper. ¡°I¡¯d guessed that.¡±


    ¡°Runethane Yurok has perished, alongside the majority of the fort, including all above fourth degree.¡±


    The mayor flinches back. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°We attacked the deep darkness down the Shaft, and only eleven of us escaped.¡±


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    ¡°Eleven?¡± The mayor blinks in shock. ¡°Eleven, you say?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Eleven remain. Not eleven perished?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    The mayor doesn¡¯t speak for a while; he seems frozen in place.


    ¡°I also didn''t believe it at first,¡± says Feltram. ¡°But it¡¯s as he says. The fort is all but deserted.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± The mayor swallows. ¡°The darkness... Is it likely to rise up? To come here?¡±


    ¡°Not anytime soon,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°We hurt it down there.¡±


    ¡°Not soon, you say? But I know how you down there think of time¡ªor rather how you don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to petition the Runeking for reinforcements,¡± I say. ¡°We¡¯re moving as fast as we can. So long as he sees the seriousness of the situation, you¡¯ll be protected again.¡±


    ¡°They do say he sees everything.¡± The mayor gives a wry chuckle. ¡°Well, he¡¯ll have to take us seriously now, won¡¯t he? Eleven left...¡±


    ¡°As mayor, it¡¯s of course up to you whether or not you make this general knowledge,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°A panic is in no one¡¯s interests. Only myself and my most senior runeknights will know.¡±


    ¡°We would also be much indebted if you could send messages to the other towns around here, to your Runethane, and to Runethane Ilthik above also.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°We would also be indebted if you could add your seal to our letter petitioning the Runeking. The word of a first degree would add much weight.¡±


    Nthazes takes out the letter of petition from a satchel and unrolls it. Light glints off the black ink of the text and the black seal also. The mayor frowns at him.


    ¡°I believe that only Runethane Yurok and his chamberlain are allowed use of this seal.¡±


    ¡°That is correct,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°But now they are dead, the right to use it falls to the next most senior runeknight, which is me and two other fourth degrees.¡±


    ¡°I see. Yes, that would be the case, if the disaster is as great as you say it was.¡±


    ¡°It was,¡± I insist. ¡°Please, help us. You must.¡±


    The mayor frowns deeply. He looks into my eyes. There''s a suspicious glint in his own. Anger rises in me. How can he possibly doubt us? But maybe doubt is reasonable. Not all dwarves are trustworthy. For all he knows, we''re spies from one of Runeking Urabrask''s realms, and are attempting to spread panic and confusion.


    Yet I think if that were the case, we''d have chosen a more likely story. No: our story has to be one of those so absurd it must be true. Surely that''s the conclusion he will reach.


    ¡°This is all sudden...¡±


    ¡°They speak the truth,¡± Feltram says. ¡°I went to the chamber of the Shaft myself. There were only eight standing guard around it, and none of them looked to be third or above. I know the word of a mere caravaner such as myself doesn¡¯t mean much, but...¡±


    The mayor nods slowly. ¡°Yes... Caravaners are well known to exagerrate their tales.¡±


    ¡°But what could I gain from lying to you?¡±


    The mayor''s brow wrinkles. He''s thinking¡ªwhat motive could we have if we''re indeed lying. Then he sighs.


    ¡°I believe you. I don¡¯t think you can fake the fear I hear in your voices. Mostly I sit around now, but I¡¯ve fought in the past. I know what fear sounds like. I¡¯ll sign.¡±


    He produces pen and signs the letter carefully. He blots the ink and Nthazes rolls the letter back up.


    ¡°Done,¡± the mayor says shakily.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Nthazes says, and he bows his head low. ¡°We¡¯re indebted to you.¡±


    The mayor shakes his head. ¡°No. We¡¯re indebted to you. I should apologize: maybe in the past I haven¡¯t tried hard enough to get you new initiates.¡±


    ¡°We would appreciate more once the main reinforcements have come down, and there¡¯s a new kind of normality in place.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get them, and more before. I¡¯d like to send down some of my own dwarves; hear what¡¯s happening down there from them. Like I said, I believe you, but even so...¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome to,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°And if any are brave enough to stay down there to forge weapons of light and join us, we would be most thankful.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think many will be. But maybe some will see honor in doing that. You never know.¡±


    <hr>


    We return to the carriages. The loaders have bought the supplies and are already packing them in. They¡¯re moving the heavy crates of food and heavier barrels of water efficiently, without a single wasted movement¡ªearning their keep. Apparently they¡¯re paid rather better than miners.


    Before long, Nthazes and I are back on top of the front carriage staring into the featureless black. There¡¯s no light to see what we¡¯re heading toward¡ªfortunately the blindboars are capable of sensing potential obstacles, and also decide whether to slow and stop if it''s a cave-in, or speed up if it''s some creature.


    My nerves are still on edge. While it¡¯s a good sign that the mayor here agreed to our requests, and offered more besides, there¡¯s no guarantee the Runeking will be equally as accommodating. If he isn''t, the consequences will be terrible.


    No, no. Why am I lying to myself? That¡¯s not what I¡¯m nervous about. I¡¯m nervous about facing my past, facing my guild, Guildmaster Wharoth, and Vanerak. Now that my suspicions are confirmed, now that I know that the black dragon really did annihilate the realm I hail from, a sense of reality is setting in. No longer is my crime a nightmare from fifteen years ago; it is now something very present.


    Will I be forgiven? Will I be understood? Should I be?


    And adjacent to this main worry: I don¡¯t think Vanerak will have forgotten my abilities. As soon as he hears that I¡¯m alive, he¡¯ll do what he can to acquire me. Maybe if I¡¯m locked up awaiting trial, that won¡¯t be so difficult. Maybe, rather than worrying about how my trial will go¡ªif I¡¯m not simply given a summary execution¡ªI should instead be worrying about being stolen away, kidnapped.


    I let out a shaky sigh.


    ¡°You all right?¡± asks Nthazes.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. Just worrying about the future.¡±


    ¡°Well, at least we¡¯ve got a long journey before it comes.¡±


    ¡°Very true.¡±

 Traitors Trial 4: To Allabrast

    Our journey proper into realms far above the fort begins. The walls either side of us become smoother and better lit. The stone changes from dark gray to light, then back to dark, but a different shade, then to black run through with veins of quartz, then reddish, then bluish. The path grows wider by degrees until there¡¯s nearly enough room for two lanes of traffic.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Feltram confirms one mealtime. ¡°The roads will get busy soon enough, once we pass through Runethane Ilthik¡¯s city. Don¡¯t worry though. We know what we¡¯re doing; there won¡¯t be any collisions.¡±


    I ask him to remind me how many more realms we¡¯ll have to pass through before Allabrast.


    ¡°Eight, though two of those are rather large. And the Allabrast region is large, so even once we cross that border we¡¯ll still have some ways to go. Though,¡± he adds with a slight smile, ¡°we¡¯ll be on the tracks by then. You¡¯ll be amazed at the speed.¡±


    After about nine or ten long-hours, in familiar terms roughly a month, we reach the border between the realms of Runethane Kathak and Runethane Ilthik. It¡¯s marked only by a deep line cut into the walls of the tunnel and a small guard platform. Feltram, up top with us for once, waves to the runeknight up there as we pass, and receives a wave back in return.


    ¡°I though there¡¯d be more fortification,¡± Nthazes says.


    ¡°No, these two realms have been part of Runeking Ulrike¡¯s domains for a long time. In a short while we¡¯ll pass through the old border. There¡¯s more fortification there.¡±


    In another hour¡ªor half a short-hour, I need to start getting used to Allabrast time¡ªthe road crosses through a large cavern, wide enough for an army to march through in ranks of at least fifty. It''s pockmarked above with murder-holes, and turrets and the remains of rusted ballistae adorn the sides. I grip Heartseeker nervously, fearing that something might jump out, but nothing does.


    Two long-hours after this, we enter the city of Runethane Ilthik. Feltram tells us he¡¯s an old Runethane, more than seven centuries¡ªor as he puts it, nearly ten thousand long-hours. His runeknights oversee great mining operations which carve out many tons of iron and copper from his eastern regions and extract coal from the western ones. As we pass through the cavern city I see many runeknights armed with hooked spears and wearing extraordinarily heavy-looking plate.


    ¡°Troll-slayers,¡± one of the caravaners tells me on our rest just outside the city borders. ¡°They¡¯re got terrible troll problems down here. The beasts eat the iron and develop a tough shell. Hammers and axes just bounce off, so they have to drag them down with hooks and stab them in the soft bits.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t meet any on the road, will we?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Probably not. Most are out east of here.¡±


    Fortunately for us, his prediction turns out to be true, and our journey continues free of trolls and other wild beasts. The road widens and the tunnel roof over it changes from a rough oval arch to a square one set with geometric carvings. We reach a large rest station, and for the first time I see other caravans.


    Most are somewhat larger than ours, of up to a dozen large carriages. The majority are wooden, but one, guarded by runeknights wielding hooked spears, is plated with rusted iron.


    ¡°They¡¯re to thank for us not being attacked by trolls,¡± Feltram explains. ¡°They¡¯ll turn off one of the side roads and the rust¡¯ll attract the bastards. Their carriages are empty right now, but soon enough they¡¯ll be chock-full of troll steel.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it''s full of the stuff already. It''s rumbling loud enough.¡±


    ¡°No. I can tell: there¡¯s a full contingent of guards with their armor still clean. You ever fought a troll before, Zathar? They¡¯re no joke.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I know well. Thanerzak¡¯s realm had plenty. Probably still does.¡±


    ¡°The iron trolls are bigger than most. Their shells make for rare crafting material as well, if you know how to work it properly.¡±


    Next we pass through the border to Runethane Jetick¡¯s realm. This one is more what I¡¯d imagined a border to be like: a portcullis is lowered and a group of twenty runeknights emerge from a guardhouse cut into the rock to examine our goods. Feltram is led into the guardhouse to show some documents.


    I watch over the dwarves sifting through our belongings. They look different to the dwarves from the realms below here: their skin isn¡¯t so gleamingly pale and their beards are mostly light brown or red instead of blonde.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look like one of these lot,¡± one of them asks me. His accent is closer to my own than to Nthazes¡¯. ¡°You¡¯re not a smuggler, are you?¡±


    ¡°I assure you I am not.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± he says in a disbelieving tone as he opens my chest of belongings and sifts through my toiletries. My heart skips a beat as he turns over my ruby of unaging.


    ¡°What¡¯s this, then?¡± he asks.


    ¡°A failed craft.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t read the runes. What do they say?¡± He licks his lips greedily.


    ¡°It¡¯s a poem of unaging.¡±


    ¡°Can you read it to me? If they¡¯re illegal runes, then¡ª¡±


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    At that moment, Feltram appears and claps a hand on his shoulder. ¡°There¡¯s no such thing as illegal runes,¡± he snaps. ¡°Not in this realm nor the next, and that¡¯s by order of Runeking Ulrike.¡±


    The guard scowls. ¡°Well, maybe not, but...¡±


    ¡°I hope you¡¯re not trying to thieve from my caravan.¡±


    I notice that Feltram¡¯s hand is on a long knife at his belt.


    ¡°No, no,¡± the guard says hurriedly.


    ¡°Good. Your commander says everything¡¯s in order, so we¡¯ll be on our way now. Clear off!¡±


    The loaders tidy up our goods and soon we¡¯re back off again. At the next stop, Feltram apologizes to us.


    ¡°Sorry about that. The border guards around here are well known for being a bunch of greedy carrion-bats. You need to be firm with them.¡±


    ¡°Would you really have stabbed him?¡±


    ¡°No. But I know a few who might¡¯ve.¡±


    ¡°Disgraceful,¡± Nthazes says with disgust. ¡°Zathar¡¯s often talked of the greed that goes on up here, but seeing it with my own ears is something else.¡±


    ¡°Seeing with your ears, ay?¡± Feltram chuckles. ¡°Yes, there¡¯s a lot of greed between dwarves, it¡¯s true. But I wouldn¡¯t say that¡¯s a bad thing. If we didn''t have greed, then why would anyone delve for metals and gems? As long as greed¡¯s done honestly¡ªit¡¯s just business.¡±


    ¡°Some would say that¡¯s hill-dwarf speak,¡± says one of the other caravaners.


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± Feltram snaps back. ¡°As long as you aren¡¯t selling enruned crafts, there¡¯s no issue.¡±


    ¡°I have a lot to learn, it seems,¡± says Nthazes.


    The next time we pass through a border, I make sure to fix those searching with a hard stare, and angle Heartseeker down slightly. Nthazes unwraps a few layers of gauze from his mace so they can tell the strength of the runes.


    We have no more trouble with thieves.


    About thirty odd long-hours into our journey, we pass the halfway point, and the roads are now properly busy. We pass another caravan at least a couple times every short-hour¡ªsome of them great thundering things of twenty or thirty carriages¡ªand then we come to a great cross of six intersecting roads. I can also hear thundering from above and below, suggesting that more roads meet here beyond what we can see.


    ¡°What a racket,¡± Nthazes says, wincing, and he removes his runic ears for the first time. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll need to get used to relying on my eyes.¡±


    The caravan performs a complicated series of maneuvers to get onto the other road¡ªaccompanied by much shouting from both our drivers and those of other caravans¡ªand then we are corkscrewing up a winding side-road. As we round one of the bends, my eyes widen. One side of the wall has become a plate of rune-etched glass, of runes I cannot read, and through it I see another bustling intersection, but not of roads: of steel tracks. Some come down on great ramps from the ceiling. Carriages rush along them. They have no blindboars fixed to them.


    ¡°What in hell?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Just magnets,¡± says one of the loaders, and he holds up a piece from the game they like to play. For the first time I notice that it¡¯s carved into the shape of a carriage, and that the board they use is a great maze of stenciled tracks.


    ¡°They use magnets to pull the carriages?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I used to work laying them, a few years back. It¡¯s a dull job¡ªbasically mining in reverse. This is much better.¡±


    ¡°Incredible,¡± says Nthazes, shaking his head.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be even more incredible once we¡¯re on them,¡± says the loader, grinning.


    <hr>


    Terrifying might be a more appropriate description. We crowd into the front carriage alongside the loaders, five drivers, and Feltram.


    ¡°It¡¯s all done automatically from here on!¡± Feltram shouts happily. ¡°No more work for us for a while.¡±


    ¡°You mean we don¡¯t have any control?¡± I cry, straining my voice to be heard over the rumbling coming from all around¡ªand we aren¡¯t even moving yet!


    ¡°None at all! It¡¯s all done by the New Dynamium Guild: a very old guild, with connections to the Runeking himself. We¡¯re in very good hands!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s never any accidents?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say never, but they¡¯re very rare!¡± He pats me roughly on the back. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, and this¡¯ll calm your nerves! Break out the ale, my dwarves!¡±


    The loaders give a whoop and begin pushing and shoving two large barrels from the back of the carriage to the front where we¡¯re all crushed together like geckos in a tin. One of the caravaners draws out a hammer with a long spike at the back, drives it through the top of one of them. Feltram pushes a tube into it¡ªat the other end is a brass mouthpiece like from some instrument. He sucks deeply from it.


    ¡°Drink up!¡± he roars.


    ¡°Didn''t you say it was disrespectful to the goods to drink and eat inside the carriages?¡± I ask, but no one seems to hear.


    I guess this must be an exception to the rule. The mouthpiece is passed around the dwarves, with no attention paid to status and rank. Soon it comes into my hands. Feltram grins widely at me, and I shrug and take a swig.


    The taste is awful, rotten hops and stomach bile, but it sure does deaden my nerves. Instead of screaming in fear, I find myself laughing raucously as the carriage tips forward and we rapidly accelerate down, down, down, then begin to spiral up and up and up and around.


    <hr>


    The rest of the journey passes so rapidly I can hardly believe it took me over ten years of fleeing to arrive at the fort, even though I suppose this journey is only half the distance to Thanerzak''s realm, and I took a much more circuitous route. We go through a border every two or three long hours, and stops for toilet breaks are rare. I finally get an answer about why we¡¯re now allowed to eat in the carriages: it¡¯s just necessity. Speed and profit over tradition.


    The loaders teach me their game of tracks, and I play to pass the time for a while until I realize I¡¯ve already lost three gold pieces to them.


    Then, at one stop, Feltram beckons me and Nthazes to the side.


    ¡°We¡¯re nearly there. Four long-hours and we¡¯ll be in Allabrast. Do you have any idea where you want me to drop you off?¡±


    ¡°As close to the Runeking¡¯s palace as possible,¡± says Nthazes.


    Feltram shakes his head. ¡°You¡¯ll be wasting your time if you go there directly. He rarely leaves his foundries. If you want to get to him, you¡¯ll have to go through the Thanic Guard.¡±


    ¡°Who are these Thanic Guard anyway?¡± I ask. ¡°You¡¯ve mentioned them before, but I still don¡¯t quite get it. Are they Runethanes, or something else?¡±


    ¡°Ah, I¡¯d always assumed you knew. Sorry. They¡¯re first degrees strong enough to be Runethanes, but with no realm of their own yet. Something of an in-between stage.¡±


    ¡°But they hold power?¡± Nthazes asks.


    ¡°Yes, each rules over a district of the city. They have more to do with the hour to hour running of things than the Runeking, actually, though more important decisions do have to be approved by him. You¡¯ll need to persuade one of your cause, and he or she will bring it up at the next council meeting.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± I say.


    ¡°Vanerak¡ªone of the newer ones¡ªhe was with Runethane Thanerzak, wasn¡¯t he? You said you knew of him. Maybe you could go to him.¡±


    I shake my head rapidly. ¡°No. He¡¯s... That wouldn¡¯t be a good idea.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Feltram strokes his beard. ¡°Well, to be honest, I¡¯m not too familiar with the politics inside the city. You¡¯ll be better off asking the locals. Find yourself somewhere to stay and ask around.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°You have any recommendations?¡±


    ¡°Hmm. I¡¯ll think on it. Somewhere not-too central will be best. The closer you get to the foundry-palace, the... snobbier the dwarves tend to get.¡±


    ¡°How do you mean?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll find out for yourself soon enough. Try not to insult anyone, or you might end up in a duel¡ªactually, no, the Runeking outlawed those some time back. You should still be careful though.¡±


    Four long-hours later, we arrive in Allabrast.

 Traitors Trial 5: The Great City of Allabrast

    ¡°We¡¯re here,¡± Feltram announces as the carriage decelerates, pushing us backward slightly. There¡¯s a shudder, then it stops still.


    Nthazes and I nod to each other. We heft up our chests of goods, already double-checked and locked tight. The caravaners and loaders wish us luck, then Feltram leads us out of the carriage.


    We emerge into a press of hurrying dwarves of all walks of life¡ªdrivers, exhausted-looking loaders, helmeted guards with spears, merchants in fine cloaks of gold. There¡¯s even a contingent of miners with rough hands and bent backs; picks are slung over their shoulders. Bright lights from above¡ªnot flaming torches, but white crystals¡ªmake everything hurt slightly to look at.


    We¡¯re shoved and jostled as Feltram rushes us through stone arches. The weight of our goods chests unbalances us. The thunder of boots on the tiles and yelled conversation is deafening; louder curses are thrown at us whenever we collide with someone. I nearly fall over several times, until Feltram leads us around a sharp turn.


    We squeeze through a low arch, past which are rows of wireframe trolleys. Feltram pays the attendant six silver coins for two of them. Nthazes and I set our chests on them, though Nthazes keeps the precious one with the letter in it clutched tightly under his arm.


    The physical press is beginning to overwhelm me. Only in battle have I seen so many dwarves crammed together, and those here are only slightly less combative. I glance at Nthazes, but he doesn¡¯t seem bothered. Rather, he¡¯s wide-eyed, glancing from dwarf to rushing dwarf with obvious fascination.


    I try to ask Feltram what¡¯s going on, where we¡¯re headed, but he doesn¡¯t seem to hear me. Then, we¡¯re walking through an arch wrapped with strange green fungi of branching hands of very flat caps, and then before us is a low guardrail and past that the city of Allabrast.


    A dizziness takes hold of me¡ªwe¡¯re at least two hundred feet up from the road below. I step back a little. Nthazes leans forward and his white-blonde-bearded jaw drops.


    ¡°Look at all the lights!¡± he cries. ¡°Incredible! How many live here, again?¡±


    ¡°A million, give or take,¡± says Feltram. ¡°Most are in the outer districts though.¡±


    The city of Allabrast, or at least this part, is built of dozens and dozens of stone pillars joining cavern floor to cavern roof. Bright golden light shines from thousands of windows in each. The spectacle is blinding. The pillars are densely packed; beyond each are more, so that no blank wall or far distant part of the city is visible.


    Nthazes stands rapt, taking in the sight of the city and the sounds also. Walkways wind through the pillars, crowded and noisy with thousands of dwarves. More than half wear enruned armor and have a weapon or two at their side¡ªmostly swords.


    ¡°So many runeknights!¡± he exclaims.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Feltram. ¡°Allabrast has a larger concentration of us than most places, especially here in the more central districts.¡±


    ¡°But what do they all do?¡±


    ¡°Forge, of course, and make the money needed for materials. Through business and adventure.¡±


    ¡°Adventure, here?¡±


    ¡°No. Out in more wild caves¡ªeven on the surface. There¡¯s a direct tunnel to it here. The ones you see here are relaxing, back from their travels. A lot of interesting folk here in the Fireflea District.¡±


    ¡°Fireflea?¡± I ask. ¡°Odd name.¡±


    ¡°Because the windows in the pillars look like firefleas clinging to the legs of rock-oxen.¡±


    Nthazes frowns. ¡°Doesn¡¯t quite do the cavescape justice, I think.¡±


    ¡°Firefleas aren¡¯t pests. They¡¯re pulped to make an oil. It has some forging uses.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve ever heard of it,¡± I say.


    ¡°There¡¯ll be a lot of things you¡¯ve never heard of here, Zathar. This is the center of Runeking Ulrike¡¯s domains. Everything flows toward here¡ªespecially money, I should warn you. Your gold won¡¯t last very long. Prices are high.¡±


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    ¡°Why did you choose here then? Weren¡¯t we going to the... Obsidian District? That¡¯s what you said when I asked a long-hour ago.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but Talzak informed me that this Vanerak you''re not too keen on has gained a station there.¡±


    A shiver runs through me.


    ¡°Here¡¯s as good as anywhere, though. A bit too snobby for my tastes, but, oh well. Can¡¯t be helped. Only trouble is that I can¡¯t really recommend you a good inn. You¡¯ll have to find one on your own.¡±


    I look across the myriad walkways and winding roads, and the staircases spiraling up the pillars also. I become a little dizzy.


    ¡°The cheaper ones tend to be up near the roof, since it¡¯s more inconvenient.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we want anywhere too cheap.¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry. Nowhere¡¯s dirt cheap here. And security is good.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Then I suppose it''s time for us to head off.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I can¡¯t lead you any further,¡± Feltram apologizes. ¡°But I don¡¯t know my way around here that well, and I need to explain this... situation to my guildmaster as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°No need to apologize. You¡¯ve done us an irrepayable favor already.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to have been of help. I¡¯ve often thought those here in Allabrast should pay more attention to what goes on in the outer realms. It¡¯s a shame such a terrible tragedy had to occur. Us dwarves always ignore things until they¡¯ve gone too far.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I agree. ¡°We do, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be off then.¡± He holds out his hand.


    Nthazes shakes it. ¡°Goodbye.¡±


    ¡°Good luck with your guildmaster,¡± I say, shaking his hand also.


    He bows, we bow, and then he¡¯s disappeared into the crowds inside the station. Nthazes and I stay on the balcony, our eyes roaming down and across and up at the winding roads, walkways, and stairs which we now have to navigate.


    ¡°Which direction first?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I was going to ask you that. You have more experience than me in cities.¡±


    ¡°Never one as big as this.¡±


    ¡°One bigger than the fort, though.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that¡¯s true.¡±


    I look upward. Hanging from the roof is a walkway enclosed in a steel cage, the bars of which are embedded into the rock. Runes glitter on the metal, but they look rather sparse to my eyes. Not cheap, but not expensive. The windows on the upper parts of the columns it wraps around do not look quite so polished as those below either.


    Runes used on a mere walkway! The oddness of this strikes me suddenly. I saw nothing like that in Thanerzak¡¯s realm. It seems rather dishonorable to me, but I don¡¯t know what kind of strange traditions they have here.


    ¡°We¡¯ll find a way to that walkway,¡± I say to Nthazes, pointing.


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°I just hope there¡¯s a ramp for these trolleys.¡±


    First, though, we have to find a way out the station. There¡¯s signs carved into all the arches, but most of them are directions to different tracks. We spend a good hour tramping around, bumping into and getting cursed out by other dwarves, tripping over our own trolleys¡ªthey¡¯re rather badly made to my eyes, with an annoying metal bar positioned just right to bang against my greaves if I step forward too far. No runeknight made these for sure, just some second-rate metalcrafter.


    Eventually, more through luck than pathfinding, we come to an enormous arch of white marble, gilt with gold and carved with a relief showing rushing carriages. Past it is a wide road into open cavern air. We walk through and finally we''re in the city proper. I look up and around, trying to figure out some way to get to the ceiling walkway that I spotted.


    Caught up in the river of dwarves, it¡¯s impossible to stop moving to get our bearings, so we escape to a walkway circling one of the great stone columns. We pause between two windows, and I shade my eyes and try to work out a path through the maze.


    ¡°I think if we head left then right...¡± I begin, pointing uncertainly from road to road. ¡°Or maybe right, then up. Maybe if we go down there, we can go up there?¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we ask someone?¡± Nthazes suggests.


    It¡¯s not a bad idea. In fact, it¡¯s a rather good idea. I wave to a passing runeknight, one who doesn¡¯t look too high a degree.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I ask. ¡°We¡¯d like some directions.¡±


    He slows and turns to us. His armor is of overlapping steel plates gilded with platinum and inlaid with runes of gold, though the runes are none too well written. At his hip is a short sword in a plain leather scabbard. He scratches his brown beard, which is oiled and perfumed.


    ¡°Where to?¡± he says.


    ¡°Up to that walkway,¡± I say, pointing. ¡°Do you have any idea how?¡±


    He looks at it, then shrugs. ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve ever bothered to go up there. Just find a staircase and climb it. That¡¯s how most people make their way upwards.¡±


    His accent is strange: he seems to slur all his words slightly. I don¡¯t know if this is the Allabrast accent, but I heard it a great deal in the station, so I assume so.


    ¡°Stairs will be troublesome for us,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Are there no ramps?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s lifts, over there, somewhere.¡± He points vaguely off in the rightwards direction. ¡°They¡¯ll cost you though. Besides, aren¡¯t you meant to leave the trolleys in the station?¡±


    ¡°Are we?¡± Nthazes says nervously. ¡°No one stopped us taking them out.¡±


    The runeknight shrugs. ¡°Well, who cares. They¡¯re cheap and shoddy anyhow¡ªquite frankly I don¡¯t think commoners should be allowed to touch steel. Metalcrafters! Who the hell do they think they are, eh?¡±


    He looks at us, as if expecting some word of agreement.


    ¡°Quite,¡± I say.


    ¡°Barely a step up from miners,¡± he says with disgust, then he glances along the path. ¡°Anyway, must be going now. Good luck.¡±


    He vanishes before we even have time to thank him. Nthazes frowns.


    ¡°They may be badly made, but they¡¯re still useful.¡±


    ¡°I hope we don¡¯t get in trouble for stealing them.¡±


    ¡°We can go back and return them after we¡¯re at our inn.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just hope we manage to find one before our legs give out.¡±

 Traitors Trial 6: Luck, Perhaps

    We do manage to find an inn, the Prancing Rock-Ox, and it only takes us about two short-hours¡ªthat is to say, roughly four regular hours like were used in Thanerzak¡¯s realm. We also lose six of our gold coins, two to the lift operators and four to the owner of the inn¡ªpayment for two long-hours in a shared room dug into the most upward part of the cave establishment.


    I sit down heavily on my bed. It¡¯s comfortable, far more so than the hard mattress I slept on in the fort, and the stone or wood I¡¯ve been sleeping on during the journey up here. Nthazes and I decide to rest for now, and wake in three short-hours to ask around about which of the Thanic Guard is the most approachable.


    My mind is too tired for dreams, and I wake up¡ªfrom the chime of a thinly elegant sand-timer¡ªfeeling rather refreshed. Nthazes and I climb down the ladder to the main room of the inn for a meal and some drink, and hopefully also some talk.


    ¡°Your order, sir runeknights?¡± asks the server, a pretty young dwarfess with curled blonde hair. She presents us a thin aluminum tablet with the names of various foods and alcohol on them.


    ¡°I can read the runes,¡± Nthazes says to me, ¡°but I have no idea what anything is.¡±


    I squint at the aluminum. I can guess at what a few of them are, at least. ¡°We¡¯ll have the pork jelak-zham and some beer, please,¡± I tell the server.


    ¡°Hot or cold?¡±


    ¡°Hot for me.¡± I¡¯m not in my armor, which needs another clean and polish, but a thin robe that came with the room. ¡°Nthazes?¡±


    ¡°Hot for me also.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± she says somewhat sharply, and hurries off toward the kitchens.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I shout after her. She stops. ¡°You didn''t show us any prices.¡± If there¡¯s one thing I know about inns, it¡¯s that they like to charge you through the nose for pretty much everything. ¡°How much will this set us back?¡±


    ¡°Meals are complimentary,¡± she says, then disappears.


    ¡°That¡¯s a nice surprise,¡± Nthazes says.


    ¡°Hmm. I don¡¯t quite believe her.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± I wave my hand dismissively. ¡°You know. City things. They like money up here, you know.¡±


    ¡°I can see. A lot of gold and platinum on display, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    He makes a sweeping gesture. He¡¯s not wrong: every dwarf in here, sitting around long square tables and smaller round ones, has some kind of gold, platinum, or at the very least silver worked into their armor. More than a few have every plate made out of the stuff. Good plain steel, titanium, aluminum or tungsten appears to be something they want to avoid.


    Their weapons too are fascinating to me. Mostly, as I noticed yesterday, they wear swords. The scabbards are plain leather, the dull material rather conspicuous against their fancy armor, yet down each is a wide slit to show off the weapon within. Runes of dozens of different scripts, most of which I cannot read, glow with strange lights. Some are crimson like blood, some green and shimmering like etched pools of acid¡ªsome even darkly suck in the light, similar to Heartseeker.


    I¡¯d worried that its glow would stand out, identify me to others from Thanerzak¡¯s realm, but now I doubt this¡¯ll be the case. It''s far from the most remarkable weapon in this city¡ªI spotted some very odd looking creations on the roads yesterday.


    Anyway, so what if Heartseeker betrays my identity? I¡¯m here to confess my crimes, aren¡¯t I?


    ¡°Here you are, runeknight sirs,¡± the server says on her prompt return. She sets two wide plates on the table.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I call as she hurries off, presumably to get our beers. ¡°We asked for hot!¡±


    The slabs of gray pork on our plates look very cold indeed; inert as the ceramic itself. The unidentifiable orange vegetables beside them are similarly chilled-looking. Ten seconds later, the source of the confusion becomes apparent, as the server sets down two mugs of bubbling, steaming beer.


    ¡°Some problem, sir runeknights?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Hot beer?¡± Nthazes says, frowning at the liquid in front of him.


    ¡°Hot beer?¡± I say, aghast. ¡°Hot beer?¡±


    ¡°You said hot,¡± the server snaps.


    ¡°We meant the pork, obviously!¡±


    ¡°Hot pork?¡± she says, in a tone of disgust. ¡°Pork is eaten cold, everyone knows that. It¡¯s a travel food. Salamander is the only meat eaten hot.¡±


    ¡°Not where I come from.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not there now, are you?¡±


    ¡°Could you maybe heat it up for us?¡± Nthazes asks politely.


    ¡°The cooks would refuse. You can buy something else, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°You said the meals were complimentary,¡± I say.


    ¡°One meal every long-hour is complimentary.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± I snort in disgust. ¡°I thought it¡¯d be something like that.¡±


    ¡°Would you like another meal?¡±


    ¡°No, no. We¡¯ll eat our cold pork and hot beer.¡±


    ¡°And enjoy it too,¡± she snaps, then vanishes again.


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s not so bad,¡± Nthazes says hopefully.


    We dig in. He¡¯s proven wrong. The cold pork is depressing and the hot beer vile. I think I preferred salted gelthob and mushroom tack. Still, we manage to get it down, then lean back clutching our bellies.


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    ¡°I¡¯d always thought those up above ate better than us down in the fort,¡± Nthazes says, grimacing.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure somewhere serves good food,¡± I sigh. ¡°Just not here.¡±


    ¡°Everyone else does seem to be enjoying it though.¡±


    Indeed, the dwarves crowded into the inn are throwing down their hot beers with relish. It¡¯s an ugly sight.


    ¡°We need to start talking to them,¡± I say. ¡°Find out about these Thanic Guard.¡±


    ¡°To whom, though?¡±


    I examine the groups nearest to us. To our left is a squad of five runeknights of about six or seventh degree, all in similar looking armor, with swords of solid bronze enruned with silver. Probably they¡¯re all the same guild, and there¡¯s no space at their table anyhow.


    To my right is a group equipped in armor of various types and metals, staying very silent. There is one free seat, but the atmosphere is such that I really don¡¯t want to intrude.


    Behind me is another full table. Behind Nthazes is a long table with many empty seats, and many free spaces, though again, no one is talking. I stand up to see if there¡¯s anywhere else more promising, and there isn¡¯t. Either there¡¯s no free seats, gloomy silence, or the raucous laughter and enthusiastic swigging of beer that only happens between close friends.


    ¡°We¡¯ll go to the table behind you,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s any need to whisper.¡±


    ¡°No, but it doesn¡¯t pay to be too careful. And don¡¯t talk about the darkness. We don¡¯t want to cause any kind of panic. Probably quite a few here know of Runethane Yurok and the fort, even if it is very far down.¡±


    ¡°All right, understood. You know better than me. Though, I feel that we should try to be at least a little friendly.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s talk to...¡±


    I examine the occupants of the table. Three are at least third degree, in uncommonly plain armor with few embellishments, and tight yet neat and well-composed runework on every plate and ring. They sit together with grim faces, and have long spears propped against the table. Clearly they¡¯re outsiders like us, and probably don¡¯t know much about the Thanic Guard.


    A group of five at one end are nearly polar opposites: their armor is loosely made but of fine materials, with embedded diamonds that look to be more to show off wealth than be of any runic use. They laugh as they swig their hot beer, and chat loudly, uncaring of the grim trio nearest to them.


    Something about them makes me reluctant to approach¡ªI feel we¡¯ll be laughed at for some reason, and I don¡¯t want to lose my temper. I look at the other seven occupants of the table, all sitting alone, and my eyes settle on one that sips her beer quietly, in steel and gold armor that looks to be about fifth degree in quality.


    ¡°Let¡¯s talk to her,¡± I say to Nthazes.


    ¡°A dwarfess?¡± He sounds a little worried.


    ¡°Yes, what difference does it make?¡±


    ¡°Never talked to a lady runeknight.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do the talking.¡±


    We walk up to her and I clear my throat. ¡°Excuse me,¡± I say politely.


    She gives me an irritated look¡ªmaybe a lot of dwarves like to irritate her when she¡¯s alone, though she¡¯s no beauty.


    ¡°What is it, young one?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re new in Allabrast¡ªlike most here, maybe.¡±


    ¡°And? Are you looking for a companion for your next job? I¡¯m busy, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    She turns back to her beer and steaming slab of what must be salamander.


    ¡°Just information,¡± I say. ¡°We won¡¯t bother you much, but we want to know a bit more about the Thanic Guard.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯s that then?¡±


    ¡°We have a request to make of one of them.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t bother. There¡¯s always hundreds wanting an audience with one, but they¡¯re busy forging, fighting, the usual.¡±


    ¡°Hundreds?¡± Nthazes says, somewhat incredulously.


    ¡°Of course. They¡¯re powerful first degrees¡ªeveryone wants to be friends with them. You¡¯re wasting your time.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t just any request,¡± I say.


    ¡°That¡¯s what everyone says. If you want them to listen, you¡¯ll have to offer something in return.¡±


    ¡°Like gold, I expect.¡±


    ¡°A great deal. They have a lot of it already.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°We don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Maybe if you were second or at least third degree, they might want you in their guild, or on their next battle, but you don¡¯t look quite up to that.¡±


    ¡°What about land?¡± Nthazes says, stroking his pale beard thoughtfully. ¡°These Thanic Guard, as far as I understand, are powerful enough to be Runethanes, yes?¡±


    ¡°More or less, though on the lower end of the scales.¡±


    ¡°All they lack is land to call their own. How do they usually get it?¡±


    The runeknight leans back to get a better look at us, and tilts her head curiously. ¡°You really don¡¯t know much, do you? Where are you two from?¡±


    ¡°Far below,¡± I say.


    ¡°How far?¡±


    ¡°Runethane Yurok¡¯s realm,¡± Nthazes says.


    I give him a warning glance, but he shrugs. I suppose as long as he doesn¡¯t mention the catastrophe there shouldn''t be a problem.


    ¡°That¡¯s very far down indeed,¡± she says. ¡°The farthest.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°A long way from city politics. If you could enlighten us we¡¯d be very grateful. And we do have some gold on us, to make it worth your while. You Allabrast dwarves are particularly fond of it, I hear.¡±


    She gives me a wry smile. ¡°Only because prices are so high.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll thank you accordingly,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°Very well, though I think even a child could tell you what I¡¯m about to¡ªa member of the Thanic Guard can win a realm in three ways: the Runeking can appoint him to a realm left vacant after its Runethane perishes¡ªthough this is rare, because usually one of that Runethane¡¯s commanders will take over; or he can conquer it from a Runethane of a rival Runeking; or he can search far afield for a suitable cavern, though there are very few of those, and most are full of savage beasts.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Nthazes says, and he looks at me meaningfully.


    I understand the look. The first option of the three is clearly the least dangerous, yet also likely the rarest¡ªyet we have that opportunity to offer. None of the dwarves left in the fort is strong enough to become Runethane, and so the Runeking will have no choice but to appoint one of the the Thanic Guard.


    The first one to hear of the opportunity will no doubt be very keen to make his case, and maybe he''ll be keen to bring down his friends and family and guild members too.


    ¡°You look relieved,¡± the runeknight says. She raises an eyebrow. ¡°Has something... happened, down there?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± I say. ¡°Though I would ask you not to spread rumors around.¡±


    ¡°My lips are sealed.¡±


    ¡°We need to know who we should get an audience with,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Can you recommend us one of the Thanic Guard? Someone honorable, and strong, and perhaps not overly adventurous.¡±


    She breaks into hoarse laughter. ¡°Someone like an actual guardsdwarf, you mean?¡±


    ¡°If you put it like that, yes.¡±


    ¡°None of the Thanic Guard are like that. You don¡¯t become powerful without an adventurous spirit, guardians against the deep darkness¡ªthat¡¯s what you two are, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Nthazes says proudly.


    ¡°Well, I can recommend you someone strong and honorable at least: Halmak. He¡¯s in charge of the district north of this one.¡±


    ¡°What sort of a dwarf is he?¡± I ask, thinking of Vanerak.


    ¡°Sturdy, and an expert in bronze-working and the four scripts of lost Matmarak. Friendly enough for a first degree. His mind hasn¡¯t been completely warped by the heat of the forges, though he has a couple of quirks.¡±


    ¡°What quirks?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Nothing serious. He can¡¯t stand the cold to a terrible degree, is all. Has runes of fire grafted to the inside of his armor. At least, that¡¯s what the rumors say.¡±


    ¡°You think he¡¯ll listen to us?¡± Nthazes says eagerly.


    The runeknight raises her eyebrow. ¡°If you¡¯re insinuating what I think you are, of course,¡± she says quietly.


    ¡°How can we approach him?¡± I ask.


    ¡°He¡¯s the leader of my guild¡ªI can ask him.¡±


    I narrow my eyes. ¡°That¡¯s why you were so quick to recommend him.¡±


    ¡°No need to be so suspicious,¡± she says hurriedly, somewhat taken aback by the glower I¡¯m giving her. ¡°The Runeking will make the final decision, and you can always talk to another one of the guard, if you¡¯re unhappy with Halmak. I don¡¯t think you will be, though.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± I say.


    ¡°There¡¯s no reason not to give him a chance,¡± Nthazes says, nudging me.


    ¡°Though I warn you,¡± says the runeknight, ¡°that if you turn out to be lying, or deceiving him in any way, he is quick to anger.¡±


    ¡°We are not lying, and have everything we need to prove our tale,¡± Nthazes tells her. "Well, Zathar?"


    I tug on my beard. This seems like a very great stroke of luck. Too great a stroke of luck. Then again, like Nthazes says, there''s no reason not to give this Halmak a chance. If this is quickest way to get reinforcements down to the fort, we''d be fools to reject it.


    "Agreed," I say. "We''ll give you a chance."

 Traitors Trial 7: The Red Anvil Guild

    The lady runeknight¡ªHelnat is her name¡ªagrees to take us to her guild once she finishes repairing her helmet, apparently cut badly on her last expedition. I leave Nthazes to explain some of the details of what happened down in the fort, so that she can hopefully get her guild seniors to agree to arrange a private meeting, while I return our trolleys to the station.


    I try to suppress my misgivings¡ªcan we really trust her?¡ªand take in the sights and sounds of the grand city. It¡¯s just as overwhelming as it was when I first stepped out the station. It¡¯s just as busy also, crowded with gangs of runeknights or rich commoners chatting amiably or else rushing to the next pub, eatery, music house, or theater. The windows in the pillars are etched to signal what lies inside: food and drink, instruments, overly-tall dwarves in silly costumes.


    This Fireflea District truly is one of leisure. The concept of having an entire district dedicated to this is strange to me. There was nothing like it in Thanerzak¡¯s city, nor in Broderick¡¯s. Everything there was geared to trade or war, and even the trade was geared to war. They were cities on the brink, frontier realms, and had barely known peace for the whole of their existence.


    Allabrast has not known war for several millennia since Runeking Ulrike came to power, and even during the days of his rise there was not so much bloodshed. From what Feltram told me of his history, he took his position with little fighting. His Crown of Eyes was recognized as the masterpiece it is by all. His predecessor fell on his own sword from the shame of being outmatched so badly.


    Feltram told me a little about the Crown of Eyes also. It''s a band of gold with runes worked so finely you''d need a magnifying lens to read them, and its points are sharp as swords. These details are insubstantial though. What makes it a craft worthy of kingship are the famous eyes, crystals grown painstakingly into perfect spheres, also enruned¡ªsome say the runes in them were grown also, not carved.


    And those spheres have their siblings all over the city. We were in a hurry yesterday, so I didn''t catch sight of the Eyes, but now, as I run the trolleys along the paths and walkways, I spot them everywhere. Placed secretly into little streetlamps, set high into the cavern roof, into guardrails¡ªthey are everywhere. Each is a translucent, milky-white sphere set with a black ellipsis in the center.


    The Runeking can look out of these Eyes to observe his subjects. Some claim he is always looking out of them, though I can¡¯t imagine that to be true. Surely so much movement is too much for any one dwarf to concentrate on? His crown''s true strength comes in war, on those rare occasions he goes forth himself, for then he can observe the whole battlecavern, every tunnel and trail, from Eyes carried atop the standards of his forces.


    For now though, he is in his palace-foundry, working on who knows what awesome craft. I doubt he has much time to spend observing the movements of his citizens¡ªyet even so the Eyes, which seem to follow me as I walk, make me uneasy, even if the other dwarves are paying them no regard.


    After returning the trolleys to the station, trying not to be seen by the attendants lest they attempt to wrangle another silver or two from me, I make my way back up to the inn. I take a circuitous route, and end up close enough to the edge of the Fireflea District that I can see past the final few pillars.


    Beyond are straight canals of molten metal, glowing bright, illuminating sturdy squarish buildings. Many of these look to be shops by their signage and glass windows. Forging supplies! How long has it been since I entered such a store? Or, indeed, any store?


    It turns out, I learn after I return to Nthazes and Helnat, that this district is the one governed by Thanic Guardsdwarf Halmak. It¡¯s called the Bronze District, a rather ordinary name, but an appropriate one, since the molten rivers flowing down it are of tin and copper.


    After we clean up our armor, we head to it.


    ¡°Residents pay to have part of the flow diverted to them, so they can create the alloys themselves,¡± Helnat explains as we walk over a bridge of dark stone. Bright copper runs underneath, radiating incredible heat; I¡¯ve taken my helmet off but my beard still drips with sweat.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that the foundry workers¡¯ job?¡± I say.


    ¡°It was fifty or so years ago, but now there¡¯s a fad of making the bars yourself.¡± She scowls unpleasantly. ¡°Slippery slope if you ask me¡ªnext we¡¯ll be crushing the rocks ourselves, then mining them out ourselves... A lot of runeknights are experimenting with enruning the alloys as they cool, including our guildmaster, but I¡¯ve never seen the point.¡±


    ¡°What I don¡¯t get,¡± says Nthazes, ¡°is why your guildmaster isn¡¯t considered a Runethane. Doesn¡¯t he govern this district?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but the final authority falls to the Runeking.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that the same with the Runethanes¡¯ realms?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No, not at all. You really don¡¯t learn much about politics down in the depths, do you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°It¡¯s different. A Runethane swears allegiance to a Runeking, but what goes on in his realm is his own responsibility.¡±


    ¡°Then how does the Runeking have power over him?¡± I ask.


    ¡°The Runethane will still do what is asked of him, because the Runeking gives him protection. The other realms agree to come to his aid if he¡¯s attacked. It¡¯s an alliance¡ªthough one that can¡¯t be broken from easily.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll always come to his aid, ay?¡± I say in a low voice. ¡°Always?¡±


    She gives me a dark look. ¡°From what I¡¯ve heard, you deep dwarves were fiercely independent. Barely even under Runeking Ulrike¡¯s authority. Never showing to important councils, and such.¡±


    I guess she thinks I''m talking about Runethane Yurok, though I was thinking of Thanerzak¡¯s desperate fight against Broderick.


    ¡°That¡¯ll change,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°Runethane Yurok... Well, I told you before. He had some strange ideas, which we of course respected, since he was our Runethane, but in the end... Well, I think some changes might be welcomed.¡±


    Helnat nods. ¡°We¡¯ll see what Halmak has to say. If we manage to get an audience with him, that is. Usually he¡¯s too busy forging to talk much.¡±


    ¡°Who isn¡¯t?¡± I laugh.


    <hr>


    The guildhouse of the Red Anvil lies in the center of the district. It¡¯s an octagonal pyramid, tall and thin like a stalagmite. It''s inscribed with massive runes of bronze down each of its faces. They read:


    Copper cheap and red as blood


    Tin cheap and white like teeth


    Together bronze


    One in two and two in one


    Metals weak and metal strong


    Wrought in flame


    Pay no mind to shining steel


    Wrought of bronze our weapons are


    They¡¯re in Bezethast script, famous for its lengthiness, verbosity and general redundancy; there are about a hundred runes on each side of the pyramid, all to make that rather simple poem¡ªyet I don¡¯t doubt its power. A dwarf on the brink of ascending to Runethane would not have something of inferior quality inscribed upon his guildhall. And bronze, though weaker than steel, is well-known to take on runic scripts of extreme length very well.


    Helnat leads us through the triangular entrance. Unlike most guildhalls, there is no long table laid with beer and meat, hearth, and a crowd of runeknights. Instead we stand at the lip of a crater in the floor, an ashen hollow strewn with tools and materials. In its center is the greatest anvil I''ve ever seen, longer than I am tall. It glows red, though not the red of hot iron. It is like a ruby lit from within.


    ¡°Strange,¡± says Helnat. ¡°He¡¯s not forging at the moment. Must be taking a rare rest.¡±


    ¡°Will he be much delayed?¡± Nthazes asks.


    ¡°Probably not,¡± Helnat answers as she leads us up a stairway to the second floor. ¡°He only sleeps once every long-hour, and never for very long.¡±


    The second floor is more ordinary. Here are hearths and tables, and food and beer, and dwarves at talk or rest. We get a few odd glances, but most don''t see us, since most of the seats face to the center of the room, where there''s a hollow in the floor. Through it shines the glow of the red anvil.


    ¡°Is Halmak the only one who uses the anvil?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Will we wait for him?¡± Nthazes asks.


    ¡°No. We have to go through the guild elders. Unfortunately.¡±


    This Halmak must be a strange dwarf, I think as I look across at the great glowing anvil. Most dwarves hate to see others watch them work, most especially those of high degrees, who do not want their secrets stolen or runes copied. Maybe this Halmak is so confident in his power that he believes no one could replicate his work even if they were to observe every last detail of it.


    Helnat leads us up another flight of stairs, then several more. We pass a window. The rivers of metal below are like a network of glowing veins.


    We travel up several more stairs, and then we meet a guard. I¡¯d guess him to be about third degree¡ªhis bronze armor is finely worked with a complicated poem utilizing several scripts I¡¯m not familiar with, and the edges of his two swords, visible through rectangular slats in his scabbards, gleam an unnatural shade of violet.


    ¡°Greetings, Helnat,¡± he says in a bored voice. ¡°What brings you all the way up here? And who are our guests?¡±


    ¡°Well met, Makthar. I need to have a talk with the elders. These two seek an audience with our guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°They do, do they?¡± Makthar looks us over, and seems none too impressed, not even by Nthazes bright mace. ¡°New applicants to the guild, I imagine?¡±


    ¡°No. They have an opportunity for us.¡±


    ¡°You mean they want to pay their way in?¡± Makthar gives a derisive snort. ¡°Not again.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± says Nthazes. ¡°You misunderstand. This opportunity is not about money. It¡¯s about land.¡±


    ¡°Land?¡±


    ¡°A large piece of it,¡± I say. ¡°We know your guildmaster will be interested.¡±


    The guard tilts his head. ¡°How large? And it comes with the mineral rights also?¡±


    ¡°I presume so,¡± says Nthazes.


    ¡°I see. Though our guild already owns a fair bit of land.¡±


    ¡°Not as much as this.¡±


    ¡°How much are we talking, then?¡±


    ¡°Just let us in already, Makthar,¡± Helnat says. ¡°You¡¯ve no right to deny me a meeting with the elders. I¡¯m fifth degree now.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need to talk to them,¡± Makthar says, shrugging. ¡°You can ask Halmak directly. He¡¯s meeting with them right now¡ªyou can give him your proposal at the end.¡±


    ¡°He is?¡± Helnat says in surprise.


    ¡°Yes. There¡¯s been some issue with the tin pumps, and also our profits off this ridiculous scheme to provide everyone with molten bronze aren¡¯t quite what the elders hoped for.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous scheme? Those are strong words to criticize our guildmaster with.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re his own words. If you ask me, he¡¯s sick of this place. Full of ¡®ungrateful bastards who won¡¯t cough up the coin we deserve¡¯. Those were his words too.¡± He gives me and Nthazes a meaningful look. ¡°Maybe this opportunity of yours is just what he¡¯s looking for.¡±


    Nthazes can''t help but smile. I do not¡ªI feel nervous. This all seems far too lucky, far too easy. Success is not won without blood and sweat, or at the very least sweat. Can the second dwarf we''ve met in this city really be the one to lead us to a saviour of the fort?


    Surely there''s some kind of catch here.

 Traitors Trial 8: The Past Reaches The Present

    It¡¯s said that rumor has wings in most places, but in Allabrast it is the wind. A caravan hauler, name of Fogtak, sitting in a bar in the Brown Granite District, a dank cavern some way below the central station, is about to prove this to devastating consequences.


    He¡¯s just come up from a fast, interesting, somewhat disturbing yet also rather easy journey from the realm of Runethane Yurok¡ªwho is, he¡¯s gathered from overhearing the talk of the runeknight drivers, dead. This is almost certainly bad news for those below, he feels, but doesn¡¯t much care about it. The runeknights will sort it out; nothing he can do.


    But it does make for an interesting tale to tell. Fogtak and his mates are sitting around a stone table in one of the cheaper bars of the district, playing rails, betting heavily, drinking more heavily, and he¡¯s belting out the tale loud enough for everyone in the bar, and probably out on the street also, to hear.


    ¡°...then I hear they want to see the Runeking directly!¡± Fogtak says. ¡°Hah! What''s old Ulrike going to say when those two stroll in to the palace, eh? Some tale!¡±


    ¡°As if he ever needs to talk,¡± another hauler says. ¡°All he does is blink I hear, and all the runeknights jump right to!¡±


    ¡°Sounds like how your wife treats you!¡± barks another.


    There is raucous laughter.


    ¡°These deep ones, ay?¡± says Fogtak, shaking his head. ¡°They¡¯re mad.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± agrees one of his friends. ¡°Crazed. It''s not normal for your beard to go white that young.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ªthough one of the two that came up had black hair.¡±


    ¡°That''s odd.¡±


    ¡°It is." Fogtak lowers his voice. "I always thought they didn''t allow anyone from too high up down there. I heard that if your beard is too dark, they cut your head off!¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid,¡± someone else says. ¡°I never got my head cut off on my trips down there.¡±


    ¡°Wonder how he ended up there.¡±


    ¡°By caravan, obviously.¡± The hauler rolls the dice, curses, moves one of his pieces another length of the rail. ¡°Your turn, Fogtak.¡±


    Fogtak takes the dice, rolls an eight, sweeps a few of his opponents¡¯ pieces off while grinning broadly.


    ¡°Think this one is in the box!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah.¡±


    ¡°He didn''t come down by caravan, from what I heard. Walked down.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°The runeknight I was talking about, with the black beard. You need to clean your ears out.¡±


    ¡°Who cares. My turn for a tale¡ª¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t finished!¡± Fogtak says, scowling. The only thing he likes more than winning at rails is listening to the sound of his own voice. ¡°He walked down¡ªfrom Thanerzak¡¯s realm, that¡¯s right! The one that got blasted by the dragon!¡±


    The other haulers laugh loudly.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd,¡± one says. ¡°He¡¯d have got run over.¡±


    ¡°I think he went down through the natural caverns. That¡¯s the impression I got.¡±


    ¡°He''d have been eaten by trolls. Sounds like you¡¯re the one who needs his ears cleaned out.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he¡¯s just lying,¡± the dwarf doing the worst at rails says. ¡°Fogtak said this dwarf¡¯s spear was black as well. But they all wield shiny glowy weapons down there.¡±


    Fogtak argues very loudly with that dwarf, and they nearly comes to blows, and then actually do once the game is up and the other haulers find the extra pieces up Fogtak¡¯s sleeves. By that time, a dwarf who was sat at the neighboring table, a down-on-his-luck seventh degree, has rushed out to his guild.


    ¡°You¡¯ll never believe what I heard,¡± he says, breathless, to the first senior member who will listen. ¡°You¡¯ll never believe it!¡±


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°What?¡± she says crossly, sipping her pint. She was just about to get back to forging, and now this idiot is here talking at her.


    ¡°There were haulers saying there was a dwarf from our realm with a black spear and that he¡¯d walked all the way down from our realms and was in some deep fort or other and that he had a black beard and blue eyes. A black spear!¡±


    Jalat, third degree runeknight in the Troglodyte Slayers, or at least what¡¯s left of them, frowns deeply.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure!¡±


    ¡°That was before your time though.¡±


    ¡°I was an initiate, it was my time! I remember him! And I know...¡±


    Jalat stands up. ¡°That Vanerak wants him.¡±


    ¡°I caught the rumor first!¡± the seventh degree says quickly. ¡°I want my reward too!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get it,¡± she says as she stands up, ¡°just so long as you keep your mouth shut about it for a while.¡±


    ¡°I need some gems; diamond, ruby...¡± he begins, but she¡¯s already dashing off.


    A dwarf with a black spear! Could it be? Could it be the same who killed her brother, and more importantly, it¡¯s rumored, the one who betrayed Thanerzak¡¯s vaults to the dragon?


    That tale was one spread from some of Broderick¡¯s dwarves, babbling about some key or other, during the temporary peace just after the devastation. No one took it seriously until Vanerak put out an order stating that the dwarf in question must be arrested.


    What was his name again? Zathar?


    Jalat rushes up and out of Grokfust district into the bright lights of Diamond-Cut ravine, elbows her way through the well-off commoners that throng there, exits, makes her way through several more districts¡ªAllabrast is enormous, not at all comparable to the city of Thanerzak¡ªand eventually makes it into Obsidian District, Vanerak¡¯s domain.


    She does not particularly like Vanerak. In fact, she is afraid of him. But he has grown rich and powerful between the devastation and now, and she knows that if the rumor turns out to be true, he will reward her handsomely.


    And more importantly, the survivors of the black dragon will get the answers and justice they deserve.


    <hr>


    The guard Makthar opens the door and lets us into the meeting chamber, though not before warning us to stay quiet until we¡¯re spoken to. It¡¯s a surprisingly small room, but no less grand for it. Warm yellow light pours onto a diamond-encrusted table from a chandelier of hexagonal beryls. The walls are a mosaic of platinum, silver, gold and tastefully rusted bronze, that depicts the slayings of great beasts. The floor is thickly carpeted by some fabric that feels and looks very expensive.


    The twelve runeknights seated around the table are impressive. Each is armored in bronze, and the runes on their plates are predominately Bezethast script writ so fine I can barely make it out. It imbues their armor with an awesome sense of solidity and weight. I have no doubt that even the thinnest plates could turn Heartseeker¡¯s blows with ease.


    Eleven of them look rather unhappy. The twelfth is in a fury.


    ¡°I thought you said the tin from smeltery three was of double pure quality!¡± fumes Guildmaster Halmak. ¡°And now you tell me some are complaining it¡¯s two points below single pure!¡±


    ¡°It is of double pure quality,¡± insists one of the elders¡ªeven though they''re called that, they only look as old as any other runeknight with an amulet of unaging. ¡°They contaminated the samples they sent in on purpose. They¡¯re trying to cheat us.¡±


    ¡°Baltezan¡¯s family is honorable. They wouldn¡¯t cheat us.¡±


    ¡°Baltezan is honorable,¡± says another elder, whose beard is bound with bronze chains. ¡°His family less so.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t for a moment think they¡¯re trying to cheat us. It¡¯s the smeltery operator¡ªwe should have kept this business inside the guild!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve inspected the smeltery myself,¡± says the elder with chains in his beard. ¡°There were no irregularities; the tin was pure.¡±


    ¡°Maybe while you were looking on it was!¡±


    ¡°I see no reason to doubt the operators. They are honorable, and Baltezan¡¯s sons¡¯ reputations as cheats are well-founded.¡±


    Guildmaster Halmak throws a counter-argument, about how this Baltezan keeps his sons under a firm hand; the elders argue their own points. The discussion continues for a while. It becomes even more heated. I flinch at a couple points when Halmak becomes enraged enough to stand and start flinging insults.


    He¡¯s quite short, barely four feet, yet this does nothing to diminish his presence. His armor burns fiery bright, the lines of gold wrought into the bronze a vivid red like living blood. Though it does not quite have the solidity I feel from the others¡¯ plates, I get the impression that its offensive power is unmatched. Doubtless the runes enhance his strength many time over¡ªnecessary for him to wield the great warhammer displayed on the wall behind his chair, whose head is about the same size as his own. Spikes of diamond gleam on it.


    It¡¯s during one of these angry outbursts that he spots us standing beside the door in the shadows.


    ¡°Who are you lot?¡± he yells. ¡°This is a senior guild meeting¡ª¡± His eyes narrow. ¡°You two are not even guild members! And you, who are you again? Why have you brought them here?¡±


    ¡°I am Helnat, fifth degree. These two dwarves have a tale they wish to tell you.¡±


    ¡°A tale?¡± Halmak glowers. ¡°You intrude upon this serious business for a tale?¡±


    ¡°An offer!¡± Nthazes says quickly. ¡°We have a most solemn offer for you, Thanic Guardsdwarf Halmak.¡±


    ¡°Business enquiries are to be done though the proper channels,¡± snaps the elder with chains in his beard. ¡°Helnat, you ought to know this.¡±


    Helnat, undaunted by their anger, says: ¡°This offer is of a most sensitive nature. And if you wish to blame someone for our intrusion, blame Makthar, who let us in.¡±


    ¡°He will be disciplined,¡± Halmak fumes. ¡°As will you, Helnat.¡±


    ¡°You may not wish to discipline anyone after you hear our offer,¡± I say, stepping forward and looking the angry guildmaster in the eye.


    Halmak frowns; he seems slightly taken aback by my boldness.


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    ¡°I think it is so,¡± I say, swallowing. The eyes of everyone are now boring into me. ¡°I think you will find our offer¡ªworth hearing, at least.¡±


    ¡°Then let us hear it,¡± says the elder with chains in his beard. ¡°Quickly, if you will.¡±

 Traitors Trial 8.2: The Past Reaches Zathar

    ¡°Do you know of the realm of Runethane Yurok, and the fort against the deep darkness?¡± Nthazes begins.


    ¡°Ay, I know of it,¡± says Halmak. ¡°Though I can¡¯t say I know much about it. A rather out of the way place, is it not?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s far, yes.¡±


    ¡°Are we to believe you hail from the fort?¡± asks one of the elders.


    ¡°Yes, we do. We have just come from there.¡±


    ¡°I was led to believe your vigil never paused,¡± says Halmak. ¡°I have only once met one of you.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane¡¯s chamberlain, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess,¡± says an elder wearily. ¡°You are here to request reinforcements. I¡¯ve heard it is difficult to persuade... immigration down to the lower depths.¡±


    ¡°In a manner of speaking,¡± Nthazes says. ¡°However¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are not the first to petition our guild in such a manner,¡± continues the elder, cutting him off. ¡°Our guild¡¯s services are requested by many, yet we do not send our members into danger lightly.¡±


    ¡°We also like things to be done through the proper channels,¡± another says, darkly.


    ¡°That may be the case,¡± Nthazes says nervously, ¡°However, our situation¡ª¡±


    The elder whose beard is wrapped in chains opens his mouth to interrupt again; Halmak raises his hand for silence.


    ¡°Let them speak!¡± he commands.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± Nthazes says.


    ¡°You should get to the point quickly,¡± Helnat whispers to him. Nthazes nods.


    ¡°Our situation is that a terrible disaster has befallen our fort.¡±


    ¡°What kind of disaster?¡± asks Halmak. ¡°Disasters are not uncommon in the underworld, sadly.¡±


    ¡°Runethane Yurok is dead,¡± I say suddenly and sharply. ¡°He led an expedition too deep below and the darkness took him.¡±


    Halmak¡¯s eyes widen. So do those of the elders.


    ¡°You can all see what this means,¡± I continue. ¡°There is an opportunity to gain a realm, to become Runethane¡ªall runeknights of the fort third degree and above were killed.¡±


    Some whispering starts. I cut it off.


    ¡°This is terrible news for all. Both us and you!¡±


    I need to create a sense of urgency, or I have the feeling these dwarves will end up discussing the ins and outs of the situation endlessly, and the quicker we can get them to agree the better. Who knows how quickly the darkness might recover?


    ¡°We have brought it to you first, because we believe you will be best suited to the honorable duty ruling the fort demands.¡± I bow deeply to Halmak. ¡°We hope you will be able to take us up on the offer, before we take it to the other members of the Thanic Guard.¡±


    The elders and Halmak blink at me in shock.


    ¡°Is this true?¡± one demands. ¡°We have not heard the news of the fall of another realm!¡±


    ¡°It will reach Allabrast soon enough,¡± Nthazes said. ¡°We requested that it be spread to all the Runethanes below the capital.¡±


    ¡°The Runeking must know immediately!¡± says another. ¡°Why have you not brought this to him?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not so easy for runeknights of our low standing to get an audience with him,¡± I say. ¡°It was hard enough getting an audience with you.¡±


    ¡°I will tell the Runeking,¡± says Halmak. ¡°Forthwith, yet I must know more details.¡± He eyes us both curiously. ¡°What was the nature of this expedition that went too deep? And what is this darkness you defend against anyway? If we are to¡ª¡±


    ¡°You cannot be serious!¡± cries one of the elders. ¡°You sound as if you are interested in this mad offer¡ªwhich is not really an offer.¡± He glowers at me. ¡°The Runeking appoints Runethanes in these cases, not fourth degrees.¡±


    I bow my head in apology. ¡°Of course he does. And I am yet a fifth degree. I apologize for the misunderstanding¡ªif honored Guildmaster Halmak wishes to apply for the position, it will of course be confirmed by the Runeking, as is the proper way of things.¡±


    ¡°Will be confirmed?¡± says another elder, the one closest to us. ¡°You presume too much, dwarves of the deep. Both regarding our guildmaster and the Runeking. Relocating the entire guild¡ª¡±


    ¡°Let them speak!¡± Halmak roars, standing up again¡ªthe runes on his bronze glow redly as he moves. ¡°I will hear more about this fort.¡± There is a hungry gleam in his eyes. ¡°Tell me more of this expedition that went too deep, deep dwarves.¡±


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    Nthazes tells it in full, from the mysterious murders, to the hunt for the almergris, to our delving below and failure, and the final unmasking of Fjalar whose evil was the catalyst for all the terrible events which befell us. As the tale progresses, Halmak leans forward by degrees. He seems curious to a frightening extent.


    Nthazes finishes, yet Halmak doesn¡¯t sit down. He nods his head. The elders look at him with worry in their eyes.


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± he murmurs. ¡°A fascinating place.¡±


    ¡°A dark and dangerous place,¡± one of the elders says in a low voice. ¡°Guildmaster¡ª¡±


    ¡°We will think on this,¡± says Halmak.


    ¡°You will?¡± Nthazes says, his eyes lighting up. ¡°Thank you most graciously.¡±


    ¡°We will?¡± says the elder with chains in his beard. ¡°My guildmaster, this tale, if it be true, crafts a story of an evil and foreboding realm. I feel it would be folly to go there. No matter what position you gain.¡±


    ¡°To become a Runethane is no easy task, no matter what realm you take,¡± says Halmak.


    ¡°This realm is small.¡±


    ¡°So it may be, Brezakh, yet maybe it doesn¡¯t have to remain so... There is opportunity here.¡±


    Nthazes frowns. ¡°What do you speak of?¡±


    ¡°I must learn more of your fort to know. We will discuss this further at a later hour, deep dwarves.¡±


    I quickly bow, and Nthazes follows suit. ¡°We are most grateful for your consideration, guildmaster.¡±


    Halmak clicks his gauntleted fingers at Helnat. The red-runed bronze sparks.


    ¡°Yes, guildmaster?¡±


    ¡°Find lodgings here for these two. Their meals and beds are to be free of charge, and they are free to use our forges as they see fit. We will have many discussions. This arrangement could be convenient for all of us.¡±


    <hr>


    And thus we move into the Red Anvil¡¯s guildhall¡ªor rather guildtower. Helnat assists us, with some reluctance¡ªI get the feeling she was rather sick of being cooped up in her guild and had been enjoying her holiday in the Fireflea District.


    Our new rooms are plush, quite far up in the tower, and have running hot water. A far cry from the living conditions I am used to; it¡¯s clear that Halmak is keen for us to stay and not deliver news of this opportunity to other members of the Thanic Guard.


    This is indeed a tremendous stroke of luck. He wants to help us.


    But I am beginning to see the catch.


    My impression of Thanic Guardsdwarf Halmak is certainly a good one. He¡¯s strong-willed yet not overbearing, an incredibly talented smith uncommonly happy to share his secrets, a fair judge when it comes to wrongdoing, and generous with his immense wealth. I see no signs of cruelty from him, and hear no cruel stories about him either. The dwarves of the Red Anvil are proud to call him guildmaster.


    Yet all the same, there¡¯s a greed about him. He asks questions about what minerals are found in the rocks around the fort, about how quickly caravans can make it up, about what rare fungi and creatures dwell in the caves above it. Most uncomfortable for Nthazes, who looks pained every time they are asked, are his questions about the lost city below and its chained sorcerer.


    ¡°Don''t worry. I am not considering any kind of immediate attack,¡± says Halmak. ¡°I am simply doubtful of the logic of an endless defense.¡±


    ¡°Defense is our tradition,¡± Nthazes says stubbornly. ¡°Runethane Yurok died when he broke it.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Of course. And I will respect your traditions. But you must understand that I must consider everything...¡±


    As the discussions continue, I grow worried for Nthazes and the other deep dwarves. It has become clear that Halmak has great plans for the fort if he gains it: no longer will it be a fort, but a city of industry¡ªminerals will be mined, fungi farmed, even the vicious forest above will be tamed and its creatures exported to arenas all throughout the underworld.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t understand,¡± Nthazes complains to me one night¡ªthe last quarter of each long-hour is treated as such. ¡°The fort is not an enterprise. It exists for the protection of all above.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll find anyone up here who¡¯ll see it that way. Like Feltram warned us: up here they care for money.¡±


    He looks at me suspiciously. ¡°You don¡¯t seem all that concerned.¡±


    ¡°I am! Believe me, I want the best for you all. And I don¡¯t ever want to hear of a repeat of that expedition.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    He looks glumly into his cup. Red light from the fireplace plays across his face and beard.


    ¡°There will be changes,¡± I say. ¡°I think that¡¯s inevitable. With only eleven left¡ªand me gone, that¡¯ll make ten¡ªthe reinforcements will change things, whoever they are. They¡¯ll think differently.¡±


    ¡°We should approach others of the Thanic Guard. Maybe there¡¯ll be someone who takes our duty more seriously. We¡¯re doing the fort a disservice by restricting ourselves.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re probably right. But I don¡¯t think he isn¡¯t taking this seriously. If he claims the realm, he¡¯ll want to keep it safe.¡±


    ¡°Can he keep it safe though? That¡¯s the real question.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not as if this is decided yet anyway. The Runeking will make the final decision.¡±


    ¡°Will he? From what I gather, he rarely even attends councils in person. Just views through his eyes and sends a letter down occasionally. Too busy forging.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s held things together for more than a thousand years. He¡¯s doing something right.¡±


    I stand up and yawn. I still can¡¯t get used to the warped sleep schedule of Allabrast. Converted to normal terms, they stay awake for a day straight, have a short nap, stay awake for nearly two days, and only then have a normal sleep. All in all, they get rather less rest than I¡¯m used to.


    ¡°I¡¯m heading back to my room.¡±


    ¡°Sleep well,¡± says Nthazes. ¡°Hope you have better dreams than I¡¯ve been having.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll turn out fine in the end,¡± I reassure him. ¡°Tell you what: I¡¯ll ask around town a bit tomorrow, see if any of the other Thanic Guard seem promising.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    I leave his room, and just as I''m about to enter my own, someone calls for me.


    ¡°Zathar?¡±


    I turn. One of the lower ranked dwarves of the guild is standing in the corridor. He looks nervous.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s someone asking for you down at the entrance to the guild.¡±


    My heart jumps. Has Vanerak found me?


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°He says his name is Wharoth.¡±


    I sense my mouth open slightly. Tears sting in my eyes. An intense feeling of hope floods into me.


    ¡°Guildmaster Wharoth?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Of the Association of Steel, he says.¡±


    I blink the tears out of my eyes. Can it be? Can he be?


    ¡°Do you want to see him?¡± the dwarf says. He swallows. ¡°He¡¯s waiting just outside the guild entrance.¡±


    ¡°Take me to him!¡± I blurt out.


    The dwarf hurries me down the spiraling stairs. Can it be true? Can Guildmaster Wharoth really be alive, and here? What am I going to say to him?


    Will he forgive my crimes? I steel myself to meet him. The dwarf hurries me through the meal hall, past the red anvil, through the doors of the guildtower.


    A bag is thrown over my head; my arms are pinned behind my back at the same instant I feel a cold blade at my neck. Armorless and weaponless, I can do nothing as my assailants wrestle me into a waiting carriage. My face is pressed into rough wood, then we are speeding down the street.


    To where, I do not know.

 Traitors Trial 9: Carriage Chase

    ¡°Who the hell are you?¡± I shout. ¡°Where¡¯s Guildmaster Wharoth? Did he order this? Where are you taking me?¡±


    ¡°Shut up, traitor,¡± says the dwarf with a knife at my neck. The runes on it are humming slightly¡ªI don¡¯t doubt that the merest touch could slice right through me, unarmored as I am.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I cry desperately. "Who the hell are you?"


    ¡°I said shut up!¡±


    ¡°Maybe he wants an early execution,¡± comes another voice. ¡°I¡¯ll give it to him if you won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°No execution,¡± warns someone at the front of the carriage. ¡°Not a cut on him.¡±


    Cold sweat prickles on my skin and I begin to feel faint. These aren''t just thugs out for revenge. They want me unharmed for a reason¡ªand I don''t think Guildmaster Wharoth would ever stoop this low. Could Vanerak be behind this? Maybe. Probably. Who else would remember what guild I belonged to fifteen years ago?


    The two holding me down shut up. The journey continues, jarringly fast. The carriage shivers as it runs along rough roads. We''re swung left then right as it makes mad turns. Down we go, then up so far I fret that we¡¯ve gone right out of Allabrast, then we start going down again.


    ¡°Shit!¡± shouts the dwarf at the front. The carriage grinds to a halt; I hear the blindboar squealing. ¡°Road¡¯s blocked!¡±


    ¡°By what?¡± shouts the one with the knife to me.


    ¡°Another carriage¡ªsomeone¡¯s getting out. Shit!¡±


    I¡¯m thrown sideways as the driver executes a tight turn. I nearly roll over but one of the dwarves leans hard on my back to hold me firmly in place¡ªthey won¡¯t give me even the slightest chance to escape. The blindboar squeals again and we accelerate violently.


    ¡°Look back!¡± the driver shouts. ¡°Are they chasing us?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    Who is it? Has Halmak somehow sent someone out to rescue me? That doesn¡¯t make any sense. How would they have got here so fast? Maybe Guildmaster Wharoth? I don¡¯t even know if he¡¯s alive though. It¡¯s clear they just used his name to trick me into coming out.


    The carriage makes another sharp turn, and I feel us skid sideways. The floor tips nearly ninety degrees, then we slam back down. The knife nicks my cheek and I feel blood run down into my beard.


    ¡°Still after us!¡± shouts the dwarf pinning me down.


    ¡°Who the hell are they?¡± yells the driver.


    ¡°No idea, but it¡¯s a good carriage. And the driver looks to be third degree at least.¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    ¡°Can we lose them before we get into Obsidian?¡±


    The driver doesn¡¯t answer, but screams:


    ¡°Fucking hell!¡±


    We slam to a stop. I and the two others in the carriage are thrown forward. I smash into hard wood. My skull feels like it''s just cracked. It¡¯s so painful I can no longer think. I lie there groaning while the others climb to their feet.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± one shouts.


    ¡°Another carriage!¡±


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    "A second one?"


    "Yes!"


    The driver tries to turn, then the blindboar squeals and gurgles¡ªsounds like on its own blood. The driver yells and his yell is cut short.


    ¡°Get them!¡± cries one of my captors, and I hear a weapon being drawn.


    There comes the sound of metal on metal, then a scream, then the voice of the remaining captor begging for his life.


    ¡°Shut it!¡± comes a new voice. ¡°Drag him away! And get the one in the carriage!¡±


    The carriage doors are wrenched open and I¡¯m pulled out into the cold. There¡¯s no knife at my throat this time, but the steel grip on my upper arm is strong as a vise. There¡¯s no escaping from whoever this lot are either.


    Almost immediately I¡¯m being pushed into another carriage. This time, at least, I¡¯m not thrown to the floor but instead forced onto a bench.


    ¡°Hold up your hands!¡± someone barks.


    I obey, and cold cuffs are tightened around my wrists. Two more are tightened around my ankles. They seem to be fixed to the wall by short chains¡ªI¡¯m helpless now.


    ¡°Please, no, I was only doing what I was told!¡±


    One of my original captors is now being pulled into the carriage. I hear clicks between his sobs as he¡¯s chained up next to me.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± shouts the dwarf chaining him. ¡°You¡¯re under arrest for kidnapping.¡±


    ¡°I was only doing what my guild told me to!¡±


    ¡°Runeking Ulrike rules Allabrast, not your guild. Shut it!¡±


    The dwarf shuts up. Cold steel fingers reach behind my neck and the bag is lifted from my head. In front of me is a runeknight, helmeted, with grim eyes and a bloody axe at his belt. He examines my face and beard, but makes no remark before sitting on the bench opposite me.


    ¡°He¡¯s uninjured,¡± he calls to the front. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°What about the mess?¡±


    ¡°Squad two can clean it up. I didn''t make so much.¡±


    There¡¯s a slight jolt as this new carriage takes off. Once again, we¡¯re rumbling through the city, though at a slower pace this time. I look sideways at the dwarf chained behind me. He glares at me.


    ¡°Traitor!¡± he hisses.


    I bow my head. ¡°I know. I was going to hand myself in, you know.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe that for a second.¡±


    ¡°I was.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking forward to seeing Vanerak execute you.¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± snaps the runeknight opposite us. His hand is resting on the top of his bloody axe¡ªit¡¯s small and aluminum, very light looking. It gleams sharply. ¡°Prisoners aren¡¯t to talk.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s the prisoner!¡± cries the dwarf beside me. ¡°We captured him¡ªhe¡¯s a traitor. It¡¯s his fault the Runethane is dead! His fault the dragon¡ª¡±


    ¡°I said silence!¡±


    He slumps and shuts up. I look at the floor and wait. An hour later and I¡¯m still waiting; this journey is a long one. There are no windows in the carriage, so I have no way to tell where we are going. Though, I suppose that even if there were windows I wouldn¡¯t know.


    After what might be several hours we finally stop. Our guard stands up and opens the doors. He says something to some others standing outside, in a low voice, then walks back in and sits back down. He shuts the doors. The carriage rumbles on for a few more minutes, then it stops again.


    He produces a key from a compartment in his armor, and unlocks the steel rings around my ankles.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to unlock your wrists now,¡± he says. ¡°Try to fight and you¡¯ll regret it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t fight.¡±


    He unlocks my wrists and leads me out. I look around. I¡¯m in a stone dome. The walls are plain, and the light, from a brazier of smokeless coals set in the room¡¯s center, is dim. The air is very cold and smells of stagnant water.


    Two other guards grasp me firmly by the arms and lead me to a small doorway at the other end of the room. I hear the carriage depart; the other dwarf must be being taken to a different section of this place, whatever it is.


    Probably a prison. Probably Allabrast Civil Prison, the greatest in the underworld.


    I¡¯m led through stone corridors. The walls are smooth and polished; this place was carved directly from the rock. We spiral down, and I am reminded of my ten or more year journey to the dwarves of the deep, except this time there is some light, as one of the guards carries a lantern with a white flame bright enough to bring tears to my eyes.


    A couple of miles down and the tunnels become straight and narrow. Now we are walking in single file, with the guard bearing the lamp ahead of me and the other behind me. We pass doors of tungsten bars, enruned and angular. Within each cell is a figure¡ªall of them are slumped on the ground and do not bother to look up at us. Maybe they''re dead, left here to rot for their crimes.


    ¡°Here,¡± says the guard in front.


    We stop and he begins to unlock the door to an empty cell. This process takes more than a minute¡ªthere are several locks and after each key-turn there¡¯s a series of clicks as internal mechanisms twist and readjust.


    After the last click he pulls on the door. It swings open smoothly; it does not creak.


    ¡°In you go,¡± says the guard behind me.


    I walk in. I have no choice¡ªthere is no escape and I do not want to either. I am sorry that I didn''t get a chance to turn myself in on my own initiative¡ªbut I suppose that''s just how things have panned out. At least Vanerak''s dwarves don''t have me.


    ¡°How long until my trial?¡± I ask as the guard with the light shuts the door and locks it.


    ¡°Prisoners aren¡¯t to talk,¡± he warns.


    They depart, leaving me in the cold darkness.

 Traitors Trial 10: Execution Forthwith

    There''s nothing to do but sit and wait, though there isn¡¯t even a stone bench for me to sit on, just the cold stone floor. My cell is about ten or so feet in length, less than half as wide, and the ceiling is as low and cramped as any cave tunnel. There''s a small hole in the floor for a toilet, but as far as amenities go, that¡¯s all.


    The floor and walls are smooth. Just like the tunnels leading here, they''re expertly carved from the natural rock. The miners must have been paid something approaching decent for them to have been so careful and precise.


    I¡¯ve tried pulling at the bars a little, but they won¡¯t budge even a hundredth of an inch, and they hurt my hands to grasp. I¡¯d like to examine the runes on them, but it¡¯s too dark.


    Twice a long-hour¡ªor so I guess¡ªfood and water is brought to me. The cell door is never opened: the food and cup are placed on a long tray that¡¯s slid between the bars. It¡¯s plain water and plain bread.


    After the first few deliveries, I start a count. There¡¯s nothing to scratch on the wall with, and no light to see any scratches by anyhow, so this count is all done in my memory.


    I count two dozen times before the first thing of note happens: another prisoner is brought down. The light from the guard¡¯s lantern makes my eyes run with tears, but through them I can see the hunched figure of a large dwarf. He is muscular, with a long beard. He has no shirt and is covered in scars.


    Our eyes meet. I flinch¡ªthat¡¯s a look of bloodlust if I ever saw one.


    This part of the prison must be one reserved for only the most serious criminals. But I doubt anyone here has committed a more serious crime than mine. How many dwarves have ever been responsible for the destruction of an entire realm? Two realms, if you count our enemy Broderick¡¯s.


    In between sleeping and eating, I reflect on all I¡¯ve done. The black dragon¡ªhow could I have been so foolish as to trust it? It¡¯s a dragon! An immortal beast of living flame, an embodiment of all-consuming greed.


    Yet what else could I have done, young as I was? I didn''t know much about dragons, or indeed much about anything. I was too confident in my brother¡¯s words, in his promise that we had great destinies awaiting us. That, perhaps, was what made me believe everything would turn out all right somehow.


    Can foolishness and naivete be called criminal? Was Guildmaster Wharoth right, and I''m just another victim of the black dragon? Or maybe my motive was greed after all, and I deserve to face swift punishment for my actions.


    I suppose neither my opinion nor his will matter. Only those of the judges and jury.


    <hr>


    Three dozen more meals¡ªwhich makes my total time in prison more than two months¡ªand suddenly I¡¯m awoken by white light. Through stinging tears I see the cell door swinging open. A harsh shout makes me flinch.


    ¡°Up!¡±


    I slowly rise to my feet, joints aching terribly from cold and disuse.


    ¡°Fifth Degree Runeknight Zathar of the Realm of Thanerzak, come here.¡±


    I limp forward. The guard looks me in the eyes through the slits in his helmet, which is of titanium and exquisitely flared. He¡¯s of a higher degree than those who brought me here, maybe some kind of guard commander. Around his neck is a white scarf emblazoned with a golden hammer. A symbol of his rank?


    I swallow. ¡°What is it?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Your fate has been decided. Your guilt is beyond question. There is no need for a trial. You are to be executed forthwith.¡±


    His words stun me. I stagger back a step, open my mouth to reply, but no sound comes out.


    ¡°Now?¡± I finally manage to say.


    ¡°Forthwith. Do you have any final requests?¡±


    My mind is blank; I can¡¯t think of anything. The guard commander nods sharply.


    ¡°None. So be it.¡± He steps out of my cell and shuts the door. Locks click loudly. ¡°The executioners will be down to collect you shortly. I hope you use the time between now and your death to regret what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    Then I''m alone in the darkness again¡ªyet now I know my fate. There is no more uncertainty. I am to die. That is the punishment decreed to be fitting to my crime. Death without trial.


    I stumble back to the rear of my cell and slump down against the wall. The stone chills my back through my thin clothes.


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    I let out a long sigh. I¡¯d expected no less, to be sure, though some part of me had hoped that Nthazes¡¯ testimony of my good deeds down below might have changed someone¡¯s mind. Apparently not. It seems they believe that nothing can absolve me of my sins.


    Hopefully I don¡¯t have to wait for long, and that the method of death is not too cruel and unusual. I hope for the axe, rather than the breaking hammer, or a bath of molten rock.


    And I don''t have to wait long. Light flashes through the bars; long thin shadows stretch across the floor. I stand up and swallow, determined to meet my fate without shame. Steps approach, fast and heavy¡ªtwo guards, it sounds like. Come to take me to hell.


    Except it¡¯s not two guards, but the guard commander again.


    And beside him is Guildmaster Wharoth.


    I stare at my old guildmaster. He stares back. His brow crinkles. He blinks a few times, as if he can¡¯t quite believe what he¡¯s seeing. I can¡¯t quite believe what I¡¯m seeing either.


    ¡°I apologize,¡± the guard commander spits. ¡°It seems there was a mistake with the orders. A trial is to be held for you. And, you have a visitor.¡±


    ¡°Zathar?¡± Guildmaster Wharoth says. ¡°Is it really you down here?¡±


    ¡°It is!¡± I cry. ¡°Guildmaster! What¡¯s happening?¡±


    He looks at the guard commander. ¡°I believe visitors are meant to be given some privacy.¡±


    ¡°Not down here. Not with this one¡ªyou know why.¡±


    ¡°You''ll take whatever I say upstairs, then.¡±


    ¡°That is my duty. You won''t be telling him any way to escape.¡±


    ¡°You think I want him to?¡± Wharoth snaps. ¡°I want justice too.¡±


    The guard commander narrows his eyes. ¡°I consider all possibilities.¡±


    ¡°Unlike certain others, I''m not interested in perverting the course of justice, special investigator.¡±


    Not a guard commander then, but sounds high-ranking.


    ¡°I''m not sure what you''re implying,¡± the special investigator says darkly.


    Wharoth shakes his head at him, then turns to me. ¡°It''d take a long time to go over everything in detail. For now, I''ll tell you this: there were some irregularities after your capture. And during it too, as I''m sure you noticed.¡±


    ¡°Yes. It was Vanerak''s dwarves, I''m sure of it. You warned me about him, guildmaster. I think you were right to.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak is an upstanding and honorable member of the Thanic Guard,¡± snaps the special investigator.


    ¡°Quite,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°Whatever he is, he wants his hands on you. For personal reasons. He hasn''t succeeded yet¡ªdespite his great influence and personal connection to this case there are legal barriers in place.¡±


    ¡°Who was it that stopped him?¡± I ask. ¡°That night, I mean. Who took me here?¡±


    ¡°You don''t know?¡± snaps the special investigator. ¡°We are the Civil Force. The protectors of the Runeking''s realm.¡±


    ¡°The Runeking saw what happened through his Eyes,¡± Wharoth explains, ¡°though I don¡¯t think he¡¯s yet aware of who you are. But the Civil Force has your description; they''ve been on the lookout for you for a long time.¡±


    ¡°They have?¡±


    ¡°The destruction of an entire realm, the ascent of a very dangerous foe...¡± He shakes his head. ¡°You were presumed dead, yet if there was even the smallest chance you lived, you had to be caught. Yes, they¡¯ve been on the lookout for you.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± says the special investigator.


    Wharoth looks different to how I remember. His beard is grayer¡ªbut not from age¡ªash has worked its way deep into the hair. His face has more scars and pits than it did; they look like they''re from burn-wounds. However, he looks no less strong than before, and his armor is improved also. It''s bright steel with fine gold and platinum runework, with rubies embedded at key focal points. Even at a glance I can tell it''s of quality far beyond what my own abilities could accomplish.


    ¡°I see,¡± I say. ¡°How... How did you stop my execution?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not stopped,¡± says the special investigator, glaring. ¡°Merely delayed.¡±


    Wharoth ignores him again. ¡°After your execution was announced, I hurried to make impassioned pleas to certain senior dwarves. Your crime was not committed just against Vanerak, but against all of the realm.¡±


    I bow my head in shame. ¡°I suppose you said every survivor had a right to lay their case before me.¡±


    ¡°I said words to that effect; but I also told them what I said to you before.¡± A pained look crosses his face. ¡°That you were also a victim. An unwilling pawn. I said you deserved a chance at least to make your case.¡±


    Tears well at the corners of my eyes. ¡°Thank you,¡± I choke out. ¡°I... I''d thought, after the... After the heat, that you''d decide not to forgive me.¡±


    ¡°I haven''t decided that yet,¡± he says harshly. ¡°And I never did, unless my recollection is false.¡±


    I flinch, then wipe my eyes. ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Yet... Vanerak still means to carry out the execution personally. What form that will take... I do not know. I don''t think it''ll be justice.¡±


    An imagining of brutally shaven dwarves plummeting into a pool of molten rock flashes in my mind''s eye. It''s a memory, I realize a second later: those were the funeral sacrifices for Thanerzak. And what was it Vanerak said about them? That when you die, the pain you feel in that moment you feel for all eternity? Yes, that was it. There is no peaceful sleep after the agony.


    Wait, no. That''s not what Wharoth''s talking about. Vanerak doesn''t want me dead. He wants my runes.


    ¡°Whatever the traitor gets, he deserves,¡± says the special investigator. ¡°I''ve talked to more than a few witnesses to his crime. His greed unleashed a nightmare.¡±


    Wharoth glares at him. ¡°It was Runethane Thanerzak''s greed that led to the black dragon gaining that power. I know you''re privy to certain knowledge, special investigator: you know what lay under the mountain castle.¡±


    The special investigator shifts uncomfortably.


    ¡°They were bound strongly.¡±


    ¡°Not strongly enough. It was a fool risk. And don''t lecture me about not criticizing the Runethanes. That''s not a crime here, is it?¡±


    ¡°It''s not. Yet criticizing the dead won''t win you many friends.¡±


    ¡°I don''t have many in the first place. But those I do have respect how I''m happy to criticize whomever I wish to. Regardless of station.¡±


    The special investigator shrugs sharply. ¡°Be that as it may, he doesn''t have a hope in hell for his trial.¡±


    ¡°He does. His friend¡ªone Nthazes has also pleaded, most passionately, that you be given a chance¡ªand I are going to make sure of it. Zathar has done a great deal of good recently. Maybe even saved a realm.¡±


    ¡°We''ll see.¡±


    ¡°What''s going to happen now?¡± I ask.


    My heartbeat is violent, my breath short and my skin clammy. This doesn''t make sense: I was calmly prepared to meet my death, yet now that I''ve been given a final chance, I''m suddenly very keen to plead my case. Keen to live!


    I feel guilty for feeling this way, but no one can help their feelings.


    ¡°Now I will see if I can get you a fair trial,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°As fair as is likely to be under such circumstances, at any rate.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say. ¡°I hope... I hope I get the justice I deserve.¡±


    ¡°I hope so too.¡±

 Traitors Trial 11: Form of the Trial

    The white light of the special investigator''s lamp fades and the dark shadows of the bars meld into the underground night of Allabrast Civil Prison. I wait, tensely, for Wharoth or the guards to return.


    No one comes. Exhausted by the thoughts and worries and guilt whirling inside my head, I fall asleep. When I wake, the usual thin tray of food and cup of water has been pushed between the bars of the cell door. It tastes even blander than usual, and I spill half the water down my front, for my hands are shaking badly.


    How much longer? The waiting is suddenly unbearable. What kind of a trial will I get? Or will my next visitors be Vanerak''s dwarves, come to take me to the fate he has planned for me?


    Another meal comes, then another. My count steadily begins to increase once more. Two weeks pass. Justice is slow here, then. Maybe that''s a good sign¡ªin Thanerzak''s and Broderick''s realms, it was often meted out on a whim. Military rule was the excuse. Here they have more luxury for ideas like fairness, and the value of weighing opposing opinions.


    Or at least, that''s what I hope. Money is still the main means to power here, I remind myself, and I''m sure Vanerak has plenty.


    <hr>


    I''m awoken by light. Once more, there are dwarves walking along the corridor¡ªthis time it sounds as if there''s at least five. Are they here for me? My heart begins to race again. Maybe it''s just a new prisoner being taken down. Maybe they''re not here for me at all.


    The special investigator appears at the cell door, white scarf bright in the light and its emblazoned gold hammer brilliant. He''s flanked by two pairs of guards. One of them is the dwarf who took me from Vanerak''s dwarves¡ªI recognize his axe. Their faces are grim. But a moment later Wharoth comes into view and relief floods me.


    Nothing unjust will happen while he''s here.


    The special investigator unlocks the cell door, opens it.


    ¡°Come out,¡± he orders. ¡°There are proceedings to be gone through.¡±


    ¡°What proceedings?¡± I ask as I walk out. ¡°What''s going to happen now?¡±


    ¡°Prisoners don''t talk,¡± snaps a guard.


    ¡°We''ve got you your trial,¡± Wharoth says. ¡°You''ll need to give your signature after your options are explained to you.¡±


    ¡°Options?¡±


    ¡°Prisoners don''t talk!¡± snaps the special investigator. ¡°Speak out of line in your trial and your head will be off before you know it!¡±


    ¡°Everything will be explained in a bit,¡± Wharoth says. ¡°Stay silent for now.¡±


    I nod.


    We exit the corridor of cells and begin to spiral up. Briefly I wonder if we''ll end up at the carriage drop-off again, but we take a turn into a tunnel I don''t recognize, with a tiled floor. At the end of it is a rough mat. I''m ordered to scrub my feet on it. A thick robe is thrown at me, and I''m told to hide my clothes with it¡ªthey''re in a terrible state, ruined by many layers of dried sweat.


    We take a right turn into a carpeted corridor, and then the special investigator opens a door and leads me and Wharoth into a spacious room. The other four guards remain outside. A fireplace in the wall opposite us casts a friendly orange glow across the thick carpets and reflects glossily on the dark wooden chairs and desk. The special investigator beckons us both to sit down.


    ¡°Don''t speak out of turn,¡± he warns me. ¡°If anything is unclear, you are to ask me, or your defense representative, after the explanation is finished.¡±


    I glance at Wharoth; he gives me a slight nod. He''s officially defending me, then. I suppose Nthazes doesn''t know enough about this place to take on the job, and no one else was willing.


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    Even so, the look in his gray eyes is less than friendly. He seems troubled, as if he''s beginning to worry that he''s made the wrong decision. I wonder how the Association of Steel feels about him being here.


    If there are enough members left for them to still qualify as a guild, that is.


    ¡°I will explain your options,¡± says the special investigator. He adjusts his scarf so the golden hammer gleams more brightly in the firelight. ¡°The council of high justices has approved two possible methods of trial. The first is a trial by jury. In it, you will tell the full story of your actions to the jury. Then, you will be cross-examined by investigators to determine how likely it is that you''re telling the truth.¡±


    I want to ask how exactly they''ll determine if I''m lying or not, but don''t.


    ¡°Those findings will also be given to the jury,¡± continues the special investigator. ¡°After that, the common vote will take place, and then the special vote. If both sections of the jury determine you to be innocent¡ªthat is to say, determine that your actions were not done of your own greedy impetus but out of manipulation¡ªyou will be given your freedom. Do you understand?¡±


    I nod.


    ¡°Good. This is the usual method by which matters of justice are handled here in Allabrast. It is the best method to determine the cleanness of motive of a dwarf.¡±


    Cleanness of motive. It seems that the fact of my actions is beyond question, then. This trial is instead to determine whether or not I can be held responsible for them. The insane sometimes have similar trials, I believe.


    ¡°The other option,¡± continues the special investigator. ¡°Is a trial by forging.¡±


    My eyes widen. I''ve never heard of this before.


    ¡°The purity of one''s crafts has been believed since the times of the runeforgers to show the purity of one''s soul. The purer the craft, the stronger it be, and thus through a test of strength of equipment can the goodness or evil in the soul of a dwarf be found.¡±


    I blink.


    ¡°It is highly irregular, however, your friend from the deep was able to persuade certain influential members of the courts that you have valor and worth in you as well as treachery. Thus, this method of determining if your actions were done from base desire was proposed.¡±


    Nthazes! He came through, then. My deeds down below have redeemed me in certain eyes. This is some good news, at least.


    ¡°Now I have presented you with your options, I will hear your decision.¡±


    I look to Guildmaster Wharoth.


    ¡°We will discuss,¡± he says.


    ¡°Very well. You will be left in private; you have that right.¡±


    The special investigator walks to the far side of the room.


    ¡°A trial by forging?¡± I say. ¡°I don''t quite understand.¡±


    ¡°It''s as he said: the strength of your craft will be taken as the measure of your worth.¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t make sense.¡±


    ¡°It''s an old tradition. It makes sense to certain dwarves of higher degrees. Even if someone is cruel beyond measure, it''s said, at the forge their worth will be laid bare. The metals will decide: natural power.¡±


    ¡°How can a metal decide better than a jury?¡±


    ¡°It''s superstition.¡±


    ¡°If I win by it, will that decision really hold? Will I be forgiven?¡±


    ¡°By enough, you will.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I''d rather be judged by my fellow dwarves. If they can forgive me, maybe I can accept what I did.¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth gives me a strange look. ¡°You''ve changed,¡± he says. ¡°The Zathar I knew was not so interested in being forgiven by himself. Only by others. You feel true guilt now, then.¡±


    I look him in the eye. ¡°For ten years I wandered, or maybe even more. Myself was all I had, and I thought long and hard about my crime.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    I frown. ¡°You''ve changed too, guildmaster. In my cell, I thought back to our old conversations. You wanted me punished. Yet you''ve saved me!¡±


    ¡°I wanted a fair punishment.¡±


    ¡°Execution seems fair,¡± I sigh, and I sink into the seat. ¡°Guildmaster, many thousands are dead because of me.¡±


    ¡°Yes, and also because of Thanerzak''s folly. I''ve since learned what it was the black dragon found with that key of yours. Something that never should have been allowed.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I ask.


    He shakes his head. ¡°Now is not the time. And like I said back in your cell: I haven''t changed my mind. Your guilt still needs to be determined and your punishment decided. Yet this trial won''t determine anything.¡±


    ¡°It isn''t going to be a fair one, you mean.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak''s tongs are long. He reaches far and manipulates with precision. It did not take him long to become a member of the Thanic Guard, and over the years he has grown in influence. He''s a very crafty, very ruthless dwarf, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°You don''t know the half of it! If you choose a trial by jury, there will be none in the upper ranks on your side.¡±


    I sigh. I bow my head. ¡°If I''m to die, then...¡±


    ¡°Stop being a fool, Zathar!¡± he snaps. I look up, startled by the anger in his voice. ¡°I know you want to believe death will absolve you, but think! If death without fair judgement was the answer, then you would have thrown yourself into the magma sea long ago.¡±


    Anger flares in me. ¡°That is never an option!¡±


    ¡°No. It isn''t. But choosing trial by jury will be tantamount to what your brother did. Or it would be, if the execution ever took place.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? I thought I''d escaped Vanerak. Though I still don''t understand how.¡±


    ¡°Don''t be so na?ve. By the time the trial ends, he''ll have pulled enough chains that he''ll get another chance. Except he won''t execute you, Zathar.¡± Wharoth lowers his voice. ¡°We both know why he wants you.¡±


    I shiver. ¡°Yes. My runes. My power. It''s... grown in strength, guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°That''s good. You''ll need all the skill you can muster for the trial by forging.¡±


    ¡°But what happens in it? I forge a craft, and it''s judged? How is it judged?¡±

 Traitors Trial 12: Justices Hammer

    I am now signing the papers of acceptance. They are long and complex, written in several different scripts, stating and restating the legal chains I am to be bound by once I submit them. The gist is this: I will undertake the trial by forging, and by the strength of my crafts will my fate be sealed.


    ¡°I''m done,¡± I say to the special investigator. ¡°I''ve signed them.¡±


    I hand the sheaf of paper to him. He takes it up carefully in both hands and places it into a steel case. He locks both locks.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± he says. ¡°You must also swear on a hammer of justice of Allabrast before one of the high justices.¡±


    I follow him out. Wharoth is behind me. We pass through twisting carpeted hallways and up tight spiral stairs.


    My heart feels heavy, my stomach sick. I came up here to find justice. Absolution for my sins. Yet instead all I''ve found is another fight against a powerful foe, and there''s no justice in sight.


    Only this time the challenge will not be decided in the battlecavern, but over the anvil.


    The trial by forging, Wharoth has explained to me, is a duel in three parts. I will make three crafts, which will be tried for their strength against my opponent''s crafts. All I have to do is win two of these bouts and I''ll be free of Vanerak''s grasp.


    Winning even one will be a challenge. My opponent will be selected by the judges of the trial, and no doubt Vanerak will find some way to influence their decision. Although the selected opponent can only be a maximum of one degree above me, the fourth degree they find, Wharoth has warned, will be one ready to take the examination for third.


    I''m going to have to push my skills to their utmost limits if I''m going to have any chance to escape the clutches of Vanerak.


    Only after that will I have any chance at true justice.


    <hr>


    Vanerak is sitting in his private chamber when the news is brought to him.


    It''s a large, dark room, with a furnace¡ªdark and cold right now¡ªat its center. Vanerak''s seat is at the back of the room. It''s tall, of stone, and the steps leading up to it are uncomfortably steep. This is by design. Approaching a dwarf of Vanerak''s ability and influence should not be an easy thing to do.


    The messenger dashes around the cold forge and climbs as fast as he can up the dias, breathing heavily.


    ¡°Guildmaster!¡± he cries. ¡°Guildmaster, we''ve learned what''s to happen!¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± Vanerak says. His voice is cool and calm, as it always is.


    ¡°The traitor''s request for a trial by forging has been granted.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    "Guildmaster, he now has a chance for victory!¡±


    ¡°You think so, do you?¡±


    The messenger is a proud dwarf of third degree. Yet in Vanerak''s presence he is reduced to a lackey, a servant. He suddenly doubts his words. Like all who look into that mirror-mask, he feels as if Vanerak''s eyes are boring into his soul.


    ¡°I thought... I thought you said that a trial by jury was our best chance of bringing him to justice. That this trial by forging was a fool tradition, and that we''d never gain our rightful revenge by it.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I did say that, didn''t I?¡±


    Vanerak blinks behind his mask. This is an irritating development, to be sure, yet one he''d been expecting for a while. That Wharoth is far more popular than he ought to be. He might have let a traitor into his ranks, but he still carved up the black dragon near as well as Vanerak himself managed. That won him and his guild a good deal of respect.


    He is also the only other dwarf aware of Zathar''s true value¡ªthough doubtless more will begin to suspect it once they witness his crafting during the trial.


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    Yet another problem to deal with.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the messenger. ¡°Unless you have some way of... Some way of making sure the justice given is appropriate.¡±


    ¡°You are not suggesting I manipulate anything, I hope?¡± Vanerak puts some ice into his tone. He''s been very careful since arriving back in Allabrast to keep a clean image. That''s why he was pleased to hear that the dwarf captured during the failed kidnapped broke his own neck using the bars of his cell rather than give up any information. Out of fear rather than loyalty, but what does that matter? And the purchase records of the carriage were masterfully obfuscated


    ¡°No! Of course not. I just... We all want fairness.¡±


    ¡°Do not worry. You will get it. All us victims of his treachery will get it.¡±


    ¡°Should I tell the others that?¡±


    Vanerak thinks for a few moments, then says: ¡°Tell them that the traitor cannot hope to escape justice, no matter what form his trial may take. The stain of the ashes of our beloved city is on his hands. He cannot hope for mercy.¡±


    The messenger bows low. ¡°Very good, guildmaster.¡±


    He hurries from the chamber, leaving Vanerak alone to ponder his options. A few words in this ear, a donation here, a whispered threat here... Yes, he thinks he can get his way. Why shouldn''t he?


    Thanic Guardsdwarf Vanerak, Guildmaster of the Reconquerors¡ªone of the greatest guilds in Allabrast, counting nearly every survivor from Thanerzak''s realm in its ranks¡ªalways gets his way.


    In a matter of a mere dozen long-hours, Zathar and his runeforging will be his to control.


    <hr>


    All of a sudden, the carpeted tunnel widens into a cavern. It''s one of the most impressive spaces I have ever entered. On the walls, angular granite reliefs meld, flowingly, into naturally rippled curtains of pale rock. The stalactites that hang from the roof are wrapped in gold chains from which dangle lamps of shining crystal. The floor is mosaics that depict councils of justice: solemn juries and stern judges, the bowed heads of the guilty, the relieved smiles of the innocent. In darker corners loom executioners wielding heavy hammers. Within still clear pools lie crushed skeletons. Whether these latter are real or art I can''t quite tell.


    Throughout the hall are many desks, each with a clerk behind it writing quickly and precisely. There are shelves heavy with papers. There are even round tables where whom I guess are prosecutors and defense are holding heated discussions. This is not a ceremonial hall. In here turn the wheels of justice of Allabrast.


    At the front of the hall is a wide flight of stairs, at its top are heavy curtains. They are white and emblazoned with the same golden hammer that is on the scarf of the special investigator, who leads us toward them.


    I feel terribly small. The tall reliefs of judges and executioners cut into the walls glare down¡ªit feels as if the very stone they''re carved from presses upon my shoulders.


    Whispers spread.


    ¡°That''s the traitor... Zathar.¡±


    Pens are laid down; clerks and lawyers look up. All eyes are upon me.


    We are led up the stairs. A section of the curtains parts and we walk through. Behind a desk wrought of silver stands a dwarf in masterful armor¡ªhe has to be first degree. His oiled black beard hangs heavily over his breastplate, which is wrought of a metal I''ve never seen.


    At his belt is a golden hammer, its every surface thick with runes.


    ¡°Defendant, kneel before High Justice Ratharun!¡± orders the special investigator.


    I do so. High Justice Ratharun gives a slight nod. The special investigator opens the metal case and holds it down in front of me.


    ¡°Present him your papers,¡± he orders.


    I take the sheaves from it, waver, unsure of what to do next. The high justice gestures to his desk. I stand back up and place them there.


    ¡°You will now swear the oath,¡± orders the special investigator. ¡°You will repeat my words.¡±


    I nod. He clears his throat.


    ¡°By the sanctity of my blood and hair, I swear to obey the rules of this trial.¡±


    I repeat: ¡°By the sanctity of my blood and hair, I swear to obey the rules of this trial.¡±


    ¡°By the steel of my tools, I swear to pour my soul into my crafts.¡±


    ¡°By the steel of my tools, I swear to pour my soul into my crafts.¡±


    ¡°By the fire of my furnace, I swear to make no quarrel with my judges.¡±


    ¡°By the fire of my furnace, I swear to make no quarrel with my judges.¡±


    ¡°By the sparks of my hammer, I swear to hold no ill-will against the creator of what my crafts are measured against.¡±


    ¡°By the sparks of my hammer, I swear to hold no ill-will against the creator of what my crafts are measured against.¡±


    ¡°By the bones of the underworld, I swear to honor the outcome of this trial.¡±


    ¡°By the bones of the underworld, I swear to honor the outcome of this trial.¡±


    ¡°Magma devour me should I break this oath.¡±


    ¡°Magma devour me should I break this oath.¡±


    My skin feels hot all of a sudden, as if magma is already taking me. My mouth has gone dry; my last words just then were but a whisper. The high judge heard them, though. He bows to me.


    ¡°May this trial lead to justice done,¡± he says. He raises the golden hammer. I flinch, my battle-instincts telling me a strike is coming to my head, but he does not strike. ¡°May the metal you heat and hammer be true if your soul is pure. May it shatter if your soul be unclean.¡±


    He passes the hammer over my head. The runes on it seem to shiver, and I feel a wave of force press on my skull. It travels down, through my heart, my guts, all the way to the soles of my feet, and through into the stone beneath.


    ¡°It is done,¡± he declares. ¡°You are bound to your trial now.¡±


    I bow very low. ¡°I thank you for this opportunity to prove my innocence.¡±


    ¡°There is no need to thank me. I am here to make sure justice is done, that is all.¡± He fixes the special investigator with a hard look. ¡°Take him to his new cell, Natarak. Make sure he''s given the comforts he has rights to as his own defender. You have done your part in bringing him to justice. Now his fate is in the hands of the metal he touches; nothing other.¡±

 Traitors Trial 13: A More Spacious Cell

    I am taken to my new cell. The corridor outside is neatly tiled, which I feel is a good sign, though the door is still one made of bars. A guard stands outside it. Special investigator Natarak nods to him and he unlocks it.


    ¡°Your home from now until the trial''s end,¡± says Natarak. ¡°You will find that it''s better furnished than you deserve.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say.


    He has an unpleasant look in his eye, as usual. I wonder what his grudge against me is. His accent is of Allabrast, but maybe he knew someone from Thanerzak''s realm.


    ¡°I''ll visit you in a while,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°I have to talk to the guild. Explain to them what''s going on.¡±


    ¡°So there''s still a guild?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Did most survive?¡±


    ¡°We were at the front of the battle when the dragon came, and close to the tunnels into the mountain. We were lucky. And our ranks have swelled somewhat. We are honored for having fought the dragon before.¡±


    ¡°I''m glad to hear that. I hope they... Well, I suppose it''s too much to hope they don''t think of me poorly.¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they''ll change their minds when they hear of what I did down below. You''ve learned from Nthazes, right?¡±


    ¡°I have.¡± Wharoth looks thoughtful. ¡°You did good deeds down there, and maybe they were partly for selfless reasons.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to help my friends.¡±


    ¡°And yourself also, I don''t doubt.¡±


    I look down. ¡°That too, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, I will be off now. I''ll do what I can to convince the guild that you didn''t betray Thanerzak out of malice. See you in a while.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye.¡±


    He leaves, and Natarak orders me to enter the cell. I do so; the door shuts and I am alone once more.


    This cell, though! Can it really be called such? It is the finest quarters I''ve ever called my own. I look around it in wonder. There is a plump bed in the far corner, with a desk and crystal sleeping lamp next to it. The covers look warm. A little away from it is a small dining table, with three chairs around it should I get visitors. Away at the other corner is a partitioned area where I guess the toilet must be; beside that is a basin¡ªwith one of those fancy spouts with a wheel you twist at the top to make water come out.


    All this is what you''d expect for good living quarters, except there''s more. At the center is a small anvil, a glass-fronted tool cabinet, and clean-looking furnace. Even better than this: the entire left wall is taken up by bookshelves.


    It occurs to me that most prisoners awaiting trial probably aren''t treated so nicely. This trial by forging must be a rare occurance, its participants honored. Guildmaster Wharoth must have pulled some significant chains. He must really not want Vanerak to get his hands on me.


    I''ll try my best to win. I owe that to him, even if this isn''t the kind of justice I''ve been looking for.


    Or, maybe it is. That feeling, the pressure sinking from my head to my feet as the high justice passed his hammer over my head... He said I''m bound to the trial, and I don''t think he meant in merely ceremonial fashion. I couldn''t read the inscription on his hammer¡ªbut he''s a first degree. Likely the runes were powerful, and effective. Maybe if I win, that means I deserved to be found innocent. Maybe this trial will give me true justice.


    A dwarf can hope.


    I walk over to the bookcases first. I recognize a few titles that were in the Association of Steel''s library, all that time ago, but most are new to me. There are treatises about metal, illustrated manuals of gems, lengthy works about alloying, and runic dictionary upon runic dictionary. Some are of scripts I know¡ªor at least thought I knew¡ªand others contain strange runes entirely new to me.


    For a moment I forget the pressures of the trial and the burden on my heart. I pull one off the shelf, sit down and start to read. It is of a script called Gathabak, and each of its runes spirals in on itself. Myriad possibilities appear in my mind: webs of runes and half-formed poems write themselves upon half a dozen different metals.


    I am nearly finished the book when my eyelids begin to grow heavy; I push on, unwilling to place it down. When I turn over the last page, I fall back and sleep right there on the floor.


    My dreams are of dancing, twisting runes.


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    <hr>


    I wake up on the floor and wonder how long I just slept. I crawl to my feet and stretch. Probably it''s been just a few hours¡ªI feel fairly refreshed but if I lie back down I reckon I could probably sleep further.


    The smell of my clothes and beard is bothering me, though. I search a large chest at the foot of my bed to see if there''s anything clean, and am happy to find a selection of neat and soft robes, as well as rougher forging overalls beneath them.


    I also discover that in the partitioned area there''s not only a toilet, but a bathtub too¡ªwith the same clever hot water arrangement as the sink. There''s also bars of soap and scented beard shampoo.


    After cleaning myself, I ask the guard outside my cell where I can wash my dirty clothes. He tells me there''s no need, that they''ll be collected when my meal arrives. Apparently that''ll be in one short-hour. In the meantime, I examine the forge.


    It''s small compared to what I''m used to, and the tools in the cabinet are rather undersized as well. I frown as I turn over a pair of jeweler''s tongs. Are the crafts I make to be on the smaller side, then? Rings, bracelets, or gauntlets at most? I suppose that would save this Allabrast Civil Prison some money, but if they were concerned about the cost of this trial I don''t think I''d be in such a plush room.


    No, probably the trial will take place at a separate forge. That''s how I''ve been imagining it¡ªas a kind of duel, with my opponent forging next to me so the judges can look upon us both working¡ªthough of course, to prevent the stealing of techniques, we won''t be able to see each other.


    I wonder who it''ll be? A fourth degree nearing third in ability, Wharoth said. I begin to grow nervous. Though my skills have improved during my time in the fortress, they''re nowhere near third degree. Wharoth is third degree, isn''t he? Or he was¡ªyet everyone said his skills were far beyond that, and he''d just been too busy with guild business to take the examination.


    ¡°Your food is here,¡± a guard announces. ¡°Along with a guest.¡±


    The cell door opens and in walks Wharoth; his guild business must have taken less time than I presumed it would, or more likely my sleep was a longer one than I thought. He gestures to the table.


    ¡°We should sit down.¡±


    I do so, and a servant lays food and ale upon the table before quickly departing. The cell door remains open a touch, and the guard is still present and watching us carefully. Listening too, no doubt.


    Wharoth tucks into the bread and meat, and I follow suit. We eat without speaking; I don''t really know what to say. His scarred face frightens me a little, as does the cold look in his eyes.


    ¡°So,¡± he says finally. ¡°You went on quite the journey after the catastrophe.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I ran, and kept on running. Down and down.¡±


    ¡°Ten years, your friend tells me.¡±


    ¡°I think so. I''m not really sure how long it''s been.¡±


    ¡°Thirteen and a half. Us refugees drink to the dead on every anniversary.¡±


    ¡°How many dead were there?¡± There''s a tremor in my voice.


    ¡°About a quarter of the realm.¡±


    ¡°Less than I''d have thought. The heat... Didn''t it melt the whole city?¡±


    ¡°Yes. There''s nothing left of any building. Even the chasm is narrowed somewhat, at least at the top. The rock softened and both sides leaned in. Fortunately, most everyone not fighting was hiding underground during the battle. They were able to flee down, just like you.¡±


    ¡°Not everyone, though.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°And then what happened? You gathered together and marched to Allabrast? What happened to Broderick and his forces?¡±


    He tells me in some detail. There was a temporary truce as the combatants fled the black dragon''s heat¡ªthough it was broken eventually, by whom isn''t known. Then the two groups split; those from Broderick''s realm went west, those from Thanerzak''s realm marched down. There was argument in the realm below¡ªthere wasn''t enough room for so many¡ªand so for most, the journey continued. Through many caverns they traveled, for just under a year, battling trolls and other assorted awfulness. Eventually a party sent by Runeking Ulrike found them, and they were invited to Allabrast and allowed to settle. It is a great city, after all. What were another few tens of thousands when a million reside here?


    As for Wharoth, his guild grew. Many wanted to meet the dwarf who had struck the black dragon. When rumors spread that I''d been the one who betrayed Thanerzak''s secret power to it¡ªwhat power that was I still don''t know¡ªhe suffered a period of unpopularity. Yet he was able to persuade enough dwarves that he hadn''t know of the betrayal, and so the Association of Steel is still greater and more influential than it once was.


    ¡°I am also of the second degree now,¡± he says. ¡°Closing in on first, if I decide to risk the examination.¡±


    ¡°Everyone always said your skills were far above third.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think skill can be so easily quantified. But before we get sidetracked, I want to hear your tale. I only know part of it.¡±


    I tell him of my escape, my long journey¡ª


    ¡°Wait,¡± he says. ¡°In the magma sea, there was what?¡±


    ¡°Some kind of moving construction. Like a ship they have on the surface¡ªyou can see pictures in books.¡±


    ¡°I know what a ship is.¡±


    ¡°It was metal though, and didn''t melt. I called out to it but it turned away.¡±


    ¡°A strange occurrence.¡±


    ¡°Do you know what it was? Who?¡±


    ¡°No. It just interests me a little. Continue the tale, please.¡±


    I do so, detailing the fight with the bizarre beast in the cave above the fort''s forging hall, and my subsequent plummet. Then the murders, the hunt for the white jelly, and Runethane Yurok''s doomed expedition. Finally, I tell him of my unmasking of Fjalar.


    Wharoth nods approvingly. ¡°The worst sort of dwarf, that. One who puts his own forging above the lives of everyone around him. You, at least, have never been that bad.¡±


    ¡°Not quite.¡±


    He takes a swig of beer. ¡°A most interesting tale.¡± Suddenly he lowers his voice. ¡°And I saw on your armor that your runes are strange as ever. And they seem more powerful.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say, glancing nervously at the guard, who''s frowning at us. ¡°Do you think the judges will notice?¡±


    ¡°They will, as will some of the spectators.¡±


    ¡°Spectators?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Your trial is going to be a very public event, Zathar. One of the reasons I gave to persuade the court to allow it, is so that every victim of the black dragon can watch.¡±


    ¡°Wait! This is a public spectacle?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Trials by forging always are. They''re a rare and popular event¡ªtickets sell for high prices. And your infamy is going to sell a lot of tickets.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°So even justice here comes down to greed, does it?¡±


    ¡°I''m afraid so. I wish it were otherwise. Yet, there is power in the strange hammers the high justices wield. I felt it, as I''m sure you did. So maybe, in the end, you''ll still have your justice.¡±


    ¡°Except Vanerak isn''t interested in that.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± His expression turns hard. His eyes narrow. ¡°So if you lose, I''ll execute you myself, before he can snatch you away.¡±


    And with that, he stands up and leaves, not giving me a single glance back. I sit there stunned¡ªthough what did I expect? He lost many friends because of me. Of course he''ll take justice into his own hands, if Vanerak seeks to deny him it.

 Traitors Trial 14: The Opponent

    I spend the next long-hour and a bit reading and writing runes. Partly as preparation for the upcoming trial, and partly because it calms me, takes my mind off the pressure. There''s plenty to get absorbed in. Not all runic dictionaries are created equal: some of the volumes here are thousands of pages long, with tens of thousands of runes explained in exacting detail.


    For example, there''s a script called Third Hatahok, which I''ve utilized before and is fairly common, especially on armor. Until now I''d always thought it to be on the simpler side of things, yet the dictionary I''m now holding in my hands contains double the runes it ought to. It turns out that there''s six sub-scripts linked to Third Hatahok, containing extended forms of the common runes. This dictionary is new¡ªmaybe they''re a recent discovery. I feel they are brimming with potential. When I sleep they twist and reshape in my dreams.


    I write some poems using them, just drafts, nothing serious. A few of them come out twisted, though not to the same degree as those on my armor are. Maybe if I''m unfamiliar with the script, I can''t make additions to it so easily¡ªexcept I seemed to manage with runes of light. Though, I had been exposed to plenty of those.


    Despite the distractions, as time passes, I begin to fret. When will the damn trial start, anyhow? And will I ever get my own armor and Heartseeker back? I feel vulnerable without them¡ªwhat if some of the guards here have been bought by Vanerak?


    Mostly though, I worry about who I''ll be facing. I keep imagining some ancient master of metal and runes, who has been too busy forging over the past century to bother with something as trivial as an examination.


    One of these worries is resolved quickly, though not how I''d hoped. Two guards bring up my armor and Heartseeker, and inform me they''re to be kept securely somewhere away from here. They''ll be returned if I''m found innocent. They don''t tell me what''ll happen to them if I''m found guilty. Maybe put on display somewhere, or melted down.


    Actually, no. Vanerak will get them. Maybe he''ll do so even if I''m found innocent¡ªmaybe he''ll even get hold of them before the trial. My next few sleeps are haunted by nightmares of him running his hands over them.


    Then, just after I''m finished brushing the crumbs from my beard one mealtime, special investigator Natarak shows up at the cell door. He calls me over.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I say.


    ¡°You''re called to the reading of the rules in two short-hours,¡± he tells me. ¡°Put on the formal robe for it.¡±


    He hands me a complicated garment of fur and silk and heavy chains through the bars.


    ¡°The reading of the rules?¡±


    ¡°Exactly what it sounds like. The rules are read.¡±


    ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°No. You''ll meet your judges and your opponent also. I hear he''s most capable.¡±


    ¡°I see. Thank you for informing me.¡±


    ¡°It''s my job,¡± he says sharply, and leaves.


    <hr>


    The reading of the rules is about to take place. I''m waiting in a sub-cavern of the grand hall of justice. It''s a legal arena, a semi-circle of benches angled to face a bare patch of stone floor. This is where I am, feeling awkward and small in my strange chain-adorned garments. I''m sitting on a hard wooden chair¡ªone of two. I guess that the other is for my opponent.


    Solemn looking clerks and guards in many kinds of armor fill up the benches. They leave a space in the middle of the top row. I guess that the judges will be sitting there.


    I can''t help but feel slightly duped. Why didn''t I get the full rules before I agreed to take this trial on? Maybe they''re slightly different for each case, though I can''t imagine why. Or perhaps it''s been so long since this kind of trial took place that they forgot.


    Or maybe this is just a formality, or another ritual, where the judges will pass hammers over my head. I suppose I''m about to find out.


    After another half hour or so of waiting, a gong rings. Everyone on the benches stands, and I do also. Everyone looks to the entrance to the room behind me¡ªI resist the urge to turn around, in case that''s somehow disrespectful.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Past me walk three ancient dwarves. They''re not elderly like common dwarves get after too many years¡ªtheir hair is not gray, neither is their skin wrinkled¡ªbut their eyes are weary, as if everything that can be seen has been reflected in their pupils at one point.


    Each wears exquisitely enruned armor¡ªof at least second degree quality¡ªand around their necks are white scarfs emblazoned with a golden hammer. At their waists hang golden hammers also.


    They climb up the stairs between the benches and take their places at the top center. Only after they are seated does everyone else sit. I make sure to sit down last, after bowing respectfully to them, but they don''t acknowledge me at all.


    A few more important looking dwarves enter and sit on the edge seats. They don''t look solemn, but rather curious and excited. I''m trying to guess what their roles are when the middle judge stands up and clears his throat.


    ¡°Dwarves of the court,¡± he says, voice clear and loud. ¡°We are here now for the reading of the rules of the trial by forging of Zathar. He is charged with betraying his Runethane out of malicious greed. If he be guilty, may his crafts shatter.¡±


    ¡°May his crafts shatter,¡± intone the clerks and guards. The dwarves on the edges grin at each other. Some grin at me, nastily.


    ¡°If he be but another sorry victim of the black dragon''s machinations, may his crafts hold true.¡±


    ¡°May his crafts hold true,¡± intone the clerks and guards. The other dwarves shake their heads at each other, or at me.


    I really do wonder who they are.


    ¡°Zathar has sworn on the golden hammer of justice to abide by the results of the trial,¡± continues the head judge. ¡°The million runes wielded by High Justice Ratarast have bound him to it. We are here today to set the final bounds of those rules.¡±


    ¡°Where''s Barahtan?¡± a lady dwarf on the side-benches whispers to another.


    ¡°Silence in the court,¡± snaps one of the more formidable-looking guards.


    ¡°We will now wait for the honored opponent,¡± says the head judge, glaring at the dwarfess who spoke. ¡°When he arrives the reading will begin.¡±


    Barahtan¡ªthat must be the name of my opponent, then. Three syllables in his name means he''s likely of a prestigious background. There''s a few combinations of runes that could form it, depending on the script used; gold-flame-wreathed, or bright-furnace-glow, or golden-shining-gem.


    All of a sudden, everyone stands again. I follow suit. Barahtan is here then. Two dwarves in brilliant gold-gilt armor lead him to the chair beside mine. They motion for him to sit down. I resist the urge to turn and look.


    ¡°Shouldn''t I shake his hand?¡± he asks.


    ¡°With the traitor?¡± the dwarf in the more brilliant armor says disapprovingly. ¡°I think you have to do that later. Or hopefully not at all.¡±


    ¡°I still think I ought to.¡±


    ¡°Just sit down, son.¡±


    He shrugs and sits down. I do so also, then glance at his profile¡ªhis face is well-carved and his hair is like gold. Gems hang from fine silver chains in his beard. He glances at me¡ªan oddly apologetic look, I feel. I flick my eyes back to the judges. They''re talking amongst themselves in low voices.


    They finish their discussion. ¡°Defendant and prosecutor, stand,¡± orders the head judge.


    Barahtan and I stand up. He bows low and I copy him¡ªseems he''s been told more about what to do than I have.


    ¡°We will now read the rules of the trial by forging. If they meet the satisfaction of the prosecutor, he will swear to abide by the rules of the trial and by the million runes of the golden hammer he shall be bound to it.¡±


    Barahtan nods. I bite my lower lip. What if Vanerak''s had the rules altered somehow, to give me a further disadvantage?


    ¡°Judge Caletek, if you would?¡± says the head judge.


    The rightmost judge, the most weary-looking of the three, stands. He takes up a sheet of paper and reads from it; his voice is a dry monotone.


    ¡°The trial by forging is a trial of three rounds. All rounds are to take place in the Arena of Lost Memories. The defender and prosecutor are both to be given...¡±


    He lists the exact tools we''ll have available to us. There''s a great many of them, some of which I''ve never heard of. What exactly are a salamander tail tongs? Or a resinate mold? The furnace also sounds very advanced: he lists multiple modes of flame, and something called an adjustable flame-break sensor. Then he talks of ceramitic anvils, three-sawed cutters... The list of tools goes on and on.


    I imagine that Barahtan knows exactly how to use each and every one.


    The list ends, but Judge Calatek''s monotone does not. ¡°Materials are to be bought freely at the start of each round. The defender is to be given a budget of fifty Allabrast golden wheels per round. The prosecutor will use his own money, though in the interests of fairness he must not exceed fifty Allabrast golden wheels per round.¡±


    This gives me relief. There''s at least a little fairness here.


    ¡°Two long-hours are to be given for the first two rounds, and the last round, should the trial progress so far, shall be three long-hours. During this time, the crafters will be allowed no contact with either each other nor anyone else but the judges. There will be a break of ten short-hours between rounds.


    ¡°In the first round, the defender shall make the armor and the prosecutor the weapon, then the order shall alternate. The crafter of the weapon is to be allowed ten strikes against the armor.¡±


    I''m slightly surprised to hear this. I''d imagined the judges placing each craft alongside the other, and discussing the merits and flaws of each in depth. Instead, it seems our work will be appraised in a rather more violent fashion.


    ¡°If the weapon renders the armor unfit for protection within the ten allowed strikes, the crafter of the weapon shall be declared victor of that round. If the armor survives the ten blows, then the crafter of the armor shall be declared victor of the round.¡±


    I frown deeply. I can''t help but feel I''m somewhat disadvantaged here. Ten strikes is a lot, and two times I''m going to be the crafter of the armor.


    ¡°However, should the armor be destroyed in one strike, or the weapon break upon the armor within the ten strikes, then a victory by obliteration will be declared and the trial by forging shall immediately come to an end.¡±

 Traitors Trial 15: Early Confrontation

    My stomach sinks. Victory by obliteration: another way for me to lose. Since I presume I won''t be wearing the armor¡ªotherwise the weapon piercing on even the tenth blow would bring the trial to a sudden close¡ªBarahtan will get plenty of time to line up perfect strikes. There''ll be no glancing blows or near misses, only full power and exact accuracy.


    ¡°The use of runic dictionaries is allowed, however no more than three thousand pages'' worth per round are permitted to be taken into the arena. Scripts are to be chosen freely, apart from...¡±¡ªhe lists a dozen scripts I''ve never heard of¡ª¡°...which are disallowed due to the danger they pose to the participants, judges, employees of the court, guards and spectators.¡±


    Judge Caletek goes on to list more rules in exacting detail, regarding food and drink, honorable conduct, and also some regulations regarding what the spectators are allowed to bring into the stands.


    He finishes and sits down. The head judge rises to his feet again.


    ¡°Thus ends the reading of the rules. Does either the defendant or prosecutor wish for clarification on any part of them?¡±


    I shake my head. Barahtan raises his hand.


    ¡°Yes, prosecutor?¡±


    ¡°Are there any restrictions on what we can do between rounds?¡±


    ¡°The defender must return to his cell. The prosecutor is free to go where he pleases, though if you are late to return you will not be given extra time and in addition you will be fined.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    ¡°Any further questions?¡±


    One of the dwarves on the benches¡ªthe one Barahtan asked about shaking my hand, I think his father¡ªraises his hand. The head judge ignores him, but he speaks up anyway:


    ¡°I was given to understand that the Civil Force was to pay the expenses of this trial, including the one-hundred fifty golden wheels my son here is to use to purchase materials¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are mistaken,¡± says the head judge calmly. ¡°The prosecutor is to purchase his own materials. I am sure it is not too great a sum for your family.¡±


    Barahtan''s father grunts in disapproval; Barahtan winces slightly.


    ¡°Now, prosecutor, stand up,¡± says the head judge. ¡°You will now swear on the hammer. Come forth please, if you agree to the rules just set out for you.¡±


    ¡°I do agree,¡± Barahtan says, and walks up to the judges. He swears a similar oath to the one I swore, to much applause from the dwarves at the edges of the benches.


    Many have the same golden hair as he does, I notice. His family? Others, the more boisterous ones, might be his friends. There are more than a few dwarfesses also¡ªthey could be suitors. Yet there''s a great many others too.


    It hits me: they must be spectators, allowed even into this preliminary but sacred part of the trial. Yes, more than a few have been staring in fascination at me this whole time¡ªit''s their first glimpse of the infamous traitor, Zathar.


    I can tell they''re all rich. Even the lower degree ones have gems in their poorly made armor, and wear swords of rare alloys. My stomach turns. So this is justice here¡ªentertainment for those with the money to buy it! I doubt many of these spectators are from Thanerzak''s realm, or their stares would be of hatred, not curiosity.


    ¡°Barahtan has sworn the oath,¡± announces the head judge. ¡°The reading of the rules thus comes to a close. You may all depart.¡±


    Chatter breaks out among the spectators as they gather up their bags and belongings, while the clerks keep silent as they shuffle their papers and put away their pens and ink. Guards flank me and gesture for me to stand up.


    ¡°Wait,¡± says Barahtan, hurrying down to me. ¡°I really do feel obliged to shake his hand.¡±


    The guards shrug and step aside to let him approach.


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    ¡°No need to look so suspicious,¡± he says to me. ¡°Just trying to be friendly, that''s all.¡±


    He smiles; it seems geniune.


    ¡°Friendly?¡± I ask. ¡°You know what''s to be done to me should you win, right?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes,¡± he says awkwardly. ¡°But that''s no reason for rudeness.¡±


    ¡°I suppose not.¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡± He sticks out his hand. ¡°As honorable combatants we should shake hands, I think.¡±


    I reach out slowly, half-expecting some trick. He grasps my hand firmly and shakes it three times. He smiles again.


    ¡°Good luck,¡± he says. ¡°I... Ah, I''m sorry it has to be me.¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± snaps his father. ¡°This is a great honor for our family and guild.¡±


    ¡°Of course, father.¡±


    ¡°Let''s get out of here. You''ve a lot of work to do before the contest.¡±


    ¡°The trial, father.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡±


    The father glares at me. He''s similar to his son, but not quite so handsome¡ªhis nose is bent and his beard starts a little too far down on his face. Disdain and disgust glow from his amber eyes.


    ¡°Try to put up at least a little bit of a fight, traitor. Too easy a victory won''t bring us much honor.¡±


    I scowl and step forwards; one of the guards puts a steel-clad hand out to warn me against advancing further.


    ¡°I''ll fight and I''ll win," I say. "And I''ll prove that I''m no traitor.¡±


    ¡°We''ll see about that,¡± he sneers.


    <hr>


    A few hours after I return to my cell, Wharoth appears before the door of bars.


    ¡°Visitor to see you,¡± says my guard. ¡°One Guildmaster Wharoth.¡±


    ¡°I know who he is. Please, let him in.¡±


    The door is opened and Wharoth enters. He sits down at my table before I can offer him a seat.


    ¡°Sit down,¡± he tells me.


    I avoid his gaze as I sit¡ªit''s difficult to look into the eyes of someone who''s sworn to execute you. Fortunately he doesn''t look angry at all today, but friendly, even.


    "What is it?" I ask.


    "You just had the reading of the rules?"


    ¡°Yes. But I didn''t realize my trial was to be a spectacle right from the beginning.¡±


    ¡°Of course it is.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think there were many from our realm there. Just the rich and curious.¡±


    ¡°There''ll be plenty victims of the dragon at the main event. Entry is half-price for anyone from Thanerzak''s realm.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°What did you think of your opponent?¡±


    ¡°He was polite, at least. Shook my hand even though his father wasn''t too happy about it.¡±


    Wharoth gives a wry chuckle. ¡°His father is the first degree runeknight Batarast, guildmaster of the Firefly Gleam Agglomerate.¡±


    ¡°They looked like they have money to throw around. Even the lower ranking ones were covered in gems.¡±


    ¡°Yes. They have a lot of money, very little taste. They own a lot of the establishments in the Fireflea District.¡±


    ¡°They''re not warriors then.¡±


    ¡°You sound disdainful. They''ve all been on their fair share of adventures. It''s just not where they make their money. And they''re skilled smiths.¡±


    ¡°Including this Barahtan, I presume. A fourth degree, but closing in on third?¡±


    Wharoth grimaces. ¡°His father doesn''t want him taking the third degree examination, after he nearly died on the one for fourth. So he''s been kept back for far longer than usual.¡±


    ¡°He''ll know how to use all the fancy equipment we''re to be given, I imagine.¡±


    ¡°Yes. He''s been well-educated.¡±


    ¡°This Batarast and his guild, are they connected to Vanerak in any way?¡±


    ¡°Batarast is eager to ascend to the ranks of the Thanic Guard, and has been cozying up to him. I imagine volunteering his son for the role of prosecutor was Vanerak''s idea, and his final selection also has Vanerak''s beard-hairs all over it.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± I sigh. ¡°The odds are stacked against me, it seems.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°As they always are.¡±


    ¡°Everyone feels like that, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°I doubt Barahtan does.¡±


    ¡°From what I hear, he''s not particularly keen on this role. He''s sick of being pushed around by his father.¡±


    ¡°He''s not going to let me win, though. He''ll make the best crafts he can.¡±


    ¡°Of course he will. He''s a runeknight.¡±


    ¡°Any advice for me? I presume that''s why you''re here.¡±


    ¡°Yes: trust in your abilities. Don''t hold back.¡±


    ¡°Even in front of so many watching? Having Vanerak after me is bad enough, but¡ª¡°


    He grasps my hands and squeezes them hard. ¡°You will lose otherwise,¡± he says. ¡°His skill is beyond yours by decades. You cannot beat him without putting in every ounce of steel you''ve got.¡±


    ¡°But this..." I lower my voice. "This gift of mine... Guildmaster, I cannot control it yet.¡±


    ¡°You must learn quickly, then," he whispers. "You must understand, Zathar. It''s not good enough to craft as well as him. You must surpass his works beyond doubt.¡±


    ¡°Beyond doubt?¡±


    He lets go of my hands, leans back. Scowls. ¡°The judges will be bribed, I''m sure of it.¡±


    My eyes widen. "Bribed? Vanerak can do that? But they''re judges, and second degrees at least!"


    "Even so, I think he could get away with it. He would have to be very cautious, but yes, I think he can. I think he will."


    ¡°But even if he does, the contest is decided by if the armor is broken or not.¡±


    ¡°And who makes the decision about how bad the damage is? The judges do. In edge cases, you will lose.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But I don''t see how I''m going to pull it off.¡±


    ¡°You''re extremely talented. I think you have a small chance.¡± He stands up. ¡°I have to get back to the guild. The next time I see you, it''ll be from the stands.¡±


    ¡°It''s soon, then?¡± I say with alarm. ¡°They still haven''t told me the date.¡±


    ¡°The arena''s still being prepared. But it should be within the next two-long hours.¡±


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    ¡°You have a chance. All you can do is try your utmost. And please do so." He looks me in the eyes. A pained expression comes onto his face. "I don''t want to have to execute you," he says quietly. "I really don''t.¡±

 Traitors Trial 16: The Caves Called Night

    There is no night in Allabrast. Realms close to the surface have such, and other places have artificial dimmings and brightenings of lamps. Yet though Allabrast has no such cycles, there is something that could be called ''night'' here, though it is not a time, but a location.


    Past the westward and downward outskirts of the city are caves of chalk. This is curious, since there is little chalk nearby, nor is chalk often found so far down. No one is quite sure why the bones of the underworld have grown in such a manner. This chalk is not the ordinary kind either¡ªit is pure black dotted with tiny spots of white, so that traversing the caves creates the illusion that one is climbing through the surface sky during starry midnight. A disturbing yet exhilarating sensation for a dwarf.


    No one lives here, for the black chalk dust is toxic if inhaled too much. Yet the chalk night is far from un-utilized: the darkness and poison make it the perfect location to do criminal business. There is great secrecy, and if a deal goes wrong, the offender can be left in the winding mazes to die of a seemingly natural cause.


    Right now, Vanerak is down here with three very important dwarves. They stand uncomfortably close together at the dead-end of a tight tunnel.


    ¡°The trial is nearly to begin,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°Have you decided on what the first contest will be?¡±


    The head judge speaks first: ¡°Not quite. We have some ideas, but...¡± He hesitates. ¡°We are waiting for your input, still.¡±


    By input he means approval. Some while ago Vanerak found, by happy chance, some irregularities in the courts'' financial records, and by following the trail of coins up, one of his cleverest subordinates uncovered a lucrative scheme, the main beneficiary of which is Judge Gerapek.


    The scheme will remain unknown to all but Vanerak, a few select Reconquerors, and Judge Gerapek¡ªjust so long as certain favors are carried out.


    ¡°I am interested to hear your ideas then,¡± says Vanerak.


    Judge Caletek clears his throat. His eyes are lifeless, and have been ever since Vanerak found out about his little secret. A very gruesome skeleton in the closet indeed, has Judge Caletek.


    ¡°We have narrowed it down to three options. Breastplate against spear¡ª¡°


    ¡°No,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°The traitor is a spear fighter; he knows too well how to defend against one.¡±


    ¡°I apologize. The second option is hammer against helmet. The third, sword against shield.¡±


    ¡°The third interests me. The traitor is inexperienced with both crafts.¡±


    ¡°I believe the hammer and helmet has more potential,¡± says the last judge. ¡°It gives us the greatest chance to bring a sudden end to the trial.¡±


    Judges Gerapek and Caletek lean away from him slightly. This judge is the strangest of the three. In Vanerak''s experience, when blackmailed, a victim will hold one of two feelings: hatred for the blackmailer, or intense regret regarding what he''s being blackmailed for. However this Judge Daztat has become almost pathetically eager to please. Vanerak is not sure why. Perhaps he''s under the mistaken impression that if he does a good job here, Vanerak will burn the letters.


    ¡°Explain,¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°Victory by obliteration is the quickest method of ending this. You are eager for your revenge, I know. Surely a fast end is the most preferable.¡±


    ¡°Of course. How will a contest of hammer against helmet achieve this?¡±


    ¡°Because Zathar does not understand the nature of this trial. He will forge an ordinary helmet. Well-crafted it may be, but it will not stand up to the immense weight that Barahtan will put into his craft.¡±


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°You seem very sure of what Barahtan will make,¡± says Gerapek, critically.


    "He''s well-learned. He knows the nature of a trial by forging better than this Zathar does."


    "Perhaps."


    ¡°So what do you think, Vanerak?¡± Daztat says eagerly. ¡°Hammer against helmet?¡±


    Vanerak considers. If Zathar is defeated in the very first strike of the trial, the despair on his face could be amusing to witness.


    ¡°Yes, why not? Sword against shield we can save for a later round.¡±


    ¡°Very well then,¡± says Gerapek. ¡°Hammer against helmet it shall be.¡±


    ¡°Good. I''m sure you will render a fair judgement when all is forged and struck.¡±


    The three judges look a little uncomfortable at this comment, but Vanerak knows they will obey. Bribes are a useful tool, but blackmail is even better. Dark money and dark deeds¡ªthat is how to get ahead in Allabrast.


    <hr>


    I scour the bookshelves in my cell for anything that can be immediate help to me. Most of the tomes here would take years of study to understand thoroughly¡ªreading a book through once doesn''t give anyone perfect knowledge of its runes, even me¡ªso I focus on slimmer manuals about using the latest forging equipment, catalogues of alloys and their uses, and dictionaries of scripts similar to ones I already know.


    When it comes to runes, I''m not sure this is the right strategy. The runes I''ve made so far¡ªif I can really claim to have made them, since they seem to leap from my unconscious fully formed¡ªhave all been fairly similar to ones I already know. Variations on a theme, not new themes entirely. So maybe I ought to be expanding my capabilities by learning more exotic scripts.


    Well, we''ll see how the first round goes. I just hope that my craft isn''t annihilated in the very first strike.


    Victory by obliteration: I wonder if it''s a traditional rule, or some extra fuel thrown in to make things more exciting for the spectators.


    Anger still simmers in my heart at how the Civil Force is making money off this. Justice ought to be more pure.


    The hours pass. I learn what a heat-alternator is, how to operate an air-coal mixer, what snake-tail tongs are used for. Until now I''ve only used basic kinds of forging equipment, since that was all there was in the fort, and I couldn''t afford anything better in Thanerzak''s realm. Even though I''ve managed with them well so far, and even managed to do fine with nothing but stones and magma, I want every edge I can get. At the very least I want to know how to operate the advanced furnace I''m to be given.


    I sleep very little. During one of the times I''m reading, a guard calls to me.


    ¡°Another visitor,¡± he says. ¡°One Nthazes.¡±


    I leap up and dash to the the cell door. The guard lets him through.


    ¡°Nthazes!¡± I cry. We embrace. "Sit down, please," I say, showing him to a chair.


    ¡°Zathar.¡± He looks relieved to see me unharmed. ¡°I''m sorry we couldn''t do anything to help. Some of the guild saw you being dragged into that carriage, and a few of us tried to give chase, but...¡±


    ¡°It''s fine. Don''t apologize. I was going to hand myself in anyway.¡±


    ¡°Not to those dwarves. I''ve heard rumors they were that Vanerak''s.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure of it. Though I imagine he''s avoided any trouble from their being caught.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Rumors go around, but apparently he always slips out of getting into trouble.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°Up here is even worse than you warned me.¡±


    ¡°It''s worse than even I thought. My trial is to be a spectacle¡ªa money-maker.¡±


    ¡°I know. I would like to be there, cheering for you silently, but...¡±


    I can see it in his eyes. He knows he has to go back now.


    ¡°So it went well with Halmak and the Red Anvil, then?¡±


    ¡°Well enough, I suppose,¡± he sighs. ¡°He put together a plan and presented it to the Runeking¡ªthe news has made it up here, by the way, and a lot of dwarves are getting worried.¡±


    ¡°And the Runeking has granted him the fort?¡±


    ¡°Yes. He''s Runethane Halmak of the fortress against the deep darkness now. Though...¡±


    ¡°He wants it to be more than just a fort.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Misery crosses Nthazes'' face like a shadow; his eyes turn down and his shoulders droop. ¡°He has grand plans for the Mushroom Basket, and is going to bring down a contingent of miners to start some exploratory shafts for ore¡ªsideways, thankfully, not down.¡±


    ¡°What about the Shaft? I hope he doesn''t have any plans for that.¡±


    ¡°None yet, thankfully. But I can see it in his eyes. He thinks with enough dwarves, and enough weapons of light...¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Still, anything of that kind will be a while away.¡±


    ¡°A long while away, hopefully.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Our conversation pauses, then he reaches out a hand. I grasp it and shake it firmly.


    ¡°Goodbye then,¡± he says. ¡°I hope you''re found innocent.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for vouching for me. Wharoth said you helped quite a bit.¡±


    ¡°Of course I did. You saved the fort, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°We all saved it, together.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but it was you we have to thank for getting rid of the killer.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. I hope to go down again some time, after all up here is said and done.¡±


    ¡°Then I hope to see you soon.¡± He lets go of my hand. ¡°Goodbye, my friend.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, friend. I''ll see you down below.¡±


    I wipe tears from my eyes as he vanishes down the corridor. Then I immediately return to my preparations.

 Traitors Trial 17: The Time Comes

    The time finally arrives. A phalanx of guards leads me from my cell; a dozen march before me and a dozen behind. Their armor and weapons are well-crafted. These are not lower degree grunts. We emerge into a wide corridor, and at the sides are standing hundreds of what look like clerks, off-duty guards and lawyers. All are eager to see the beginning of the spectacle, of the trial by forging of the infamous traitor, Zathar.


    They watch us in silence¡ªbut then we exit Allabrast Civil Prison and are on a wide street. A crowd throngs here, of both runeknights and commoners alike. All are shouting and jeering, even the little children sat on the shoulders of their parents.


    We approach a steel-clad carriage. Out of the corner of my eye I see a rock sailing toward me; I duck, one of the guards deflects it with his shield. A clang rings out. The jeers grow louder.


    For these dwarves at least, my guilt is not in question. I wonder how many are from Thanerzak''s realm. Maybe many of them. I can see burns on the faces of about half.


    The carriage ride is mercifully silent: the steel and hard wooden walls cut out all sound from outside, even that of the air rushing past us. Even the wheels do not rumble so much. Probably this is the best crafted and most secure carriage they have.


    I feel shrunken, diminished. The scale of the crowds outside, the phalanx of elite guards, the empty spaciousness of the carriage all serve to make the enormity of my crime overwhelming. When I gave the black dragon the key, there was only the three of us, me and it and Hayhek, yet the repercussions have destroyed, maimed, and thrown into disarray the lives of tens of thousands.


    Maybe I deserve worse than death. Maybe I deserve what Vanerak has planned for me. Even if I win, will I be able to accept the fact of my innocence? I feel that many in the crowds outside will not.


    The carriage glides to a halt and its doors are opened. I step down onto the tiles of a darkened room and am greeted by one of the judges, the one who didn''t speak at the reading of the rules. His hair and beard are dark like mine, and he has an unnerving gleam in his eyes. Judge Daztat, I believe I heard.


    ¡°Come,¡± he orders. ¡°It''s time for you to learn what you''re to craft, and then it''ll be time to begin.¡±


    Guards flank me, then I follow him up a flight of stairs to a small chamber. It''s of black stone, lit brightly by a bluish crystal lamp that gives no heat. I shiver.


    The judge gestures for me to sit down on one of two seats. A few minutes later, Barahtan arrives and sits beside me. He gives me an awkward grimace.


    ¡°Good hour,¡± he says.


    ¡°To you also,¡± I reply.


    The other two judges arrive. The head one, whose name I''ve since learned is Gerapek, speaks to us:


    ¡°Prosecutor and defendant, welcome. The first contest of the trial by forging is to begin. Zathar, you are to construct a helmet. Barahtan, you are to construct a hammer.¡±


    A helmet. All right. I''ve made plenty before, and they''ve never failed me yet.


    The second judge, Caletek, says, ¡°A helmet is defined to be a piece of armor protecting the entire head and upper neck; it may or may not also give protection to the face. It must be breathable and when worn, the wearer must be able to see out of it, or else through some runic methods have his other senses be enhanced to a significant degree.¡±


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Interesting¡ªperhaps I should affix runic ears to it¡ªno, they would be too vulnerable, and also take up time better spent on the main construction.


    ¡°A hammer is defined as a crushing weapon, made to be wielded with one or two hands. It is formed of a handle and a head. The main striking surface of the head must be flat, or have more than four points for violent contact. The secondary or other striking surfaces may be crafted for penetration or cutting, however you must strike the defender''s armor with the main striking surface only.¡±


    This is something of a relief: I only need to worry about resisting crushing damage. Already ideas for what I''m to make are assembling themselves in my mind.


    ¡°Once the crafts are complete, or the two long-hours come to a close, the test will be carried out. Zathar will mount his helmet upon a prepared armor-stand. Barahtan will attempt to destroy it in ten blows. Should the armor-stand fall over, it will be righted before the next blow, however should the helmet be displaced from the stand, Barahtan may strike it where it lies upon the floor.¡±


    I''ll need to make the chin-strap very secure then.


    Judge Caletek steps back and Judge Daztat speaks:


    ¡°One of us will be present with you at the forges at all times. You will have a catalogue from which you can order materials; tell us what you want and it will be brought to you with haste. On the wall will be sand-timers by which you can see how long you have remaining.¡±


    He steps back.


    ¡°Now,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°Is any clarification required?¡±


    I shake my head; Barahtan does also.


    ¡°Good. Then you shall now be led to the forges. Do not touch tool nor material until the bell is rung to announce the start of the contest.¡±


    We nod.


    ¡°May justice prevail. Follow the guards now, please.¡±


    We follow them out of the room side by side. Barahtan turns to me.


    ¡°Good luck,¡± he says. ¡°I''m sorry it had to be me.¡±


    Something about his voice irritates me; he speaks as if this is some friendly competition. For him, maybe that''s all it is. But my life, my justice, my acceptance of my past and the potential of my future are all resting on the next dozen long-hours. For me, this contest goes beyond even life and death.


    ¡°Good luck?¡± I say. ¡°There is no luck in forging. Skill only. And through my skill I will prove my innocence.¡±


    His eyebrows raise a touch, then a shadow clouds his brow and he nods solemnly.


    ¡°You are right,¡± he says. ¡°There''s no luck here. Just skill and justice.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    We reach a fork in the corridor and halt.


    ¡°I will see you in two long-hours,¡± he says. ¡°May justice prevail.¡±


    ¡°It shall. One way or the other.¡±


    He makes to hold out his hand, then withdraws it and bows deep instead. I return it. Then, we are led our separate ways into the Arena of Lost Memories.


    <hr>


    Like every arena I''ve ever heard of or been in, the ground is sand. I see it beyond the portcullis¡ªdarkly silver grains, like crushed pearl. The walls form a great circle of black stone whose age I can nearly feel. Dividing the arena in half is a newer wall, of fossil wood; at the north end of it, below shadowed box seats, is a raised platform. My stomach roils a little. I imagine that is where the tests will take place.


    Halfway along the dividing wall is my furnace, anvil, tool cabinet, and everything else a well-equipped forge ought to have. A short distance away from those is a writing desk and upon it the thick catalogue of materials we were told about.


    On the other side of the wall will be Barahtan. I wonder what kind of a weapon he has in mind to make.


    And all around are the stands, concentric rings of seats filled totally by the crowd¡ªthere is not a single free space; it is a sea of dwarves. Most are in armor but higher up are commoners as well. They''re talking to each other as they point excitedly to the portcullis and me behind it. The sound is like that of hungry river-rapids.


    The portcullis grinds upward. I walk out onto the sand. The sound of the crowd becomes the roar of a waterfall as every single dwarf in the stands rises to their feet, screaming and shaking their fists. I falter; I feel a wave of hate crash into me, a tide of emotional magma seeking to throw me down and burn me, to force me to give up before the bell of commencement has even struck its first chime.


    I press on. The sand flows around my thin shoes. I will trust in the runes of the hammer Head Justice Ratarast passed over me, and hope that if I win this both their hatred and my inner guilt will fade.

 Traitors Trial 18: Expensive Materials

    I wait before my anvil. It''s like none I''ve ever seen before: into the square side are cut oddly shaped holes, and it has two horns, a normal one and a smaller, sharper one sticking out at a right angle. It isn''t steel either, but some kind of white rock. The furnace is even more disturbing¡ªit''s nearly as tall as I am, and on its side are about two dozen switches.


    Before I have a chance to examine them further, I hear the voice of Judge Daztat.


    ¡°Careful not to touch,¡± he says. ¡°We wouldn''t want the trial to end before it''s even begun.¡±


    I turn around and narrow my eyes at him.


    ¡°Would we?¡± he says.


    ¡°Of course not. Will the bell ring soon?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Judge Gerapek is just saying a few words to the crowd. You''ve pulled in quite the turnout.¡±


    ¡°All of them eager to see justice done¡ªfor a price.¡±


    ¡°Everything has a price. You''re old enough to know that.¡±


    Including judges.


    ¡°However, you are allowed to look at the materials catalogue, you know.¡±


    ¡°I''ll wait for the bell, if it''s all the same to you.¡±


    He scowls. ¡°That''s not the kind of tone you ought to be taking with me, young dwarf.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, I''ll wait for the bell.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± He shrugs. ¡°Do as you please.¡±


    As if on cue, the clang of a great bell shivers up through the arena floor, nearly shaking me from my feet. It comes again, then once more. Patterns form in the pearly gray sand that look almost like faces, then they fade.


    ¡°That''s the bell,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°Call me over when you''ve chosen your materials. Don''t take too much time. Remember that the sand is flowing.¡±


    He points to an array of sand timers on a shelf cut into the dividing wall. There are five of them: one for seconds, one for minutes, one for short-hours, one for long-hours, and a final one for the two long-hours that I have before my craft is judged. No servant is required to turn each over once it''s reached its limit¡ªit flips of its own accord.


    But I''m not going to let the judges rush me. That would only be playing into Vanerak''s hands. Instead I''m going to take my time and plan my craft thoroughly.


    I walk to the writing desk and sit down, push the materials catalogue to one side. I search the drawer for some blank paper then pick up the writing implement¡ªnot a pen, but a strange gray stick¡ªand begin to sketch.


    My helmet is going to be conical, I quickly decide. This is the shape most resistant to blows from above, the most powerful kind of hammer-stroke. All the force will be dissipated down the sides, rather than crushing into the top, and the runes I''m going to write will enhance this effect.


    Cones aren''t the easiest shapes to forge, though. I''ll have to be very exact when I shape the metal. I go to Judge Daztat:


    ¡°I need to know the dimensions of the armor stand,¡± I say.


    ¡°It''ll be slightly larger than your own head.¡±


    ¡°I need to know the exact dimensions. It needs to be a good fit.¡±


    ¡°I''ll see what I can do. Do you need them now?¡±


    ¡°As soon as possible¡ªactually, I''d like to measure the stand myself. Is that possible?¡±


    ¡°Do you really think that''s necessary?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I do.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Well, it''s probably allowed. I''ll have to consult with Judge Gerapek.¡±


    ¡°Please do it quickly.¡±


    ¡°He''ll be here soon enough, I imagine.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    I turn back to my papers, rather irritated. Why was I not given the dimensions immediately? Any runeknight knows that the fit of a piece of armor is vital. That''s part of the reason we don''t use each others'' equipment: we forge to exact dimensions.


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    I bet I was meant to be given them, but there was some miscommunication down the line, courtesy of Vanerak, or more likely one of his lackeys. And clearly Judge Daztat has been instructed to be of as little help as possible.


    Well, it is what it is. These are just the odds I''m up against. I continue my sketches, trying to at least work out the angles if I can''t yet get the lengths. I''ll do an open-faced design. Adding a visor would just waste time, since the helmet itself will be the target, not the false head it''ll be covering.


    Once I have a few basic ideas sketched out, I open up the materials catalogue. I flick through, looking for titanium. That''s the material I''m best used to forging with now.


    My head spins: there''s a huge selection of different alloys available, many of which include metals I''ve never heard of. I suppose I ought to stick to what I used down in the fort. I rack my memory trying to recall what it was called. It was some mix that included a metal beginning with a ''v'' sound... Or did it just have a number?


    I flick through to the back of the section and find one that might be what I''m looking for, but it''s a full one gold wheel per square inch at the thickness I want. Even though I learned at the Red Anvil that an inch in Allabrast is judged to be slightly longer than in most other realms, for some obscure reason, it''s still far too expensive.


    So I flick back to the middle of the section. I tug my beard in frustration: there''s just too many options! Besides, I don''t know much about alloys anyway. They''re a complicated field of study.


    I decide to stop fretting over it and go for something middling in price. That way I''ll have enough metal to spare that if I make a mistake it won''t be a total disaster, and still have plenty golden wheels left to buy metal and reagent for runes plus other miscellaneous items with.


    I take the catalogue to Judge Daztat and point to the alloy I''ve chosen.


    ¡°I''d like a twenty by ten inch, four millimeter thick sheet of this, please. Plus seven five millimeter diameter twelve inch rods of the same alloy, and a twenty inch rod also. I believe the total comes to twenty-three gold wheels.¡±


    ¡°Plus tax, that''ll be twenty-six gold wheels.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°Tax?¡±


    ¡°Yes, tax. I trust you''re familiar with the concept? Or maybe you wish to add tax avoidance to your long list of crimes?¡±


    ¡°Just get me the metal, will you?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    He calls a guard over. I make sure to keep close by so that I hear every word, but he relays my order without error. I return to the writing desk and continue to work on my sketches. My hands are shaking with anger. Tax indeed! No doubt he''s going to pocket the difference himself, and I can''t do a single thing about it.


    Sixteen minutes later, by the count of the sand clock, the guard returns with my materials. I inspect them and am satisfied they''re of good quality. By now I''ve decided on the overall design for my helmet, and just need to get the measurements for the armor stand to calculate the final dimensions.


    I watch the sand flow in the timers. Nearly half of the sand in the short-hour timer has drained down, so I''ve been here an hour already¡ªand I still can''t start! I grit my teeth and approach Judge Daztat once more.


    ¡°Please, I really need the dimensions,¡± I say, trying to hide my irritation as best I can. ¡°Could you please get me them?¡±


    ¡°When Judge Gerapek is finished whatever business he has up there, I''ll talk to him.¡±


    ¡°And how long will that take?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°No idea.¡±


    ¡°If you don''t have the dimensions, then maybe I could just see the armor stand. I''m sure one of the guards could bring it in.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know if that''s allowed.¡±


    He''s one of the damn judges! How could he possibly be unaware if that''s allowed or not? And why in hell would it not be allowed? My fists clench tight. Judge Daztat smirks very slightly.


    ¡°I''m sure there''s plenty to prepare in the meantime,¡± he says. ¡°Why don''t you start by arranging the tools, or cleaning out the furnace?¡±


    This time, I can''t help but narrow my eyes. ¡°I''d presumed it was already cleaned.¡±


    ¡°It ought to be. Still, wouldn''t hurt to check, surely? A thorough equipment check is in order at the beginning of every forging session. Even initiates know that.¡±


    ¡°Of course they do.¡±


    I stalk off back to the forging area and open up the massive furnace. It looks clean, certainly¡ªbut what about the inner workings? I walk around to the back. The sheet of metal there is fixed with screws, which I could probably undo.


    I glance back at Judge Daztat. He''s watching me. I take my hands away from the back of the furnace. I''m sure it''s perfectly clean, and he just wants me to try opening it up so I can accidentally break something.


    Instead of doing that, I take a look at the switches on the side. There''s a lot of fancy stuff, like the ability to time burns, or have the temperature slowly increase or decrease over time. Though I''ve had a read of the manual¡ªit was one of the books in my cell¡ªI think it''d be a mistake to experiment with those functions. I''ll just stick to the basic methods of operation.


    I go through the tool cabinet next, and take out everything I know how to use¡ªwhich is only about half of what''s in there. Again, I''m only going to make use of what I''m confident in. Once this is done, I glance up at the sand timers. Nearly a whole short-hour has passed¡ªone thirty-fifth of a long-hour¡ªso one seventieth of my time is up and I haven''t been able to swing my hammer even once!


    I''m getting sick of this. I want to forge! Not only to win this contest and find justice, but because it''s in my nature. My dwarven instincts are crying out for me to heat the furnace, work the metal!


    Then, finally, some luck. Two guards appear at the arena entrance and start to drag an armor stand through the sand toward me. I hurry past Judge Daztat to them.


    ¡°So I am meant to have this?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the guard. ¡°Idiot servants forgot.¡±


    ¡°I''ll drag it from here.¡±


    Judge Daztat is already hurrying over.


    ¡°All right,¡± says the guard.


    I give Judge Daztat a smile as I drag the stand past him. He scowls, but it seems he doesn''t want to kick up so much of a fuss. Vanerak doesn''t have absolutely everyone running this trial in his pocket, it seems.


    I set it up next to the writing desk, measure with a tape, and calculate the dimensions for my helmet design. Then I pick up my sheet of titanium and grin fiercely.


    Finally, it''s time to forge.

 Traitors Trial 19: Solution Hardening

    ¡°Ordering this much lead won''t cause any kind of delay, will it?¡±


    ¡°It shouldn''t.¡±


    ¡°You look surprised, Judge Caletek.¡±


    ¡°Your father might wish for you to use finer materials.¡±


    ¡°I don''t care that much about what he wishes. I know what I''m doing.¡±


    ¡°Very well, prosecutor.¡±


    <hr>


    First, I need to make the inner framework. It''s going to be composed of six rods joined at the top, with a loop around the bottom and one in the middle too. These eight rods will be where the main structural integrity of the craft comes from¡ªthey will be well-runed also. Around them I''ll wrap the titanium sheet.


    I cut the spare inch and three-quarters I don''t need from each of the six rods, then get a metal-quill to draw the angles I need to cut at their tops. Each needs to have a sixty degree corner to fit to the adjacent two.


    The saw I''ve been provided with is far sharper than any I''ve used before. The diamonds at its edge are frighteningly small. It''s amazing to me that a non-runeknight could have made something so exact. I''m thankful to whoever did make it though, because my cutting goes perfectly. The planes need very little sanding to make them smooth.


    I push the rods together into their conical shape and am satisfied. Now for a tricky part¡ªbending them. They need to curve evenly around to fit the head of the armor stand, and need to do this in symmetrical fashion, or at the moment the hammer strikes some of the rods will take more strain than the others, and snap or warp.


    Immediately I run into a problem: the main horn of this anvil is smaller than I''m used to. I''ll need to strike often with softer taps. I make a few experimental strikes. They hit with more force than I was expecting¡ªwhatever this anvil is made of, it''s got far more rebound to it than steel.


    Very carefully, I hammer the first rod curved. It looks decent, but when I lay it onto my sketch, I see that it isn''t curved enough, and also that the curve is uneven. There''s little flat dents where my hammer struck which will need to be evened out.


    Cursing, I return to the anvil. This time I''m extra careful with my strokes. I compare it to my sketch again. Still not right. I look at the sand timer¡ªmost of another short-hour has already passed. Shit!


    This is no time to panic, I remind myself. I''d expected to run into issues, just like every runeknight does in the forge. I just need to overcome them calmly and trust in my skill. I go back to the anvil, and this time I shut my eyes and listen.


    Yes, this is the way to do things. I learned down below that eyes aren''t the only means of observation a runeknight has. I hear the notes the titanium makes and feel the vibrations in my flesh and bones.


    This time when I compare the rod to the sketch, it''s perfect. I move on to the other rods. They go very smoothly, and within a short-hour and a half¡ªabout three regular hours¡ªthis part of the forging is complete.


    Next for the loops. They need to be perfectly circular. I start with the smaller one first, the remaining twelve inch rod, which will sit just over the crown of the armor-stand''s head.


    To my happy surprise, the crafting goes smoothly. The larger loop, made from the twenty inch rod, is a little harder: my first attempt ends up elliptical. I try again. I wish I had my runic ears, then I''d be able to properly hear the shape of the metal. As it is, all that''s with me of my own belongs is my amulet of unaging¡ªthe sapphire one¡ªcold against my breastbone.


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    This is in the interests of a fair trial, apparently. Taking the amulet of a runeknight away can result in rapid deterioration¡ªyet also, I realize as I stand here, this rule probably benefits Barahtan more than me. His amulet surely grants more vigor than mine does.


    At the end of the third short hour of seventy, I finish the base loop. It''s very even. Hopefully it''ll mostly stay that way at the next part of the process: hardening.


    I sit down at my writing desk and think hard. I''m about to take a risk. If it pays off, I might just be able to make this armor the toughest piece I''ve ever completed. Yet there''s a high risk of failure.


    But Guildmaster Wharoth told me I had to push my skills to their utmost.


    I decide to take the risk. On paper, it''s no trickier than any other kind of heat treating. I can manage it. I open up the catalogue and soon find what I need, then I call over Judge Daztat.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°I want two gallons of this, and this tungesten bucket too, please.¡±


    ¡°That''s thirty golden wheels. You don''t have enough.¡±


    ¡°The tungsten bucket is a hire, which makes it only two golden wheels. Plus the fireflea oil, my total comes to eight golden wheels.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Plus tax, that comes to eight golden wheels and three silver loops.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Still trying to scam me¡ªI glower at the back of his head as he relays my request to one of the guards. I wonder if he''ll be here with me the whole trial, or just the first round.


    Not that I think either of the other judges will be more fair.


    <hr>


    ¡°What in hell is that boy doing?¡± rages Batarast, peering at Barahtan through a pair of magnifying lenses. ¡°What in hell is all that for?¡±


    ¡°Lead is heavy,¡± says his wife, dressed all in gold. ¡°Seems an obvious choice for a hammer.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but so much! He''s ordered something very impure. Fool!¡±


    ¡°Why would he do that?¡±


    ¡°No bloody idea. If he loses this...¡±


    ¡°Relax. I''m sure he knows what he''s doing.¡±


    ¡°He always thinks he knows what he''s doing. But he never has a bloody clue!¡±


    <hr>


    The hardening technique I''m about to employ is called solution hardening. No one is quite sure how it works, least of all the author of the tome I discovered it in. She theorized that the inner particles of the metal, which some dwarves believe to exist, somehow rearrange themselves after being air-cooled in the second stage. What''s important is this: it makes the titanium much more resistant to deformation.


    I pour the fireflea oil from its foil bag into the tungsten bucket. It doesn''t glow like I''d expected it to; instead it''s just a dull orange. It stinks like infected snot, and there''s a few bits of leg and shell floating on top of it. I hold my nose with one hand and pick those out with the other, flick them into the pearlescent sand.


    Next, I switch on the furnace to a very precise temperature¡ªone thousand and thirty five degrees. I wait until it''s reached its maximum heat, then I pick up the bucket with my longest tongs. It swings back and forth pendulously. I have to put it in very slowly in order not to spill any.


    A little slops out. It bubbles and steams on the interior of the furnace and the stink nearly makes me choke, but I manage to place the bucket down without spilling any more.


    Now I wait precisely ten minutes until the oil has reached its maximum temperature. I glance up at the crowd; they are staring back at me. A few jeer and try to meet my eyes. I turn back to my craft.


    A glowing mist has formed inside the furnace, just as it''s supposed to. Fireflea oil is no ordinary type of oil: that mist can pass into metals if both are at high temperatures. After the metal is cooled, the essence will be trapped within the metal, lending it strength.


    I gather together the straight titanium rods, and use my widest pair of tongs to grip them all at once. I''m glad the furnace is so wide¡ªit makes it easy to manipulate them into the bucket of oil. The surface shivers violently, and glowing mist rushes out, stinging my eyes. I rub the tears away and look at the sand timers. I''ve already calculated how long they need to be in for¡ªten minutes and forty three and a half seconds.


    There''s some kind of commotion in the stands; dwarves are standing and pointing to the other side of the dividing wall. Barahtan has done something incredible perhaps, or, hopefully, has made some terrible mistake. There''s no way to tell which, and I try to ignore the noise.


    I drag a workbench over to the front of the furnace, then place a bucket of water next to it. I keep my eyes on the timers. The ten minute mark passes. I count the seconds, open and close my tongs in time with them. Now forty have passed; I reach into the bucket.


    I gather the rods up smoothly and pull them out. Oil drips onto the sand. The stink has changed into a heady scent that makes my head swim. The titanium glistens with an orange tinge, as if dark fire runs across it. I plunge them into the water bucket; steam erupts.


    Gradually the mist clears.


    My heart nearly stops¡ªthere''s only five in the bucket. Horrified, I rush to the furnace and peer into the oil bucket, and see that I''ve left one of the rods inside.

 Traitors Trial 20: Mistakes Upon Mistakes

    ¡°Shit!¡± I yell as I snatch the titanium rod out. It hisses violently as I plunge it into the water with the rest.


    How long was it in there? I guess about a minute and a half extra, but it''s impossible to tell now. I curse and throw my tongs down into the sand. Damn this! The book warned me that the timing for this operation is extremely important. There''s a sweet spot for the amount of essence that has to come into the metal. Undershooting it isn''t usually a problem, but overshooting can cause drastic weakening.


    <hr>


    ¡°What''s he done, guildmaster? I can''t see!¡±


    ¡°Left a rod in the furnace too long,¡± sighs Wharoth.


    He and a large group of his guild members are sitting in the west part of the stands, where they can see Zathar most clearly. He''s spent a rather large amount of gold from the Association of Steel''s coffers to ensure every dwarf who wanted to come could. However, in the interests of economy, he had his senior guildmembers buy their own tickets, so he''s ended up sitting with the more junior ranking ones.


    ¡°Is that such a problem?¡± asks another runeknight. Her voice is high and youthful, of true youth, not that which comes from an amulet. She was but a child when the black dragon came.


    ¡°It is for this technique, Meldae. Fireflea oil is very tricky to use.¡±


    ¡°Why did he try using it then?¡±


    ¡°Because if he doesn''t take a few risks he''s got no chance of winning.¡±


    ¡°I wish we could see what Barahtan''s doing from here.¡±


    Wharoth does not. He''s dreading the moment two long-hours from now when Zathar''s helmet will be tested, because judging by what he''s glimpsed of Zathar''s sketches, it''s clear he doesn''t understand how to win this contest of crafts.


    In fact, he may have lost this first round already.


    <hr>


    I lay the six rods on the anvil for examination. The first five are all a uniform dark red-orange tint, but the last is brighter. Should I risk using it? No, I decide. That would be foolish.


    Could I use the off-cuts? I made sure to purchase extra titanium just for this kind of occurrence. But welding them together will take time, and result in weaknesses I can''t afford. I''ll just have to buy another rod.


    Feeling terribly humiliated¡ªI can hear laughter from the stands¡ªI call over Judge Daztat. He saunters over.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°I need another titanium rod. Ten and a quarter inch this time, same thickness and alloy.¡±


    He smirks. ¡°Very well. That''s another gold wheel and a silver loop off your total, though.¡±


    ¡°How much do I have left?¡±


    ¡°Let''s see... Eight and three... Twenty-six... And now one and one. You''ve spent thirty five gold and four silver. So that makes fourteen and six remaining.¡±


    That isn''t much. I tell Judge Daztat to wait on ordering while I take a look at the catalogue. How much is the platinum for the runes going to cost? I calculate¡ªfifteen gold wheels. Too much. I''ll have to downgrade half to silver. That will make the cost for metal for the runes only ten.


    How much reagent will four golden wheels and six silver loops get me? Barely enough. Thankfully reagent is a little cheaper in Allabrast¡ªat least compared to the cost of everything else¡ªsince there''s a lot of grand old refineries here, and the close-guarded techniques they use are less wasteful. Even so, I won''t be able to afford even a single mistake with the runes.


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    That''s too dangerous. If my abilities go awry somehow...


    ¡°I won''t order the rod just yet. Instead, I''ll order six feet of platinum wire, gauge two hundred fifty, and three of silver. Plus twelve grams of incandesite, grain size four.¡±


    Daztat raises his eyebrows. ¡°Ordering all your materials so soon?¡±


    I refuse to take the bait. ¡°Just get them for me, please. The total comes to twelve gold wheels. Plus one for your tax.¡±


    ¡°One and one silver.¡±


    ¡°Whatever you say.¡±


    He relays the order to a guard and I move onto the second part of hardening the five rods. It''s going to take a while, so I better get it done early¡ªfortunately all I have to do is heat them to nine hundred degrees, then switch the furnace off and let them cool slowly. Very slowly: it''s going to take more than half of one of my long-hours.


    I repeat the fireflea oil hardening with the inner loops. Thankfully this time all goes to plan. Hopefully the next part of my craft will too. It''s time to start on the sheet metal.


    It''s going to be all one piece wrapped around the rods. I start to shape. It''s tricky, because this alloy feels a little different from what I''m used to, but at least the mistakes I make can be fixed with a few more careful hammer strikes.


    Soon I get into a rhythm. I sink into that familiar feeling where everything around me vanishes and there''s just the clang of metal on metal and the shiver of my strikes traveling up my arm. Everything around me disappears, arena, crowd, walls, the furnace; even my legs seem to vanish. All that remains is metal, anvil, hammer and tongs.


    My new materials arrive; I barely notice.


    I finish it. Upon the anvil now stands the main part of the helm, and it is perfectly proportioned and smoothed. The metal of amateur runeknights ends up beaten and battered, even after many attempts to fix, but I have progressed beyond that stage. My metal is smooth and gleams brightly in the glow of the arena lights. I hold it up to the crowd, defiantly.


    There is murmuring. I move my gaze across the faces of the crowd; most look reluctantly impressed. Some even look excited¡ªprobably they think they''ll get more entertainment if I put up more resistance than expected.


    Then I spot him: Guildmaster Wharoth! He''s holding up an odd pair of lenses to his face, like many of the crowd have, but I recognize his ashen beard and big scarred hands. He''s surrounded by young-looking dwarves. I guess they''re junior members of the Association of Steel.


    I wonder how they feel about me: if they hope I''m innocent or are keen to see me proven guilty. Briefly I consider waving up to them, but decide against it. It would probably just cause trouble.


    I return to my work. Next is to weld the back-seam evenly, which will be a tricky process. I pick up a welding stick. It''s a strange design, shorter than I''m used to and made of some kind of ceramic, and the skin around the handle is unidentifiable, but I''m sure it''ll be easy enough to use.


    I heat the tip to white hot in the furnace, and start the welding process. It goes wrong immediately: whatever the stick is made from, its heat capacity is unprecedented. The titanium melts and spatters like water on a hot pan. A spark flies at my eye¡ªmisses by a millimeter to land on my brow. The pain is shocking. I jump back and drop the welding stick on my foot. I yelp in pain and fall over.


    I stare up at the arena lights for a few seconds, cursing loudly. In my ears is a roaring¡ªthe laughter of the crowd.


    How dare they? Have they ever forged under this kind of pressure? Have they ever had a fate worse than death hanging over them as they worked the metal? I get to my feet and scream every insult I can think of up at them, but they only laugh harder.


    Eventually I run out of breath. The laughter continues. I stand there, panting, watching them point at me. Even some of the Association of Steel are laughing, though I''m glad that Wharoth is not. He simply looks depressed.


    Sighing, I examine the damage to the titanium shell. There''s now a deep scar in the back. Another mistake.


    I bet Barahtan hasn''t made any.


    Well, all I can do is try again and be more careful this time. But I''m fatigued. My arms feel heavy; the euphoria from the hammering is now completely gone. Should I sleep? I''m sure Barahtan won''t. Like all dwarves of Allabrast he''ll be well used to lengthy periods without rests.


    But I am not used to such a schedule, and I really don''t want to make any more foolish errors. There''s no bed, but at least the sand is soft. I switch off the furnace and lie down next to it.


    <hr>


    ¡°Hah!¡± says Batarast. ¡°Look at that idiot. Sleeping! His jester performance seems to have tired him out.¡±


    ¡°While our son is still hammering away.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. On what, though, I can''t guess.¡±


    ¡°It is an odd shape for a hammer. Looks more like a mace.¡±


    ¡°Yes, and a primitive one at that. Looks like something a troll might use.¡±


    ¡°Well, we''ll just have to trust him.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    Batarast rubs his eyes; he''s getting sleepy as well, much to his distaste. Old age? Maybe he needs to reforge his amulet.


    ¡°Shall I call for some more blankets?¡± asks his wife.


    ¡°No! I''m not going to sleep. Not at the same time as the traitor, anyhow. Let''s get some more hot beer instead. And some more steaks too.¡±

 Traitors Trial 21: The Fear of Being Watched

    I awaken. My limbs are chilled and stiff. The heat of the furnace has faded completely by now and the sand has not insulated me much either. I stand and stretch, yawn and rub my eyes to get the sleep out, stamp my feet to try and shake some vigor back into my body. The burn on my foot stings. Out the corner of my eyes I see dwarves in the stands pointing at me. Some are shaking those who''ve fallen asleep awake.


    Many here slept when I did. This realization feels very strange.


    Nervously I look at the timers, and am relieved to see that only half a long-hour has passed since the contest began. I''m ahead of schedule.


    I frown. Maybe I shouldn''t feel relieved about this. Guildmaster Wharoth always used to tell me I was too impatient, and though I thought I''d got rid of that bad habit down in the fort, maybe I''m still hurrying things. I still have the equivalent of four and a half days left of forging left for this craft. I should take more time, be more careful.


    I switch on the furnace, and this time I only heat the welding rod up to red heat. This proves too little to soften the titanium, so I heat it to orange. This works, though I have to keep reheating it every other touch I make to the seam.


    A whole short-hour passes before the outside of the helm is welded into its final shape, but I think taking the time has been worth it: apart from at the top where I made my mistake, the join is even.


    My mistake shouldn''t affect the overall structural integrity much, but it will hurt the runic flow. At least it''s not as bad as my other mistake, the one with the rod. I examine them again. Yes, the sixth is unusable. When I tap it the sound is high and uneven in pitch.


    So I''m back to the same difficult question: do I go through with spending the rest of my money on another rod and risk disaster should I run out of reagent; or else do I re-jig the angles at the top of each rod and make the frame pentagonal?


    I don''t want to rush the decision. I''ll come back to it later.


    I start work on the runes. I''m going to do two poems: one will be a great long single line spiraling down the outer skin of the helm; and the another, a thematic sequel, will go on the inner framework.


    On the inner loops will be an interlude that links the two.


    Paper first, like always. My writing-stick scratches and ancient symbols are reborn¡ªjust ancient ones, I''m keeping tight control for now. I need to work out the basic concepts. Yet it''s proving a real challenge. It''s been too long since I wrote out a poem, or even read one. I crammed my head with new runes, but vocabulary plus grammar doesn''t become art so easily.


    I scratch failed draft after failed draft into existence. Nothing fits together, not a single line works. I''ve gone rusty¡ªforgotten my skills. My only consolation is that I''m writing so small that surely none of the crowd can read my failures.


    Sleeping won''t help; I just did that. How about a walk? I approach Judge Daztat:


    ¡°There''s no rule saying I can''t walk around the arena, is there?¡±


    ¡°None.¡±


    ¡°I''ll be taking a stroll then. Don''t touch my equipment.¡±


    He scowls. ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Good. You respect me that much, at least.¡±


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    ¡°I respect you just the minimum I am required to, and the rules say that only you are to touch your craft. So go ahead: waste your time with your little stroll.¡±


    Seems that I touched a nerve. In Vanerak''s pocket he may be, but perhaps he still has a smidge of honor left in him. He won''t go so far as to interfere directly with another dwarf''s craft. That really would be an unforgivable sin.


    <hr>


    ¡°What''s he doing? He''s left his forge!¡±


    ¡°Has he given up?¡±


    ¡°Maybe he''s going to admit his guilt. Maybe it''s all too much to handle.¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth shuts down the discussion with a single word: ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You think?¡±


    ¡°Of course that''s what I bloody think. Don''t question me. Zathar is not one to give up. He never gives up. And he won''t admit any guilt so easily.¡±


    ¡°I think he should. End our shame quickly.¡±


    Wharoth glares at the speaker. ¡°What right do you have to speak of him? You were a child when the black dragon came. You have never met him. Do not presume to judge. That is not your job: it is no one''s job.¡±


    She bows her head. ¡°I''m sorry.¡±


    ¡°And our shame will be cleared however this trial ends.¡±


    ¡°Will it?¡± another dwarf asks nervously. ¡°There are many who won''t¡ª¡°


    ¡°Those sorts won''t forgive us even if he is executed. Don''t bother treating with them.¡±


    He looks down at Zathar pacing around the arena, hoping that the runes spinning inside the young dwarf''s head will be enough to stave off total defeat.


    <hr>


    Once I''m back at the forge I feel rather refreshed. The coolness of the sand below my thin shoes and the murmur of the crowd reminds me of a kind of place I once read about called a beach. They exist on the surface, next to great water oceans. The motion of the water over the millennia has smashed the rocks to sand so fine it''s almost powder. They''re described as calming places, where humans travel to get away from the stresses of their short lives, and I think if I live through this I''d like to visit one some day.


    Days! And on the surface I could see the sun directly, and the moon also.


    Strange hope buoying my heart, I get back to my compositions. The runes flow a little easier, and the stanzas are coming together. The theme of it will be diversion, of taking the enemy force and throwing it elsewhere, like a rock throwing apart a mighty river. Hits, divides, spreads, flows away, vanishes. That''s what will happen to the force of Barahtan''s hammer-blow.


    The poem around the outside is similar in theme. It is of rain falling upon a mountain and rolling down it. No matter the storm, the mountain prevails, and indeed grows stronger as the very droplets of the enemy deposit minerals.


    The two lines on the loops reinforce the concept of water as the enemy and the stone as the heroic resistor. Too dynamic a theme for armor, some might criticize, yet it''ll work well with the incandesite.


    Though that reagent isn''t the best for platinum or silver runes, and isn''t particularly suited to defense either, it''s what I know how to use best, and it''s relatively inexpensive also. Hytrigite would be the best choice, but it''s way out of my budget.


    I glance at the sand-timers. Most of the first long-hour has run down; I''m nearly halfway through the forging. My heart quickens a touch. I was lost in the runes¡ªcan I perfect them and still have enough time to bend the wires and graft without error?


    And I also need to make a decision about whether to use five rods or six.


    Runes first. I read over my drafts a couple times to get the overall feel into my head, then I take up my platinum and silver wire and begin to work it into shape.


    I don''t give my strange instincts absolute freedom, but neither do I restrict them overly harshly. My fingers make bends where there should be straights, and corners turn at alternative angles. Every third or so snick of my clippers heralds a new creation. The lines of poetry now taking life upon the anvil become superior to what is on the paper. The mountain becomes more solid, the rainstorm more ferocious. I can hear and feel the spray, smell the water and taste the stone.


    This is it! This is the trance I''ve been craving. The thrill of creation! It is more intense than any regular forging trance. Everything around me vanishes¡ªeven my tools, even my wire and my hands and my very heartbeat. All that exists are the runes.


    My mind is a forge for them¡ªno, my soul is. They spring from the fire below the magma sea¡ª


    A chill freezes me; my hands stop. I am being watched. Slowly, I turn my head up to the stands. Eyes, made beady by magnifying lenses, stare; yet it''s not those that have halted me.


    There! I see him for the first time in many years, in a shadowed box above the platform where my craft will meet its test. He wears tungsten armor, a mirror-mask; a brutally magnificent poll-axe rests upon his lap. He needs no lenses to see me and my runes that he desires. His unseen gaze is piercing me and I tremble.


    Vanerak is watching.

 Traitors Trial 22: You Just Watch What I Can Do

    I try not to let his gaze affect me, truly, I do. It doesn''t matter, I''m telling myself. He''s probably been watching since the beginning. And he''ll be able to examine my craft at leisure once the testing is done¡ªthe judges will obey his inevitable order to hand it over.


    Yet my logic cannot cut through the dark fog of fear now upon me.


    Just barely I manage to finish the outer poem. I read over it, shading it from Vanerak''s view with my hands. The quality tails off toward the end¡ªanyone could tell that. Yet the runes are twisted into shape now, and I have no wire left to change them with, and even if I did have the wire, it would make no difference. Fear has constrained my powers.


    Why? Why am I so afraid? He''s been here this whole time, surely! It''s the memories: of my examination to become a runeknight, of him sacrificing the prisoners, of his theory of death.


    Hands shaking, I step back from the anvil. I grimace. These runes will have to do¡ªand because I couldn''t work out a way to have the first poem be only five stanzas, I''m going to have to order another rod after all. I request it from Daztat, along with some fur and glue to line the helm''s inside.


    ¡°After tax, that brings your money to a nice round nothing,¡± he says with a smile.


    ¡°Make sure the metal gets here quickly, please.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course.¡±


    I anneal the outer part of the craft, though not in fireflea oil. I don''t trust myself to pull off solution hardening with such a difficult shape. Instead I just heat it and quench in water. This is still a tricky process, and the metal warps slightly. Gently I hammer it back into shape, or at least try to¡ªI can''t quite get it perfect.


    Another mistake. They''re starting to add up. Visions of my craft being crumpled to ruin intrude. I clench my hands to stop them shaking.


    At least re-making the sixth rod goes well. Finally, all I have left to do is graft the runes. I look at the timer: just over one long-hour has passed. Again I feel like I''m rushing this. I tell myself to go slowly and carefully when grafting.


    Rune by rune, I fuse the platinum and silver to the titanium. Incandesite flashes, the red-orange a familiar sight. Heat rushes through my hands with each graft, a comforting sensation, and a little of my fear fades away. My poem is still a good one, above the level of a fifth degree''s for sure. I improved down in the fort. I''m better than Vanerak remembers me being.


    Finished. Nearly all the runes are grafted. Now I just have to wait until the sixth rod is hardened, graft its runes, and weld everything together. That''ll be a difficult process, and I''m feeling horribly fatigued, so once more I lie down beside the furnace and close my eyes.


    I cannot sleep. My body refuses to relax under the gaze of Vanerak. It''s instinct¡ªno being can sleep with a predator watching. Only after curling up as tightly as I can do I finally manage to drift off, into fretful dreams.


    I''m woken by a great cheer. The arena shakes. The noise is that of a thunderous rockfall, a cave-in. I jump to my feet in panic for my life; I fear that I will be buried in the collapse, like on the hunt for the white jelly, and this time I have no armor to turn the heavy blows.


    A few seconds pass and my shock calms. I realize what the sound is from. I look up at the crowd. None look back. Their cheers are directed to the other side of the arena.


    <hr>


    ¡°Impressive!¡± Batarast shouts. ¡°Most impressive!¡±


    The senior guildsdwarves around him applaud loudly. ¡°All thanks to your guidance, guildmaster,¡± one says.


    ¡°Yes. My guidance and my blood.¡±


    ¡°I''ve never seen a hammer quite like it,¡± says another. ¡°A very original design.¡±


    ¡°A bit too original, to my old eyes, mayhaps.¡±


    ¡°I think it''ll do the job. The traitor''s only a fifth degree, after all. And from a backwater at that.¡±


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    ¡°Yes,¡± another guild member says. ¡°I went to get a better look at his craft the other hour. It''s no match.¡±


    ¡°Did you?¡± Batarast says suspiciously. ¡°It looks too weak?¡±


    ¡°I''d put money on victory by obliteration, if bets were allowed.¡±


    Batarast grunts with disapproval. ¡°Too easy a victory won''t bring much honor.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I think it''ll bring more, guildmaster! To crush the traitor in a single blow will be a feat that echoes down the ages. Your son will be celebrated! And our guild also!¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. Let''s not celebrate too soon. The head may be complete, but he still has to pull through with the handle.¡±


    ¡°Still, I think another round of hot beers are in order.¡±


    ¡°Hah! I have no quarrel with you there.¡±


    <hr>


    What could he have done to bring so loud a cheer? Maybe he''s finished already. I take a look at the sand timer and see that there''s still another half a long-hour until time¡ªso about a day and a half by the reckoning I''m used to. He doesn''t seem the kind to rush, so probably he isn''t done quite yet. Just the main form of his weapon has become apparent. It must be a real monster to have brought a cheer so loud¡ªit''s still continuing, like an aftershock.


    I check on the sixth rod and see that it''s nearly the same shade as the others. Not quite ready, so I go over my runes again to make sure there are no mistakes. There are none, yet still I despair. I know that but for my sudden fear of Vanerak, they could be far superior.


    I should have waited for that fear to die away. Mostly it''s gone now. It was just shock. What the hell is there to be scared of? I feel angry at myself; he already knows my abilities.


    Time to start linking everything together. I take a thin welding stick and melt the tops of the five rods together with thin streaks of incandesite. It goes fairly evenly, yet the seam is still quite visible. Welding is a skill I need to work on¡ªif I survive the trial. Next I link the bottom loop, then the middle. Again, it goes as well as I''ve ever managed.


    But the runic power feels weak. Every runeknight can tell how well the energies within a piece of equipment flow when he touches it, and in my craft they are not so vigorous. I remind myself that the final stanza of the poem isn''t yet linked, and neither is the long first poem, yet even so, I can''t help but feel disappointed in myself.


    Glumly I graft the final stanza to the sixth rod and link it to the rest of the framework. Still the power isn''t flowing quite well enough. I check the time. Only about another four short-hours have passed.


    I groan and sink down against the wall. Once more I''ve rushed my craft, fallen back on my bad habits. I should have treated the rods one at a time. I should have taken time to calm myself after I noticed Vanerak''s stare. I should have welded at a quarter of the speed I did. I should have done better at every stage of the forging.


    So I take as much time as possible with welding the outer skin to the inner framework. I line up every grain of red-orange incandesite with sub-millimeter precision. I take minutes to line up each and every touch with the welding stick. A full short-hour passes before I''m finished welding just one strut.


    No trance takes me. This is grueling. I don''t think I''ve ever taken such painstaking care before in my life, and certainly not on welding.


    Three rods welded, and I sleep. When I wake I see that I still have the better part of a day left, so I slow down even further. Despite my best efforts though, I still finish with several short hours to spare.


    I hold my craft in my hands and grimace. Not good enough, this is still not good enough. It''s a fine helm, but it''s not of third degree quality. Middling fifth.


    All that''s left now is to glue in the fur lining. I take just as much care with this as I did with the welding. Every part of a craft is vital, I remind myself. Even the bits that don''t seem that way.


    Done. I look at the sand timers: there are still two short-hours left. I wait for them to pass in silence.


    <hr>


    Vanerak looks upon Zathar''s craft. To his five century-old eyes the metalwork is shoddy, uneven, bent in an ugly fashion and horribly ragged along the welds. Acceptable work for a fifth degree, barely acceptable for a fourth, and far below what is expected for the examination for third.


    The runes, though! Vanerak had begun to doubt his memory over the past thirteen years. The power to create new runes has been lost forever. Every runeknight knows this. Surely Zathar had just come across a rare dictionary? Or at best made a series of happy errors?


    But Zathar''s latest craft confirms it: in the young dwarf is some of the power of the runeforgers¡ªor Runeforger, that knowledge is also lost.


    For proof, Vanerak has had a complete set of dictionaries of Utast Second script, the one Zathar is using, brought to him. Half of the runes on his helm are not written in them, despite the fact that Utast Second is fully documented, the ruins in which it was found picked apart more than a millennia ago.


    Zathar has extended the script. Improved it. How he has done so Vanerak cannot even begin to fathom.


    Once Zathar is in his hands, he''ll have to undertake a very thorough investigation indeed.


    <hr>


    It''s finished. The handle is done and welded. Barahtan wipes the sweat from his brow. What a craft! His head aches from exposure to too much lead dust¡ªno matter, his guild has medicine for such poisoning, and his symptoms aren''t bad enough to affect his accuracy. Not against an immobile target.


    The air is shaking; the crowd is chanting his name.


    ¡°Ba-rah-tan! Ba-rah-tan! Ba-rah-tan!¡±


    ¡°Bright-gold-flame! Bright-gold-flame! Bright-gold-flame!¡±


    He gives them a wide smile and strains to lift his craft above his head. The applause deafens him.


    Barahtan shifts his gaze to his father, looks him directly in the eye.


    ¡°Just watch what I''m capable of,¡± he says. ¡°You just watch what I can do.¡±

 Traitors Trial 23: Hammer Against Helmet

    Judge Daztat approaches me. A slight smile is on his face and a happy glint is in his eye. I pick up my helmet and brace myself. I know what he''s going to say¡ªthere''s just been another arena-shaking cheer.


    ¡°Prosecutor Barahtan has finished his craft. If you are also finished, then we will carry out the test.¡±


    ¡°I am finished.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. Follow me.¡±


    He leads me along the dividing wall, and we walk up the stairs to the circular platform below the box seats. In its center, facing the outside wall, is the armor stand, carried up by guards about an hour ago. Judge Gerapek stands beside it.


    ¡°Place your craft upon the stand, defendant.¡±


    I fit it snugly to the head. The fit is perfect, at least. I step around to the front to make sure it''s properly aligned, then step back.


    The view gives me some confidence: it''s a fine helm. The platinum and silver runes glint under the lights like spiders'' webs in the moonlight. Their spiral arrangement makes the craft look almost like a shell, the armor of some water-dwelling warrior, and though I can''t see the inner framework, the power of its runes is evident by the aura of solidity the titanium projects.


    I would not be ashamed to wear this helm into battle. I straighten my back. I can win this contest.


    Heavy steps herald the arrival of Barahtan. I breath deeply, grit my teeth, step around from the armor stand to get a look. My view is blocked by Judge Caletek. Then he shifts out the way and my breath catches in my throat.


    I never expected a craft like this.


    I have completely misunderstood the nature of this challenge.


    We are not forging ordinary pieces of equipment.


    Barahtan''s hammer is enormous. I have never seen any weapon so massive, so brutishly heavy. He struggles to bring it up the stairs, even holding it like he is, with the head to his chest. His legs shiver and threaten to give with every step he takes. His breathing is labored, his face red. The veins on his neck are bulging almost to bursting.


    When he makes it to the top of the platform, he immediately lowers the head of the hammer to the ground. He stumbles back from it, panting and wheezing.


    The head is a lead sphere roughly half a meter in diameter¡ªwhich means it weighs a significant portion of a ton. A poem of a hundred lines circles it, and each line can be started at any rune. They are silver, and by their tint grafted with quizik. Cheap materials¡ªyet the way he''s utilized them is simply brilliant.


    A lesser runeknight might have written a poem to make the lead weigh less to the wielder. Barahtan has gone a more ambitious route. I can''t understand the full text, since he''s written it in a script I''m unfamiliar with, but I can grasp the outline. It is all about moving downwards. Even the size of the runes play a role in it. They get smaller toward the side of the sphere, making the lead appear as if it''s streaked by hundreds of needle-thin arrows, all pointing at the striking surface.


    The weapon is not light to him: it is absurdly heavy, but whatever ends up under it will experience a force of many, many tons beyond the sphere''s merely physical mass.


    Of course, a sphere on a handle is a mace, not a hammer. A hammer needs to have a main striking surface, as laid out in the rules of the contest, and Barahtan''s intelligence is apparent in its construction also. It''s tiny, barely the size of my palm, of steel with a surface of many pyramids. The runes are for durability alone. It brings to mind a meat-tenderizer.


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    No: I dismiss that thought, spit on it. This weapon cannot be compared to something so base. I should not insult the victor.


    And victor he will be. He has understood the conditions for victory. I have not.


    ¡°Whenever you are ready, come around to the front, Barahtan,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°Step away please, Zathar.¡±


    I do so. Barahtan takes some deep, sucking breaths, grips the haft, and lifts his craft back up. Like before, he doesn''t hold it like one normally would a warhammer. He keeps his hands just below its head, and the head of the weapon below his chin.


    Right now he is not a warrior, but a weightlifter, an athlete¡ªone of those strange dwarves that pushes their body instead of their crafts.


    He makes it to the front of the armor stand and slowly turns to face it. Inch by inch he begins to raise the hammer up. It travels over his face, obscuring it, then it is above his head. His eyes look as if they are about to pop from their sockets.


    In the battlecavern, his craft would be useless. A hammer has to have impact, yes, but it must also be mobile enough to strike through the gaps in the enemy''s defenses, to parry, to riposte. A hammer is a slower weapon, but by no means can it be unwieldy.


    This is not the battlecavern. The role of Barahtan''s hammer is not to defeat an enemy dwarf, but to defeat my craft¡ªwhich is immobile. I assumed he would make an ordinary weapon. Instead, he has made a weapon for the singular purpose of winning the contest. This is how he has defeated me.


    He brings it down. The runes wrapping the sphere blur.


    The striking-square contacts my helm, crumples the side. The titanium screeches and sparks flash. The armor stand shatters, the head tilts to one side, falls off with its wooden neck snapped. My helm bounces on the ground, rolls; the hammer impacts the stone next to it. Rock chips blast outward, spraying me and the judges.


    Dust drifts around Barahtan''s feet. Gray phlegm spatters from his mouth. He''s wracked by coughing, yet I can only see this, can''t hear it¡ªthe cheering of the crowd is drowning everything out.


    The noise is raucous! The crystal lamps far above are shivering, making their light upon us shiver also. It plays across my broken helm. I stare at it with eyes wide, desperately hoping it is not utterly destroyed: the dust has not quite yet cleared, so though I can see it''s broken, I cannot quite see how broken.


    ¡°Hold off on your next strike, Barahtan!¡± Judge Gerapek shouts over the cheering. ¡°We need to examine the damage.¡±


    Barahtan, still coughing from dust and raw-throated exhaustion, nods. Judge Daztat kneels down next to my helm and blows hard. Some of the dust clears.


    ¡°Obliteration!¡± he says. ¡°I don''t see how this is functional.¡±


    I see that the left side is crumpled and broken, the outer skin torn from the rods, its poem rent. The rod visible through the wound is bent, though not by much.


    ¡°I wouldn''t go that far,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°The inner framework is intact, and its runic flow hasn''t been altered.¡±


    ¡°The bearer would not have survived,¡± Judge Daztat argues. ¡°His skull would''ve been broken.¡±


    ¡°Cracked, maybe.¡±


    ¡°Let us have the crowd decide. Let me hold it up to them.¡±


    He reaches out; Judge Gerapek grabs him by the shoulder.


    ¡°Stop!¡± he says. ¡°We are the judges, not the crowd! Do not forget your role!¡±


    Startled, Judge Daztat pulls back his hand. Then he composes himself and stands up.


    ¡°Very well. I say it is obliterated, though. You say it is not. Judge Caletek?¡±


    I notice that I am not breathing.


    Judge Caletek kneels to examine the helm more closely.


    ¡°The inner framework is intact. I judge that the helm is still functional."


    "Absurd."


    "Not absurd," says Judge Gerapek. "If this was battle, the bearer could have put it back on and still had some amount of protection.¡±


    ¡°If, coulds. Why are we talking in hypotheticals? The metal is rent. The trial is over.¡±


    Judge Gerapek scowls. ¡°We are to be impartial. I say this first round is to continue. Caletek?¡±


    Judge Caletek glances up to the box seats fearfully, then flicks his eyes back down. For a moment he hesitates, then he nods.


    ¡°I agree. By no means is the defender''s craft rendered unusable.¡±


    I let out the breath I''ve been holding.


    ¡°Prosecutor Barahtan?¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°If you will?¡±


    ¡°Should we not get another armor stand?¡±


    ¡°No. By the rules the craft is to lie where it fell.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    He lifts his hammer again, though this time only to chest height. He looks out to the stands, perhaps to his father. He lets the head fall.


    My helm crumples. I hear a snapping sound. Only a small dust cloud rises this time, so I can see the damage clearly.


    Damage is too weak a word. My helm is pinned under the hammer. When Barahtan lifts the weapon back up, all that''s left is a concaved disc with a few broken ends of titanium rod sticking out.


    ¡°You still have eight strikes left,¡± says Judge Daztat after a few seconds.


    ¡°Surely that isn''t necessary,¡± says Barahtan. ¡°Besides, look at him.¡±


    Without realizing it, I''ve fallen to my knees, and streams of tears are cutting trails through the dust on my face.

 Traitors Trial 24: Recalculations

    I am returned to my cell to await the second round of the trial, which is going to take place in only ten short-hours. Far too small a rest¡ªanother terrible unfairness out of many.


    It is now very clear just exactly how superior Barahtan is. Did I really think I could equal the crafting of a dwarf who is a full two ranks above me in all but formality? It will take me many decades before I can rival his skill with metal, decades that I don''t have, might never have. And despite my strange abilities, his strength with runes also overwhelms my own.


    How can I possibly hope to beat him in even one contest, let alone the next two in a row? I can see no path to victory, not even a slim one.


    Yet I must try. I must trust in the runes, trust that maybe I am innocent, that I can be forgiven. I owe this to Guildmaster Wharoth, who has doubtless risked the ire of many by working to give me this chance. I owe it Nthazes as well, who might one day need my help down in the fort once more.


    I used my time badly: though I can''t increase my skill with metals and runes in the next few short-hours, I can at least plan out how to most efficiently spend the two long-hours after them. Even though I don''t yet know what it''s to be, weapons are more similar in design to each other than sections of armor are: they have a haft and a head.


    Unless I''m to make a sword, of course. That could prove very tricky.


    I calculate. Out of my seventy short-hours, I will spend the first seven on planning the craft¡ªits shape and also the general kind of runic poems I''ll graft to it. By giving myself this significant amount of time, I won''t be simply hoping that within my first few designs is the perfect answer¡ªI''ll make a large selection to choose from.


    Then I''ll spend seven short-hours to craft the haft, and sixteen for the head. Thirty I''ll take for the runes, and five for welding haft and head together. As for sleep, I''ve left myself five short-hours for it. I''ll take some whenever the fatigue gets too much for me, but never for too long at a time.


    And I set myself another rule also: I will not look at the crowd. I will not let Vanerak''s presence intimidate me. I will force myself to forget he is watching.


    <hr>


    The three judges stand together in the caves called night. Each has his alibi: Judge Daztat is drinking with a friend, Judge Caletek is resting in his home, Judge Gerapek is deep into paperwork in his locked office. Because they are respected and trusted members of the Civil Force, no one will pry too far into these tales.


    Judge Daztat shivers. It''s cold down here. The rock is meant to get hotter the further down a dwarf delves, but Allabrast is far from any magmatic areas. It''s built in a cold-spot, and these black chalk caves are the very coldest region. Truly, here feels like the surface night in winter.


    There''s an experience he doesn''t want to repeat. The human women weren''t worth it.


    Quiet footsteps herald the approach of Vanerak. The three judges tense. Is he angry? He might well be, thinks Judge Daztat. He could have the traitor in his hands by now, if it wasn''t for Caletek and Gerapek''s foolishness.


    ¡°Good evening, as we used to say in my old realm.¡±


    ¡°Good evening,¡± says Judge Daztat.


    The other two judges bow deeply.


    ¡°So, the first round goes to the prosecution,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Though it seems the contest will continue for another few long-hours yet.¡±


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    ¡°It didn''t have to,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°I judged that his craft was ruined in the first blow.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes. I had the impression that''s what you were talking about. Judges Gerapek and Caletek, you thought differently, did you?¡±


    ¡°It was... was close,¡± Gerapek stammers. ¡°Too easy a victory and, well... Questions might have been asked. Difficult questions. Ones that may have led back... All the way...¡±


    ¡°All the way to me? Or just to your accounting errors?¡±


    Until now, Vanerak''s tone has sounded cold to the three, but now it is like a blade of ice.


    ¡°There is still no question of Barahtan''s victory! Zathar is too far below his level. Surely you can see that.¡±


    ¡°I can. Yet every hour the traitor is free is another hour of pain for me and my guild. Can you see that, judges?¡±


    They nod vigorously. Judge Daztat goes to one knee.


    ¡°I am sorry. I should have been more persuasive.¡±


    ¡°Stand up, judge. I am not here to listen to apologies. We must discuss the next round.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Face hot, Judge Daztat rises back to his feet. ¡°I have a few ideas for weapons. Perhaps a¡ª¡°


    ¡°Let us choose Barahtan''s armor first.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°Your thoughts, judges?¡±


    ¡°Something small will be best,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°So he can afford the strongest and most quality materials.¡±


    ¡°A glove?¡± Judge Daztat suggests.


    ¡°That seems too complex. By the rules it would still have to offer good mobility.¡±


    ¡°Maybe a boot, then.¡±


    ¡°Also complex,¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°A greave,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°Simple, small, and awkward to strike at.¡±


    ¡°A sound idea. Let us choose that. Now for the weapon.¡±


    ¡°I suggest a sword,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°As you all know, they are the most difficult weapons to craft. That is why they are so prestigious. And I understand that they were fairly rare in your realm, Vanerak.¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    ¡°So he likely has no experience forging one.¡±


    ¡°Yes. It is a sound possibility.¡±


    ¡°Swords are mobile,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°Easy to aim low with.¡±


    ¡°Then what do you suggest?¡± Judge Daztat scowls. ¡°Or are you trying to convince us to give him something easy?¡±


    ¡°I am doing no such thing,¡± Judge Gerapek says. He turns to Vanerak. ¡°I suggest a two-handed mace. Likely he''ll try to copy Barahtan''s technique in his panic, and constrain his own creativity. The crowd will also disparage his efforts loudly, since they''ll be easily able to compare his weapon to the great craft they just witnessed.¡±


    ¡°Another sound idea: yet I think I have a better one.¡±


    ¡°Let us hear it,¡± Judge Daztat says eagerly.


    ¡°I have long suspected certain things about the traitor''s past. Certain shameful things about his past occupation.¡± Vanerak smiles behind his mirror-mask. ¡°You are correct that we should demoralize him, Judge Gerapek. And I have the perfect choice for doing so.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Well done, my son,¡± says Batarast. ¡°Well done!¡±


    ¡°By all rights you should be victor by obliteration,¡± says another senior guildmember.


    ¡°Yes!¡± says another. ¡°What were those judges thinking?¡±


    ¡°Still,¡± says Batarast. ¡°All the more opportunity to show off your prowess, ay?¡±


    Barahtan stays silent and takes another sip of beer. He feels somehow disappointed. What even is this trial? The craft of his opponent was not a terrible piece of work, and he clearly has impressive runic knowledge, but still, he is far below Barahtan''s level. How is this a fair fight? How is this honorable, even in the slightest?


    ¡°I said, another opportunity show off your prowess, no?¡± Batarast repeats, loudly.


    ¡°Yes, father.¡±


    ¡°You are winning much honor for our guild. Once all is done, I will have a mosaic commissioned. To defeat such an infamous traitor will be a legendary act.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. It might be.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, might be? Of course it is.¡±


    ¡°As you say, father.¡±


    ¡°Ach, he''s in one of his moods again. I just hope it clears in time for the next round¡ª¡°


    ¡°Hope it clears?¡± Barahtan snaps. ¡°Do you take me for an amateur who lets emotion warp his crafts? Are you afraid I have any possibility to lose this, father?¡±


    ¡°That''s not what I meant.¡±


    ¡°You saw what I''m capable of. I''m going to repeat the feat¡ªnot that it was particularly impressive one.¡±


    ¡°Not impressive? Show some gratitude! You have no idea the chains I had to pull to get you this opportunity.¡±


    Barahtan slams his empty mug down onto the table and stands up.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    He looks around the gold-gleaming guildhall, at the faces of his father''s friends, at his uncles and aunts, at his pathetically desperate suitors, his own false friends, and feels disgust. He is more than half a century old, yet they see him still as a child, or in the case of his suitors and so-called friends, a rung on a ladder. They are not fit company.


    ¡°I said, where are you going?¡± his father demands.


    ¡°Back to the arena.¡±


    ¡°What? We still have eight short-hours!¡±


    ¡°I''ll spend them on my own.¡±


    <hr>


    I plan, I sleep, I study runes, and finally the guards call me. It''s time for the second round, already.


    I do not feel prepared.

 Traitors Trial 25: The Second Round Begins

    I sit down beside Barahtan in the black stone chamber and, under the pale cyan of the crystal lamps, wait to hear what weapon I am to forge. I''m cold. My hands especially feel stiff, chilled, inflexible. And next to Barahtan, who has just proven his superiority to me, I feel small too.


    The judges stand before us, their eyes just as dead as before¡ªthough Judge Daztat''s also have that mad spark in them, a dying ember amidst ash. Judge Gerapek adjusts his white scarf and clears his throat.


    ¡°For the next round of the trial, Barahtan is to forge a greave. A greave is defined as a piece of armor protecting the front of the lower leg, which is defined as the section between knee and ankle. It must fit to the leg and not be thicker than it is wide.¡±


    My heart sinks further. They''ve chosen the smallest piece of armor possible for him, which means he can make it out of the most expensive materials. Down low, it''ll also be awkward to strike at.


    ¡°Zathar, you are to forge a war-pick.¡±


    My hands clench suddenly into tight fists. My knuckles pop, my bones ache. I squeeze harder. A flush of anger and shame rises to my face. How could Vanerak have known? This has to be his doing¡ªhe has chosen this weapon to embarrass me.


    I want to stand up, shout, scream! How low will he stoop to humiliate me?


    I stop myself. I can''t lose control, not here, not now. I steady my breathing and gradually unclench my fists.


    ¡°Are you all right, contestant?¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°You look ill.¡±


    ¡°I''m fine,¡± I say through gritted teeth. ¡°Continue.¡±


    ¡°A war-pick,¡± continues Judge Gerapek, ¡°is defined to be a weapon composed of a haft and a head with a long spike as its main offensive part. It may have two spikes extruding at opposite ends from one another, or at the opposite end to a singular spike it may have a weight. However, the length of the head must be at least twenty inches or six times its width and depth. The main offensive spike may only have one point, which may be curved or straight. The weapon can also be one-handed or two-handed.¡±


    Not many dwarves use a war-pick. It''s considered an embarrassment of a craft. Picks are something miners use on their job. Fighting with one is akin to brawling drunkenly. To kill someone with one reeks of savage murder, not honorable victory.


    ¡°Do either of the contestants wish for clarification?¡± says Judge Caletek.


    Neither of us do.


    ¡°Then you shall go to your places,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°Guards, if you will?¡±


    We''re led down the same corridor as last time. This time I say nothing to Barahtan, and he says nothing to me. He doesn''t even look at me, which I''m glad of, since my face is still burning with shame.


    How could Vanerak have known? Traces of my prior life were obvious to see when I was an initiate¡ªmy hunched pose, my rough hands, the gray pallor of my skin¡ªyet by the time I met Vanerak, that had all gone.


    Many in my guild had likely guessed my past. I suppose one of them, angry at hearing the rumors of my betrayal, spread the knowledge around. Or maybe it was one of the Troglodyte Slayers¡ªthey knew. I''m sure that Kazhek told them before I slew him. He was another that guessed the truth.


    Whatever the case, everyone will know soon enough. They''ll see me forging a pick, begin to joke that I''m some low-down, dirty miner who never should''ve been allowed to become a runeknight¡ªthen someone from Thanerzak''s realm will whisper that those insults are true, and the rumor will spread.


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    I split from Barahtan and soon am standing before the portcullis once more. It grinds up and I walk out into the arena, eyes fixed on my anvil and furnace. I angle my head down so that I can''t see even the merest part of the jeering crowd.


    That''s right. My rule is to not look at them: not at Vanerak, not at anyone, not even at Guildmaster Wharoth. As long as I do this, I''ve no need to feel any shame.


    Silently, I wait for the bell of announcement to ring. When it does, it shakes the arena sand into patterns once more¡ªthey are definitely faces, of dwarves and ferocious beasts both. Probably they are the faces of those who''ve perished here.


    If Wharoth slays me before Vanerak gets the chance to steal me away, will my face appear on these sands also?


    I wipe the question from my mind and sit down at the desk. I take out sheets of fresh paper and a writing stick and begin to sketch. Per my plan, I have seven short-hours for this: I will find the perfect design.


    I flinch. There''s a shadow over me. I look up and see Judge Caletek.


    ¡°Yes?¡± I say.


    ¡°Just observing,¡± he replies in his monotone voice. ¡°Do not mind me.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°So our son''s to forge a greave, is he?¡± says Batarast''s wife. For this second part of the contest, she is dressed all in silver.


    ¡°That''s what the judge announced, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Just one?¡±


    ¡°I assume so.¡±


    ¡°I''d have assumed two.¡±


    ¡°Well, he only said one.¡±


    ¡°You''re in quite a mood.¡±


    ¡°I''m not in a mood,¡± Batarast snaps.


    ¡°If you say so.¡± She adjusts her amulet of unaging¡ªshe is not a runeknight, Batarast made it for her. A dwarf is allowed to do that for his or her spouse, should they be incapable: it''s one of the only exceptions to the taboo against using equipment forged by another.


    ¡°More hot beer please,¡± Batarast says to a junior guild member, who hurries off to find one of the arena staff.


    ¡°Doesn''t seem very fair,¡± his wife continues. ¡°Since they both have the same amount of gold to use, yet need different amounts of metal. Surely him needing to make two would even the scales a little. Besides, what use is only one greave? It''s like having one glove.¡±


    ¡°It''s perfectly fair,¡± Batarast snaps. ¡°It''s honorable combat. You don''t understand. You aren''t a runeknight.¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡±


    <hr>


    I sketch, scribble, plan¡ªbut it''s hard to concentrate with the eyes of Judge Caletek following every stroke of my writing-stick. The fact that I''m designing picks compounds this. I feel embarrassed. Each design becomes smaller than the last, less detailed, as if I''m trying to hide them somehow.


    Eventually, I snap:


    ¡°Look here,¡± I say to him. ¡°It''s hard for me to concentrate with you so close. Could you at least take two or three steps back? Please?¡±


    ¡°My duty as judge is to watch that you keep to the rules.¡±


    ¡°Yes of course, and I respect that, but it really is hard to concentrate.¡±


    ¡°I am doing my duty.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but please, it would make for a fairer trial if you weren''t quite so close.¡±


    ¡°I am doing my duty.¡±


    A vein pulses in my temple. I shake my head. Clearly he''s not going to step back¡ªI''ll just have to ignore him.


    I take up a fresh sheet of paper and this time make the design as big and clear to see as possible. This is life and death¡ªlife and worse than death. I don''t have the luxury of feeling embarrassed, neither by the judges nor the crowd. Likely they already know what I''m to forge, and whispers about my past are already spreading.


    The trouble is, the idea of crafting a pick has never once entered my mind. Never have I lain in bed pondering the finer points of one''s design, as I have about other weapons. In essence, as a piercing weapon, it''s not too dissimilar to a spear, however the method of delivering its power is completely different. A spear is thrust, so the straighter it is the more power in its stab, but a pick is struck and should be hooked so that force and point are aligned.


    Too curved and the point will slide off, but too straight and not enough force will be delivered. I make many calculations before settling on a shape. It''s more curved than if this was to be a weapon for actual combat. My last failure taught me well.


    Finally the basic angle is worked out, and it only took me a full short-hour. I spend the next debating the shape and dimensions. Making it double-headed seems a waste of time, so I opt for the second option of putting a weight at the other side. I puzzle over the final dimensions: it has to be at least six times as long as it is thick and wide, yet mine will be longer even than this.


    My reasoning for this is the same as my reasoning for making it so curved: I will have all the time I need to line up each strike.


    I smile. It begins to occur to me that Vanerak has made the wrong decision. A pick is perfect for breaking through armor, and is designed as a tool where each strike must be lined up with precision. As runeknights, they don''t know this. It''s something only I could know.


    Judge Caletek leans in close. His breath is foul, as dead as his eyes and voice are, like a rotten thing.


    ¡°What are you smiling for?¡±


    ¡°No reason.¡±


    I give him a fierce grin; he flinches back, alarmed.

 Traitors Trial 26: Humiliation

    Three short-hours of my seventy are gone. I feel that I''ve used the time well. The final shape of the head is coming together in my mind and on paper, and I have the beginnings of a few ideas for what runic poem I will graft as well.


    It''s not yet time to choose the materials, though. I still have to decide on how to make the haft. Usually I would not put so much thought into it, but my experience forging my mace of light taught me that the haft is just as important as the head. It must be balanced and easy to hold, to ensure maximum accuracy and power.


    I consider the length, the shape of the cross-section, the curvature, the thickness. Each aspect I mull over. I go through a dozen sheets of paper; my writing-stick is a gray blur. I make hundreds of calculations¡ªhere''s another aspect of forging I''ve neglected until now: mathematics. Angles and force are the essence of combat.


    The short-hour timer has now turned five times. I have the shape of the pick decided¡ªnow I need to choose what to make it with.


    For the head, I choose steel. It''s denser than titanium, and takes incandesite better, whose fury will work well with the weapon. While I haven''t worked with the metal much recently, I''m confident that my forging instincts remember its feel. And since it''s cheaper than titanium, I can afford the highest quality alloy possible.


    For the handle, I''m going to go with aluminum. It''s a bit expensive, so I''ve had to design my handle to be a little shorter than I calculated was optimal. Unfortunate, but it can''t be helped. The lightness and strength will hopefully make up for the literal shortcoming.


    ¡°I''d like to order my materials, please.¡±


    Judge Caletek nods. He''s standing a little further away than he was before. The grin I gave him alarmed him quite a bit¡ªwhy I cannot say.


    Perhaps he''s worried about not getting the full bribe from Vanerak.


    ¡°I need a thirteen inch length of high-carbon ten-eighty chromium-free, two point three five inches in diameter, and a two feet and eight inch length, six inch wide, four millimeter thick sheet of magnesium-silicon alloy aluminum of the fifth series.¡±


    He examines the two pages in the catalogue carefully. ¡°That will cost thirty gold wheels and two silver discs.¡±


    There''s no tax this time¡ªseems that really just was a ploy of Judge Daztat''s. I won''t bring it up; I don''t want to cause any more trouble than is necessary.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He relays my order to a guard; I listen in¡ªhe relays it honestly.


    When the metal comes, I still have nearly another full short-hour left for designing. I resist the urge to heat the furnace and pick up the hammer right away, even though my dwarven instincts are crying out for me to do so. I stay at my writing desk, checking and re-checking my equations of force and momentum, and once I''m satisfied with them, I force myself to stay seated, and think of the outlines of poems.


    <hr>


    Vanerak watches Zathar. He frowns behind his mirror-mask. The young dwarf looked aghast when he first learned what he was to make¡ªat least, according to Judge Gerapek he did¡ªbut now he seems only barely perturbed. His design looks fairly efficient also, though whether he''ll be able to forge it well is another matter.


    Maybe choosing a pick was a mistake. The young dwarf had always seemed emotionally troubled back in Thanerzak''s realm, anxious to prove himself and leave his shameful past behind, unsure of his talents, and struggling with the guilt of betraying his guild to the black dragon.


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    It seems his time down below has changed him. He may prove harder to break than anticipated, even after his inevitable capture. And it is inevitable.


    Still, there''s no reason to give up on demoralizing him. Vanerak calls over one of his guildsdwarves and whispers an order.


    It is obeyed without question.


    <hr>


    The timer turns to mark the beginning of the eighth short-hour. I stand up from my writing desk and stretch my shoulders, arms, and fingers.


    Now it''s time to begin forging. Originally I was going to spend this next section of time on the handle, but I''ve reconsidered. In many ways it''ll be harder to manage than the head, and so I think it''s best to get back into the feel of forging before I attempt it.


    So I switch on the furnace and heat the steel bar until it''s glowing white-yellow. The warmth on my face is harsh, almost burning as I take it out, yet it is a good burning, vital, invigorating my blood and bringing out clear sweat that washes the arena dust from my face. I place the metal on the anvil, raise up my hammer, and begin to forge.


    The clangs ring loud and clear through the arena. I sense the eyes of the crowd on me; I don''t acknowledge them. Soon, I forget them completely as I fall into a forging trance. My hammer works the steel smoothly¡ªeach stroke takes the metal exactly where I want it to go. After so long struggling with titanium, it feels almost too easy.


    Easy means I''m taking this too lightly. I slow my rhythm, become even more exact with my strokes. That''s the way to get better at something¡ªyou must do it slowly before you can do it quickly. I have set myself ten short-hours for this. By the time those have passed, I''ll be a better smith.


    Time passes, measured by the beats of my hammer, the shudder of each impact traveling up my arm. I reheat, hammer, reheat, hammer. The steel bar transforms¡ªit is now, after two short-hours, triangular in cross section, thicker at the right side, and the left tapers into a fine point. I let it cool to gray so I can examine the shape properly.


    It''s well-formed, but not perfect. I must continue my work, though I am extremely tired by now. I take a quick sleep.


    And am awoken by chanting.


    <hr>


    Barahtan has not slept once. He''s been too busy with his design: drawing measurements and selecting precise alloys. Besides, he''s lived nearly his whole life in Allabrast and is well-used to going several long-hours in a row without sleep.


    This is another unfair advantage he has over the traitor, but he won''t force himself to take a nap to even things out¡ªthat would be disrespectful. Unlike some dwarves, he has honor.


    He re-checks the final measurements. At first he was rather disappointed at being instructed to make a simple greave. When a runeknight wishes to show off his skill, he will make something large and obvious: a breastplate, a shield, a plumed helm, or a magnificent two-handed sword. Greaves, vambraces and other smaller pieces of armor are generally more reserved and functional crafts.


    Still, that doesn''t mean he can''t forge something impressive. If it can''t be impressive in appearance, it''ll just have to be impressive in function.


    He means to make a piece of armor that the traitor''s weapon will barely scratch the surface of.


    Though, the chant that''s just started is rather infuriating. He wishes they''d stop it. There''s no need to be so petty.


    <hr>


    ¡°Brolpak Yalzakhamza! Brolpak Yalzakhamza! Brolpak Yalzakhamza!¡±


    ¡°Traitor miner! Traitor miner! Traitor miner!¡±


    ¡°Nachroktey! Nachroktey! Nachroktey-zam-ala!¡±


    Death, death, death to him now!¡±


    The violence in their voices startles me to my feet. I look up and around¡ªevery single dwarf in the stands has stood up and is shouting at me. Spittle flies from their bearded mouths; they shake their fists; some are pointing their index fingers down, a gesture that in every arena throughout the underworld means: kill him now!


    ¡°Brolpak! Brolpak! Brolpak!¡±


    Miner, miner, miner. So the rumor of what I used to be has spread fast. Doubtless Vanerak had a hand in spreading it. Both hands.


    My lip curls in disgust. What an underhanded way to manage things. As if paying the judges to be on his side wasn''t enough, he''s got the crowd to help him along also¡ªand they already hated me!


    I refuse to let their chant bother me. They''ll get tired of it soon enough.


    But they don''t. I heat and hammer, heat and hammer, and all the while their voices fill my head. The forging trance cannot take hold of me. Each time their shout of brolpak coincides with a hammer-beat, I feel as if I''m back in Runethane Broderick''s half-done palace, hollowing out the wall with my pick.


    Hammer on metal, pick on stone. Are the two so different?


    I yell in rage and throw down my hammer. Of course the two are different! One has a future, one does not. How dare they make me even consider such an idea?


    I turn to where the chanting comes loudest¡ªthe other side of the stands where Barahtan''s family sits¡ªand raise my fist. I prepare to holler and scream, throw the most vicious and degrading insults that exist in the dwarven tongue, yet just as the first is about to leave my mouth, I stop myself.


    All I''d accomplish by that is to prove that I am what they think I am¡ªa foul mouthed, dirt-grubbing miner.


    Instead, I''ll show them my honor.

 Traitors Trial 27: Zathars Speech

    I look up at stands, though not to the shadowed boxes where Vanerak and the most influential dwarves sit, and not to where Barahtan''s family and guild sit. Neither do I look up at Guildmaster Wharoth and the Association of Steel, though what I''m about to say is for them also. Instead I face a section of the stands far up at the top, where a group of dwarves with burned faces and patchy beards are sitting.


    Their chanting is not the loudest, but it is the most viscous, especially when they come to the word yalzakhamza, traitor.


    ¡°Listen to me!¡± I shout. ¡°Listen to me! I will not ask for forgiveness! I will not ask for forgiveness, but listen to me!¡±


    Their chanting does not stop. That''s fine, I expected that. I repeat my words again and again until my throat is hoarse. I do not take a rest: to sip water would show a lack of resolve. I need them to hear my pain.


    After many, many minutes of shouting, the crowd''s chant begins to slowly die down¡ªthough not vanish, and from some parts of the stands, especially from where Barahtan''s family is, it is continuing at full volume.


    Yet it''s quiet enough that those at the front will be able to hear my speech clearly and relay it up to those out of earshot. Quickly I clear my raw throat. Then I begin:


    ¡°Dwarves of Allabrast! Dwarves of the burned cavern of Hzhakmar! Dwarves from wherever you may hail from¡ªI admit that I used to be a miner.¡±


    The chanting from Barahtan''s guild grows louder, but I ignore it.


    ¡°I toiled at the rock for many hours every day. It was a dull task, with no art, only destruction. I always felt ashamed¡ªI was not even a stonecrafter, not a metalcrafter, not even a farmer. I was a grubby miner, as distant from runeknights as the magma sea is from the stars of the surface night.¡±


    I pause¡ªI can see dwarves at the front repeating what I said to those behind them. The chanting, apart from where Barahtan''s family is, has almost entirely faded.


    ¡°Yet my dream was to become a runeknight. I did not want to smash rocks forever, keeping company with drinkers who cared nothing for advancement. I wanted to raise myself up through crafts, runes, metalwork. I wanted to progress, to become greater, to become great. All runeknights worth the title desire this, do they not?¡±


    There is nodding from some, though their eyes are still narrow with skepticism.


    ¡°My beloved brother felt the same way. He lost his life when he was on the cusp of escaping the mines. Then, a few years later¡ªa few hundred long-hours¡ªI got my own opportunity. And what''s more, I was given the opportunity to see my brother once more!" I pause. "By the black dragon.¡±


    After those words filter up to the top of the stands, an icy chill seems to fall over the arena.


    ¡°So that is why I betrayed you all. That is why I sold you out to the black dragon. I am sorry for my mistake. I regret it, I truly do. I do not ask for forgiveness.¡±


    Their gazes are piercing. I turn around to look at Guildmaster Wharoth, still in the same part of the stands he was for the last round. He is frowning deeply.


    ¡°This trial is to determine whether or not I can be held responsible for my actions. But I know that even if I should be found innocent here, if the runes decide that I am pure of heart and was simply a victim of the dragon''s manipulation, many of you will still be unable to forgive me.¡±


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    I see nodding in the stands.


    ¡°I will also remain unable to forgive myself. The stain of my action I will bear in my heart for all my life, a critical flaw in the metal of my soul. Yet I swear to you I will never betray those who trusted me again. I am stronger than I used to be¡ªI do not care only for my advancement, my dreams, at the expense of others. I recently met a dwarf who did¡ªand I slew him.¡±


    Murmurs ripple¡ªI''m sure some at least have heard of what I did in the fort.


    ¡°So I beg of you: understand that I am a changed dwarf. You may still believe I deserve death for what I did, and I accept that. But do not be under the impression that I am as selfish as I once was. Just like I shed my shameful profession, I have shed some of my selfish nature. I am honorable. I am an honorable runeknight, and through this trial I will prove this.¡±


    I bow deeply. The spectators remain silent¡ªbut for Barahtan''s guild, still chanting their cruel chant. I turn back to the section of stands where the burned dwarves are.


    ¡°I know most of you are still not convinced. So I swear this to you: if I should be proven innocent in this arena I will dedicate my life to undoing what I did wrong. I will find the black dragon and I will kill it. It has been injured before and can be injured again¡ªbut this time, mortally. And I will be the one to give it such a wound.¡±


    Now, even the chanting from Barahtan''s side of the arena dies away. There is whispering in the stands, and some laughter. Slaying the black dragon? That wiped out two realms in a single breath? It is an absurd proposition¡ªyet it is an honorable one! To throw one''s life away for atonement, to embark on a quest sure to result in death: very rarely will a runeknight do this.


    For us dwarves desire wealth, and power, and immortality¡ªor as close as we can get to it. Certainly very few dwarves of Allabrast, this safe and warm, comfortable portion of the underworld, would do such a thing.


    Only the dwarves of the fort were happy to sacrifice their lives. And now I am one of those dwarves. Gone are my childish dreams of endless glory, of rising to the top for no reason other than destiny, because I thought I was gifted. Now I forge to undo as best I can my past sins.


    I bow deep and return to my craft.


    <hr>


    Guildmaster Wharoth is speechless even as the guild members around him erupt into chatter¡ªthere is no one reaction from them: some are shocked, some outraged, some proud, some hopeful.


    His own feelings are more complex.


    Part of him is proud that Zathar has come to such an epiphany. Partly he is doubtful as to whether he really means what he says, or has the resolve to carry it through. And mostly he is sorrowful, for he still cannot see a way for the young dwarf to win.


    Even if he''s learned his lesson from the first contest, that his craft must be designed not for battle, but for the single moment when it will be tested, there is still too great a gap between him and Barahtan. It''s not a gap: it''s a chasm. Zathar''s hammering is still too inaccurate, uncontrolled. His dexterity when it comes to welding is extremely poor. He''s put little thought into his selection of alloys. They affect the power of the runes grafted to them more than he realizes.


    His runes are the only hope he has. Yet, Barahtan''s skill with runes is masterful also. Especially considering the technique he''s preparing to attempt.


    Wharoth notices something cold on his palm. He looks down. His hand has crept down to rest on his axe without him realizing it.


    He grimaces.


    <hr>


    Barahtan has laid down his writing-stick and is staring blankly at the dividing wall. He is in shock¡ªhe had not expected to hear such words from his opponent. Zathar had shown one flash of resolve, true, just before the first contest, when he''d said that there would be no luck in the arena, only skill. But other than that, the young dwarf has been subdued, keeping his head bowed¡ªeven his handshake was weak.


    So now, to hear such honest and courageous words from him¡ªit brings tears to Barahtan''s eyes. Admitting his shameful, low past was brave enough, but then to admit he felt guilt¡ªrisking putting the entire trial in jeopardy, perhaps¡ªthat was brave beyond words. Especially in the face of so many dwarves crying out for his death.


    Compared to this courage, what worth do Barahtan''s own actions have? What is he proving down here, showing that he is superior in craft to a mere fifth degree? What is his father expecting him to gain?


    Of course his father is much more interested in what the guild can gain, but even so, Barahtan cannot see what this unfair contest has in it for the guild either.


    He shakes his head bitterly. No matter Zathar''s courage and nobility, losing to him will bring embarrassment and dishonor. Barahtan cannot not allow that to happen.


    His resolve to win remains unchanged.

 Traitors Trial 28: Metal Only Good Enough

    After my speech, I''m at last able to get back into the flow of hammering, and soon the forging-trance takes hold of me. My arms and tools become extensions of my will to create. The shape of the pick becomes more distinct, smoother and more perfect with every beat and every clang. Sparks dance on the ceramic of the anvil. The scent of semi-molten steel is intoxicating.


    Reheat, hammer, reheat¡ªuntil the craft is done. However I don''t have that luxury. The sand in the timers is flowing quickly. Soon the short-hours I''ve allocated to forging the head of the pick are over, and I must place down my hammer and be satisfied with what I''ve managed to accomplish.


    I watch the bright glow of the steel fade to red, then to gray, then it is cool.


    It''s well-crafted. Yes, well-crafted is the right description. Not brilliantly crafted, not a masterpiece. It is merely good. There are imperfections¡ªthe point is not quite as bent as I designed. The angles of its triangular cross-section are accurate to tenths of a degree, but not hundredths. The counter-weight is off by a few tenths of a gram.


    I want to continue. I want to make it better, correct each and every minor flaw until the dimensions are perfect beyond question.


    Again, I do not have that luxury. With a heavy heart I heat the steel one final time, and quench it. Steam hisses and billows around me. I take another look at the pick-head, force myself to smile and try to feel satisfied, and lay it aside.


    It''s time to do the haft. I feel apprehensive: I''m not experienced with aluminum, and never have I attempted to shape the way I''m about to.


    First, I re-check my designs. They seem to be in order, but I check them again regardless. I am about to check them for a third time, but realize I''m simply procrastinating, putting the task off out of fear.


    My design is this: I will roll the aluminum sheet into a tube, elliptical in cross-section, and bent according to how I will best be able to grip and swing for maximum power. Until now I''ve always purchased ready-made tubes¡ªHeartseeker''s original haft was such¡ªyet I do not have the budget for that, and also I have decided that buying ready-shaped metal is not at all befitting a fifth degree, let alone a fourth degree.


    Why leave half the crafting to mere metalworkers? I am a runeknight; I can do far better than them and their crude ways.


    I grasp the aluminum in one hand and lay it against the horn of the anvil. I begin to beat it curved, very gently¡ªaluminum is very malleable, and I don''t want to alter the thickness of the sheet any, just shape it.


    It''s a tough and awkward job. The long sheet is unwieldy and heavier than it looks, making it very difficult for me to angle my strikes.


    Each blow of the hammer I must carefully aim. Now I know why metalcrafters use mechanical devices for this job¡ªprobably many runeknights do as well. But I don''t have one available. I just have to strike as accurately and gently as I can manage.


    After a full short-hour''s work, the sheet is finally bent enough along the vertical axis that I can transfer it to the top of the anvil. I hammer it into a tube. This takes me another full short-hour, so cautious am I with my strikes. It''s proving even more difficult to shape than titanium, which I at least developed a common understanding with. Aluminum is an enigma to my hand.


    It makes a kind of sense: steel, bronze, and titanium have been used by dwarves since very ancient times, while aluminum is a more recent extraction. Our ancestral instincts do not know how to deal with it.


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    Or maybe I''m just making excuses for myself. I grit my teeth and continue to hammer away. I flatten out the tube¡ªthe cross-section needs to be the precise ellipsis I designed.


    I concentrate: whatever Barahtan is creating will not be easy to get through.


    <hr>


    ¡°What in hell is he doing?¡± fumes Batarast. ¡°That''s no job for a runeknight!¡±


    ¡°With all due respect,¡± one of his senior guild members says, ¡°this is a technique that the Runeking himself is said to be perfecting.¡±


    ¡°He''s destroying his own runes! Killing them!¡±


    ¡°Not destroying them. Incorporating them. Binding them to the metal.¡±


    ¡°That''s what the reagent is for! He''s throwing that away as well!¡±


    Batarast tears at his beard. He shouldn''t have upset his son so¡ªno, the incident in the guildhall was Barahtan''s own damn fault. The boy''s too sensitive, that''s the problem. And now he''s decided to embarrass everyone by using some fool technique.


    ¡°Runeking Ulrike is doing the same,¡± another one of his guild members says. ¡°That''s why his palace is also a foundry.¡±


    ¡°I know that!¡± snaps Batarast. ¡°But the Runeking''s capabilities and those of a fourth degree are as different as chalk and diamond.¡±


    ¡°Lots of runeknights are making their own alloys nowadays,¡± his wife says. ¡°I''ve seen some very fine jewelry by them.¡±


    ¡°What''s in the shops isn''t made by runeknights.¡±


    ¡°No, no. I''ve seen it out and about.¡±


    ¡°This isn''t jewelry. It''s a damn greave! A piece for protection. If you don''t take its crafting seriously, you could die. That''s his damn problem¡ªnever takes anything seriously.¡±


    ¡°That''s not entirely true,¡± says another guild member. ¡°He''s often serious.¡±


    ¡°To you it may look like that. I am his father and I know better. Now shut up, all of you!¡±


    The dwarves of the Firefly Gleam Agglomerate know better than to disobey their guildmaster. His tempers are famous. So they continue to watch their champion in silence, hoping that he knows what he''s doing. Runic alloying is a new technique and a very fickle one. The heat must be measured exactly, the reagent layered in just the right quantities. Many runes are inappropriate for it, severely restricting the vocabulary available to the crafter.


    Down in the arena, Barahtan places the next sheet into the mold and returns everything to the furnace. A glow like gold illuminates him. He, at least, is certain that he knows what he''s doing, certain of his absolute victory. He''s practiced runic alloying many times before, and this time he will finally get the technique right.


    <hr>


    I bow my head in dismay. Upon the anvil is a rod of aluminum, elliptical in cross-section, and bent according to my triple-checked calculations. Yet it''s not what I envisioned. A sketch on paper is one thing, the craft in shining metal quite another. What I have created is, simply put, not good enough. In fact, a metalcrafter could probably have done better. A good deal better.


    I have burned through six short-hours on this, this battered lump, this drainpipe. I spent seven on the designs, sixteen on the head as planned, and now with these six more gone, I only have forty-one left. This is a lot¡ªnearly four days.


    But I need that time for my runes. They are my strength and I need to make them perfect, utilize my power as I have never utilized it before.


    Yet I refuse to attach the head of my weapon to this crude pole. No, I must restart. I begin the slow process of unfolding the tube, returning it to its original state: a flat plane, smooth and unbeaten.


    Another short-hour passes, then another. The sheet is not yet pristine. I curse at it under my breath. This does not help¡ªmy hammer strokes become ragged, and the aluminum sheet resists my will.


    I am tired. Very tired indeed, and my arm aches. I know I can''t waste time sleeping when I''m already behind, but it seems I have no choice. I won''t be able to remake the haft with my mind and body at the point of collapse.


    So I trudge over to the hollow in the sand beside the furnace that is my sleeping spot, and curl up without even bothering to take a ration. My sleep is dreamless, and I wake feeling heavy. Was there something in the water I''ve been provided? No: the lack of rest over so many days is simply taking its toll.


    Nevertheless, I must persist. If I fail now I am dead or worse than dead, and my death-wish is fully gone. My path to atonement, since I cannot get it through this trial, will be through my hunt for the black dragon. I cannot fail before I''ve even taken the first step. I stand up, brush the sand from my beard, and return to the anvil.


    Curl, hammer, bend¡ªand it is done. The haft is complete, and it is better than my first attempt. Drenched in sweat, head pounding, eyes aching, limbs trembling, I fall down beside the anvil and pass into blackness.


    When I wake up, I have only twenty-five short-hours left for the runes. Only a couple days. I drag myself to the writing desk and get to work.

 Traitors Trial 29: A Bloody Pick

    What runes can elevate a tool for breaking stone into a weapon to pierce enruned steel? This is the question that I now ponder. The poem on my helmet used a metaphor of stone and water, yet I daren''t include the runes for stone in the poems of this weapon.


    So what should I do? I consider several ideas for themes: I could not use a metaphor at all, and simply write about metal piercing metal¡ªyet I am good with metaphor. I could choose a metaphor about destroying something similar to rock, like ice or bone or wood. No, that is straying close to danger. I could do a military metaphor¡ªyet that would mean writing something very complex.


    I decide to start on poems for all three of these ideas. Line after line I scribble down. I try out every script I have memory of. Most of the poems don''t come together¡ªthe idea dies after only a couple lines, either for reasons of theme and art, or for more exact and mathematical issues of runic flow.


    The ideas that do come together are those based on the last option I considered: a military metaphor. This is a war-pick after all¡ªhow better to elevate a tool to a weapon than by discussing battle directly? I glance at the sand-timers, and see that I''ve spent a little over one and a half short-hours. I''d like to spend more time trying out different ideas, find the perfect solution, but since I lost so much time on the haft, I cannot.


    A military metaphor it shall be.


    I go deeper into my idea. How many stanzas will I need? How many lines for each? Should they be arrayed like an army, or is that too un-subtle an idea? And then there are the runic flow calculations.


    Enruning is not a simple matter of creating a piece of pretty literature. If that were the case, the greatest dwarvish playwrights would also be the greatest runeknights. No, it is more complex. Each rune creates and can transfer a certain amount of power. The runes must be ordered in such a way that this power can flow freely¡ªor at least, that is the basic explanation initiates are given. In reality, it must flow in specific patterns that correspond to both the over-arching theme of the poem and the physical shape of the craft.


    For weapons, usually the power must flow to the edge or along it. In the case of my pick, the power must flow toward the point.


    So, I concentrate hard. I decide on the framework of the poem: it will be the tale of a mighty army of the strongest dwarves to ever exist, each equipped in the greatest armor that has yet been seen, holding tower shields to make a wall of enruned steel. Against them is arrayed a wedge of miners, rebels, who have in their hands pickaxes they have crafted themselves in secret.


    The miners sweep down through the cavern. The shield-bearers brace themselves. Each has greaves that grant him great stability, rooting the army to the stone¡ªno, I slash out those lines with vengeance. Too un-subtle, and I cannot use the runes for rock.


    The foes lock their shields into a wall. The cavern thunders with the charge of the miner-runeknights. I pause. This seems somehow blasphemous¡ªbut it works too well to reject, and besides, though every dwarf who is not a miner sees them as inferior, runes hold no such bias.


    The cavern thunders with their charge. Stalactites crack and plummet from the ceiling¡ªno, no, no! More rock, and the whole idea of my poem is that all the force will be concentrated into a single point¡ªthe point of my war-pick¡ªthe same war-pick wielded by the miner-runeknight-champion at the tip of the charge.


    Self-reference: a difficult technique to get right. It can play havoc with the runic flow, as the power coils, loops and eddies. Yet I am clever, and more than that, I can do what other dwarves cannot. I can alter the very runes.


    Not on purpose yet. But I will trust in my abilities. When the time comes to twist the wire into shape, the runes will shape themselves so that their power flows perfectly.


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    The miner-runeknights crash through the shield-wall as if it were naught but air. Air is the opposite of stone: I don''t explicitly state this but the artistic flair of the implication makes my poem that much stronger.


    I stand up, nearly knocking over Judge Caletek, who has been steadily creeping closer to me. His eyes as they read over my poem are devoid of emotion. Judge Daztat would have shown disgust, I''m sure.


    ¡°I am ready to order the rest of my materials,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°I need ten feet of redcap-gold wire, of this series seven alloy here, gauge two hundred fifty. And ten grams of incandesite, grain size six.¡±


    He calculates. ¡°That will use up all your remaining budget for the task.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    He relays my order accurately. I sit back down at my writing desk, fingers shaking, curling, tapping of their own accord. My powers are burning to be released. Once again I see visions of the fires below the magma sea, of primal energies flaring up and twisting into the forms of runes.


    <hr>


    Barahtan pours the final layer of metal into the mold. With unerring precision he lays the runes into the glowing liquid, and completes the final stanza of the poem. It tells the tale of a mighty fortress with ten walls, each thicker and stronger than the last.


    He steps back and grins. He can tell that the piece is strong. As close to perfection as someone of his skill can manage. The metal feels more solid than any he''s yet worked with. Once it has been shaped into a greave, annealed, and a final poem grafted to it, it will be a craft to surpass anything he''s yet made.


    It will not be impermeable. No armor is such. Yet he''s convinced that there''s no way the traitor''s pick will so much as scratch its surface.


    He hopes that once it''s upon the wall of the guildhall, no one will care for the tale of how he beat Zathar in this terribly mismatched contest. Any dwarf with sense will praise it for the brilliance of its construction, not for whom it defeated. That''s where he will gain his honor.


    He shakes his head. The craft isn''t yet done. He''s gotten this far in the alloying process with prior crafts, then had them fail spectacularly. Irritated at himself for letting dreams of glory intrude on his concentration, he gets back to work.


    <hr>


    The gold wire arrives and I begin to shape it. My fingers work so fast they become a blur, amidst which the runes seem to shape themselves, wire snakes twisting and writhing and contorting. Their reddish sheen is like that of blood, or hot poison. They disturb me¡ªyet I know I must not constrain my powers.


    Strange runes appear, only tangentially related to the script I decided on. They are bent and spiked, eager to draw blood from me. Several times they do, pricking my soft fingertips or jabbing underneath my fingernails. This hurts yet I am deep in my trance now and cannot stop.


    The poem takes form upon the anvil. The charge of the miners becomes far more brutal than I envisioned. Picks pierce shield, armor, skin, flesh, hearts. The cavern becomes slick with gore. Bodies are trampled underfoot; the miners'' unstoppable charge pulps them. The enemy scatters and flees, and the miners pay them no mind. They continue forward to the now undefended city to pillage, murder, and destroy.


    I shape the final line and fall backward¡ªno, I am thrown backward. I hit the sand spread-eagled and lie there breathing heavily. The crystal lights high up are shimmering like the surface stars are said to. There is a crashing in my ears: the crowd is not sure what to make of my dramatic performance.


    My runes! I let my power flow unchecked; what kind of power have I imbued my craft with? I leap up and bend over the anvil. I read the poem arrayed there.


    The violence is almost sickening. Yet there does not appear to be any major thematic change. It is about piercing and nothing more. Its essence remains as planned. And no matter how the tale of blood makes my stomach churn, there''s no turning back here in the arena.


    Now to graft it. The incandesite flashes fiercer than ever before. Each touch of heat bathes me in crimson, as if I am one of the dwarves in my poem, as if I am the champion of the miners striking the first killing blow. I hear gasps from the crowd. I do not look at them¡ªcannot spare the attention even if I wanted to¡ªbut I think the light is so intense it bathes them in bloody red also.


    The urge to destroy rises in me. I want to strike already! Strike through the metal Barahtan has prepared for me, and claim victory in this part of the contest, even the score. A part of me is within the poem: I am charging headlong toward victory.


    And now it is done, grafted, complete. The point of the pick gleams wickedly. There is a glow about it, though not one of dark light like Heartseeker¡ªthis glow is something that you feel.


    The crowd is now silent. They can tell that my craft is a masterful one. A decent forging has been elevated by a poem of power very few runeknights could hope to match in genius.


    Yet a pick must be swung, and for me to do that the haft must be completed also.

 Traitors Trial 30: A Magnificent Weapon

    ¡°What has he created?¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth and the younger members of the Association of Steel stare through their lenses at the metal spike upon Zathar''s anvil. It''s a fearsome craft¡ªthey can feel power from it even up here in the stands.


    ¡°What''s he done, guildmaster?¡±


    ¡°Guildmaster, how did he make that poem? Why did the incandesite flash like that?¡±


    ¡°I can''t read the runes on it.¡±


    Wharoth is still with shock. It''s not that the pickaxe is a perfect craft. Though it''s well-forged enough for a fifth degree, he winced when watching some of the heavier strokes Zathar gave it. To his experienced eyes it''s a little dented, the metal a little injured.


    Yet once the poem was grafted, those imperfections ceased to matter. He strains to read the runes: most of them he can only barely understand. Before, Zathar''s new runes¡ªif they truly are new, he can still only half-believe that¡ªhad been warped alterations of existing ones. Yet many of the runes on the pickaxe stray so far from forms Wharoth knows that they look as if they''re part of a new script altogether.


    Frightening, very frightening. Especially considering how the poem''s theme is far from something most runeknights will look upon favorably.


    Miners slaying runeknights with picks? He won goodwill with his speech earlier; this craft could throw that away.


    <hr>


    I begin drafting the poem for the haft. While the head of my weapon has a poem of brutal power, my haft must have speed and accuracy. No matter how much power it has, a weapon is no good if it cannot hit its target.


    I struggle to think. Inspiration isn''t coming to me. I ought to link it to the theme of the head''s poem, miners and effortless penetration, yet I can''t think of any elegant way to accomplish this. Preparation for battle? No, then I would be discussing rocks. The speed of the charge? I implied a metaphor of air: maybe I can try to do something with that.


    Wind rushes across the page, bats and spores, mist from falling water, insects and flying geckos. None of them seem to fit. Of course: wind is random, not directed. How about a ballista bolt?


    It would feel odd to write a poem about a ranged weapon onto a melee one, especially since ranged weapons are so poorly regarded by us runeknights. In order to penetrate enruned plate, an enruned weapon must be used¡ªor at any rate that''s what most runeknights like to believe¡ªand to craft a bolt or arrow just to throw it away is disrespectful.


    I look at the sand-timers¡ªmore than half of my second long-hour is already gone. I curse. I need to hurry. The accuracy and speed of a ballista is what I want for my weapon. Though it might not be optimal, I''ll choose this theme.


    My writing-stick blurs. Runes appear, but they''re messy. The stanzas are oddly structured. I calculate runic flows, and the numbers come up short or too long every time. I curse again, loudly. My eyelids are growing heavy, but I cannot afford to sleep. I decide that a walk will wake me up. I circle my half of the arena, once, twice, thrice.


    Back to the writing desk, and the ideas still do not come. It''s because of the pressure of time. It''s constraining me. The slight hiss of the sand, barely audible above the murmur of the crowd, is a fly in my ear and my mind. I cannot focus.


    But maybe I don''t have to. If I give my abilities full reign, they''ll respond. The fires they spring from do not go out so easily once lit: I can feel this. So I shut my eyes and let my writing-stick move as it will.


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    I create¡ªor it creates, or something creates¡ªa poem of five long lines that will go down the length of the haft. It tells of a bolt, unerring, streaming through the twisted cavern toward its target. The tale ends the moment before it strikes, for striking is the duty of the pick''s warhead.


    There aren''t so many new runes as I''d expected. Maybe the fires of my ability have dimmed somewhat. Or maybe the theme I''ve directed does not match well to it. I do not know. I do not understand these abilities. I wonder if I ever will. All I can do is hope that this hour is not the one in which they fail me.


    Only ten short-hours left. I''ll just have to hope the runes come out all right in the metal. My fingers blur and the wires fold upon the anvil. Once the five lines are completed I step back to read them carefully. Again, there are not so many new runes.


    I scratch my head. What is the problem here? Is there just not enough material to work with? Yet that can''t be helped. I sigh and get to grafting. The incandesite does not flash quite so brightly as before.


    Well, at any rate, it''s done now. I swing it through the air and can feel the runes are working as intended; there is just no flair or brilliance like that which elevates the head. I look at the sand-timers and see that I only have three short-hours left to go.


    I push the top of the haft through the loop at the center of the head, and get to welding, very slowly and very precisely.


    <hr>


    Barahtan finishes his craft and he is pleased. There are no flaws in the metal like he was afraid might appear. Nothing cracked when he was hammering, as has happened with his past attempts at rune-alloyed metals. The surface poem is as fine as anything else he''s ever written. Their lines are like the defenses of the fortress they describe, a layered defense impregnable to all but the most powerful blows.


    For a second he worries. Those red flashes earlier, and the crowd''s reaction¡ªZathar''s creation is sure to be a powerful one. Yet he''s still a fifth degree. Going on fourth, maybe, but he''s still no match for Barahtan. His blows will not be so powerful.


    There is only one weakness to the greave: the straps that will bind it to the armor-stand''s leg. Yet even if those are broken, they are not the main part of the armor. They are not what he''s being judged on. The judges won''t award Zathar such a cheap victory¡ªand he doesn''t think the young dwarf would take such a cheap victory either.


    He sits down and polishes while he watches the final grains of sand flow down.


    <hr>


    I take two discs of aluminum I cut earlier from the main sheet, and trim them into shape exactly. I place the first at the top of the haft, and weld. I flip the weapon over, and weld the second disc to the base of the haft.


    Very carefully, of course. This simple process takes me many minutes.


    Now for the main weld, down the seam at the back of the haft. Touch by careful touch, I turn the rolled sheet into a tube proper. My hands are shaking¡ªI have less than a short-hour left. A few of my touches go awry, though I manage to avoid scarring any of the runes.


    One final touch of yellow heat and I am done. The glow fades to red then vanishes. I run my eyes along the back of the haft and wince. It''s a rough weld, and is disrupting the runic flow by more than a small amount.


    But the final grains of sand are falling. There''s no time to fix it.


    ¡°I see you are finished,¡± says Judge Caletek.


    I flinch. Again, I''d forgotten his presence. ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°Is Barahtan?¡±


    ¡°He is.¡±


    ¡°I see. However, I would like to practice a little with it first.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead. The test will commence when the bell chimes.¡±


    Hands trembling, I grasp my completed weapon for the first time, and I am grasped in turn by the will to swing it. My muscles work without my will and raise the weapon above my head. Its points gleams wickedly in the light. The red-gold runes along it shimmer like rivers of blood.


    Judge Caletek looks at me. I look at him. For the first time, something approaching life glints in his eyes, and he takes a step back, then another. I want to pursue! Like a hungry salamander after bleeding prey, I want to leap forward and strike with all my might. I see the steel of the pick slamming through the top of his skull, see blood pour from his mouth, see myself bring him low.


    With terrible effort, I force myself to turn around, and I strike the sand.


    I let go of the weapon and step away, breath rapid, eyes wide. My bloodlust fades; joy replaces it. A wide grin comes across my face.


    This weapon is powerful beyond anything I have yet created.


    <hr>


    Vanerak leaps to his feet and cranes to look over the barrier. Behind his mirror-mask his eyes are wide. What power! The dark sand of the Arena of Lost Memories is not so deep; the pick has sunk deep into the stone beneath, and did so with barely any resistance.


    Again, such power! The young dwarf has good reason to smile. His runes are not simply different¡ªthey are superior. To have turned that rough iron-mongery to a weapon of magnificence! Unbelievable. It is truly unbelievable: he may actually win this round of the trial.


    Should Vanerak be worried? He dismisses the concern. The judges will not let him win. On pain of seeing their worst secrets exposed, they will ensure that Zathar ends up the loser.

 Traitors Trial 31: Tests of Metal and Honor

    The bell chimes; the faces form in the arena sand then fade back into indistinct mounds. I wield my war-pick and follow Judge Caletek to the raised section. Every step of the way I must fight my urge to strike him down¡ªthe injustice of what is happening! Does he not deserve to die? Yet he is unarmed and helmet-less. To strike him would destroy what little honor I have.


    Despite this logic, the urges remain. They''re not from me; they''re from my weapon.


    I hope.


    We reach the top of the platform. Judges Gerapek and Daztat are already here, standing off to one side. Barahtan is here too, kneeling in front of the armor stand, fixing his greave to it. Right now he''s blocking my view of the craft. I wait patiently with war-pick raised for him to step aside. My arm aches to swing down.


    He steps aside; I see the greave. It looks plain to my eyes, a slab of dull bronze, thick and rectangular. Its front edge is flat¡ªangles are not so much use when your opponent has all the time he likes to aim as he pleases. He is counting on simple thickness of metal, and simple shape for clear runic flow.


    It''s long, in Bezethast script like is favored by the Red Anvil guild. Yet I sense something more to it, something behind it: layers of strength like the many walls of a nigh-impregnable fortress.


    I remember what Helnat said about how creating one''s own alloys has become popular here in Allabrast¡ªgrafting runes to molten metal. During my time in the Red Anvil''s guildhall I learned more about the process: it''s fiendishly tricky. Only a third degree or higher has the skill required to reach any kind of mastery.


    It seems that Barahtan has this skill.


    No matter. My war-pick cries out to destroy, and I will let it. I stride forward¡ª


    ¡°Wait!¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°You are to wait until we give you permission.¡±


    With great effort I halt my swing.


    ¡°He already broke the rule,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°He is disqualified.¡±


    ¡°I... I was just getting my aim.¡±


    ¡°That does not matter.¡±


    ¡°He did not strike yet,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°As long as his weapon did not touch the metal, there is no issue.¡±


    Judge Daztat sneers at me, then shrugs. ¡°As you say, Gerapek.¡±


    ¡°Now, Barahtan, step away a little farther please.¡±


    He does so, then takes a long look at my war-pick. His eyes widen.


    ¡°Zathar, ready yourself, but do not strike yet.¡±


    I hold my war-pick up, angle it diagonally. My eyes focus on the part of the craft I will strike. The weakness is clear to me.


    ¡°Judges, take your positions.¡±


    Judge Daztat steps around to look from the left, and Judge Caletek shifts a little more to the right.


    ¡°The testing of the crafts now begins. Defender, you may strike.¡±


    I yell out and swing down. The speed shocks even me, yet despite this I am conscious of every last detail of my movement. I correct the angle halfway down. The tip makes contact¡ªmy runes become the color of arterial blood.


    My pick rends apart the catch at the side of the craft, the one securing the tight metal strap that fixes the craft to the armor-stand. Shards of bronze spin and flash. My pick continues into the armor-stand''s wooden heel, digging deep. The leg splits apart and the stand collapses. The greave falls at the same time, clattering on the stone front-up, spinning.


    I draw my pick back. None of the judges say anything¡ªthough Barahtan has gone pale.


    ¡°Is it not rendered non-functional?¡± I ask Judge Gerapek.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°How can a piece of armor that can''t be secured to the body be considered functional?¡±


    ¡°The contest is to see if you can get through the plate,¡± Judge Daztat snaps. ¡°Whether the buckle breaks or not is immaterial.¡±


    I shrug. I expected as much, though it was worth a try. But a slim chance for an easy victory wasn''t the only reason I struck there: now that the greave is lying on the stone, I can strike it more easily and with greater force. How my helmet came off set a precedent for this: the judges can''t reposition Barahtan''s armor without making their corruption clear.


    I raise my pick for the next strike. I am aiming for the very center of the greave. A shiver runs up my arms from the runes of my weapon.


    I swing! The head of my war-pick is a steel and red blur. It strikes Barahtan''s greave at the exact center. So far the handle isn''t hurting my aim. A clang sounds, almost as deafening as that of the arena bell. I feel the steel sink into the bronze.


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    There''s a metallic sound as I pull out the war-pick. The greave lifts off the ground slightly before falling back down. Where I struck is a tiny hole¡ªit''s only a few millimeters deep, but if my next eight strikes keep true, I can get through it.


    I can get through it! A rush of excitement fills me, like that you feel in a battle when you sense that the enemy lines are about to break. Barahtan''s face and those of the judges have gone white. I can win this!


    But only if my next hits strike true, I remind myself. I must swing carefully.


    I line up my war-pick. I swing for the third time. My awareness seems to speed up; three-quarters of the way down I realize I''m off by a fraction of an inch. Muscles contract in my wrists, correcting the angle, and the point of my pick strikes right into the center of the hole.


    Clang! My steel sinks further into the bronze. It''s tough, though, this craft. Runic alloying has given it strength far beyond that of ordinary bronze. I recall the armor of the elders of the Red Anvil, and the feeling of solidity it radiated. This metal is of the same quality.


    Again! I strike true for a fourth time, and a fifth. I am halfway through the greave now¡ªBarahtan and the judges are staring at the damage in abject horror. I give them a nasty smile: I know I shouldn''t, but I can''t help myself. None of them expected me to craft so well, and their plot to demoralize me has failed utterly.


    A war-pick is the perfect weapon for a task like this. After all, a pickaxe''s main function is to strike over and over again at something immobile. The fools!


    My sixth strike hits true, then my seventh and eighth do also. Sparks fly up like spurting blood. The sight makes me grin even fiercer. I''m nearly through now. The crowd is utterly silent¡ªtheir breaths are held. The only sound in the arena is that of my heavy panting.


    But though my arms may be tired, my spirit is burning to destroy. I aim for a ninth time. I bring it down¡ªmy arms are shaking but I''m barely on course¡ªthere''s a loud cough.


    The tip of my pick hits a tenth millimeter off. It still slides into the hole, yet half of its power has been robbed from it.


    ¡°Who was that!¡± I scream.


    There is silence. I look at Barahtan. He shakes his head and I believe him. It had to be one of the judges. I glare at Judge Daztat. It was him, I''m sure, yet his face is impassive.


    ¡°Do that again,¡± I warn. ¡°And...¡±


    I stop myself. Threatening the judges is not a good idea.


    ¡°And you''ll what?¡± he says coldly.


    ¡°Never mind.¡± I shrug. ¡°I am still going to break through on my next strike.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead then.¡±


    I aim, swing, and my tenth strike is the truest of them all. My war-pick sinks in far, and at the very final fraction of a second of the blow, I sense the resistance of the bronze give. I''ve hit stone¡ªI know the feeling well.


    I wrench out my weapon for the final time. The hole in the greave is perfectly circular and dark black. The runic power radiating from the bronze is diminished by several times. I step back and look at the judges.


    ¡°I''ve pierced it,¡± I say. ¡°I''ve won. My craft is superior.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°It is we who will judge that,¡± says Judge Gerapek sternly.


    He steps forward and kneels down to pick up the greave, then beckons the other two judges to follow him out of Zathar''s earshot.


    Hands shaking, he turns the bronze slab over. His mouth goes dry. The traitor was right: the war-pick pierced through. Vanerak''s gamble has failed utterly¡ªbut who could''ve predicted that a mere fifth-degree''s runes would have such power? Judge Gerapek is second degree yet even he has never seen these particular symbols before. The traitor''s skill at working metal may be fifth degree, but the depth of his runic knowledge clearly goes far beyond that.


    ¡°He has won,¡± Judge Gerapek whispers.


    ¡°Show me more clearly,¡± Judge Daztat demands. ¡°Give me the greave!¡±


    Judge Gerapek hands it to him. He holds it up to the lights. The tiniest beam of white shines through.


    ¡°Barahtan has lost,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°Vanerak made a mistake in having the traitor make a war-pick. It''s perfect for this kind of contest.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you should have raised that critique down in the night,¡± says Judge Daztat acidly. ¡°Now look what''s happened.¡±


    ¡°In the... In the end there''ll be no issue. The weapon always has the advantage in a trial by forging. He will lose in the final part.¡±


    Judge Daztat does not reply; he keeps turning the greave over and over in his hands. The broken strap swings back and forth; the point of light through the hole flashes.


    ¡°No,¡± he finally says. ¡°There is to be no final part.¡±


    ¡°The greave is pierced! Anyone can see this. The High Justices examine these also, you are aware? And Vanerak holds nothing over them!¡±


    ¡°The contest is not decided by if the armor is pierced or not. It is decided by whether or not the armor retains its function. And this tiny hole is far from fatal to its integrity.¡±


    ¡°The runic function is all but destroyed.¡±


    ¡°Not from such a tiny piercing!¡±


    ¡°No, from the violence of the strikes. Could you not tell by the sound? The poems within the alloy have been killed.¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t matter.¡± Judge Daztat looks the elder judge directly in the eyes. He lowers his voice. ¡°The state of Barahtan''s craft does not matter. Surely I do not need to remind you of what will happen if Vanerak is displeased with us, even in the slightest? If we delay his desire even a little? Once this contest is over, regardless of result, we are no longer useful to him.¡±


    ¡°That is not true! Our positions remain.¡±


    ¡°He will have his own realm soon¡ªeven compared to the other members of the Thanic Guard, he is powerful. And the others want him gone. If he decides to take an opportunity for a realm, many of them will not oppose his ambitions. I have friends in high places, Judge Gerapek¡ªhigher than your friends. I know these things.¡±


    ¡°Having judges beholden to him will always be useful.¡±


    ¡°Not if he''s no longer in Allabrast! And there are other judges, and everyone has something they can be blackmailed with. I want my skin saved, Gerapek. If you do as well, do not get in his way!¡±


    ¡°None of this changes the fact that the bronze is pierced!¡±


    ¡°There is still a strong argument to be made that it is not pierced thoroughly enough. The diameter of the exit wound is small.¡±


    ¡°The High Justices¡ª¡°


    ¡°¡ªhave granted us the legal power to decide here! Even if they cast doubt on us later, right here, right now, the judgement is ours to make. And we both know we have no choice in what to say!¡±


    ¡°I disagree. There is still the final craft. Zathar has no chance there. Vanerak will get his wish.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak does not want to be kept waiting!¡±


    ¡°We will let Judge Caletek decide.¡± Judge Gerapek turns to the dull-eyed dwarf. ¡°What do you say, Caletek?¡±


    Judge Caletek looks at the hole in the bronze. He flicks his eyes up to the shadowed box where Vanerak is. He looks back down at Judge Gerapek.


    ¡°The craft is pierced,¡± he says quietly. ¡°The traitor is defeated.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± says Judge Daztat.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Judge Gerapek says softly.


    He turns from the other two and walks over to the fallen armor stand and Zathar. The traitor''s gaze is fierce, yet there is fear in him also.


    ¡°We have made our decision,¡± Judge Gerapek announces. ¡°The damage to the greave of the prosecution was insufficient. You have lost this round, and thus the trial. You are hereby found guilty and your sentence of death shall be carried out forthwith.¡±

 Traitors Trial 32: Hope Through Obliteration

    Judge Gerapek breaks from the huddle and approaches me. I could only catch snatches of what was said; my heart pounds in anticipation of his decision. Am I to live, or am I to die? The look in his eyes is a solemn one¡ªyet I also sense fear. He has gone pale. His hands are clenched in a failed attempt to stop them shaking.


    He''s nearly as frightened as I am! Scared of Vanerak, no doubt. Maybe he isn''t being bribed, but blackmailed.


    He halts before me.


    ¡°We have made our decision,¡± he announces. ¡°The damage to the greave of the prosecution was insufficient. You have lost this round, and thus the trial. You are hereby found guilty and your sentence of death shall be carried out forthwith.¡±


    My hope is shattered to pieces. Rage rises from its ruins¡ªI raise my war-pick!


    Then I let go. It clatters on the black stone and I sink to my knees in front of it.


    The trial is over. I am to die. I only hope that Guildmaster Wharoth will be able to carry out the sentence before I am captured by Vanerak.


    I hear the march of armored footsteps: the guards are already here to take me away. I am grabbed and pulled to my feet. I give no resistance.


    ¡°Wait!¡± someone shouts. It''s Barahtan!


    The guards pause. I look up at my opponent, and see that his handsome face is twisted in fury.


    ¡°Wait!¡± he shouts again. ¡°This isn''t over!¡±


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± snaps Judge Daztat. ¡°You have won, Barahtan! What in hell are you complaining about?¡±


    ¡°I have won only two rounds. There is still a third.¡±


    ¡°I understand that you are keen to gain your guild honor,¡± says Judge Gerapek, ¡°but the trial is now over. You have won two out of the three rounds. Perhaps your victory was not so clean as you hoped, but even so, I''m afraid¡ª¡°


    ¡°What of victory by obliteration?¡±


    ¡°What of it?¡±


    ¡°If victory by obliteration is won in any of the rounds, the trial goes to whoever achieved it. That''s the rule, is it not?¡±


    ¡°The rule of victory by obliteration is to make sure that unfair contests do not drag on any longer than needs be,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°It is not to give the inferior runeknight some final chance that he will throw away regardless.¡±


    ¡°It does not matter what the rule is for. What matters is the rule itself. Unless there is a clause that states victory by obliteration can only be won in the first two rounds, Zathar still has a chance, and I did not hear you speak of such a clause in the reading of the rules.¡±


    ¡°Such an obvious point does not need to be written down. Guards, hurry him away! It''s time for the traitor to die.¡±


    They start to pull me back, but this time I do struggle.


    ¡°Stop this!¡± I shout. ¡°Barahtan is right. By your own rules, I still have a chance!¡±


    ¡°Silence him!¡± screams Judges Daztat.


    A guard clamps an armored hand over my mouth. I continue to writhe yet they are in enruned armor and I am in leather overalls. I am pulled inexorably toward the steps.


    ¡°Halt!¡± orders Judge Gerapek. ¡°Halt, guards!¡±


    They halt, though the one with his hand over my mouth keeps it there. Judge Daztat turns to the older dwarf with fury.


    ¡°What are you saying!¡± he cries¡ªand there is terror in his voice, manic terror. ¡°The trial is over!¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Judge Gerapek is trembling. ¡°No, Barahtan is right. The trial cannot be brought to a close while the defender still has a chance of victory.¡±


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    ¡°What chance! He has no chance. Barahtan has proved his skill twice already!¡±


    ¡°By the barest margin.¡±


    ¡°No, beyond all doubt!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Judge Gerapek screams. ¡°Silence yourself, damned wretch! You disgrace! You insult our justice!¡±


    Judge Daztat''s mouth freezes open in shock. Judge Gerapek has gone white, and muscles in his face spasm uncontrollably. He swallows to calm himself.


    ¡°The trial must continue,¡± he says in a whisper. ¡°That is the rule. As judges, we must obey the rules that are set, or we do not deserve the power to punish those who break them. We must ensure the law is applied equally and impartially. Zathar still has a chance for victory. However slim it may be, he still has that chance.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Barahtan. ¡°He does.¡±


    ¡°The trial will continue,¡± Judge Gerapek repeats. ¡°It shall continue!¡± he shouts up at the stands. ¡°I recant my earlier announcement! The traitor Zathar''s execution is forestalled! If, during the third round of this trial, Barahtan''s weapon should break, the defendant will be proclaimed innocent!¡±


    <hr>


    I sit slumped on the bed in my cell. An hour at least has passed already yet I am still in terrible shock. My foot is tapping. My skin is cold with sweat. I keep glancing up at the bars of the door, terrified that Judge Daztat or Vanerak will appear, to announce that the trial is to be brought to a close after all.


    No one comes.


    I have been granted a chance! One final chance! I cannot throw it away, yet neither can I see how I can take advantage of it. To craft armor so strong that a weapon of third degree standard breaks upon it¡ªhow is that possible to accomplish?


    And the judges will give me something very difficult to craft. Something that requires a great deal of materials, to stretch my coin as thin as possible. Whereas Barahtan will be given a simple task: to make a spear, or an axe. Or perhaps a sword, since every dwarf in Allabrast is well-used to creating those.


    The odds are against me worse than ever before. Yet, a way occurs to me. A slim line of light in the darkness. A tiny chink in the armor of Vanerak''s schemes, only a fraction of a millimeter wide.


    I will pierce through it.


    <hr>


    Barahtan does not return to the guildhall. Instead he finds the highest, dirtiest pub in the district and sits alone, a hood over his head. He has torn the gems from his beard and tucked them into his shirt. He does not want anyone to recognize him¡ªhe cannot face the shame.


    No matter what the judges say: he lost. The war-pick pierced his ten-fold rune-alloyed bronze. It broke apart the runic resonances, killed what he poured all his knowledge and skill into creating. Zathar proved himself the better runeknight.


    Yet the judges tried to have him slain regardless! This trial is a sham. It is nothing but entertainment for those who bear a grudge against Zathar. That their grudge is a reasonable one does not matter. Justice should be about truth, not a means to revenge.


    Barahtan wonders if his father is in on this. Even if he isn''t, likely he suspects something, and is ignoring it. Anything for the guild, would be his excuse. It''s always for the guild. Holding his own son back¡ªthat''s also for the guild. It''d bring shame if Barahtan was die in a mere exam instead on some more glorious quest.


    ¡°Another drink?¡± rasps the barkeep. He''s spent some time in the mines, by the looks and sound of him: his skin is gray and his throat is ruined from rock-dust.


    ¡°Two.¡±


    ¡°More hot beer?¡±


    ¡°No. Something stronger.¡±


    ¡°What, then?¡±


    ¡°Your strongest.¡±


    The barkeep gives him two glasses filled with acid-smelling blue liquid. Barahtan downs them both in quick succession.


    Zathar was a miner too. This compounds Barahtan''s shame, for he is the son of one of the strongest bloodlines in Allabrast. To be defeated by a miner, and with a pickaxe at that... He shakes his head bitterly.


    What good are gold-running veins if even a miner can defeat him? And why is a miner more noble than his father by far? As far as Barahtan can remember, his father has never admitted any of his wrongdoings, of which there have been many.


    Barahtan makes a decision. No matter the outcome of the trial, he will leave the guild afterwards. He''s had enough of false honor.


    <hr>


    ¡°You... You are displeased, I can see that. But I had no choice. The rules are the rules, and we cannot break them. Bend them, yes! But not break them. We cannot go that far. The High Justices... We don''t want to get them any more involved than they already are. You don''t want them involved either, I''m sure. Unless...¡±


    ¡°Are you suggesting they are also in my vise?¡±


    To the three judges, night feels colder than it ever has before. In the time they have been waiting for Vanerak, and he has kept them waiting for some time, the cavern''s chill has sunk through their armor and into their flesh and bones. Even Judge Daztat is subdued.


    They can feel the black dust eating into their lungs also.


    ¡°Well, I thought... Our appointments in the first place...¡± Judge Gerapek continues to stammer. ¡°They are not, then, I presume.¡±


    ¡°Whether they are or are not is irrelevant. What matters is that you are failing me.¡±


    The three judges look down. None of them is about to point out that it was Vanerak''s idea for the traitor to make a war-pick.


    ¡°My choice of craft for the foul traitor was a miscalculation," Vanerak admits. "However he still should not have been given this chance.¡±


    ¡°The rules...¡± Judge Gerapek says weakly.


    ¡°The rules can be bent.¡±


    ¡°We will not fail you this time,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°The traitor will be yours.¡±


    ¡°He shall be. Barahtan will forge a sword, and Zathar a tower-shield.¡±


    ¡°It is a rule that the type of shield cannot be specified,¡± says Judge Gerapek, his voice nearly a whisper. ¡°He must be free to choose the kind.¡±


    ¡°As you said before, the rules can be bent. Specify the dimensions exactly¡ªit is to be both tall and wide. Stretch his coin thin.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°And when it comes time for the final judgement, do not fail me again.¡±

 Traitors Trial 33: Facing Corruption

    A phalanx of guards comes to my cell. I''m already standing at the door waiting for them. In silence I''m led out for the last time. We go down the corridors past the eyes of the clerks, to the outside road and the jeering. It''s diminished since my last two journeys, by a little. There are even some cheers: from a group of rough dwarves with their beards tainted gray by rock-dust.


    Miners! Do they think I''m their champion? I''m not¡ªI''m here to win a chance to redeem myself, a chance for the freedom to go and undo as best I can my crime, by slaying the black dragon. That is my only goal.


    I enter the carriage. We depart. It stops on the way and my heart skips a beat. Has it been halted by some plot of Vanerak? Are his dwarves swarming outside, ready to smash in and take me? It restarts again and I calm myself. Vanerak has no reason to make a grab for me here: after all, my only chance at freedom is now so meagre it may as well not exist.


    We arrive at the Arena of Lost Memories and soon I''m sitting in the room of black stone and bright crystal lights. Barahtan is already here. He''s taken the jewels from his golden beard. Perhaps he tore them out from shame that my miner''s tool nearly defeated his craft.


    The judges are here already too and for once they do not look so lifeless. Judge Gerapek is pale with fear, and Judge Daztat is glaring at me with rage in his eyes. Judge Caletek still shows no emotion, yet while before he was like dead wood he is now like rotting wood, his back bent as if he''s on the verge of collapse.


    Blackmail, not bribery. It has to be. So my trial is a matter of life and death for more than just me. And their fear shows they think I have a chance.


    They''ll do everything in their power to snuff it out.


    ¡°Prosecutor Barahtan, you are to forge a sword,¡± says Judge Gerapek. ¡°A sword is defined as a weapon with one long blade, straight or curved, sharp on either one side or both, and with a handle no longer than one quarter of the blade''s length. It may be designed to be wielded in either one or both hands. The length of the blade must be at least one foot or the craft will be considered a dagger and be disqualified. The blade may or may not come to a point, however the strikes to be performed in the testing must be slashes.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± Barahtan says curtly.


    ¡°Defender Zathar, you are to forge a tower-shield. A shield is defined as a plate of metal to be held in one hand to guard against the blows of an enemy. It may be convex or flat. The tower variant of a shield is defined as a shield which is rectangular in shape and has a height of at least three feet and a width of at least two feet.¡±


    This is strange. Neither of us has been instructed to make a particular type of weapon before: there are a hundred different varieties of helmet, yet I was free to choose what kind I wished to make. Equally there are a hundred different varieties of sword. Boldly, I raise my hand.


    ¡°I wish to ask a question.¡±


    ¡°You have that right,¡± says Judge Gerapek.


    ¡°Why am I being told to make a particular variant of shield?¡±


    Judge Daztat scowls. ¡°Because that''s what we, the judges, have decided you''re to make.¡±


    ¡°Until now I''ve had more freedom. And it seems to me that the bigger the craft, the more disadvantaged I am, since the amount of gold I''m given remains the same.¡±


    ¡°You are to craft what we tell you to craft.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°I feel that I''m being unfairly disadvantaged.¡±


    ¡°You will craft what we tell you to!¡±


    ¡°I feel the same way as Zathar,¡± says Barahtan. ¡°Why are the specifications being given so exactly?¡±


    The acid in his voice surprises me. Maybe he''s torn the diamonds from his beard not out of shame for nearly losing to my pickaxe, but because he''s realized the trial he''s staked his honor on is a sham.


    ¡°Because that is the decision we have made! Now silence, both of you!¡±


    I shut my mouth. It''s clear to me they aren''t going to change their minds. It''s not like I was expecting them to anyway¡ªall I wanted to do with that little outburst was sow some seeds of doubt in the minds of the guards and clerks here. Hopefully that doubt will spread up to the High Justices, and something will be done about the judges'' corruption.


    It''s a slim hope, yet I feel I had to try. Surely someone is beginning to see through this trial. Vanerak can''t be blackmailing every judge and justice.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    ¡°Any further questions?¡± asks Judge Gerapek.


    ¡°No,¡± I say.


    ¡°And from the honored prosecutor?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Barahtan.


    ¡°Good. Then the final contest of the trial shall now begin. Guards, lead them to their places.¡±


    A phalanx of guards surrounds us. We stand and are marched out the room. In the corridor Barahtan speaks to me while we walk:


    ¡°You won the last round.¡±


    ¡°Not according to the judges,¡± I say bitterly.


    ¡°They aren''t interested in justice, only in having you destroyed. I can see that now. This whole trial is an insult to Allabrast. To all dwarves of Ulrike''s kingdom.¡±


    ¡°I''m glad you realize.¡±


    ¡°I''m ashamed to be a part of it. I''m ashamed of my father for foisting this task on me.¡±


    ¡°Yet you''re not going to give an easy victory.¡±


    ¡°No. No matter how I feel about the circumstances, I at least must try to keep my own honor, however tarnished it may already be.¡±


    ¡°You will forge the best sword you can.¡±


    ¡°As a runeknight, I must. I''m sorry, Zathar. You deserved a real trial.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for saying so.¡±


    ¡°I won''t attend your execution, if that makes you feel any better.¡±


    ¡°I may still win,¡± I snap.


    I''m glad he realizes the dishonor. Yet, at the same time, I can''t help but feel anger also. He just admitted to losing the last contest, and even so assumes he''ll crush me in this one! The arrogance sickens me.


    ¡°Of course you may,¡± he says, and bows his head. ¡°I apologize for the slight.¡±


    We reach the branch in the corridor.


    ¡°Apology accepted,¡± I say, my anger already fading. His apology sounded genuine. ¡°Thank you for admitting your loss in the last round. I''m glad there''s at least one dwarf in Allabrast with a sense of honor.¡±


    <hr>


    The reaction of the crowd as I walk onto the black sands is strange: there is little cheering or jeering. Instead they eye me with breathless anticipation. I remind myself that I''m not to look at them and focus instead on the furnace and anvil and tools. I cannot afford to be distracted, to waste even the slightest amount of time.


    I need every minute of the three long-hours of this final round, for this craft is going to be the most difficult I have ever attempted.


    I already have the basic design in my head. It''s one I could have applied to any piece of armor¡ªafter all, what is any piece of armor but, in essence, a sheet of metal? I''ve been planning through all the short-hours until now.


    Since I have no chance of making a shield Barahtan''s sword will shatter on through the virtue of simple hardness, instead I will make a volatile shield. Its purpose: to blast and break.


    The moment the bell rings and the faces form in the sand¡ªI will not join them!¡ªI sit down at the writing desk and begin to sketch and scribble. I think deep on every detail. Though a shield has no strange curves and awkward angles like a breastplate does, that does not mean it is simple to design.


    First of all, its great size poses an issue. I simply don''t have the money to make the steel as thick as it needs to be all over. Parts of it will have to be thin. In fact, flicking through the catalogue, I realize ordering steel isn''t even an option for me. I''m going to have to make my own from iron, because for my plan to work, I''m going to have to spend nearly all my gold on runes and reagent.


    Out of the corner of my eye I see Judge Daztat approach.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I snap. ¡°Come to charge me some extra tax?¡±


    ¡°Just the usual amount.¡±


    But I know he''s going to charge me more, and if I can''t get enough material for the runes I need, my life or death gamble won''t even be that. So I decide to make another gamble, right here and now. I put cold steel into my voice:


    ¡°Judge Caletek made no mention of tax.¡±


    ¡°Didn''t he?¡± Judge Daztat sneers.


    Abruptly I stand. He''s a little shorter than me. I glare and he flinches. Behind the bluster he''s just as scared as Judge Gerapek. I can make this gamble pay off.


    ¡°You''re corrupt,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± he says sharply.


    ¡°You''re corrupt.¡±


    ¡°How dare you!¡±


    ¡°You''re corrupt,¡± I repeat.


    ¡°Silence! Do not antagonize me, or you will regret it!¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Why? You''re already in Vanerak''s grip. I can see through you, all three of you.¡±


    ¡°How dare you accuse us! And an honorable Thanic Guardsdwarf!¡±


    ¡°Stop playing stupid.¡±


    ¡°Unfounded accusations will do nothing to help your cause, traitor!¡±


    ¡°You are already hell-bent on throwing me to Vanerak. You''re trying your hardest to fail me here already.¡±


    ¡°We are fair and honorable arbiters!¡±


    I laugh. ¡°Is that why you charged me all that extra gold in the first round? You''re a fool, judge. You should''ve told Judge Caletek to do the same. I wonder how the High Justices would feel if someone pointed out the discrepancy to them?¡±


    He narrows his eyes. ¡°You assume they aren''t in on this already.¡±


    ¡°If they were, the trial never would''ve begun in the first place. I''d never even have made it to the prison.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we''re just doing this to torture you.¡±


    ¡°You aren''t doing anything. Vanerak is. And though he enjoys being cruel, he doesn''t enjoy wasting time.¡±


    ¡°Again, you besmirch the name of an honored member of the Thanic Guard.¡±


    I roll my eyes. ¡°We''re wasting time, Judge Daztat. Here''s what''s going to happen: I''m going to order my materials. You are going to charge me the correct amount. No additions. Then it''s going to arrive here and I''m going to start forging.¡±


    ¡°You will be charged however much I decide.¡±


    ¡°Then I''m going to shout up to the crowd about the injustice. Whispers will spread back to the High Justices. Questions will be asked about you. And maybe that little secret of yours that Vanerak knows about will get out.¡±


    He goes pale. My suspicions were correct. He''s being blackmailed.


    ¡°Well, judge?¡±


    ¡°None of the crowd wants to see you win.¡±


    ¡°Some do. And even among those who don''t, there are at least a few who want this trial conducted as fairly as possible. Not everyone is as self-serving as you are.¡±


    Veins pulse at his temples. He tugs at his white scarf.


    ¡°The high justices¡ª¡°


    ¡°Just admit you made a mistake, Judge Daztat. No one needs to know your corruption if I keep quiet. I won''t tell even after the contest. Win or lose. And I keep my promises.¡±


    ¡°The word of a traitor is worth nothing,¡± he spits. ¡°But fine. No tax. It doesn''t matter anyway. You still have no chance.¡±

 Traitors Trial 34: Burn and Fold

    My materials arrive. I check that they''re as I requested: eight kilograms of iron scrap, cost three golden wheels; four hundred grams of charcoal dust, cost two golden wheels; twelve feet of platinum wire, gauge three hundred fifty, cost ten golden wheels; sixteen grams of quizik reagent, grain size three, cost five golden wheels.


    All are here, stacked neatly on a wooden pallet. Behind them is the final material I''ve requested, at the cost of all thirty of my remaining golden wheels.


    Upon the lid of a box is emblazoned a pupil-less eye. The runes read:


    Almergris.


    I open it. Inside is the same dry orange powder that so many dwarves of the fort died in battle to retrieve, and which subsequently claimed the eyes of many more. Even amongst all the other rare and dangerous materials available in Allabrast, this is still one of the most deadly substances a runeknight can bring to the forge.


    Almergris and the runes of light it breathes life into are to be the agent of destruction in my craft. It is them which will destroy Barahtan''s sword.


    I hope they do not cause too much harm to his body. He has done no wrong in this trial. If anyone deserves to be burned and blinded it is the judges and Vanerak.


    But I can see no way to achieve victory without almergris.


    I shut the box tightly; I don''t want to look at that orange powder any longer than necessary. I put the box back on the pallet yet, even shut, I can feel hate radiating through the lid. I shudder.


    There''s no time to waste on fear. It''s time for the first part of the craft. Chunk by chunk I lift the iron scrap up onto the anvil. It''s dirty, nasty stuff. Dusty, rent and splintered, and coated all over with rust, it looks as if it was pulled from some long-forgotten construction site. Although I ordered eight kilograms, about a kilogram of this is impurities that I need to hammer and burn away.


    My first full long hour is going to be spent doing this. So, I get started. I arrange the scrap into a rough rectangle in the furnace, put on the thickest forging overalls and longest gloves, and switch on the flame as high as it will go.


    The scrap begins to glow. Its rust peels and cracks. Impurities spark and flare in orange spikes of flame, and also in more exotic colors. Greens and blacks and blues illuminate the furnace interior, but as the heat of the iron increases, they are drowned out by an all-encompassing white.


    I turn off the flame and wait for the mass to cool to yellow-orange, then I pull it out with the largest tongs I have. It''s damn heavy and awkward to manipulate, but eventually I manage to get it onto the anvil.


    With the heaviest hammer, a great two-handed mallet, I begin to batter. This isn''t fine work I''m doing¡ªthere''s no precision to my actions¡ªI am simply bashing the impurities away. Scales of black fall from the orange mass. Great clouds of sparks rise up, burning my face and beard. I narrow my eyes to slits and ignore the pain, ignore the smell of smoke.


    The mass of metal starts to flatten out. I lift it sideways with great effort, grunting and roaring. I let it drop onto its reverse side. The clang echoes throughout the arena. I continue to hammer. The color fades from orange to red.


    I return it to the furnace. This time there are not so many gouts of flame and blasts of sparks. Many impurities have already been burned away. Only the obvious ones, though. I still have a great deal of hammering to do.


    Hammer, heat, repeat. It''s a very familiar pattern, but I''m putting far greater strain on my body than usual. I throw all my strength into each and every blow of the mallet. I yell and shout; the noise of my work in the ears of the crowd must be tremendous. The mass of iron flattens out until it''s too wide to fit on the anvil¡ªnow for the hardest and most vital part of the process.


    Using the edge of the mallet''s head, I indent a line down the center of the iron slab. Then I strain to turn the whole thing over once again. I indent another line into the back of the slab. Now I grab hold of the edge with my tongs, and strain to fold the whole sheet in half.


    The iron is stiff. I struggle to bend it upwards. Once, twice, three times I thrust my whole body-weight into the task. I gasp and nearly fall down. For a few moments I rest, then I stretch my arms, grit my teeth, and try a fourth time. This time the hot iron folds. I throw down the tongs, pick up the mallet, and with a few more brutal strikes, flatten the top half against the bottom.


    Back into the furnace it goes. Heat, hammer, fold, repeat. Over and over again I continue. I can no longer feel my arms; the muscles are numb. My vision is blurred from staring too long into the glow. My breath comes in gasps. My heart is pounding against the inside of my ribs.


    Slowly the physical discomforts fade. I am in my trance. I feel the metal through my tools and sense that it is pleased. It wants to be cleaned, purified, strengthened. I scatter powdered charcoal over it when it''s at its hottest, fold it in. Now it has become steel.


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


    Once the process is complete, it''ll be better steel than I ever could''ve bought.


    I am truly sorry that it is being born to die.


    <hr>


    Guildmaster Wharoth stares down at Zathar in silence. The young dwarf batters at the steel tirelessly, taking nary a pause even to wipe the sweat from his brow. Turning iron into steel by hand¡ªfew dwarves bother with such a process. Buying it is so much simpler.


    What happened to the Zathar who couldn''t even be bothered linking his own chainmail? He has matured beyond measure.


    Yet there''s something disturbing about the way he moves. There''s a sense of violence about his work, a kind of mania. It was present in his very first craftings too, yet it''s increased to a far greater degree.


    That war-pick¡ªthere was something odd about it, something wrong, something off. It seemed almost to possess Zathar. A couple of times, Wharoth could''ve sworn he was about to drive it through one of the judges'' skulls.


    Wharoth focuses more deeply. He ignores the whispers around him, the questions being asked of him. He tries to remember if he''s ever felt such violent energy from Zathar before.


    Yes. That spear of his, Heartseeker. When he first crafted it, Wharoth was shocked by its power, which was far greater than a weapon of such middling quality should have had.


    What else? Further back: the dagger with the halat rune that was not halat. That was also a nasty piece of work. Well, all weapons are, if you set aside their beauty¡ªin essence they are tools for killing, and usually for killing fellow dwarves. Yet runes that tear the blood from what the edge cuts...


    Only a cruel dwarf would put such on his weapon.


    Zathar has done much good, though. His friend spoke highly of how he saved the fort from someone truly evil. More than that, he put his life on the line for others many times over, even when death was all but certain.


    So why are the weapons he creates so invariably brutal?


    Including this craft. It''s not for defense: Wharoth is not familiar with almergris, but he knows that even the merest grain holds terrible potential.


    ¡°Guildmaster! Guildmaster!¡±


    Wharoth is pulled from his thoughts. ¡°What is it, Guthah?¡± he snaps.


    ¡°Do you really think he can win, guildmaster?¡± asks the initiate.


    Wharoth pauses for a moment. ¡°Yes,¡± he says.


    The initiate frowns. ¡°You sound almost like you don''t want him to.¡±


    ¡°Of course I want him to.¡±


    But Guildmaster Wharoth is still torn on this point.


    <hr>


    The noise of battering from Zathar''s side of the arena is tremendous, but Barahtan barely hears it. He''s deep in concentration working on the design for his sword. Despite the great constraints on his time and gold, it''s to be the greatest he has ever crafted.


    But his motivations have changed. No longer is he concerned with gaining the recognition of his father and guild. He has not glanced up at them even once. The honor he will gain through this craft is purely for himself.


    Upon the paper, the sketch takes form. A lesser dwarf might say the lines of ink are taking on a life of their own, so brilliantly realized is the design. Yet Barahtan is a runeknight and he knows that a craft is nothing until it is metal and rune.


    Once this design is complete, though, then yes. It''ll take on a life of its own. A life in legend¡ªBarahtan''s legend¡ªhis own legend and no one else''s.


    He lays down the writing stick and, ready now to order his materials, turns around. To his surprise, Judge Gerapek is here, standing beside Judge Caletek. Barahtan is confused for a moment, then decides it doesn''t really affect things.


    ¡°I would like one bar of titanium, alloy three eight seven, three inches in diameter. For my runes I shall have¡ª¡±


    ¡°Before all that,¡± interrupts Judge Gerapek, ¡°we would like to talk to you about something.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± Barahtan snaps. He isn''t used to being interrupted¡ªand he wants as little to do with the judges as possible. Their presence disgusts him.


    ¡°We have an offer. A suggestion. You do not have to take it, of course.¡±


    ¡°Out with it. My arms burn to begin the craft. Zathar is not beaten yet.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes, that''s what we wish to discuss, actually.¡±


    Barahtan narrows his eyes. ¡°That so? Out with it, then.¡±


    ¡°You have already won, you see¡ª¡°


    ¡°The last two rounds, yes. Despite how his war-pick clearly pierced my craft.¡±


    ¡°The weapon must render the armor non-functional.¡±


    ¡°I hardly think a pierced section of armor can be considered functional. Especially with its runic flow rent and torn. But yes, fine, according to you I won.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°So what''s your offer? Out with it, please.¡±


    ¡°We have examined some of the technicalities of the rules,¡± says Judge Caletek in his usual dry monotone.


    ¡°Have you now?¡±


    ¡°You have won.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    Judge Gerapek clears his throat. ¡°Zathar must win this third contest by obliteration. So, if he was to win this round in another way, technically, victory of the entire contest would be yours.¡±


    ¡°He''s not going to win in any way.¡±


    ¡°Well, indeed. But in the interests of all of us, to bring the trial to a speedy close, so that all wronged by him may have satisfaction all the sooner...¡±


    ¡°Out with it!¡± Barahtan spits.


    ¡°Say, if you were to be disqualified here... Your design is for rather a long sword...¡±


    ¡°Eighty-one point five centimeters.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, if it was shorter¡ªconsiderably shorter, in fact¡ªit would be a dagger. The trial would come to a close and no one will have to suffer unnecessarily.¡±


    ¡°You are saying I should throw my design away?¡±


    ¡°Alter it. In the interests of everyone! There is no need to prolong the traitor''s suffering, nor the suffering of those who yearn for justice for their loss¡ª¡°


    ¡°Justice!¡± Barahtan shouts. ¡°Hah! That''s what this trial is for, is it?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± says Judge Caletek. ¡°We wish to see it done quickly.¡±


    Barahtan''s lip curls into a sneer. ¡°You two are fools if you think I''ll take this offer. Worse than fools, you insult me. To think I would alter my craft at another''s behest!¡±


    ¡°This is for the good of everyone!¡± Judge Gerapek protests.


    ¡°I will defeat Zathar on my own terms, with my own ability. I do not need to best him through technicalities.¡±


    The judges look at each other.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Judge Gerapek says bitterly. ¡°Then I suppose we have no choice but to trust in your skill.¡±


    ¡°Too right you do,¡± Barahtan says coldly. ¡°Now take my order of materials and don''t talk to me again until my craft is finished.¡±

 Traitors Trial 35: Rough and Polish

    I lay down my mallet, and a terrible fatigue, until now staved off by the forging trance, takes hold of me. I stumble over to the dividing wall and lie down in the sand. I shut my eyes. When I open them again, I see that a full long-hour has passed since this round of the contest began. I have only two left.


    I push myself to my feet and walk stiffly back over to the anvil. I sigh in relief¡ªthe steel is perfect. I have transformed the ugly mass of iron scrap into a gleaming sheet rippling with patterns of light. It is beautiful, though since it must break, this beauty is tragic.


    Now to divide it according to my design. The first layer must slow the sword''s blow and damage its edge. There are probably a few ways to give a shield such an effect, but the one that comes to my mind is to make the steel rough and jagged and write a poem over it that enhances this quality.


    I take the diamond edge cutter and saw the steel sheet in half. I slice off a strip from the top of each half also¡ªthese will later become the grip. I put them aside along with the half that''s to become the inner layer.


    Now to shape the outer layer. Since the steel is still not quite the height and length specified by the judges, I first have to heat it again and hammer it thinner toward the edges. This is a risk¡ªshould Barahtan strike down the side, my craft could fail without causing enough damage. I predict he won''t go for such a cheap tactic, though. He wants to completely crush my craft, not win through a trick. He''ll aim to cleave it clean in half.


    I hammer out the glowing sheet to the correct size, then examine. The edges are nearly too thin, but this''ll have to do. Next I hold the sheet along the horn of the anvil and carefully hammer it convex. I take great care with each stroke, and listen deeply to what the clangs from the steel are telling me.


    Once both shape and sound are even, I lay it face-up on the anvil and take up a small metal-chisel. It''s diamond-edged just like the cutter, so I''m going to have to be very careful with it. I hold it above the metal, yet do not yet strike. In my mind''s eye I envision what the steel will look like once I am done, and I hold that image in place. My strikes must correspond exactly to it.


    The process is painstaking. Dig in with the chisel, bend the splinter up, withdraw the chisel carefully¡ªand each splinter must be the same size and be raised at the same angle. My sleep has not completely cured my fatigue, so my hands are still aching from my work with the mallet. It takes a great deal of willpower to keep them from trembling.


    Halfway down the piece, with close to two-thousand splinters raised, I''m no longer able to keep my fatigue under control. My fingers begin to make mistakes. The angles go wrong, the sizes too¡ªI cut too deep. Shit! This has to be perfect!


    I lay down my chisel and take a step back. I take some deep breaths. This is no time to panic. I just need to rest my hands, that''s all.


    I spend the next half short-hour pacing around the arena with my eyes closed. While I rest my hands, I work my mind hard. I go through variations on the theme I''ve decided for the first poem and consider what script I''m going to use. It''ll need to have wide, looping runes to weave around the jags.


    Once my hands have stopped trembling, I return to the anvil and restart the chiseling. It takes me another full short-hour to complete. I step back to examine the piece in full. What was a gleaming perfect sheet is now rent and hideous. Yet there''s also a perfection to its ugliness which is strangely pleasing. It brings to mind the spiked shell of an underwater animal, beloved by none yet also bothered by no predator.


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    The spikes are razor sharp.


    I take the sheet off the anvil and prop it against the wall. Now for the inner layer of the shield. I heat then hammer it into the same size and shape as the outer layer. But now instead of making it rough and jagged I must do the opposite. I must polish it as cleanly as I can so the runes take with no issue.


    Ah, I''ve nearly forgotten! The handle. I need to attach it now or the heat from welding will disrupt the polish. I spend a short-hour shaping it, then just before I''m about to weld it, I decide it isn''t good enough.


    Yes, for this contest, the quality of the handle will have little impact. But I''m beginning to understand that a craft must be perfect in all its details. A bad handle might not seem to be an issue, but the runes can tell it''s there, as can the metal.


    So I spend another two short-hours on it, carefully shaping then welding. I examine it¡ªdecent though not brilliant. I grimace; I simply don''t have the time I want.


    Now, finally, to polish the outer layer. I take the finest-grain polishing cloth and get to work. This job isn''t nearly so strenuous as the chiseling was, and I quickly fall into a rhythm. It''s very satisfying work: the pattern of rippled light becomes more and more vivid.


    One short-hour passes, then another. I realize that I could do this forever, making the surface smoother and smoother. Maybe this is one of the keys to making a truly brilliant craft. Perhaps the greatest runeknights are those willing to spend a year, a decade, a century just polishing so the runes can take to the metal a fraction more cleanly.


    I only have one long-hour and a half, though, and need every second of them for the runes. I apologize to the steel for not being able to make it as perfect as it deserves to be, and put the polishing cloth away.


    To the writing desk I go, to write out the poems that must save me.


    <hr>


    For the first two contests, the area of stands that the Firefly Gleam Agglomerate occupied was the liveliest in the whole arena. Now it''s as quiet as a funeral. Batarast sits at the center, arms folded, watching his son in silence.


    The sword is going to be a great one. The way Barahtan works the titanium is masterful, each stroke calculated and yet not so¡ªhis great skill works without conscious thought. The glowing metal extends, takes shape, starts to show an edge. Even in this early stage of the process it is beautiful. Whatever runes he chooses will take well to it. Supremely well.


    His son shamed himself in the last contest. He nearly lost; his craft was nearly pierced through by the traitor''s pick¡ªa ridiculous weapon. Some of the guild members even claimed it was pierced, that they saw a needle-beam of light coming from it.


    This drove Batarast into a rage. They won''t dare say that again.


    No matter what happened in the last round though, this sword will redeem the guild''s honor. Batarast is sure of it. The traitor''s chance at victory through obliteration will be turned against him, will become defeat by obliteration. Then Barahtan''s near loss will prove not a flaw in the guild''s legend, but an enhancement. Every hero needs a strong foe.


    Batarast smiles.


    ¡°Cheer up, guildsdwarves,¡± he says, breaking the silence. ¡°Our legend is about to begin.¡±


    <hr>


    Vanerak watches Zathar work with growing distaste. The young dwarf is more devious than he''d anticipated. It seems his embarrassment of a helmet was not the first stumble on the road to humiliating defeat, but merely a lesson learned.


    Almergris. Vanerak has never worked with the substance, but he knows well its properties. It gives malice to the runes it touches, making them blaze and burn. He''s heard that the deep dwarves of the fortress below only use it for light, but in that case they''re using a mere fraction of its potential. Several legendary crafts have used it to far more devastating effect.


    It could definitely be manipulated to destroy Barahtan''s sword. With enough skill it could be manipulated to destroy Barahtan himself.


    Vanerak can see Zathar being vicious enough to do that. Killing for gain is clearly in his blood, no matter how much the young dwarf tries to deny it.


    Vanerak shakes his head. Denying one''s nature is never a good idea. Vanerak has seen many a dwarf with enough greed and cruelty to make it to the top stumble on a half-hearted attempt to do good.


    Zathar seems to want to head down that path himself. Slaying the black dragon! An idiot''s errand. For one thing, no one is sure where the monster has flown off to. And for another, it would take the power of at least a Runeking to slay it.


    Even Vanerak is far from having that power. Unless he gets his hands on Zathar''s runes, that is. He doesn''t want to slay any dragons though. That was Thanerzak''s obsession.


    Vanerak has more interesting objectives in mind.

 Traitors Trial 36: The Sphere Beneath the Magma Sea

    Suicidal defense. That was the first idea that came to mind when considering the theme for the outer layer''s poem, and no better one has yet come to me. I envision a gleaming formation of armored dwarves, waiting patiently for a force which is far stronger than them to extinguish their lives. They have no fear. They will do their duty¡ªthey will inflict as much damage on the enemies'' armor as they are able.


    I begin to write using a script I only half know. It''s called Galathak Third, and is composed of runes of wide loops and broad angles. Unlike most scripts, each rune is joined to the next, and it reads in an outward-curling spiral. I''d prefer to use runes I''m more familiar with, but this is my best choice for going around the steel splinters which will dig into Barahtan''s sword.


    It''s hard going. I have to reach into the deepest recesses of my memory to find the words I need: sticking, grasping, tearing and grappling. That''s what the soldiers in my poem are doing. They strike with axe and spear and hammer, trying to tear apart their enemies'' armor. When their weapons break, they grab onto the metal plates with their hands and try to wrench them off.


    Blood fountains as they fall, yet they don''t spill it in vain. By the end, the opposing army is battered and vulnerable.


    Well, that''s the first draft at least. The runic flow doesn''t quite work. I revise, hacking out whole lines and replacing them with better ones or sometimes ones that turn out to be inferior and have to be hacked away themselves. The nature of Galathak Third makes this process harder than with a more ordinary script: since everything is so closely linked, changing one single rune means I have to change the next ten and the prior twenty.


    The sand in the timers flows so fast as I write that I''m beginning to suspect the judges have tampered with them, but that would serve no purpose unless they did the same to Barahtan''s. I''m just tired. My head begins to hurt, and my hands too. My writing stick becomes a gray stub and I have to pull out a new one.


    Eventually, though, I think I''ve drafted something worthy of being transformed into metal. Without taking even a single minute of rest, I take the paper to the anvil along with the platinum wire. I cut four feet from the coil and begin to twist.


    I fall into a forging trance almost immediately. Except this time it feels different¡ªas if I''ve suddenly been plunged into water. My fingers blur even faster than usual. Wire catches the edges of my fingernails and tears the flesh. This happened when creating the poem for my war-pick also, yet this time I feel no pain and the scent of blood is heady, intoxicating. My fingers speed up, moving slickly along the wire.


    And the runes alter. The soldiers of my formation become miners armed with war-picks. The enemy army becomes trolls with skins of titanium. The battle becomes brutally bloody: miners are crushed to paste, guts spill, troll-skin is flayed. I hear the screams, smell the blood and viscera, and my fingers blur faster and faster.


    I finish the very last rune and pain in my fingers¡ªmore than one has been cut, I suddenly notice¡ªfloods my hands. I cry out and clutch them to my chest, then sink down before the anvil, whimpering with the pain. Blood stains my overalls.


    My breathing is labored; my heart also seems to be straining. What has just happened? My powers have never exacted such a toll from me before. With a terrible sense of foreboding, I stand up and examine the poem.


    It is excellent. Even ungrafted, without the reagent to breath magic into it, the bare runes radiate power. Not a single angle is off by even a degree; each circle is a perfect one. Even the geometry of the half-oval shapes in the more complex forms is without the slightest error.


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    As for the scene the runes speak of, it''s even bloodier than that the runes of my war-pick described. The description of the skin of the trolls being rent away is particularly sickening.


    I groan. What is this? This part of the craft is meant to be for breaking metal, not flesh! I am in despair. These runes are not suited to their task. They will fail on first contact.


    I look at the time and see that I have only just over one long-hour left. There''s no time to redo anything. I have no choice but to start work on the next poem, the main one, the one which I will graft with the cruel almergris.


    Shaken badly, I sit down at the desk and grip my writing stick. Dried blood cracks and flakes down onto the page from my fingers. I start to write.


    Where the last poem was a more free-flowing one, all a single stanze, this is more technical. Precise. My runic calculations must be exact¡ªthis goes deeper than the realm of art.


    This is the kind of poem that takes hundreds of failed experiments to perfect, and I must get it right my first try.


    It is kin to the poem that wound around the inside of Galar''s trident. The craft that when pushed too far killed its creator.


    I understand the principle, yet I do not know the words, the runes. My hand falters.


    I have to get this right and every rune I write is wrong! The sand flows down. One short-hour passes, then another, and another. I am in my final long-hour. Still the runes do not come. Not a single idea that comes to my mind works.


    Perhaps I''ve been too ambitious. Galar and Fjalar''s skills were far above even Barahtan''s¡ªthey''d have been first degrees if they''d been willing to take on the responsibility. And the trident was the pinnacle of Galar''s skill. It put even Runethane Yurok''s great mace of light to shame. It cut apart the deep darkness like it was naught but ordinary shadows cast dimly by the glow of a faltering torch.


    I must take a fraction of that power. Is it within me to do so? If it is, the key is within my abilities. Until now I''ve never tried to understand them, yet in order to advance, I must.


    I shut my eyes and think of runes. First those of one script pass before my mind''s eye, then those of another, and another. Faster and faster they blur. At first the runes appear as metal, then they change to something else, something fiery, of pure and undistilled magical power.


    My hand rises and moves back to the writing stick. It grasps it. I begin to write. I see the path, I see what I have to do. I look into my heart¡ªI see the fire beneath the magma sea¡ªrunes spring from it¡ª


    <hr>


    I awaken inside a sphere of metal. The walls are mirrored¡ªyet I cannot see my face and body, only my shadow, repeated endlessly. The air is cold on my naked skin.


    Where in hell am I? I try to stand up and realize that I can''t see my body because I have none. I feel cold because the air is passing through me. I am trapped, totally, my soul caught in an impossible prison.


    The walls of the sphere are enruned with runes so small I cannot see them, yet I can feel their power.


    Has Vanerak caught me? No. This is different. The runes that surround me are beyond even him, beyond the Runethanes, beyond the Runekings. These runes must be those of a Runegod.


    Perhaps they are beyond even that.


    If I had a body I would freeze in terror¡ªI am not alone in here. I can see the shadows of two others.


    Double-shock: the silhouettes are familiar. One evokes love, the other hatred¡ª


    A bright hole opens at the top of the sphere and I am ripped up and out of it. A torrent of fire consumes me and my soul is thrown through the magma sea and¡ª


    <hr>


    I awaken at my anvil. The remaining eight feet of platinum wire is in my hands. Runes are still rushing in my mind, of a dozen different scripts all combined into something greater, something pure. It''s as if my mind is a furnace into which many different metals have been poured, creating a substance somehow purer than any one component of it.


    The runes flow from my fingers. I work faster than I ever have before. One perfect stanza after another¡ªtwist, clip, twist¡ªthe runes appear upon the anvil''s white ceramic as if torn straight from my mind.


    However I am not possessed. In fact, I write with greater clarity than ever. I know exactly what each rune is and why I shape it so. But I must work fast¡ªthe knowledge is draining from me.

 Traitors Trial 37: Power Too Great

    The runes shine upon the anvil in bright majesty. Their complexity is extreme. The poem is one on the edge of chaos: a single altered angle in any single rune would cause the runic flow to totally collapse¡ªwhich would be a terrible flaw in a poem to go on any other shield, but mine only has to take one strike.


    Unlike the poem on the first layer, this one is concentrated fully on its purpose. The theme is destruction. Every possible method is here somewhere: slicing, burning, smashing, tearing. Those are just the most basic words. There is also focal-light-melt, singe-first-layer, break-pure-particle-link. Only rarely have I seen single runes with such exact meanings.


    There are eleven stanzas. Seven could be considered ordinary odes. The remaining four are extraordinary¡ªeach is a looping spiral praising the increase of heat and light. A spark becomes an inferno, becomes a raging wildfire, becomes a star burning hot in the firmament above the surface night, becomes heated beyond comprehension.


    As art, my¡ªand it was me who wrote it, I was not possessed, I think¡ªmy use of escalation and metaphor is spectacular. But what''s truly genius is the runic flow: the power increases as it circles around the spirals. Usually runic power fades as it travels along the lines¡ªso far as it can be said to travel, at least¡ªleaking through off-angles and other imperfections. Yet my runes are perfectly calculated to do the opposite. Just as Galar''s were on the inside of his hollow trident.


    How did I manage this? I stare at my anvil in wonder. Where did this knowledge come from?


    Did it lurk within that sphere? I shiver. Where was I? I think my body stayed here in the arena, yet my soul... Already the memory is fading. Yes, it was like a memory, my vision. I remembered being in a sphere, and then being released.


    But was it my memory? If not, if it was another''s, then why did I recognize the shadows of the two trapped in there with me?


    There''s no time to waste on speculation. I''ll think on the vision later.


    I read over the poems again. Once those four stanzas are grafted with almergris, the runic power of them will spiral out of control. They will become red hot, white hot, blinding, then erupt. Just like how Galar''s trident worked, though on a smaller and more focused scale.


    So, I must leave one rune in each of them ungrafted. When Barahtan''s blade strikes and is slowed by the first layer of the shield, the fire-runes in the other stanzas will ignite as he cuts down. When this ignition reaches the almergris, the reagent will flare and power will rapidly begin to circulate in the poems¡ªbringing instant destruction.


    At least that is the plan. A lot depends on the angle Barahtan strikes at. His blade needs to come close to at least one of the four almergris-grafted stanzas. A simple cut to the weak side of the shield will go right through without activating any runes.


    But again, I don''t think he wants to win in such a cheap way.


    I take a deep breath, stretch. I flex my fingers. The poems may be complete, but I now need to graft them. And to graft almergris with no runic ears...


    What I''m about to do is dangerous beyond words.


    I''m getting ahead of myself. First thing to do is graft the first poem to the outer layer of the shield. I turn the linked runes over on the anvil and begin to brush over the quizik reagent. I go slowly, making sure the coating is even on each rune. Just because quizik is easier to work with than other reagents doesn''t mean I can afford to relax.


    I still finish quickly, though. After only one a short-hour there''s an even coating of blue-gray on the underside of each runes. Now all I have to do is fit them around the steel spikes.


    Like many things in forging, this ends up being trickier than anticipated. Once a rune touches the metal, the quizik sticks slightly, so if I have to readjust its position I lose some reagent. Then I have to hurry to scrape it off, put the scrapings back onto the brush, and reapply it.


    Eventually this job is done and the runes are applied. Now to heat them. I heat up a welding stick and gently tap it along the runes. The quizik smoulders and the runes shimmer as they become one with the shield.


    I reach the final rune and step back. I shake my head. Not good enough. The splinters are too uneven, and the theme of the poem doesn''t fit at all. I''ve failed here.


    But there''s nothing I can do about it. No time to waste on weeping.


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    Now to graft the runes of destruction. I''ll do the seven ordinary stanzas first. I ready the runes and the polished steel, and before I know it I''m finished, too quickly. Even taking my time, it''s only taken me less than a short hour to graft each and every one of them. My stomach turns over as I examine for imperfections, anything that''ll give me an excuse to put off doing the next part of the craft...


    There''s nothing to change. It''s now time for the almergris. There''s no more avoiding it.


    I open the box with extreme trepidation.


    ¡°That''s a very dangerous substance you have there,¡± says Judge Daztat.


    I jump in shock¡ªI''d forgotten he was there. My grip on the box is tight, though. I don''t spill anything.


    ¡°I am aware,¡± I snap. ¡°So I''d appreciate if you didn''t interfere by distracting me.¡±


    ¡°Probably it shouldn''t be in the catalogue.¡±


    ¡°Well, it was.¡±


    ¡°And what script is that you''re using?¡±


    ¡°Zolphurous One.¡±


    Judge Daztat frowns deeply. ¡°I''ve never heard of it.¡±


    ¡°It''s not very well known.¡±


    ¡°It looks like a prohibited script.¡±


    ¡°I never heard it on the list of prohibited scripts.¡±


    ¡°It looks like it''s designed to cause direct bodily harm to your opponent.¡±


    ¡°How can you tell if you can''t read it?¡±


    ¡°I can make out at least a few of the words,¡± he sneers. ¡°At my level, traitor, you begin to see the similarities common to all the scripts.¡±


    ¡°If almergris is in the catalogue, and the script I''m using isn''t prohibited, then there''s no problem with my craft,¡± I say, trying to keep my cool. ¡°Now, I have a very difficult task ahead of me, and limited time to do it. Please stop distracting me.¡±


    Judge Daztat scowls even worse. ¡°I will be keeping a close watch.¡±


    I turn back to the box of almergris. I breath deep to still my fingers. They are not weak flesh, I tell myself. They are steel tongs and will not waver. I use a miniature spoon to scoop out the almergris and lay it onto the shield in the shape of the runes. Because the steel is curved, the grains slide and roll down. I use tweezers to pick them up and return them to the pattern. More grains roll down¡ªthe reagent wants to thwart me.


    With extreme patience I fix the pattern, then again, and again. When it comes time to fit the runes over it, the almergris shifts and rolls down the side of the shield again. I return it. I won''t give in to its provocations.


    The runes are on. Now to weld. I pick up my welding stick, then shut my eyes and take in absolute blackness. I listen closely to the sounds of the arena, how they curl around the anvil, the furnace, the reagent and my craft, giving them shape.


    Everything is so faint without my runic ears. It''s the auditory equivalent of looking through muddy water in the dark. Only the vaguest shapes and textures are apparent. Doubt assails me once more. Can I really do this?


    If I let myself feel doubt, I give in to the almergris. I grit my teeth and aim my welding stick, push forward. A flash lights the inside of my eyelids. The crowd shouts out: my hearing-sight is annihilated. I wait for it to return. I cannot risk opening my eyes between grafts; a single stray spark could rob me of my eyes.


    The crowd stays noisy. It''s a rippling, clashing sound, making it impossible for me to tell where anything is. I''m forced now to rely on my memory. I touch with the welding stick again. Another flash illuminates, and the crowd roars again.


    ¡°Runes that directly harm the crowd are also disallowed,¡± Judge Daztat spits. ¡°I see a few rubbing their eyes up there.¡±


    ¡°You''ve covered yours though, I assume.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I understand now, though: you''re using runes of light. Those are banned.¡±


    ¡°Not this script.¡±


    ¡°All three scripts of them!¡±


    Is this true or is it another one of his lies? I think it''s true¡ªthe scripts probably have a different name up here than I''m used to, so I had no way to tell. But I nearly feel like laughing: here''s an advantage to my abilities I''d never considered.


    ¡°Are my runes in any of those scripts?¡±


    ¡°They must be.¡±


    ¡°They are not. You can cross-examine them using the thickest dictionary you have, Judge Daztat. You won''t find them in there.¡±


    ¡°That''s not possible.¡±


    ¡°It is possible. My knowledge goes deep, judge. You''ve underestimated me.¡±


    ¡°You will be disqualified for this!¡±


    ¡°I said: check your dictionaries!¡±


    I continue to graft, scowling. I graft the penultimate rune, then move down. Blinding light turns the arena white each time my welding stick touches¡ªI imagine, at least. A few members of the crowd are screaming that their vision''s faded. Why haven''t they closed their eyes? Surely knowledge of what I''m using has spread around the crowd by now. What other material has a blind eye on its container?


    The second of the almergris stanzas near-completed, I move onto the third. The screaming in the crowd is really beginning to distract me now. I feel uneasy¡ªI want to undo the hurt I''ve caused, not cause more!


    ¡°Shut your damn eyes!¡± I scream at them.


    I start on the third stanza. One rune flashes, the next, another... I count to the second to last one¡ª


    I misjudge the position. A spiral of runes blazes through my eyelids and into my eyes. I yell out in shock, turn my head away as it brightens. I don''t turn my body in time and a lance of heat stabs into my left shoulder. I scream and collapse. My fireproof overalls are aflame; I roll over and over in the sand.


    I bellow in pain again. I can feel a ring of fire around my shoulder, but the skin inside the ring is numb. I grit my teeth then open my eyes to examine the wound.


    Red around and black char in the center. A truly horrid burn, the worst I''ve ever had. I try moving my arm and the red ring erupts into even worse pain. I bend double in agony.


    ¡°Damn this!¡± I scream into the sand. ¡°Damn this substance!¡±


    The almergris, whose ire I managed to avoid down in the fort, has finally taken its revenge. Or maybe I was just too careless, too fast.


    No. It''s not the almergris that''s caused this terrible injury, nor simple carelessness. My runes have caused it, my own poem. My power has proven too great for me to control.


    I stand up and stagger back to the anvil. There''s a molten hole where the third stanza was, but I can still graft the fourth. The craft is not ruined. I can still win this. I must!

 Traitors Trial 38: The Last Strike of The Trial

    ¡°You must listen to me, honored prosecutor!¡±


    ¡°I am forging. Do not distract me!¡±


    ¡°You are in great danger. Zathar''s runes¡ª¡±


    ¡°I do not care. I will slice through them.¡±


    And maybe he will. Judge Gerapek looks upon Barahtan''s sword with awe. Such a piece, forged by a fourth degree, in such limited time and with such limited materials...


    He''d been expecting the crafts forged during the trial to be of inferior quality. But both contestants have proven him wrong: the pressure of time, of lack of materials, of life and death and honor, has made diamonds of their crafts. Especially these final two creations: they are masterpieces.


    But Judge Gerapek is beginning to fear that Zathar''s is the superior.


    ¡°You must listen to me. Please!¡±


    Barahtan puts down his reagent and welder and turns around. ¡°I believe the judges are not meant to interfere in the contest. Are trials not meant to be fair? That''s the whole point of them, no?¡±


    ¡°It''s Zathar that''ll make it unfair. He means to wound you most grievously, prosecutor.¡±


    ¡°Wound me?¡±


    ¡°His runes are... They are not honorable. They do not fall within the boundaries of the competition.¡±


    ¡°If they are one of the scripts we were forbidden to use, then why have you not disqualified him?¡±


    ¡°They are not, as such¡ª¡°


    ¡°Then surely there is no issue.¡±


    ¡°Prosecutor, no set of rules is watertight. He''s found a hole, a gap, through which he means to stab.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Surely you noticed those flashes of light earlier? And heard his scream?¡±


    ¡°I''ve seen nothing but my own craft and heard nothing but my own hammer, judge. I am a runeknight at work. I do not notice anything other than the metal before me.¡±


    ¡°He has created runes to destroy you with! Runes of destruction. They will burn you when you strike.¡±


    Barahtan thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You have not seen them, prosectutor!¡±


    ¡°What would burning me do? He means to burn my craft, judge. He means to win through obliteration. Have you forgotten that?¡±


    ¡°Of course not!¡± Judge Gerapek snaps. ¡°But he means to burn you along with it!¡±


    ¡°That will not improve his chances for victory. He means no such thing. This Zathar has honor.¡±


    ¡°He is a most foul traitor, Barahtan! He betrayed his entire realm to a dragon!¡±


    Barahtan sneers. His eyes flash. Judge Gerapek flinches back.


    ¡°You''ve already made up your mind about his guilt, I see.¡±


    ¡°That is untrue¡ª¡°


    ¡°I know what I just heard! Let me make one thing clear, judge. I don''t like what''s being done in this arena. I don''t like this sham of a trial, this disgrace. I know why I was chosen: because I ought to be third degree, at least! My father has held me back. You know this full well.¡±


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    ¡°We were not aware¡ª¡°


    ¡°You were aware! And my father is aware also¡ªof this and how the defeat of this so-called traitor will bring much honor to him. How I feel, what honor is to come to me, is secondary. Not even that.¡±


    ¡°This is irrelevant! I am talking to you because you are in danger!¡±


    ¡°You are talking to me because you want me to win! You have failed in your impartiality, judge. All three of you have. You are corrupt. You have been bought.¡±


    Judge Gerapek goes white. ¡°How dare you!¡±


    ¡°I dare to tell the truth! You have brought dishonor upon Allabrast, upon Zathar, and upon me also!¡±


    ¡°You shame yourself, prosecutor! How dare you question our honor! You accuse the whole court of a most terrible crime!¡±


    ¡°I do! Now get away from me! You too, Caletek! I am going to enrune my blade, and then I am going to regain some shred of my dignity by defeating my opponent fairly! Do not talk to me again!¡±


    Judge Gerapek slinks away, head bowed by the weight of his guilt.


    <hr>


    I let out one final gasp of pain and throw the welding stick into the sand. Done! The penultimate rune of the final stanza, done. I open my eyes and examine the runes. Miraculously, they are unmarred. Their runic flow will be uninterrupted.


    I glance at the timer. My last long-hour is nearly up. Now for the final part of the craft.


    With one hand I drag the outer layer of the shield back to the anvil. My eyes water when I realize that I''ll have to use both hands to fit it over the polished steel of the inner layer.


    Roaring in pain, I lift it over. A clang echoes, and now the rent and melted hole where the third stanza ought to be is hidden from sight, my mistake concealed. It''s still there though, a wound just as real as that on my shoulder.


    The strength in my left arm gives out. It falls to hang limply at my side. I whimper at the pain, a pathetic sound.


    I stumble over to the furnace and switch it on. Heat shimmers. My wound feels as if it''s being baked and I tilt my body away. I heat up the welding stick, return to the anvil and, carefully, begin to draw a red line around the rim of the shield.


    The line is uneven. I feel sick, dizzy. The pain is getting worse by the minute. It''s as if my shoulder is metal going from red, to yellow, to white. Sweat runs down my face and wells up from every pore in my skin¡ªeven though every inch of me but for the burn feels cold.


    The two layers of the shield slowly become one. I take away the welding stick. There are jags and uneven patches¡ªthis cannot be helped. I toss the welding stick away, rush to switch off the furnace. The heat in my shoulder is unbearable. I cannot let any more warmth near me or I think I will burn.


    I slump down, put my back against the anvil and stare at the timers. Fatigue takes me, and my vision begins to blur and darken. I force my eyes to remain open. Sleep could mean death. I am under no illusions as to the seriousness of this wound.


    The last few grains of sand drain into the bottom of the hourglass, and the bell below the arena chimes. The dead faces form in the sands. Their eyes turn toward me before they fade.


    ¡°I won''t join you,¡± I hiss through my pain. ¡°I won''t!¡±


    ¡°It''s time,¡± says Judge Daztat. ¡°Pick up your shield.¡±


    I turn, grasp the horn of the anvil with my right hand and pull myself to my feet. I look upon my tower-shield, and it looks heavy. Impossibly so.


    ¡°You must take it to the armor stand and affix it by yourself. Otherwise you forfeit the trial.¡±


    I grit my teeth and pull my craft off the anvil. Its corners dig deep into the sand. I grasp the handle and heft it up. This slab of steel is too heavy to be called a shield: it''s a solid wall.


    I lumber up the stairs, each step an effort. It becomes hard to breath, and blackness intrudes at the edges of my vision.


    Two more steps. I stumble and fall forward. The spikes on my shield screech upon the stone platform. Red sparks fly. I gasp and force myself to stand up, breath hard to force the blackness around my vision away. Colored lights dance in my eyes.


    Barahtan and the other two judges are already here, but I can barely make them out. Barahtan''s sword is shining blue; I have no energy to waste on gazing at it. Single-mindedly I go to the armor stand and struggle to put my shield into its hand.


    Done. I stagger back, wheezing and coughing. Suddenly I realize that I''m on the floor. Did I just pass out? I force myself to get up. The agony of my burn has spread from my shoulder into my upper arm and chest. I need healing chains, and quickly.


    ¡°Step back please, defender,¡± says Judge Gerapek. I stagger away. ¡°One more step... Good.¡± His voice is wavering. He swallows. ¡°Now, prosecutor, ready your blade. Angle it as you will.¡±


    ¡°I shall.¡± He sounds angry. ¡°As I will.¡±


    I watch him raise his blade. It''s five feet of curved titanium made somehow like blue-glass, and it ripples with light. It''s a work of art. The runes on it are dedicated to a singular purpose: cutting.


    ¡°Close your eyes when your blade hits the metal,¡± I manage to gasp. ¡°Or you''ll be blinded.¡±


    He nods without looking at me.


    Judge Gerapek takes a deep breath, then:


    ¡°Strike!¡±

 Traitors Trial 39: Runes of Destruction

    Barahtan''s blade falls toward my shield. He is striking right down the center, through the thickest part where the poems are. As predicted, he doesn''t want to win with a trick. He wants to break my craft with honor.


    His blue blade contacts the steel. It cuts.


    <hr>


    Vanerak''s breath has stopped. He stares with eyes wide open. The blade enters. Now the true power of Zathar''s runes is about to reveal itself. The true power, of runeforging!


    Batarast''s eyes are wide also. What''s his fool of a son doing? Striking right through the central runes, the runes of destruction, after the judges so carefully warned him of the traitor''s underhanded tactics? Fairness, honor... What do those mean when your guild''s glory is at stake? There is no honor in defeat!


    Wharoth is calm. All his worries are distilled into this moment¡ªafter it is over, he will know what he has to do. He will know if he must save Zathar or slay him.


    <hr>


    The blade parts the outer layer as if it were paper. The spikes designed to scratch and slow it are like soft hairs before a razor and do not slow it. The blued titanium is cutting through the first ordinary stanza now. My shield begins to glow from the top, redly, a wave of blood-red heat follows the blade''s path¡ªbut the heat needs to be at the blade, not behind.


    Now Barahtan''s blade is cutting through the first stanza of destruction. The spiral of runes glows white. Quickly I shut my eyes. Through my eyelids, I see the beam lance out. It stops where Barahtan is, yet he lets out no cry of agony¡ªin his battle-trance, he feels nothing.


    His leathers are aflame, but his blade, now past the almergris-grafted runes yet unharmed, continues¡ªbut the red wave of heat is catching up to it¡ªthe heat must hit the next stanza of destruction at the same moment as the blade¡ªthe blade cuts through first and a moment later the stanza activates. I shut my eyes once more as a second beam of white lances into Barahtan. Again he makes no sound.


    The red wave reaches the blade¡ªthe blued titanium hits where the third stanza of destruction ought to be and accelerates. Then it hits the fourth stanza of destruction. The red heat hits a fraction of a fraction of a second later.


    Just in time. Barahtan''s blade is not yet fully through.


    The final beam lances out. My eyes are wide open¡ªI cannot close them. The light hits Barahtan''s blade just above the hilt. Molten metal splashes like water, burning Barahtan''s midriff and hands. He screams and falls down at the same moment his severed blade slices through the base of my shield. It falls through and cuts into the stone floor. More metal spatters from it. The two halves of my shield fall either side.


    I yell out in panic¡ªthere is a bar of black down the center of my vision.


    Our screams are the only sound in the arena for a few seconds, then:


    ¡°Seize him!¡± yells Judge Daztat. ¡°Guards, seize the traitor! His craft has failed! Seize him!¡±


    Armored guards grab me and throw me to the ground. They force my arms behind my back. My shoulder explodes into pain. I scream louder.


    ¡°Drag him away!¡± yells Judge Daztat. ¡°He is to be executed immediately!¡±


    Barahtan is still screaming as well. He is hideously burned on his chest, belly, midriff, groin and forearms. The smell of his blackened flesh permeates the air. Guards rush to him also, pick him up to carry him out of the arena.


    I''m pulled up to my feet¡ªagony flares and I scream louder still¡ªand I''m pushed to the stairs. At the last one I fall down into the sand, am immediately pulled back up, pushed toward the arena exit.


    The pain becomes too great for me and I lose consciousness.


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


    <hr>


    I awaken in a delirium. I am soaked in cold sweat. This isn''t a cell I''ve been in before; it''s far too cramped. My head is up against the wall, my feet are against bars. I can hear a rushing sound above me, like a waterfall is crashing onto the low roof. The crowd. I must be below the arena.


    All of a sudden my pain returns. I scream out and grasp at my shoulder, then let go as contact makes the pain even worse. Something sticky is on my fingers. Pus, no doubt.


    I need healing chains. If this wound festers, I am dead, no matter what Vanerak wishes.


    For a while I lie still in the blackness, breathing in cold air. The pain fades from white-hot to red-hot, and I''m able to think on my fate.


    Am I to be judged innocent or guilty? My craft broke Barahtan''s, yet his also cut through mine on the first strike. Does that mean we''ve both won victory by obliteration? If so, will his victories in the first two rounds be taken into account, meaning my defeat?


    I don''t know. There''s no way to tell, not down here in this cold cell. All I can do is wait.


    The wait continues, and continues further. I fall asleep, wake to pain. I still my body once again. The pain recedes and I fall asleep again. Soon I''m unable to tell whether I''m asleep or awake. The two states blur together. With no way to tell the time, I cannot tell how much has passed. A long-hour or so? Less?


    There''s a strange smell. I assume that I shat myself, but no, I realize that the smell is from my shoulder. I touch it lightly and it feels mushy. It''s infected.


    I need healing chains! Are they going to leave me to die like this? Would they be so cruel? Would Guildmaster Wharoth be so cruel? Is he ensuring my death not with his axe, but by making sure no one comes to see me?


    The sound of steps disproves that worry. Light fills the cell. Something about my visitor''s gait is familiar. He kneels to look at me.


    It''s the special investigator¡ªI can''t remember the name¡ªthe dwarf who told me of my first sentence of death, back before I even knew that my trial was to be one by forging. His eyes are narrowed.


    ¡°The judges have made their decision,¡± he says. ¡°You have lost. Your execution is to be held forthwith. Do you have any last words?¡±


    I have nothing.


    ¡°Then goodbye. The executioner will arrive shortly.¡±


    He sounds gleeful. As he turns to leave, I manage to force out some words:


    ¡°Why... Why do you hate me so?¡±


    ¡°I had relatives in Thanerzak''s realm. All dead now, because of you.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, traitor. I''ll see you at the execution. The crowd up above are eager to witness it.¡±


    <hr>


    I lie on the stone in silence. I can do little else. My left arm is almost completely dead, and my breathing is weak and ragged. Life ebbs out of me with each heartbeat. By the time Vanerak or Wharoth comes, I''ll already be gone.


    Vanerak... In the end, I couldn''t stand against him. Looking back, I never had any hope. He''s just too powerful, too experienced. Not even my runes could save me.


    My runes... What did he want them for anyway? Simple ambition to become Runethane, Runeking, Runegod? The same path I was obsessed with taking?


    Perhaps he has something more sinister in mind. Panic takes hold of me¡ªwhat if he comes right now, this second, with the best-forged healing chains money can buy? Then he''ll truly have me.


    Panic temporarily evaporates my fatigue. I must escape somehow, find Guildmaster Wharoth. How? I use my legs to push me around so that my right hand is at the bars. I feel rust on them flake away, but even so I have nowhere near the strength required to break them. Desperately I pat around with my right hand, searching for a rock, anything that''ll help me get through.


    A rough piece of metal brushes the back of my hand. I grasp it. A file! And it seems to be a well-made one at that. One of the guards must have dropped it for me! Why?


    Maybe Vanerak isn''t the only one who knows how to lay a bribe.


    Water is dripping somewhere. I time my cuts with the drops so that I don''t alert the guards that surely lurk in the blackness. The bars are soft and the file cuts them deeply. Because of the damp, no sparks fly either. This might be a miracle. I might actually be able to escape...


    Escape to my death, I remind myself. Guildmaster Wharoth said he''d obey what the million runes of the golden hammer decreed, and no matter the injustices I faced, the failure of my last craft was my own fault. The outer layer of my shield was not well-forged enough to catch Barahtan''s blade.


    The file breaks through the bottom of the bar. Now for the top. The angle makes it more difficult and I slow down. I''m also already feeling tired, and not only because of the injury. The exhaustion of so many long-hours at the forge is catching up to me.


    Cut, cut, cut. Slowly and steadily, back and forth. Halfway through now. After that... I don''t know. Somehow overpower the guards. I''m too delirious to think properly. I''ll deal with that problem when it comes.


    Three quarters of the way through. I hear footsteps, many of them, the armored tread of a small phalanx. The executioner is here¡ªprobably he is Vanerak. I saw faster and faster, violently. Sparks flash and the rusted metal screams. The bar falls away and I force my body through. My shoulder scrapes on something and pain overwhelms me.


    I stand up screaming. I stagger away from the sound of marching. Three paces out and I''m pushed backwards.


    ¡°Halt!¡± says a guard. ¡°Halt!¡±


    I try and fail to side-step him. He wrestles me down. I wail as I struggle in vain against his armored bulk.


    My strength gives out. It is all over, truly over. I look up at the guards bearing down on me from the other direction. I see the executioner. An axe hangs from his belt.


    It''s Guildmaster Wharoth.

 Traitors Trial 40: The Final Judgement

    ¡°Guildmaster,¡± I gasp. ¡°Make it quick, please. End my pain.¡±


    ¡°Hurry up!¡± he shouts. ¡°Get the chains around his shoulder!¡±


    The guards he''s arrived with shout at the one on top of me to get off. I inhale sharply and cough as the weight vanishes from my back. Cold metal is wrapped around my shoulder. My wound cools instantly. I shudder with relief.


    ¡°What''s going on?¡± asks the guard who was holding me down. ¡°Is he to be released? But¡ª¡°


    From behind Wharoth steps the special investigator. ¡°The traitor is to be released,¡± he spits. ¡°Once again he escapes justice.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I say. I can hardly believe what I''m hearing. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The Runeking...¡± begins Wharoth.


    Everything fades to black.


    <hr>


    ¡°Justice has prevailed, it seems,¡± I say weakly. ¡°Otherwise I wouldn''t be here.¡±


    ¡°Indeed it has. Mostly¡ªVanerak made sure to leave no trail that led to him.¡±


    I''ve just woken up in a soft bed, in warm sheets, with cool chains of healing around my shoulder. The room is small and plain. Outside I can hear the bustle of runeknights¡ªdrinking, eating, talking, and also the distant clangs of hammer on metal.


    ¡°Is this the guildhall?¡± I ask Wharoth.


    ¡°Our new one, yes. Bigger than the last, you''ll be pleased to know.¡±


    ¡°Good...¡± I feel myself drifting off, and shake my head. I can''t sleep; I burn for answers. ¡°What was the final outcome of the trial? Before I passed out... You said something about the Runeking? Did I dream that?¡±


    ¡°You didn''t dream it. It was he who intervened. He''d been watching with interest through his Eye in the arena.¡±


    ¡°I never knew there was one.¡±


    ¡°You know they are everywhere, though.¡±


    ¡°True. And he decided my craft was the better?¡±


    ¡°Not quite. He observed the judges and thought their behavior suspicious. They didn''t go where they claimed to be after each contest, but vanished out of the city, went down below.¡±


    ¡°Below?¡±


    ¡°There''s caverns known as ''night'' below Allabrast. They''re winding and go very deep¡ªperfect for illegal business.¡±


    I nod. ¡°They were having meetings with Vanerak there.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak was careful not to be seen. Judge Caletek too, but Gerapek and Daztat were caught out.¡±


    ¡°They''re sitting in their own prison now, I hope.¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°All three have vanished, as well as one of the high justices. Night is being combed as we speak, but...¡± He shrugs. ¡°If they find anything, it''ll be their bodies.¡±


    ¡°I see. And the outcome of my trial...?¡±


    ¡°After the judges vanished, the crafts were reviewed by a different committee. It was decided that you won the second round and also the final round, by obliteration.¡±


    I sigh. ¡°It''s finally over then.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What about Barahtan?¡± An ill feeling comes over me as I recall his screams. ¡°Is he alive?¡±


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    ¡°He''s recovering well, you''ll be glad to know.¡±


    I sigh in deep relief. ¡°I''m very glad. I wish him the best, even though he was my opponent.¡±


    ¡°Apparently he said the same about you.¡±


    ¡°I''m glad to hear that as well. But... What do you think, guildmaster? You said you''d heed the results of the trial, and...¡±


    He grimaces. ¡°I''ve made the decision not to take your head, Zathar. Even though part of me will always say that you deserve death, I will honor the runes.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I meant what I said in the second round, by the way. I truly do intend to slay the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°We admire your courage. There are many dwarves in our guild who will be keen to help you.¡±


    ¡°I need to be stronger before I try.¡±


    ¡°Yes. And the black dragon hasn''t been seen for many, many long-hours. Years.¡±


    ¡°It''s out there somewhere.¡±


    ¡°More importantly, so is Vanerak¡ªout and about in the city. I don''t think he''s going to give up so easily.¡±


    I bite my lip. ¡°I suppose that''s true. Do you think I should leave?¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°You should lie low here. Stay in the guild. Vanerak will ascend to Runethane soon, rumor has it. The Runeking wants him out from under his nose.¡±


    ¡°Why doesn''t he just...?¡± I make a chopping motion with my right hand.


    ¡°He can''t just go around killing powerful dwarves based on hearsay. Not everyone is as convinced as you are of what Vanerak''s just tried to do. The Runeking would need evidence. No, his best option is to have Vanerak bugger off to some far-off cavern where no one needs to have much to do with him.¡±


    ¡°Like the fort,¡± I say. ¡°I''m glad we found someone else to go down there.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°I''ll have to go down there again at some point. I promised Nthazes, after all.¡±


    ¡°Of course. But for the moment I strongly recommend staying here.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    He stands up. ¡°I''ll leave you to your recovery, then.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± I say. ¡°My crafts... My war-pick, at least. What''s happened to it? I want it back. Is that allowed? And the fewer dwarves that examine my runes, the better...¡±


    Wharoth hesitates. ¡°I''m not sure. I''ll go down and ask someone.¡±


    A strange pallor has fallen across his face. I frown. ¡°You don''t seem very happy about the idea.¡±


    ¡°Your crafts, Zathar... There''s something about them.¡±


    ¡°My runes are... unpredictable, I know.¡± I lower my voice. ¡°I still don''t know how to control this power. I can direct its extent, to some degree, how much it alters everything, but I can''t choose how. When I write, I feel as if I''m on rails, with no ability to decide where I''m going.¡±


    ¡°It''s not just that. They''re bloody runes, Zathar. The sort of thing only a very twisted dwarf would come up with. Runes involving blood are frowned upon for a reason. Maybe reasons you know well, from your experiences down below.¡±


    ¡°I''m not completely comfortable with them either.¡±


    ¡°I''m glad to hear that, at least.¡±


    ¡°Even so, it''s my weapon, my craft. I want it back. And again, the less dwarves that get to examine my runes, the better. Vanerak won''t be the only one who takes an interest.¡±


    ¡°I''ll see what I can do. But about your runes... There''s another thing too. I wasn''t going to tell you until you were recovered, but...¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It''s not exactly good news.¡±


    I sit up. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Well...¡± He looks even more nervous. ¡°The Runeking is intrigued by your crafts."


    "Intrigued? What do you mean?"


    "He wishes to talk with you. Alone.¡±


    ¡°Alone? With the Runeking?¡±


    My guts feel like they''ve been replaced by a gaping pit.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°Once you''re recovered, I''ll escort you to the Foundry-Palace.¡±


    ¡°I see. Do you have any idea what he wants?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What if he wants to keep me there?¡±


    ¡°Then you''ll have to stay there.¡±


    ¡°Do you think he wants to do that?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know. He''s thousands of years old, Zathar. No one can imagine what or how he thinks.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, I''ll be off now. Someone will bring food and ale shortly.¡±


    He leaves. I sink back under the blankets, trembling. An audience with Runeking Ulrike. Never in my wildest imaginings did I ever think to meet him. Ordinary runeknights do not meet Runekings. The gap between them and even a Runethane is too vast for me to have any real comprehension of, but I''ve heard it compared to the distance between the lowest depths of the magma seas and the highest peaks of the surface mountains.


    How might the mind of a dwarf so skilled, so powerful, work? No one even knows what the Runeking is crafting¡ªonly that it requires truly vast quantities of metal and reagent. Does he want my runes to help him complete it? Yet the idea that a dwarf so great might need my help is absurd.


    The coming audience is all I can think about over my long-hours of recovery. Speculation consumes my every waking hour, and even my dreams are haunted by anxiety.


    In them I walk through the Foundry-Palace, which appears as a great maze of glowing pipes and angular stone corridors. My journey is long and harsh. Eventually I find myself in the throne room. It is vast, and at the end sits a figure wreathed in smoke.


    The smoke shifts. Sometimes his face is like Vanerak''s, sometimes it is Wharoth''s with a smile, sometimes it is Wharoth muttering about how I deserve death. More than once I see the face of Runethane Yurok, his eyes bright with delusion.


    Slowly, as the long-hours pass, my shoulder wound heals. The red fades, and the charcoal in its center flakes away. Underneath is clean skin, a little smoother even than the skin on my opposite shoulder. The muscle feels weakened still, but I''ll build it back up once I return the forge.


    Yet I don''t think anything will heal the scar in my vision. The black line floating in front of everything I look at has faded only slightly since the first time I woke up here. It''s not large enough to disrupt much, but it is unnerving. Scars on my body I can ignore. This one I''ll never be able to forget.

 Traitors Trial 41: The Audience with Runeking Ulrike

    ¡°You look well,¡± says Wharoth.


    ¡°Well enough.¡±


    ¡°The pain has gone from your shoulder?¡±


    ¡°Nearly all of it.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°You''re sure there''s nothing that can be done about my eye?¡±


    ¡°Apparently not, I''m afraid.¡±


    ¡°I see. And any news about my war-pick?¡±


    ¡°It''s still being examined. For how long I don''t know.¡±


    ¡°But I will get it back?¡±


    ¡°That''s what I was told, at least. But to the point: are you well enough to come to the palace?¡±


    I hesitate. My shoulder does still hurt a little. Even after more than fifteen long-hours, it''s still not fully recovered. Yet I''ve been putting off this meeting for too long already. It''s time to bite the axe and get it over with.


    And who knows? Runeking Ulrike has far greater knowledge of runes than anyone else. Perhaps he''ll have answers for me. Perhaps he''ll be able to guide me. He did save me, after all. Maybe I shouldn''t be so suspicious of his motives.


    ¡°I''m ready,¡± I say.


    ¡°Good. I''ll have a message sent and a carriage brought here. Get your armor on.¡±


    ¡°And Heartseeker?¡±


    My past crafts have all been returned to me, at least.


    ¡°Yes. There are no rules against bringing weapons in. The Runeking doesn''t need to worry about what the likes of us can craft.¡±


    I equip myself and walk out into the guildhall, which is a plain, simple, sturdy-looking stone rectangle set with long tables and benches. They are simple too, unpretentious. Warm light floods from roaring hearths. Though this room has grown familiar to me over the past long-hours, the dwarves within haven''t. The younger, lower degree ones look at me with a mixture of awe and fear. Most of the older ones, the survivors of the dragon three times over, avoid me.


    I may have won back the guildmaster''s trust, or as much of it as I''ll ever be able to, but I''ve still got a lot of work to do before I can win the trust of the rest. And no matter how hard I try there will always be some who will never forgive me.


    For a few minutes I wait nervously by the doors, then someone informs me that the carriage has arrived. I walk out into the guild''s outer premises, a wide cave-courtyard where initiates are practicing how to ''fight like a dwarf'', just how I was taught. I am met by an escort of a few senior guild members as well as Guildmaster Wharoth.


    We board the carriage, a heavy-set thing, and depart. Unlike my previous carriage journeys through Allabrast, this time there are windows for me to look out of. Through them I witness greater magnificence than I ever imagined: we travel through districts of gold-gilt towers, skirt the edge of a diamond mine that glitters all the way down its shaft, ride over a bridge astride a chasm three-times as wide as the one I fell down, twice, all those years ago.


    The splendor vanishes abruptly. We are traveling through a bare tunnel. There is nothing but darkness and I grow nervous. I expect to be stopped at any moment, and see my own face reflected in Vanerak''s mirror-mask outside the window.


    But we don''t stop. The carriage continues its rapid pace, angles down slightly. It gets hot. I begin to sweat. The darkness outside the carriage takes on shades of orange, then gradually it ceases to be darkness at all. We are traveling bathed in the glow of molten metal.


    We make a turn, then the carriage slows and stops.


    There is a knock on the door.


    ¡°Time to get out, Zathar,¡± says Guildmaster Wharoth.


    ¡°Just me? Won''t you escort me to the throne room?¡±


    ¡°I cannot. My orders are very clear: only you are to exit the carriage. Only you may enter the palace.¡±


    He looks unnerved. Maybe he''s wondering if he''ll ever see me again. I''m wondering the same thing.


    ¡°Well,¡± I say. ¡°Goodbye for now then.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye.¡±


    ¡°How long will you wait here for me? I don''t suppose you''ve been told...¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I see. Well, don''t disappear immediately.¡±


    ¡°We won''t. If things end up taking a while, I''m sure we''ll be told when to come get you.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Hopefully. Well, goodbye.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, Zathar. Good luck. Don''t say anything foolish.¡±


    ¡°I won''t.¡±


    I open the door of the carriage and step out. Waiting for me is a dwarf in golden armor that covers even his eyes. He beckons me to follow him down a plain passage.


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    The rock is suffused by the same golden glow that was illuminating me through the carriage windows. It''s hot to the touch, but not molten. I''ve never seen anything like it. What else but extreme heat could make rock glow? If it even is rock.


    We walk for many minutes. I examine the dwarf''s armor¡ªit''s well made, better enruned, first degree quality for certain, or perhaps higher. A thought occurs to me¡ªis this Runeking Ulrike himself? Surely not. I feel no sense of awe from it, like I will surely feel in his presence.


    The passage continues on and on, and there''s nothing here but bare stone. I can hear no churning of molten metal, feel no hammering; I see no gold-plated floors and diamond chandeliers. This place seems to be neither palace nor foundry.


    ¡°How long until the throne room?¡± I ask quietly.


    The dwarf in gold gives me no answer. Growing more nervous by the minute, I continue to follow him.


    Then, finally, the corridor ends, and we are in a massive hall¡ªat least, I feel like it''s massive. I cannot see much, for the air is filled with a fog of golden smoke. Occasionally it parts to reveal the shapes of anvils, armor-stands, weapon-racks, tool cabinets.


    ¡°Should I walk on ahead?¡± I ask the dwarf in golden armor¡ªbut he''s gone.


    He was standing beside me only a second ago! Where is he? Where is this? I can see no hint of a throne in the golden mist, just forging equipment. I walk forward. An anvil appears before me. I make to turn and go around it, then the mist sweeps back over it and it''s gone.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I say. ¡°I am here, Runeking Ulrike! I am Zathar! You wished to talk with me?¡±


    No answer comes. I continue forward. Swords appear beside me, finely forged though unruned, sharp enough to part my armor like it was naught but fabric. Mist sweeps over them and they too vanish.


    And then I see him. A shadow in the golden mist, swinging a hammer onto the anvil again and again, yet each blow is silent.


    Atop his head is the Crown of Eyes.


    ¡°My Runeking!¡± I say. ¡°I am here! It is Zathar!¡±


    He continues to hammer. Giddy from too-fast breathing, I approach him. My head becomes light.


    ¡°My Runeking...¡± I say.


    He stops mid-stroke. He turns to me, lays down his hammer. The golden mist dissipates, revealing that the great room is empty but for the singular anvil at its center. I fall to one knee and bow my head low.


    ¡°Runeking Ulrike, I have come.¡±


    He throws a silken sheet over his craft, then says, ¡°Stand up, Runeknight Zathar.¡±


    I stand. I feel small, shrunken under the Runeking''s gaze.


    His face is ordinary enough, his beard bright blonde yet unadorned, and his hands also are normal, just as scarred and rough as any other smith''s, and he''s dressed in only plain leather overalls, but his eyes are old. They look older than the rocks.


    They have witnessed the lives and deaths of untold tens of thousands of runeknights, and so he looks at me as if he''s seen a hundred versions of me before, like he knows what words will come from my mouth before I say them.


    The Eyes embedded under each point of his famed crown look at me in the same manner. Cream, with pupils like vertical pools of dark, they look more real than those that stand about the city, more real even than the eyes of flesh beneath them. I''ve never fully subscribed to the belief that gems are alive, but there is no doubt in my mind that these ones are.


    ¡°What... What is it you want with me, my Runeking?¡±


    ¡°I wish to appraise you.¡±


    His voice is deep and slow and smooth.


    ¡°A... Appraise me?¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Because of my runes?¡±


    ¡°If they truly are your runes, yes.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Show me them,¡± he orders, and gestures behind me.


    Confused, I turn, then flinch in shock. Another dwarf in gold, or maybe the same one who escorted me here, is standing behind me and, lying on his outstretched palms for me to take, is my war-pick. I grab hold of it instinctively and turn back around.


    ¡°Hold it out to me.¡±


    I obey. The Runeking runs his ancient eyes along its spike.


    ¡°Alterations,¡± he says. ¡°As I thought.¡±


    ¡°Alterations?¡±


    ¡°Alterations to existing runes. Not new ones in truth. You should not claim these as your own, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Then whose are they?¡±


    ¡°The Runeforger''s.¡±


    ¡°The Runeforger''s?¡±


    ¡°Yes. All runes are his.¡±


    ¡°Then how have I been able to change them?¡±


    ¡°I think it likely that you haven''t. Merely discovered lost variations on them.¡±


    ¡°It doesn''t feel like that.¡±


    ¡°How does it feel?¡±


    ¡°It''s... I can''t explain. Like, they just pour from me. From me, though, not from anyone else... Though...¡±


    ¡°Though?¡±


    Should I tell him? Should I tell all? I''m finding it hard to breath, hard to think. It took us hours to travel down here, but now I''m standing before him, everything feels like it''s happening in an instant. Maybe telling is too much of a risk. Maybe I''ll say something that makes him decide my runes and I are a danger, one that must be eliminated with the swift stroke of an axe, or eternal imprisonment.


    Yet on the other hand, maybe he has the answers to my questions, to my fears! I might be about to discover the truth behind my powers, and a clue for how to control them.


    I take the risk: ¡°There was one thing that was like a memory, maybe another''s memory,¡± I say.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°When I was creating the poem for my last craft¡ªthe one I grafted with almergris¡ªI saw a memory. At least, when it was over it felt like a memory.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°I was in a sphere of mirrors. The sides were polished and very finely enruned. And I wasn''t alone. I saw the shadows of two others, and they felt familiar. Then the sphere broke open and I was rushing out, through the magma sea... That''s all.¡±


    The Runeking tilts his head. ¡°Interesting.¡±


    ¡°Where was it?¡±


    ¡°I do not know.¡±


    ¡°No idea?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°After the memory ended, the poem was in my mind. And it was made of a combination of many scripts.¡±


    ¡°Not a new script, then.¡±


    ¡°No... It was like an alloy. Yet it was somehow pure.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    I swallow, not sure what to say next. ¡°Can you... Does that give you any ideas?¡±


    A flicker of amusement passes over his face. ¡°And I brought you here to ask you questions.¡±


    ¡°I apologize!¡± Fear makes me back away.


    Alarm flashes in his eyes; he reaches out and pulls me back by the wrist. His grip is fiercely strong.


    ¡°I wasn''t trying to run!¡± I say hurriedly.


    ¡°Watch your step.¡±


    I look back and my mouth opens in shock. There is a gaping crevasse just two feet behind me, encircling us, and it''s in turn circled by another crevasse, which is in turn circled by a dozen more. From each shines the glow and warmth of molten metal.


    ¡°What are those?¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Can you guess why my palace here is so far from anything else?¡±


    ¡°You don''t want others stealing your secrets?¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°They couldn''t even if they tried."


    "Then I don''t know."


    "It''s far away because so much power, unfocused and unbound, can cause tremendous things to happen. When you strike hot metal, you create sound, and sparks, the scent of steel-smoke. Sweat forms on you. When you strike with the precision I have, upon the materials I use... You create other things also. Ripples not just of air and light.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°You don''t. Only I see¡ªI and my rival Runekings. And the Runegods also, of course, deep down in the magma seas.¡±


    ¡°Is that where they live?¡± I ask, suddenly remembering the strange metal ship I saw on my journey to the fort.


    ¡°Live? If they can be called alive.¡±


    ¡°They''re dead?¡±


    ¡°No. They are just beyond such concepts as life and death.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°You don''t. Not even I see that. Though of course one day I hope to.¡±


    I look around at the crevasses encircling us, hoping they''ll vanish. I don''t like being trapped only six inches away from the Runeking, with his old eyes peering into my soul. His stare is even more unnerving than Vanerak''s.


    ¡°Have you appraised me yet?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No. I thought I had, but you''ve made me think.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± I can''t tell if this is a bad sign or a good one.


    ¡°You story about the sphere fascinates me.¡±


    ¡°It does?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Tell me, Zathar: what do you know about the Runeforger?¡±

 Traitors Trial 42: A Legend of the Runeforger

    ¡°About the Runeforger?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I... Nothing, really. I thought no one even knew if there was one or many.¡±


    ¡°I can tell you that there was only one.¡±


    ¡°Then I heard that tens of thousands of years ago, he created the runes. Or she, I suppose. Or it.¡±


    ¡°Is that all you know?¡±


    ¡°I know that he vanished. But was there really only one? Just one dwarf created every rune there is? Every script?¡±


    ¡°Is that so hard to believe? Each of us lives for a long time. Yes, only one dwarf created every script.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    Runeking Ulrike pauses to think. Then he says: ¡°What you have heard is more or less correct, but for one detail.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°The Runeforger did not vanish. He was slain.¡±


    A shiver travels down my neck.


    ¡°Slain?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Slain and his body thrown into the magma sea.¡±


    ¡°By whom?¡±


    ¡°Other dwarves.¡±


    ¡°Runegods?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know if there were any back then. Probably no one was that powerful.¡±


    ¡°Then how did they manage to slay the Runeforger?¡±


    ¡°He invented the runes. That doesn''t mean he mastered then.¡± Runeking Ulrike shrugs. ¡°Then again, maybe he and others had, and it was indeed the Runegods who slew him. No one knows. Everything happened too long ago. If it was written down, the texts have long since sunk into the magma.¡±


    ¡°Into the magma where the Runegods live.¡±


    ¡°Yes. If live is the correct word.¡±


    ¡°But why would they kill him? What was the point? Everyone can use runes, so why not let him make more?¡±


    ¡°Like Thanic Guardsdwarf Vanerak wants you for.¡±


    ¡°You know?¡± I say in surprise.


    ¡°I can guess.¡±


    ¡°Will you do anything about him?¡±


    ¡°I cannot. Despite my Eyes, I am not omniscient, and there is no proof of his intentions. No proof of any of the many misdeeds he''s rumored to have carried out since his return to Allabrast.¡±


    ¡°Even so...¡±


    ¡°How would you like it if you were sentenced with no proof? No trial?¡±


    I bow my head. ¡°I see your point. My guildmaster said the same.¡±


    ¡°I am glad to hear that. Vanerak has done good also, I should add. Many refugees who otherwise would''ve perished on the way down are alive because of him.¡±


    ¡°I suppose he fought off Broderick''s forces as well.¡±


    ¡°Indeed he did. But returning to the matter at hand: as for why the Runeforger was killed, I do not know.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the others were jealous.¡±


    ¡°I try not to waste time on speculation. Whatever the reason, the result was the same: no more new runes.¡±


    ¡°Until now? Though if mine aren''t really new, as you say they aren''t...¡±


    The Runeking''s stare hardens.


    ¡°Do you want them to be new? Do you wish for the power of the Runeforger?¡±


    ¡°I...¡±


    Do I? No matter how much my power frightens me, it''s still something that marks me out from other dwarves.


    Marks me for destiny, perhaps! It''s proof that I''m not simply a jumped-up miner. That I''m destined to rise up, just like my brother promised we would, many years ago.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    I feel slightly ashamed: hadn''t I grown past such thoughts? My destiny now is to slay the black dragon or die in the attempt. Isn''t that what I promised all those I hurt?


    ¡°I don''t know,¡± I say. ¡°But I need some kind of power if I''m to fulfill what I swore.¡±


    ¡°We all desire power. More and more, so that one day we may reach the Runegods.¡±


    He gazes down, reverently. I feel as if his stare is piercing the hundreds of miles of rock between here and the magma sea.


    ¡°Do you think the sphere I saw has something to do with the Runeforger?¡±


    ¡°It seems likely, though I doubt it was any kind of memory. It seems symbolic to me.¡±


    ¡°Symbolic of what?¡±


    ¡°Of his power. Of what was inside his mind. You said there were three shadows?¡±


    ¡°Yes. One was mine. The other two weren''t, but they were familiar. Like I''d met them before. Maybe they were his slayers?¡±


    ¡°Did they strike you as killers?¡±


    ¡°One did.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. Like I said though, there''s no point in speculation. More knowledge may be revealed to you in time. Or maybe to others.¡±


    ¡°There are others like me?¡± I say, alarmed.


    ¡°Perhaps. Why not? Again, though: speculation is a waste of time.¡±


    Silence falls again. The Runeking seems to be thinking hard as he stares into my eyes. My war-pick feels terribly heavy and unwieldy in my hands. Its bloodlust is suppressed almost to nothing. Whatever he decides to do with me, I have no way to defend myself.


    I can no longer bear the suspense: ¡°How long do you wish me to stay here, my Runeking?¡±


    He blinks, shakes his head. ¡°I have forging to do, so I''m afraid I can''t have you here long. You may return now, in fact.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    A dwarf in gold appears beside me. I notice that the crevasses are gone as well. They''ve left no trace on the smooth stone.


    ¡°Is this it, then? Will you call me back?¡±


    ¡°Do you wish to come back?¡±


    ¡°No. I mean... I was worried you''d want to keep me here, actually.¡±


    He smirks slightly. ¡°Making new runes for me?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡±


    ¡°Runeknight Zathar, a few more runes on top of the hundreds of thousands I already know would be of little use to me.¡±


    Feeling rather stupid, I bow my head. ¡°I apologize.¡±


    He makes a dismissive gesture. ¡°There''s no need to apologize. You are still far less arrogant than most runeknights. Make no mistake, though: your power does interest me. I will be keeping my Eyes on you.¡±


    I bow again. ¡°If anything, I''m relieved to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Yes. While you stay in Allabrast you need not fear Vanerak. He''ll be gone from here soon enough anyway.¡±


    ¡°Thank you most graciously, my Runeking.¡±


    ¡°You are welcome. Goodbye for now, Zathar.¡±


    <hr>


    So, I return to the carriage. Guildmaster Wharoth looks relieved to see me, the other guild members less so. We don''t speak on the journey back, but once we''re at the guildhall, Wharoth calls me into his office¡ªwhich looks uncannily similar to his old one¡ªand demands a full recount of what happened.


    When I finish, he leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He frowns at the ceiling. I wait for him to say something.


    ¡°Good to know you''re being looked out for, at least.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But what do you think about my vision, guildmaster? Do you think it was something from the Runeforger himself?¡±


    ¡°Not a clue. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn''t. Maybe too much forging simply addled your mind.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it. That poem was the greatest I ever wrote.¡±


    ¡°More to the point: what do you think, Zathar? Do you think your runes are new, like he said they weren''t?¡±


    ¡°I think they are new.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    I pause, nervous again all of a sudden. ¡°I know I shouldn''t be saying the Runeking is wrong. He knows a lot more than me about runes¡ª¡±


    Wharoth snorts. ¡°That''s quite the understatement.¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. But he hasn''t used my power. He doesn''t know it like I do, and I feel that my runes are original. Created by me, forged in my own mind. They''re not pulled from somewhere else. Though, of course, I can''t know any of this for sure.¡±


    Wharoth nods. ¡°Well, the only way we''re ever going to find out is if you keep on forging.¡±


    ¡°Yes... You want my power just as much as Vanerak, don''t you, guildmaster?¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Yes, I do. Who wouldn''t? Even the merest possibility of new runes... If I were the Runeking, I''d never have let you leave the palace. I''d have apprenticed you and watched every moment of your forging.¡±


    ¡°I thought he''d be more interested too.¡±


    ¡°Well, like you said: he knows a lot more about runes than we do.¡±


    I nod. ¡°So what should I do now, do you think?¡±


    ¡°Stay here. Forge, write runic poems. Earn some gold. There''s plenty of jobs for runeknights within the city. Plenty here at the guild too¡ªI''m expecting a few initiates will want to join after your performance at the trial.¡±


    ¡°You want me to teach them?¡±


    ¡°It''s probably best if you don''t try to educate them about runes. You''re a fair fighter though. You can teach them that.¡±


    I grin. I begin to see the shape my life is going to take for the next few hundred long-hours. It''s a simple one, of working, forging, and sleeping without the fear of death hanging over me.


    ¡°I''ll be glad to,¡± I say.


    <hr>


    Deep in night, the three judges wait in silent terror. They have failed Vanerak, and he will not be pleased. Even if he is so kind as to give them a second chance, there will still be some kind of punishment. Harsh punishment.


    A second chance? How likely is that? Daztat nearly bursts out laughing at the thought. They are here to die. All they can hope for is that Vanerak is too busy to be bothered torturing them.


    ¡°We should have done more,¡± Daztat mutters under his breath. ¡°Should have given him the wrong materials. Cut his money. Sabotaged his furnace. Anything!¡±


    Neither Gerapek nor Caletek reply.


    ¡°This is your fault, Gerapek!¡±


    ¡°If we''d done any of that, the high justices¡ª¡°


    ¡°They wouldn''t have had us killed!¡±


    ¡°Yes, they would have.¡±


    ¡°Not in the way Vanerak''s about to!¡±


    ¡°He may not,¡± Caletek whispers. ¡°We may yet live¡ª¡±


    He slumps to the black chalk floor. Gerapek freezes, then a look of peace comes across his face. Then his head is rolling from his shoulders; it thuds on the floor.


    Blood sprays over Daztat''s armor. He yells, slams down his visor, backs away. He draws his sword.


    The hammer-side of Vanerak''s pollaxe shatters it in one blow. The last thing Daztat sees is the bright stars of night distorted in Vanerak''s mirror-mask, an instant before the pollaxe''s spike goes through his heart.


    Vanerak pulls it out. He kicks the dead dwarf so hard the armor dents. Damn this! He hasn''t been this irritated for centuries, not since Thanerzak over-ruled him about that fool idea to spare the dragons'' lives.


    The power of the runeforgers has slipped from his grasp! Maybe forever!


    No, no. He breaths deep and calm returns. Not forever. For a while, yes. The Runeking has his Eyes on Zathar now, so while the young dwarf remains in Allabrast, Vanerak can do nothing, but he can''t stay in Allabrast forever.


    Vanerak will get him one day. He is certain of this.


    TRAITOR''S TRIAL


    END

 Dragonhunt 0: Prologue

    There is a memory which haunts and thrills me in equal measure. For long periods it sits dormant, then, on occasion, without warning, it flares into life. Sometimes it comes while I soar through the sky, sometimes when I settle down to sleep, but most often it comes while I''m picking through mounds of dwarvish treasure.


    It thrills me because of the power it promises.


    It haunts me because I have never since found that same power.


    What that one dwarf had was unique:


    The dwarf dragged himself through the cave with his forearms, for his hands and ankles had both been shattered; the latter by the fall and the former by his fellows. His throat was parched and his belly was empty. He knew that he was close to death.


    But he refused to die just yet. His mind was made up: he was going to die as a runeknight, with a craft in his hand. He didn''t know what craft it was going to be, nor how he was going to make it, but he knew that he would manage somehow. It was in his blood. For him to die as a miner was inconceivable.


    Magma. That would be his forge. For hammer and anvil, stone would have to do. For reagent, there were still a few scrapings of incandesite in his pocket. The runes from his dictionary he remembered. Tongs, and most importantly metal... He''d find something. These caves were untamed, untapped. Surely there''d be something.


    The tunnel branched. Heat washed over his face from the left, a hot, dry heat that burned his throat when he inhaled. It was unlike any heat he''d felt before, not like that of magma, nor like that from the molten iron that ran through Runethane Broderick''s foundries.


    It was a strangely cruel heat. It stung his parched throat.


    He was in no position to pay heed to these misgivings. He turned to face the heat and crawled down the tunnel, which grew brighter as it thinned. The stone became illuminated in white-yellow. Magma, it had to be. Fate was leading him toward a natural forge, one of those like the dwarves of ancient times used.


    Each yard was agony. His hands were swollen bags of pain, the shattered bones of his ankles jabbed inside of his flesh like they were hot nails. It was the kind of pain that is impossible to ignore, yet he did his best, tried to distract himself by imagining the wonders he was going to forge now that he had escaped the mines.


    Fate had given him a second chance. He could not throw it away like he''d thrown away his first.


    The tunnel opened up into a cave. At its center was a pool of yellow magma, bright and warm. He crawled down to it until the heat on his face grew unbearable. He stared into it, drinking in the beauty. He had indeed found a natural forge, just like what the first runeknights had used.


    The magma''s warmth brought some vigor back into his exhausted body. His hands and feet were still agony¡ªnothing would cure them short of healing chains¡ªbut he no longer felt hungry and thirsty. Greater than this, however, the sight of the magma had turned his already burning desire to craft into a conflagration. The dwarvish desire to beat the metal and twist the runes boiled inside his heart.


    He needed only metal now.


    But where was he going to get it from?


    There would be some in this cave. He was sure of it. He had no basis for this belief other than blind faith, yet Zakath''s faith had come through before, when he found that incandesite in the wall.


    So he searched. He crawled over every yard and inch of the cave, eyes wide to catch the sheen of metal, tongue out to catch its taste. To his lone observer he looked like a surface rat snuffling over the dirt for grubs.


    ¡°Searching for something?¡±


    The voice was like living flame. Zakath froze.


    ¡°Lost a ring, perhaps? Maybe an amulet?¡±


    Zakath turned to look at the far corner of the cave where the voice was coming from. The dry heat which had first led him here glowed from the blackness. He felt sudden terror.


    ¡°Well, dwarf? What have you got to say for yourself? For intruding upon my abode!¡±


    The black dragon''s mouth flashed fire as it spoke. Its green eyes were bright emeralds.


    ¡°I... I...¡±


    Zakath could think of nothing to say. His mind was unable to process what he was seeing. The dragons of Hazhakmar were all dead. Runethane Thanerzak, helped by his then ally Broderick, had killed them all five long centuries ago. Why was one still alive? Why was it here?


    And what was it going to do to him?


    ¡°Well, dwarf? I asked you a question! Answer me!¡±


    ¡°I... I''m sorry,¡± Zakath stammered. ¡°I''ll leave.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t tell you to leave. I told you to explain the reason for your intrusion!¡±


    ¡°I didn''t mean to intrude!¡±


    ¡°You''re still not answering me!¡±


    With one flap of its great wings the black dragon soared across the cave. It landed right in front of the terrified Zakath. The stone shook. The heat from its mouth scorched the dwarf''s throat and eyes.


    ¡°Answer me!¡±


    ¡°I was looking for a forge!¡± Zakath screamed. ¡°I''m sorry! I''ll leave!¡±


    ¡°A forge?¡± The black dragon laughed. ¡°Down here?¡±


    ¡°Yes! I''m sorry, I didn''t mean to come here, I didn''t know...¡±


    The black dragon grasped him around the chest with its iron-hard talons, lifted him high. It laughed. Tongues of flame licked from its mouth and scorched Zakath''s beard. The young dwarf screamed louder.


    ¡°There are plenty of forges up in your city. Why not use one of those?¡±


    ¡°I couldn''t! I didn''t have the money!¡±


    ¡°Why not earn some?¡±


    ¡°I couldn''t earn enough!¡±


    ¡°Why not take some?¡±


    ¡°I''m not a thief!¡±


    ¡°Are you not, now? It looks very much to me like your hands are broken. You dwarves like to do that to thieves, do you not?¡±


    ¡°I...¡±


    ¡°You should have taken more.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t take anything. I found it! It''s mine!¡±


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°What is?¡±


    ¡°Something that was stolen from me.¡±


    ¡°Something more precious than gold, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°More precious than these?¡±


    The black dragon turned, bringing Zakath around with it, opened its wings, and with another great flap soared back to the corner of its cave. Zakath cried out in pain at the jolt of landing. Then his eyes widened.


    ¡°Look upon my hoard, dwarf.¡±


    The far corner of the cave was overflowing with golden coins, silver coins, cups and jewelry, and hundreds of finely-forged weapons and pieces of armor. Zakath had never seen such riches.


    ¡°Impressive, is it not?¡±


    ¡°Gold..." whispered the dwarf. "Metal...¡±


    For a moment all of Zakath''s pain was forgotten. The only sensation, the only thing real to him right then, was the color of the gold.


    ¡°More dwarves come down here than you might expect,¡± said the black dragon. It sounded proud. ¡°I sniff them out. I read the disturbances in the heat of the air and I hunt them down. Sometimes, if they come near to my hoard here, I''m kind enough to show it to them before I devour them.¡±


    The black dragon got the sense Zakath wasn''t listening. It shook him angrily. The dwarf screamed in pain and shock.


    ¡°It''s polite to listen when someone is talking to you, dwarf.¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry!¡±


    ¡°It seems you didn''t catch the last part of what I said: sometimes I show this hoard to the dwarves before I devour them.¡±


    It waited for the dwarf to scream in terror and beg for its life. Disappointingly, it did no such thing, just went back to staring at the golden coins and beautifully enruned crafts.


    ¡°I said, I''m going to devour you, dwarf!¡±


    Zakath continued to stare. He wasn''t listening again. The black dragon let go and Zakath dropped twelve feet onto his shattered ankles. The pain was so great he passed out¡ªin fact, the black dragon could have sworn his heart stopped beating for nearly half a minute. But some vital force restarted it and the dwarf woke up screaming.


    ¡°That''s more like it, dwarf!¡± roared the black dragon. ¡°I''m going to devour you! Scream!¡±


    But Zakath''s scream died away. He noticed a lone coin that had rolled off the pile and brushed a shattered hand over it.


    ¡°Gold...¡± he whispered. ¡°Metal...¡±


    ¡°You''re going to die, dwarf. I''m going to burn the flesh from your bones and inhale the ashes.¡±


    ¡°Metal, magma, and reagent... I finally have what I need.¡±


    ¡°Need for what?¡±


    ¡°My craft,¡± whispered the dwarf. ¡°The craft that will set me free.¡±


    The black dragon nearly incinerated him there. Indeed, the breath was halfway up its throat already. But it stopped the heat and drew it back into its belly.


    In truth, plain gold was useless to it. Dragons feed off life, and gold coins have no life in them. Dwarves have some, but although the life of a dwarf tastes fine, it''s soon gone. Magical artifacts provide the best sustenance: the staves and crystal balls of human wizards, for example. Elven cloaks sewn from the furs of arcane beasts. But most delicious and long-lasting of all are the crafts of dwarvish smiths, and the more precious the metal and complex the runes, the better.


    The black dragon laughed. ¡°You wish to use my gold in your craft, do you, dwarf?¡±


    Zakath looked directly into its green eyes. ¡°Yes,¡± he said, simply, with no trace of fear in his voice.


    ¡°Do it then,¡± laughed the black dragon. ¡°Let me see what you can make. If it pleases me, I will let you live.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± said Zakath. ¡°I shall.¡±


    The black dragon was expecting failure. The dwarf would faint from the pain and topple into the magma, or perish of thirst before he was done, or, and this would be most amusing of all, fail to make anything worth calling art and die of despair.


    Zakath shocked him. From the shattered remains of some minecart tracks and lengths of cavern vine he created himself tongs that he tied to his arm using his teeth. With them, opening and closing them by means of a vine cleverly tied, he stacked a pile of coins beside the magma. Slowly they began to soften and meld into one another. He secured a stone to his arm and, after the pulling the glowing mass of coins a little back from the natural furnace, began to hammer.


    At first each stroke brought pain. It was writ clear on his face and in the raggedness of his breathing. Yet after a hundred or so beats, however, the pain seemed to vanish. It was as if he had fallen into a trance, so the dragon thought. Indeed he had fallen into a trance¡ªa forging trance.


    The black dragon watched, transfixed, as the axe-blade came into being before its eyes. Power began to glow¡ªthe black dragon grew hungry; it needed to devour craft, dwarf, everything. Yet¡ªfor the first time in its life¡ªit resisted the urge to strike.


    After many hours, Zakath finished forming the craft''s shape. He clasped the axe-blade in his tongs and held it up to the light of the magma. There were many imperfections, but his endurance was waning, and he still had to enrune it.


    From his pocket he took the tiny scraps of his incandesite. Very carefully he ground them into a powder. One errant spark and they would burn into nothingness, yet somehow he knew the exact amount of force to apply. Some ancestral knowledge, something deep in his blood, told him.


    He''d never lied to his little brother. He truly did believe forging was in their blood, and now he was proving the truth of this statement.


    The runes also came to him easily, perfectly remembered from his runic dictionary. Then, it was time to graft. Using a splinter of track heated to red heat in the magma, he lit the incandesite under each rune. Each flared bright with power. The black dragon''s green eyes widened. Its molten tongue snaked over its teeth.


    Now the axehead was done. Zakath held it up to the light and was happy beyond words. He had forged and enruned¡ªhe was a runeknight. Maybe if he went back up to the city, others would deny this, for he had no guild, had sat no examination, but what did that matter? Only a runeknight could craft a piece of such perfection.


    He felt the dragon''s greedy eyes on his craft and pulled it close.


    ¡°There''s power there,¡± said the black dragon.


    ¡°This is mine!¡± Zakath snapped. ¡°My craft. I forged it!¡±


    ¡°And now you will give it to me.¡±


    ¡°A runeknight does not make his crafts for the use of another.¡±


    ¡°Is that so, little runeknight? Yet I distinctly remember that you promised me it.¡±


    ¡°I promised no such thing. You said if you were pleased by it, you would let me go. You never said you would take it for your hoard.¡±


    Dry heat washed out from the dragon: its anger manifest. Zakath crawled away around the magma pool.


    ¡°It''s mine!¡± he repeated.


    The black dragon''s tail lashed out and wrapped around Zakath''s arm. It flung him sideways at the wall. The golden axehead fell from Zakath''s tongs, spinning across the cave floor. The black dragon picked it up by the points of two talons and held it up to its emerald eyes.


    ¡°Mine...¡± it breathed.


    ¡°Give it back!¡± Zakath screamed. ¡°Its mine! My craft! My forging!¡±


    ¡°Get out of here, dwarf!¡± snapped the black dragon, still staring at the axehead. ¡°I''ll keep my promise: you can live.¡±


    ¡°Give me it back!¡±


    The black dragon turned to him. Its green eyes flashed. It opened its mouth. Zakath cried out in despair at the heat pouring from it. He knew he could do nothing to resist.


    ¡°Get out of here!¡± the black dragon repeated.


    Zakath ran.


    That is my memory. As I devoured the power in the axehead, some of what the dwarf had felt and thought was imparted into me. It was a strange feeling, to see through the eyes of such an inferior being, one of those who creates what dragons consume.


    I have taken many a runic craft since then, and of course I''d taken many before then also, in the hundred or so years since I hatched. Most were greater in power, and of materials rarer and more pure, yet there was a flavor to that dwarf''s crafts that no other has had since.


    Not even his brother''s had that flavor.


    It was unique.


    I wonder when I will find its like again. Probably I never will. It is likely that this Zakath is long since dead, devoured by a salamander or some such, or simply perished of thirst and starvation.


    Oh, well. It''s not so great a loss. There are plenty of other treats to be had, both on the surface and in the underworld.


    I fly on.


    <hr>


    Hardrick is at the forge. Sparks fly from each perfect stroke of his hammer. The sheet of titanium curves and bends to his will, like all metal always does. Dwarves who watch him say his talent is unmatched for one still comparatively young. Hardrick used to grin at this, his golden teeth flashing in the light of the furnace. Such comments only irritate him now.


    ¡°Hit here... Now here... And now here...¡±


    ¡°Get out my ear!¡± Hardrick hisses at the shadow behind him. ¡°Shuddup!¡±


    The shadow shifts, pivoting around him like the hand of a clock. Hardrick beats the metal more angrily.


    ¡°Not so violent...¡± says the shadow. ¡°Not so brutally... The metal is your partner, not your slave...¡±


    ¡°Will you shut it!¡±


    ¡°Careful now... The others will start to think your mind is starting to go.¡±


    ¡°Half of them already think that.¡±


    ¡°Yes, like the Runethane. I was listening to him last night. He wants rid of you. Thinks you''re becoming a threat to his power.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he''s right.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t say that aloud, if I were you.¡±


    ¡°You say everything aloud,¡± spits Hardrick.


    This is not strictly true. These whisperings are audible only to him. Usually they come when he''s working at the forge, telling him to hit here, or there, or use this kind of metal instead of that. He''s learned to obey them. Things go wrong when he doesn''t.


    ¡°What''s this new craft anyway?¡± asks the shadow. ¡°A breastplate? We just made a fine one of those.¡±


    ¡°I made a fine one. Me! I did! And yes, it''s a breastplate.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Need a different one, is why.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Shuddup and let me concentrate!¡±


    Hardrick continues to beat the metal. Sparks flash. Those that fall on his arm and down the front of his smock dull instantly, like specks of dust fallen out of the rays of the sun. The shadow is there. It''s around him, over every part of him. It''s always been there, ever since he made his first sword, though he hasn''t truly realized this until recently.


    ¡°If I''m going to help you,¡± says the shadow. ¡°I must know what we are making.¡±


    ¡°A fireproof breastplate.¡±


    ¡°Fireproof?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Orders of Runethane Broderick. There''s rumors of a dragon.¡±

 Dragonhunt 1: Instructor Zathar

    ¡°Fight like a dwarf!¡± I shout. ¡°A dwarf! Stop flinching! Use your armor! Stop leaning into your blows so much! Let your weapon do the work! Didn''t you craft it yourself? Show it some respect!¡±


    I''ve done many jobs in the hundred and a half long-hours since my trial ended. Some have been easy: guarding, escorting dwarves of importance, inspecting various works of metal. Some have been difficult: forging chains of healing, cavern-clearing outside the city¡ªthough I''ve only dared to take those jobs on after Runethane Vanerak''s departure from Allabrast¡ªand wrangling trolls for the arenas.


    Yet the hardest, by far, has been teaching. It''s not that it''s particularly dangerous, or even physically strenuous; I''m just entirely unsuited to it.


    ¡°Keep your shields up when you attack! Otherwise why did you even forge them? Keep them up!¡±


    No matter how much I yell, the initiates are unable to obey me. Or, if they manage one thing I say, they forget everything else I''ve taught them. Teaching them is like trying to forge metal that thickens and warps the more you hammer it.


    I pull at my beard in frustration as I watch them spar. They''re fighting with abandon, throwing blows far too hard, like they''re trying to splinter their wooden practice weapons. As for defense, they''re dodging too wide, like they don''t understand that their armor will protect them from most blows. They''re all tired as well, because they''re moving all wrong. You have to let the weight of your equipment do the work for you. This has always come naturally to me, but apparently not to this lot.


    ¡°Got you!¡± cries one dwarf in glee, as he batters his opponent to the floor with a triple-blow to the head. He turns to me, grin clear to see through his visor. ¡°What do you think of that, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°That''s instructor to you!¡± I snap. ¡°As for what I think, I think you left yourself completely exposed, and why did you smack the same target three times in a row?¡±


    His grin turns to a scowl. ¡°I still beat him, didn''t I?¡±


    ¡°If he''d been only slightly less idiotic than you, Guthah, you''d lying on the stone.¡±


    Guthah''s scowl worsens. He shakes his shield. ¡°It''s because of this stupid thing that I can''t fight properly¡ª¡°


    ¡°Don''t insult a craft!¡±


    ¡°It''s just a piece of wood, not a real craft.¡±


    ¡°You need to treat it as real, otherwise what''s the damn point in doing this?¡±


    ¡°Why do I even need a shield anyway? Isn''t armor good enough, if it''s forged well?¡±


    ¡°For an initiate like yourself, a shield is the best option until you''re able to craft half-decently.¡±


    ¡°From what I''ve heard, you never used a shield even when you were an initiate.¡±


    ¡°I''m more talented than you.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I''d be able to show my talent if you let me throw off this thing. Maybe I''ll be able to kill a salamander as well.¡±


    ¡°The examiner killed it. I only got in one blow. But this is beside the point. The guildmaster wants you to train with shields, and so that''s what you''re going to do.¡±


    ¡°But instructor,¡± asks Guthah''s sparring partner, still on the ground, ¡°if you''ve never fought with a shield before, how do you know how to use one?¡±


    ¡°I''ve fought plenty who did use one. Killed them too, because they left themselves open.¡± I notice that everyone has stopped to listen to me. ¡°Get back to fighting!¡± I snap. ¡°And try to bloody remember what I keep telling you: keep your shield in front of you, conserve your stamina, and don''t be predictable!¡±


    Fighting isn''t the only thing Wharoth''s paying me to teach. I''m also instructing these dozen initiates how to work with steel, and they''re nearly as bad in the forge than they are in the sparring yard.


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    ¡°Hit harder, Pellas! It''s steel, not... It''s steel! You need to hit it with force!¡±


    She puts down her hammer and scowls at me. ¡°Five minutes ago you were telling me not to hit it so hard.¡±


    ¡°I told you not to hit it so roughly,¡± I correct.


    ¡°What''s the difference?¡±


    ¡°Rough means you don''t hit with precision.¡±


    ¡°And hard?¡±


    ¡°Hard means you put power into your blows. I''ve explained this before. Look...¡±


    I take the hammer from her and strike the bar of iron that''s she''s trying to turn into a dagger. The spark illuminates the faces of the other five initiates in the forge. I strike a few more blows. The steel rings like a bell as it lengthens and flattens according to my will. I glance to the side and see that Guthah''s eyes are wide in awe. Pellas, however, is still scowling.


    ¡°You make it look easy,¡± she says. ¡°But for us, we have to think about each blow.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°You could, maybe, give us some more specific advice? Other than hit harder or softer.¡±


    ¡°I can''t. Forging is just something you need to practice. You need to get a feel for it.¡±


    ¡°What about teaching us how to use the different types of hammers? Or how to strike at different angles?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°You just have to get a feel for it yourself. And it doesn''t matter what kind of hammer you use. For my first craft, all I had was a rock, and a pool of magma for a forge.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you''ve told us this...¡±


    ¡°Many times,¡± someone adds.


    ¡°...but surely you learned a lot after that. Something you could pass on?¡±


    ¡°No. You just have to get a feel for it, by yourself.¡±


    ¡°And if we don''t have a feel for it by the examination?¡±


    ¡°Then you''ll fail, I suppose, and have to try again some other time.¡±


    ¡°Failure could mean death.¡±


    ¡°Death is rare. Your examiner isn''t going to be Vanerak.¡±


    ¡°Initiates still die sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Only occasionally. Besides, if you want to be a runeknight, you''re going to have to face danger eventually. Often. You''ll have to get used to death staring you in the face. Now, get back to work!¡±


    They return to their anvils and continue to beat the metal. I cringe as I watch them. The steel seems to be crying out in pain.


    But I just don''t know how to get them to work it better. Like I told them, you just have to get a feel for it through many, many long-hours of practice.


    A few short-hours later, I''m back in the guildhall.


    ¡°How are the initiates doing?¡± asks Braztak, over some beer¡ªchilled. Guildmaster Wharoth shares our disgust for hot beer.


    ¡°Badly, as ever.¡±


    Braztak shakes his head. ¡°You just need to be a bit more understanding, Zathar.¡±


    Braztak is one of those rare dwarves with a great deal of empathy. A third degree nearly as old as Guildmaster Wharoth, he''s been through more than most, and come out the other side not with burned-out scars where his emotions should be, but with the ability to understand deeply the troubles of his fellows. This quality is why he''s become one of my only friends in the Association of Steel.


    Unfortunately, I do not share this empathy, at least when it comes to the initiates.


    ¡°I understand that it''s hard for them,¡± I say. ¡°I''ve had plenty of struggles in the forge. But I just don''t know how to make them better.¡±


    ¡°You can''t make them better. That''s not what a teacher does. A teacher guides.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but how? They won''t listen to what I say!¡±


    ¡°I think they are listening. You just need to be more observant.¡±


    ¡°I watch their every move,¡± I say stubbornly.


    ¡°Watching isn''t the same as observing. Take Guthah for instance...¡±


    ¡°That short-beard!¡± I snort. ¡°He''s the one that listens least. Thinks he''s the good shit because he''s brawnier than the rest. Brawn doesn''t matter if your opponent''s armor''s covered in runes of strength. Just makes you a bigger target.¡±


    ¡°No, he is listening. He just chooses not to obey.¡±


    ¡°That''s even worse.¡±


    ¡°You need to find a better way to convince him that what you''re telling him could save his life.¡±


    ¡°Not a chance. He''s hell-bent on throwing away his shield.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you should let him.¡±


    I let out a sigh. ¡°I would, but I can''t go against the guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°Who''s the guildmaster to tell them what to forge?¡±


    ¡°He''s the guildmaster, that''s who. And if I let Guthah train without a shield, half the rest will want to throw theirs away too.¡±


    ¡°Well, then let them.¡±


    ¡°And when the guildmaster sees that? And if one of them gets killed in the examination because he didn''t have a shield?¡±


    ¡°That would hardly be your fault. They aren''t children, Zathar. A couple are older than you. They can make their own decisions about how to fight.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but the guildmaster...¡± I throw my hands up in exasperation. ¡°He doesn''t want to lose any. That''s what it comes down to.¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose we can understand why."


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°But maybe you can change his mind. He respects you, you know.¡±


    ¡°Does he? He doesn''t often act like it.¡±


    Braztak laughs. ¡°He''s always been like that, to everyone. Even to me.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± I say. I slap my palms on the table. ¡°I''ll let them choose their weapons¡ªstill not sure about letting them discard their shields, though."


    Braztak nods. "I think you''re making the right call."


    "I don''t think this''ll solve all my problems with them though.¡±


    ¡°No. You still need to try and understand them better.¡±


    ¡°Trouble is, I''ve never been as bad as them. I was talented.¡±


    ¡°Yes... But you''ve had other troubles. Try and draw on that experience. And in the forge, at least, you still have plenty to learn.¡±


    He''s right about that. My metalworking has hit something of a wall.

 Dragonhunt 2: Reforging the War-Pick

    After my drink with Braztak, I head to the forge myself. I''m renting a small one just a few minutes'' walk from the guildhall. It''s nothing fancy, and the furnace is a somewhat primitive design, but that''s no issue. The heat comes more evenly than it did from the fort''s antiquated furnaces, and it''s certainly better than banging on rocks beside a pool of magma.


    Most of its relatively high rent is because of the locks. I don''t want anyone sneaking in to look at my runes.


    I take out my half-completed craft. It''s a tube of aluminum, elliptical in cross-section, shaped to fit in my hands.


    The handle of my new war-pick.


    The war-pick I created during the trial was a masterpiece, one superior to Heartseeker by a good way. The poems were perfect¡ªeven if they do fill me with bloodlust, I''ll need that bloodlust for the coming challenge. However the metal itself has several shortcomings. The steel head was not worked as well as I''m capable of, due to the time constraints, and the handle was especially far from satisfactory in both metal and rune.


    I''ve already reforged the warhead and copied my poem to it rune for rune, so now my only remaining job is to complete the new handle.


    I take out my smallest hammer¡ªlead cored and expertly balanced, it and its larger sisters cost me a good few gold wheels¡ªand start to work. There''s a few parts that need to be evened out before the handle''s ready for polishing and enruning.


    Tap, tap, tap. I work very gently, listening closely to the metal with my runic ears. I examine where I''ve struck using a thick lens¡ªwhich also cost me a good few gold wheels. Still not perfectly even. I continue to tap. The metal is changing shape, but never quite in the way I want it too. I scowl. I''m missing something.


    I''ve had opportunities since the trial to learn from the work of other dwarves. Senior members of the guild hold regular demonstrations, and there are lectures I can pay to go see as well. The words said by a second degree of the New Dynamium Guild, the guild in charge of the magnetic caravan tracks, stuck with me:


    ¡°You must understand this metal not as a material. It is more like bone. Now, most dwarves think bone is like stone, dead and brittle¡ªthough of course stone is not at all like this either¡ªbut bone is alive. Blood runs through it. Neither is it brittle. Living bone bends in accordance with the strain you place on it. This metal is the same, is it not? It bends, and like a living thing it responds to outside forces: to heat, magnetic force, light, sound, and of course to our runes¡ªit is alive.¡±


    She was talking then about neodyne, which is a kind of metal with strong magnetic properties. Yet her words apply to all metal. I can feel that the aluminum is alive in some sense, just like reagent is. I could sense the steel''s pain as the initiates beat on it.


    Knowing how to get the metal to respond to me is another matter. Only once have I really felt like I had an understanding with it: when I was turning scrap to steel for my shield of destruction. Then, I could sense real gratitude. But usually it just feels like stone, or paper, or wood. Just plain stuff, nothing alive.


    I continue to tap away at the aluminum. Gradually the slight warping I''m trying to level out disappears. To the eye of a lesser runeknight, the handle would look perfect. I know it''s not. A trace of imperfection remains. A trace that wouldn''t be there if I was a better smith.


    I glance at the clock. I''ve spent more than a short-hour here already. I turn the handle over in my hands. Everywhere I examine I see traces of imperfection. Right now, however, they''re beyond my ability to fix, and my time is limited.


    Soon I must graft the runes. I open my drawer and pull out my poem drafts. Although there were no improvements to be made on the poem for the head, the one on the handle must be completely re-written.


    I read over the drafts. They''re nothing close to complete: a random assortment of ideas, of chaotic stanzas and mismatched runic flow patterns. I''ve tried out a dozen different scripts, none of which seem to work. I''ve even tried to recreate the script I used for the runes of destruction on my shield, with no success at all.


    Tonight''s the night, though. I have to come up with something, or I''m out of time. I''ve only got a dozen or so long-hours left, and I need that time for grafting.


    I choose the best structure I''ve yet thought of: a spiral of three long stanzas. Which script to choose? I go for one I''ve learned recently: Volot. It''s a bit tricky to use, since the differences between runes are very small and precise, but it''s a popular choice among senior runeknights for anything to do with speed and accuracy, since it''s easy to communicate precise measurements of acceleration and angle with it.


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    I get to writing. My writing stick blurs¡ªit''s an expensive piece of equipment as well, and moves fast and smooth, making barely a sound on the paper.


    The runes of the Volot script define the speed and angle of a swooping hawk.


    Runic dictionaries aren''t the only thing I''ve been reading recently. A couple dozen long-hours ago, I paid a hefty fee for access to the human library of Allabrast. It contains many fascinating texts about the surface, translated into runes for the interested runeknight. I wanted access because I intend to visit the surface at some point, but in the meantime, the descriptions of weird animals and unbelievable landscapes have provided rich inspiration for my poems.


    A hawk is a kind of bird. Birds are creatures a little like bats, except they have branching hairs called feathers all over them. Hawks are the most renowned of the birds. They''re predators which swoop down at incredible speeds toward their prey. And as luck would have it, Volot script, being one of those rare ones hailing from a mountain peak, has some runes for it.


    I will imbue my craft with the speed and accuracy of a hawk. Across three stanzas it spots its prey, swoops down with steel claws outstretched, and bursts from the clouds¡ªclouds are banks of mist hanging in the vast expanse of blue surface air called sky.


    Done. I read through it, check my runic flow calculations, make a couple of minor edits, and I''m ready to graft. I glance at the clock. I really lost myself; another full short-hour has passed. I stretch and walk around the anvil. I don''t feel tired in the slightest. I''m slowly getting used to Allabrast''s strange sleeping schedule.


    If I''m not tired, it''s time to twist the runes. I unlock the safe where I keep my most precious materials and take out a long coil of platinum wire. It''s very fine, very pure, and cost me a good twenty gold wheels, equal to several long-hours'' work troll-wrangling, one of the most risky jobs available for fifth degrees.


    They were only stone trolls, not iron, or lava, but still.


    I uncoil the wire and, clippers in hand, ready my mind. I breath deep.


    My metal-working isn''t going so well, but my runes... I feel that I''m on the edge of a breakthrough. Each time I work them, I feel that I''m growing closer to something. My body grows warm, like I''m standing on the shores of the magma sea again.


    I shut my eyes. I imagine myself moving downward through the stone. My skin is nearly burning now, and sweat is soaking my clothes. There''s power near me. I can feel it. I''m on the verge of something. Something is below the magma.


    I sink toward it. I hesitate. Can I go further? I''ve reached it before, but never have I touched it.


    This time though, I dare to.


    I remember the sphere. I''m inside it! Its mirrored interior gleams with runes smaller than grains of sand. Suddenly the metal cracks. Magma floods in. Power bursts out.


    I open my eyes.


    I work furiously. The runes of Volot script flash silver in the furnace-light. They twist and change¡ªand for once I have some degree of control over how. I whisper that the hawk needs to be fiercer, and it becomes sleeker and sharper. I whisper that the wind should scream, and my ears are filled with a piercing sound that mirrors what the prey-creature makes in the final line. I desire that the angle should be more accurate, and the Volot script twists into runes that communicate deci-seconds of a degree.


    I gasp and pull my hands away. I draw in great gulps of air¡ªmy vision is darkening around the edges to match the scar in its center. How long did my breath stop? There''s no way to tell.


    But I''ve done it! I dared to touch the sphere, and my delving has been rewarded. I could control my power; I chose what runes to make. I shaped them! I''m still not too sure how, but certainly it was my conscious mind at work for the first time, not my unconscious.


    I sink to my haunches. I''m exhausted, but, doesn''t all forging exact a toll on the body? Sore arms, thirst, even collapse. Only two long-hours ago I had to carry one of the initiates from the forge while he gibbered, delirious, from heatstroke.


    I shut my eyes again, and see an after-image of the sphere. This worries me a little. I still have no idea what it could be, how it relates to my powers. Is it something real? If it is, is it of the past, the present, or the future? Or is it something more symbolic, like the Runeking suggested?


    But shortness of breath and slight unease are small prices to pay for such a brilliant poem. I''ve improved every aspect of it. I can see the hawk swooping as I read, feel the terror in the prey-creature''s heart as the steel talons touch its skin and bring forth bright crimson blood.


    I frown. I never intended for that line to happen. I debate if I should get rid of it or not, and decide not to. It adds a certain amount of fierceness, which is something every weapon needs, and it links nicely to the bloodiness of the poem on the warhead.


    Next, to graft, but I really am tired now. I put away the handle, my papers, and the rest of my wire.


    In the safe something glints redly. I wince, and slam it shut, lock it.


    I walk to the door.


    I turn back and reopen the safe. I draw out the red gem, the one of unaging that I forged just after Fjalar''s death. The one that tells of a terrible dwarf laying waste to all he sees for all eternity.


    Vitality glows from it. Just holding it in my hand, I feel invigorated, like I could continue crafting for another full long-hour with no rest.


    Yet I worry about what I might become if I equip it, if I set it into where the sapphire is now and hang it around my neck to rest over my heart. Will the bloody battle rendered in its facets become my fate? I''m out to help my fellow dwarves, I decided during my trial. Not commit bloody murder against them.


    But at the same time, I need power to help them, and power this amulet certainly contains. More than my sapphire one, which is shivering against my skin like some small, scared animal.


    I need power! Power to craft. Power to work, to swell my earnings for better forging equipment and materials. Power to become strong enough to defeat the black dragon. And after that, maybe the power to find my brother, if he be alive.


    Most immediately though, I need the power to ascend to fourth degree.


    My examination is less than a dozen long-hours away.

 Dragonhunt 3: Twenty Strikes Training

    The initiates train in a small courtyard near the back of the guildhall. It''s as plain as can be, like most everything in the Association of Steel. There are no fancy training statues, weights, climbing scaffolds or strike-power gauges. Guildmaster Wharoth believes in the simpler ways of improving combat ability.


    I line the dozen dwarves up. I fix them with my hardest stare.


    ¡°I''ve been noticing something of a lack of respect recently.¡±


    A few of the initiates shift awkwardly, but most are impassive. I''ve started many a training session with this line, after all.


    ¡°There seems to be a certain scepticism about my training methods.¡±


    Guthah is returning my hard stare. I look at him.


    ¡°Some of you want to try different weapons. You think you''re too good for axe and shield. Maybe you think I should be teaching you the weapon I use.¡±


    I hold Heartseeker out¡ªI''ve brought it here to show them.


    ¡°My method of fighting, when I use this, is not what Guildmaster Wharoth wants you to learn. I don''t smash and chop to break my opponent''s armor, I aim carefully to disable their joints, feet, hands. This requires a high level of skill. My accuracy must be supreme. The runes on Heartseeker assist me with that. Any runes you create would not be good enough.¡±


    A few initiates scowl.


    ¡°I''m only telling the truth. However, I''ve had a think, and decided that maybe you should get the opportunity to try out some different weapons. There''s still a fair few long-hours before your examination. Plenty of time to craft a new weapon. Hell, a lot of you need to do that anyway.¡±


    ¡°What about the guildmaster''s orders?¡± one of the initiates asks.


    ¡°As long as you keep your shield, he won''t have any issue.¡±


    I gesture to a weapon rack behind me. In it is a wide variety of wooden practice weapons¡ªhammers, maces, swords, and spears. Most are one-handed, but some are hand-and-half, designed to be used in either one or two-handedly. I see Guthah''s eyes move greedily to one of the long spears.


    ¡°Now, choose a weapon. Whatever you thinks suits you best. Or, you can keep your axe.¡±


    I step aside and let them make their selections. Most choose swords, a few go for hammers. Maces aren''t so popular. Guthah grabs the longest spear.


    They pair up like usual and begin to spar. I wince at their techniques. In the time I''ve had them, the equivalent of a few months, they really haven''t improved very much. Probably they ought to go back to practicing basic strikes against the air, like Braztak was having them do before he got too busy with his forging. But with the examination so close, they need to get used to having someone¡ªor something¡ªin their face, trying to hurt them.


    As the minutes pass, however, something strange happens. They improve. The weapons move more quickly and accurately. Their movements speed up. I fold my arms and frown. What''s gotten into them?


    Maybe they want to impress me. Though I do complain about their lack of respect, at least they don''t openly despise me like many others in the guild. These dwarves are young, and mostly born here in Allabrast. To them I''m an object of fascination rather than the betrayer of their guild and realm.


    But a simple desire to impress doesn''t explain what I''m seeing. I watch Pellas. She''s one of the younger dwarves here, barely twenty years¡ªor two thousand five hundred long-hours, as she would put it. For her practice weapon she''s chosen a short sword, and is moving it deftly around her opponent''s shield to strike at the gaps in his armor¡ªthis is the correct way to use a sword against an armored opponent.


    I never told her to do this. She just seems to have worked it out naturally.


    Guthah, on the other hand, is not doing so well. He keeps missing with his spear and getting clobbered on the head by his opponent''s hammer. There''s frustration in his green eyes, and his shield is behind him.


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    He catches me looking and stops.


    ¡°I want to try without a shield, instructor, please.¡±


    I open my mouth to snap at him, then stop. For once there''s no petulance in his tone.


    ¡°Please, instructor.¡±


    He''s nearly begging!


    ¡°Please,¡± he repeats. ¡°Why not? Don''t I have a better chance of passing if I''m using something I''m comfortable with?¡±


    ¡°The guildmaster wants you using a shield. It''s safer.¡±


    ¡°But with all respect, instructor, with a spear I can keep my foe¡ªwhatever they send at me¡ªat a distance.¡±


    Respect! I''ve never heard him speak the word until now.


    ¡°That''s not so easy,¡± I warn.


    ¡°Maybe not. But I won''t know until I try.¡±


    I open my mouth to rebuke, and realize I have no argument with what he''s saying. He''s right. Who am I to tell them what weapon to use? My eyes flick to the stark stone walls of the guildhall, within which Guildmaster Wharoth is forging.


    Who is he to tell them what weapons to use? The strength of us runeknights is in how we can create tools of protection and destruction in exactly the ways which fit us. Telling one to craft this or craft that is antithetical to this principle.


    Runethane Yurok went that route, and near-destroyed the fort against the deep darkness.


    I nod. ¡°Maybe you''re right. Yes, why not. All right.¡±


    ¡°You mean it? Really?¡±


    Guthah seems shocked. ¡°I mean it,¡± I confirm.


    ¡°Really? We can? No catch?¡±


    ¡°There is a catch,¡± I say. ¡°First, I test you.¡±


    I lean Heartseeker against the wall and pick up a training spear. It''s a little shorter than I''m used to, but I don''t mind. They need all the advantages they can get.


    I beckon the initiates to come forward. ¡°If any of you can land a hit on me without using a shield, you''re allowed to use a two-handed weapon in the examination. Well? Anyone keen to take on the challenge?¡±


    Guthah steps forward. He readies his spear. He''s quite tall¡ªmaybe he''ll be able to use it well. Some of the others come forward too. In fact nearly all of them do.


    I chuckle. I see what''s going on. They want to have a go at beating me up. See if I''m really as strong as everyone says I am.


    I''ll show them exactly how wide the difference between us is.


    ¡°Could we have some time to practice first?¡± Pellas asks.


    ¡°Yes, of course. You can have thirty minutes. Then ten minutes'' rest.¡±


    ¡°What are the rules of the bout?¡± asks one of Guthah''s friends, wielding a large hammer.


    ¡°Rules? If you get a single hit on me, you win. If I score five hits on you, I win. Fair?¡±


    ¡°Last long-hour you said you were twenty times better than us,¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Quite right. Fine, I have to hit you twenty times.¡± I grin. ¡°How do you feel about that? They won''t be soft hits either.¡±


    ¡°We''ve got armor on,¡± someone says. ¡°I''m fine with those rules.¡±


    I laugh loudly. ¡°Good. Then get practicing.¡±


    I wander into the guildhall to get a beer, and ask where Guildmaster Wharoth is. Still at the forge, apparently. Probably he''ll be down there for at least a couple long-hours. Good¡ªif any of the initiates actually manage to win against me, I won''t have to deal with his ire immediately. Recently I feel that he''s been starting to regret giving me full reign over them.


    Beer downed, I head back out into the yard. Once again I''m impressed. They''re striking much more quickly and accurately than I''d expected, Guthah especially. He''s succeeding at keeping his opponent at long range¡ªa very tricky task when they''ve got a shield. His opponent closes suddenly¡ªGuthah flips the spear round and smacks him down with the end.


    ¡°Nice blow, Guthah!¡± I shout.


    He turns to me and grins. My praise is rare¡ªI only give it when they earn it, which is about once every three or four long-hours.


    ¡°Ready for the test?¡± I ask them.


    ¡°Yes, instructor!¡± they bellow.


    ¡°Good. Who''s first?¡±


    Guthah makes to step forward, but one of the others, wielding a large hammer, beats him to it.


    ¡°Karak,¡± I say. ¡°Good dwarf. I''ll let you strike first¡ª¡°


    He does so with vigor, sweeping at my legs before I''ve even readied my spear. I see the blow coming and step back. He misses me by several inches. I jab and hit him square in the face, knocking his visor up. He falls onto his rear.


    I give him a couple nasty blows to the shoulders, under the gaps there, then I step back to let him get up. He pulls his visor back down, hesitantly.


    ¡°Three out of twenty to me,¡± I say. ¡°Come on. You only need to get one.¡±


    He strikes at my head. I sidestep, laughing. I feint high then strike twice low into the gap between greave and boot. He gasps in pain and falls over again.


    ¡°The advantage of a two-handed weapon is range and power,¡± I say. ¡°But between blows you''re open. You need to know what to do if you miss.¡±


    He makes to get up and I jab his helmet again.


    ¡°Keep your eyes on your foe''s weapon!¡± I snap. ¡°Everything I''ve been saying these past long-hours still applies. Six points to me now!¡±


    I let him stand. He sweeps at my legs again, so slowly I have time to roll my eyes as I step away. He''s being too cautious, worrying about what to do if he misses. I give him a chance to bring the weapon across to block my next strike, which I aim very obviously. He manages, but fails to turn the parry into a riposte. I punish him with a jab to the gorget.


    He falls over once again, coughing this time.


    ¡°A block is often an opportunity for a strike,¡± I say. ¡°Do you lot remember nothing I tell you?¡±


    I wait for him to get up, but he drops his weapon and holds both palms out to me. Surrender. He''s still coughing.


    ¡°Bruised throat?¡± I say. ¡°Once you become a runeknight, you''ll have to fight through worse injuries than that. But you weren''t the idiot who said he wanted twenty blows from me, so I''ll let you off this time.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he coughs, and staggers to his feet.


    ¡°Who''s next?¡± I say.


    They look a lot less eager now. The one who said he was happy to take twenty blows from me especially is cringing back. Guthah, though, steps forward proudly.


    ¡°I''ll go,¡± he says.


    ¡°Then have at me, short-beard.¡±

 Dragonhunt 4: The War-Pick Completed

    Guthah jabs at my face. I dodge easily, my instincts unimpeded by the awkwardness of the wooden armor. I stab at his lead foot, sensing he has too much weight on it. To my surprise, he manages to shift and draw it back, though I still get his toe.


    ¡°One to you,¡± he says, and immediately receives a stab to the groin. Despite the codpiece the force hurts him and he stumbles back.


    ¡°Don''t talk!¡± I snap. ¡°Don''t get distracted. Distraction can mean death.¡±


    He nods, then unleashes a flurry of stabs at my torso¡ªif a combination so slow and clumsy can properly be called a flurry. I step around, shorten my grip on my spear, and smack him in the head.


    To his credit, unlike his friend, he stays upright. I stab again, slowly to give him a chance to show some skill and block it, and he manages to. What''s more, he stabs upward right after. I step aside.


    ¡°Good¡ª¡° I begin, but he''s attacking again. I grin. Don''t talk in a fight¡ªI should take my own advice sometimes.


    The smack of clashing wood echoes around the training yard. His blows remain clumsy, but their speed is increasing. In fact, he''s taking to the spear very well. Better, maybe, than I first did.


    I up the pace of my own blows. Until now I''ve been holding back, giving him chances to block. Let''s see if he can keep pace when I''m serious. One, two, three, four... I jab up, down, left, left. He can''t predict my patterns, fumbles his parries. My spear strikes him over and over, each time into the gaps in his armor.


    Though, I pull my blows a little. I don''t want to injure him.


    I let him back away. He''s gasping, exhausted.


    ¡°Let the armor and weapon do the work for you,¡± I say.


    ¡°But this armor isn''t enruned!¡±


    ¡°So? It''s not about how many runes of strength you have on. It''s about getting a feel for the metal around you. Understanding how it moves.¡±


    I expect a protest from him, but instead he simply says: ¡°Right.¡±


    Is he finally listening to me? He charges and lunges with extreme range. He''s aiming at my right shoulder, then with a twist of his wrist he''s aiming for my left knee. A tricky blow, which would be hard to parry if he was any faster.


    So I let him have it. His spear brushes past my knee. I use my own to twist it away and up. He makes to flip it around and strike me with the other end, but I order:


    ¡°Stop! You got me.¡±


    He backs away, blinking in surprise. ¡°Did I?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Yes. Only just.¡±


    ¡°Did you let me?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I lie, to give him some confidence. ¡°Though I will say I wasn''t fighting as fast as I usually do.¡±


    I get some skeptical looks from the other initiates at that.


    ¡°It''s true,¡± I say. ¡°I can move faster in my real armor than this stuff. Anyway, congratulations Guthah. You can use a two-handed spear in the examination, if you want. Though you''re going to have to work hard at your technique over the next ten long-hours.¡±


    ¡°I will,¡± he says.


    ¡°And of course you''ll have to forge a half-decent one as well.¡±


    ¡°Already started on that¡ªactually, I want to ask you¡ª¡°


    ¡°After I finish off the rest here,¡± I say. ¡°Now, you lot. Who''s next?¡±


    None of them show anything close to the promise Guthah did. I thrash them easily, even when I''m moving at half the speed I''m capable of. Only Pellas comes anywhere close to victory. She manages to batter my spear away and close with her sword, but decides to stab at the most obvious target. I grab her arm and throw her to the floor, and my next stab is number twenty.


    ¡°Close,¡± I say. ¡°Not quite close enough, though.¡±


    ¡°It''s hard to get in range.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but you chose your weapon.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough.¡±


    With that, we''re finished. For once I feel a small degree of pride, and more than a small degree of irritation at Guildmaster Wharoth. What was he thinking, choosing their weapons for them? Maybe your mind really does go funny after too many long-hours at the forge.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Good work everyone,¡± I say. ¡°I don''t often say this, but for once some of you managed to fight half decently. Maybe you''ll pass the examination after all. Maybe. Don''t get over-confident. You can continue with the one-handed weapons you chose. Dismissed. Off to the forges you go.¡±


    They bow, deeper than usual, and leave, apart from Guthah.


    ¡°Yes? You had a question?¡±


    ¡°I just want some tips on how to forge a spear. Your Heartseeker is... Remarkable, after all.¡±


    ¡°Don''t try to copy me. Make what works for you.¡±


    ¡°But how do I know what''s going to work for me?¡±


    ¡°You can''t until you''ve had some experience. Fight with it a bit more and then decide on the poem you want to graft.¡±


    ¡°I''ve been having trouble with that as well. I have ideas, but...¡±


    ¡°Let me guess: runic flow calculations?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Your runes seemed to work so perfectly.¡±


    I scratch my head. ¡°You mean in my trial. Yes, well, once you have experience, these things come naturally. Practice more, is my advice.¡±


    ¡°I already spend every hour I have practicing.¡±


    ¡°Good. You''re on the right rails then.¡±


    ¡°Still... You really do make everything look easy, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Trust me, it isn''t. Nothing''s easy. If something seems easy, it''s because you''re not pushing yourself enough. Take things easy and you''ll end up on a plateau.¡±


    ¡°What''s that?¡±


    ¡°It''s a surface thing. When a mountain goes suddenly flat halfway up the top.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Good. Off to the forges you go then, initiate.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to come by later?¡±


    ¡°Probably not. I''ve got my own work to do.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well, see you next training session.¡±


    ¡°Don''t be late. In fact, if you''re early, then maybe I can show you a few tricks. You''ve earned the knowledge.¡±


    He grins. ¡°See you.¡±


    I smile as he leaves. Here''s a dwarf with ambition! He''s not from a family of runeknights either¡ªjewelers. A respected profession, and a rich one too. Master jewelers can end up as rich as high degree runeknights. But Guthah wants to leave that all behind. Cutting gems is all very well, he''s told me, but runes are where true beauty lies.


    Very poetically put. I sense that he''s a lot more interested in glory than beauty, however.


    Off to my own forge I go. It''s time to begin grafting the poem to the handle. I was going to use quizik for it, to give a little more stability, but the poem has turned out too fierce for that. It''ll take incandesite well. I''ll do a two-thirds mix. And hytrigite for the key runes, those referring directly to the hawk. I''m a bit nervous about the hytrigite¡ªit''s been too long since I last worked with it.


    I take out my boxes of reagent and begin to mix. It''s a laborious process, if not a difficult one. The quizik and incandesite need to be mixed extremely thoroughly, but also extremely slowly, lest I accidently create some spark. I measure exactly, and stir in a calm frame of mind, observing the color carefully. Half an hour later, the smell of quizik dust strong in my nostrils, the mixture is ready.


    Very evenly I brush it onto the underside of the runes. The quizik sticks, but some of the incandesite doesn''t. I curse as I very carefully brush it back under the platinum wire.


    No. That won''t work. There''ll be a greater concentration of incandesite around the edges of each rune now. I brush everything off back into the mixing bowl.


    After another hour of mixing, I think it''s ready. I brush it onto the underside of the first runes again. Still, a few grains of incandesite fall away. What''s more, the smell of quizik dust is stronger than ever. A fair bit has been lost to the air.


    I groan. This means my carefully measured ratios are all off. I sigh. Have I wasted several golden wheels'' worth of reagent before even beginning the grafting? No, no. As long as the ratio is even throughout the whole poem, it doesn''t matter if it''s exactly a two to three mix. I pour more quizik and incandesite into the mixing bowl, to make sure I have enough for the poem entire, and restart mixing.


    Despite the difficulties, I feel proud of myself. I''m paying attention to even the smallest details of the forging process. My trial by forging has taught me much.


    A short-hour passes and it''s finally time to graft. I brush on the reagent mix, and this time it sticks well. I heat my welding stick and, rune by rune, imbue them onto the aluminum handle. Now the first stanza, bar the key runes, is done, and I look at the clock. Another short-hour has passed. I inspect the runes under my lens and they''re in place exactly.


    I put a lid over the mixture. Time to rest my fingers. I don''t want to rush things so close to the finish.


    <hr>


    The next few long-hours pass quickly. I graft, instruct, return to the forge to graft some more. Despite my worries about the hytrigite, it goes easily. Maybe too easily. I bought pre-refined stuff¡ªmaybe that was a mistake.


    Finally, I''m finished the handle. I take out the head. The steel gleams redly, and a thrill shoots through my hands and into my body. Now this, this is going to be a truly deadly weapon. Sharper even than what I created in the trial, I have no doubt it''ll penetrate all but the most well-crafted plates. Hell, it should even pierce first degree level chainmail, if I aim well enough.


    Best not to get cocky though. I still have to weld it.


    I brush the top part of the handle with incandesite carefully, then work it through the slot in the center of the head. The craft is together. I place it carefully back down upon the anvil. I heat my welding stick. Fingers trembling, I move it toward the incandesite dust.


    Flash! Red fills the forge. The beating of my heart speeds fivefold. Flash again! The runes on the warhead gleam crimson. The handle shivers. My eyes are drawn to the poems¡ªpower is flowing through both of them, uninterrupted by the weld. The runic flow is perfected.


    The hawk''s talons become the war-pick, piercing the enemy with precision.


    I seal the top and base of the hollow handle with small discs, and now the craft complete. I hold it and the urge to swing takes hold of me¡ªthe urge to swing it at something alive.


    Trembling, I lay it down. There''s nothing to swing it at yet, I remind myself. Not until the examination.


    I swallow. This craft scares me a little. Not that I think grasping it is going to make me go berserk, or anything like that, but still, I can''t help but worry that in battle my control might slip. I might get a bit carried away. Get overconfident, over-extend myself.


    I''ll have to be careful.


    But still, what a craft! I admire it. It''s my greatest creation yet. I grin widely.


    Now: what to name it?

 Dragonhunt 5: A Terrible Rumor

    Four long-hours left to go. My equipment being more or less ready, now I must focus on training. Combat training. One of the first things I did after deciding to remake my war-pick was purchase a training one out of wood. Until recently, I hadn''t done much sparring with it, just gone through drills in the privacy of my quarters. I was embarrassed to be seen with it. I thought I''d gotten over the shame of my past, but apparently not entirely.


    But survival is more important than shame. Now, for about at hour before each training session with the initiates, I spar with my war-pick out in the open.


    One of my regular sparring partners is Guthah. Initiate he may be, but with the spear, it''s become clear he''s something of a savant.


    He jabs high. I try to hook my weapon around the tip but he was just feinting. He whips it back and it''s flying low¡ªno, middle! I dodge and swing at his head, but strike only a glancing blow, and a badly angled one at that.


    We break, panting, though he more than me.


    ¡°Got me again,¡± he gasps.


    ¡°Well, you got me as well.¡±


    ¡°Only once.¡±


    ¡°Still, striking a fifth degree runeknight is impressive.¡±


    ¡°One who isn''t in his armor. You weren''t lying before. You move twice as fast when you spar in it¡ªI''ve watched your bouts with the other senior runeknights.¡±


    ¡°Fifth degree is hardly senior.¡±


    ¡°Fourth soon.¡±


    ¡°All the same, you should be happy with your progress. You''re a mile better than the other initiates.¡±


    ¡°You''re confident I''ll pass then?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Though nothing''s guaranteed. Keep your guard up. Now, another round?¡±


    He grins and pulls his visor back down. ¡°Gladly!¡±


    We go at it again. I practice the techniques I''ve studied from the few war-pick combat manuals I could find. Most are various kinds of hooks and pulls, and combinations of those.


    They''re proving tricky to master. A war-pick is slower than the spear and has much less range¡ªabout half as much. I can''t unleash quick flurries of strikes¡ªeach blow must be deliberate. Feints are difficult to pull off.


    Nevertheless, what it lacks in speed and range it makes up for in power. Each time I land a solid blow, Guthah winces. I''ve even cracked his wooden armor a few times. I won''t have to worry about striking gaps and weak-points when I use my real weapon. Wherever I hit, I can damage.


    Our session ends and the main session with the rest of the initiates begins. Their rapid improvement is continuing. They''re eager to prove their choices were correct.


    The training ends and I head back to my forge and get to polishing my armor. Mere scratches won''t do much to runes, but they will do something, and for my examination everything needs to be at full functionality.


    I''m beginning to grow worried¡ªwell, I''ve been worrying for a while, but now I''m worrying more seriously. In my dreams I''m forced to see my examination for tenth degree. I remember the screams of the other initiates as the abyssal salamander devoured them one by one, while Vanerak watched on coldly.


    That was a bloody exception, even for a far-off frontier realm like Runethane Thanerzak''s. Yet I can''t help but feel that Allabrast''s examiners might want to throw in a few surprises against the infamous traitor¡ªI may have been found innocent, but I know not everyone has accepted the outcome.


    All of a sudden I''m unlocking the safe. I pull out the ruby. Its blood-color facets gleam. My right hand, clutching it, feels stronger, more flexible. The skin on the back of my hand looks smoother. The aches from over-work at the forge and in training fade.


    I squeeze the ruby harder and the aches vanishe entirely.


    Should I equip it? Should I really equip it? How about just for the examination?


    But once I do, I don''t think I''ll be able to take it off very easily.


    <hr>


    ¡°Congratulations, Zathar!¡± roars Faltast. ¡°On the creation of your new weapon!¡±


    ¡°Thank you. I hope it serves me well.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure it will,¡± says Braztak. ¡°In the meantime: another round of beers, barmaid!¡±


    A few of my guildmates have taken me out to an expensive pub to celebrate the completion of my war-pick. It''s not a big party, since I don''t have very many friends, but I''m looking forward to the night¡ªnot really a night, of course, but we''re calling it that¡ªespecially since this place is rumored to feature several rare alcohols, some of which they serve properly chilled.


    The beers come and we swig them down. It says on the barrel behind the main bar that the brew is one hundred percent real hops. Brewed from cave wheat, not cheap cave mushrooms.


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    ¡°So, Zathar,¡± says Jerat, a fifth degree with a rather unkempt brown beard and a nose like a bent axe-blade, ¡°What''re you going to name it? A craft this great ought to have a name.¡±


    I look at my war-pick. It''s balanced on top of its own chair¡ªafter all, it''s as much the object of celebration tonight as I am. The glow of the hearth plays across its bloody runes. I scratch my beard.


    ¡°Not decided yet.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± he says aghast. ¡°We''ll have to come up with one.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure he can come up with his own,¡± says Faltast, wiping foam off his pleated blonde moustaches. ¡°You shouldn''t rush these things.¡±


    ¡°You shouldn''t leave them until too late either,¡± says Jerat. ¡°I always name my crafts before I complete them. Helps the direction of the piece, I find.¡±


    ¡°You name every single craft?¡± I say.


    ¡°Of course! They deserve it. Don''t you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No?¡±


    ¡°I don''t either,¡± says Braztak. ¡°Only those most worthy of a name get one.¡±


    ¡°Like your halberd? There''s a craft to admire,¡± says Jerat solemnly. ¡°Spike them and slice them! I''d never had much interest in multi-use weapons until you finished it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, old Horn Teeth is a good enough piece. But I think Zathar''s pick is more than its equal.¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± I say, shaking my head. ¡°My poem is good, but I still think my steel leaves something to be desired. As you often remind me.¡±


    ¡°It''s better than the steel of most,¡± says Faltast. ¡°Though I''m curious as to why you didn''t go with titanium. You''re quite the expert with it.¡±


    ¡°Titanium''s all well and good. But steel has more of a... A bite to it. I don''t know. It''s less complicated, more focused.¡±


    ¡°Runes don''t take as well though.¡±


    ¡°Depends on the runes. But enough of talking metal,¡± I say hurriedly, keen to keep the conversation away from runes. Out of my six friends here, only Braztak knows my secret¡ªhe''s the most trustworthy dwarf in the guild.


    Though I do worry that others, both inside the Association of Steel and out, are beginning to have suspicions.


    ¡°What are we going to eat?¡± I say.


    All but one of us originally being from Thanerzak''s realm, and thus partial to hot meat instead of cold, solid slabs, we end up splashing out on salamander. The steaks come smoking¡ªnot steaming¡ªand coated in a fiery sauce. Both meat and sauce heat my belly like they''re the fuel for a furnace. For vegetables, there''s a strange green thing imported from the surface. Asparagus, I think it''s called. It tastes good broiled in butter.


    For dessert, we have sugar-glazed sticks of boar''s skin. The bristles have been expertly shaved away, for which I''m thankful. There''s nothing worse than getting bits of boar-hair stuck in your gums.


    Then, more drinks! Beer of every variety, all chilled, then some hot wine, hot spirits¡ªeven a whiskey infused with salamander blood. The surroundings grow fuzzier each mug, glass, and goblet I down. Our words slur. We''re at another bar all of a sudden¡ªwe''ve gone through three already, I''m pretty sure. My pockets feel a good deal lighter than they did when we left the guildhall. They were only holding silvers, but still¡ªa lot of them.


    ¡°So, you see, usually they''ll get you to do some useful job for the fourth and up examinations. Though it depends on the examiner. This year he''s...¡±


    Braztak just said something, but it''s already gone from my memory. No matter.


    ¡°''Nother drink?¡± I slur at Jerat.


    ¡°Another round!¡± he shouts cheerfully at the barkeep.


    We all down another beer. It''s steaming hot, but I don''t really care anymore.


    ¡°Hey, I''m talking to you! To you!¡±


    I turn to the voice behind me. I stumble forward a step too far, two dwarves catch me by the shoulders and steady me. I blink¡ªthe two dwarves become one.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I slur.


    ¡°You''re Zathar, aren''t you?¡±


    ¡°What of it?¡± says Jerat, stepping up beside me. ¡°You two looking to start something?¡±


    ¡°What? No,¡± say the dwarves¡ªthere''s two of them again. ¡°Not at all!¡±


    ¡°What is it then?¡± I slur. I clench my fists.


    ¡°Calm down, please!¡± he says. ¡°I''m not looking for a fight. I just wondered if you''d heard the news!¡±


    ¡°News?¡± I say. ¡°What news?¡±


    ¡°Runeking Halajatbast is slain! His kingdom thrown into ruin! The mountain dwarves have fled!¡±


    ¡°Runeking who?¡±


    ¡°Halajatbast! The ruler of the dwarves of the great north mountain and all the hills about them!¡±


    ¡°The north mountain?¡± I say. ¡°A bit far away, no?¡±


    ¡°That''s on the other side of the world, or near enough,¡± scoffs Faltast, wiping beer-foam from his mouth. ¡°What''s it matter to us?¡±


    ¡°It matters to all of your guild!¡±


    The others stop in place, drinks halfway to their mouths. Their eyes narrow. Braztak puts down his mug.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± he says.


    ¡°You mean you don''t know?¡±


    ¡°Of course we don''t fucking know,¡± I laugh. I slap the dwarf violently on the shoulder. ¡°Can''t you fucking figure that out?¡±


    ¡°More beers!¡± yells Jerat. ¡°More beers, hot, cold, or in between! Two for our new friends here too!¡±


    ¡°What don''t we know?¡± says Braztak.


    Something in his tone takes the edge off my drunkenness. Jerat senses it too, and stops shouting at the barmaids for more drink. I take a step back, toward my war-pick.


    ¡°He was slain by none other than the black dragon!¡± say the dwarf. ¡°The one that destroyed your guild! Your realm!¡± He turns back to me. ¡°The one you swore to kill!¡±


    I grasp my pick at the top of the handle, swing it up. I don''t know why I''m swinging it, I just am. A look of shock crosses the dwarf''s face as I uppercut him with the middle of the warhead. He falls down, and then I''m sitting on his chest with one hand around his neck.


    ¡°What?¡± I scream, spittle flying. ¡°What did you say?¡±


    My friends are dragging me back. Everyone in the bar, which is spinning a little, is staring. I force myself out Braztak and Jerat''s grasp and put my hand around the dwarf''s neck again.


    ¡°If you''re lying...!¡±


    ¡°I''m not lying!¡± wails the dwarf. ¡°I just thought you should know!¡±


    ¡°It''s the black dragon? The same black dragon? Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± another patron shouts. ¡°No one knows what did the mountain dwarves in.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡± I press the metal of my war-pick into the dwarf''s unarmored neck.


    ¡°That''s enough, Zathar!¡± shouts Braztak, and with a mighty surge of strength he wrests me backward and to my feet.


    I breath deep. I feel sick all of a sudden, and not drunk at all. The bar ceases to spin. My head is throbbing.


    ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡± I say.


    The bar is silent. The dwarf I was throttling crawls backward, rubbing his neck and staring up at me in terror.


    ¡°The mountain kingdom of Halajatbast is rumored to be destroyed,¡± someone finally says. ¡°No one knows what by. Some say a dragon. Some say a black dragon. Some say a falling star, punishment for straying too close to the sky.¡±


    ¡°No one knows?¡±


    ¡°Everyone knows,¡± insists the dwarf I throttled, now pulling himself up onto a chair. ¡°It''s the black dragon. I didn''t lie to you, honored runeknight!¡±


    ¡°Is there any proof?¡± demands Braztak.


    ¡°No... No proof. But everyone''s saying it! Where there''s smoke there''s fire!¡±


    ¡°Dragonfire doesn''t make smoke,¡± I say acidly.


    ¡°Does when it burns wood,¡± slurs Jerat. ¡°Did when it burned us...¡±


    ¡°Who''s saying it?¡± demands Faltast. ¡°Who in particular?¡±


    The dwarf flails his hands around. ¡°Everyone!¡±


    ¡°It''s a rumor,¡± says another patron. ¡°Just a rumor. You shouldn''t worry about it. It won''t be true.¡±


    ¡°It might be,¡± I say. Rage rises in me. The urge to strike my pick through dragonflesh burns in my heart. ¡°It might be!¡± I scream.


    ¡°That''s enough, Zathar!¡± shouts Braztak.


    I take a deep breath and lower my war-pick. I didn''t even realize I''d raised it again.

 Dragonhunt 6: Sparring With a Pick

    I sit cross-legged on the floor of the forge, holding the ruby in my palms. I stare into its red facets, reading the runes that speak of an eternity of battle.


    Can it be true? Can the black dragon really have been sighted? I''d heard rumors, from the caravaneers I think, that it''d been attacking far-off mountain kingdoms. I didn''t put much weight in them¡ªthose rumors were very vague.


    This rumor is different. It''s shot through Allabrast like a wildfire. After the party¡ªafter I''d recovered from my hangover¡ªeveryone in the guild was talking about it, and outside in the street too. All throughout the city, a nervous kind of excited panic has taken hold.


    An entire kingdom and its Runeking¡ªdestroyed! What else could do that but the dragon that turned two cities to molten death in an instant? And another question being asked is: will the traitor make good on his oath to slay it, or will some other runeknight, or even Runethane, prove better suited to the task?


    I sink deeper into the ruby''s facets. I can feel myself leaning closer and closer. My mind becomes clear, my headache starts to dissipate.


    I pull back. I can''t put this on. I mustn''t! My war-pick made me strike someone¡ªnearly made me snap his neck. What kind of madness will putting this thing against my flesh lead to?


    I return it to the safe.


    Out to the training yard I go. Only three long-hours left now. If I dare not take advantage of the ruby, I must polish my combat skills to perfection. This time I fight in my armor, though my weapon is still one of wood. Special session this hour: it''s for me, not the initiates. Out of them only Guthah is here, and then I''ll face Faltast, Mulkath, and Braztak.


    ¡°Ready?¡± I ask Guthah.


    ¡°Ready,¡± he says.


    He''s wearing his own armor today also. It''s primitive, of cheap steel and silver runes. The poems are of few lines and not particularly inspired. Nevertheless, his first strike is snake-quick.


    I twist to dodge, pivot with the help of my gripping boots, and batter his spear out the way as he goes in for a second strike. I corkscrew the pick while thrusting forward, attempting an advanced hook-technique, and succeed. I pull him close and elbow-strike his head. His helmet clangs; he falls. I bring the pick down.


    I taps his helmet gently with it.


    ¡°One to me,¡± I say.


    ¡°You''re too fast!¡± he gasps.


    ¡°You''re still not moving in your armor right.¡± I resist the urge to make a cutting remark about the metal. ¡°It needs to be like a second skin to you.¡±


    ¡°You say that, but I don''t know how.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°It''s just practice.¡±


    ¡°Don''t look so downcast,¡± says Braztak from the side. ¡°You''re not even a runeknight, yet even so a fifth degree has asked you to spar with him. You''re talented.¡±


    Guthah picks himself up and bows to Braztak. ¡°Thank you, honored runeknight. Only with the spear though. At the forge...¡±


    ¡°You''re good enough for tenth degree,¡± Braztak reassures him.


    My next opponent is Faltast. His armor is titanium, adorned with poems praising speed and strength, a standard affair. It''s well-crafted but, privately, I don''t think it''s quite as well crafted as my own. He wields a long axe in his right hand and clutches a buckler in his left.


    He swings at my neck, a decapitating blow¡ªif his weapon was metal. I duck and bring my pick down at his foot. He steps back deftly and my pick hits the stone. I bounce it back up just in time to guard his next strike.


    I curse. If I''d been wielding my real weapon, it''d be stuck into the stone, and I''d be headless, or at the very least have a cloven helmet. He swings again and I try to hook the blade as I step back, but he twists his axe away at the last moment. Frustrated, I barrel forward and shove him over. I bring my pick down in a murderous vertical strike which he blocks with his buckler.


    ¡°Would have gone right through,¡± remarks Braztak.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°Hah!¡± spits Faltast. ¡°First, he''d have stuck his pick right into the stone.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say glumly. ¡°Your round, Faltast.¡±


    We go through another few. I win half, he wins half. In the past, with a spear in my hands, I never lost to him. I''m starting to think that maybe I ought to bring Heartseeker to the examination instead. Yet what kind of runeknight brings his second best weapon to battle? Though it''s certainly strong, I worry that Heartseeker isn''t quite sharp enough to get through whatever nasty surprise the examiners are going to send my way.


    ¡°My turn,¡± says Mulkath. ¡°Let''s see what you can do.¡±


    I ready the wooden pick. He readies his short sword and square shield. I''m not worried about his weapon choice, for I outrange him, but Mulkath''s armor is tricky. Its poems are mercury-etched and speak of slipping and sliding from the enemy''s grasp. The metal shimmers and seems to ripple as he strides toward me.


    I strike at his shield, hit it nearly square but not quite. Splinters fly, and some force is applied, so he has to step back to steady himself, but if he was using his actual shield, with the same mercury runes that are on his armor, I''d be woefully overbalanced right now.


    He stabs at me. I take the glancing blow then quickly get out of his range. Damn! I''m out of range as well¡ªI''ve automatically stepped the right amount away for a strike with Heartseeker. I step back in but my initiative is lost, and he manages to land some quick blows on me. Wood on titanium echoes dully.


    We both know they wouldn''t have done much damage to my armor, so after a quick pause, the bout resumes. I strike downwards, trying to hook his shield from the top. I manage, but he keeps hold of it¡ªI missed his wrist¡ªand now he''s in a position to stab me.


    Which he does, solidly.


    ¡°Your victory,¡± I say. ¡°That would''ve done some damage.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he spits back. ¡°It would''ve.¡±


    I can''t quite count Mulkath as a friend. Neither he is an enemy, or else he wouldn''t be out here helping me, but he''s made it clear to me several times that he hasn''t forgiven me for my treason. He''s mostly here because he''s on good terms with Braztak, who thought I needed a trickier opponent to face. That''s what my pick will be weak at, he judges. Dwarves whose armor shifts, from which weapons slide.


    He also just wanted a chance to beat me up, I think.


    We go a few more bouts. I can''t hook him much, he''s too savvy. I give up and start trying to close to wrestle him instead, which works, though of course my pick is no help at such close range.


    ¡°Try some throws,¡± suggests Faltast. ¡°If he''s on the ground and you''re up, you''ll be able to land some solid blows.¡±


    What does he bloody think I''m trying to do? But each time I''m positioned to toss Mulkath to the stone, he manages to make sure I go down with him.


    Eventually we break, breathing heavily.


    ¡°Good match,¡± I say.


    ¡°So-so,¡± he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. We''re both drenched¡ªmy beard is like black oil and his a sodden tangle of brown.


    ¡°Ready for me?¡± says Braztak.


    ¡°Not even going to give me a rest?¡± I laugh, a little more harshly than I intend.


    ¡°Your foes won''t give you a rest,¡± Braztak says, scowling. ¡°Why should I? If you want this training to be effective.¡±


    ¡°Bring it on then,¡± I say, and raise my wooden pick.


    Braztak''s armor, of violet and green gold¡ªalloys very few know how to make¡ªis covered in poems praising the birth of life from death. They are masterful, some of the best in the guild. They tell of fungal growths springing from the graveyard of battle, which then tear each other to pieces, then grow back stronger.


    The more strikes the plates take, the tougher they get. There''s rumored to be more to the armor as well, but Braztak keeps its other secrets closely guarded.


    I strike downward. He parries with his wooden halberd then ripostes expertly. The spike is flying at my visor. I duck, but my eyes also shut out of instinct. I only just sense the angle of his second attack.


    I parry, botch the hook, and we reset. We lock eyes. His are cold. The usual kindness is gone from them. He may have deep veins of empathy within his heart, but that doesn''t change the fact that he''s a warrior. When it''s time to fight, he fights to kill.


    So do I. I feint to the side, throw a sweeping blow at his ankle. He lets it connect, and I realize my error too late. Because I was aiming to hook, he didn''t need to move. And he knew the blow wouldn''t shift his stance, even had my weapon been real, because I was aiming for the point to go behind his ankle. And now my weapon is down low, and his is high.


    He thumps me over the head. The wooden axe-blade shatters. The force shocks me¡ªthe hit is like from a hammer! I grunt and fall to one knee.


    ¡°Victory to Braztak,¡± says Mulkath.


    I''m too stunned to respond.


    "You alright?" asks Braztak.


    "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I think so."


    ¡°You''re relying too much on tricks,¡± he says, helping me to my feet. ¡°Your weapon is designed for piercing, not hooking.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°You should see¡ªyou crafted it.¡±


    ¡°I know. It''s just that every manual I''ve read says I should be using it to hook.¡±


    ¡°And what runes do the figures in the manual have on their picks?¡±


    ¡°They didn''t go into detail on how the weapons were crafted. Maybe they thought it too embarrassing.¡±


    ¡°I''ll bet they intended weapons that were magnetic, or ones whose handle was imbued with strength for the pull back instead of the strike forward. That''s why they included all those fancy moves.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°If I were you, I''d focus on more simple strikes. Once you''ve mastered how your weapon moves with those, you can add in more advanced stuff.¡±


    I bow my head. ¡°Thank you for the advice.¡±


    ¡°It''s no problem.¡± He smiles. ¡°Another round? Or are you too tired?¡±


    ¡°No, I can do another.¡±


    This time I take his advice and don''t try any hooks, but he still beats me handily. Feeling somewhat dejected, I thank everyone for their time, and head into the guildhall. I''ve just sat down for a cold beer when I hear an angry shout:


    ¡°Zathar! Come here, immediately!¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth is staring me down from the other end of the hall. He''s still in his leather forging overalls. His face is red and shiny with sweat. His arms are folded over his ashen beard, and there''s rage in his eyes.

 Dragonhunt 7: Difference of Opinion

    Wharoth yells at someone to shut the door behind us, then storms to his desk. He sits down heavily. He doesn''t offer me a seat. I grit my teeth. This is the angriest I''ve seen him in a long while.


    ¡°I''ve just been told you''ve ordered the initiates to discard their shields.¡±


    ¡°That''s not entirely¡ª¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± he barks. Spittle flies. ¡°You have told them to forgo their most vital defenses in the first real combat they''ll face.¡±


    ¡°Only Guthah will¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not only this, but you''ve encouraged them to forgo axes as well. The most reliable of weapons.¡±


    I decide not to interrupt him further.


    ¡°What the hell are you thinking, Zathar? What the hell am I paying you for? What the hell have I put my trust in your for? To get our initiates killed?¡±


    ¡°They weren''t progressing as fast as I''d hoped, guildmaster. So I decided to take a gamble. I thought maybe they''d do better with weapons of their own choosing.¡±


    Technically that was Braztak''s suggestion, but to deflect the blame onto him would be cowardly. And of course, the final responsibility for the initiates is mine, no matter who gave me the idea.


    ¡°So you''ve given them leave to start on new weapons, with only a few long-hours to go before the examination?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And did you think that decision through?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°For anything more than a minute? A second?¡±


    ¡°I thought long and hard about it,¡± I say, and then I can''t keep my mouth from curling into a scowl. ¡°Who am I to tell them what to craft?¡±


    ¡°You''re their instructor!¡±


    ¡°They''re still runeknights. It''s their decision.¡±


    ¡°They''re initiates.¡±


    ¡°They''re dwarves nonetheless! We''ve the freedom to choose our own path, if we wish to put in the effort.¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth throws his hands up. ¡°You''re giving them the freedom to throw their lives away!¡±


    ¡°But they have improved!¡± I cry. ¡°My gamble paid off. They move faster, more accurately. Even those who''ve kept with axes are doing better than before.¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t change the fact they''ve a very limited time to forge.¡±


    ¡°My first spear wasn''t exactly a masterpiece either.¡±


    ¡°Yes, and look what happened at your examination!¡±


    ¡°Vanerak isn''t going to be in charge of this one. And everyone tells me they''re safer affairs than the kind of thing Runethane Thanerzak insisted on.¡±


    ¡°Dwarves still perish every time.¡±


    ¡°So the faster and more accurate the initiates are, the better. I made the right decision, guildmaster. I know I did.¡±


    ¡°They don''t have enough time to forge properly!¡±


    ¡°The axes they were crafting had too many mistakes anyway. In my opinion, it''s because their hearts weren''t in it. And now they''ve started anew, they''re doing much better. Go down to the forges yourself and compare if you don''t believe me.¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth clenches and unclenches his fists, shifts in his seat, opens and shuts his mouth, then finally sits back, a look of deep consternation on his face. He''s got no argument to beat me with. I''m right and he knows it.


    ¡°We haven''t touched on the question of shields yet,¡± he eventually says.


    ¡°Nearly all of them are still going to use shields, guildmaster.¡±


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°Nearly all.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Do you know why I insisted they all make shields, Zathar?¡±


    ¡°Yes. So they could protect themselves.¡±


    ¡°A good shield is simpler to craft than a good set of armor. Much easier. And it provides just as much protection.¡±


    ¡°Not quite as much.¡±


    ¡°Just as much,¡± he emphasizes. ¡°You''ve never used one. You don''t know.¡±


    ¡°I''ve fought against dwarves using them.¡±


    ¡°But never used one yourself. Just so long as you manipulate it well, it''s just as good as your plates.¡±


    ¡°Be that as it may, plenty of dwarves use two-handed weapons.¡±


    ¡°Yes, once they have the skill to craft good plate!¡±


    ¡°I didn''t just tell them to toss them away, guildmaster. I tested each in combat. Thoroughly.¡±


    ¡°Did you now?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know who told you about what I''ve been doing with the initiates, but they clearly didn''t tell you everything. I sparred with each of them, hard. And rejected each and every one, apart from Guthah.¡±


    ¡°Guthah, Guthah... The jeweler''s son, right?¡±


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    ¡°You judge he''s that good, do you?¡±


    ¡°I do. He moves the spear like he came from the womb clutching it in his hands.¡±


    Wharoth snorts. ¡°How poetic. Does he really now?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And his forging?¡±


    ¡°Not the best, but far from the worst.¡±


    ¡°So you''re confident his armor will hold up in the examination, I take it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°It''ll turn the blows from a tenth degree weapon. Probably a ninth or eighth too.¡±


    ¡°They won''t be fighting dwarves, Zathar. Beasts, just as you did.¡±


    ¡°But the examiners won''t throw anything a tenth degree couldn''t handle at them, no?¡±


    ¡°You never know. Sometimes they like to twist their strikes.¡±


    ¡°I''m confident he''ll pass, guildmaster. I''d put gold on it.¡±


    His eyes flash. ¡°We''re not risking gold. We''re risking lives!¡±


    I bow my head. ¡°I apologize. Of course. But all the same, he''ll pass.¡± I raise my head to meet Wharoth''s gaze again. ¡°I''m certain of it.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± He nods curtly. ¡°If any harm comes to him though¡ªor to any of the other initiates¡ªI hold you responsible.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    I remember his promise to execute me should I lose the trial, and the conviction in his voice when he made it. That same conviction is in his voice now also.


    ¡°I do,¡± I say. ¡°Completely.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± He sits back, then sighs. ¡°Oh, I don''t know, Zathar. Maybe you''re right.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± I say, taken aback.


    ¡°Not telling them what to forge.¡±


    ¡°Braztak thinks so.¡±


    ¡°Yes. He would.¡±


    ¡°He''s been here since the start of the guild, nearly, hasn''t he?¡±


    ¡°Yes. He joined just a few years after I started.¡±


    "Really?"


    "Yes. But anyway, you know why I care so much for the initiates, don''t you, Zathar?¡±


    He looks pained. I nod grimly. ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°Good, good.¡± He sighs again. He seems exhausted. ¡°Dismissed, Zathar. Good luck for your examination. I might watch, I might be in the forge.¡±


    ¡°I''d be happier if you watched, guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. Maybe.¡±


    I leave and shut the door behind me. It clicks. I wonder what craft he''s working on that''s so important. Or maybe it''s not that important¡ªhe''s just spending time down there to take his mind off worrying about us getting killed.


    <hr>


    Train, polish, train. This is my life for the final long-hours before the examination. I take Braztak''s advice and focus on perfecting my direct strikes. Without having to worry about hooking and grappling my opponents'' weapons away, sparring gets easier.


    My armor gleams brighter and brighter each time I polish it. The function of the runes feels much improved¡ªmy boots grip better, my gauntlets grasp more strongly. The runes of abyssal salamander skin across my breastplate become like faintly glowing coals.


    I polish my war-pick as well. I still haven''t decided what to call it. It deserves a fitting name, so I''m not going to rush the decision.


    The sand in the timers flows down. The long-hour is nearly here. First the initiates will have their examination, then the tenth degrees, and so on until finally it is time for mine. I wonder how many will be taking it with me, and if any of them still hold my crimes against me. Will they seek to hinder me? I bet some will.


    I make my final trip to the forge. I lay out my panoply, my armor and weapon. Time to equip myself. First I strap my feet into my boots, then on go the leg plates, then I fix the slats around my waist, then I close my backplate and breastplate around myself like a shell. I clasp more plates around my arms, then put my hands into my gauntlets, tighten them. Finally, I place my helmet over my head. No runic ears¡ªthe examination will be a public spectacle, just as my trial was. The noise of the crowd could deafen me. And everything will be brightly lit so the examiners can see us clearly.


    Finally, I lift up my war-pick. My posture changes naturally into a fighting-stance, the head of the pick up high and ready to pierce down. I grin behind my visor.


    Victory shall be mine. I don''t care what the examiners send against me. Whatever foe comes, be it troll, salamander, dwarf or something worse, I will destroy it!


    I''m ready to go.


    I find myself on my knees with the ruby of unaging held in my palms¡ªmy ungauntleted palms, the drop of solid crimson sits on my bare skin. I shiver. I don''t remember taking my gauntlets off. I don''t remember opening the safe.


    Should I risk it, though?


    It would be the work of less than an hour to prize the sapphire from its setting and replace it. The housing would not be a perfect fit for the ruby, but it would be good enough.


    Should I do it? I grimace, squeeze the ruby in my fist. My heart begins to beat more strongly, more evenly, like a war-drum.


    I need all the advantages I can get to pass. And if I''m going to, one day, maybe soon, make good on my promise to slay the black dragon, I''ll need some truly terrible strength.


    Can I really reject what this craft can give me?


    Yes, I can. I put it back into the safe. I let out my held breath. To put it on would feel... It would feel like a loss of control. I can''t equip it. My sapphire is good enough.


    I put my gauntlets back on, pick up my war-pick and, with it rested over one shoulder, make my way out of the forge and back to the guildhall, outside of which the carriages are waiting.

 Dragonhunt 8: The Examinations Begin

    The examinations for tenth degree, up to those for fifth degree, take place within the same arena I was tried in, the Arena of Lost Souls. It feels strange to be up in the stands, looking down at the black sand just as Guildmaster Wharoth, Vanerak, the father of Barahtan, and all the crowd clamoring for my death looked down upon me. I didn''t quite appreciate the scale when I was down there. The circle looks huge from up here, clearly hundreds of feet in diameter. Apparently the stands seat up to eighty thousand dwarves.


    We walk through to our guild''s designated seats. I take my place a few seats in front of Guildmaster Wharoth. Unlike some guilds, who determine who sits where strictly by rank, the Association of Steel''s rules and regulations are a little less strict.


    On my left is Braztak, and on my right Jerat sits down. Both are in full armor, as am I. Braztak''s purple and green gold gleams brightly, standing out even amongst all the other strange armors here.


    My war-pick draws quite a few looks from the dwarves of other guilds. They no doubt notice its great similarity to its predecessor. Its glow¡ªthe invisible one of violence¡ªis very strong. The many overlapping auras of runic power do not drown it out.


    Most of the seats fill up over the next half hour. ¡°Shouldn''t be long now, should it?¡± I whisper to Braztak.


    ¡°No. Not long at all.¡±


    Servants down below are making the final preparations. They rake into the black sand a long track that loops around the whole arena. In one area, desks and slates are being set up, bundles of ropes and heavy-set armor stands in another. The rest of the space is taken up by fenced enclosures. The fences are metal, and enruned.


    ¡°I hope they don''t bring in anything too nasty,¡± I say.


    ¡°They might,¡± says Braztak. ¡°Depends on how big the examiners make the groups.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°One time,¡± says Jerat, ¡°Apparently, anyway¡ªall the initiates were in one big group, and pitted against a full-grown iron-troll.¡±


    ¡°An iron-troll? Initiates?¡±


    ¡°Yes. There were a few casualties.¡±


    ¡°I thought they did things sensibly here!¡±


    ¡°They do. The initiates did bring the thing down¡ªeventually. The examiners didn''t have to step in.¡±


    ¡°Still!¡±


    Jerat shrugs. ¡°The rust has to be scraped away somehow.¡±


    ¡°What in hell are you on about? Our initiates aren''t rust!¡±


    ¡°I never said ours were! Not one of our initiates has perished in an examination yet. Only a few of them have even failed." He swigs from a flask he''s snuck in. "Relax, Zathar. It''ll all turn out fine.¡±


    I wait, nervously, for beasts to appear from the side-doors and be wrangled into the enclosures, but no such thing happens. Once the desks, ropes, et cetera have all been set up, a silence falls over the arena. It seems the beasts will be brought in later.


    The initiates begin to walk in through the grand entrance, in serried ranks of gleaming metal. I scan the column for our guild''s examinees. After a few hundred dwarves are through, I spot Guthah leading them. He bears his long spear high, and his head is held high also.


    Pride swells in me¡ªI never imagined I''d feel such looking at them, but out of all the hopefuls here, they''re some of the best. Their armor is more regular in shape, shines brighter, has denser script enruned. Some of the dwarves here bear weapons with crooked shafts, blunt blades, but not the dwarves of the Association of Steel. Our initiates'' weapons are ready to slay.


    Several minutes of marching later and all the initiates are out. They are ordered into formation in a space at the center of the arena. They''re facing the box seats. I count the number of dwarves on the edges of the rectangle they form; it''s twenty by ninety dwarves. That makes nearly two thousand initiates here.


    At the highest box, the one Vanerak watched my trial from, stands the head examiner, one of the Thanic Guard. He''s swathed in gleaming silver and platinum chainmail. A heavy crimson cloak hangs from his shoulders. He speaks. His voice¡ªamplified somehow¡ªcarries throughout the arena.


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    ¡°Initiates of Allabrast. Today you take your final step on the journey to becoming a runeknight. The challenges you face this hour...¡±


    The speech is a long one, and I soon lose focus. I''m too nervous to focus. I examine the weapons of the initiates more closely, using a magnifying scope Braztak lends me. On second pass, their equipment doesn''t look so brilliant. A few of their poems have obvious mistakes.


    ¡°Who the hell taught them to write runes?¡± I say, scowling.


    ¡°I did,¡± says Jerat, sounding a little put-out. ¡°But I can''t tell them what to write on their crafts now, can I?¡±


    ¡°I suppose not. Still, they might at least have checked against the dictionary after drafting.¡±


    ¡°Drafting?¡±


    ¡°Yes. What, don''t you write a draft on paper?¡±


    ¡°Runes on paper! Absurd.¡± Jerat shakes his head. ¡°I put mine directly on the armor.¡±


    ¡°You mean you graft each one right after you shape it?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Works better that way.¡±


    I shake my head in disbelief.


    At least the poem on Guthah''s spear has no major errors. It''s a straight forward affair, and will probably be effective, even if it is a little crude and uninspired.


    ¡°Give me a look at them,¡± says Braztak, and I hand the magnifying glasses to him. ¡°That one there''s done well for herself,¡± he muses. ¡°Interesting weapon.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Pellas, I think she was. Her shield looks decent too.¡±


    He hands me the glasses so I can get a better look. I''m surprised¡ªher forging technique always seemed lacking to me, but she''s managed to make a fine sword. It''s short, nearly a long dagger, and triangular. The point looks needle-sharp, and the poems are constructed to help it keep that sharpness no matter what it strikes. Her shield is round and very convex. The poem matches it¡ªforce will be directed away from the center.


    ¡°...and now, finally, the time has come. Make your way to your desks.¡±


    The head examiner finishes his speech. The initiates are lead by servants and red-cloaked examiners to their desks for the first part of the examination, the written section. Upon each desk is a slate, semi-metallic, and a steel pen. The initiates are to translate phonetic symbols into runes of various scripts. My own examination for tenth degree had a similar test.


    But as soon as the initiates sit down the lights of the arena suddenly dim. The beating of a drum begins. The beats are heavy, and low in timbre. They shake me in my armor. Some of the dwarves in the stands get to their feet, look around in shock. I do the same.


    ¡°What the hell''s going on!¡±


    ¡°Relax!¡± Jerat is laughing. ¡°They do this sometimes here, to keep everyone on their toes.¡±


    ¡°Do what?¡±


    ¡°Throw them into the physical part before they do the mental.¡±


    ¡°It''s to unbalance them,¡± adds Braztak. ¡°Keep them under pressure.¡±


    I sit down. ¡°I see.¡±


    Down below the initiates are being hurried from their seats to the path looping around the edge of the arena. A panicked crowd forms¡ªI can''t find our initiates, they seem to have been scattered.


    ¡°The test of endurance starts now, I presume,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Braztak.


    A line of examiners forms fifty yards behind the initiates. Instead of weapons they bear musical instruments: brass horns and large drums. They blow and beat and begin to chase, cloaks streaming behind them. The initiates start to run.


    The crowd erupts into cheering, so loud that it''s almost drowning out the blare of the instruments. I see that some of the initiates are panicking, sprinting out ahead of the pack, failing to pace themselves. They need to be going steadily and conserving their stamina. This is a test of endurance, not speed.


    A runeknight must be able to endure. More than strength, agility, and speed, it''s endurance that separates the tough dwarves from, as Jerat put it, the flakes of rust.


    I''m relieved to see that none of our initiates are sprinting, nor do any of them seem to be lagging behind. However it''s difficult to tell who''s who now the lights are darkened. Only once this test is over will I be able to be sure if they''ve passed or failed. I''m going to feel every second of this wait.


    ¡°Beer and snacks?¡± Jerat suggests. ¡°Some servants are coming around.¡±


    ¡°I''ll pass,¡± I say.


    Only half an hour in, initiates start dropping. The runeknight examiners step on them, spit on them. I focus intently through the magnifying scope at each one who falls. None of them are ours, yet.


    Their flailing, panting forms aren''t dragged off the track¡ªwhen the rest of the initiates come back around, they trample on the fallen. A few try to drag guildmates up, very few. The vast majority have neither the pity nor the stamina to spare.


    The bell finally chimes. Faces appear in the sand¡ªof dwarves, exhausted, mouths open. The initiates stumble to a halt. I catch sight of Pellas. She''s standing straight, in contrast to most around her who are leaning over, clutching their knees, or on their knees vomiting through their helmet visors. Guthah is also showing mettle¡ªhe could be using his spear as a crutch, but he''s not.


    The cloaked examiners and servants lead them to their writing desks as the lights gradually return to full brightness. The defeated walk back out the grand entrance in disgrace¡ªthose that are able, that is. Quite a few are being dragged.


    I sweep my gaze over the writing desks. A full quarter are empty. I go row by row methodically, making sure all our initiates remain.


    ¡°They''ve all passed!¡± I say. ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°I put them through their paces before I handed them off to you,¡± says Braztak. ¡°They''ve circled practically the whole of Allabrast with stones strapped to their backs.¡±


    ¡°I remember, Braztak. You took me on a few of those excursions.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Yes. You didn''t have much trouble with them.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± I grin. ¡°I walked the deep underground for more than ten years, remember?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Braztak''s face turns serious, and he looks at Jerat. ¡°Let''s hope their runic test goes just as well.¡±


    Jerat scowls. ¡°It will.¡±

 Dragonhunt 9: Beast from Below

    The initiates wait nervously as the red-cloaked examiners walk down the rows of desks handing out thick, securely bound scrolls. In each is the phonetics for the runes they''re to write, and what script they''re to write them in.


    Unlike how the runic tests were carried out in Thanerzak''s realm, here in Allabrast the runes are checked automatically. The slates the initiates are to write on are treated with some kind of alchemic trickery. If a mistake is made, a red splotch will appear, like spilled blood.


    The bell rings. Anguished faces appear in the sand, fade away. The initiates begin to write¡ªthe scratching sound of their styluses fills the arena.


    I focus on Guthah''s slate. He finishes the first row of runes without issue, then on the first rune of the second, red flows out.


    ¡°Moron!¡± I spit.


    ¡°They''re allowed to make a few mistakes,¡± Jerat says. ¡°One wrong is no problem.¡±


    ¡°How many mistakes?¡±


    ¡°Three, I think. Or maybe five. Can''t remember.¡±


    They''re to write ten rows of twenty runes each. I squint at the initiates'' scrolls; none of the runes they''re to write have more than ten strokes, and the angles and curves are all very regular. I move my gaze around the desks. Apart from Guthah, none of our initiates have made any mistakes yet.


    The slate of another guild''s initiate shatters into crimson fragments. He stands up, shouting and ranting¡ªhis curses echo around the stands¡ªkicks his desk over. Two of the runeknight examiners drag him away.


    I go back to Guthah, hoping he hasn''t made any more mistakes. He has, one more. On a slightly more complex rune, true, but I can''t help but feel disappointed.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I mutter as he scratches with his steel stylus. ¡°Don''t fuck up here!¡±


    Another red blot forms.


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    ¡°Must be five to fail then,¡± Jerat says. ¡°At least he''s up to the last row.¡±


    ¡°The most difficult row!¡± Guildmaster Wharoth snaps from behind. ¡°What in hell have you been teaching them, Jerat? Two more are nearly out too!¡±


    Jerat shrinks into his seat. ¡°They''ll be fine, guildmaster. Just you watch!¡±


    I do watch, closely, as Guthah makes his fourth mistake. The red blotch is large this time, a great splash of blood that flows over a good fifth of the slate. Quite a few initiates have dropped out by now.


    ¡°Last rune now,¡± mutters Jerat. ¡°Don''t fuck up, don''t fuck up...¡±


    I bit my lip¡ªI know this rune, there''s two curves at awkward angles¡ªGuthah''s pen is scratching the wrong way¡ªhe stops himself, reverses¡ªfinishes the rune correctly. I sigh in relief; Guthah does too.


    One by one, over the next few minutes, the rest of the initiates put down their pens. Again, all of ours remain. Pellas even managed to complete every rune flawlessly.


    ¡°Told you!¡± cheers Jerat. ¡°Told you all they''d manage it!¡±


    But now come the real challenges.


    The remaining initiates¡ªonly half of the original one thousand eight hundred¡ªare led to the section of arena set with ropes, heavy-set armor stands, and other targets. It''s time to test their weapons.


    The red-cloaked examiners divide them by weapon type. Those with cutting weapons move to the area strung with thick ropes, those with crushing weapons to where the heavy-set armor stands are, and those with piercing weapons, like Guthah with his spear, head to where some large, lumpy looking things have been set up.


    ¡°What are those?¡± I ask Braztak.


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    ¡°The heads of slazak mushrooms, wrapped in tanned blindboar hide.¡±


    ¡°They look fairly tough.¡±


    ¡°Our weapons would go through like butter. The initiates'' weapons... Well, we''ll see.¡±


    I watch as the initiates form lines behind their targets. They''ve got only five hits to cut, smash, or pierce through. I flick my eyes from section to section, trying to catch our initiates'' blows.


    The bell sounds, and this time instead of faces, the forms of broken weapons appear in the sand. The patterns fade out; cheers sound from the stands as the initiates begin. I smile as the first of our initiates cleaves his rope in half on the second try. Another walks forward with his hammer, swings at a heavy-armor stand. It topples onto the black sands.


    Everyone in the Association of Steel is standing now. We''re all pumping our fists, or brandishing empty mugs, and yelling. Even Guildmaster Wharoth is getting into it.


    Guthah approaches his target. His angle is perfect, and his runes mustn''t be too shabby either, for his spear goes right through in one strike, so deep he has some trouble pulling it out. A few minutes later, it''s Pellas'' turn. She''s been sent to the cutting section, which worries me, because her short sword is clearly designed for stabbing, but it slices right through the rope as if it were nothing but a string of pork sausages.


    We all cheer louder¡ªshe was the last of ours. We sit down and swig some more beer¡ªthough I hold off on having too much.


    The remaining initiates continue to hack away at their targets. Many are led away in shame after failing, heads bowed, unable to face their guildmates up in the stands. Once all is finished, and the initiates back in formation in the center of the arena where they started, I see that their number has been halved once more.


    ¡°A high failure rate,¡± I remark.


    ¡°It gets tougher every year,¡± says Braztak. ¡°In the interests of safety. It wouldn''t be moral to send the weaker ones to their deaths.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    I begin to grow nervous again. There''s commotion behind the side-gates in the arena. Shadows are moving. I glimpse chained beasts and runeknights struggling to hold them, but I can''t make out what the beasts are. Salamanders, maybe? There''s a few flashes of flame.


    There won''t be an abyssal one. Surely there won''t be an abyssal one.


    The examiners begin to divide the initiates into groups, and lead them into the fenced enclosures. Mostly their in groups of five, but there''s one group of over twenty as well. Guthah is in it. I frown.


    ¡°What''s going on with that group?¡± I ask Braztak. ¡°Why''s it so big?¡±


    ¡°Probably more initiates made it through than they expected. So they''ve made one big group of all the extras. They''ll have something special for them to fight, I expect. Something that might have gone to one of the higher examinations.¡±


    ¡°Something big?¡±


    ¡°Yes. A stone troll or something.¡±


    ¡°A troll? I though Jerat was joking about that!¡±


    ¡°Won''t be an iron troll,¡± says Jerat.


    ¡°Still!¡±


    ¡°Guthah will be fine,¡± Braztak reassures me. ¡°Whatever they bring out, I''m sure he''ll be the first to stick it. You put your faith in him, remember?¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    Three of the fenced enclosures are combined, then Guthah''s group is shown in to it. The gate shuts behind them. At the opposite end, close to the arena wall, is another gate. It''s wide open. I wait, dead still, to see what will be dragged through it.


    Too quickly, all the initiates are locked in the various enclosures. Silence falls. All nervous chatter has died. I hear a low scraping sound. The portculli are lifting up. Runeknights wrestle and pull beasts out into the light.


    Smallish salamanders, amphidons, troglodytes, wild blindboar. I breath a sigh in relief. Nothing too frightening. Nothing our initiates won''t be able to handle.


    Then, out of the gate nearest the largest enclosure, the one where Guthah waits with his spear angled low for a first strike, something out of nightmare is pulled: a long, worm-like beast, with a thousand legs sticking from its body at all angles, two pincers on multi-joined arms, and a hole filled with needle teeth for a mouth.


    I recognize it. I remember it well. It''s a bzathletic, from the deepest caverns above the fort against the darkness, the creature that nearly killed me just before I crashed through into the deep dwarves'' forging hall. And if it could nearly kill me, a fifth degree, what is it capable of doing to the initiates?


    ¡°What the fuck are they thinking?¡± I cry out, standing from my seat and pointing violently. ¡°What in hell!¡±


    ¡°You recognize it?¡± asks Braztak.


    ¡°It''s from deep below. From near the fort. Called a bzathletic.¡±


    ¡°It''s not so big,¡± scoffs Jerat. ¡°Legs look fragile too.¡±


    ¡°Fragile? Those things are like spears. Those pincers can take off a limb¡ªa limb wrapped in steel.¡±


    ¡°It''s really as dangerous as you say?¡± Braztak asks. Some concern is creeping into his voice.


    ¡°Yes. How the hell did they get their hands on it?¡±


    ¡°I''ve started to hear rumors,¡± says someone behind us. It''s one of the most senior guild members, a cautious type in very thick armor, called Voltost. ¡°About creatures from deep below being put on the market. Both for forging materials and for the arenas.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°Damn that Haltast. Nthazes was right. We should''ve backed out.¡±


    ¡°The deal wasn''t yours to back out on,¡± Braztak points out. ¡°Though, that does worry me, Voltost. If this beast is relatively new to the arenas, they might not know how dangerous it is.¡±


    ¡°They don''t,¡± I insist.


    ¡°Or maybe there''s been a miscommunication somewhere, and they brought out the wrong one.¡±


    ¡°They''ll send it back then, won''t they?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But the orders might take a while to come down.¡±


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    ¡°You managed to beat it though,¡± says Jerat. ¡°And your armor was mostly rust by that point, wasn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but even so!¡±


    ¡°Let''s just calm down,¡± says Braztak. ¡°All we can do from up here is have faith.¡±

 Dragonhunt 10: Guthah Versus The Beast

    The gates to the enclosure are opened. Senior runeknights wrestle the bzathletic through. Its pincers are tied¡ªI know it''s too much to hope they''ll remain that way. A deft flick of an enruned sword slices the ties apart, and the bzathletic is loose. It dashes around to grab at the swordsdwarf, but she''s already out, and the gates are slamming shut.


    The bell rings. Faces of both beast and dwarf, contorted by death''s agony, appear then fade. This time the crowd does not cheer.


    The bzathletic grips the bars in its pincers and begins to pull. The metal seems to be bending¡ªthough only very slightly. I cross my fingers as much as I can in gauntlets. If it breaks apart the enruned steel, maybe they''ll call off the fight.


    Guthah''s already striding forward though, spear leveled at the monster''s rear. Will it sense him? Like most beasts that make a life in absolute blackness, it relies on its hearing, just like the dwarves of the deep do also. The noise of the crowd should drown that out.


    Nevertheless, it turns. I curse. It probably sensed the vibrations through its many pointed feet, even if half of them aren''t in contact with the ground. It opens its needle-toothed maw at Guthah, who flinches, though only for a moment. Then he continues his advance.


    The other initiates follow behind him. None of them are from the Association of Steel, and to my eyes their equipment is poorer than average. I can see mistakes on their over-large, clumsy runes. Their metal plates are beaten badly, and mostly plain iron.


    ¡°Cowards,¡± I hiss under my breath. ¡°Don''t leave him to do everything!¡±


    As if they hear me, one rushes past Guthah with his longsword held high. Maybe he''s imagining himself severing the pincer now reaching out to grab him. He hits it, and sparks jump as his blade bounces off.


    The pincer grabs him by the upper arm and pulls down, forcing him to his knees. The crowd gasps. Guthah yells out and charges. He stabs his spear right into the bzathletic''s maw, pulls it out, stained with streaks of dark blood. The bzathletic doesn''t seem to care. It batters his spear away with its free pincer, then clamps it around the other brave initiate''s neck.


    Shouts of horror rise from the crowd.


    ¡°I said so, didn''t I!¡± I spit. ¡°I bloody said so!¡±


    A few initiates run forward to stand beside Guthah, but they stop short of actually attacking the beast. It strengthens its grip on the captured initiate''s arm and neck. His iron armor is bending now. Blood starts to pour from his upper right arm. He''s grasping his longsword in his left hand and battering feebly at the beast''s carapace, but to no effect.


    Guthah''s shouting something, though I can''t make out what. Is he encouraging the others on? He seems frustrated by them. He strides forward again, jabs out a few times. The bzathletic twists its wormish body to avoid. It releases its grip on the initiate''s neck to snap at Guthah''s spear.


    He only just manages to angle it out the way. He steps back, starts shouting again. The initiates who aren''t cowering at the rear of the cage fan out to surround the beast. Some with hand-and-half or two-handed swords slash at the monster''s many legs. The limbs barely twitch at the impacts.


    ¡°He''s leading them,¡± says Braztak approvingly.


    ¡°That won''t matter if it kills them all.¡±


    ¡°It won''t.¡±


    ¡°It could!¡±


    The braver initiates, twelve in total, have now fully encircled the monster. Guthah has the longest range. The rest will have to step in closer if they want to inflict any kind of damage.


    I quickly glance over to the other fights. Several are finished already; salamanders and troglodytes lie bleeding on the sand. Pellas is in one of these triumphant groups¡ªshe stands on top of a dead troglodyte, armor and shield and sword drenched in red blood. I ought to be happy for her, take a moment to celebrate her victory, and the victories of our other initiates, but I can''t. My eyes are pulled back to Guthah and the bzathletic.


    <hr>


    It wasn''t meant to be this hard, thinks Calrat, initiate of the Copperblood League. His instructor told him that once the first three trials were the main challenge and the last only a formality. That back in his day there''d been deaths every time, but now only one in a thousand lost their life. If you could clear the endurance, runic, and weapon trials, that meant you were easily strong enough to kill whatever they sent your way.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    He''d seemed almost disappointed when he''d explained this, had instructor Yolok. Calrat wonders what he''s thinking right now.


    The pain around his upper right arm is growing more intense. The monster''s claw hasn''t yet pierced the iron, but it''s bent the iron around it so that his own armor''s become a blunt blade. He can feel blood running down toward his shoulder.


    He cries out, batters the monster with his sword again. It hits¡ªthe monster doesn''t care. Its armor, bone scales, whatever they are, are far too tough to be pierced by the weapon of a mere initiate.


    ¡°Help me!¡± he screams, again. ¡°Help me, please!¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Pick a target,¡± Guthah yells. ¡°Aim for between the legs!¡±


    Shit! What in hell is this thing? It looks like one of the deep monsters Zathar was always boasting of slaying. Guthah had doubted his tales of the dangers lurking down there, but he doesn''t any more. How in hell is anyone meant to hurt this thing?


    Its legs and pincers are too long, too fast. Its armor is impregnable. And even stabbing right into its weak point did nothing! Weren''t all monsters meant to have a weak point? Somewhere you could strike to instantly kill them?


    That''s just another myth, it seems. Fighting isn''t so easy as the stories make it out to be. You must batter down your opponent, exhaust them, break their defences. Only then can you go for the kill.


    The captured initiate with blood pouring down his arm screams again. The monster''s second pincer grasps his neck again.


    ¡°Ready yourselves!¡± Guthah yells.


    What the hell is he playing at? Pretending to be a commander? Yet no one else is doing anything¡ªthat means he has to.


    ¡°Charge!¡±


    <hr>


    I watch Guthah and the initiates charge. Is it bravery or suicide? The bzathletic stabs its legs out at all angles. Sparks shower from shields and parrying weapons. Dwarves stagger back, fall down, blood pouring from their armor. Cries of despair ring out from the stands.


    The runeknights outside the arena are looking panicked. They didn''t expect the monster to be able to penetrate metal so easily. Will they stop the fight? Up in the main box, the head examiner is nowhere to be seen. Is he hurrying down?


    Forces reduced by half, the initiates retreat several steps. The bzathletic crushes down harder on the captured dwarf''s arm. The pincers close fully as the iron gives way. He screams as his arm is severed. It falls down. Blood gushes like a waterfall, runs along the sand in a river.


    Two more initiates flee to the back of the enclosure and join the rest in screaming and begging to be let out. The injured ones redouble their crawling away. Guthah, though, stands his ground.


    ¡°Fool!¡± I yell. ¡°Get out of there!¡±


    ¡°Sit down, Zathar!¡± Braztak snaps. ¡°Guthah is no coward.¡±


    ¡°He can''t win this!¡±


    ¡°I thought you had faith in him!¡± comes a roar from behind me.


    I turn, shrink under the gaze of Guildmaster Wharoth.


    ¡°Well? Do you?¡±


    ¡°I... I do,¡± I say, and sink back into my seat.


    I do have faith in him. But I don''t have faith in the examiners. Even now the runeknights outside the cage are refusing to let them out. I can''t see their faces, but I can tell, somehow, that they''re disgusted.


    The one-armed initiate screams in rage and pain and slashes at the bzathletic. It''s a hard slash, and fast. It has the strength of revenge behind it. The wormish monster twists its body out the way, grabs his sword in the same moment, tosses it away, and snatches its other pincer out to grab the initiate''s throat. It begins to crush. The initiate wails.


    <hr>


    ¡°Charge!¡± Guthah yells to the three other initiates still facing the beast. ¡°Charge!¡±


    ¡°You fucking charge!¡± one of them yells.


    ¡°We need to go at the same time!¡±


    ¡°What difference will that make?¡± another one yells.


    ¡°It... Oh, fuck you then!¡±


    Guthah jumps forward. He jabs at the monster''s maw again¡ªif he gets it in then draws back at an angle, he figures he can cut the inside of its throat more deeply. But the beast knocks his spear away with one of its front legs, then grabs at it with its free pincer. He angles it away, twists and stabs again. The steel is battered away.


    Shit! He hasn''t trained for this. Or has he? What are its pointed legs but spears like Zathar''s? They''ve practiced spear on spear before, haven''t they? As for the pincer, he can think of it as Zathar''s war-pick, trying to hook his weapon and pull him close.


    He has trained for this. And however fierce this monster may be, it''s not as fierce as Zathar. Guthah once thought the black-bearded, angry-eyed dwarf''s boasts to be nothing but empty fumes. Not anymore. Facing this monster here and now is the final proof that Zathar, the disdained, delusional, hated traitor, is a force to be reckoned with. A guild member to be respected.


    Guthah unleashes a flurry of stabs. He focuses¡ªhe''s not striking at random¡ªsees where each is headed. His spear weaves through the blocking legs, curves around the grasping pincer. It slides into the monster''s maw.


    He wrenches his weapon sideways, turning the blade inside the monster''s throat. It makes no reaction¡ªbut Zathar said the monsters from the deep felt little pain. Guthah rips the blade out. Dark blood sprays across the one-armed initiate kneeling before it, and over Guthah''s armor too.


    The monster twitches, loosens its grip on the initiate''s neck. The other initiates charge, hacking and slashing. One falls, pierced twice through the chest, but the others parry their way past the chitinous spines and their weapons fall again and again, cutting deep.


    Guthah stabs a dozen more times and each blow is unopposed, cutting deep. The monster''s maw becomes a mess of blood and flaps of flesh holding needle-teeth at wrong angles. Its legs and pincers fall still.


    <hr>


    I leap from my seat and lead the cheer. They''ve done it¡ªGuthah''s done it. I turn to Guildmaster Wharoth.


    ¡°I told you he could do it,¡± I say. ¡°And I''m sorry for doubting him at the end there.¡±


    ¡°You should be,¡± he snaps. Then, shockingly, he bows his head a touch. ¡°But you were right about the spear.¡±


    The guildmaster, bowing to me? I''m too shocked to reply.


    ¡°Now, everyone!¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°Let''s go down and congratulate them.¡±

 Dragonhunt 11: The Fourth Degree Examination Begins

    Our initiates exit the arena in one group. Wharoth leads us in swarming them. We thrust mugs of beer into their hands, even though they look to be in no mood for a party. They''re exhausted, breathing heavily, hunched over, feeling every pound of their armor. And no one looks more exhausted than Guthah.


    I grab him by the shoulder and pull him stumbling from the crowd, onto the side of the wide road. He looks at me. His eyes are wild.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± he says. ¡°I fought just as you taught me! Just as you taught me!¡±


    ¡°What are you praising me for?¡± I laugh. ¡°This is your victory!¡±


    ¡°Only because you put faith in me. Thank you, instructor.¡±


    I grimace. ¡°Honestly¡ªI was losing faith toward the end there. I''d have run in your position.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense! I can''t ever imagine you running from a fight.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I''ve run from plenty. Sometimes it''s the right decision, but not this time. You were right and I was wrong.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°Maybe not. One missed blow...¡±


    ¡°But you didn''t miss any.¡±


    ¡°No. But the others...¡±


    He''s shivering. I recall his background: as a son of jewelers, he''s from one of the richer, safer districts of Allabrast. This was his first taste of violence. I reach out and grasp his shoulder, shake him firmly.


    ¡°You''re a runeknight now. You''ll see a lot of death.¡±


    ¡°I know. At least, I thought I knew.¡±


    ¡°Weren''t prepared?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No one is, I don''t think. But after we forge, we fight and we kill. That''s what it is to be a runeknight. And sometimes fighting means watching others, our friends, suffer. Even perish.¡±


    He composes himself and nods sharply. ¡°I understand, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°You''ve got your own test soon, haven''t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I''ll be cheering you on.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He bows low. ¡°I hope you''ll agree to teach me further, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Of course I''ll teach you further. You''re a skillful student.¡± I grin. ¡°You need a skilled instructor.¡±


    But behind my grin I''m feeling fear. Through the gates some of the initiates who charged alongside Guthah are moving and moaning, or screaming as they''re wrapped in healing chains and bandages, but four are draped with shrouds. This incident¡ªwhether it was born from miscommunication or simple sheer idiocy¡ªhas severely shaken my faith in the examiners.


    <hr>


    I watch the examinations for ninth to fifth degrees with the rest of the guild. Everything proceeds in an organized, civilized manner, with no more disasters. Plenty dwarves fail, and plenty get injured, but only one dies¡ªa sixth degree is crushed against the arena wall by a stone troll. He''s not one of ours though.


    As I watch, I grow more nervous. The examinations may be fair, but still, each is more brutal than the last. And the brutality I face is going to be worse than the sixth degrees'' continuing battle against the trolls by a large margin.


    Most runeknights'' progression grinds to a halt somewhere between tenth to fifth degree. Sometimes the cause is death: failure to craft an amulet of unaging, violence in battle, or simple bad luck out in the caves. Roll the dice enough times and they''ll always come up snake eyes once or twice.


    But many also stop before fourth voluntarily, afraid of the terrible dangers senior runeknights are expected to face. Only the most expert crafters and the fiercest warriors can hope to survive them. Fourth degree is a cut-off point. That''s why only dwarves fourth and above forged weapons of light in the fort, at least until Runethane Yurok''s fool gamble.


    It''s also why my examination, and those for the degrees above it also, will not be taking place in the arena , but some way outside the city. We haven''t been told the exact location.


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    We cheer our newly-minted fifth degree, then it''s time to relocate. Braztak pats me on the shoulder as we approach the carriages.


    ¡°Good luck.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. Hopefully I won''t need it.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully. But you''re in for a tough battle, Zathar. Tougher than you realize.¡±


    "I''ll win it."


    "Don''t take that for granted," he warns. "Don''t let your guard down by a single inch."


    ¡°Get in the carriage, Zathar,¡± says Guildmaster Wharoth. ¡°Hurry up!¡±


    I won''t be riding with my guild, but with the other examinees. ¡°Very well,¡± I say to Wharoth. ¡°No final words of advice?¡±


    ¡°You need them?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Go on then. And I won''t say good luck. Your armor''s the only luck you need.¡±


    ¡°And my weapon.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That too.¡±


    ¡°Good luck, Zathar!¡± roar Jerat and Faltast. ¡°We''re expecting great things!¡±


    I grin. ¡°I''ll show you some.¡±


    ¡°Good luck!¡± shouts Guthah, and the other tenth degrees yell encouragement also.


    ¡°Thank you!¡±


    I step into the carriage¡ªone of the Civil Force''s, clad in steel. I sit down beside the other examinees. They don''t look at me. The doors shut with a clunk. The only windows are small and set high, so it''s suddenly quite dark. There''s a jerk and a rumble. We''re off.


    Once my eyes adjust to the dimness, I look at my fellow examinees. Their armor is smoothly curved where it''s meant to be curved, dead straight where it''s meant to be straight. There is little steel or bronze here; mostly they are in titanium, or tungsten, or more exotic metals. Some have even had the confidence to eschew plate, and are in chainmail with runes grafted onto each ring.


    One is even in scales of platinum.


    They all bear swords. Each is razor edged and most glow, and the poems running down them are works of art. They look as if they''d part my own armor with ease. I feel inadequate, sandwiched between these dwarves.


    Maybe partly this is because I''m the youngest here. Most of those who sit the examination for fourth are at least a century old. I can see veterancy in their eyes, that coldness most senior runeknights have, the metallic look that comes from a century of staring into the fires of battle and the forge.


    At just over thirty, I''m a child next to them. Not for the first time, I begin to worry I''m making a mistake sitting this examination. Nthazes is a fourth degree. Do I really think I''m as skilled and strong as he is?


    We sit in silence for several hours. Then, gradually, the carriage begins to slow. Maybe we''re just rounding a bend¡ªno, we''re coming to a stop.


    ¡°Here we go,¡± whispers the runeknight in platinum scales. The others stay quiet.


    There''s a clinking sound as the carriage doors are unlocked, then they open and light floods in. We begin to step out, one by one, into the brightness.


    It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I look around and am shocked to see that we''re inside a mine. No, that''s not quite right. Before us is a great slope, barren, cut out of the cavern by the work of thousands of chisels and rock-saws. The rock is granite, a valuable building material. This cavern is a quarry.


    Up to the extreme right, far away, are temporary stands. I think I can make out Braztak in his distinctive green and purple, and also Guthah with his long spear. Maybe that''s Wharoth next to them, or maybe it''s another dwarf with an ashen beard. Bright lamps fixed at its top pour their light over us, and in a path up the slope also, though the very top remains dark.


    The last fifth degree steps out from the carriage. There''s a crack, a squeal from the blindboar, and we''re left alone in the gray wasteland. A cold wind is blowing down the slope, kicking up grit which gets through my visor. I''m forced to raise it to rub my eyes clean. When they are, I see that we''re not quite alone. The head examiner has come down to greet us, red cloak streaming in the grit-laden wind.


    ¡°Fourth degree hopefuls,¡± he says. ¡°Welcome to garenzor-ekt.¡±


    Garenzor-ekt. Granite Hill.


    ¡°I know this place,¡± says a runeknight in glittering chrome and silver. ¡°It''s disused. Abandoned.¡±


    ¡°That''s right. There was a troll infestation.¡±


    I can''t quite remember the head examiner''s name. But he''s a renowned troll-killer. His armor is forged of iron troll skin folded over itself thousands of times. It ripples in the light in patterns that look like trolls'' teeth.


    ¡°I suppose it''s going to be re-opened soon,¡± says the runeknight in platinum scales.


    ¡°That''s right. It was an embarrassment for there to be a troll nest so near to Runeking Ulrike''s capital, so my guild recently dealt with it. Though not without losses.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Totally dealt with?¡±


    The head examiner smiles. ¡°Well, not quite totally. There''s a large group holding out up at the top.¡±


    ¡°And we''re to deal with them?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Full-grown iron trolls?¡± asks the dwarf in platinum.


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°A few dozen.¡±


    Murmurs go up.


    ¡°Sounds like a third degree job, at least,¡± a runeknight with a golden sword says.


    ¡°We captured the chieftain alive. The runeknights striving for third will be slaying her.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Do you wish to back out? You have every right to.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says the runeknight with the golden sword.


    ¡°How about the rest of you?¡± The head examiner looks across us slowly. ¡°This is your final chance to back out with honor. There''s no retreating from here on.¡±


    ¡°We won''t retreat,¡± says the dwarf in platinum. ¡°Us runeknights won''t, at least.¡± He gives me a sideways glance. ¡°Not sure about the miner.¡±


    I glare, spin my war-pick in my hands. ¡°I''ll drive this through any troll that gets in my way¡ªany dwarf too.¡±


    ¡°I advise cooperation,¡± says the head examiner. He fixes us with a cold glare.


    ¡°We''ll cooperate just fine,¡± says the dwarf in chrome and silver. ¡°Just tell us where to go.¡±


    ¡°Up the slope.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Though I want to make it clear that I don''t appreciate being made to do your guild''s dirty work.¡±


    The head examiner shrugs. ¡°Someone has to do it. Why be so selfish as to give all the honor to my guild? This is an opportunity for all of you. You''re to show your worth by doing something of worth.¡±


    ¡°And save you money on buying something for the arenas.¡±


    ¡°That too. Now, off you all go.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say. ¡°How are we going to be judged? Who''s going to be watching us up there? Won''t we be scored?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the dwarf in platinum. ¡°What if someone refuses to fight?¡±


    ¡°You''ll all fight,¡± says the head examiner. ¡°The trolls will see to that. Now get moving.¡±


    We look at each other, some shrug, and then we begin to trudge up the stony slope. I can just make out dark hulking figures at the shadowed top. Each is at least four times as tall as I am.


    The point of my war-pick glints redly. It''s hungry for their blood.

 Dragonhunt 12: The Fight Against The Iron Trolls

    The granite slope is a struggle to walk up. Dust has settled on it over the long years, the thousands of long-hours, that the quarry has lain abandoned. It''s a layer between our boots and the stone. For every two steps forward we slide one back. At least, most of the others slide one back. The gripping runes on the soles of my boots give me an advantage here.


    I''m not the only one with gripping runes on my boots, though. The dwarf in platinum scales must have similar, for his pace is equaling mine.


    He looks at me with disgust.


    ¡°What?¡± I snap.


    ¡°Nothing, nothing.¡±


    ¡°Must be something.¡±


    ¡°It''s nothing.¡±


    ¡°Don''t approve of my weapon?¡±


    ¡°That''s right. That''s it. No. I don''t.¡±


    I point to the top of the slope, where the iron trolls watch us from. I can almost make out the patterns of their scales. ¡°It''s going to go right through them. You just watch.¡±


    ¡°I won''t have time to watch. I''ll be slicing them.¡±


    ¡°How many you planning to kill then?¡±


    ¡°One or two.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°That all?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He scowls at me. ¡°You''ve never fought one, have you.¡±


    ¡°Not an iron troll, no. Lava trolls.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡± He sounds doubtful.


    ¡°It is so.¡±


    ¡°Attack you in the mines, did they?¡± one of the runeknights behind shouts. ¡°From behind? Like they attacked your mother?¡±


    I spin around. My war-pick is high. ¡°Watch your mouth,¡± I say coldly. ¡°I don''t think this pick would have much trouble getting through that cheap tin you''ve got on.¡±


    The dwarf brandishes his golden sword. ¡°Watch your mouth,¡± he says. ¡°You threatening murder?¡±


    ¡°No. I was making an observation about your metalworking.¡±


    ¡°Damn miner. You shouldn''t be here.¡±


    ¡°Well, I am. And ahead of you, I might add. What runes did you graft to those clogs of yours? Write a poem about snails, did you?¡±


    I laugh at my own joke. No one else does. I turn back to the front. My back feels very exposed, all of a sudden.


    I didn''t start anything though. Scumbags. They think they''re better than me, do they? I up the pace, stride past the dwarf in platinum. I don''t give him the honor of my attention¡ªI focus firmly on the hulking monsters at the top of the slope, not fifty yards distant now.


    I can smell their stench, a mixture of feces and rust. I think back to the river trolls, and wonder how intelligent this lot are. Maybe more than I suspect. Should I slow down, wait for the others to catch up, so we can meet them united?


    No. My guild is watching. Guthah, an initiate, was the first in his group to step forward. I''ve been the last to charge too many times up until now.


    I look back. ¡°Get a move on, you lot. The less time we give them to prepare, the better.¡±


    ¡°Imbecile,¡± says the dwarf in platinum. ¡°They''ve had dozens of long-hours to prepare.¡±


    He''s got a point there. I stop for a moment, trying to think of a clever reply¡ªmy nervousness is gone, replaced by a burning desire to prove to the jumped up arseholes behind me that I''m no miner, that I''m a runeknight and one better than them.


    I sense something rushing through the air. I turn back to the front, raise my pick to block, expecting a charging troll, but it''s a boulder. I throw myself to the side, but even so it clips me and sends me spinning and tumbling down the slope. Grey and black, stone and darkness, turn over and over. The stands in the distance and their lamps have become a bright wheel. The scrape of stone is deafening, and the vibrations of my armor on the rough granite are going through my whole body.


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    I slam my war-pick into the stone to stop myself. My momentum almost rips it from my grasp; I struggle to keep hold of the handle even with my rune-enhanced grip.


    Cursing, and red-faced in embarrassment¡ªmy first strike with my pick was against a rock!¡ªI pull myself to my feet. I half expect to see my fellow examinees looking down at me and laughing.


    They''re doing no such thing. This is a battle. The examination has started. Stones are raining down, some nearly as large as I am.


    A gray shadow fills my vision. I leap to dodge. It flies past me, the wind from its passage nearly enough to make me lose my footing again. Smaller ones, shards, are battering my armor the next moment. I forward push through the gravel rain.


    A stone rolls at my feet and I jump to avoid. Another tears toward my head and I duck. One hits my shoulder and I feel the metal dent. Dull pain throbs in my flesh. I don''t let it affect me¡ªI continue to advance.


    My war-pick is trying to pull me forward faster. I resist the pull. A dozen yards ahead of me, half a boulder crashes into one of the runeknights. As both he and the boulder spin past me, and I see that the jagged part of the stone is covered in blood, and that his armor is broken and splintered. He''s screaming.


    Maybe he''ll survive, if he''s given healing chains in time. Or maybe he won''t.


    Shit! This is life and death, isn''t it? I got cocky, pulling ahead of the others, letting my emotions get hold of me. This is a battle, not a competition. I''m in armor, wielding a weapon, facing down monsters who want to kill me.


    Not since I battled Fjalar have I been in such a situation: an honest-to-rock, out and out fight.


    I climb further. More rocks fly at me¡ªthe trolls seem to have endless ammunition. I dodge most, but sometimes I''ve got to take a lesser blow in order to avoid getting smashed by a boulder nearly as big as I am. My beautifully polished armor is now dented and coated with dust. It seems to be getting heavier, or maybe I''m just getting exhausted.


    I''ve nearly reached the other dwarves now, who have nearly mounted the top of the slope. Past them, looming over them, the hulking iron trolls are clear to see. They look much like the stone trolls I''m used to wrangling for the arenas, with the same overly long arms and hideous hairless faces, except each''s skin is covered by a thick carapace, their famed natural armor, overlapping flakes of rust cemented with spit.


    They''re retreating, though. They don''t fancy their chances with us. One of the runeknights lets out a roar and we surge up the remainder of the slope to do battle. The hulking trolls stumble away in panic. I mount the ridge, war-pick raised high.


    And am suddenly dropping down; like a bad dream, the ground is suddenly not there. Seven feet later and I hit the bottom of the trench the trolls have carved out for us.


    ¡°They''ve tricked us!¡± someone cries out.


    ¡°Tricked by trolls!¡± another yells.


    I feel like a fool. Just a few minutes ago I was wondering if we were underestimating the monsters. Well, we have. Their retreat was no retreat, but a feint, a military tactic. Now we''re at the bottom of a dark crack in the rock with the trolls are leering at us from above.


    The darkness is near absolute. I ought to have brought my runic ears, but I was expecting to fight somewhere brightly lit where the examiners could pay attention to my every move.


    Yet I don''t need light to know what''s about to happen now.


    I side-step. A boulder smashes where I was just standing. The ground shakes, nearly throwing me over. More thuds follow to my left and right. The trolls are trying to bury us alive. Dwarves scream as their armor is broken¡ªmetal sparks provide brief illumination.


    I glance a troll''s foot just in reach. I swing up and my war-pick goes right through the ankle. The troll roars in surprise and lifts its foot up and back in its retreat, dragging me up. My breastplate scrapes across the rock, then I''m out. I twist and wrench the weapon out the iron-scaled flesh. Blood pours, a blacker stain in the darkness.


    There''s a foot coming down at my head. I don''t see it¡ªmy fighting instincts are just telling me it''s there. I roll out the way, feel a shudder from the side as my prediction comes true, then I continue to roll up to my feet. A fist, heavy with rusted iron and as big as my head, is thrown at me. I duck and strike upward, feel my weapon stab through the troll''s arm.


    It doesn''t care, strikes again with its other fist. I duck again, tearing my weapon out. The stench of blood makes my heart beat faster, makes my body feel light. I swing at the troll''s legs. Again, my pick pierces its iron scales with ease. Again, it doesn''t seem to care.


    Trolls don''t feel pain. In order to bring one down, you have to get your weapon into its head, chest, or belly, and you have to do this many times, especially with iron trolls. Though they might not have the regeneration of their lava-dwelling cousins, they''re still tougher than the ordinary stone variety.


    Another troll lunges forward. It wields a slab of stone as thick and long as one of its legs. It swings at my chest.


    Shit! I don''t have time dodge. All I can do is brace, then lean into the blow, trusting my armor can resist the violence. It does; the stone shatters on my titanium breastplate. Yet the impact is still fierce; I''m sent stumbling back, breath knocked from me. I ready a counter but am forced to duck a stone the size of my head. The shadowed figure that threw it closes in.


    I count quickly: three trolls are on me. I need to beat a retreat and find some way to take them on one at a time.


    A fourth lumbers toward me, throws two stones at once. I''m forced to take the hit from the lesser on my pauldron. The force staggers me.


    Where''s everyone else? Are they still trapped? I glance back.


    To my surprise, most have managed to climb out. I imagine they clambered up the boulders the trolls tried to crush us with. I shouldn''t be too surprised: everyone here is at least as skilled as I am.


    Yet they''re not joining the fight. They''ve stopped still, watching. Some have even retreated a few paces back downslope.


    My eyes meet the dwarf in platinum''s. My mouth curls in disgust. I see what''s happening here. They''re not going to help me, are they?

 Dragonhunt 13: War-Pick Against Troll Skin

    I edge backwards a few more paces and stop just before the trench. The trolls pause for a second. The one whose leg and arm I stabbed is hanging a little further back. There''s a strange expression on its face. Pain? Maybe iron trolls cover themselves in armor because, unlike other trolls, they can feel it.


    This won''t make much difference if the fight''s to be twelve on one. Should I charge? Briefly I consider it. I imagine myself leaping toward one troll, or another, diving this way or that.


    Every scenario I consider through ends with the hulking brutes crushing me to scrap and red paste, but to run away would mean failure and shame in front of thousands.


    So I come up with a better idea. Very slowly, and calmly, not taking my eyes off the trolls, not even blinking, I step backwards over the trench so that I''m just one pace ahead of the rest of the dwarves.


    ¡°Well?¡± I bellow. ¡°What are you all waiting for?¡±


    No response.


    ¡°You going to leave me to do all the work?¡±


    ¡°Be our guest,¡± the runeknight with the golden sword says.


    ¡°Too cowardly to go in, are you?¡±


    ¡°We''re not hanging back to spite you, Zathar,¡± says the one in platinum. ¡°Not everything centers around you, you know. Look back.¡±


    ¡°I''m not taking my eyes off the trolls,¡± I tell him. Does he take me for a complete fool? I''m not falling for that trick.


    ¡°Then listen carefully!¡± he snaps.


    I frown, and do so. I can hear marching. I risk a quick glance back. My breath catches in my lungs¡ªa phalanx of runeknights is coming up the slope, led by high-ranking examiners in their distinctive red cloaks.


    ¡°They''ve realized they fucked up. After that debacle in the initiates'' exam, Thanic Guard Ratalak doesn''t want to lose any more dwarves. So they''re calling a halt to it. No need for us to do anything. They''ll give us something easier.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°So you should take a step back, if you want to live.¡±


    ¡°You''re really happy to let them complete our examination for us?¡±


    ¡°Whelp. You don''t get to live to forge as long as we do without learning how to pick your battles.¡±


    ¡°Is your guild watching you?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Of course. They''ll understand.¡±


    I laugh bitterly. ¡°You don''t feel any shame at all, do you? Any of you?¡±


    I''m expecting silence, or a few insults, but to my shock, two of the runeknights step forward.


    ¡°He''s right,¡± one says. ¡°They''re only trolls, for fuck''s sake. And there''s only twelve of them. One each.¡±


    ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± says the one with the golden sword. ¡°Just wait! They''re calling it off!¡±


    Another runeknight steps forward. His sword is curved, and glows greenish. ¡°I heard that the initiates who ran from their monster are failed permanently. It won''t look good if we do the same as them.¡±


    ¡°Permanent failure? Absurd. Just hang back.¡±


    ¡°Still won''t look good.¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± I say. ¡°Are we runeknights or cowards? Are we dwarves in armor, or elves wearing leaves and skins? Come on!¡±


    I step over the trench. The two who backed me up follow suit. A few more do, then a few more. Then the one in platinum scales curses, pushes down his visor and steps across also.


    ¡°Morons!¡± spits the runeknight with the golden sword, as he becomes the last to join us, still shaking his head.


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    I raise my pick and am about to shout charge, when the rest of them beat me to it. They scream and launch themselves forward. I hurry to follow. The trolls lumber to meet us, swinging iron-clad fists and lobbing chunks of rock. Their roars sound like plates of iron are being torn in two within their barrel-chests.


    I duck a rock, and now I''m in the midst of the battle. I stab with my pick to the left, to the right, up to the soft parts under jaws and down to feet. The darkness is all fast-moving blurs, trollish roars, and shouts and screams of pain. I smell sweat and blood, violence. My armor quickly becomes so drenched that troll blood is soaking through the padding and congealing on my skin.


    A fist hits me square in the chest. I feel my plate bend and I fly backward, manage to roll when I hit stone. I duck the attack of another troll and swing into its belly. The pick goes right through. It bellows, clutches at the wound as I tear my steel out. A second later, a glowing green blade sweeps clean through its knee. It collapses¡ªmy pick is raised before it hits the ground¡ªthe moment it does, I sink the steel deep into its head.


    It falls onto its back with a crash. The runeknight with the green blade grins at me, then his lapse in concentration is punished brutally; a troll behind stomps him. Its foot hits his shoulder, forcing him down. The foot continues down, crushing his armor like it''s a thin sheet of tin. His arm is flattened onto the stone. He screams. I bury my pick in the troll''s stomach. It grunts, but that''s all. This bastard''s tougher than the others, bigger too. It hits me with a liver-shot, sending me airborne. I crash down the slope¡ªit''s thrown me clean out the battle.


    I''m rolling, rolling, down and down once more, but faster this time. I''m nearly at the examiners¡ªI fly through a gap in their columns. I continue to bounce down the rock. My armor is making horrible tearing and grinding noises. I remember what weapon I''m holding and swing to try and stop myself, but the steel fails to bite. I swing again. I nearly get it, strike hard enough to slow myself.


    Oh, shit. The same massive troll that sent me flying is charging after me. Its momentum is inevitable¡ªone of the senior examiners steps into its path with shield raised and is smashed away. The runeknights behind him throw themselves to either side.


    My pickaxe bites the stone deep. My spinning abruptly stops; my shoulders are nearly torn from their sockets by the sudden halt in momentum. But I''ve finally managed to stop my fall, though I''m now all the way down on the flat where the carriage first dropped us off. I stand up unsteadily. My head is ringing and my legs are shaking. I raise my pick and my side hurts something terrible. I glance down¡ªmy armor is a dented mess, the titanium torn in several places. My boots slide a little and my grip feels weak. My runes are damaged.


    ¡°I''ll kill you!¡± I scream up at the troll. ¡°Kill every one of you bastards!¡±


    Its eyes are locked with mine. Shit! Why in hell''s it going for me, rushing so fast, getting closer by the second? What''s happened to the rest of the runeknights? Why isn''t it fighting them? Are they all dead? Surely not.


    Some irrational rage has taken hold of it. Maybe my hit to the belly was more painful than it seemed. Or maybe it just wants to go out in a blaze of glory, crushing me down so it can then meet a more glorious end at the hands of more powerful dwarves.


    No. Somehow I doubt it understands the concept of a glorious death. All it''s interested in is killing me.


    Any moment now¡ªnow!¡ªI swing. My strike is half a block, aimed at its oncoming fist. The steel goes right through its armored knuckles and sinks deep into its hand. Then, the force of the troll''s punch swings me high. Air whistles past my helmet.


    My momentum slows and stops. I look down and my eyes widen. I hadn''t calculated for this; I''m in the air above the troll, hanging from its fist by my pick, and unable to extract it.


    The troll draws back its other fist. I brace for a bone-shattering blow¡ªthe troll pauses. It grunts at me, then smiles. It opens its hand.


    ¡°Shit!¡± I scream as I realize what it''s got on mind.


    It reaches out. I kick, hammer my boots against its wrist. This has no effect. It grasps my right ankle. It starts to pull.


    I grunt and desperately try to contort my body to resist the force. It''s far too strong though. In a few seconds it''s going to rip my leg from its socket¡ªunless I let go of my weapon.


    But then I''ll be totally defenseless, and it knows this. The examiners won''t be any help; the few that have broken from the main formation to come after the rogue troll are still quite far away. I need to find another solution, and quickly, yet pain is clouding my mind.


    Get the pick out. That''s the only way. How, though?


    Twist it a little, stretch to get it out just a fraction, then angle it back and pull. The mechanics are clear to me, yet if I stretch, I''m just helping the troll tear my body apart.


    My ruby amulet. If I had that on, maybe it''d be possible. It''d grant me the vitality I need.


    The troll roars and pulls harder. I scream¡ªI''m being stretched on a rack¡ªI have to do this now! I twist the pick and hear the wet crunch of metal adjusting bone. I stretch my body and feel something give in my hip¡ªpainfully. But the head of my pick is an inch out, enough that I can, with a surge of upper-body strength, tilt it back. It slips out.


    The troll still has me by the leg, of course, so I swing like a pendulum. I use the momentum to strike into its chest. It roars and drops me. I try to stand, but can''t. I strike just above its groin from supine. It roars again, stomps. I take the blow. My breastplate cracks. The salamander skin runes on it burst briefly into flames then dissipate into smoke.


    With the very last of my strength I slam my war-pick into the troll''s knee and twist. It bellows once more and, with a stone-shaking crash, collapses to lie beside me. For a moment we''re both still, breathing heavily. We both try to stand¡ªbut cannot.


    Abruptly it coughs, then its breathing ceases. I turn my head to look. Its eyes are glassy and lifeless. I''ve won.


    ¡°Get him out his armor!¡± comes a distant yell from just a few feet away. ¡°Get the healing chains! Get the...¡±


    END OF ACT ONE

 Dragonhunt 14: Death of Runes

    I wake up in my own bed. My first thought is that the battle with the iron trolls was a dream, and that the examination starts from now. Then the pain comes. I groan. It''s especially pronounced in my right hip. There''s something wrapping my flesh there too, adding to the pain, squeezing and making it worse. More coils are around my chest.


    I grasp them; they''re cold. Healing chains. So my battle against the iron trolls was no dream. Remembering how the last one tried to tear my leg off, I panic, grab at my thigh, and am relieved to find my leg still there.


    Well, I''m in one piece at least. But did I pass?


    Beside my bed is one of the initiates¡ªnow a tenth degree. He''s sleeping.


    ¡°Katak! Got bored of watching over me, did you?¡± I say.


    He wakes with a start. ¡°Zathar! I''m sorry, I didn''t...¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I''m sure you''re exhausted.¡±


    ¡°Not that much.¡± He looks guilty. ¡°The examination finished some time ago.¡±


    ¡°How long ago?¡±


    ¡°Four long-hours.¡±


    ¡°That long?¡±


    ¡°Yes. How are you feeling?¡±


    ¡°Sore, but wide awake.¡±


    ¡°I should get the guildmaster.¡±


    I nod. ¡°You do that.¡±


    He hurries from my quarters. I try to relax, and wince. The slightest movement brings pain shooting into my hip and my side. It''s not a burning pain, or a cutting pain, but rather an uncomfortable kind of pull, as if everything down there''s been drawn tight.


    I hope nothing''s permanently damaged. Disabilities can be compensated for with runes, but only to an extent.


    A few minutes later, there''s a polite knock on my door. I recognize it as Braztak''s¡ªI doubt Wharoth would have knocked.


    ¡°Come in,¡± I say.


    He enters, looking serious. ¡°May I sit down?¡±


    ¡°Please do.¡±


    He takes the chair from my desk and positions it beside the bed, sits on it.


    ¡°Did I pass?¡± I ask immediately.


    ¡°You did,¡± he says. ¡°Your certificate is in your desk. Want to see?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Pain shoots up my side. ¡°Of course,¡± I say, more quietly.


    He opens the drawer and pulls out a thin sheet of stainless silver, embossed with runes. He makes to hand it to me then pauses.


    ¡°I can manage to hold it myself, at least,¡± I say.


    He nods. I grimace as I pull my hands out from under the blanket to receive it. I hold it up to the light and examine the runes closely.


    They read:


    This metal is to certify that Zathar of the Association of Steel has attained the degree numbered fourth, on this one hundred twenty three thousandth, six hundred and eighty first long-hour of the reign of Runeking Ulrike of Allabrast and all the realms that have sworn allegiance to him.


    May he forge for an eternity or else die in glorious service to Runeking Ulrike.


    ¡°Check the other side,¡± says Braztak.


    I do so:


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


    A fearsome craft. ¡ªUlrike


    I draw breath sharply. ¡°The Runeking himself wrote this?¡±


    ¡°The runes are of no metal I''ve ever seen before, and I can''t tell what reagent he used either. And they''re completely perfect in form.¡±


    ¡°That''s a yes, then.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Usually only first degrees get such a personal congratulations.¡±


    ¡°I''m honored. Very honored.¡±


    ¡°He''s still got his eyes on you, it seems.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That''s a good thing. I hope.¡±


    ¡°You said he seemed decent enough.¡±


    ¡°Even so, he''s still very powerful. And my experiences with powerful dwarves have, on the whole, been negative.¡±


    Braztak nods. ¡°Aye. I know what you mean.¡±


    ¡°I''m still honored and grateful though. Don''t get me wrong.¡± I take a deep breath. ¡°But why do you look so concerned? It''s my leg, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Your leg is fine,¡± he says. ¡°Your other injuries as well. The healing chains they had on hand were some of the best. You''ll make a full recovery¡ªafter some time.¡±


    ¡°I see. How much time?¡±


    ¡°A dozen long-hours or so. But you''ll be able to leave your bed before then.¡±


    ¡°And get down to the forges, I hope.¡± I chuckle. ¡°I think I''ve got quite a lot of repairing to do.¡±


    His face falls even further. ¡°About that...¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Most of your armor is fine. But your breastplate...¡±


    ¡°What about it?¡±


    "It''s.. There''s no easy way to say this, Zathar.¡±


    I''m beginning to feel a little worried. ¡°How bad is the damage?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Damage isn''t the right word... It''s... Well, it''s completely shattered. The runes melted themselves trying to take the impact of the troll''s foot.¡±


    ¡°I can remake them.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°It''s beyond repair, Zathar.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°No. Nothing''s beyond repair. It''s just a matter of careful welding.¡±


    ¡°Not in this case.¡±


    "I''d like to see for myself."


    "I don''t think the shock will do you any favors."


    "Please."


    ¡°I see. As you wish. Now?¡±


    ¡°Please.¡±


    He leaves, shutting the door behind him gently. Beyond repair? Surely a third degree like him knows that no craft is beyond repair. Like I said, it''s just a matter of careful welding.


    Braztak returns holding a large box. It rattles slightly with each step he takes. I a low groan escapes my lips. From the box I can''t feel anything, nothing, not the slightest hint of runic power.


    ¡°Are you sure you want me to open it?¡±


    ¡°Get it over with.¡±


    Silently he lifts the lid. He pulls out the contents, which clanks mournfully, metal bones hitting against each other. My groan turns to a whimper.


    ¡°Oh...¡±


    My breastplate and backplate are smashed to splinters. Only the interior padding is holding them together, and barely so. There''s hundreds of shards missing. But that isn''t the worst of it.


    Where once were runes are now melted holes. Of the salamander skin I fought so hard for all those years ago, there''s nothing but smudges of blackish dust.


    Tears are rolling down my face.


    ¡°Beyond repair,¡± I whisper. ¡°You''re right.¡±


    ¡°It was a fine craft. A fraction less tough, and your ribs would''ve been crushed into your lungs and heart. But it held just enough.¡±


    I swallow. ¡°I reforged it once before, you know. It rusted on my journey down to the fort. I thought it was beyond repair then, but even so, I remade it.¡±


    ¡°I suggest that you frame it. Put it on your wall. Or we can display it in the guildhall.¡±


    ¡°There''s absolutely no chance it can be remade?¡±


    ¡°Only if you melt it down and hammer out the impurities. But to me that would feel like an insult.¡±


    I breath deeply a few times, then wipe the tears from my eyes. I swallow again.


    ¡°You''re right,¡± I say. ¡°It did its duty. It deserves better than to be melted down.¡±


    ¡°If you do decide to put it in the guildhall, it''ll have a place of honor. Guildmaster Wharoth will agree to that. If he doesn''t, I''ll persuade him.¡±


    ¡°I''ll think about it.¡±


    ¡°You''ll get a stipend for materials for a new piece. I''ve already arranged it.¡±


    ¡°Really? Thank you.¡±


    ¡°It''s no problem.¡±


    ¡°You''re a real friend, Braztak. To everyone in the guild, but especially to me.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Zathar. I''m moved.¡±


    I sigh, and hand the remains of my breastplate and backplate to him. A splinter detaches and clinks on the floor. ¡°Put them back in the box for now.¡±


    He does so. He kneels to pick up the splinter also.


    ¡°Is there anything else I should know?¡± I ask.


    ¡°A few things. But for now I think you ought to sleep. You look exhausted.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    I sink back into the covers and unconsciousness takes me. I see no dreams.


    <hr>


    When I wake back up, there''s no one here with me. Seems they''ve decided I''m not going to die in my sleep. For a few moments I feel well, then the pain returns, and I remember the state of my breastplate. Its shattered fragments dance in my memory''s eye, and I let out another low groan.


    I lie back and attempt to go to sleep again. I can''t; I''m wide awake. With painful effort, I lean out of bed toward my table and light the oil lamp¡ªit has a clever switch that sprays sparks over the wick when pressed.


    In the low light, I consider what to do. Though losing my breastplate is a terrible shame, maybe it''s also an opportunity. I''m better at forging than I was when I created it and even when I remade it. I feel sure that I can forge an even tougher, even stronger piece of armor. One so well-made a troll''s foot would bounce right off it.


    After all, if I''m going to be fighting with my pick, I''m going to be up close and personal with my foes. I need the best protection my abilities can craft.


    And I am going to be fighting with my pick. It proved itself a hundred times over, with every strike that stabbed through the trolls'' armor and rent their guts.


    It deserves a name. One comes to me. It''s brutal, but my pick is a brutal weapon. It''s a tool for killing trolls, cruel dwarves, and maybe even a dragon. Its name must suit the bloody stanzas that adorn it.


    I will call it:


    Gutspiercer.

 Dragonhunt 15: Tale of the Redboar

    After one long-hour and a bit, I finally have the strength to leave bed. I slowly make my way along the tunnel to the main guildhall. When I emerge into the firelight, everyone turns to look. Many stop their meals midway and put down their mugs. Then they cheer.


    ¡°Zathar! Zathar! Zathar!¡±


    I grin as I limp down the hall.


    ¡°Fourth! Fourth! Fourth!¡±


    Of course not all are cheering, not even most¡ªseveral turn away with disgust plain on their faces, but it seems to me there''s less animosity than usual.


    ¡°Over here, Zathar!¡± Jerat shouts, beckoning me over.


    I sit down and he plants a full mug of ale before me.


    ¡°Drink up!¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    I swig it down and let out a satisfied sigh. A sense of relaxation floods out through my stiff muscles and aching wounds. The humans say that wine is the nectar of their gods, but in my opinion, nothing can ever beat a good cold beer.


    ¡°It''s good to see you again.¡±


    ¡°You might have come up,¡± I say. ¡°Too busy forging?¡±


    ¡°Braztak told us to leave you alone. Excitement would be bad for your healing, he said. Worries too much, if you ask me, but it is what it is. I think he just didn''t want me giving you anything unhealthy to drink.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure he had my best interests in mind.¡±


    ¡°Always does, doesn''t he? In any case, we need to throw you a proper celebration. A real booze-up.¡±


    Faltast nods in agreement. ¡°Yes. Somewhere expensive.¡±


    ¡°Once my leg''s properly fixed,¡± I say. ¡°Stumbling up and down tunnels won''t be good for my hip.¡±


    Jerat winces. ¡°That was nasty, what that troll tried to do to you.¡±


    ¡°Lucky it was so stupid,¡± says Faltast.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± I ask.


    ¡°It could''ve just reached for your head and twisted it off. That''s what Braztak thought it was aiming for. He covered his eyes for the last part of the fight¡ªcouldn''t watch.¡±


    ¡°I watched the whole thing, you''ll be pleased to know,¡± says Jerat. ¡°I always knew you''d beat the bastard.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t,¡± I say. ¡°Damn, but it was a close thing. And my armor!¡± I shake my head mournfully. ¡°Have you seen it?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Faltast. ¡°We saw it when the examiners were carrying you off.¡±


    ¡°Bastards,¡± I say. ¡°First they fuck up the initiates'' examination, and then do the same to mine.¡±


    Jerat shrugs. ¡°Nah. It was a fair examination.¡±


    ¡°Really? I saw several get killed. Or were they rescued?¡±


    ¡°Out of the fourteen who took it, four died,¡± says Faltast.


    ¡°Four! That''s nearly a third of us.¡±


    ¡°A higher ratio than usual,¡± says Jerat, taking another deep draft of beer. He burps. ¡°But it was their own fault.¡±


    I blink, taken aback by his callousness.


    ¡°I see the look on your face,¡± says Faltast. ¡°When I was younger, I thought it was a waste too.¡± He wipes foam from his blonde moustaches. ¡°But then there was that incident with the redboar. Remember that, Jerat?¡±


    ¡°Oh, aye. I remember. No amount of alcohol can erase that nightmare. Hah!¡±


    A memory of pain, or perhaps fear, causes a muscle under his cheek to spasm. He slaps it hard to stop it, like he''s crushing a poison snake. I''m taken aback again¡ªI''ve never seen him show fear or pain before.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°What''s a redboar?¡± I ask. ¡°Never heard of one.¡±


    ¡°They''re rare, and not so dangerous to experienced runeknights anyway,¡± explains Faltast. ¡°What it is... Well, sometimes food goes scarce in the stalagmite forest.¡±


    ¡°Went,¡± says Jerat. ¡°Is there even a forest left anymore?¡±


    ¡°The outskirts, maybe. Anyway, when food goes scarce, the blindboars start to eat each other. The herd devours itself until there''s only a few left¡ªa big male and his harem.¡±


    ¡°Just like Runethane Broderick had,¡± laughs Jerat. ¡°Wonder if he kept pigs in his as well as humans and elves?¡±


    Faltast rolls his eyes. That remark was crude, even for Jerat. ¡°The big male is called a redboar. It''s about the size of a caravan blindboar, but leaner. Meaner too.¡±


    ¡°And red from all the blood?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No. It''s brown and stinking. Blood rots, you know.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°You don''t want to tangle with one,¡± says Jerat. ¡°Oh, no, you do not.¡±


    ¡°Not if you''re anything less than fifth degree. You could handle one with ease, Zathar. If you can kill an iron troll, you can kill a dozen redboars. I''d say it''s about as dangerous as the monster the initiates had to face.¡±


    ¡°It''s called a bzathletic. I had trouble with it when I was fifth.¡±


    ¡°In rusty armor,¡± Jerat reminds me.


    ¡°I suppose. But what happened when you met this redboar?¡±


    ¡°I''ll tell the story from the start,¡± says Faltast. ¡°It''d been spotted around the outskirts of the city by some commoners. At first, no one paid them much attention. But then the bodies started to appear.¡±


    ¡°What was left of them,¡± says Jerat.


    ¡°Yes. Boars aren''t known to be picky eaters. So, a job was put out. Didn''t pay great, but Jerat and I, and a few others, were still low in the degrees and hungry for a bit of gold.¡±


    ¡°We took it on without a second thought.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Just a boar¡ªseemed like easy money. A few others took on the job as well, and all in all about a dozen of us set out into the forest to find it. All of us were eighth degree or below, apart from this one fifth degree. What was his name again, Jerat?¡±


    ¡°Who cares? A curse on those runes, whatever they were.¡±


    ¡°Novok, that was it.¡±


    Jerat shrugs and starts on yet another beer. ¡°I don''t remember.¡±


    ¡°Well, this Novok fancied himself a commander and, as eighth degrees, we couldn''t really disagree. We let him take the lead.¡±


    ¡°Led us in circles for the most part.¡±


    ¡°Yes. For about a week were wandering around the stalagmites, not getting anywhere, not seeing hind nor hair of the redboar. Finally, on the eighth night, we spotted it. We charged.¡±


    A few dwarves have gathered at the table and are listening intently. Mostly lower degrees. My eyes meet with Guthah''s, and he bows his head in respect.


    ¡°We chased it into a shallow crevasse,¡± Faltast continues. ¡°Then this Novok, the fifth degree, had a brilliant idea. He ordered us to climb out the crevasse so we could run around the back and attack it while he held his ground. That excuse was a load of shit: he just wanted to kill it on his own and claim all the glory, and the dragon''s share of the gold.¡±


    ¡°Bloody fool,¡± sneers Jerat. ¡°The redboar tore him apart like his armor was wet paper. Blood everywhere. Then it turned on us.¡±


    ¡°We were split up,¡± says Faltast. ¡°And now that the redboar had killed one of us, it decided we were easy prey. It tore us apart one by one.¡±


    ¡°You two survived though,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes!¡± cries Jerat, laughing loudly and slamming his mug down onto the table. ¡°We killed it, didn''t we, Faltast? Rent its guts right out its belly!¡±


    ¡°Indeed. But we still have the scars.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ªnasty ones.¡± Jerat turns to me. ¡°So, Zathar, do you understand the point of this little tale?¡±


    ¡°You can''t have weak runeknights,¡± I say.


    ¡°Not quite,¡± says Faltast. ¡°All runeknights start off weak. But you can''t have weak runeknights pretending to be strong. I honestly don''t know how that Novok passed his examination. He must have found some way to cheat, or else his guild bribed someone. He certainly had the arrogance of someone born to plenty of gold.¡±


    ¡°His armor was seventh degree at best,¡± snorts Jerat. ¡°That''s what Wharoth said when he got a look at the remains.¡±


    ¡°And that was just some boar chase,¡± Faltast continues. ¡°What about in war? A group of fourth degree runeknights is meant to be an elite force. Imagine they''re to hold a vital tunnel, but turn out not to be elites at all, but only as strong as regular soldiers. It would be a disaster.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°So the examinations have to be dangerous. It would be best that those who fail don''t die, of course, and are allowed to fight again another day, but those who aren''t of quality cannot be allowed to advance.¡±


    ¡°Imagine if you bought high priced steel, and it turned out to be full of impurities,¡± adds Jerat. ¡°Similar situation.¡±


    Guthah frowns. ¡°Surely dwarves can''t be compared to simple materials.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Shows how much you know, tenth degree. When it comes to war that''s all us runeknights are. And we''re at constant war¡ªagainst Runeking Uthrarzak, against the tribes of trolls, against all the beasts below that see us as tasty snacks.¡±


    ¡°Better the weak die in the examination than put others in danger on the battlefield,¡± I say. ¡°I get it."


    Mostly I get it. Surely there are less dangerous ways dwarves could be tested? Then again, what use is a runeknight who won''t show that he''s willing to risk death? The examination is also a test of courage, and with no risk, it wouldn''t be.


    "Still, the incident with the initiates...¡±


    ¡°That was a fuck up,¡± says Faltast, waving his hand dismissively. ¡°One that''s being investigated. Your examination, though, was fair. Besides, someone had to fight those trolls eventually.¡±


    ¡°And anyway,¡± Jerat laughs, ¡°What the hell are you complaining about? You passed, didn''t you? In spectacular fashion!¡±


    I wince. Maybe it seemed spectacular to those watching, but to me it was nothing but terrifying, not to mention extremely painful.


    ¡°You look tired,¡± says Faltast. ¡°Maybe we''ve been ranting on too much. Back to bed?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± I shake my head. ¡°I still haven''t eaten anything. And...¡± I hesitate to ask the question that''s been on my mind since I woke up.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°The black dragon. Have there been any more rumors?¡±


    He nods. ¡°More than rumors. News. Developments.¡±

 Dragonhunt 16: The Dragonslayer Arrives

    The Stadium of the Mind is, as its name suggests, not an arena for physical battles, or even contests of forging. It''s for intellectual tussles. In other words, it''s a lecture hall where great runeknight scholars of metallurgy, runes, archaeology, zoology, and every other science of dwarven kind dispense their knowledge for hefty prices.


    As we approach it¡ªwe being nearly a third of the Association of Steel¡ªthe streets become an unwieldy phalanx of runeknights. After we round the Human Library, the phalanx compacts into a crush. I''ve never seen this place so busy before, not even for lectures by the most regarded runeknights of Allabrast.


    Step by step, shove by shove, and curse by curse, we close in on the stadium. Its enclosing dome rears over us, a granite mountain of a hundred different colors arranged in geometric patterns. No two tiles are the same shape, and the striking effect is made more so by great crystalline lamps set around its base, facing upward.


    ¡°I hope we can get in,¡± I say nervously.


    ¡°Me too,¡± says Faltast. ¡°We''ll just have to wait and see.¡±


    Half an hour later we finally make it to the entrance. It gapes like a maw, yet the metal gate in it is opened only a fraction. Two rough-looking runeknights in tungsten armor confront Voltost, the most senior member of the Association here.


    ¡°How many?¡± they demand.


    ¡°Ninety-five.¡±


    ¡°That''ll be one thousand forty five silvers.¡±


    Voltost hands over the sack of coins. The runeknights count them slowly and carefully. They look to be about fifth degree, with poems well-composed. They''re to resist fire. Strapped to their arms are shields with whorls of runes of abyssal salamander skin, and though I can''t read the runes'' script, they''re probably to resist fire also.


    I wonder if their leader, the first degree from a far-off realm we''ve all come here to listen to, is equipped in similar fashion.


    Xomhyrk Dragonslayer.


    This was the news that Faltast broke to me after he finished his story about the redboar. A famous dragonslayer, Xomhyrk, with a dozen kills to his name, hailing from a kingdom to the far south, has arrived in Allabrast.


    ¡°Entry allowed,¡± says one of the runeknights.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± says Voltost, and he pushes through the gate, his thick armor causing him a little trouble.


    We follow him in. The benches aren''t as crowded as I expected them to be from the crush outside¡ªit seems the gates are the bottleneck. Voltost leads us down as close to the front as we can get and we sit down on fossil-wood benches only a dozen rows away from the stage.


    But there''s no sign of Xomhyrk yet. We wait tensely for his arrival.


    I feel both nervous and hopeful. If he''s as strong as he says he is, and really does plan to lead an expedition to slay the black dragon, allying with him is my best chance of being able to fulfill my oath. Yet he could be¡ªas more than a few in the guild are saying¡ªa fraud. Or he might judge me unworthy of going on the expedition. And then even if everything goes as I hope, and I join him on his quest to slay the monster, what if he kills it before I have a chance to strike? If that happens I can hardly claim to have fulfilled my oath, can I?


    More runeknights march into the stadium. It fills with excited chatter and more than a few arguments. I wonder how many here actually believe that this Xomhyrk is a dragonslayer, and how many are sure he''s nothing other than a fraud.


    The crystal lamps embedded in the ceiling start to dim. A quiet falls over the audience. A silvery chime sounds out from the stage as the curtains, thin chains of precious metal, swing closed.


    ¡°This is it!¡± whispers Jerat from the seat behind me. ¡°He''ll be here soon!¡±


    ¡°I''m not getting my hopes up,¡± Voltost says loudly. ¡°But all the same we''ll be respectful. Understand that, guildsdwarves? No jeering, as some are bound to do.¡±


    I sensed some real hostility back in the guildhall when Faltast told me about this Xomhyrk. Many seem offended that someone hailing from so far away from Thanerzak''s realm should get a chance at slaying the black dragon. And though I can partially understand this, I still think we need to hear him out. Our guild alone won''t stand a chance against it.


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    A few minutes later and the chain curtains begin to draw back with a silvery rattle. The audience holds its breath. Crystal lamps above the stage brighten. A tallish figure becomes apparent. Mist is rising from the dark metal he''s encased in; it dissipates into the air. In his right hand he holds a long spear of the same dark metal as his armor. Towards its tip the metal becomes dark blue. It radiates a chill I can feel even from my seat. Apparently it''s called Icemite, and it''s pierced the heart of many a dragon.


    Xomhyrk Dragonslayer is here.


    He lifts his angular visor to reveal a handsome face and well-kept gray beard.


    ¡°Good morning to you all!¡± he announces. ¡°For up on the surface where our foe lies, it is indeed morning.¡±


    His greeting is met with silence no less icy than his spear.


    ¡°I have heard that many of you are somewhat skeptical that I am who I say I am.¡±


    ¡°We don''t even know who you are!¡± someone shouts.


    He fixes them with an icy glare. The tip of his spear seems to brighten slightly, or perhaps become more transclucent. Then, his expression softens.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he says. ¡°I apologize.¡± His voice is smooth. ¡°In the realms of Runeking Bolotorok I am well known, but perhaps not so much here, despite the peace between our underlands."


    ¡°My name is Xomhyrk, also known as the Dragonslayer, though of course I think everyone here knows at least that much. I am a first degree runeknight, as you might have guessed, but I have no desire for the moment to ascend to the rank of Runethane. I do not wish to settle down. I wish to continue my quest to rid both over and underworld of the foul dragons and all their ilk.


    No desire to ascend to Runethane? That implies that he believes he''s capable of doing so. Which means he''s either incredibly powerful, or an incredibly bold liar.


    ¡°It has, so far, been a long quest. I am over seven centuries old. I know that down here you don''t measure time in years, so in your numbers I could say nearly ninety thousand long-hours.¡±


    Some suspicious muttering arises. While that''s not an unbelievable age for a first degree runeknight, most who reach it do so because they spend more time at the forge than out in the caves.


    ¡°I hear that some of you disbelieve me. How is it that someone with such a dangerous quest should live so long? Well, dragons are rare. Most of my time is spent chasing them, not fighting them. And also, my armor is some of the best. I know it''s rude to boast of one''s armor, of course¡ª¡°


    Hah! I''ve never met a runeknight who doesn''t.


    ¡°¡ªhowever, mine really is powerful. I don''t feel embarrassed to say this. Well, it''s mostly effective against fire, mind you. I don''t think I''d last long in the extreme north, or atop one of the Western Mountains. But it''s all but impervious to dragonfire.¡±


    ¡°Liar!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Yes!¡± cries another. ¡°The black dragon''s fire melted two cities! Turned them to glowing slag!¡±


    ¡°So I''ve heard," says Xomhyrk. "Yet what if I told you this armor allows me to wade through molten stone?¡±


    ¡°Any first degree worth his rank could pull that off!¡±


    ¡°Is that true?¡± I whisper to Braztak.


    ¡°Yes. But most couldn''t wade for long.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°Maybe many could pull that off. Molten stone is not so hot. But what if I told you I could wade through molten tungsten in it?¡±


    There''s silence. It''s common knowledge that tungsten''s melting point is higher than any other metal''s.


    ¡°Not only that,¡± Xomhyrk continues, ¡°But this armor allows me to swim in the stuff. Well, it''s an odd kind of swimming, since my body, tough as it may be, is still a fair bit less dense than tungsten...¡±


    ¡°Rubbish!¡± someone yells.


    ¡°He''s a fraud,¡± Jerat snorts. ¡°Even if his armor didn''t melt, he''d be roasted like a pig in an oven.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not,¡± I counter. ¡°I saw a ship of metal on the magma sea once.¡±


    ¡°Hah! And how much beer did you have beforehand?¡±


    ¡°None!¡±


    ¡°...not completely impervious, but close enough,¡± Xomhyrk is saying. ¡°I would prove it to you, though unfortunately I neglected to bring a cauldron of molten tungsten with me on my journey here.¡±


    ¡°How convenient!¡± someone far at the back shouts sarcastically.


    ¡°Well, then, how about this? For those who agree to come on my expedition, I''ll organize a little demonstration. I''ll dive into a cauldron of molten tungsten and swim right back up. How about it?¡±


    ¡°Go ahead!¡± someone laughs. ¡°I''ll jump in after you if you do come up, and that''s a promise!¡±


    His guild howls with laughter. Xomhyrk shrugs, then gives the heckler a nasty smile.


    ¡°I''ll hold you to your word on that. Anyway, moving on, I''d like to give my reasons for coming here.


    ¡°I know many of you now resident in Allabrast suffered at the claws of the black dragon¡ªthough I''ve since learned many of those have departed with Runethane Vanerak. I also heard that Allabrast was a more welcoming city than Runeking Uthrarzak''s Gray Caverns, and it''s also closer to my own home. Mostly, though, I simply don''t like Runeking Uthrarzak.¡±


    This attempt to woo us meets with stony silence. We can see through his appeal to enmity.


    ¡°Well, anyway, my reasons for coming here don''t matter so much. What matters is that I am here, and that I am offering you a chance to join my expedition. If you do so, together we will win honor, glory, fame, and great riches. The empty kingdom of Halajatbast will be ours, with all its metal and runic knowledge.¡±


    ¡°If the dragon doesn''t kill us all!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°It will not. We will kill it.¡±


    I scowl. He speaks as if slaying a dragon is no harder than slaying a stone troll, or a common salamander.


    I remember how helpless I felt caught in its claws. The fear and horror I felt as its fire tore through our guildhall. My rage grows. My hands start to shake. I recall my anger when it went back on its promise, refusing to tell me of my brother. I feel that anger anew. My face flushes red. Likely it just killed him!


    The black dragon is a force of unstoppable evil. The Xomhyrk talks too easily of slaying it. He disrespects its victims. He disrespects our guild.


    I stand up.


    ¡°How?¡± I demand. ¡°How? I faced the black dragon before. More than once! And it''s grown in power since then. A hundredfold. So how exactly do you plan to kill it? Answer us this!¡±

 Dragonhunt 17: The Path to The Dragon

    Xomhyrk raises his eyebrows. ¡°Ah!¡± he says. ¡°You are from Thanerzak''s realm, then?¡±


    ¡°Indeed I am,¡± I say. ¡°Most of our guild is.¡±


    ¡°Sit down, Zathar!¡± Voltost shouts at me. ¡°You don''t speak for our guild!¡±


    ¡°And might you be the guildmaster?¡± Xomhyrk asks him.


    ¡°No. Our guildmaster is at the forge. But I am the most senior member present.¡±


    ¡°I take it you faced the black dragon too, then.¡±


    ¡°I did. I was there when it burned our guildhall, and also when we chased it through the stalagmite forest. It tore my friends apart.¡±


    When Xomhyrk hears this, he falls to one knee and bows low. I frown. I can''t tell if he''s being geniune or if this is just a show.


    ¡°A terrible sight it must have been. I have witnessed the same myself, many times.¡± He looks back up. His eyes are filled with sorrow¡ªand I think it''s real sorrow. ¡°My own guild fell afoul of a dragon when I was younger,¡± he continues. ¡°Not one so ferocious as the black dragon, but it was a terror in its own right. From that day forth, my life''s quest was decided.¡±


    ¡°You slew that dragon then?¡± asks Voltost.


    ¡°I plunged my frozen spear through its molten heart and turned its blood to stone. Yes, I slew it.¡±


    ¡°And you will kill the black dragon the same way?¡±


    ¡°Either I will or one of you will.¡±


    ¡°And if it comes from above?¡± someone high up at the back shouts.


    ¡°You do not fight dragons out in the open. You find a way to lure them into a cave. Usually by means of stealing from their hoard.¡±


    ¡°Suicide!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°If you think so, then there''s no need for you to come with us.¡± The friendliness in his voice has now gone completely. ¡°I''ll be blunt¡ªthis will be a difficult hunt. All dragonhunts end with at least a few dead runeknights, and this hunt will likely involve more death than most. But the glory and the riches will be worth it. And, for those of you who''ve lost friends, family, and homes to the black dragon, your revenge will be worth even more than those.¡±


    He looks at me as he says that. I nod, just a touch, then sit back down.


    I''m shocked. I came here expecting a fraud. A dwarf in gilt armor boasting about the dozens of dragons he''s slain, regaling us with over-wrought tales of glorious combat. Maybe he''d unroll a section of dragonhide for us, or have dragons'' teeth displayed in his beard. Yet he seems sincere. The pain in his eyes¡ªI can believe he''s lost friends to dragons.


    Maybe he''s just good at acting. But his armor makes me doubt that: it''s above first degree in quality. The power flowing from it is cold and solid. It gives me the impression that a wall of perfectly transparent yet nigh impregnable ice is filling the air between us.


    And his spear! Perhaps I''m biased, since the spear is still my favorite weapon, despite my recent success with Gutspiercer. But Icemite is a terrible weapon and no doubt about it. It''s not hard to imagine that tip freezing the blood in a dragon''s veins.


    ¡°A question!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°What''s the Runeking have to say about you coming here? And the Thanic Guard? If you''re so keen for this hunt, why haven''t you sought their patronage?¡±


    ¡°Very good questions. The answer is that I did seek the Thanic Guard''s patronage, and was rejected. They don''t want to risk their guilds and their power on what they think, as many of you do, is a suicide quest.¡± He shrugs. ¡°And they don''t like the idea of someone other than them being in charge either.¡±


    ¡°What about Runethane Vanerak and his Reconquerors?¡±


    ¡°I would''ve liked to ally with them, but they''ve been sent too far east and down, and we don''t have the time to waste to travel there on what''s probably a fruitless endeavor. Runethane Vanerak is not the sort, I''ve heard, for cooperation.¡±


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    ¡°And the Runeking?¡±


    ¡°I think he would rather Runeking Uthrarzak be forced to deal with the problem.¡±


    Someone else raises their hand. She looks to be a relatively senior runeknight, third or second degree. She wears gold armor with vivid red runes.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°I have question also.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead. I don''t wish to hide anything.¡±


    ¡°How much planning has gone into this expedition? In my experience, quests are often decided before they even start. Food, water, supplies for repairs, the route, number of dwarves and kinds of equipment¡ªif these are not calculated properly, the quest is failed before the first step.¡±


    ¡°Another excellent question. You''ll be reassured to know that all my hunts are planned and prepared for carefully.¡±


    ¡°I would like to hear some numbers.¡±


    ¡°The number of dwarves¡ªas many as I can get. Each will carry supplies enough for a good month of marching. Our journey will be longer than one month, of course, so we will have to hunt, forage, and purchase from the humans also. Unfortunately this means an advance payment from each participant in the quest¡ª¡±


    ¡°Fraudster!¡± someone screams. Angry chatter rises up in the crowd:


    ¡°Knew it all along!¡±


    ¡°Here to steal from us!¡±


    ¡°Likely he''ll vanish!¡±


    ¡°Thieving bastard!¡±


    Xomhryk waits for it to die down. He''s keeping his calm, not issuing any angry denials. When the shouting finally does fade, he says:


    ¡°It won''t be an especially large fee. And partly it''s because I want to keep numbers down only to those who are committed. Those who are serious. Those willing to risk their lives, not eat our food then bail out at the last moment.¡±


    More grumbling arises, but it''s more muted. There''s logic to what he''s saying.


    ¡°I thank you for your answer,¡± says the lady runeknight. ¡°I also wish to know about the route. It''s a long way to the Mountain of Halajatbast.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    Xomhyrk snaps his fingers. It makes a sound like a lake of ice cracking in two. Then, from behind the stage, four of his runeknights wheel in a massive, crystal-clear cylinder of quartz, ten feet in height and three in radius. The audience draws breath as one. My eyes widen in awe. This is one of Runeking Yullel''s¡ªpredecessor to Ulrike¡ªmost famed crafts. It''s one of the three relics stored here in the Stadium of the Mind.


    It is a map.


    ¡°The patron of the Stadium of the Mind is a believer in my expedition,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°He lost friends and business interests to the black dragon. He''s generously allowed me use of the old Runeking''s map.¡±


    Maps are a rarity in the dwarven underground. Humans, up on the surface, love them¡ªafter all, all you need to do to make a half-decent map on the surface is climb the nearest hill and scribble down what you see around. But the underworld is a maze of tunnels. It is no easy task to measure distance and angles in the darkness of a cave, especially if the cave in question is inhabited by vampiric bats and hungry salamanders.


    So, few bother to make them, and of those maps that do exist, they are usually nothing but points linked by lines, dense with runic annotations but with little topographical detail. And they omit a great deal out of necessity, because who, even the most committed map maker, wants to venture down every tiny off-shoot, most of which probably lead to nothing but a dead-end?


    But Runeking Yullel wanted proper knowledge of his realm and those around it. He had his Runethanes send armies out into every cavern of every realm to record the exact dimensions of every cave they could find.


    Within the quartz cylinder is a tangle of dark lines, thin as threads, that denote tunnels. Many then thicken to become caves and caverns. Though I can''t be sure, I think a flattish disc near the top, about the size of a golden wheel, is the stalagmite forest and the chasm of Hazhakmar.


    I trace a path down. My eyes follow black spirals, jagged turns, climb and dips. The quartz is shaded subtly according to the kinds of rock, and my path goes through pinks and greens and a dozen shades of white-grey. It leads to a black jag dipping into the reddish tinge at the base denoting the magma sea.


    That was my decade long journey. Seeing it laid out like this, I can well believe it took ten years. Conversely, I can hardly believe how fast it took the caravan to get us up into Allabrast, the diamond in the map''s center. Caravan tracks are unmarked¡ªmore than a thousand years ago there weren''t so many, and certainly there were no magnetic rails.


    Xomhyrk takes a thin aluminum rod from one of his tungsten-clad runeknights and points to Allabrast.


    ¡°Here we start, of course. Then we move by the tracks¡±¡ªhe moves the pointer along¡ª¡°to Runethane Lapak''s realm, on the border with the realms of Runeking Uthrarzak. We spiral up, bypassing the destroyed realms of Runethanes Thanzerzak and Broderick, and make our way to the surface. Then we go straight¡±¡ªhe runs his pointer along the green-tinted top of the quartz, until he reaches a mountain at its extreme north¡ª¡°until we reach the Mountain of Halajatbast.¡±


    More mutterings arise.


    ¡°That''s weeks of surface travel!¡± someone calls out. ¡°We''ll burn!¡±


    ¡°Not so. It''s just become winter, and besides, the further north we go the less the sun will show its face.¡±


    ¡°Winter? What the hell is that?¡±


    ¡°When the weather becomes cold and cloudy.¡±


    Confused murmurs arise.


    ¡°Ask someone who''s traveled up there if you don''t understand. And if you still won''t accept the risk...¡± He shrugs. ¡°Like I said before, I only want the most committed with me.


    ¡°Now, to end, I will give instructions for those who wish to join me. Come to my floor in the Crystal Stalactite in the Fireflea District and present your equipment and your gold. Or if you will go as a guild, you can send a representative. All degrees are welcome, though of course I will not let those of lower ranks fight the dragon directly. But there''ll be human bandits and wild beasts to fight on the way, so you''ll still be able to earn your share of the treasure.


    ¡°The fee is fifteen golden wheels. Not a significant sum, but not a paltry one either, for the reasons I''ve already given.¡±


    He looks across the audience. Some more grumbling starts up, and dwarves rise to leave.


    ¡°I hope you join me!¡± he shouts, ignoring the disbelievers. He raises blue-glittering Icemite high. ¡°Glory, riches, and revenge await those who do!¡±

 Dragonhunt 18: A New Forging Begins

    As soon as we arrive back through the stone doors of the guildhall, the rest of the guild slams down their mugs of ale, drops their knives and forks, or emerges hurriedly from their rooms to rush over and hear what we have to say about Xomhyrk. The hall fills with shouting. Opinions are varied:


    ¡°He''s a fool and a fraud!¡±


    ¡°I''ve never seen armor like it!¡±


    ¡°What kind?¡±


    ¡°A thief!¡±


    ¡°How come?¡±


    ¡°Underestimates the dragon a thousand times over!¡±


    ¡°That spear, deadly!¡±


    ¡°Icemite, right?¡±


    ¡°Going to get himself killed!¡±


    ¡°And everyone who goes with him!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± shouts Voltost. The babbling dies down.


    ¡°Guildmaster Wharoth is keen to hear what you have to say,¡± another senior guild member says to him. ¡°He wishes to see you down in his forge.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°Though he says not yet. I''ve never seen him so focused.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Voltost turns to us. ¡°Go about your business, runeknights. I''ll deliver the news to the guildmaster when he''s ready, and then we''ll make a decision about whether or not to go on this expedition.¡±


    ¡°What''s your opinion?¡± someone asks.


    ¡°My opinion is that we should not. But we''ll see what Wharoth has to say.¡±


    ¡°Something tells me,¡± says Faltast, stroking his golden beard, ¡°that Wharoth will not be keen to see us rushing off to the surface under the command of dwarf we know nothing of.¡±


    ¡°We''ll see. For now, you are dismissed.¡±


    Most go sit down at the benches to tell all the detail they can remember about Xomhyrk to those who weren''t with us, and argue more about whether he''s a fraud, fool, or true hero with those who were. I, however, am in a different kind of mood.


    ¡°Not coming?¡± shouts Jerat, already halfway to the table piled highest with food and drink.


    ¡°I''m off to the forge,¡± I say. ¡°I''ve got a lot of work to do. Come get me when the guildmaster emerges.¡±


    ¡°All righty.¡± He tilts his head. ¡°Funny, Zathar. You seem like you''re contemplating going with this Xomhryk.¡±


    ¡°You''re against the idea?¡±


    ¡°Something tells me it''ll end up like my time with the redboar.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. But I did swear an oath.¡±


    ¡°True, true. Well, we''ll save a few barrels for you. Later.¡±


    <hr>


    Back in the forge. This is my first time here since the examination. Strangely, it feels much more like home than the guildhall does. I switch the furnace on to low and bask in its glow. The warmth softens some of the pain still resident in my flesh and joints.


    I kneel in front of the anvil and lay out some blank sheets of paper on it. I hover my writing stick over the yellow-white, unsure of where to strike. I put it down. I scratch at my beard.


    What kind of armor do I want? Something tough, obviously. That''s the minimum requirement for armor¡ªif it can''t protect you, everything else is superfluous. You might as well sew runes onto your clothes.


    But should every square inch of metal, every single rune, be fully devoted to protection? Some dwarves¡ªmany dwarves, maybe even most dwarves¡ªwould argue yes. Armor is to protect you. Killing power comes from your weapon. To my mind though, that''s an oversimplification.


    After all, your weapon protects you when you parry with it. So why can''t armor be an offensive tool also? I''ve fought dwarves wearing armor that was covered in runes to amplify their killing power before¡ªthose two who threw me into the chasm, for one example.


    I recall them: one was covered in runes of speed, platinum on gold. He moved blindingly fast, too fast for me to match. The other was in scales of lead, whose runes removed their weight only for the wearer.


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    Ah, I killed that one, didn''t I? Just before the black dragon incinerated everything. Though it was no easy task.


    I don''t want to go for anything too unorthodox. Plate armor with chainmail underneath the gaps is what I know best, and for two pieces as important as my breast and backplates I don''t want to take any foolish chances.


    What for the runes? Speed is tempting. My pickaxe is unwieldy, and I need to be able to close faster with it, parry quicker too. However this idea strikes me as too dull. My abilities will lend themselves better to a more original idea,.


    I shut my eyes and try to envision what I want to create. I see a titanium plate, sculpted perfectly to fit my chest, gleaming under the pale winter''s sun of the surface. What runes to go across it?


    Poems of ice appear. I shake my head. Copying another''s craft, the shame of it! I imagine poems praising speed, a few verses, but the themes seem uninspired. I imagine fire¡ªis to fight dragons with fire not a well-known saying? Yet though flaming armor may look impressive, it''s usually just inconvenient, and in any case extremely difficult to get right.


    From fire back to ice. I imagine glassy crystals spreading over the titanium. I can''t equal Xomhyrk''s armor, for me to try would result in nothing other than laughable parody and, besides, I still haven''t made up my mind about if he''s genuine, a fraud, or delusional, but the theme of ice intrigues me.


    It more than intrigues me: it''s grabbed hold of me and won''t let go.


    I pace around the anvil. What kind of power could ice give me? It''s brittle, so it''s certainly not going to lend the metal any toughness, and it''s impermanent in other ways too. Ice melts¡ªexactly what you don''t want to happen to your armor when you fight a dragon. Somehow, though, Xomhyrk has found a way around these problems. His armor is all but immune to heat, and certainly doesn''t look brittle.


    So, immunity to heat and toughness¡ªtoughness like a lake frozen solid, from whose depths nothing can escape. There''s an idea for a poem!


    I draft it. I write about a cave filled with water that slowly freezes, trapping the hideous monsters within so that they may no longer trouble the dwarves close by.


    It''s no good. I throw my writing stick down in frustration. This feels like copying¡ªcopying someone who might be a fraud, no less.


    Ice is firmly on my mind though. What else can the material grant me?


    I''m not sure. I don''t have any experience with ice. Sometimes in the fancier pubs you''ll get it in your drinks, usually in cubes, manufactured by distant humans through some mysterious night process, and imported down to Allabrast in specially crafted containers.


    Dwarves in the far, far north and even further south are said to dwell in caves of ice. I wonder if Xomhyrk hails from there, though I doubt it. According to a book of travels I read fairly recently, those dwarves are said to have beard growing over every inch of their skin, and eyes like white glass.


    I recall another thing I read about those dwarves, about how they get around their icy caverns. Fixed to their boots are blades that run parallel with the ground. Instead of walking, those dwarves slide, and if the slope is steep, their speed becomes extreme.


    A very dangerous method of travel, cautioned the author. It requires an immense degree of skill. I don''t intend to try and replicate their ways, but it has given me an idea.


    Ice is slippery.


    I attempt to write a poem based on this idea, about a dwarf fighting a troll upon a frozen surface lake. He slides around the troll, avoiding the heavy blows, which send shivers through the ice. The troll becomes unbalanced, slips over, and then the dwarf strikes.


    But the runes don''t flow very well. I cross out more than I write, and by the end my paper is a mess of half-formed stanzas, badly angled runes, and violent scratchings out.


    The problem is simple: I don''t have any experience with ice. I barely know what it feels like, let alone how it moves, how it breaks, how fast it cracks, or how it forms and spreads.


    Yet I think I know a way to remedy this lack of knowledge. Allabrast is a center of dwarven civilization, and dwarves from all places inhabit it, and many have brought their customs with them.


    <hr>


    After arriving back in the guildhall, I learn that Guildmaster Wharoth isn''t expected to emerge for some time yet. I enact my idea right away. But drinking alone is no fun.


    ¡°Guthah!¡± I say, grabbing him by the shoulder as he sits down at the table. I''ve caught him just at the right time.


    ¡°Instructor?¡± he says. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Keen to learn?¡±


    ¡°I... I''d be glad to, but... I mean, it''s an honor, but...¡±


    His short brown beard is sweaty and his face is rather red. Either he''s been training hard or hammering hard.


    ¡°It''s a more interesting kind of training than physical,¡± I say. ¡°It''s intellectual. Maybe you could even say it''s artistic.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Come with me. Don''t worry, I''ll pay. You too, Pellas!¡± I''ve spotted her at the other end of the table, just starting to eat. ¡°We need to celebrate you two''s victory properly.¡±


    Out we go from the guildhall, along the main road of the Deep Gray District in which the guildhall is located¡ªa place of long, dull corridors, carefully laid out for maximum convenience and whose mechanical elevators are free for use. This latter is no doubt what first attracted the Guildmaster.


    Down one of these elevators we go.


    ¡°Where are you taking us?¡± asks Pellas. Her shoulder-length golden hair moves in the ventilation''s breeze.


    ¡°Somewhere tasty,¡± I say.


    ¡°Why so suddenly?¡±


    ¡°Are you complaining?¡±


    ¡°I''ve never known you to be this generous.¡±


    ¡°Really? I think I gave you a rather generous amount of instruction.¡±


    ¡°You''re in too good a mood.¡±


    ¡°Am I?¡±


    ¡°You are a little,¡± says Guthah.


    I shrug. ¡°I''m feeling better now I''m healed. That''s all. I want to get out, do things. Nothing strange about that. How are you two feeling, by the way?¡±


    ¡°A little tired,¡± says Guthah.


    ¡°Very tired,¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Hard at work in the forges?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Working on my spear,¡± says Guthah.


    ¡°Good to hear. Don''t slack off just because you''re no longer initiates. From now is where the real danger begins.¡±


    Guthah nods.


    ¡°I know,¡± Pellas says.


    The elevator slows with a grinding noise. Sometimes I worry about the strength of the chains that pull them up and down, but not right now. My two students are right¡ªI''m in an unusually good mood. I don''t feel worried about anything at all¡ªnot Xomhyrk, not the dragon, nothing.


    I lead us along to a set of windows in the tunnel. White-blue light glows from them.


    ¡°Anticipation,¡± I declare. ¡°That''s what''s got me in such a good mood.¡±


    Guthah stops dead. ¡°Wait!¡± he says. ¡°We''re celebrating here?¡±


    ¡°You know it?¡± asks Pellas.


    ¡°When I was young, my father took me. Once. It was expensive even for him!¡±


    ¡°Even for him? But he was a jeweler, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    I laugh. ¡°I said not to worry. I''m paying.¡±

 Dragonhunt 19: Thoughts of Ice

    I knock once on the door, and wait. We wait some more.


    ¡°Is it closed?¡± Pellas asks.


    ¡°No,¡± I say, keeping my voice down.


    Here is one of the richer corridors in Allabrast, despite its plain appearance, and I don''t want to ruin the quiet atmosphere. A few dwarves are looking at Guthah and Pellas with a little distaste, likely wondering why two runeknights so low in the ranks are here. Normally I''d scowl back, but I''m in too good a mood.


    Suddenly and silently, the door swings inward. One of the staff appears. He''s dressed in white furs, but his beard is as dark as mine, and extensive, going right up over his cheekbones. His hairline comes halfway down his forehead as well, and his eyes are very pale¡ªhe hails from the far north. I hold up three fingers and he beckons us in.


    We enter and the chill hits us immediately. I grin. This place is just like Braztak told me¡ªhe recommended it to me a while ago. I glance back at Guthah and Pellas, and am glad to see they''re looking around in amazement.


    This place, this literal hole-in-the-wall, is no ordinary public house, but an establishment of fine dining. It''s done up to look like an ice cave, tiled with smooth white on its floor, walls and ceiling. Some mechanical trickery with the ventilation keeps the air nearly freezing.


    We''re led to a table of clearest cyan quartz, and sit down on chairs of the same


    ¡°I feel I should''ve washed before coming here,¡± whispers Guthah. ¡°Or at least changed out of my forging clothes.¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± I admit. ¡°But I wanted to get down here as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± asks Pellas.


    ¡°Like I said, an intellectual reason. Poetic.¡±


    ¡°Honored Runeknights?¡± says the waiter. His voice, despite the strange accent, still sounds refined. ¡°Which courses do you wish to order?¡±


    ¡°We will all have the Full Fish Course,¡± I say. ¡°And the accompanying drinks as well.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡±


    He vanishes behind a white-tiled wall.


    ¡°How much?¡± Pellas asks. ¡°Are you really paying?¡±


    ¡°We pay at the end,¡± I say. ¡°This isn''t some pub. As for the cost, for the three of us it''s about the same amount a good diamond would set you back.¡±


    ¡°A lot, then.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But like I said, I''m paying.¡±


    ¡°It''s rude to talk too much about money down here,¡± says Guthah. ¡°That''s the sort of thing dwarves up in the Fireflea District do. Gamblers and the like,¡± he adds with distaste.


    Pellas nods. She looks rather bemused, and even a little scared, shrunken a little into her armor like a turtle.


    ¡°Never been somewhere this fancy?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No. My father never climbed as high as this.¡±


    ¡°He was a runeknight, wasn''t he?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But he only made it to seventh degree.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure you''ll do him proud,¡± I say solemnly. ¡°You have talent, a great deal of it.¡±


    ¡°I hope so.¡±


    ¡°Your sword is impressive,¡± says Guthah. ¡°I''ve never seen anything so sharp.¡±


    Pellas grimaces. ¡°Still not good enough.¡±


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    ¡°It got you through the exam,¡± I say. ¡°It was good enough for that.¡±


    ¡°You should know better than anyone, instructor, that a dwarf is never satisfied with her crafts. She must always strive for better.¡±


    ¡°You can still be a bit satisfied,¡± I counter. ¡°When you make something that''s the pinnacle of your abilities, you need to bask in it a little. Enjoy the realization that you''ve improved.¡±


    ¡°My father said that too. But he couldn''t improve enough. His amulet failed him. When I was born, he was already going gray and wrinkled.¡±


    ¡°He died of age?¡± says Guthah, surprised.


    ¡°Yes. In his fifteen thousandth, three hundred and thirty seventh long-hour.¡±


    I calculate: that equates to a bit over a hundred years. Only slightly more than a commoner dwarf''s natural lifespan.


    ¡°So I don''t think you should get complacent,¡± Pellas says. ¡°Money should go to materials, not luxury.¡±


    ¡°Like I said,¡± I say, ¡°This is still about forging. You''ll find out why soon enough.¡±


    Guthah nods. ¡°Jerat told us good alcohol always clears his head before he starts hammering.¡±


    I snort. ¡°Jerat says many things. I wouldn''t take many of them seriously. Had you all remembering runes while drunk, did he?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes,¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Well, sorry to disappoint, but the drinks here aren''t so strong. This isn''t a pub. We''re here for an experience of the senses.¡±


    Soon our first course arrives. Slices of trout, raw, on beds of ice.


    The name of this institute of fine dining is the House of Snow. In the far north, instead of water falling from the sky, thin flakes of ice do. This is snow. The dwarves who dwell upon the icy mountains there, which do not grow out of the land but instead float upon the great water oceans, pack fish in this substance to preserve it.


    The House of Snow specializes in their food¡ªor cuisine, rather. I''ve learned to be wary of places which serve cuisine instead of ordinary food, since it''s often an excuse to serve a great deal less than is generally considered acceptable, but Braztak assured me the food here is worth eating despite the small portions.


    And he was right. The trout is more succulent than any fish I''ve yet tasted. It''s soft and almost sweet. The rather dry alcohol, a clear liquid with a sphere of ice floating in the middle, complements the taste and texture perfectly.


    All too soon it''s gone. The northern waiter comes to collect our plates. I hold my hand over mine to stop him.


    ¡°I''d like to admire the ice a bit more,¡± I say. ¡°I don''t get to see it very often.¡±


    ¡°Very well, honored Runeknight.¡±


    Guthah and Pellas look at me oddly. I ignore them and stare into the sphere of ice at the bottom of my glass cup.


    I gaze deep. Though ice is often described as a kind of cold glass, now that I''m comparing the two substances alongside each other, they''re not at all alike. Glass has no pattern to it. Even etched beautifully, like the many windows in the Fireflea District are, you can tell if you peer closely enough that the patterns are artificial. But ice, I now come to understand, is more like metal. It has a grain, crystals grown against each other.


    Molten iron, at a low enough temperature, is iron. Water, at a low enough temperature, is ice. So water could also be called molten ice. Does that make ice metal? Magnetism doesn''t pull on it, yes, but neither does magnetism pull on aluminum.


    And though dwarves obviously cannot drink molten iron, some creatures can, like the red salamanders that reside in the magma sea¡ªthe only kind more brutal than the abyssal ones. So, then, what''s the difference between water and molten iron? I stir the ice sphere around the bottom of the glass, feel its slickness against my finger. What''s the difference between ice and iron?


    The flakes of ice my trout was lying on are now mostly a puddle, despite the chill in the air. Ice melts a lot more easily than iron. There''s the major difference. I tip back the glass and take the sphere of ice into my mouth, wedge it between my molars, crunch down. It''s brittle, cracking fast and easy.


    ¡°I heard that this Xomhyrk has armor made of ice,¡± Guthah says. ¡°Are you going to attempt the same? Is that why you''re so interested in it?¡±


    I laugh. ¡°His armor was tungsten. I could tell by the dark tinge. But the poems were all to do with ice. I think, at least¡ªI couldn''t read the script.¡±


    ¡°I''ve heard tungsten''s near impossible to work,¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°And damn expensive to boot. No, my next pieces will be titanium.¡±


    ¡°So not ice either.¡±


    ¡°No. How would you fix the reagents to it? It''d explode.¡±


    ¡°I suppose,¡± says Guthah. ¡°I''ve heard tales of dwarves making armor out of stranger things, though. Like bone, or hide.¡±


    ¡°I''ve made a craft from bone before,¡± I say. ¡°My first one, actually. Well, tooth.¡±


    ¡°You''ve told us this story,¡± says Pellas. ¡°And you said only the rune was tooth.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Point is, if it has metal in it, it''s all right. Ice isn''t metal though. It''s similar but not quite the same.¡±


    ¡°Your next course,¡± says the waiter. ¡°Encased squid. Please cut carefully¡ªour knives are very sharp.¡±


    The course is exactly as its name suggests: a large squid frozen into a block of ice. We''re to cut it apart with diamond-edged saws. I pay careful attention to how minute cracks form with each touch of the blades.


    The squid tastes delicious. So do the other courses, and I feel sorry that my mind is only half on the taste, for my attention is fixed on the preserving ice. I dip my hands into snow, crunch blue cubes¡ªthis is deep, old ice, and very hard. I gently prick my palms with icicles.


    The other patrons scowl at me. Guthah and Pellas start to look embarrassed. I must look insane, but I don''t care. I''m fascinated. I''m nearly in a trance. I''m beginning to see runes in the flakes and lines and frozen bubbles. By the time the bill arrives, which is itself etched on ice, a jagged white script I''ve never seen before is whirling inside my head.

 Dragonhunt 20: The Debate

    I go straight to the forge. Cold white runes are spinning in my mind. Perhaps white is the wrong word, since the shapes of runes have no color. They only take one on when twisted from metal then grafted. The runes are cold.


    My papers are still on the anvil. I hunch over them and start to write. My hand is a blur, as it always is when I''m in a frenzy, when inspiration takes firm hold of me.


    The runes I create bear no resemblance to any script I''ve ever seen before. Each is a downward jag, an icicle, with smooth straight lines through and alongside it that determine its meaning. Some words I''ve never seen in runic form appear.


    The dwarvish tongue is old, unchanging, some say immutable, with many hundreds of thousands of words, some common and some only spoken or written once a decade. This stands in stark contrast to the human tongues, of which there are hundreds, and which change so often that a dwarf fluent in one at one time, could return to the surface a couple centuries later and barely understand a single syllable.


    But each runic script only contains a limited number of words. The script I was trying to use for my first attempts at a poem of ice simply didn''t have the necessary vocabulary. Now, though, my thoughts can flow out unimpeded. Chill, cold, gelid, frozen, and names for every degree of temperature in between are born onto the page.


    The dwarf slips around the troll with ease, for its lumbering blows are slowed by a chilling wind. He slices into its flesh with a spike of ice. The difference in speed between them increases. The troll cannot keep up. By the final stanza the dwarf is like the wind whistling around a statue of stone. With a blow fast as ice splitting, faster even than the first, most violent tremor of a cave-in, he lays the monster low.


    I pause, scratch at my beard. This isn''t quite right. I''m meant to be making a poem for armor here, not one for a weapon.


    The runes don''t seem perfect either, certainly not as perfect as the ones I''ve written on my war-pick. The icicles are each too similar to each other and seem a little off at their angles.


    It''s a start though, and not one that I''m about to stop. I take another blank sheaf.


    I glance at the timer on the wall. I frown at it, blink hard, then check again. That can''t be right. It''s been nearly a third of a long-hour since I returned from the House of Ice. A full day. Can I really have been down here so long? I don''t feel any kind of fatigue at all: not sleepiness, not a sore head, nor is there any strain in my writing hand.


    There''s something off about this. My hip isn''t hurting either. I flex it, rotate my left leg. It''s supple as ever. More than ever.


    I look at my safe. Before, every time I was down here, I could constantly feel a pull from it, yet that feeling is gone now. The ruby amulet isn''t exerting its strange attraction on me. I swallow. My sapphire amulet feels hot against my chest, and it almost seems to be beating, a second heart lying over my skin.


    There''s a loud knock on the forge door. I jump.


    ¡°Who is it?¡±


    ¡°It''s Faltast! You still forging? The guildmaster''s called a council. Everyone''s to attend.¡±


    ¡°Right now?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Immediately.¡±


    <hr>


    When I get into the guildhall, nearly everyone''s already seated. There''s no rule about who goes where, but naturally the more senior runeknights end up nearest to Guildmaster Wharoth, standing at the far end of the hall still in his forging overalls. Our eyes meet as I sit down. He looks frustrated and worried.


    Once the whole guild is seated¡ªbar those busy with various jobs and quests of course¡ªso all in all about a hundred and a half are here¡ªGuildmaster Wharoth speaks:


    ¡°Voltost has told me of this Xomhyrk so many of you were eager to hear out. He''s told me down to the very last detail. I''ve also listened to the opinions of our other senior runeknights. They are varied. Some say he''s a liar, some say he''s a fool.¡±


    There''s a lot of nodding at this.


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    ¡°Others say they think we should join his quest.¡±


    There''s some grumbling. Wharoth shuts it down with a series of stony looks.


    ¡°I have had to think carefully about him,¡± he continues.


    He pauses. We wait to hear his judgement.


    ¡°I do not think,¡± he says carefully, ¡°that he is a fraud. His armor, at least from what Voltost could tell at a distance, is genuine first degree quality. Better than most first degrees'' armor, even. Likely he could become a Runethane if he wished. So he has no need to resort to fraud to obtain wealth.


    ¡°As for his claim to have destroyed many dragons, I see no reason to doubt that either. Dragons are powerful, but not invulnerable. I myself, along with Vanerak, succeeded in doing the black dragon grievous injury. Zathar managed to stab it in the eye also¡ªthough I know that some of you doubt that claim of his.¡±


    They can doubt all they like¡ªit won''t change the truth.


    ¡°Most dragons are not as powerful as the black dragon has become, so it''s far from impossible to believe that Xomhyrk has managed to slay a few. Maybe more than a few.


    ¡°So, he is a powerful first degree runeknight. He has slain dragons. So I can understand why a few of you might be tempted to follow him into battle. You think it''s your best chance at revenge.¡± He looks at me. ¡°Or redemption.¡±


    I feel the gaze of every other member of the guild turn to me also. They''re wondering if I''m going to prove to be a coward. Because if I don''t go on this expedition, that''s what I''ll be, no matter Guildmaster Wharoth''s decision for the rest of the guild.


    ¡°However,¡± he says, ¡°I think to follow him would be foolish. He did not witness the black dragon''s destruction of our realm. He does not know that its power is a hundredfold greater than any dragon ever yet born into the underworld. Not once has a monster so fearsome terrorized dwarfkind, and I have spent countless days pouring over the lore here in the archives of Allabrast.


    ¡°The black dragon is too powerful to be defeated by anyone less than a Runegod. Likely it is equal in power to them. Xomhyrk and his guild are traveling toward death, and anyone who goes with them will die also.¡±


    Silence falls at his words. I look around. Everyone is still looking at me. They expect me to disagree with him, argue. If I don''t, I''m a coward.


    Yet, he''s right! The black dragon is too powerful for any dwarf less than a Runegod. It just killed a Runeking, didn''t it?


    Yet, I swore an oath in the arena. I said that I''d kill it or die trying. And here is my best chance to kill it. I stand up.


    ¡°I''m going to go,¡± I say. ¡°As soon as I make my armor, I''m leaving.¡±


    Guildmaster Wharoth nods solemnly. ¡°Of course. As much as I would like to keep you here, you swore an oath. But I urge you to retreat when defeat becomes certain. Bring back some knowledge of it. Eventually, once our guild has grown more powerful, we will find a better opportunity to strike."


    There''s a scraping sound a few dwarves along from me. Braztak has pushed his chair back and is standing up.


    ¡°Such an opportunity may never come," he says. "This could be our only chance. So I''m going too.¡±


    Shocked murmurs ripple through the guild. Guildmaster Wharoth''s eyes widen.


    ¡°What?¡± There''s a look of total confusion on his face. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Revenge for our guildmates. You know who I lost to it. We should all go, guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°Did you not hear what I said? This Xomhyrk is marching toward his death.¡±


    ¡°I heard you clearly.¡±


    ¡°Then why? A short-hour ago you were one of those who told me you thought he was delusional.¡±


    ¡°I was.¡±


    ¡°Then why have you changed your mind? Why are you going to throw your life away? What worth will that be?¡±


    ¡°I''ve been thinking long and hard as well, guildmaster. And I''ve decided that with our help, maybe he has a chance.¡±


    Voltost stands up. ¡°You can''t believe that!¡± he shouts. He leans toward Braztak, his palms on the table, which bends under the weight of his armor. ¡°Ten like Xomhyrk couldn''t stand up to the dragon! Following him is madness!¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Wharoth says. ¡°It''s madness, Braztak. It just slew a Runeking, and no doubt a dozen Runethanes fell in the battle also, alongside uncounted third degrees¡ªlike yourself¡ªas well as many a first degree just as strong as this Xomhryk!¡±


    ¡°All the same, we must try. Guildmaster, I believe this is our duty.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°No!¡±


    Braztak scowls. ¡°We are runeknights. If something harms our guild, our realm, our friends, we destroy it. Why forge weapons if not for this purpose?¡±


    ¡°You may as well seek revenge on an earthquake or magmatic flood.¡±


    ¡°Wrong. You said so yourself¡ªdragons are not invulnerable.¡±


    ¡°The black dragon may as well be.¡±


    Braztak shakes his head. ¡°Nothing is invulnerable. Everything has a chink in its armor somewhere. It''s just a matter of finding where, and then striking with everything you have.¡±


    "We are not yet strong enough."


    "We will not know that until we test ourselves."


    ¡°You were with me when it rose! You saw its fire!¡±


    ¡°I also saw that it was missing a hand and an eye.¡±


    ¡°You think it''ll let you, or this Xomhyrk, ever get that close?¡±


    ¡°The battle will not be easy. It will try its best to burn us before we get within striking distance, either from the top of its mountain or from high in the sky. But¡ª¡±


    "But what?"


    There''s another scraping sound. Another runeknight stands, one of the fourth degrees. One of those who turns away whenever I enter the guildhall.


    ¡°You as well?¡± Wharoth says furiously.


    ¡°Xomhyrk means to lure it down.¡±


    ¡°Yes, so I''ve been told. But as for how he plans to manage that, I believe he had nothing to worthwhile to say!¡±


    ¡°He''s killed dragons before. I''m sure he has some strategy in mind.¡±


    ¡°He''s never fought the black dragon!¡±


    ¡°So what?¡± Braztak snaps, and I''ve never heard such force in his voice. ¡°Just because the odds are against us, we should run away? Guildmaster, this could be the greatest chance we ever get for revenge! We should not throw it away. We cannot wait until we are more powerful, because the black dragon will also grow in power. I say again: this is our chance! We must go on this expedition, each and every one of us!¡±

 Dragonhunt 21: Wharoths Decision

    Guildmaster Wharoth is shocked into silence by Braztak''s words. He stares, aghast, from Braztak to the other dwarf and back again. Then, another runeknight stands¡ªMulkath in his mercury runes, and then another. Then another.


    ¡°Are you all serious?¡± Wharoth shouts. ¡°Serious about this?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Braztak solemnly. ¡°Guildmaster, I have never been more serious.¡±


    ¡°To even get to the dragon you will be passing over Runeking Uthrarzak''s caverns!¡±


    ¡°Likely he''s sending dwarves out to destroy the beast already. But I see no reason why a temporary alliance cannot be formed¡ªjust as we had with Runethane Broderick when we first fled from it.¡±


    ¡°If, by some impossible chance, they agree to that, and you do slay the black dragon together, they will turn on you.¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk has no war with him.¡±


    ¡°Uthrarzak''s Runethanes will not care.¡±


    ¡°Even so, by then our purpose will be fulfilled.¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head in despair. ¡°This is idiocy. It is not the right time. Let others throw their lives away. All you''ll do by going is give it another chance to scar us.¡±


    ¡°Guildmaster, you are afraid of loss. I understand that feeling. Yet if we do not fight the monster, if we let others slay it in our stead, we are not runeknights. We are cowards.¡±


    ¡°Picking your battles is not cowardly. Charging forward unprepared, armor half-forged, is not bravery. It''s idiocy.¡±


    ¡°We will be known as the guild who was too scared to take revenge.¡±


    ¡°It is not fear that drives me. It''s grief at losing half of you all, my friends, yet again!¡±


    ¡°We will return if we can.¡±


    ¡°You will not.¡±


    ¡°We will!¡± Braztak says firmly. ¡°There is no beast below the stone or above it that cannot be killed. Allow us to go, guildmaster. Allow us to put to rest this blight on our guild''s history!¡±


    ¡°I cannot allow it!¡±


    ¡°You have no right to disallow it!¡± Mulkath shouts. ¡°We are free to choose our own quests and always have been. If you refuse us to go, we leave the guild!¡±


    ¡°Allow us to go,¡± says Braztak, ¡°Or the guild tears apart.¡±


    ¡°If I allow you to go, it tears apart also.¡±


    ¡°Then we must all go.¡±


    ¡°All? Even the tenth degrees? The new initiates?¡±


    ¡°Even them. Everyone can have a part to play.¡±


    There''s a long silence. For a moment I think that Wharoth''s been persuaded, think he''s given in. He opens his mouth as if to finally give assent, but then he shuts it, and shakes his head. ¡°No,¡± he says quietly. ¡°I cannot lose you all. I cannot throw your lives away.¡±


    ¡°Then I leave the guild.¡±


    ¡°No. No, you don''t have to. I can''t disallow your leaving. You are right that we are free here to take on the quests we choose. I won''t change that rule, in the hope that at least some of you will realize your folly halfway and decide to return.¡±


    ¡°I, for one, will not turn back.¡±


    ¡°I know. All the same...¡± Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°Do as you wish. All of you can do as you wish. And if you wish to fight the impossible, a beast that''s just killed a Runeking, then do it. I will rebuild the guild just as I did the last time, and the time before that also.¡±


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    He bows his head and, slow step by slow step, makes his way out of the hall, to go back down, I imagine, to his forge, to find some peace from this fresh grief.


    <hr>


    Mind and heart whirling with emotions and thoughts going too fast for me to catch, to make sense of, I retreat from the furious arguments breaking out all over the guildhall to the place that feels most like home: the forge.


    Just like Wharoth has done.


    I begin to sketch the basic designs¡ªnot just for breastplate and backplate, but for every plate, from boot-caps to helmet. I''m going to throw everything I have into a full new set of armor, armor that will get me across the surface and to the mountain lair of the black dragon. I''m going to spend every ounce of gold on it. I''m going to exert my abilities to their fullest. Its runic power will exceed even that of Gutspiercer¡ªjust so long as I make no mistakes.


    Titanium is my choice for metal. Light and strong, it takes runes well and I know well how to work it. Buying enough for an entire suit of plate will cost about half the gold I have, yet it''s the only option.


    Briefly I question myself: is titanium really the only option? How about steel? But steel seems too cheap for a runeknight of fourth degree, unless I have some special reason to use it. So how about tungsten, the favored metal for fighting beasts of flame in? But I can''t risk purchasing so much of a metal I''ve never worked with before, and I''m also not too sure which runes will work best on it.


    And I have a feeling that my new script will take to titanium better.


    What metal for the runes themselves? Something cold, calm, pure. Platinum. Platinum is the only choice, I think. It feels right, pure and cold like ice itself.


    Or maybe not. Since my trial I''ve educated myself on every metal and alloy I had available to me but didn''t know enough about to take advantage of. I think of a different metal, a little rarer:


    Palladium.


    Isn''t that metal even more like ice than its sister? It has a white sheen and is lighter also. It''s brittle, said to crack fast when bent too far, just like a sheet of ice will. It''ll cost me a little more than platinum would, but again, I''m determined to pour everything I have into this armor, no compromises made.


    As for the reagent, I''ll use hytrigite for the key runes, and quizik and jasperite for the others. This isn''t so much a compromise as an unfortunate reality. To obtain enough hytrigite to graft each and every rune with would require ten times as much gold as is in my safe.


    My safe. That reminds me of something. Something that I can''t quite put my finger on. I glance away from my sketching to look at the dark metal box. There was something in there, wasn''t there? Something important, that kept drawing me to open my safe and pull it out again and again, sometimes without me even realizing I was doing so.


    I can''t remember what it was. A strange feeling comes over me¡ªfear mixed with curiosity. I shake my head and try to ignore it. Whatever I''m forgetting, my armor is more important.


    I draw up a design for the breastplate. It''ll be angled out at the front so that any dragonfire washes off it, so that any human barbs or dwarven spears glance away.


    My helmet will be light and close-fit, and almost entirely closed. The poem I graft to it¡ªwait, I''ll make it entirely closed. And the runes will turn the front as transparent as ice.


    My gloves will be more or less regular. I can''t have runes of grip on them, not of ice. I could make a completely different poem for them, I suppose, with a different script, yet I think the rest of the suit would reject it.


    I''ll come up with some clever idea later on.


    As for my boots, they''re going to be one of the greatest elements of this craft. When I command it, by means of a clever inner switch, they''re going to slide. My speed across the stone will be something to fear, though becoming able to control it may take some time, and even when I''ve mastered it, it''ll still take immense concentration in battle to use effectively. If I slip up¡ªliterally¡ªI could find myself deep into enemy ranks, or perhaps dragon''s lair, with no support, in seconds.


    I put down my writing stick. I frown at the paper, the mass of angled shapes and snatches of poems in this strange new script. Though the designs and poems are now beginning to take shape, solidifying from liquid idea, this is an ambitious task I''m setting myself.


    Am I really about to create an entire new suit of armor enruned with an entirely new script? Should I not be more conservative? I''m only a fourth degree, after all. Am I overreaching? Am I about to waste all my money, all my time before the quest, on ideas that simply won''t work when put to the heat of the forge?


    No. I feel totally confident in my success.


    Why, though? And after all that''s happened as well! Where''s my doubt? Where''s the voice in my head telling me to slow down, think things through?


    My eyes move to the safe once more. There''s something odd about it, something off. I walk over and kneel down to open it. I struggle to get the key into the lock, though I''ve never struggled with it before.


    Eventually I get it in, turn it, and the heavy door opens. There was something in the bottom, wasn''t there? Or was it the top? I search from top to bottom slowly and carefully. All my gold is here, and all my reagents too. Nothing out of order then. Strange. I shut the safe...


    There was something more precious than gold and reagent in there. There was a gem. A prickle travels down my neck. I reopen the safe and, from the very bottom, from under some old tools haphazardly jammed in over it, draw out my sapphire.


    My eyes widen. It''s scratched. It''s been torn violently from its setting. I reach into my shirt and clasp my hand around my amulet. I draw it out.


    Set into the metal is my ruby. It throbs warmly on my palm. My face, reflected in its facets many times over, is colored bloody.

 Dragonhunt 22: Wharoths Final Advice

    I remain sitting on the floor, staring into the ruby. I''m stunned. When did I set it? I can''t remember, yet I''ve fitted the metal perfectly. Melted and reforged it without remembering doing so. That''s the only explanation. The steel is more angular, sharper at its six points now. It takes the ruby far better than it ever took the sapphire.


    I ought to tear the damn gem right out. That''s the most sensible option here. It''s the only option! How can I risk keeping something that''s controlled me around my neck?


    I take off the amulet and place it on the ground. I take several deep breaths. Honestly, I''m half-surprised it even let me take it off.


    The ache in my hip returns. I become aware of blisters on my fingers from too much rapid writing. A tiredness takes hold of me, and I slump, and my spine creaks like it''s rusted.


    While fighting the iron troll, when it was attempting to tear me apart, I regretted leaving my ruby behind. If I''d had the vitality it gifts me, I''d have strode out of that fight hale and healthy, instead of being carried out unconscious with my limp body wrapped in bandages and chains of healing.


    My next battle will be against far worse than an iron troll. I need every edge I can get. All the strength I can forge for myself. If I lose my nerve here and refuse to take on the ruby''s power, and fall to the black dragon because of it, I''ll be failing not only myself, but all the dwarves I promised to do right by.


    I swore an oath I''d kill the black dragon. I have to risk everything on this attempt.


    Yet I''m still not sure. I hold my ruby in one hand and the scarred sapphire in the other, weighing the decision. I can''t reach an answer. I need advice.


    Who can I go to? Braztak and Wharoth are the only two in the guild that I''ve trusted with knowledge of my powers. It has to be one of them.


    I put my ruby amulet in one pocket, the sapphire in the other, close and lock my safe, and head back to the guild.


    <hr>


    The argument is still raging. The guild has split into two groups. Those against following Xomhyrk are surrounding those for it, with Voltost at their forefront. He''s engaged in a shouting duel with Braztak, which Braztak seems to be winning, at least in volume. I''ve never seen my friend so angry¡ªhis green and gold gauntleted fists are shaking.


    ¡°The guildmaster said we''d go after it once we dealt with Broderick! That as soon as we had a chance, we''d take it! And now we have a chance!¡±


    ¡°This is no chance! It''s foolishness!¡±


    ¡°We''re only fools if we don''t take it!¡±


    I slip through the guildhall and into the back-corridor. There''s a set of stairs here that I''ve never been down, but I know where they lead to: Guildmaster Wharoth''s personal forge.


    Orange glows around the door, yet there''s no hammering from the other side. I knock. There''s no answer. I knock again. Still no answer. I open it a crack and peer through. Guildmaster Wharoth is turned away, leaning on the anvil. I open the door a touch further and it creaks. Wharoth turns around. I flinch back, suddenly afraid, but there''s no rage on his features, only sadness.


    ¡°You can come in.¡±


    I obey. The room is even plainer than I expected. His benches hold only hammers and other simple tools. I stand just within the entrance.


    ¡°I suppose it''s too much to hope that you''ve changed your mind, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°You were never against me going.¡±


    ¡°I am, but I can''t tell you to go back on your oath in front of the others.¡±


    ¡°So then you''re saying I should go back on my oath?¡±


    ¡°You shouldn''t fulfill it like this.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I don''t have to. Maybe instead of this Xomhyrk leading us, you could. Braztak is right when he says the whole guild should go.¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°No. I''d just lose you all again.¡±


    ¡°There''s no way I can persuade you?¡±


    ¡°No. My mind is made up. All I can do now is hope that a few of you realize the folly of this quest and turn back before it comes to ruin.¡±


    ¡°I won''t turn back.¡±


    ¡°I know. You''re not a coward.¡±


    ¡°I know that you aren''t either.¡±


    Wharoth shrugs. ¡°They''ll call me one. But it''s one thing to risk your own life, Zathar, and quite another to risk the lives of others.¡±


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    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°You will soon. Very soon.¡±


    His sad gaze is too intense. I turn my eyes away. ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Not perhaps. Certainly. Anyway, leave me be, Zathar. You can''t persuade me.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t come down here to persuade you, guildmaster. I came here for your advice.¡±


    ¡°I''ve given it: don''t go.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Not about Xomhyrk. I''ve made up my mind on him just as firmly as you have. It''s... It''s something else I need your advice on.¡±


    He looks thoughtful. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I think you do.¡±


    ¡°About your abilities.¡±


    ¡°Yes. And where they might lead me.¡±


    I take from my pockets the ruby amulet and the sapphire, and hold them out to the furnace-light. The crimson glitters far more brilliantly than the blue. It looks almost liquid, like blood trapped in glass. It''s uncannily like Fjalar''s amulet.


    ¡°You''ve changed your amulet, I see.¡± He walks over and frowns down at the ruby. ¡°I can''t read these poems.¡±


    ¡°Maybe that''s just as well.¡±


    ¡°Are they as brutal as what''s on your weapon?¡±


    ¡°More brutal.¡±


    ¡°And terribly effective, I imagine.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Far more so than what I cut into my sapphire. Right now my hip hurts terribly, guildmaster. But less than an hour ago, when the ruby was around my neck, I felt nothing. No pain at all.¡±


    ¡°I see. Well-crafted amulets can have this effect. When did you make it? Recently? After your trial?¡±


    ¡°No. Right after I slew Fjalar. It scared me so much I couldn''t wear it, so I made the sapphire to go in its place.¡±


    ¡°How do you mean it scared you? Because it''s too effective?¡±


    ¡°Not just that. When I have it on, I''m...¡± I hesitate to speak the truth.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°I''m changed. I feel I can take on anything, that nothing can stand in my path, that my body is unbreakable. The poems, which only I can read, I think, tell of endless battle, of me slaying and slaying and slaying anything and everyone in my path. When I put it on, I feel... I feel that I''m living this poem. That it''s become my reality.¡±


    Wharoth''s eyes widen. ¡°Really?¡± he whispers.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°It has that power?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I''ve read of amulets going wrong and destroying their wearer. Is this one the same? Will it destroy me?¡±


    ¡°Amulets that destroy their wearer do so because they''re forged poorly. Flaws in them imprint on the body, mind and soul of their dwarf. This... I don''t think this is one of those.¡±


    ¡°Yet when I wear it, it imprints something on me.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. But I''ve never heard of an amulet of unaging doing this.¡±


    ¡°Never?¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    ¡°So then what have I made?¡±


    ¡°Rings have been forged to increase the strength of their wearer. Chains can heal the bodies of those they wrap around. Those are simple effects, but then of course some dwarves are capable of creating much more. There are the crowns of the Runekings: each different, each terrible in its power.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t presume to have made anything that strong.¡±


    ¡°No. Not as strong as a Runeking''s crown. But you''ve made, I think, something of a similar type.¡±


    My breath is taken away. I can do or say nothing for several seconds. His suggestion that I''ve forged something that''s even a shadow of a Runeking''s crown is unbelievable.


    ¡°That''s not possible,¡± I finally say.


    ¡°Your ruby changes yourself. Have you not witnessed a similar craft before?¡±


    I think. My eyes widen. I have. ¡°Dwatrall''s crown.¡±


    ¡°That craft changed their very nature on a grand scale, wouldn''t you say? Just as the ruby amulet changes yours.¡±


    He''s right. I think he''s right.


    ¡°There can be no doubt about its power,¡± he says.


    ¡°So I should wear it?¡±


    ¡°I didn''t say that. I think, Zathar, that only you can answer that question.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know the answer. I mean... I''m worried that it''ll change me permanently, partly. Mostly I''m worried that it''ll lead me into danger.¡±


    ¡°It makes you reckless.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But I can''t ignore its strength. If wearing it allows me to fulfill my oath...¡± I draw breath. ¡°Then I think I should wear it.¡±


    ¡°Then you have your answer.¡±


    I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn''t.


    ¡°Is that all?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Are you expecting me to warn you against putting it on?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You said you didn''t like the... bloody nature of my crafts.¡±


    ¡°I don''t. Yet all our crafts are bloody. A weapon is a weapon, after all. It''s a tool for killing.¡±


    ¡°Most would say they''re works of art.¡±


    ¡°They are that. They are also tools for killing. And us runeknights, well, we''re killers too. Some of us kill for good causes¡ªto defend our homes, our guilds, dwarves that are less strong than us. Most of us kill because we want to climb up to the top.¡±


    ¡°I''m going to kill for a good cause. To stop the black dragon doing to others what it did to us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you are. You''re sincere about that. Before the trial, I''d have thought you were lying, or delusional about your own intentions, but you''ve proved yourself to me. You''ve put yourself above most other dwarves¡ªincluding most of those going with this Xomhyrk.¡±


    ¡°Us from the Association are going for the same reason I am.¡±


    Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°No they aren''t. They''re going for revenge. Xomhyrk is going for the same reason, from what I can tell by hearsay, at least. He wants to wipe out every dragon¡ªif his story about his guild being attacked is true, in any case. But worse are the dwarves from other guilds.¡±


    He pauses and fixes me with a cold look.


    ¡°Voltost told me Xomhyrk''s closing words. Do you remember them?¡±


    I think back. ¡°Follow me if you want glory and riches... Something to that effect.¡±


    I feel a weight take hold of me. I see what my guildmaster is saying, see the truth in it.


    ¡°Xomhyrk knows,¡± explains Wharoth, ¡°that the only way to get most runeknights to act is promise them riches and glory. Mostly riches. So, it follows that most of those coming with you on his expedition will be thinking of that. When they realize the true power of the dragon, they''ll turn back. I know they will. They''ll abandon you to it.¡±


    ¡°The dragon has a great deal of riches now. Maybe that''ll be enough to persuade them to stay.¡±


    ¡°And soon they''ll realize that if they want to keep those riches, they''re going to have to fight an awful lot of Runeking Uthrarzak''s dwarves. Maybe a Runethane or two as well.¡± Wharoth shakes his head. ¡°This expedition is doomed, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk has no quarrel with Runeking Uthrarzak. And by killing the dragon, won''t we be doing him a favor?¡±


    ¡°Runeking Uthrarzak is cruel and ruthless. If you think Vanerak is bad, well...¡± He shrugs again. ¡°But you''ve already made up your mind.¡±


    Suddenly he groans and turns away. He holds his head in his hands, as if it''s grown too heavy, filled up with imaginings of what''s going to happen to us when we meet the black dragon, or before.


    ¡°Go now, Zathar. And put your amulet on¡ªthat''s my final advice to you. I don''t like it. I don''t like what it might do to you. But don''t walk into this battle without as much power as you can possibly muster.¡±


    It shocks me to see him like this. I open my mouth to say something, offer some word of comfort, but I have nothing, so I turn away and leave his forge, wondering if this was our last meeting.

 Dragonhunt 23: Titanium Improvement

    The ruby amulet is burning invisibly and keening inaudibly with desire. I bite my lip. This feels like the wrong decision, yet I can''t bring myself to doubt my guildmaster''s wish. I slip it around my neck.


    Immediately I feel renewed. It''s like every part of my flesh changes into a tougher and more supple material. One that''s more numb also, less capable of pain. My heart is beating faster and stronger. Even my vision and hearing seem sharper.


    I walk back into the guildhall where the argument is raging stronger than ever. Insults are thrown:


    ¡°The guildmaster is a liar! He promised we''d pursue the dragon as soon as we had the chance!¡±


    ¡°This is not a chance!¡±


    ¡°It is! Xomhyrk is strong! Strong as a Runethane!¡±


    ¡°He''s a liar and a fool!¡±


    ¡°How could you know that?¡±


    ¡°How could you know he isn''t?¡±


    ¡°You''re cowards if you don''t go! You shame our guild!¡±


    ¡°You''re destroying our guild!¡±


    Who''s in the right here? I understand the need for revenge, even if it isn''t quite my motive, yet I also understand why Voltost and most of the rest of the guild doubt Xomhyrk. It''s a fact he''s never seen the black dragon. He doesn''t know its power. His strategy, whatever it''s going to be, could well get us all killed. And none of this takes into account what Uthrarzak''s dwarves, much closer to the broken mountain than we are, will do when they find out we''re marching to steal their glory and their riches.


    This could well be a suicide quest. And though that''s what I signed up for when I swore my oath in the arena, I can fully understand why so many are against it.


    When I enter the forge, these thoughts dissipate like smoke in a blast from the bellows. I focus fully on my task: designing my armor. I stand over the papers left on my anvil and continue to sketch.


    The shapes come together. The form becomes tighter-fitting than I originally envisioned, slim with corners that come to sharp points. I won''t look like the typical bulky, heavily armored dwarf. I worry about this briefly, then brush the worries away. I''ve never been a typical dwarf. Why should I worry about looking like one?


    None of this is to say that my armor will be weak. Just because my poems will be about ice, doesn''t mean my titanium''s going to turn as fragile as the stuff. It''s a metaphor¡ªthe base is still titanium. It won''t shatter.


    Designs complete, I re-check, measure all the angles and lengths thrice, and calculate how much titanium I''m going to need. In short: a great deal. Down to the forging supplies I go.


    On the tunnel-streets, all conversation is about Xomhyrk and the black dragon. I''m not stupid enough to pay attention to commoners'' hearsay, and so I ignore it. I stride with singularity of purpose, steeled to spend half my savings on a suit which may not, in the end, work out as well as I hope.


    Yet when faced with death, one has to take risks, no?


    Now I''m back in the forge, sweating and breathing hard from the effort of carrying more than fifty pounds of titanium sheeting of the finest quality on my back. I lay it down at the side of the room.


    A drink is what I need, and I nearly leave the forge to go scrounge something from the local liquor store¡ªbut I''m pulled back, magnetically, the moment I get to the door. I''ve forging to do, no time to waste, not even on drink and food. I lay one of the titanium sheets on the anvil¡ªthough my anvil is steel, it''s treated so not to form any rust, so I don''t have to faff around with protective coverings like I did when forging down in the fort. I grab my diamond-edge cutter and start work.


    I trace my design for the breastplate into the metal. The shape, on the flat, is like that of a moth, with two wings joined along the middle. Once it''s cut out I''ll bend both halves together to get the wedge I want, the one which dragonfire will wash over and which human arrows and crude spears will glance away from, crooked and broken.


    Slowly, carefully, not rushing a single inch, I cut. My diamond-edge saw parts the metal like paper. Now it''s time to hammer and curve it.


    I equip my runic ears. The titanium rings as I tap and hammer, unevenly at first, yet soon it''s taking on the complex harmony that I want to hear. Remarkably few dents and bumps appear. My first go-over nearly completes the shape, in fact. Concerned that I''m not checking things well enough, I take extra care when going over it again, and find nothing but minor flaws.


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    With nothing major to fix, I fix those minor ones. When I''m done, it''s the smoothest piece of armor I''ve ever shaped, and I can''t help but feel somewhat proud.


    The next plates go well also. I create my backplate, then the pauldrons, the arm plates, the greaves and leg plates, the skirt, the codpiece, and am halfway through the larger plates for my gloves when I begin to wonder how much time has passed. I glance at the timers on the wall, but they don''t tell me anything, since I didn''t check when I started.


    I shrug. Though I''m feeling a little fatigued, it''s not enough to make me stop. I''m in the flow of forging now¡ªwhy bring it to a close unless I absolutely need to? My belly rumbles, my throat feels dry, and I ignore the feelings. Metal is all that matters. Flesh deserves not a thought.


    It''s almost relaxing, even. The music has a lot to do with this. Commoners, and some runeknights even, like to hear the blare of trumpets, but for me the clang of the hammer is enough.


    I complete the gloves down to the smallest plates. I marvel at them, at their perfect forms, their smoothness and their symmetry. Already I can almost see the runes, the white metal triangles and down-pointed barbs. The bare titanium speaks of hundreds of possibilities.


    With some reluctance I cease my marveling and turn to grab the next sheet. Abruptly I break into a coughing fit. I recover, make to grab the sheet again, begin to cough again. My mouth is dry as sand. Water! The urge for it battles with my urge to forge.


    If I thirst to death, I''ll never craft again. I hurry out the forge and down the tunnel. My head aches. My arms and fingers are weak. My vision is blurring by the time I reach the gates to the guild courtyard, and I''m stumbling by the time I''m halfway across it. Someone steadies me by the upper arm.


    ¡°Been out drinking, instructor?¡± asks Guthah. He laughs nervously.


    ¡°Forging,¡± I rasp. I notice that his beard is dripping with sweat. ¡°You been training?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°That''s all very well, but take the time to improve your armor too.¡±


    He opens the guildhall door for me. ¡°I''m doing both.¡±


    I collapse onto the nearest chair. In between coughs I manage to say: ¡°Get me a beer, would you?¡±


    ¡°Sure thing.¡±


    He runs off to fill a mug from one of the barrels at the side of the hall. It''s gone lukewarm, but I''m far too thirsty to care. I have him get me another, and another.


    ¡°You really look terrible, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Don''t mind me.¡± I start coughing again. Guthah looks concerned but I shake my head. ¡°I''m tougher than I look,¡± I rasp. ¡°You saw that for yourself, didn''t you? With the troll.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°You have any idea where Braztak is?¡± The guildhall is nearly empty, and the only remains of the argument are a couple broken chairlegs swept into a corner. ¡°Voltost didn''t try to give him a beating, did he?¡±


    ¡°No. Both are too sensible. A couple of eighth degrees declared duels, but they put a stop to it. Things died down after that.¡±


    ¡°It got that serious?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You sound exhausted too, instructor.¡±


    ¡°I''m fine.¡± It''s not a lie; the beer is slowly bringing my throat back to life. My coughing has nearly died away. ¡°But anyway, where''s Braztak?¡±


    ¡°Probably in his chambers sleeping. Same as everyone.¡±


    ¡°Not you though.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I don''t suppose you could get him for me?¡±


    Guthah looks nervous at this request. ¡°I doubt he wants to be disturbed.¡±


    ¡°You''re probably right. I''ll leave him for a bit.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you ought to retire as well.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense. I just need a few more beers. Ah, I''m beginning to sound like Jerat, aren''t I? What side did he end up taking?¡±


    ¡°Braztak''s.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that means he''ll be joining us.¡±


    ¡°Us?¡±


    ¡°You aren''t coming?¡±


    ¡°I... I mean... I''m only a tenth degree, instructor.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°I won''t be able to do much against a dragon.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°Neither will anyone apart from Xomhyrk and maybe a handful of others. And me, of course. I''ll get a few blows in. I have an oath to uphold. But there''s plenty else a tenth degree can do.¡±


    He nods. ¡°Like fighting off humans.¡±


    ¡°I was more thinking of cooking and digging latrines.¡±


    ¡°Digging?¡± He scowls.


    ¡°Think you''re above that?¡±


    ¡°Aren''t I a runeknight now?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Sometimes these things are necessary.¡±


    ¡°I guess. But to answer your question, I haven''t made my mind up yet. On the one hand, refusing to go seems cowardly. On the other, I''ve heard how terrible the black dragon is.¡±


    ¡°Hearsay doesn''t do it justice. Its heat...¡± My skin burns just thinking about it. I feel fevered, and have to wipe the sweat from my brow.


    ¡°Then I should stay here.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I can''t make your decision for you.¡±


    ¡°You can give me some advice.¡±


    I look him in the eyes. He rocks back a little, as if my intensity is scaring him. ¡°Come with me if you judge it worth the risk. Stay if you''re afraid of death.¡±


    ¡°Then I''ll go.¡±


    I blink a couple times in shock. ¡°Don''t decide so quickly,¡± I say. ¡°Mull it over.¡±


    ¡°No, I don''t need any more time. I''ve decided. I''m going.¡±


    His face is grim. I guess I shouldn''t be surprised. He certainly proved his decisiveness in the examination.


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°I won''t get in your way.¡±


    ¡°You won''t.¡±


    ¡°Some of the other tenth degrees have made their minds up already. Pellas was the first to.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. She told us that her father failed because he didn''t take enough risks. She doesn''t want to repeat his mistake.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    Suddenly I feel nervous. I recall Wharoth''s words from barely a long-hour ago, that on this expedition I''d suffer loss. I remember a certain young dwarf, an initiate, who put his faith in me and lost his head on a bridge many years ago. Am I going to lead Guthah and Pellas to a similar fate? But I won''t reject their courage. If they want to come, they can come.


    Guthah must see the worry on my face. ¡°Do you not want us?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I do. But this quest will be more dangerous than any of you can imagine. Stick by me. All of you. Once we''re up on the surface, I''ll lead you myself. If you''ll follow me.¡±


    ¡°We will,¡± Guthah says.

 Dragonhunt 24: Braztaks Anger

    After a couple more beers I end up taking Guthah''s advice to retire to my chambers and sleep. Blackness takes me quickly, yet my mind remains at furious work. Runes crystallize in my dreams. The new script I saw in the ice is becoming definite. Its runic flow pattern is different to that of most scripts. Instead of flowing along horizontal or vertical lines, it spreads in branching patterns.


    When I wake up, I grab a piece of paper, scribble a simple poem in it, and practice the calculations. They''re tricky, involving multiple simultaneous factors. This is a problem I hadn''t anticipated¡ªuntil now my powers have done the calculations for me, but it seems that gaining greater control of them will mean doing more of the hard work myself.


    I''ll overcome it. I have no choice to.


    Before that, though: Braztak. I knock on the door to his chambers. He opens it. There''s dark bags under his eyes and a shadow of frenzy on his brow.


    ¡°Zathar,¡± he says. ¡°Come in. Can you believe it? Can you believe what our guildmaster''s decided?¡±


    I sit down on the chair he offers. He sits on his bed, which I get the impression he hasn''t slept in¡ªthe sheets are smooth, and the air in here smells of oil-smoke from his lamp.


    ¡°He''s scared of losing us,¡± I say. ¡°He cares for us. That''s why he''s so reluctant.¡±


    ¡°Cares for us? He knows what we need to heal. And now our chance for revenge is staring us straight in the face and he wants to turn away¡ªrun away!¡±


    ¡°You really trust this Xomhryk, then?¡±


    ¡°No! Weren''t you listening yesterday? Or last long-hour, or whatever the fuck it''s called down here in these pits. It doesn''t matter if we can trust him or not. If he''s delusional, if the dragon kills him, so what? We''re still in front of the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Do you really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I''m with you all the way, friend. I can''t turn my back on my oath.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Exactly! That makes you a hell of a lot better than Wharoth. He promised us we''d get to strike at the dragon again¡ªand now he''s gone back on that.¡±


    I don''t like that Wharoth''s running scared, but I can accept why he is, and I accept the fact that he won''t be coming with us, though I truly wish he would. But I don''t really want to get into an argument about whether or not he''s a liar, an oathbreaker, or whatever else Braztak is going to call him. So I change the subject.


    ¡°When are we leaving? I hope not too soon. I''ve got a lot of forging to do.¡±


    ¡°In twenty long-hours, from the top of the surface shaft. There''ll be a test, we''ll hand in our gold, and then we''re off.¡±


    ¡°You know Xomhyrk''s plans already?¡±


    ¡°I sent someone to run and find out as soon as Voltost and I called a truce.¡±


    ¡°That was quick.¡±


    ¡°We''ve no time to lose. Xomhyrk needs his army together as soon as possible. I don''t want us to be stragglers. The surface is a dangerous place.¡±


    ¡°It''s really that dangerous?¡±


    ¡°Some of the parts we''re traveling through are. And on top of everything, if Uthrarzak''s lot get there first, we''re going to have major trouble.¡±


    ¡°They might be there already.¡±


    ¡°Doubt it. It takes a while to assemble a big force, and Runeking Uthrarzak tends to do things by wholes.¡±


    This sounds like wishful thinking to me, but I don''t know enough about Runeking Uthrarzak to disagree.


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    ¡°So I''ve got twenty long-hours to complete my armor.¡±


    ¡°Let''s say nineteen and a half. We don''t want to risk being late. Do you need any more gold, by the way? I''ll lend you some¡ªno, I''ll gift you some if you need it.¡±


    ¡°I think I have enough.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°No, no. I''ll give you some.¡± He reaches under his bed and pulls out a rather fat leather purse. ¡°There''s forty gold wheels in here. Take them.¡±


    ¡°Forty!¡±


    ¡°I''d give you more.¡± He smiles. ¡°But the rest is in my safe, and it''s a right pain to unlock. Take them, Zathar. I''ve bought the materials for my new weapon already. And you deserve a reward for being the first to speak up against the guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think I spoke up against him, exactly. He wasn''t against me going.¡±


    ¡°Yes he was: he told you you should run away as soon as you saw the thing!¡± He shakes his head. ¡°I don''t know what''s gotten into him, I really don''t. What happened to the guildmaster who charged down a collapsing pit to have a go at it with his axe? Where''d he go, I ask you? I think all these years in Allabrast have made us soft, Zathar. We''re meant to be hard dwarves, not like the rest of the sword-swinging, posturing snobs down here under the safety of the Runeking. A bit of fresh air and danger will do us¡ªthose of us who aren''t cowards¡ªa lot of good. It''ll be our whetstone, sharpen us up for the dragon.¡±


    ¡°I just hope we''ll be sharp enough.¡±


    ¡°We will be. And if we aren''t, what does that matter? We tried to fulfill our duty as best we could. That''s all that matters in the end, for an honorable runeknight, one who''s interested in more than just himself and his own advancement. You understand this, Zathar. I wish everyone else did as well.¡±


    <hr>


    Braztak''s changed, and the change frightens me, not least because it''s come over him so suddenly. Not that there''s never been steel in him, but it''s never been so razor-sharp. He''s genuinely angry at Wharoth for what he sees as betrayal.


    His wife was killed in the first dragon attack. He wants revenge more than anyone here. I just wish he could find some way to understand Wharoth''s feelings as well.


    Well, there''s no point dwelling on it. I''ve never been particularly good at understanding what others are thinking. If Braztak''s angry at Wharoth, all I can do is accept it. It''s not my place to intervene.


    I just hope no further changes come over him as we approach the black dragon.


    Back in the forge, I look over the titanium plates. I scratch my beard. They don''t seem quite as good as I remember. Maybe this is just because my mood has sunk. There''s nothing obviously wrong with them, after all: the shapes are perfectly cut out and the curves hammered flawlessly also.


    I pick up one at random, a leg-plate, and examine it closely, first with my bare eyes, then with my lens, and then with my runic ears, tapping along its length and listening to its chime. There''s slight unevennesses, to be sure, but I don''t think it''s these that''s bothering me. It''s something deeper.


    Metal as living material. I''ve still got the same problem I had when I was working on Gutspiercer''s handle. Why doesn''t my metal seem alive? And it''s not just because the runes haven''t been grafted yet. There''s some deeper secret here that most aren''t privy to. Braztak probably knows, yet whenever I''ve turned our conversations in this direction he hasn''t revealed anything, and I doubt he''s in the mood to discuss it now.


    I put the metal down and sigh. This craft won''t be the perfect piece I envisioned. Well, what piece is? I''m sure even the Runeking could critique his own work, see imperfections that no other dwarf could.


    Probably. His forging was something else, though. What was it he said? That when you worked with his materials, his tools, more was released than simple sound and sparks. Something like that.


    Maybe there''s a problem with my tools. I hope not¡ªthey cost a fortune. Maybe I ought to be forging my own, which is something only a few runeknights do. I''ve never really thought about why.


    So is the problem with my materials? But I purchased the best quality titanium they had. And as far as I know, no runeknight, whatever his level, mines and process his own ore. That''s what commoners are for.


    No answers forthcoming, I get back to work making the rest of the plates, as well as all the minor buckles and hinges that will fit everything together.


    A forging trance soon comes over me. It comes easily now the ruby amulet''s around my neck. Mind, body, and soul. Nthazes told me an amulet of unaging affects all three, and only now do I come to understand what he meant by it.


    After several short-hours of cutting, sawing, sweating, hammering and bending, I''m done. Ears ringing with the echo of metal, which still seems to be reverberating off the walls, I step back to examine what I''ve made.


    As with before, there''s nothing wrong with the shapes. There''s just a kind of lifelessness about them.


    Maybe this''ll change once I apply heat. Having to treat so many titanium plates in a row would''ve terrified me at one point¡ªI remember my early failures with the metal down in the fort¡ªbut I''m much more practiced now.


    I turn the furnace up then start small with a toe-cap. It turns the right shade of yellow and I snatch it out. I let it cool before doing the next, just to make sure I haven''t messed up the timing. I haven''t. It''s not warping.


    But neither does it seem to be coming alive.


    I spend the next long-hour heat-treating the rest. None warp, and they all take on an attractive sheen. I decide to put my worries about them not being ''alive'' enough to one side. These are good, well-made. Supremely well-made.


    I break down coughing. I''ve forgotten to drink again. I drag myself back to the guildhall for a drink then a rest. In my bed I shut my eyes. No time seems to pass before I''m opening them again, then I head right back to the forge.

 Dragonhunt 25: Drunk on Many Things

    Only one more mundane task to go before I can get to the runes, and that''s the chainmail. I''m not going to make much of it¡ªindeed I don''t have the metal to make much of it¡ªbut there''s a few wider gaps I want to put some under. Even human weapons can kill if they get into the right place, after all.


    It''s time to embark on that most laborious of processes, then, making chainmail, except this time I don''t even have the wire ready-made. I''m going to make it myself out of all the little offcuts from the plates.


    I grab a long, bar-shaped crucible and fill it with the metal scraps. I push them down and pack them tightly¡ªI don''t want any bubbles in them. Then I turn the furnace up high and push the crucible in. The tungsten shimmers slightly as the titanium splinters within soften and meld together. When it''s liquid, I pull it out, then let the crucible rest.


    In the meantime I work on my poems. I''m not sure which I''m going to start with. I was thinking one for one of the smaller pieces, as a kind of practice run, but I fear getting into that mindset. If I treat a piece of armor as nothing more than practice, it could end up being the weak-point that fails me.


    Then I''ll start on one of the more important pieces. The legs. A simple poem should do, praising the strength of thick, old ice, and how all that tries to do it harm slides off, leaving nothing more than scratches.


    I draft. The form of the runes is really coming together now. The same words repeat a few times with no variations¡ªthey''re fixed. For now, at any rate¡ªmy power may improve them when I twist the palladium I''m saving my money for.


    It''s an average poem. A little dull, but maybe dependable is best. I''ll improve on it later.


    The titanium is cooled to orange now, and it''s shrunk from the darker sides of the crucible, which I tip over. I rap on its top and hear a clunk as the titanium drops out. It''s glowing hot and bright.


    I grimace. This next process is going to be long, hard, and very dull.


    Hammer, hammer, hammer. As the blows ring, scales form then fall from the steadily lengthening metal. It starts to get a bit flat, so I turn it onto its side. I need to keep its cross-section as even as possible. The bar grows. It seems almost alive! I get excited, but after fatigue takes hold of my arm sending my mood back down, I realize there''s nothing special here. It''s ordinary.


    It seems that the secret I''m searching for doesn''t hide in the hammering.


    I''m forced to stop for a break for hunger and thirst. Tired and irritated, I head back to the guildhall. I scoff down some meat, drink some water, sleep, and am back before the anvil. Heat and hammer. Now the bar''s too long to fit into the furnace. I jam in two-thirds, heat to yellow, pull it out to turn it around, and I fumble. Like a glowing spear it thrusts into my foot. I yelp and hop back. It clatters onto the stones.


    ¡°Ah, shit!¡±


    Quickly I pull off my shoe to inspect the damage. The skin is red and raw, but the pain is already beginning to fade. I put the shoe back on and get back to work.


    Half an hour into my hammering and I feel a little concerned. My foot isn''t hurting at all, despite the heaviness and extreme heat of the blow it took. I pull my shoe back off. The redness seems to have faded. I check again an hour later. It looks like its beginning to heal already.


    Will it heal completely by the end of the day? I check again after the bar is nearly thin enough to be called wire. The burn is still there, which relieves me a good deal.


    My ruby amulet is not completely supernatural then. So maybe its more negative effects won''t end up being so pronounced either.


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    The cries of my body become too strong to ignore again. Reluctantly I obey them and return to the guildhall. I eat and drink¡ªI''m not sure what. It seems tasteless and cold. I want to feel the heat of the forge, and to taste the tang rising from molten metal.


    ¡°How''s your armor going?¡± asks Faltast, sitting down opposite just as I''m about to rise.


    ¡°Oh. Well enough. Though I feel there''s something missing in the metal.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Just... I don''t know. You''ve never felt that way?¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°I think it should feel more alive.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Metal''s metal.¡±


    ¡°I suspect there''s something more to it than that.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps that''s a mystery for fourth degrees like yourself to unlock.¡±


    ¡°Why don''t you try? Maybe you''d jump ahead of me.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Wouldn''t dream of it. I don''t think anyone''s ever going to race ahead of you, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure someone will.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure they won''t. It takes decades to reach fourth for most dwarves.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that''s true. How long have you been fifth degree?¡±


    ¡°Just over a decade now. Took the exam shortly after we came to Allabrast.¡±


    ¡°With Jerat?¡±


    ¡°No¡ªhe turned up late and missed his chance that time.¡±


    ¡°He must have been annoyed.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Just shrugged and laughed. Maybe if he ever sobers up he''ll regret it¡ªthat and a lot of other things.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°I can''t imagine him ever sobering up. But I suppose everyone has to eventually.¡±


    Faltast scratches his beard. ¡°No,¡± he says after a few seconds. ¡°I don''t think that''s true. I''ve known dwarves drunk on power, on revenge, on fear, on joy, who never sobered up.¡±


    I think of Runethane Yurok and his fear. I think of Braztak and his revenge. And I think of Vanerak and his obsession.


    ¡°Me too, come to think of it.¡±


    ¡°Aren''t we all drunk, us runeknights? Most on greed, some on other things. Out of all the things to be drunk on, beer is one of the least dangerous, don''t you think?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Then what are you drunk on, Faltast?¡±


    He grins. ¡°Nothing. I''m sober and sensible. I take things easy¡ªI don''t need to be head-down in a drunken stupor to feel normal. How about you, Zathar? What are you drunk on?¡±


    I think hard, but come to no answer. ¡°Many things,¡± I eventually say.


    ¡°Yes. Yes, I think you are. Maybe you''re the opposite of me.¡±


    ¡°Strange that we should be friends then.¡±


    ¡°Not at all. Don''t opposites attract?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know about that. Xomhyrk''s attracting us, isn''t he? Everyone with their mind bent on revenge is going to a dwarf who''s built his entire life around it.¡±


    ¡°Revenge and riches and glory. The latter weigh more heavily in most of his followers'' minds.¡±


    ¡°Not in mine.¡±


    Faltast raises an eyebrow. ¡°Not at all?¡±


    ¡°Not at all.¡± I frown. ¡°And you?¡±


    He smiles. ¡°Like I said, I take things easy. I''m not drunk on revenge. I want a bit of all three, I think. Not that revenge won''t feel good, but riches and glory, well, they''re fine things in moderation too, no?¡±


    <hr>


    Back in the forge. I drag a hefty wire-drawing bench from the back. I purchased it soon after my trial for a bargain. One of the guildsdwarves wanted it off his hands. I haven''t used it yet¡ªstrangely enough, I didn''t do much forging after the trial. Maybe even I was sick of it. That, and I didn''t have much money for materials.


    At one end of the bench is a plate of hardened steel with circular holes cut into it. Number runes inform what gauge each is for. I lubricate the bar with some holwok mushroom oil¡ªa luxury choice, purchased with some of the gold Braztak gifted me¡ªand force it into the widest hole. Force! I push with my entire bodyweight, and slowly it goes through, thinning as it does so.


    At the other end of the bench is a wheel and some tough rope. I pull the rope out, bend a hook into the bar using a small hammer, and tie both together tight. Then I begin to turn the wheel. It feels rusted, but I oiled it only a long-hour ago¡ªthis job is just tough.


    Inch by strenuous inch, I pull the bar through. The wire-drawing bench is creaking like its bones are on the verge of breaking. Or maybe it''s my bones that are creaking.


    I wonder how much harder this would be if I were wearing my sapphire amulet instead of the ruby.


    The other end, finally, comes through. I lie back, panting hard. But I can''t congratulate myself yet. The wire needs to be thinner.


    I extrude it through the next thinnest gauge, then the next, then the next. I''m covered in sweat, my arms are shaking, my throat burns. I want to collapse onto the floor and sleep. But one more pull-through and I''ll be done.


    Done. I feel half-dead. My arms and hands are agony, my muscles pulped. But I''ve got my wire. It extends across half the length of the forge, and it gleams brightly. Is it finer than anything I could have purchased? Maybe so, or maybe it just feels that way because of the work I put into it.


    My work is nowhere near done yet. I still have to turn it into thousands of miniscule rings. But I think I''ll give my hands a rest. Now is the time to use my mind: it''s time to compose the poems.

 Dragonhunt 26: Burned by Cold

    I return from the forging supply shops a very, very poor runeknight. I''m impoverished, in fact, with only fifteen golden wheels to my name¡ªand of course they''re reserved for the expedition fee.


    In my pack sits a long, thin coil of white palladium wire, seven spheres of unrefined hytrigite¡ªsolid blue with rippling mist inside¡ªand a case each of powdered quizik and jasperite. It feels like quite a lot; it''s weighing me down nearly as much as my gold coins did. My pack makes a healthy thud when I set it down on the table.


    I hope this will be enough. If I make any major mistakes, it probably won''t be.


    Worrying about mistakes often causes them, so I push my worries to the back of my mind and start to draft. Since the poem for my leg pieces wasn''t quite working out, I choose a different set of plates to work on: the horizontal slats that''ll fall over my thighs and rear. The faulds and culet.


    There''s fifteen of them, five for each part, the rear ones wider than the thigh ones. They''re riveted together in a fairly loose manner for flexibility and mobility.


    I consider carefully the themes for their poem. Frozen ground. That''s what I go for¡ªit feels tough to me. Soft below but the ice makes it all but impenetrable.


    Yet when I get to writing, I can''t find the words I need. The runes I''ve created can''t communicate the concepts I want. Impenetrable, rock-hard, diamond-tough... I need these words, yet in the cold world this script describes, they don''t exist. I stare at the paper, tracing triangles with my writing stick, trying to create the forms I need.


    My power doesn''t work like that. No, if this script doesn''t have those words, that means I''m trying to write the wrong poem with it. Toughness is not the route to go¡ªice isn''t tough anyhow. That''s not its strength. What is its strength? Its slipperiness.


    I write a poem of a hail of rock falling on a frozen land below which soft warm earth slumbers. The stones can''t strike squarely, and they slip, bounce, bounce again down more lightly, their momentum and force robbed.


    For fifteen stanzas the hail continues, only ever causing minor injury, which will soon be healed as the ice re-freezes. This isn''t to say my armor will repair itself¡ªmetaphor and reality blur in runic magic, and one does not always beget the other.


    I read over it. It''s nothing spectacular, but it should do the job, and in the end, that''s most of what you want armor to do.


    Now to twist the palladium. I grab one of the coils of wire and rest my bare hands on it as I read over my poem again and again. As I memorize, I start to feel like I''m sinking into the stone. It''s turning to liquid beneath my feet. I shut my eyes. Instead of black, I see red and orange: molten rock. It''s run through with faster currents of yellow. A white-yellow swell engulfs me and for an instant I''m inside the sphere.


    The shadows look darker. Cold air grasps my soul¡ªit''s not the cold of ice, but something older, emptier. I gasp and force my eyes open.


    What in hell was that¡ªthey seemed closer¡ªbut runes are falling into place in my mind already, cold ones, and I know I must strike. My fingers grapple with the palladium coil and unravel it, bending it into jags as they do so. My diamond-edge clipper makes a ping every time it severs. It''s different to platinum''s sound: lighter and sharper.


    My poem grows stronger. Cold winds howl across the plain. Heat does not exist in this world, and there is only the barest amount of light. It''s gray as far as the eye can see, not that there are any eyes¡ªthis poem makes no mention of life. Elemental forces clash, and always it''s ice that wins.


    It reaches a climax. The stone rain screams as it falls. The noise makes the ice sheets vibrate, bend, crack, yet they''re only slight cracks. Its fury failed, the stone rain ceases. Stillness returns to the world.


    I breath out slowly. My hands are shaking, yet not so much as I expected them to. Is this because my poem is not so powerful, or is my body just tougher under the influence of the ruby? I read over the poem once more. It certainly seems powerful.


    I''ll only know once its grafted. I take the plates apart¡ªalthough the rivets are prepared, they aren''t yet hammered solid. Then I lay them out in order on the anvil.


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    The grafting goes well. I was a little worried, since I''ve never actually used jasperite reagent before, yet it proves easy to work with. It''s calmer than incandesite. The trickiest thing is getting it to light without also melting the titanium.


    Done. I put the rivets back in, then hammer them. Properly done now, complete. I make to grab one of the faulds and hold it up to the light¡ª


    ¡°Ah!¡±


    I drop it back onto the anvil; it clangs. I inspect my fingertips. They''re red and burned.


    Not by heat though¡ªby cold.


    I try again. I snatch my fingers away. Shit! What temperature is this metal? How far below freezing? I''ve never touched something so chill. I feel cold on my exposed face too, and also on my leather-covered chest and shoulders. It''s colder in here than in even the darkest caves I''ve wandered through¡ªand the furnace is still on.


    Carefully, I press a finger on the armor''s underside. It''s not quite as cold, but still very uncomfortable. I hope the furs I bought for cushioning will be good enough to insulate me, or my journey across the surface is going to be an extremely uncomfortable one.


    This hasn''t turned out quite as expected. A nervousness takes hold in my stomach. Will it even function as armor? How much of the qualities of ice, negative as well as positive, have the slats taken on?


    I tap one with a hammer. The noise is sharp, hard, only a little metallic. I think it''s gone brittle. I tap it again, from a slightly different angle.


    The hammer bounces right off, just like the stones in the poem bounce off the ice wasteland. I try again, at an even shallower angle. The head of the hammer glides off this time.


    I sigh deeply in relief. The armor is functioning as intended.


    <hr>


    After a quick break, I return to the forge to create the chainmail. It''s a long, excruciatingly dull process, and by the end of it my eyes are aching terribly. It did, however, go better than my first attempts at making the stuff down in the fort did. I only ended up having to discard, melt down, hammer out, draw out into wire, and finally reform about one fifth of the rings.


    Then I had to slide them all together and close them. It took nearly as long as making the plates did. I inspect the silvery fabric¡ªI can''t believe some dwarves make their entire armor out of maille, then enrune each ring with its own minute stanza.


    Maybe I should try one day. It would be an interesting challenge. But now is not the time to imagine future crafts, but to focus on the present one.


    I spend the next few long-hours drafting, turning to metal, and grafting the poems for all the parts of armor that won''t have any special function: the leg-plates, the greaves, the tops of my boots, the pauldrons and arm plates. I keep the themes unified. All are about a frozen landscape resisting the blows of stone rain, though I focus my powers to create a little more detail about what lies beneath the ice¡ªslumbering power. This''ll increase the vitality in my muscles below, giving them strength and flexibility. As for speed, the armor slides through the air.


    The subject of my poems may be immobile, but the qualities they give to the metal make me more mobile. Metaphor and reality blend. Runes are art and physics both.


    I take stock of my palladium and reagent. I still have three quarters left, including all my hytrigite spheres. I have enough for the most important poems, just.


    I''m nervous to create them. I go to Braztak for advice:


    ¡°Good morning,¡± I say when he opens his door.


    ¡°Good morning to you also, Zathar. Dusting off the old greetings?¡±


    ¡°We''ll need them once we''re on the surface.¡±


    ¡°Very true. Come in.¡±


    We sit opposite each other. ¡°How long have we got left?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Seven long-hours.¡±


    ¡°And how many are coming?¡±


    ¡°Out of the guild, forty or so. About a fifth.¡± His lip curls. ¡°Your tenth degrees shame the rest of the Association, Zathar. You''d think runeknights would grow more courageous the more skilled they become, but no, usually it''s the opposite. They don''t want to lose what they have.¡±


    ¡°They''re not my tenth degrees. They''re their own dwarves.¡±


    ¡°You''re their inspiration."


    "I don''t know if I''d go that far."


    "I would. And they''re not the only ones who respect you. I happen to know that quite a few in the guild, even some of the older members, have changed their opinion about you over this past month. They don''t see a cowardly traitor anymore. They see a dwarf willing to take action. One who doesn''t make boasts he can''t prove and oaths he can''t fulfill. A dwarf superior to most.¡±


    ¡°I hope I can fulfill it."


    "I know you can."


    "Not if I can''t get this armor right. I''ve come to ask your advice on runes, Braztak.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± He laughs a little, then lowers his voice. ¡°I don''t know how much I can help with your runes, Zathar. But I''ll give what advice I can.¡±


    ¡°It''s nothing to do with my abilities,¡± I say, dropping my voice even lower than his. ¡°It''s just that I''m about to attempt some very difficult poems. Their functions are going to be unique.¡±


    ¡°You''ve made poems like that before.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that''s true. But for these ones...¡± I shift in my seat. ¡°I feel that maybe I''m overreaching. I don''t know. Your armor is legendary in the guild. Did you feel the same when you were making it?¡±


    He scratches his beard. ¡°A little,¡± he says. ¡°In the end though, it went perfectly. I say to stop doubting yourself. Get it done.¡±


    ¡°But if it isn''t perfect, and I break my oath because of it...¡±


    ¡°If your armor fails you when you face the dragon, you won''t be breaking your oath. You''ll be fulfilling it. Nothing''s ever perfect, Zathar. Write your poems. I look forward to seeing them.¡±


    A wide grin breaks out on his face. It disturbs me a little.


    ¡°Then, finally, we''ll begin the dragonhunt.¡±

 Dragonhunt 27: Frictionless

    My breastplate and backplate will be the keystone of my armor''s defense. The poem I create for them is the climax of the war of stone rain and icy plain. No longer are the stones mere pebbles, but mighty boulders. The ice is many dozens of feet thick, and it''s old and blue and very cold.


    I''ve got over the apprehension I felt when I burned my fingers a few hours ago. I''ve no choice but to go all in on cold. That''s what I was always aiming to do, wasn''t it? Human bandits and enemy dwarves will recoil at my armor''s touch, especially those in thinner plate. The black dragon won''t notice it, I don''t think, but it''ll reduce the heat of its fire by at least a little.


    In the final main stanza on my breastplate, the stone rain turns molten. Boulders glowing red shatter upon the ice, expending their vitality in attempts to crack it asunder, and they fail utterly. In the epilogue stanza, the world has become colder than it ever was before.


    I focus my power and twist the palladium into runes. Cold, I mutter to myself. Colder and colder, and colder. My runes take on my will. Even lying on the anvil, inert¡ªsupposedly¡ªthey make my skin feel chill.


    I graft most of them. The forge flashes red and blue and white. I step back from the breastplate and backplate, laid open on the anvil, and smile grimly. Even without the key runes grafted, the piece is almost too cold to approach. My back, to the furnace, burns, yet the tip of my nose and the tips of my fingers also are numb. Once I''m finished moving the plates off the anvil, my thickly-gloved hands have gone numb up to the wrists.


    Now for the part I''m most nervous about¡ªrefining the hytrigite. I recall how much of it Hayhek and I wasted before our quest to defeat the lava trolls. If you don''t treat it with the proper respect, it blasts itself apart. It almost has its own thoughts and feelings.


    And just because I''ve worked with even trickier since, doesn''t mean I''ll be able to get this right on my first attempt in fifteen or so years.


    Ordinary heat isn''t good enough for hytrigite. I get some stone and heat it in the crucible until it becomes magma. Then, gently, I submerge the first sphere for three seconds¡ªI count carefully¡ªthere''s a bang. Magma explodes out, spattering my arms and chest. I drop the tongs and fall back, screaming curses.


    ¡°Fucking bastard! Fuck!¡±


    I was so sure I got the timing right. Did I misremember? I take another look at the hytrigite spheres. Maybe they''re a little smaller than the ones Hayhek, Dwatrall and I found.


    Ignoring the burning spots of pain, I retrieve my tongs and grab another sphere. I put it down. I can''t rush. I need to be exact. I add more stones until the magma is at the same level it was before. I wait for it to melt fully. Only then do I pick up the next sphere and lower it into the magma. I count two seconds. It feels about right.


    I pull out the sphere and set it down on the anvil. I strike. One hit, two¡ªit''s flattening¡ªthen there''s suddenly resistance, a flash of bright blue, and splinters of it are in my skin.


    One I pull from my eyelid. If I hadn''t shut my eyes just in time, I''d be blinded just as sure as if I''d failed with almergris.


    I force myself to breath, to calm down. I know why I failed¡ªI forgot to treat it with respect. I was in the wrong mindset, hurrying, thinking only of my needs instead of thinking of me and reagent as equals.


    I pace around the forge three times. I take fifteen deep breaths. I take another fifteen breaths. Only then do I, very carefully, pick up the next sphere and submerge it. Two seconds exact. I place it down on the anvil, strike with my hammer. It flattens. I open the tongs and strike again.


    We''ll do this together, I''m thinking at it. Through harmony, we''ll make a suit of armor that''s the envy of the entire guild.


    Ten strikes later and it''s a clear blue circle as wide as my palm. I cut it into slivers and layer them under the main runes of the backplate. I heat and the forge flashes deep blue. Cold mist pours upward. I snatch my hands away.


    I refine another sphere and graft more runes onto my breastplate. The aura of cold is almost visible. I already feel as if I''m standing in the icy wastelands of my poem, and the full suit isn''t even complete yet.


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    Yet I can''t help but feel a little disappointed. I''ve only three spheres of hytrigite left. My gauntlets, boots, and helmet aren''t going to be quite as magnificent as I''ve been envisioning.


    Well, that can''t be helped. I always knew this wasn''t going to go perfectly. Nothing in the forge ever does.


    <hr>


    ¡°What''s this?¡±


    ¡°A letter from the New Dynamium Guild.¡±


    ¡°What does it say?¡±


    ¡°I didn''t open it.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. Hand it over, will you?¡±


    ¡°Shit. Shit!¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    Xomhyrk hands the letter back to Gollor.


    ¡°Quite bad news.¡±


    Xomhyrk shakes his head. ¡°No. It''s very bad news. Horrible news.¡±


    ¡°This''ll slow us down by weeks, won''t it?¡±


    ¡°Maybe up to a month.¡±


    ¡°They''re that worried about provoking Runeking Uthrarzak?¡±


    ¡°Wouldn''t you be?¡±


    ¡°I suppose. But what do we do? Do we leave early?¡±


    ¡°I don''t think we can risk it. We''ll have less dwarves, worse equipped. When we get to the dragon they won''t be enough.¡±


    ¡°Just us has always been enough before. Maybe this time we should prioritize speed over power.¡±


    Xomhryk laughs bitterly. ¡°I visited Runethane Thanerzak''s realm a couple years after its ruination, you know.¡±


    ¡°I remember.¡± Gollor is a second degree, wielding a spear of force, and has been with Xomhyrk since the beginning, several hundred years ago.


    ¡°I''d never seen anything like it. Still haven''t.¡±


    ¡°You say it can''t keep up that power, though. That its breath then was an outburst of all the heat it couldn''t digest.¡±


    ¡°When a dragon devours its fellows, that power is hard to control, so yes, it couldn''t keep up that power. Now it has the treasures of an entire kingdom in its lair. Runic power is more solid, longer lasting. It sinks into the dragon''s bones.¡±


    ¡°Dragons don''t have bones.¡±


    ¡°It''s a metaphor. Into their essence.¡±


    ¡°So your saying it''s back to its full strength?¡±


    ¡°Probably it''s stronger. Apparently the mountain''s hollow now, and the earth for miles in front of it is a smoldering wreck of barely-cooled lava.¡±


    ¡°Might Runeking Halajatbast have injured it?¡±


    ¡°I imagine he and his Runethanes and first degrees got a few good blows in.¡±


    ¡°All the more reason to move quickly, before it''s recovered.¡±


    Xomhyrk shakes his head. ¡°No. We need power or we''ll never get anywhere. We won''t even get to it.¡±


    ¡°Yes. We can''t bypass the humans anymore, can we?¡±


    "No."


    <hr>


    After drafting the poems for my boots and gauntlets, I refine the rest of the hytrigite and adjust the runes accordingly. I sigh. The poems have lost a lot of impact. They won''t slide as fast, won''t grip as hard. I''m not going to be as mobile and deadly as I hoped.


    Can''t be helped, I tell myself. After the quest I''ll reforge them.


    If I survive it.


    The poem for my boots is of a dwarf gliding down a hill of white ice. He''s charging at an iron troll. It swings a mighty club at him. The dwarf ducks then, with perfect control, turns. He angles the edges of the boots into the ice to grind to a halt. He strikes quickly and accurately. Blood sprays. The troll swings in a rage.


    The dwarf slides out the way and cuts it down.


    Speed to perfect control, to sliding speed again. These boots won''t provide much protection, but they''ll make me fast. I''ll close and strike before the black dragon even has time to recognize me.


    My gauntlets focus on the gripping power of ice. Ice doesn''t have to be frictionless, after all. It can cling to rocks for long millennia, digging roots of cold deep. Clutch ice with your bare skin and it''ll tear your hand apart. The dwarf in my poem presses his hands to a frozen wall, and when the windstorm comes, he whispers to the ice to hold him fast, and it does so.


    Now to twist the runes. I shut my eyes, sink into the magma sea. I see the sphere and brace. I''m in it¡ªthe black shadows are darker, more vivid than ever¡ªI don''t have time to ponder what this means¡ªI focus on how I want to twist the runes.


    Angles sharpen or widen. Lines vanish or are added. In the first poem, the cold wind tears at the dwarf as he flies down the slope. The iron troll roars and the force of its blow throws snow into the air. The ice screams and sparks with frozen power as the dwarf turns, stops. He strikes. Blood turns the ice red. The troll counter-strikes¡ªand then is cloven in two, and its ruin freezes into crimson crystals.


    Now for the gauntlets'' poem. The dwarf against the wall melds into it. Encased, he remains there for a decade as the winds seek to tear him out. When the ice releases him, he''s half a corpse, yet he''s protected.


    Ah, shit. I think I''ve gone too far with this one. Might these gauntlets never let go of my weapon? But all the palladium I have left has to go on my helmet. Besides, with my limited hytrigite, the power of this poem won''t be that pronounced.


    I graft, and as soon as I''m finished, I put the gauntlets on. I flex my fingers. They seem to want to grip something, so I pick up my hammer. Tiny crystals of ice fan out from where titanium touches wood. The crystals are only millimeters in length, but very cold. Deathly cold.


    Something makes me smile. My war-pick isn''t the only weapon I have anymore. Xomhyrk said that he killed dragons by plunging Icemite into their hearts and freezing their blood solid. Perhaps my fingers, plunged into a wound opened by Gutspiercer, will have the same effect on the black dragon''s blood.


    I try on my boots as well. A few steps and I nearly fall over. I try again, to run, then I glide, then I flick the switch inside them to change the friction. I halt and my momentum throws me flat on my face.


    It''s going to take a lot of practice in the sparring yard until I''m able to fight while sliding. Still, the surface is earth and carpets of fungus, not stone. The sliding effect won''t be quite so pronounced.


    Satisfied, I take the boots off and put them with the rest of the armor.


    Now all that''s left is the helmet.

 Dragonhunt 28: Deaths Helm

    Full protection. That''s the dream of every runeknight, but only few fulfill it. Plates need gaps if you''re to move, and only a very few dwarves have the skill to make plates so fine and well fitted that every space is covered.


    Helmets pose an even greater problem. They need gaps for breathing and for seeing. Even the helmets worn by the dwarves of the deep had eye slits, though I feel this was more out of tradition than anything else.


    Yet it is possible to make metal transparent. Runethane Thanerzak managed it, as did several of his commanders, most famously Vanerak. So why can''t I? One of the main properties of ice is transparency.


    Why should I, though? It''s going to be difficult. This is the idea I feel I''m overreaching the most on. So many things can go wrong. If I fail, my helmet will be totally unusable.


    Yet I have to try. The power I felt from Vanerak was immense. I want to take a step towards having that kind of power, even if he''s not my opponent on this quest.


    I draft the poem: a dwarf frozen into a crystal sees his opponent''s every move before it happens. I cross everything out. Far too ambitious, silly even. My next poem: the clearness of the air above the frozen wasteland lets the dwarf see to the far horizon. No. Too directionless.


    Draft after draft I discard. My eyes and head begin to ache. I''m thirsty and hungry again. This time I return to the guildhall willingly, hoping that a good meal and some sleep will rejuvenate my imagination.


    ¡°Zathar! Haven''t seen you for a while!¡±


    It''s Jerat. Ten mugs of beer are laid out in a line before him. All but the last two are empty. I sit down opposite.


    ¡°Take the last one,¡± he says.


    ¡°Had enough already?¡±


    ¡°Of course I haven''t had enough. My next will be something stronger to make up for the loss... Drink, drink!¡±


    I toss it back and cough. ¡°What is this stuff?¡±


    ¡°Strong, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°And lukewarm.¡±


    ¡°Warm beer isn''t so bad once you get used to it.¡±


    ¡°You only say that because you''ve lost all feeling in your mouth.¡±


    ¡°True, true, true,¡± he laughs. ¡°How''s your armor going? Only one long-hour left to go now.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I jump in shock. ¡°Already?¡±


    ¡°They brought the schedule forward a little. By one long-hour. There''s to be no testing either. Xomhyrk is in a hurry for some reason.¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    ¡°Not going to be done in time?¡±


    ¡°Barely in time.¡±


    ¡°You''d have more time if you didn''t waste so much on drafting, planning, all that bollocks. Do what I do. Rune by rune. Live in the present.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°Don''t be absurd. Runic poems are constructions. How would you even do the runic flow calculations?¡±


    ¡°As I go?¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t make any sense.¡±


    ¡°Well, my poems work, don''t they?¡±


    ¡°It''s been a while since you advanced a degree though, hasn''t it?¡±


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    He laughs. ¡°Getting all high and mighty now we''re fourth, are we?¡±


    ¡°I''m just saying that maybe you need to rethink your approach to crafting.¡±


    ¡°Take your own advice. Try my method. Rune by rune. It''s never let me down.¡±


    ¡°Not once?¡±


    ¡°Not very often. But hey, is there a runeknight out there who never fucked up?¡±


    ¡°I suppose not.¡±


    ¡°You still don''t sound convinced. Well, I''ll tell you something, my friend: you will be when you see my new weapon.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Something those puny humans won''t stand a chance against!¡±


    ¡°We''re after the dragon,¡± I remind him.


    ¡°Oh, it''ll scrape a few scales off the dragon as well, no doubt. But its main function... Ah, you''re going to be impressed, Zathar. Very impressed.¡±


    <hr>


    I stand with the palladium wire in my hands and not a single clue about what I''m going to write in my head. The empty space on the anvil that my draft would usually occupy keeps drawing my eyes. My heart is beating hard.


    This is stupid. Jerat may be my friend, but he''s a drunk, and a degree below me also. Why the hell am I taking his advice? Do I really have no other choice?


    Of course I have a choice. I need to choose to sit down and write out my drafts. I need to plan! How can you enrune without planning? And Jerat even says he grafts as he goes along! That would give me no room for error, not even a single rune''s worth; a single off-placed stroke would ruin everything, completely destroy this armor''s potential.


    And yet his method appeals to me. The thought of following it sends a thrill through me. Pressure can turn coal to diamonds, can it not? Heroes are born in battle, not in training with wooden swords and wooden armor. The runes I created in my trial were born from extreme pressure also.


    There is also my power. I''ve some measure of control over it now. But I can only evoke it when I''ve metal in my hands.


    I shut my eyes. I imagine myself sinking through the stone. A tide of yellow and red rises up over my vision and I grow hot. My ruby amulet is beating like a heart of hot iron against my chest. My body grows even hotter, from the feet up. The yellow liquid is turning brighter, and then I sense resistance. It''s the surface of the sphere.


    Abruptly I''m cold. It''s dark. I look from left to right at the darker shapes in here with me. On my left, hatred, and on my right, love.


    This isn''t some past memory. This is present reality. These dwarves next to me¡ªor at least they are casting their shadows next to me¡ªare not long-dead enemies of a figure of myth. They are alive, out there, somewhere, and I''m sure that I have met them both before.


    Runes! I try to ignore the cold. I''m here for runes, to seek understanding of them for my poem. I focus on cold, and on seeing.


    My eyes open. I see the shapes before me, jagged splinters, daggers of ice, razor sharp. My fingers start to move. I bend the palladium into the shape of the first rune. It''s long and thin with three indents on its left side, the shape, in this script I have created, that means the sound nachroktey, which means death¡ªand although there are many words in our dwarven tongue that mean death, nachroktey is the most powerful. It means the nothingness that comes after the violence, the abyss of cold where there is no fire to heat the furnace and where everything is so still that nothing ever happens, and even the passage of time no longer exists. All is frozen.


    I graft it onto where my left eye will look out of. Then I twist and graft the next rune, and the next. When I reach where my right eye will be, I twist the rune for nachroktey once more. Both I graft with hytrigite. The flashes are cold.


    Some small voice at the back of my head is telling me I ought to stop. I set out for transparency and protection from fire. Why have I chosen death? Is this just instinct?


    No! I am beyond that. My power does not control my hand anymore. I control it! Me! I know exactly what I''m doing. I''m signing onto my helmet a poem that means to seek death, that means to gaze out over the world in search of an enemy that must either be destroyed or destroy me.


    I will kill the black dragon! I will see its weak-point through this death''s head helm and strike my pick through its scales and freeze solid its heart.


    This is my oath, was it not? Kill or be killed! Bring death to the dragon, or die in the attempt!


    So what, I tell the voice at the back of my mind, is so wrong with what I am doing? We runeknights deal in death! We don''t forge weapons and armor for purposes of pride, to show off on inanimate stands within our guildhalls. We forge them for battle! We forge them that we may kill our enemies and survive to kill more, and more, and more!


    My poem tells of a skeleton sitting upon the endless wastes of ice. It raises its head and sees through the still air. It fixes its empty sockets on the far distance. On the other side of the world is a darkness. The poem does not say what the darkness is, but it''s clear from context that within it lies the slain dwarf''s regret.


    The poem has no stanzas. It''s one line, free-flowing, yet at the same time tightly controlled. Writing it feels like how sprinting down a ridge of ice must feel. I must go fast, not overthink, not hesitate, and yet at the same time calculate every step or meet disaster. I am calculating runic flow even as I create the metaphors and wordplay. My head aches, yet the ache is strangled and muted and given no freedom to rake its claws through me.


    In the final line, the skeleton rises to its bony feet and, with a single step, strides across the frozen world to stand before the great shadow.


    What happens next is left unwritten.

 Dragonhunt 29: Either Way, Ill Be Fulfilling My Oath

    Guthah grafts the final rune onto his spear. He steps back and paces around the anvil, examining all angles of his craft. He picks it up and leans it against the wall. He looks up and down it. He grimaces. His grimace deepens. It isn''t quite right. This isn''t quite what he imagined. It''s not quite pointy enough, for one. The angles of the head don''t match up with what he saw in his mind, nor with what he drew out on paper.


    As for the poem, well, he supposes it must be having some effect. This spear looks sharper, at least, than any jeweler''s chisel he''s ever worked with, and a stray blow with one of those will drive an inch of metal right through your hand so cleanly it''s painless.


    But this would never pierce through Zathar''s armor.


    Just a few minutes later, in the forge in the next chamber along, Pellas grafts the final rune onto her armor. She steps back, and lets out a long breath. It''s done. A full suit of steel, shining with bright silver runes. They''re poems of strength.


    Her father used to tell her that protection was everything. That you were no use in a battle if you could be felled in one stroke. Well, where did that advice get him? Nowhere. In a sickbed, with a gray, wispy beard, dying.


    As his only child, he left all his money to her. The last of it is gone now, spent on this armor of strength. From now on she will earn and advance by her own efforts, and she believes that if she fights hard enough, takes on the strongest enemies, runs forward and throws caution to the howling surface wind, she can advance just like Zathar has.


    Faltast hefts his shield from the anvil. He''s decided a buckler just isn''t going to do it for this quest. Like he told Zathar, he''s not drunk on anything. He''s sober¡ªhe takes care of himself.


    Jerat roars with laughter as he holds his weapon up to the forge''s red-reflecting roof. It''s brilliant! Magnificent! Brilliant! Every rune is perfectly formed and in its perfect place, though they probably won''t look that way to the other runeknights¡ªthey''re misshapen, uneven, the lines crook one way and the other¡ªyet their runic flows are perfect.


    Braztak runs one final stroke of the whetstone across the blade of his axe¡ªits second blade. Common knowledge has it that putting two blades on your axe is pointless, just makes it heavy, yet Braztak knows the rules well enough to break them. Knows them well enough to break them clean in half and stomp on them.


    A calm dwarf with a kind heart within. That''s how most in the guild see him. But that''s not quite right: within him is rage, and each time he crafts, he pours that storm of emotion into every rune and hammer-stroke.


    This axe symbolizes recovery through brutality.


    He will slay the dragon and finally heal the gaping wound in his heart.


    <hr>


    The sixty-two dwarves¡ªmore than Braztak expected, less than he hoped¡ªleave the guildhall. Some of those who''ll remain wish them luck. Others turn away and shake their heads bitterly, and Guildmaster Wharoth is nowhere to be seen. Along the gray road they walk. Commoners hurry out their way¡ªthere''s a sense of violence about them. There always is, around runeknights, but this troop, with Braztak at their head, exudes the feeling that to get in their way means quick death.


    Braztak raises his hand for a halt. They''ve reached the door to Zathar''s forge. They line up in ranks before it, as they''ve planned. Some believe he''s not in there, that he''s run away. Others suspect he''s in there but won''t come out.


    ¡°Shall I do the honors?¡± Jerat asks.


    ¡°No,¡± says Braztak. ¡°Guthah, you knock. You''re his favored. You bring him out. Let''s see if he''s ready to fulfill his oath.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it,¡± says Mulkath. His mercury runes ripple; they look more liquid than ever¡ªhe''s polished them, or by some secret method improved their quality. That''s possible with certain rare metals.


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    ¡°He''ll come out,¡± Guthah says proudly. ¡°Zathar won''t let us down.¡±


    He strides up to the door and knocks loudly. There''s no answer.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Guthah shouts. ¡°You in there? We''re leaving! Are you finished?¡±


    For a few more moments, silence. Then the door opens.


    Guthah stumbles back gasping. A cold wind has blasted him. He can see a figure in white-silver in the door. It''s not recognizable as Zathar. No one expected him to craft armor quite like this.


    ¡°Zathar?¡± says Faltast. ¡°Is that you?¡±


    Braztak steps forward. He ignores the dreadful cold and looks into the dwarf''s visor. It''s not a visor, he realizes. The metal is transparent.


    ¡°It''s me,¡± says Zathar, voice clear and cold and convicted.


    The helmet is a death''s head. The transparent sections for his eyes are the shape of skull''s sockets, and below is the triangular shape of a nose, and below that, jagged runes, vaguely bluish, are like grinning teeth. It fits closely.


    ¡°Instructor?¡± Pellas says quietly. She''s unsure of what to think.


    ¡°You followed my advice!¡± Jerat laughs. ¡°I can tell!¡±


    ¡°Have you come to die, Zathar?¡± Braztak asks quietly.


    ¡°No. I''ve come to deal death. Though, if it''s dealt to me, I don''t much care. You said so yourself: either way, I''ll be fulfilling my oath.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°I still think we should go to Hud Valley. The New Dynamium Guild will surely take us that far.¡±


    Xomhryk shakes his head. ¡°Too many trolls.¡±


    ¡°They might prove less formidable than the forces of Tallreach. Their wizards...¡± Gollor bites his lip.


    ¡°Wizards die easy.¡±


    ¡°So they say. We are dragonslayers, not wizardslayers.¡±


    ¡°All the same, I won''t risk a horde of trolls, and the humans of Tallreach may be persuaded to let us pass. Humans are not wont to turn down dwarven gold very often.¡±


    ¡°These particular humans are proud.¡±


    ¡°My mind is made up. We will travel by the route I''ve just described.¡±


    On the quartz map, he traces it again with his finger. Straight up the Blue Shaft, then straight along north to The Mountain of Halajatbast. His guildsdwarves grimace behind their tungsten visors.


    They are not looking forward to this journey. Since dragons often like to fly freely through the skies, and steal the treasure of humans and elves as well as that of dwarves, most of the Dragonslayers have experienced the great emptiness above many times, and know well that it''s not the kind of place a dwarf should suffer for very long.


    ¡°It looks like a long trek, but it''s not so bad. We won''t be winding through tunnels. Things are closer together up there.¡±


    ¡°We know,¡± says Gollor. ¡°But we''re not equipped to fight humans.¡±


    ¡°We''ll be fine. The humans of Tallreach have quarrels with their neighbors. They won''t want to divert too much force against us, a neutral force.¡±


    ¡°That''s wishful thinking. And what about the dwarves of Runeking Uthrarzak?¡±


    ¡°We''re quicker and cleverer than them. We''ll get to the dragon first.¡±


    ¡°And after?¡±


    ¡°They won''t want to face down those who just took down the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°There''ll be a lot more of them than of us. With Runethanes and first degrees.¡±


    ¡°We''ve been through all this. We''ll be fine. Have we yet failed on a hunt, my Dragonslayers? Have we yet failed to pierce a dragon''s heart? And have we yet failed to claim a hoard for ourselves, of drained metal to be brought back to life in the forge?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± they chorus.


    ¡°And will we fail this time?¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°Will we ever fail?¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    Xomhryk turns back to Gollor. ¡°Do you still doubt?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Well, fine. You have that right. This is, after all, our most dangerous quest to date.¡±


    ¡°By far.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But the rewards will be well worth it. A mountain of our own! And a mountain of precious metals and more precious runic knowledge within. We will become strong as kings.¡±


    Gollor raises his eyebrows.


    ¡°Figure of speech, commander. You know our reason for being is, and always will be, ridding the world of foul monsters. Riches are just a means to further that end. Anyway, is the army gathered?¡±


    ¡°It should be by now.¡±


    ¡°Then let us leave here and look over it. Maybe it''ll assauge your doubts some.¡±


    Xomhyrk and Gollor lead the senior commanders up and out the Stadium of the Mind. Just before the dome, a small platform has been constructed. Xomhyrk climbs up and looks down the main street where his army is gathered.


    The runeknights'' armors gleam brightly in a hundred shades of metallic. About half a thousand have gathered. Most wear swords glowing in different shades of runic light¡ªmany glow coldly. Xomhyrk''s Icemite has clearly inspired some to create their own weapons of ice. There''s armor of ice also, some better than others¡ªone in particular stands out. It has a helmet shaped like a skull.


    ¡°How many of the higher degrees do you judge we have?¡± Gollor asks quietly.


    ¡°Maybe twenty thirds and a dozen seconds. A couple firsts. Perhaps fifty fourths.¡±


    ¡°Enough?¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Maybe?¡±


    ¡°It''s always a maybe, Gollor, when it comes to hunting dragons. You know that.¡±


    ¡°True. I still can''t help feeling that we''re overloading our forge here.¡±


    ¡°It''s just a dragon. It''s mortal.¡±


    ¡°You might want to convince them of that. I can sense apprehension down there.¡±


    ¡°Then I shall.¡±


    Xomhyrk holds out his hand. One of his commanders passes him an enruned voice-plate. This is a disc of metal that, when spoken into, vibrates the air on its opposite side many times more violently. It''s a voice amplifier, a fairly common item in the realms south, but not yet popular in Allabrast.


    He speaks into it:

 Dragonhunt 29.2: Three Points About Dragons

    Xomhyrk''s dark blue armor radiates cold power and his spear Icemite the same. Its point gleams cyan. We can feel the chill even at the back of the army. My own aura of cold is overwhelmed. This armor is my greatest effort, but before his craft it''s crude.


    ¡°My fellow dragonslayers, welcome. Welcome to the greatest quest any of you have ever undertaken. There can be no greater glory than that found in the killing of a dragon, and the black dragon is the greatest of all dragons yet seen either below the world or above it. To slay it will be an incredible feat. Even if you should strike only the merest blow against it, your name will ring throughout eternity. A single cut to its scales will graft your legend onto the skin of time.¡±


    But how are we to kill it? That''s the question on my mind, and probably the minds of everyone else also.


    ¡°Most of you¡ªall of you, perhaps¡ªare questioning if such a feat is even possible. The black dragon is massive, for one. Its wingspan is two hundred feet across at least. Its fire melted an entire two realms to slag, and now it has killed an entire kingdom and slain a Runeking. A Runeking! How can we, without even a Runethane among us, slay such a beast?


    ¡°But it is possible. I know this because my knowledge about dragons runs deep. I have spent my life learning about them, for a hunter must know his prey if he is not to become the hunted. Now I will share some of my knowledge: here are three facts about the foul beasts.


    ¡°The first: dragons are fire made flesh. They are at their most powerful when they have just consumed something, like a raging bonfire at its peak. The black dragon, when it destroyed the realms of Thanerzak and Broderick, was an inferno incarnate then.¡±


    So surely it is even more powerful after consuming Runeking Halajatbast and his hoard?


    ¡°So surely now it is even more powerful, you are thinking. Yes and no. It''ll have gained a great deal of power. But it''s also expended a great deal, and also needs time to digest the new power.


    ¡°This brings me to fact the second: dragons create hoards of treasure. Enraged at its injuries, the black dragon blasted Runethane Thanerzak''s realm out of spite, with no thought for building a hoard, but all dragons build them. They''ll take anything shiny, but it''s runic crafts they''re really after. Over the centuries, they drain the power from them through their scales.


    ¡°The black dragon almost certainly, after blasting Runeking Halajatbast and his Runethanes, has ransacked the mountain to build a hoard. If he didn''t melt the Runeking to vapor, maybe his armor and weapon will lie atop it.


    ¡°Do you all see where I am leading? The black dragon will have settled down on its hoard. And it''ll be exhausted from the battle, and injured too, with great injuries across many yards of flesh. They''ll take an accordingly great time to heal.


    ¡°Right now it''s at its most vulnerable. Once it''s digested its new hoard it''ll have grown in power several times, but now, while it''s weakened, we have a chance, small force though we are.¡±


    I nod. Small force, though? There''s a five hundred runeknights here at least, and many are powerful looking. But compared to the black dragon, with its two hundred yards or more wingspan, then yes, I suppose we are rather small.


    ¡°The third fact is simply this: dragons may be beasts of fire, but they are still beasts. They are mortal. They can be slain like anything else through the forceful application of runic metal.¡±


    Xomhyrk passes the voice amplifier back. He clasps Icemite in both hands and raises it high above his head horizontally. A chill, a thrill, passes through the gathered army. It washes through my frozen armor. My heart pumps fast beneath the ruby lying against my chest.


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    ¡°Dragonslayers!¡± roars one of the tungsten-clad commanders. ¡°Death to the dragon!¡±


    ¡°Death to the dragon!¡± roar Xomhyrk''s guildsdwarves as one. ¡°Death to the dragon!¡±


    ¡°Nachroktey-drazakh-ala!¡±


    Our gathered army roars the same:


    ¡°Nachroktey-drazakh-ala! Nachroktey-drazakh-ala! Nachroktey-drazakh-ala!¡±


    ¡°Death to the dragon! Death to the dragon! Death to the dragon!¡±


    The chant continues for a long while. Its fury does not fade. Each syllable is shouted as loudly as the last. I feel the words in my bones. Runes spin in my mind. I focus on Icemite. I think that these words of death we chant are written into the poems spiraling around it.


    Our chant must be echoing all throughout Allabrast. I wonder if it''s reaching the guildmaster in his forge. Maybe it''ll change his mind.


    Isn''t it his duty to change his mind? To support us, to make sure we remain safe and alive? I can only hope. I''d feel safer if he were here to lead us, holding forward his shield that once ate the dragon''s flame.


    Xomhyrk spins Icemite back to vertical and stands it on the platform. His guildsdwarves cease chanting, and a few repeats later we cease also. He takes the voice-plate again.


    ¡°As maybe you have guessed,¡± he says, ¡°there have been some changes in our plan. Nothing major. Our destination remains the same. It''s only the route that I''ve had to alter.¡±


    Didn''t he just say now''s our best chance? Yet it sounds like we''re going to be taking a slower path.


    ¡°The New Dynamium Guild has refused us travel along its rails. They do not wish to risk the ire of Runeking Uthrarzak by bringing an army close to his domains, where the most convenient exit to the surface for us is.¡±


    There are shouts of dismay and disbelief. Xomhyrk holds a palm out to calm them.


    ¡°They''ve offered us to take us to another exit to the surface, Hud Valley. Yet that valley, as many of you likely know, is swarming with river trolls. They''ve grown numerous and powerful in recent years. I don''t want to take our chances with them.¡±


    River trolls? I wonder exactly where this valley is, and if Dwatrall is there. Perhaps he''s doing well for himself¡ªbut I don''t think I''ll have the opportunity to find out. I think I can guess what Xomhyrk is about to suggest.


    ¡°Instead we will go straight up the Blue Shaft, here, then make straight for the Mountain of Halajatbast. It''s a long way, but up on the surface, distances are less. There''s no need to wind through tunnels. We can cut straight up the land.¡±


    Murmurs and mutters run through the army. I turn to Braztak.


    ¡°So long across the surface? Is that wise?¡±


    ¡°Wise? Not particularly, but it sounds like we don''t have a choice.¡±


    ¡°You know my story about the river trolls. Maybe these ones are smart too. Maybe we can come to some sort of deal with them.¡±


    ¡°You''ll have a hard time persuading Xomhyrk and his commanders of that. That was one of your less believable tales.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I accept that. Still... It''s not like we''ll be doing only night marches, is it?¡±


    Xomhyrk speaks again: ¡°I can hear apprehension from you. Yes, the surface is dangerous. Yes, the sun is hot and burns the skin, even through the clouds. And yes, we will have to march during the day¡ªthe time when the sun is in the sky in place of the moon.¡±


    ¡°We will catch sunblight!¡± someone shouts. ¡°I''d rather risk the trolls!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± barks one of the senior commanders, a bulky first or second degree in dark tungsten. ¡°On this quest, Xomhyrk''s word is law! His commands will be obeyed, for the safety and success of all!¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Gollor,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°If any of you are dissatisfied by my decision, you are free to find your own route to the dragon. However I will say this¡ªdragonfire burns far hotter than the sun does. If sunblight scares you, then you don''t have the courage in you to face the black dragon.¡±


    That silences the muttering.


    ¡°This route does pose one major issue,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°That of the humans of Tallreach. However, we will be bringing plenty of gold. That should buy them off.¡±


    ¡°And of the forces of Runeking Uthrarzak?¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°We will come to that problem when we reach the mountain. Now, all of you, it''s time to leave. So let us begin. We march!¡±


    Groups of tungsten-clad runeknights appear at the front and rear of the army. Standards are raised high, banners of woven metal displaying a dragon on its back with a three blue spears sticking from its heart.


    ¡°This way!¡± comes a shout. ¡°March forward.¡±


    We turn. The shiver of metal echoes through the main street. Our group is near the front of the formation now, rather than the back.


    ¡°This is it then,¡± I say. I grin beneath my skull-helm. ¡°We''re off!¡±


    ¡°Charge!¡± laughs Jerat. ¡°It''s time to show the surface dwarven steel!¡±


    I glance at Braztak¡ªin his eyes is the same thrill that I feel. It''s time to deal death or be dealt it. No more thought is needed.

 Dragonhunt 30: The Ascent Begins

    Runethane Vanerak''s throne-hall is still under construction. At one end, miner-wretches are hacking away at the cavern wall, expanding the room forwards. At the sides, stonemasons even out rough scars with chisels and wet sandpaper. The cracking, grinding, and scraping combine to create the sound of stone under torture.


    The only thing truly complete here is Vanerak''s throne. It''s carved from a spar of green marble, and egg-sized gems are set into it, though they are only beryl, not so precious. Diamonds are reserved for crafting.


    One of his commanders enters. One of his Reconquerors, as the guild is styled. They believe that this realm, far at the south end of Runeking Ulrike''s territory, to be a temporary inhabitation. They believe that they will one day return to the great cavern and chasm of Hazhakmar. Runethane Vanerak plans to keep this promise to them, but the return will come a lot further away than most suspect and hope.


    The runeknight strides up the stone steps and kneels before his Runethane.


    ¡°What is it, Nazak?¡±


    ¡°Great news, my Runethane. Terrible news.¡± He looks up and his eyes are bright. ¡°The black dragon has returned!¡±


    ¡°Returned? To our true realm?¡±


    ¡°No. Not in that sense.¡±


    ¡°Then in what sense?¡±


    ¡°In the sense that it''s returned to destroy dwarves!¡± His eyes, still boring into Vanerak''s mirror-mask, widen further. He''s showing no fear. ¡°To burn us and our crafts! To pillage and plunder!¡±


    ¡°I would like some specifics.¡±


    ¡°Rumor has it¡ª¡°


    ¡°Mere rumor?¡±


    ¡°A rumor that grows in strength. One all but confirmed.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Tell me more.¡±


    ¡°The black dragon has destroyed Runeking Halajatbast and laid waste to his mountain.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    Nazak frowns. ¡°My Runethane...¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°You do not seem so interested. The rest of the guild¡ªwe''re nearly in a frenzy. This could be our chance for revenge!¡±


    ¡°You wish for revenge?¡±


    ¡°Of course! My Runethane, do you not?¡±


    ¡°What is our name, Nazak?¡±


    ¡°The Reconquerors!¡±


    ¡°And do we wish to take back our true realm from the black dragon?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    ¡°But the black dragon is not there. It shows no interest in it. There''s nothing there for it. No treasure. There''s nothing but slag and ash.¡±


    ¡°I don''t quite see what you''re saying.¡±


    ¡°You''re clever enough that I think you do, Nazak.¡±


    Nazak scowls at the floor as he thinks.


    He looks back up. ¡°You mean we''re not going to pursue it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No?¡± Nazak exclaims. ¡°My Runethane, are you serious?¡±


    ¡°You know me well enough to know the answer to that.¡±


    ¡°The guild won''t take this news well, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°They will respect my decision.¡±


    ¡°Of course. They have no choice to.¡±


    ¡°Incorrect. They have no choice as to whether they obey it or not. They do have a choice about whether they respect it. I am not the only one who wears a mask. We all do, to an extent.¡±


    ¡°With all of my due respect, they wish to pursue the dragon.¡±


    ¡°We will pursue something else instead.¡±


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    Nazak''s eyes light up once more. ¡°You mean it''s finally time...¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Nazak looks confused. ¡°Then what?¡±


    ¡°Tell me, Nazak, what did you think of the trial we attended?¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°You see, don''t you?¡±


    ¡°I do. He''s who we''ll pursue. But my Runethane, he was found innocent under the Eyes of the Runeking.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°I do not think it wise to go against Runeking Ulrike.¡±


    ¡°The Runeking watched from far away, and he is not infallible. He is no Runegod. And as for the high justices, they are first degrees, as you are, Nazak.¡±


    ¡°I see. They are not infallible either.¡±


    ¡°No. You''re not infallible, are you? No mere runeknight is. No mere Runethane is either.¡±


    ¡°You think they made a mistake.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. A terrible mistake. My heart tells me that this time, for once, their runes were wrong.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Nazak nods slowly. ¡°Our efforts failed not because the power in the golden hammers was overwhelming, but because the power was flawed.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And is it not our duty, as loyal subjects of Runeking Ulrike, to make sure his justice is kept?¡±


    ¡°It is.¡±


    ¡°And you remember what the traitor said in the second round, don''t you?¡±


    ¡°How could I forget?¡± Nazak spits.


    ¡°For all his deficiencies, Zathar is no fool. Not anymore. He knows he''ll be a pariah if he betrays his oath.¡±


    ¡°He''ll pursue the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And now that we know where he''s going, we''ll pursue him.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°We must make haste. Do we leave now, though?¡±


    ¡°In five long-hours. During that time, we forge.¡±


    Nazak grins. ¡°Excellent. I''ve been looking for an excuse for new boots.¡±


    <hr>


    The Blue Shaft is located near the center of Allabrast, a couple districts along from the Fireflea District. It forms its own district, the Blue District, though this name is something of a misnomer, for the gates up are kept sealed, and when they do open, they only open a tiny crack. The dwarves of Allabrast are averse to sunlight. They do not want its heat to touch the stone of their city. They do not want to see the blue that gives this district its name.


    Our army stands below the gates. They''re two halves of a heavy steel circle divided by a snake-like curve. I''m gazing up at them, admiring the etchings of clouds, yet though they''re certainly works of art, I feel a little disappointed. I''d expected them to be larger¡ªthey''re only about fifteen feet across. A spiral steel walkway connects them to the ground.


    ¡°Have you ever been up them?¡± I ask Braztak.


    ¡°No. My excursions to the surface were all a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°How about you, Jerat? Faltast?¡±


    ¡°Not once.¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    Xomhyrk is talking to the guards at the base of the walkway. I can guess what about¡ªthey don''t want to have the gate open for the length of time needed to get us all through. He''s a persuasive dwarf, but they''re elites also, and look stubborn. Usually you need special access to get to the surface. I''m not sure he''s gotten it for all of us. Actually, I''m not sure if an army this large has ever passed through the Blue Shaft.


    Finally he manages to persuade them¡ªknowing Allabrast dwarves, I''m guessing by means of a large bribe. The guards step aside from the entrance to the walkway and two by two the army begins to step onto it. I watch from below as they spiral up while we shuffle forward. Commoners at the far edges of the plaza cheer us on.


    I see miners out the corner of my eye, but my focus is on the goal ahead.


    Our turn comes. Braztak and Erak, our second degree, embark first. Then it''s the turn of our other three third degrees. And now it''s my turn. The metal creaks when I step up. It''s rocking slightly, so I grab the railing to steady myself. White crystals spread from where the metal of my gauntlets makes contact. I let go to move my hand up, and they splinter into mist and vanish. They''re not real ice, just illusions.


    I catch Mulkath looking at them. His eyebrows are raised.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Impressive, Zathar. Runic power made manifest.¡±


    ¡°I''d always been told this kind of thing was a bad sign. That it meant your runes weren''t controlled enough.¡±


    ¡°They aren''t, are they?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps not. But they will prove effective.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure of it.¡± He nods. He may not like me, but he recognizes runic power when he sees it. ¡°Just stay away from me in battle, all right? My own runes aren''t taking the cold well.¡±


    I look at his mercury runes. They''re dulled somewhat. They don''t have the same shimmer they''ve always had.


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± I say. ¡°I''ll keep clear.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    The walkway is not supported by pillars, nor does it hang by cables from the cavern roof. It contacts the stone at only two points: the entrance and the exit just below the circular gate. Xomhyrk reaches the gate and stops. He looks down past the twisting path at the guards. One of them, massive, nearly as tall as a human, stands by a large wheel. He talks with his fellows for a few seconds, then the most senior-looking one nods.


    The wheel-guard takes it by both hands and, with great straining, starts to turn it slowly.


    A shuddering vibrates the walkway. A few dwarves shout and cover their eyes. I do not. I watch intently as light pours through the curved gap. It grows brighter as the gap widens. Tears come into my eyes.


    They''re not from the brightness. How long has it been since I saw the sun? Dwarves should not be joyful to see it, I suppose, yet I am. When I last saw this light, who was I?


    This light illuminated a different dwarf. A more foolish, more arrogant, less skilled one. Now it illuminates something harder, a dwarf with skills tempered by danger, and arrogance quenched by pain. It illuminates a dwarf with both the will and the skill to keep his oath.


    The gate opens further. I see bare stone, light gray in the light, and smooth. A thrill runs through me.


    The two halves vanish entirely into the stone. Xomhyrk points Icemite up the Blue Shaft and says:


    ¡°Onward, my dwarves, my dragonslayers, to the surface! And remember that dragonfire burns far fiercer than sunlight. Have no fear of it.¡±


    He marches up the final stretch of the walkway and disappears into the light. We follow him, step by step, but because there''s so many dwarves between us and him, and the winding of the path hasn''t taken us very close to the gate yet, I can''t see exactly how we''re meant to ascend. I''ve been expecting some kind of lift-mechanism, like what I descended to the darkness on, but now I''m not so sure. If there was a lift, a certain number of us would climb on the platform, then we would all stop, then our movement would begin again once the empty platform had returned.


    There''s no breaks in our march though. I begin to grow a little worried. Is the only way up the shaft by stairs?


    No. When we finally reach the gates, I understand how we''re getting up. Not by elevating platform, not by stairs, and not even by ladders.


    We''re ascending by chain.

 Dragonhunt 31: On The Surface

    A great corkscrew has been cut into the sides of the shaft. One long chain is strung through it. Its steel links are a blur. I look up and see dwarves hanging from it, Xomhyrk in the lead. They''re spiraling up at an incredible pace.


    ¡°We have to grab on?¡± one of the tenth degrees shouts in alarm.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Braztak.


    ¡°That''s crazy!¡±


    ¡°But safer than stairs would be, don''t you think?¡±


    ¡°It''s not like it''s any less dangerous than the rest of our quest is going to be,¡± I say. ¡°It''s not more dangerous than the dragon.¡±


    ¡°Exactly, Zathar,¡± says Braztak. ¡°That''s the correct attitude here, and it''s the correct attitude to have up on the surface also.¡±


    With that, he grabs the chain firmly and is yanked up and away. Erak, our second degree, is next. A few dwarves later it''s my turn. I grab without hesitation.


    The pull on my arm is as forceful as a troll''s. It hurts. A gasp escapes my lips, but it''s whipped away, left at the entrance, while I fly upward, suspended several feet above the stone.


    What a marvel this is! I''m scared and amazed in equal measure.


    The mechanism is silent. All I can hear is the whine of air ripping past the jags of my armor. From the metal there''s no rattling at all, for the chain is suspended magnetically. It does not hang from anything, else it wouldn''t be able to move nearly so fast, not without taking a heavy toll in fingers and hands.


    I examine the runes on the links. They are tiny, exact, and perfect in form.


    Truly this is a wonder of dwarven engineering on par with¡ªno, exceeding¡ªthe magnetic rails of the New Dynamium Guild. And it''s the last such I''ll see for a long while, I think. Allabrast is the center of dwarvish civilisation, but now we will be traveling far from it. Even the Mountain of Halajatbast, judging from what little I''ve read about it, has nothing so advanced.


    I''m certain the humans have nothing like this either. From now on I will be in the wilderness. Maybe I will never see or touch anything as incredible as this chain again.


    I''ve only been hanging on for a minute, yet when I look down, the dwarves still waiting their turn already look as small as fungus-mites. How far to the top then? I look up past the winding corkscrew. We still have a long way to go: the sky is a tiny dot of light so small that I can''t even make out its color, if it''s blue, or gray, or black with the silver moon shining in its center.


    I''m completely relaxed. I ask myself why. Shouldn''t I be scared? If my fingers lose their grip, I''m dead. It''s more than likely that one or two dwarves are going to perish right here, before the journey even begins, but I find that I don''t care. Aren''t we all marching to our deaths already? So why worry about someone''s fate coming early?


    My fate won''t. Strange¡ªthe thought that I might be the one to lose my grip barely entered my head just then.


    I''m confident in my runes. Very confident, maybe too confident. The ruby upon my chest is at fault, or maybe it''s the pick strapped across my back. Or perhaps it''s my helmet. These three forces won''t settle for me falling. They want me to kill.


    The dragon, I say to the first two under my breath. We''re going up to kill the dragon. That''s our goal. Once that ends, no more killing for a while. The poem in the red facets is not about me.


    I count the seconds until I lose count, then I try to clear my mind. Some distraction might be nice, but I think that any words, even shouted with all my might, will be snatched away the instant I say them. I settle on trying to make out the color of the dot of light above.


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    After a few hours I decide that it''s bright blue. It''s day up there and the burning sun is out. I''m glad of my helmet. I''ve never been sun-scorched, but I''ve seen illustrations of it. Every guide to the surface has a few gruesome pictures to scare the reader into preparing properly. It can be tempting to take your armor off up there, they say, for the sun''s heat bakes you within your steel, but you must not, because it''s only heat that goes through steel, not the sun''s true power.


    Sun-scorch can lead to sun-blight. No amulet of unaging and vitality can halt the black-spotted march of that disease.


    The dot of blue becomes a small circle, which then becomes about the size of a coin. Then all of a sudden it''s growing fast. A dark shape jumps off the chain into the light. Xomhyrk has reached the top. That means in about half an hour it''ll be my turn.


    The stone cog turning the chain, affixed to the head of an obelisk that towers over the exit hole, becomes visible. It''s massive. If one of us gets too scared to swing himself off, he''ll be crushed.


    I wonder what''s awaiting us out in the light. Humans? A thrill runs through my weapon. Am I to face battle right away?


    Braztak swings off the chain. The wheel is approaching fast. The grinding noise is tremendous. I brace for whatever''s awaiting me on the surface.


    Suddenly I''m out into the blinding light. I twist and swing myself sideways, let go of the chain. I''m falling. I hit something soft, unlike stone but not quite like undergrowth either; it''s not that soft.


    I roll to my feet and fumble to unbuckle the straps holding Gutspiercer to my back. It swings loose, and hits only air.


    ¡°Careful there, Zathar,¡± says Braztak. ¡°And get out the way!¡±


    Mulkath lands right next to me. I hurry to clear myself from the landing area. Before me is a crowd of dwarves, all hurrying away, and beyond them¡ª


    Is nothing at all.


    It''s emptiness as far as my eyes can see. I close them, and my other senses begin to overwhelm me. The strange texture of the ground feels stranger, the whistle of the air sounds louder, and the smells are sickening.


    I open my eyes again and try to focus on the other dwarves instead of the emptiness. This doesn''t work. The world is divided into two halves, an infinite plain of green fungus below and vivid, unnatural blue above. Worst is the terrible brightness to one side that I dare not look at. It''s like the brightness of almergris except impossibly larger and more fearsome and more constant. I turn away from it, and stumble, and fall over into the green fungus. I shut my eyes again and groan.


    ¡°You alright?¡± asks Faltast. He grips my hand and pulls me up.


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Overwhelming, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°You should open your eyes, or you''ll never get used to it.¡±


    I do so. The blue vastness makes me lean back. It''s like staring down an bottomless pit, except the wrong way. The weight of my pack drags on me and I nearly fall again, but Faltast steadies me.


    ¡°Watch it there.¡±


    ¡°I''m fine, I''m fine.¡±


    ¡°Different to the books, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Very.¡±


    Blue and green ink is one thing. Seeing the entire world, all around you, is something else.


    Though, it''s not quite as simple as blue and green, I realize as my shock starts to wear off. There''s puffs of white in the blue¡ªclouds, real clouds! They''re not like the mists you sometimes get in caverns. They''re a little blue, taking on the color of the sky behind them, though a couple are more solid. The ground isn''t totally green either. It''s actually quite yellowish, with brown areas too. Disappointingly there are none of the multi-capped, multicolored fungi called flowers. Since winter is closing in, they''ll all be closed up now. Or perished? I''m not quite sure.


    ¡°Come on, you two!¡± says Braztak. ¡°We''re clearing out. Come on.¡±


    We follow him. I look back to see if we''re all here yet, and spot Guthah jumping off the chain. He stumbles and hurries after me and, to his credit, doesn''t fall. Pellas and the other tenth degrees have more difficulty. They stagger and fall just like I did. I rush to help them, but some of Xomhyrk''s guildsdwarves are already pulling them up and shoving them in our direction.


    We gather a few dozen yards away from the shaft. I make a quick count of the guild. I don''t think we''ve lost anyone.


    ¡°Where exactly are we?¡± Guthah asks me while we wait for the rest of the army.


    ¡°Tallreach,¡± I say. ¡°In its untamed central plains.¡±


    ¡°Plains?¡±


    ¡°This kind of place, mostly flat, with all this tall thin fungus.¡±


    ¡°Where''s all the humans, I wonder?¡±


    ¡°Mostly they live in villages,¡± I say, happy to share my knowledge. ¡°Which is a very small settlement of a few houses. Of course, some live in towns and cities as well.¡±


    Once the army is all out, Xomhyrk leads us on a short march to a nearby rise. Xomhyrk stops at the top of it and motions for us to halt as well. His guildsdwarves line up beside him. Their tungsten is very dark against the bright blue of the sky, apart from at the edges, which reflect brightly. Xomhyrk''s armor takes on light in a stranger fashion: the sun''s rays curve along it in a way not quite metallic.


    ¡°My dwarves!¡± he shouts down to us. ¡°I don''t have much to say to you now, apart from that we''re on our way!¡± He points behind him. ¡°That way lies the dragon! We march!¡±


    He lifts Icemite high, and it flashes cyan in the sunlight. He turns. We all let out a cheer and follow him over the rise.

 Dragonhunt 32: Noticed

    I see a thin cloud that might be smoke rising far to the west, but that''s all. Wherever the humans are, they aren''t here. I feel angry at myself for feeling disappointed¡ªI ought to be hoping we don''t meet a single one. We''re here for the dragon. We don''t need any distractions.


    Before long, however, we do come to a sign of humans, a road. It''s not like a dwarven road, chiseled flat from the cavern stone, but rather is just a trail where the fungi has been trampled over too many times. It''s brown and dust rises from it as we walk.


    ¡°Hot, isn''t it?¡± I hear someone complain.


    I laugh behind my helmet. I''m not hot in the slightest, or at least no hotter than I usually feel when marching in full armor. My icy metal is repelling the sun''s heat just as it should repel the dragon''s.


    Despite the coolness my armor radiates, no one wants to walk too close to me, not even my friends. I wonder if this is because it''s just too cold, or if it''s because of my armor''s shape. Probably the latter. Who wants to walk next to someone who''s made their helmet like a skull? Most runeknights, especially those from Allabrast, want to live forever, or at least for as long as possible. They don''t want any reminders of death. As for my guildmembers, they want to live at least to reach the dragon. Walking next to me probably feels like a bad omen.


    Have I made a mistake with my helmet? Is it cursed? If it helps me get to the dragon, does that matter? I can see far and clear through the metal. Detail, especially at long distances, is easy to make out. There''s another thing about it too: whenever I''m not looking at anything in particular, my eyes tend to fix themselves directly to the north. That''s where the dragon lies. Has to be.


    Onward we walk underneath the bright blue sky. I''m proud of our guild¡ªour members are some of the better equipped.


    Braztak: his green and purple armor glints through the haze of dust. I don''t yet know the power of his double-headed axe. I look forward to finding out.


    Our second degree, Erak: his steel armor is imbued with red runes that describe an inferno blazing brighter and brighter. He seeks to bathe in the dragon''s power. He wields a long spear with a titanium head.


    Three more third degrees: their armor is steel and titanium, imbued with poems of strength and toughness. They''ve taken to Allabrast culture, and wield swords of exotic metals.


    Six fourth degrees. Five I don''t know well. Their armor is also fairly traditional and neither are their weapons exotic. They never had much time for me, but I''m glad they''re here all the same. Maybe they''ve forgiven me my crime now that I''m showing I truly am willing to make right the wrongs.


    Mulkath is the one fourth degree I do know. His mercury runes shiver with each step and reflected sunlight ripples around him. The warmth here suits them. His short sword is sharply pointed.


    Seven fifth degrees, including Faltast and Jerat. Faltast is in titanium armor of speed and strength. Its runes are platinum and gold. He''s replaced his buckler with a large round-shield, and it''s enruned to resist fire¡ªhe got his hands on abyssal salamander skin for the key runes. They glow like coals. His axe is simple and deadly sharp: steel with platinum runes grafted with incandesite.


    Jerat! He might be the most strangely equipped of us¡ªof the whole army. His steel armor is imbued with great toughness, as well as speed on the charge, with runes of silver and gold. A fairly normal choice, yet the way the runes look is not normal at all. They''re wildly shaped, and the rhymes stretch pronunciation very far, yet somehow they work.


    But his weapon is what truly sets him apart. It''s a two-handed flail, its head a spiked steel bar attached by a short chain. I can''t read the runes, and apparently very few can, for he''s used a very rare script, but the effect is clear enough. Sparks fly and blue arcs flash as the head swings in time with his steps.


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    The power of lightning. Most dwarves aren''t aware of the phenomenon¡ªa terrible power, both light and fire yet also neither. Rare stones burst with it when shattered¡ªthough they''re truly rare, I''ve only heard of one place they exist: the stalagmite forest that surrounded Thanerzak and Broderick''s twin city.


    It''s more common on the surface, where it sometimes falls from the sky amid rainstorms. I hope never to see it, and I don''t plan to stand anywhere near Jerat when he fights either. Metal attracts lightning. It''s obvious why he''s made the haft of his weapon so long.


    Then there are about forty fourth to ninth degrees, then finally the tenth degrees. Eight of my students have followed me out here. Their armor and weapons are passable, I suppose. Guthah''s spear looks sharp, and Pellas'' armor is impressive for a dwarf of her level, though I worry she''s put too much emphasis on runes of strength. Armor''s main use is for protection, and you should never forget that.


    As for the rest of the army, stretching before and behind us in a long line, there''s too many strange weapons and armors for me to properly examine. I suppose that anyone who chooses to follow Xomhyrk is unlikely to be a conservative, sensible type. We''re the crazier ones, willing to take terrible risks for great gain.


    This doesn''t hold true for the members of Xomhyrk''s guild, however. Each is in armor of tungsten and wields a weapon of cold. Their fitting name is The Dragonslayers.


    The sun sinks close to the horizon and the sky turns a vivid red-orange. A few dwarves panic. They''re reassured by the others that this is normal.


    The sky turns dark. Bright points of light, stars, and the silver-coin moon appear. We keep on marching through the darkness. Thanks to the moon, it''s a fair bit brighter than most caves are, so we have no trouble seeing where we''re going.


    ¡°It''s a little unnerving,¡± Guthah says. He''s come up behind me. ¡°Having nothing to our sides, I mean.¡±


    ¡°I know what you mean.¡±


    ¡°The wind is getting colder too. I suppose you don''t really notice that.¡±


    ¡°I haven''t.¡±


    ¡°You''ve... You''ve made yourself some very impressive armor, instructor.¡±


    ¡°I''m glad you think so.¡±


    ¡°What script did you use? I''ve never seen anything like it.¡±


    ¡°That''s a secret. Be careful about asking too many questions of another''s equipment, Guthah. Some might suspect you to be spying.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. I''m just curious.¡±


    A gust of wind rushes through the line, making the edges of my armor whistle. I look to where it''s come from, then left to where it''s going, and see nothing but darkness.


    ¡°I wonder why there''s no humans around,¡± Guthah says.


    ¡°They''re in their villages.¡±


    ¡°All of them? What about their farmers?¡±


    ¡°These are untamed lands, not farms. But we''ll meet some soon, I expect.¡±


    ¡°Did we get permission to enter?¡±


    ¡°I doubt it. Relations have been bad recently, from what I''ve heard.¡±


    ¡°Why? We trade with them, don''t we? At least some.¡±


    ¡°In Tallreach''s case, we signed a century long trade agreement, which they tried to change only a few decades in. The Runeking wasn''t very happy.¡±


    ¡°And they''re not happy with us either?¡±


    ¡°No. But it''s not as if we''re at war or anything. As long as we don''t bother them, they shouldn''t bother us.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    Suddenly, after remembering all that history I read about in the human library of Allabrast, I feel nervous. My sides feel exposed. In a cave, ambushes come from side-tunnels you can see in advance. The position of your enemies can be predicted. Yet out here an attack could from anywhere, from any angle. I look left and right again, smell strange things on the wind. Humans? The beasts they ride on?


    The moon climbs higher in the sky. The stars spin. So far, nothing. Then I hear it. A rapid thudding. Animals. Humans on their animals? I turn right to face them. In the darkness I can see shapes, large shapes with four legs, and tall things on top of them.


    No one else has noticed anything¡ªeven though my runic ears aren''t on, my ordinary ones are still sharper than most from my time in the deep. I hurry forward past the third degrees and Erak to tap on Braztak''s shoulder.


    ¡°Look!¡± I whisper. ¡°And listen! Humans!¡±


    He turns and squints. ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    They aren''t getting any closer to us, but running alongside us. Observing, not attacking. I can see six of them.


    ¡°I think I can make them out,¡± Braztak says. Then he shouts: ¡°Xomhyrk! Humans to our right! Scouts!¡±


    ¡°Halt!¡± comes Xomhyrk''s reply.


    His Dragonslayers, stationed at regular points, relay the message down, and our column stops its march. We all turn right, forming a line facing the humans. Fearful murmurs run along the army. I focus on the humans¡ªthey''ve stopped too. Then they wheel their beasts around and vanish into the blackness.


    ¡°Gone!¡± I shout.


    The army waits a few more minutes to see if they''ll return. I look behind us, but there''s no one there, just gently waving grass¡ªfinally I remember the name of the long fungus. It''s rustling in the wind.


    ¡°Continue the march!¡± comes Xomhyrk''s order. ¡°They won''t bother us yet!¡±

 Dragonhunt 33: Wharoth Conflicted

    Day comes and finally we make camp. Contraptions of extending poles and canvas, called tents, are to be our temporary shelters. Xomhyrk''s Dragonslayers provide them. Braztak puts me in with the tenth degrees and tells me to keep an eye on their morale.


    It seems fine¡ªthey quickly sleep. I stay awake for a while. The rippling of the canvas and the rustling sound of the grass outside is somehow disturbing. I haven''t taken my armor off¡ªno one dares to, even though we haven''t been specifically ordered to keep it on. I keep expecting strange shadows to fall upon the tent walls.


    A thrill runs through me each time I imagine this. Gutspiercer is eager to meet someone.


    <hr>


    Deep below the stones covering the northern tundra, but getting closer to the surface with every thunderous step, another dwarven army is making its way toward the Mountain of Halajatbast. Unlike Xomhyrk''s, this is not a small force. This is a proper force, a host off to war, numbering more than ten thousand, and at its head is an ancient and powerful Runethane.


    He is clad in gold, or so those who see him from a distance think. In truth his golden chainmail is part of his skin, each ring piercing it as well as linking to its neighbors. Upon each is a short poem, in a script where each rune can hold more than one meaning. It confers resistance to every kind of weapon there is, and great speed and strength to boot.


    In his hands are two golden axes. One he''s had for a while, but its twin is newly replaced. It is a simple half-moon yet breathtaking to look upon.


    ¡°Almost disgusting, isn''t it?¡± whispers the shadow. ¡°To run metal through one''s own skin.¡±


    ¡°If it works it works,¡± Hardrick mutters back.


    ¡°I won''t let you do anything like that. I forbid it.¡±


    ¡°I''m not planning to.¡±


    ¡°Good. The runes aren''t even that impressive.¡±


    ¡°Everyone else seems to think they are.¡±


    ¡°Well, they''re better than yours.¡±


    Hardrick scowls. ¡°He''s a Runethane.¡±


    ¡°So? That''s no excuse. I told you that was the wrong script to use on your sword.¡±


    ¡°You told me halfway through grafting. Did you expect me to stop? Use fucking salterite?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It could be much better.¡±


    ¡°Your fault for not telling me earlier.¡±


    ¡°Stop shouting. The other dwarves are looking at you funny.¡±


    Hardrick glares to the dwarf on his left. She returns the look.


    ¡°Tough one, isn''t she?¡±


    ¡°She''s the Runethane''s daughter.¡±


    ¡°Shame she''s so tall.¡±


    ¡°Half human. I''ve told you this before.¡±


    ¡°If we were ever to take down the Runethane, we''d have to get through her first. But I think my armor is up to the challenge, even if your sword is a little dull.¡±


    ¡°We''re not taking down anyone. Shuddup, will you?¡±


    The army marches onward. It''s been marching for the equivalent of a month now. Runeking Uthrarzak doesn''t believe in fancy mechanical contraptions like his rival Ulrike does. Hardrick wishes he did. His legs are aching as bad as his arms used to back in the mines.


    At the very least, he wishes the dwarves of Uthrarzak believed in ramps rather than stairs. That''s what this army is marching up, and has been marching up for the past several day-equivalents. Not easy stairs either, but tall, blocky ones. Many of Runethane Broderick''s dwarves are already exhausted.


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    The rest of the forces though? They aren''t so fatigued.


    Runethane Broderick and his army are oddities among those under Runeking Uthrarzak. Originally Broderick was an ally of Thanerzak, and thus originally an Allabrast dwarf¡ªthat far off dream-like city Runeking Uthrarzak desires very much to conquer. Those dwarves are given the freedom to craft what they like.


    Runeking Uthrarzak does not believe in freedom. He believes a runeknight should be a soldier and no more. There must be discipline, uniformity.


    The stairs make a right-angle turn. As the formation wheels, Hardrick looks to his left and observes the main body of the army.


    Steel, titanium, and tungsten glint in the torchlight. That''s all¡ªexotic metals are reserved for runes only. The shimmer of power is even. Only the use of certain scripts is allowed. That way runes can be better utilized: deep knowledge of a few scripts among the army is better than shallow knowledge of many.


    The weapons too are uniform: grids of spearpoints glitter. Runeking Uthrarzak is not only a crafter of great artifacts, but he is also an author of many treatises on war. Over his nearly four thousand years of existence, he''s perfected the art of fighting battles underground.


    Hardrick has had many opportunities to watch how his grim dwarves fight. They do not charge rabidly, nor do they form uneven lines of dwarves with mixed sets of equipment. They hold their shields in an overlapping wall and point their spears over the top. Behind the first kneeling rank is always a second standing one armed with longer spears, then behind them is a third, with pikes. Not many foes can get through this triple defense, but those who do are met with the dwarves'' sidearms.


    Here Runeking Uthrarzak allows his dwarves some freedom. Not in type of weapon¡ªthey use short, stabbing swords¡ªbut at least they are free to choose what runes to write, and the more senior runeknights are permitted use of exotic metals.


    Each weapon is shut tightly in its scabbard. They must not be shown. They must not disrupt the unity of the formations. Individuality, even when permitted, is to be kept hidden.


    Not every dwarf is equipped with spear or pike, shield and heavy armor¡ªthere are specialist units marching between the blocks of spear and pikedwarves also, in light chainmail with axes and hammers¡ªbut ninety five out of a hundred runeknights are regulars or their officers.


    ¡°Very effective use of runes, isn''t it?¡± says the shadow. ¡°Runes not as art, but as tools.¡±


    ¡°Shuddup,¡± whispers Hardrick.


    He rounds the turn with the rest of the senior commanders. Runethane Broderick is only a dozen or so feet ahead of him. Hardrick wonders what exactly his plan to take on the black dragon is. The beast is enormous, and more to the point, it flies. How, exactly, are dwarves stuck on the flat of the surface meant to strike it? There are ballistae with the army, dismantled and carried with the rest of the ranks, but Hardrick has a feeling they won''t be enough.


    Well, whatever happens, he ought to be fine at least. His titanium and steel shines with a dim red aura. Written across it in runes of abyssal salamander skin and magma worm tooth are poems about wading through lakes of white dragonfire.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the shadow. ¡°So what if the rest all burn? They should burn. The Runeking would be most pleased if we alone were to slay the beast.¡±


    ¡°Shuddup!¡± whispers Hardrick. Braedle gives him another wary look, and adjusts her grip on her axes.


    ¡°And we need the Runeking,¡± says the shadow. ¡°For he is old, and knows more than most!¡±


    <hr>


    Guildmaster Wharoth strikes the blazing metal hard with millimeter precision. He does not allow the uncertainty in his heart to affect the hammer in his hand. Blow by blow, the weapon''s shape becomes distinct. The shapes of the runes do also.


    He is using a secret script, from a slate deep in his private library, coupled with a rare reagent he''s purchased with most of the profits of his guild. Together they make runes which gain their power in the forging. It''s a similar process to that which Barahtan used to make his greave, when he melted runes into the molten metal, though a step less extreme.


    That doesn''t make it any less powerful. It''s more reliable, actually, tried and tested many times over, by both Wharoth and his old teachers.


    As the shape of the hammer, flat on one side and spiked on the other, grows smoother, as the metal cools from red to gray, Wharoth thinks on his decision.


    To follow, or not to follow?


    He''d been hoping they''d see through this Xomhyrk¡ªwho surely cannot be as powerful as he claims to be¡ªand turn back. Yet he understands now that they will not. Zathar especially will chase after the black dragon even if it means walking alone into the middle of Runeking Uthrarzak''s encampment¡ªnot that the Runeking will be there personally. Probably he''ll have sent Runethane Broderick, and considering Zathar''s history, that will end up going even worse.


    And if Zathar finds himself walking through the blackened bodies and melted armor of a defeated army he won''t turn back either.


    He''s smarter than he used to be. He''ll find some allies to help him first. He''ll try to forge something. He won''t kill himself on purpose, but, when he thinks he''s prepared all he can, and tricked himself into thinking he has a chance, he''ll fight and he''ll lose.


    No one can stand against the black dragon. Wharoth is convinced of this.


    Yet even so, should he follow them?


    He puts down his forging hammer and stares into the burning mouth of the furnace. In the flames he sees his old guildhall. He sees his friends being gutted.


    Maybe to die in battle against the monster would not be such a bad fate. It would be honorable.


    But still pointless.


    Even so, as guildmaster, is it not his duty to protect his guildsdwarves as best he can?


    But what about the rest of the guild, here in Allabrast? If he leads them into danger, he''s failing them. And if he abandons them and goes alone he''s failing them also.


    He cannot decide.

 Dragonhunt 34: First Arrows

    It''s been a few days now since we were bothered by the humans. We''ve seen a few¡ªin the distance in a little village of wooden houses. They were just farmers, with small pink boar in their yards, and surrounded by long fields filled with the cut remains of wheat. I wonder if their crops will be made into bread or be fermented into alcohol.


    They didn''t seem to notice us.


    Despite its grim purpose, I''m rather enjoying the journey so far. Traveling on the surface feels rather freeing compared to moving through the underground. In caves you usually have only two ways you can go, forwards and back, and only occasionally you can turn, but up here a dwarf can walk any direction he pleases.


    The views too are brilliant. I''ve never been able to see so far, though partly I think this is thanks to my helmet, for the others are complaining their eyes hurt if they focus on anything too far away. For me, though, the rolling brown-green is fabulous to look upon, especially at night, when the moon lights everything in a glow like white silver.


    Then there are the other oddities. Trees, for one. The hills to the far west are covered in dark green. Patches of the forest are bare of leaves also, so I can make out the height of these strange fungi. Each looks to be about a hundred times the height of a dwarf.


    Past them, though, is something even taller and more spectacular: the Western Mountains. They''re so far away that according to Braztak what we''re seeing is just their peaks, yet even so, the sight of such great piles of stone, topped with white ice, takes my breath away each and every time I look.


    The food is not bad. The dense ration biscuits are far better tasting than the stuff the deep dwarves ate, and the jerky is better flavored too. Though, the beer is a bit thin. Jerat looks depressed.


    Our path meets a foaming river. We cross it, then continue our march. We wind around a small hill and I face the Western Mountains again. The white ice on their peaks¡ªcompacted snow, which is ice that falls from the sky¡ªseems almost to be beckoning me closer. I want to climb those mountains, touch their cold with my bare hands.


    What runes could I create after that experience, after touching real cold, not that manufactured for entertainment? If this armor is fourth degree standard, that which I''d make after climbing would be third degree. I''m sure of this.


    We soon turn back to our straight ahead path. New runes and new forging will have to wait. First I must make use of what I have.


    The sun sinks. We slept last night, so this night we''ll be continuing our march. I''m glad I''m not a weak-legged human. What our legs lack in length, they make up for in endurance, even when forced to support the weight of plate-armor and bulky supply packs.


    The moon shines bright, then suddenly it dims. Clouds are over it, and its light can barely make it through. Then the clouds thicken and there is no light, none even from the stars, which are also covered. Silence falls over our column. I listen closely to the left and right for the sound of rapid animal footfalls.


    When they come they''re louder and more numerous, and this time I''m not the only one to hear them.


    ¡°Halt!¡± Xomhyrk shouts. "Turn to the right!"


    We do so. The footfalls are growing closer, yet tonight is as dark as a cave. I hold Gutspiercer high, ready strike at either animal or man.


    I hear a whistling sound, followed by a dozen more, and thuds. Arrows! No one''s yelling in pain though. They didn''t find their mark. Nevertheless, I hear Xomhyrk shout:


    ¡°Loose at me, will you?¡±


    There''s a faint rattling sound from the head of the column, then a terrible scream. I don''t think it''s a human scream though¡ªit''s akin to the squeal of a boar, yet a bit shriller. There''s a thud, and then angry shouting¡ªthe latter definitely from a human.


    The footfalls restart, fade into the distance.


    ¡°Resume the march!¡± Xomhyrk orders.


    We do so. I hear the clinking of mediocre armor behind me and turn: Pellas, Guthah, and the other tenth degrees have run up to me and Faltast.


    ¡°What just happened?¡± Guthah asks.


    ¡°Those were arrows, weren''t they?¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I confirm. ¡°But they missed.¡±


    ¡°Or they were just a warning.¡±


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    ¡°I suppose. I think Xomhyrk gave them a warning of his own.¡±


    ¡°He killed one of the animals, didn''t he?¡± says Guthah.


    ¡°Horses,¡± says Pellas. ¡°They''re called horses. Tall, skinny boar.¡±


    Despite all my reading, I didn''t remember that was their name. Most of the books I read just called them animals, though that might be because different kingdoms of humans utilize different animals¡ªsome like horses but with tall humps, some massive with noses like snakes. Some predatory.


    ¡°Yes, I think he killed it,¡± I say. ¡°What with I don''t know.¡±


    Faltast scratches thoughtfully at his beard. ¡°I think he has more weapons than just Icemite. Have you noticed that some of his dwarves have scythes at their belts?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Guthah. ¡°I didn''t think those were ranged weapons though.¡±


    ¡°They could be, if you attached chains to them.¡±


    ¡°I think they have to have some kind of ranged weapons,¡± says Pellas, lowering her voice. ¡°Dragons fly. And they''re smart enough that it''s difficult to corner them.¡±


    ¡°That''s very true,¡± says Faltast. ¡°I remember when we marched out to catch the dragon, it was hard enough to corner even with ballistae, and we don''t have those on this expedition.¡±


    ¡°Hooks and chains...¡± I say. ¡°Arrows still outrange those. And it''s the humans we have to kill before anything else.¡±


    ¡°Only if they decide to attack in force,¡± says Faltast.


    ¡°They will. I''m sure of it. They don''t want us here¡ªbut they can''t stop us.¡± I smile. ¡°When they try, they''ll meet our steel.¡±


    ¡°I''ll drink to that!¡± says Guthah, and most of the other tenth degrees shout their agreement. But Faltast and Pellas don''t say anything.


    <hr>


    When day comes, the rain comes also. Some of it slips through the gaps in my armor, dampening the furs inside. The rest of the drops that hit me freeze on the main plates, and I have to scrape the ice off. This proves a very difficult task, because the ice I scrape off immediately freezes to my gauntlets.


    We''ve marched well past the dead horse and the arrows, and since we can''t see their footprints¡ªhoofprints¡ªfor the snow, we have no way to tell exactly how many there were.


    ¡°I reckon about ten,¡± says Braztak. ¡°That''s what it sounded like to me.¡±


    ¡°You''ve faced them before, haven''t you?¡±


    ¡°No, I allied with humans the last time we were on the surface. Or rather they were our mercenaries.¡±


    ¡°Should we be worried?¡±


    ¡°No. Human arrows are no match for dwarven armor. Not unless they fill the sky with them. Even the town we''re heading to, and it''s a fairly big one, doesn''t have enough humans to do that. Not enough arrows either. Humans are clumsy. They can''t make even crude ones quickly.¡±


    ¡°Town?¡± one of the tenth degrees behind us says. ¡°We''re heading to a town?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Braztak says. ¡°It was decided a couple nights ago. Do try to pay a bit more attention, Karak.¡±


    ¡°Do you think they''ll let us in?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Not without a little persuading.¡±


    We come to the base of a fairly steep hill. The ground''s been getting more and more uneven these past hours, so that it''s no longer possible to tell what''s ahead of us. Unlike traveling underground and hitting a wall, however, we can bypass the blockages.


    Up we march, left and right and left along a zigzag track cut crudely from the earth. The damp is giving everything a funny smell. A kind of rotten smell. It makes me nervous. Will we crest the hill just to meet a hail of arrows? They won''t do anything to my armor, I''m sure, but I worry about the tenth degrees. Not all human arrows are so crude, and they sometimes use ballistae also.


    When we do crest the rise, we finally see the town we''ve been heading for. It sits upon a hill about as tall as the one we''re now on. Two walls protect it: a lower one around the base of the hill, and a higher one of stone about halfway up. Ramshackle wooden huts fill the lower section of the town, and better-made stone ones the upper. A road cutting through both districts leads out the main gate.


    After we descend our hill, it''s that road we head toward. It''s better made than any we''ve yet cut across or walked along¡ªfor one thing, it''s not dirt but paved with stone slabs. Rather ugly, uneven slabs though, it has to be said. They shift as we stomp over them.


    ¡°Look out!¡± comes a shout from the back of the line.


    I turn to look; a cart is rushing up the road past our column. It''s cutting close¡ªI see several of us tumble in their hurry to get away from the wheels and the huge horses pulling it. They''re not as big as blindboars, but they''re still frightening in their own right, with stretched, ugly faces and feet that spark on the stones. The human driving them looks like he''s in shock at the sight of us, but he shows no sign of slowing down. I think he wants to get past as soon as possible.


    The cart is coming right at me. I don''t know how, but I''m not at the side of the road anymore, but right in the beasts'' path. My pickaxe is raised high¡ª


    Braztak pulls me out of the way. I tumble over into the dirt on the side of the road. The beasts and their burden roar past, shaking the ground.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Braztak says, aghast. ¡°What the hell were you thinking?¡±


    I climb to my feet and shake my head, and blink hard a few times. I''m bewildered¡ªI can''t remember what happened between standing at the side of the road and in the path of the carriage.


    ¡°He''s too eager for battle,¡± Jerat laughs. ¡°Damn human''s fault for trying to run us down.¡±


    ¡°We''re not fighting yet,¡± Braztak warns us. ¡°We ought to try and show some measure of politeness, even if the humans won''t.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°I don''t know what I was thinking.¡±


    ¡°Just be more careful, all right?¡±


    ¡°Sorry. I will be.¡±


    A few more carriages rush past us on our journey to the town gates. Recovered from the shock of the initial one, dwarves shout insults back at the humans. Some even brandish their weapons, though Xomhyrk''s Dragonslayers quickly put a stop to that. They seem to agree with Braztak that we should return unfriendliness with friendliness, or at the very least neutrality.


    The path steepens and the slippery paving slows us, for the rain has grown more violent. I can''t keep up with the ice forming on my plates, so I''m covered by a thin layer of the stuff now. It freezes unevenly on the face of my helm so that my vision blurs.


    The column halts. I look up and see that Xomhyrk and his senior commanders have made it to the gates. A dozen humans have emerged to greet them¡ªthough not in a friendly fashion. They''re armed with long spears and bows.


    I hear talking, then shouting. Then the command comes down the line for us to turn and reverse course.

 Dragonhunt 35: Gold Unwanted

    ¡°The humans told me this,¡± Xomhyrk roars. ¡°They said us dwarves were not welcome on the surface. That our gold brings nothing but trouble! Bandits and worse!¡±


    We''ve made camp on top of the hill opposite the town we planned to visit¡ªtranslated from this particular region''s human tongue, it''s called Hillstone. As for this hill, I do not know if it has a name, but Xomhyrk regards it as easily defensible. It''s too high, apparently, for arrows to easily reach us.


    ¡°Well, I don''t care if we''re not welcome. We must pass through their lands, and for the humans'' own good too! Dragons do not attack only dwarves, after all.¡±


    I can''t help wondering, as I stand here in the ranks, if we''re going to try and enter the town by force. I don''t think it''ll be much of a fight. Even from a distance I could easily tell that the humans were badly equipped, wearing what could barely be called armor, made of leather. As for the spears they wielded, they were crooked, and the arrows for their bows looked rather misshapen too.


    The rains have cleared, and night has fallen. In the glow of the moon Xomhyrk''s blued armor is illuminated in almost ghostly fashion. The tip of Icemite gleams cyan, yet there''s no sign of the weapon he killed the horse with.


    ¡°So we will not give up," he continues. "We will enter the humans'' town, and we will buy the supplies we need. We will show them dwarvish generosity. We will not steal, like the bandits they equate us with, but pay fairly. Those that bar our way we will not slay, if possible.¡±


    So we are going to enter by force! I feel something thrum out from my ruby amulet. A thrill runs through my blood, so strong it makes me slightly queasy.


    ¡°We will show them their prejudice means nothing. Get some sleep. After tonight, our packs will grow much heavier.¡±


    I''m assigned guard duty for the first watch, and so now I''m stand on the outskirts of the camp, staring across at Hillstone town. Guthah stands beside me, the moonlight glinting off the silver runes on his spear''s tip.


    ¡°I can see a lot of hills past here,¡± he says, quietly. ¡°Some quite tall.¡±


    ¡°Well, this is Tallreach.¡±


    ¡°Yes. You said that was this kingdom''s name.¡±


    ¡°It''s not really a kingdom. Just a collection of cities and towns that band together sometimes, fight sometimes. Nothing so civilized as our kingdoms. According to a book I read on the subject, anyway.¡±


    ¡°I heard some human cities were quite impressive.¡±


    ¡°Some are. To the south is Hyvaen. I had a friend from there. From what he told me, it''s near as impressive as Allabrast. Tall spires all around.¡±


    ¡°It''s a shame we won''t get to visit.¡±


    ¡°Not on this journey, no.¡±


    ¡°Do you think we''re making the right decision, barging into their town like Xomhyrk says we''re going to do?¡±


    I shrug. ¡°We need supplies. And more to the point we''re willing to pay for them. To my mind the humans don''t have anything to complain about.¡±


    ¡°What about what they say about our gold bringing bandits? And worse?¡±


    ¡°If they forged better weapons they wouldn''t have anything to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Still, they''re only human.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. I don''t know. Maybe we are about to make a mistake. But we need supplies if we''re going to continue. If we''re going to kill the dragon.¡±


    Guthah nods firmly. ¡°And dragons attack humans too. Xomhyrk is right about that. For sure.¡±


    ¡°He is.¡±


    A few hours later, when the moon is as high in the sky as it''ll get tonight, two of Xomhyrk''s Dragonslayers come to take over our duty. We head back to our tent and lie down. I stare up at the dark canvas, watching it ripple. I don''t feel sleepy. My ruby amulet is shivering¡ªnot physically, but when I place my hand over it, I can sense power. And Gutspiercer is radiating constant bloodlust.


    There''s no use wasting this night. I get up and take my armor outside, and use a repair hammer and polishing cloth to clean the ice from it. Though neither titanium nor palladium rust, it''s still not good practice to let your armor get coated in water, even frozen water.


    Dawn comes, illuminating the hills golden red. Cockerels screech loudly, as surface cockerels are wont to do. White cavern ones rarely make a sound.


    I equip myself, then order the tenth degrees to do the same. Then our guild forms up along with the rest of the army and we march back down to the main road.


    Once we''re on the paving, the order comes for us to form up in quadruple file. We''re going to take over the whole road. I wield Gutspiercer, and look up past it at the first city wall. My heart leaps as a line of archers appears on it. They''ll be easy to take down once I close in.


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    Shit! What the hell am I thinking? We''re not at war. I ought to be hoping the humans will let us in without the need for bloodshed.


    ¡°March!¡± Xomhyrk shouts from the head of the column.


    ¡°March!¡± His Dragonslayers relay the order down.


    We move. The paving shudders under our tread. Some of the larger slabs crack apart. They''ve never felt the force of dwarven metal before. Our army rumbles and the humans on the wall nock their arrows. I lick my lips. Spearmen hurry out from the gate and form a triple line across the road. All are in leather but for one, their commander. He''s in steel. His helm is adorned with a plume of red-dyed animal hair which whips in the wind.


    Xomhyrk calls a halt a dozen paces before the spearmen. He strides up the path, which is steep so close to the walls, and stands right in front of their commander.


    An arrows flies into Xomhyrk''s helm. The metal arrowhead shatters and the shaft bounces, spins, and falls onto the path. Xomhyrk doesn''t flinch. The humans look at each other in alarm.


    Xomhyrk says something to the human commander, who says something back. I''m too distant to hear what they''re saying, but I think they''re speaking dwarvish. I know that quite a few humans can speak our language, though poorly, for trade purposes, since we rarely bother to learn their many and ever-changing tongues. I think it unlikely that Xomhyrk has learned the language here, since the black dragon is the first to fly over Tallreach in several centuries.


    The conversation grows more heated. I think I hear a couple insults, then the human levels his spear. Xomhyrk does also. The human jabs. Xomhyrk spins Icemite, blocking the blow, and in the next instant drives its frozen point through the human''s foot. It pierces the steel with total ease.


    The human commander shouts in agony. The other spearmen level their weapons, the archers nock their arrows, begin to draw, but then the commander yells something. His men¡ªhuman armies are nearly all male¡ªlower their spears and bows. Xomhyrk nods curtly, then turns back to us.


    ¡°They''ll let us in to do business!¡± he shouts. ¡°Forward!¡±


    ¡°Forward!¡± relay his Dragonslayers.


    We march forward. I breath a sigh, half relief, half disappointment. I shake my head violently. Relief is what I ought to feel! Xomhyrk has led us into the city with minimal blood spilt, just like he said he would.


    The path steepens. Before me are the opened gates. I look sidelong at the humans eyeing us with fear and disgust. One meets my gaze, and he stumbles back as if struck. That''s the effect, I suppose, of wearing a helmet shaped like a skull. Probably he can feel some of the cold radiating from me as well.


    We form up just past the gate in a small plaza. It''s formed of the same stone slabs as the road outside, though it''s a little better kept. Grass only sprouts up from a few cracks.


    It''s only just large enough to fit us all and we''re crammed tight. At the center of a plaza is a fountain, and several unhappy-looking runeknights have been pushed into it. They stand in knee-deep water while being drenched from above by the spray, which shoots up from a central pipe, spreads out and hangs in the air for a few moments, before falling down just like rain.


    The sight, while somewhat comical, also makes me uneasy. I don''t think it''s runes making that water act the way it does.


    Xomhyrk stands on a low wall at the left side of the plaza and repeats his orders for us to pay properly for the supplies we take. Then he has his Dragonslayers distribute gold. I open up the leather wallet I''m handed and count ten golden wheels¡ªthough they''re not of Allabrast design, a bit smaller, they''re still worth many silvers each.


    ¡°Don''t you think Xomhyrk''s being a little too trusting?¡± I whisper to Jerat. ¡°I have a feeling a lot of this will vanish into pockets.¡±


    Jerat shrugs. ¡°Might do, might not. Mine''s going on beer in either case.¡±


    ¡°You''re not touching beer today,¡± Braztak snaps. ¡°I don''t trust you with it. Food only.¡±


    Everyone laughs at this, then before I know it the various guilds are scattering out into the narrow wood-walled streets. Braztak holds up a hand:


    ¡°Wait, Association of Steel. Wait!¡±


    I stop myself and turn back around.


    ¡°We''re going to do this in a proper manner,¡± he says. ¡°No ransacking. No smashing. This isn''t a pillage. No beating up humans either. We''re going to follow Xomhyrk''s word down to the runes and pay generously for everything we need.¡±


    The guild nods solemnly.


    ¡°We will be organized as well. We will travel in groups. No rushing off on your own.¡±


    He divides us up. I''m to be with Pellas and Jerat. Braztak tells me to keep him away from anything drinkable, then we''re off.


    I lead them up the road. It''s already crowded with runeknights battering at doors and shouting at humans to give them food and drink¡ªwhile they brandish their bags of coins for courtesy''s sake. I scowl at them¡ªI don''t think this behavior is what Xomhyrk had in mind.


    ¡°Let''s keep going,¡± I tell Pellas and Jerat. ¡°Find some place not being ransacked.¡±


    ¡°Damn Braztak,¡± says Jerat. ¡°Holding us back. All the good stuff will be gone.¡±


    ¡°We''re not after beer,¡± I warn him.


    ¡°Sure we aren''t.¡±


    Right along the road all the way up to the second gate, all the larger buildings are already in the process of being invaded. We go down a side-road, past two dwarves dragging a human in rags out his building, and into the mess of houses away from the road. They''re mostly just huts though, topped with some sort of dried grass that can''t possibly keep all the rain out, and I don''t think we''ll find much good in them.


    ¡°Let''s start,¡± says Jerat. ¡°Five huts each. We ought to be able to find something.¡±


    Pellas nods and makes to walk to one of the huts.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I order, and grab her by the shoulder. ¡°And stop being an idiot, Jerat. We stay together. And we won''t find anything in these hovels. Let''s go up through the second gate.¡±


    ¡°Are we allowed there?¡± asks Pellas.


    ¡°We''re not allowed anywhere, really,¡± I say. ¡°But that''s where the best goods will be.¡±


    ¡°Won''t the humans try to stop us?¡±


    ¡°They might try. They won''t succeed.¡±


    I turn and walk back onto the main road, then turn left and move up it. Jerat and Pellas are following close behind. A few dozen paces uphill and we''re facing the main gate. It''s made of iron so crude I wince just looking at it. The bars are battered and twisted, uneven in color, and rusted quite obviously in more than a few places.


    Two human guards confront us. They wield spears only slightly less badly-made than their gate.


    ¡°Back,¡± one of them says, in barely intelligible dwarvish. ¡°Back. Back!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I reply. ¡°We will move forward. We are only here to do fair business.¡±


    ¡°Back!¡± the guard repeats.


    ¡°Forward!¡± I snap at him, and I raise Gutspiercer.


    The guard backs away slightly. He looks at his partner, who''s staring at my helmet with an expression of fear on his features. His skin has gone as white as ice.


    ¡°Open the damn gates!¡± shouts Jerat. ¡°I want my beer, humans!¡±


    The human who spoke to me nods, and quickly runs to the padlocks around the gate. He fumbles with a large, crude key, then swing the gates open.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say as we pass, and hand him one of the gold coins. ¡°We promise to neither break nor steal.¡±


    He stares at the coin in his palm with disgust, like I''ve just handed him an animal dropping. I shrug and we move on into the upper town.

 Dragonhunt 36: Sounds of Marching

    It''s a lot cleaner up here. The stones are clear of mud, there''s no bare earth or weeds in sight, and even the air feels fresh. It feels almost intoxicating actually¡ªJerat is taking deep breaths of it as we walk.


    The few humans not cowering in their houses flee at the sight of us, their gray and blue cloaks flapping in the wind. That seems to be the fashion up here at the top of their hill, closest to the sky. It''s light gray right now.


    ¡°Where are we heading?¡± asks Pellas. ¡°Up to the top?¡±


    The humans'' biggest building sits at the top of the hill. It''s about four stories, judging by the windows, and topped by a tiled dome. A single copper rod juts from its center.


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°That would be pushing our luck. There''s bound to be somewhere that supplies food here. These richer folk won''t have what everyone else has.¡±


    ¡°They might just send servants down to buy for them,¡± says Jerat. ¡°Humans like having servants to order around.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, maybe. But would you keep the really best stuff somewhere it might be stolen? I don''t think so.¡±


    ¡°Well, we''ll see.¡±


    I lead them down a side-path. It''s mosaic, with a regular geometric pattern, but to my eyes the angles don''t quite line up with each other correctly. Humans just don''t seem to have a feel for proper beauty, though I suppose maybe they''re clever in other ways¡ªlike with that disturbing fountain.


    A few minutes down the path, Jerat is proven wrong. We come to a circular plaza, tiled to show a bright white star, and at each of its points are entrances to shops. They are fronted with glass, which the humans do seem to have a little skill in working¡ªit''s very clear and smooth. Past the glass windows are closed curtains.


    ¡°Shall I?¡± says Jerat.


    ¡°No. We knock.¡±


    I walk up to the nearest door and hammer on it loudly. No answer, not that I was expecting any.


    ¡°Right,¡± says Jerat. ¡°Let''s see what happens when¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop!¡± comes a shout.


    It''s in bad dwarvish. I turn and see a pair of guards rushing toward us. I raise Gutspiercer, and am about to strike¡ªmy pick is already mid-swing¡ªwhen they stop themselves. One of them starts babbling in human. Is he warning me off? I take a step forward with Gutspiercer aimed at his chest, when the door behind opens.


    I turn, half expecting an ambush, but it''s just a human woman, dressed in a long blue, very fine cloak. Her eyes are wide with shock, and dark bags under them suggest she''s been asleep. I wonder if today was some kind of a holiday¡ªodd for shops not to be open at this time.


    ¡°Let us in!¡± barks Jerat. ¡°We''ve shopping to do!¡±


    The guards babble something at her. She tries to argue, but they shout her down. She disappears back into the shop. Jerat steps forward to follow her, and then the curtains behind the windows are pulled open wide.


    Beyond are jars of pickles, dried roots, hard-tack looking bread, and slabs of dried jerky meat. I laugh.


    We''ve hit a rich vein indeed here. What is this place? Do the horsemen of the humans buy their supplies here? We enter, metal boots scratching the tiled floor. It doesn''t look much like a shop though. There''s no counter, for one, and no prices seem to be labled.


    Maybe they use no money here. I''ve heard some human places use a kind of bartering system, where one thing is swapped for another. Or maybe the woman is paid in some other way by the leaders of this town. Whatever the case though, gold never goes amiss. Even if they don''t use it among themselves, there are others who will take it. Dwarves, and humans of the south too, probably.


    The goods are stocked on wide tables. These are low to the floor, and shaped as heptagons. Candles flicker at their corners, which I think is an odd choice for the daytime. And the night-time also, come to think about it, if the shop was closed. There seems to be no order to what''s place where¡ªjars of pickles are mixed in with bundles of herbs, and beside these are large coils of rope.


    I lay my purse down on the nearest table and begin to scrape everything edible in reach into my sack. Pellas and Jerat do the same, though Jerat with more enthusiasm. The human woman looks on, aghast.


    I feel vaguely immoral, like I''m thieving. This isn''t theft though¡ªI''m paying triple what these supplies are worth. Far more than triple! Nine gold coins could get me a good deal of quality metal. What are mere foodstuffs compared to that?


    Canvas sacks bulging, we make our way back to the door. The woman is huddled on the floor crying.


    ¡°Maybe we shouldn''t have taken so much,¡± says Pellas.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± I say. ¡°But we need to reach the dragon. That''s all that matters.¡±


    ¡°Let''s take a look at the other shops,¡± says Jerat.


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°We have plenty. You''re just looking for beer. And I''m not even sure these are shops.¡±


    ¡°What else could they be?¡±


    I look around the circular plaza one last time. These building set at the points of the stars are triangular, I notice, and at their tops are strange symbols. Religious? The humans have gods that they honor, don''t they? I remember Jaemes telling me something like that. They leave things out for the gods, as a kind of sacrifice.


    We left plenty of gold, I tell myself angrily. And the dragon matters over everything else. If we reach it and destroy it, that''s worth any hardship these humans have to go through. They ought to thank us. Their gods also.


    On our way out the gates, a dozen runeknights of another guild elbow their way past us. Their supply sacks are already full, but they''ve procured more from somewhere, and they look eager to fill them up¡ªin their eyes is greed. I stop and turn, to tell them maybe going up here is too far, when I hear loud dwarvish shouting from behind.


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    More of us are already in the upper city. Quite a few more, by the sounds of it. The damage has been done. I''ve opened the floodgates.


    ¡°Ah, shit!¡± says Jerat. ¡°Look at that.¡±


    My attention is drawn back to the lower district. Halfway down the road, Xomhyrk''s Dragonslayers are holding back a group of a dozen screaming dwarves. Opposite them, a line of spearman hold back a crowd of shouting humans. Between the two groups, lying on the steep paving, are two dead humans and a dead dwarf. Blood is running from them in a stream. The humans are hacked brutally and the dwarf has an arrow jutting from his eye.


    ¡°Let''s get down to the plaza quickly,¡± I say.


    We hurry down the road. The shouting and shoving of the two crowds grows more violent as we approach. Who started the fight, I wonder? Probably the dwarf. Fortunately no one from our guild seems to be involved, yet I don''t think the humans are going to much care about what guild did what. In their eyes, we''re all enemies now.


    There''s a path leading right; we turn down it to bypass the commotion. Soon we''re back down at the plaza. About half of the guild is already gathered.


    ¡°What did you get?¡± asks Erak, our second degree. His red runes are bright and bloody-looking under the sun.


    ¡°Preserves,¡± I say.


    ¡°Preserves? Here?¡±


    ¡°In the upper part of the city. They let us in.¡±


    He frowns, gray-brown brows furrowing tightly. ¡°I think we''re pushing our luck going up there.¡±


    ¡°The killing happened in the lower half,¡± says Jerat.


    ¡°Yes¡ªbad business. I saw it.¡±


    ¡°Who started it?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Dwarves from the Copper-Bright Salamanders. They stole. Didn''t pay. Disgraceful. But the one who did it has been punished for it. Then it got ugly.¡±


    He looks up at the road. I follow his gaze fearfully, but things seem to be calming down. Xomhyrk himself is up there, raging at the dwarves.


    ¡°We need to leave soon,¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Erak agrees. ¡°As soon as the rest of the Association is here, we''ll be first out the gates.¡±


    <hr>


    Once the other half of us returns, Braztak with them, we hurry out. By the side of the tall wooden walls we trade around supplies so none of us are carrying less than our fair share¡ªmy pack becomes a good deal lighter, which I''m glad of.


    The rest of the guilds emerge one by one, laughing and joking and comparing spoils. The Dragonslayers led by Xomhyrk are the last to emerge. His eyes are grim behind his dark blue visor. A dwarf and two humans dead, when he''d vowed no bloodshed if it could be helped, and the town basically ransacked when he said to give the humans fair treatment. He''s made a misjudgment.


    But what''s done is done, and if these supplies end up getting us to the dragon, the humans really have no cause to complain. Xomhyrk gives the order and we march. By evening the town of Hillstone is hidden in the distance behind the many other hills of the rent, buckled landscape of north Tallreach.


    Our path is no longer straight, but winding, nearly looping sometimes. We may want to leave these lands as quickly as possible, but we also don''t want to stray too near other towns. Horses are quick, and I''m sure the leaders of Hillstone are sending out news of what''s happened here to their ally towns, and maybe even their enemies as well. Humans may fight against each other a great deal, just as us dwarves do, but they''ll happily band together in the face of a common foe.


    Wind howls over the hilltops, and sometimes it even wails, through the stone ruins that crown many of the peaks here. Just as dwarves have lived in every cave of the underworld at one point or another, every peak and cranny of the surface has been inhabited by humans before¡ªbar the forests of the elves, I suppose. Sometimes my boots hit something hard, and I look down to see a weathered stone block half-buried in the dirt.


    Was this land still called Tallreach back then? I believe it was, though the sounds have altered as human tongues do over time. The meaning of the name has stayed the same. The land where humans reach for the sky.


    I shiver. I recall reading that there are sorcerers among the humans. Wizards. Did one of them set the magic in that fountain, to make the waterdrops hang for a moment in the air like a raincloud? Surely such tricks are nothing compared to runes, yet even so, I don''t like thinking about it.


    For three days, a full long hour, we march without stopping. But even dwarvish legs must rest eventually. Our tread is heavy now, our backs bowed. The tenth degrees especially are suffering. Most have removed their helmets, and their hair and beards are drenched in sweat. My beard is heavy with sweat as well¡ªI envy Pellas.


    Xomhyrk orders us up a hill more heavily adorned with ruins than most. Maybe he intends for us to use the stone blocks as cover from arrows.


    The steep climb, after so many hours march, is one of the hardest I''ve ever made. There''s no tracks up this hill, and the long, rough grass impedes my movement. I stumble over the squarish stones, fall right over at one point, and the dwarves around me aren''t faring any better. If we weren''t so tired, the air would be filled with shouted curses, but instead the only sound I can hear is the wind and my own heavy, hot breathing inside my helmet.


    We make it up to the top. I see some of my tenth degrees hunched over, puffing.


    ¡°Stand up straight!¡± I snap. ¡°It doesn''t matter how tired you are! We''re at war!¡±


    ¡°At war?¡± one of them says, a panicked look on his face. ¡°With the humans?¡±


    ¡°Maybe or maybe not. But certainly we''re at war with the dragon, and likely with Runeking Uthrarzak''s dwarves. And of course there are wild animals out here as well, you know. Wolves, bears, and other surface monstrosities. Be ready to fight at all times!¡±


    He straightens himself and raises his axe and shield. ¡°I apologize!¡±


    ¡°Accepted.¡±


    Xomhyrk orders the tents set up and latrines dug, and we obey. Then the roster for guard duty is decided, and again I hit first watch.


    This time I''m paired with Mulkath.


    ¡°You don''t mind if we stand a little distant from each other, do you?¡± he says.


    ¡°Go ahead. Your runes don''t like the cold, right?¡±


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    We both know that''s not the real reason.


    He stands on one stone block and I another. The rains have fully cleared up, and the air is cold and still. Even though the moon is now closer to crescent than to full, I can see clearly across the hills. The one we stand on is one of the taller ones.


    I wonder why the humans didn''t build here. It''s certainly defensible¡ªsome of the slopes we came up are close to unclimbable. Could it be cursed? I look nervously at the broken pillars and walls we''ve pitched our tents around.


    I tell myself to stop being stupid. Ghosts aren''t real, and I trust Xomhyrk''s decision-making. Most Runethanes and leaders I''ve found myself under would''ve charged headfirst into the human town and plundered it without caring a jot for the consequences. But we only lost one, and the amount of gold we gave was significant. We dealt with them fairly. And the death of the dragon will pay for all! Xomhyrk has made no mistake.


    The wind has died down a little, so much so that I feel confident in using my runic ears. I''ve brought them with me on guard duty, concealed in a leather satchel. I take them out.


    ¡°What the hell are those?¡± says Mulkath.


    ¡°Ears.¡±


    ¡°Ears?¡±


    I fix them to my helmet, which has slots for them to attach to. ¡°Ears,¡± I say again.


    ¡°What?¡± He laughs loudly. ¡°What the hell? Ears?¡±


    I wince. I''d forgotten how loud these make everything. ¡°We used them in the deep,¡± I explain. My own voice nearly makes me lose my footing. I only just recover. ¡°For when there''s no light at all.¡±


    ¡°There''s still a little light here.¡±


    ¡°But everything''s hidden by the hills.¡±


    ¡°True, true.¡±


    ¡°Please speak a little quieter. Loud noises can be disorientating. At least, they are if you''re out of practice.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡± He lowers his voice. ¡°If you say so.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    I shut my eyes and listen intently. Mostly I can hear the wind¡ªthe breezes sound as loud as gales¡ªbut here''s other sounds carried on them. The howls of wild beasts. The occasional clatter of rocks¡ªruins collapsing piece by piece. Hoofbeats. Wild horses? I focus harder. They sound too regular for wild things.


    I hear snatches of human voices too. There''s villages on some of the hills, so this isn''t too surprising, I tell myself. Yet there''s something about the tone of the shouting that suggests orders. I think I can hear marching sometimes too. It fades in and out, but it''s there.


    I think. Is it? I listen more closely. Yes! I can hear the unmistakable sound of an army on the march.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°What is it?¡± says Mulkath.


    ¡°I don''t think the humans are going to let us off so easy. I think I can hear an army.¡±


    ¡°An army?¡±


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°I can''t tell. The wind jumbles everything up.¡±


    I listen again. Now I know what to listen for, I can hear it everywhere.


    ¡°It might be more than one army,¡± I say.

 Dragonhunt 37: Unreasonable, Even For Humans

    ¡°I''ll get one of the Dragonslayers,¡± Mulkath says. ¡°You stay there. Keep listening.¡±


    I nod. The noise is growing louder, a little louder every minute as more and more humans come around the hills. They must have been right on our tail¡ªthose that come from behind, anyway. I feel sure that some groups are coming from the front as well, and the sides.


    Attack from any angle: what makes the surface so dangerous. No, not any angle¡ªevery angle.


    Heavy footsteps behind make the world shudder. I open my eyes and hurry to take off my runic ears. I turn around. Mulkath has brought Xomhyrk himself plus two of his senior guildsdwarves to me. I freeze in alarm for a second, then hurry to bow low.


    Xomhyrk acknowledges my bow with a curt nod. ¡°You say you hear something,¡± he says.


    ¡°Yes. Human armies.¡±


    "And you hear with those ears of yours?"


    "Yes." I hand them to him. He inspects them, frowning at the runes, then hands them back.


    ¡°I see. What makes you so sure they are armies? Humans live on many of the hills here. It''s probably their voices you hear.¡±


    ¡°I think it odd so many would be awake this late.¡±


    ¡°Some humans are surprisingly active at night.¡±


    ¡°But marching? I''ve heard marching many times, honored first degree. There''s armies headed toward us.¡±


    ¡°You are completely sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He turns to one of his commanders. ¡°What do you think, Gollor?¡±


    ¡°I''ve heard about runic ears, though this dwarf doesn''t look like a deep one to me.¡±


    ¡°He''s not¡ªhe''s from Thanerzak''s realm.¡±


    ¡°Is he? I see, I see.¡± He looks closely at my armor. ¡°He''s been inspired by you, it seems. I don''t think he''d risk embarrassing himself in front of you. He''s sure we''re being followed.¡±


    ¡°Not just followed," I add. "I can hear humans approaching from the front as well, and from the sides.¡±


    ¡°Just as I feared,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°Humans from a dozen of their little cities. And now we know gold can''t buy them off.¡±


    ¡°Shall I spread the news?¡± asks Gollor.


    ¡°No. The humans won''t attack at night when they can''t see where to aim. There''s no need to panic. Continue the watches as usual. In the morning we''ll form up.¡± He turns back to me. ¡°Thank you, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°You know my name?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Your reputation precedes you. The traitor, I''ve heard you called. Tried to make a deal with a dragon, didn''t you?¡±


    I bow my head. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°A foolish idea.¡±


    ¡°I was young.¡±


    ¡°Hah! And still are. But skilled, I see, very skilled. A lot try to imitate my armor, you know. You''re not imitating though. It''s similar, but it''s your own. I respect that a great deal.¡±


    ¡°I''m honored.¡±


    ¡°As for whether it''ll stand up to dragonfire, well, we''ve got humans to get through before that. Take care of yourself.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    He, Gollor, and the other commander leave. Once more I''m alone with Mulkath. I put my runic ears back on, hear the marching again, a bit louder, but then the wind picks up. The harsh whistling of the air through the shattered ancient pillars becomes unbearable and I take the ears off. Now that I can''t hear the marching, I begin to doubt myself. Would the humans really send an army to avenge the death of a single commoner?


    Just as I''m returning to my tent, the wind dies for a moment and, with my bare ears, I hear it again, the unmistakable tread of hundreds of heavy boots, as well as the steady clomping of hooves.


    The humans are coming for us.


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    <hr>


    ¡°Armor on and form up! Form up!¡±


    Braztak''s voice wakes me sharply from my slumber. I force myself up and start to shout at the tenth degrees:


    ¡°Armor on! Quickly! The humans are here!¡±


    They''re already scrambling up, panicking, fumbling. Pellas is the quickest to equip herself, emerging from her sectioned-off part of the tent before most have half their armor plates on.


    ¡°Head outside, Pellas. Braztak will tell you what to do. Now, quickly everyone! Get a bloody move on!¡±


    Eventually they''re all out the tent. I look around, to check no one''s forgotten any bits of armor, and am relieved to see they haven''t. Then I head out myself.


    It''s dawn, but no golden rays greet me. The sky has suddenly clouded over so that the only hint of sun is a vague yellow glow to the east. This is just enough light to see the humans by.


    I bite my lip. There are a great many of them, swarming around our hill, and halfway up the surrounding hills as well. The majority are armed with bows, though those closest have long spears.


    There''s cavalry too. Their horses look a little different to those that pulled the carriages. They''re fatter, rougher looking beasts, with thick legs. They stand on the slopes as if they were born to them.


    ¡°This way!¡± Erak is shouting. ¡°Association of Steel, over here!¡±


    We line up at the top of the easiest slope, senior runeknights ahead and junior ones behind. As fourth degree I end up at one end of the first rank. I look down. Humans are looking up at us. They look confident. I can guess why they feel that way¡ªthey outnumber us by several thousand.


    I wonder how fast they can loose their arrows. One every few seconds? So tens of thousands of steel points will be pouring on us every minute. Shit. I''m beginning to think we''ve underestimated the humans, and badly. Crude their steel may be, but sometimes quantity beats quality.


    ¡°Hold steady!¡± Xomhyrk orders. ¡°No one do anything foolish. We stay still until they make a move.¡±


    Him and a large group of Dragonslayers are positioned next to the Association. Fear runs through me. If they target him, we''ll be called on to halt their advance. The fear increases as a group of humans on horseback parts the ranks of spearmen directly below us. They begin to make their way up the slope, directly towards Xomhyrk.


    A hint of excitement burst from my ruby. It mixes with my fear, lessens it like water diluting wine. Gutspiercer trembles with anticipation.


    One of the humans wears a golden crown. So much for Tallreach having no kings then. He''s in heavy steel plate, as are most of the others. Red plumes on their helms whip to and fro in the wind, which is gaining in strength. Their horses are armored also.


    And I can tell it''s fair quality stuff. Fifth degree quality, though unruned, but that is not to say the humans have no magic.


    Two of them are unarmored. One is in a rough woolen cloak. His head and face are shaved. The apprentice. Slightly ahead of him is his master: a wizard.


    His beard is white and in length a rival to any ancient dwarf''s. In his right hand he clutches a staff of gnarled wood which glows with invisible power despite its utter lack of runes. His cloak is arcane also, of darkest gray yet not gray like stone, but gray like the clouds above. Shades shift and blow across it. His tall hat, unaffected by the wind whipping at his hair and beard, is of the same material.


    The king and his retinue make it to just before the ridge of the slope. The king nods to his wizard, who says a word to the apprentice. Nervously the boy comes up alongside the king.


    ¡°My... My lord wishes to do par... parley,¡± he stammers in badly accented dwarvish.


    Xomhyrk gives the king a respectful bow. ¡°We will hear him out.¡±


    The apprentice translates. The king says a few words in reply. They are loud and clear, cutting through the wind.


    ¡°He says you are not to be here,¡± translates the apprentice. ¡°These are not your lands. You are not to do as you please here.¡±


    ¡°We are simply passing though,¡± says Xomhyrk.


    ¡°These lands are not yours to pass through. You may only pass through underground.¡±


    ¡°The dwarves that rule underground here will not let us.¡±


    ¡°Then you should turn back.¡±


    ¡°We cannot. We have a dragon to slay.¡±


    ¡°That is no concern of ours. Dragons do not bother us.¡±


    ¡°You are wrong. Dragons lay waste to human cities as well as dwarven ones.¡±


    ¡°Not to our cities. We have no fancy crafts for them to steal. Nor do we hoard gold coinage¡ªunless it is foisted upon us by unfair bargain.¡±


    ¡°Our bargains were more than generous.¡±


    ¡°The giving of unwanted gifts cannot be called generosity.¡±


    ¡°The slaying of the black dragon, once accomplished, will be a greater gift than any amount of gold.¡±


    ¡°As I said, we have no need to fear dragons. They fear us. They do not fly in our skies. At least, they do not dare to dip below the clouds.¡±


    I glance at the wizard. He''s smiling slightly, but there''s a strain about his features too, like he''s holding something in that wants to burst out. His hand on the reins twitches every few seconds.


    ¡°You put too much trust in your wizards,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°They are no match for a dragon.¡±


    The apprentice smirks. ¡°They are very much a match for dwarves, I think.¡±


    The king lets out a harsh laugh¡ªI think that last remark was the apprentice''s own, but his liege lord clearly approves. Distaste for us is written clear on his tanned features.


    ¡°We are accomplishing nothing here,¡± snaps Xomhyrk. ¡°Let us through your lands or we will force our way through them¡ªand there will be no more gold for your people when we wish to take supplies.¡±


    ¡°We will not let you take more than a mile''s march further. You will leave by means of a tunnel to the underworld that lies a mile north of here.¡±


    ¡°We are not returning to the underworld.¡±


    ¡°You will return. Either you will march down, or your corpses will be thrown down.¡±


    ¡°You are rude and unreasonable, even for a human.¡±


    ¡°You are rude and stubborn, even for a dwarf.¡±


    With that, the king orders the apprentice back, then he draws his sword and levels it at Xomhyrk. Since he''s a little down the slope, the blade, held horizontally flat, points right at Xomhyrk''s face, its point hovering a few inches from his nose. Xomhyrk laughs bitterly.


    ¡°You are a fool, city-prince. You will lose many men today!¡±


    The king¡ªprince, whatever he is¡ªsays something back. It sounds very much like an insult. He sheaths his sword. He and his retinue turn and begin make their way back down the hill. The wizard gives us a glance over his shoulder. He''s grinning like a salamander, and his eyes are as wild as one.


    ¡°Do we strike or wait?¡± says Gollor.


    ¡°Have the army form a wedge,¡± Xomhyrk orders. ¡°We strike!¡±

 Dragonhunt 38: The Battle Against the Humans

    ¡°Braztak and Erak!¡± Xomhyrk yells. ¡°Your guild''s to have the second place of honor. Form up behind the tip of the wedge!¡±


    ¡°Association, form up!¡± Braztak shouts. ¡°Zathar, left flank! Tarak, right flank!¡±


    ¡°Tenth degrees, third rank!¡± shouts Erak. ¡°Ninth and eighth around them! Seventh and sixth of the back! Fifth degrees, fill the gaps!¡±


    We hurry to get into formation, colliding against each other in our haste. Below us, the humans are raising spears and nocking arrows to bows.


    The king and his retinue are trotting away as fast as they can through the ranks in the valley between our hill and the next. They''re making easy progress, for the elites here, in plate or chain, are well-trained. They step aside smoothly and reform just as smoothly once their leader is past.


    I notice that the elite humans'' spears have hooks on them, to catch in the gaps between armor. I wonder how many of them have fought and killed dwarves before.


    ¡°Hurry up!¡± Xomhyrk yells. ¡°Dragonslayers, get them in order!¡±


    Cue more yelling down the ranks as our force continues to form up. The humans have raised their bows now, are on the point of drawing them. I look to their king. He''s at the foot of the opposite hill already.


    The sky is continuing to darken. Spots of rain fall onto my helm and freeze solid. I scrape them away, but they come too fast. Soon my vision is a blur. Shit! I put one hand to my brow to the stop the rain running down, and quickly scrape the ice away with the other. Better. I can see the humans clearly now.


    They''re still prepared to loose arrows, but no one has yet given them the command. Why? We have no ranged weapons with us, and even if we did, how much damage could they possibly do against two thousand bowmen?


    The king and his soldiers have started up the opposite hill, are now winding up a rough track. But the wizard and his apprentice stop on a small outcrop. They''re speaking¡ªthe master is instructing his student about something.


    About what? The sky is almost black now. Something''s coming, some terrible magic. I remember my last encounter with a sorcerer and begin to feel a little queasy.


    The racket of metallic jostling and angry shouting behind finally ceases. I glance back to look along the line of runeknights. It extends out far to the left. Our wedge is complete. Now all we have to do is wait for Xomhyrk''s order. He gives it immediately:


    ¡°Char¡ª¡°


    Halfway through the word, the wizard raises his staff and flash of white obliterates the darkness. A roar obliterates the sound of rain, and then the first flash is followed by another, and another, so quickly in succession it could be called flickering, yet this magic is too powerful for such a weak word to suit it. The roaring increases, louder even than a cave-in.


    I''m thrown from my feet. I try to scream but my breath has been knocked from me. I gasp. White spears are stabbing down from sky to ground far faster than any spear of metal ever could. I see red splinters flying through the rain above me¡ªremnants of ruins now further smashed.


    Lightning. The power Jerat harnessed for his weapon has been unleashed against us on a scale no dwarf of the underground could ever have predicted.


    Jerat! He was next to me. I look to see if he''s still standing. He isn''t. He''s lying still, and white smoke is rising up through his visor.


    ¡°No!¡± I yell.


    I pull the visor up. His face is raw red and burned.


    ¡°No!¡±


    My voice is lost to the roaring of the rain and thunder. Bolt after bolt continues to fall. Something heavy hits my shoulder, denting the pauldron slightly. It drops down into the mud. An arrow. The humans are loosing at us, a rain of steel to follow their wizard''s rain of power.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream again.


    I should''ve seen this coming! Or if not me, someone with experience of the surface! Lightning hits things standing tall, and is particularly attracted to metal. We''ve been led into a trap.


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    I glance back at our wedge. It''s in disarray. Dozens have fallen. Guthah is one of them, his spear shattered.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream.


    Then I throw myself down the slope, Gutspiercer ready in my hands.


    <hr>


    Dwarves. Caask lives far from any dwarf-holes, and had never thought much about them until today. They were the objects of fairy stories, legends, and jokes. When he and his men were called out to face them, he hadn''t felt much fear. How much damage could an army of folk more than a foot shorter than you ever do?


    Their armor is thick, true. But all armor has gaps, and war with bows is a game of numbers. Throw enough darts onto the enemy and some will get through. Keep throwing them, and eventually there won''t be a body on the battlefield that''s not pierced in some way. Caask should know. He''s been in a fair few battles.


    ¡°Loose!¡± he yells again. ¡°Nock! Draw! Loose!¡±


    His platoon''s arrows fly up toward the dwarvish army, still reeling from the wizard''s spell. Fools! Isn''t ''to stay on the hill while the blue is darkening'' a well-known saying, meaning to do something completely suicidal? But there probably aren''t any hills underground, just tunnels. And no light to judge distance by either¡ªmaybe that''s why there aren''t any dwarvish archers.


    ¡°Nock! Draw! Loose!¡±


    He sees an arrow go into the eye of one of the dwarves as it stands up. He smiles grimly. This is not a battle, but a slaughter.


    Good. That''s the best kind of battle. Maybe after it''s finished, he''ll pick up a dwarven helmet to show his sons. They''d like that.


    Then the dwarf at the head of their army, the one in dark blue with the spear, suddenly vanishes. Caask blinks. Did he fall? No, there''s no body. Some kind of magic?


    ¡°Nock! Draw! Loose!¡±


    He has no time to ponder the strangeness¡ªthere''s no more lightning left, and the dwarves are starting to recover from their shock. A few jump down the hill to charge. Arrows meet them, slowing their advance through sheer force, though none make it through their armor. The spear-line levels their hooked weapons.


    ¡°Nock! Draw! Loose!¡±


    They''re getting closer. Caask''s heart begins to beat a little faster. They don''t look quite so small anymore. They might be short, but they''re wide, and that armor adds a lot of extra bulk.


    ¡°To the side!¡± one of his men suddenly yells. ¡°Left! Shit!¡±


    Caask quickly turns his head to look. His eyes widen. A dwarf is nearly on him, has somehow broken through the spear-line already. He''s raising a long pickaxe above his head. His armor is shining white, and its helm is like a skull.


    He lowers his bow and looses into the dwarf''s eye socket. It''s a perfect shot¡ªhits dead center¡ªit rebounds off.


    Now the dwarf is driving his pickaxe into the hollow between Caask''s neck and collarbone.


    He feels a terrible agony in the side of his chest.


    And now he feels nothing at all.


    <hr>


    ¡°Nachroktey! Nachroktey! Nachroktey!¡± I scream as I strike the humans down one by one.


    Their arrows glance away from my armor, sliding off its frozen surface. It''s protecting me just as I forged it too. Only the most perfect or lucky shots can as much as slow me. And very few can aim those shots now that I''m in the thick of them.


    I swing Gutspiercer into the nearest, burying the point deep in his belly. He bends double. I rip my weapon out with ease. One of the weaknesses of a war-pick is that it can sometimes be hard to extract, but Gutspiercer doesn''t seem to have this issue. It''s always eager to be out and striking at its next victim.


    Blood sprays onto my mask. My vision becomes translucent red, and with the usual deep black scar through the middle too, but the ground is so packed with humans that I barely need to aim. I feel Gutspiercer shiver twice as I fell two more victims.


    One human throws down his bow and draws a short sword. He lunges at me just as I''m drawing Gutspiercer out of his comrade. He stabs down, aiming for the gap at the front of my neck. I let go one hand from Gutspiercer and grab hold of his wrist.


    He''s stronger than a dwarf and the force of his blow sends me to my knees. Then he screams. I laugh. Tiny white lines are spreading across his wrist from where I''m grabbing it. He tries to pull away but I don''t let go.


    One of his friends looses an arrow at my shoulder. It gets through the gap, and pierces the chainmail a little. The prick of pain enrages me. I let go of the human''s wrist, stand and pull Gutspiercer back, hooking his ankle. He falls backwards then I''m driving it through his chest¡ªnow I''m leaping over him¡ªnow his friend''s eyes show only white as I bury Gutspiercer through the top of his skull.


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡± I scream.


    The humans are hurrying away from me now, screaming in terror, boots churning up the mud of the valley. A few loose arrows at me, which glance off. I resume my charge. A spearman lunges at me. His hooked spear catches on my pauldron but then snaps. I laugh at its poor quality, then let Gutspiercer take his life.


    I see it pull a length of intestine out, then I''m trampling over his body up the hill.


    Three spearman lunge simultaneously. They''re elites in steel plate. The succeed in stopping my charge for about a second, then I''m sliding through the points. Their eyes, only semi-concealed by their open-face helms, widen in surprise.


    Gutspiercer doesn''t even notice their steel-cladding. It takes one through the chest, the next through the side of the ribs. The final one quickly steps back and thrusts at me¡ªhe''s a professional, seems to be totally unfazed by the sudden deaths of his comrades.


    His discipline is for nothing. The point of his spear glances harmlessly off my breastplate, then Gutspiercer is inside his chest. He screams in agony and falls down.


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡± I scream. ¡°Nachroktey!¡±


    There''s empty slope ahead of me. No more humans¡ªbut for one, standing on an outcrop about thirty yards distant:


    The wizard. His eyes meet mine. They''re bloodshot, and there''s tracks of dried blood running from his nose also. But I think he still has some power left in him, for he makes no motion to flee.


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡± I scream, then charge.


    The wizard raises his staff.

 Dragonhunt 39: Dwarf Versus Wizard

    A line of searing white slashes from the gray sky. It curves to strike a human converging on me from the side. The air shivers like iron struck by the hammer, and I''m shunted sideways, but I retain my balance, keep on charging.


    The wizard''s bloodshot eyes remain fixed on me. He yells something in human¡ªan order, the humans coming at me from the side stop. Another bolt is coming. I dive to the ground and hear its terrible roar. It''s lanced into the humans; they were still too close. The wizard shouts something again¡ªit sounds like a curse.


    I''m already back on my feet and charging. I hold Gutspiercer low, angled to strike up into the wizard''s side. He''s just a dozen yards away now, and now half a dozen.


    His eyes glaze over for a moment. He''s calling power down. I swing, but I know I''m out of range.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream.


    Something dark collides with the back of the wizard''s head. His eyes roll up and he stumbles forward into Gutspiercer''s swing. The iron sinks deep into his belly. He lets out a gurgle; blood dribbles out his mouth. His staff falls from his grasp.


    I rip Gutspiercer out and he collapses.


    What hit him? More than fifty yards up the hill, Xomhyrk stands alone. At his feet is the body of a tall human. Icemite is buried in its chest, and a crown glints golden in the grass a few yards away.


    I look at the dead wizard to see what hit him, but there''s nothing.


    Xomhyrk kneels and leans over the body of the king. When he stands up, he''s holding the human''s severed head. He raises it aloft, and screams something in human. Some arrows fly at him and break on his frozen armor.


    The human spearmen at my sides falter. They turn and start to run. I make to give chase, when I hear a shout. I can''t understand it, but can tell by the hate that it''s directed at me. I turn.


    Behind me stands the wizard''s apprentice, and in his hands he holds his master''s staff.


    He levels it at me.


    I leap to charge but his eyes are already glazing over as if a fog of power is passing through his mind. A jag of white leaps from the tip of his staff and strikes into the center of my breastplate. I scream in shock¡ªsuddenly my chest feels as if fingers of fire are trying to claw their way in. This is no momentary agony¡ªthe pain doesn''t let up. This bolt is weaker than the lightning from before, yet it hasn''t flashed away in an instant. It''s continuing. The apprentice and I are linked by the shivering, twisting, wending line.


    It shortens as I advance. The agony is growing worse¡ªthe fingers of fire are piercing through the gaps in my ribs. Spikes of pain shoot into my heart. I scream and raise Gutspiercer high.


    I glance up at Xomhyrk¡ªa group of human elites, bent on revenge, surround him. There''s no help coming from there.


    The apprentice yells. The bolt of power linking us increases in brightness. I shut my eyes, blinded. My steps falter as my body weakens.


    Am I in range yet? I can''t tell. But I''m at my limit. The lightning is through my ribs now. I swing down.


    The fingers of fire grasping my heart vanish. The brightness is gone; I open my eyes and see that Gutspiercer is buried deep into the apprentice''s shoulder. The staff drops from his hands. I stomp on it and it snaps in half.


    Then I''m falling backwards. Now I''m lying on my back, arms up, Gutspiercer no longer in my grasp. Something is wrong with me, very wrong. There''s a silence in my body that I''m never felt before. A part of me that should be moving is not.


    My heart has stopped.


    I open my mouth to shout for help. No sound comes out. The gray sky is going black at the edges, and the scar of black in the center of my vision is growing also, becoming a chasm. The shouts of battle are fading.


    Heat blazes from my amulet. It''s screaming silently. I cannot die, it tells me. I have so much more killing left to do.


    I feel it blaze hotter three times, blaze like white metal. It''s pouring its magic into my chest, desperately trying to restart my heart.


    My heart doesn''t answer.


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    Three more rushes of heat.


    Nothing.


    Three again.


    My mouth gasps and a flood of air enters my lungs. A hammer starts beating inside my chest¡ªit''s my heart, desperately trying to make up for the strokes it''s missed.


    Someone takes me by the hand and pulls me up. Dazed, I look into his helmet at the dark blue, cold eyes within.


    ¡°Well done,¡± says Xomhyrk. Somehow he''s back down here. The humans he was fighting are nearly all dead¡ªthose who aren''t are staring down in shock.


    ¡°You all right?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I gasp.


    He''s carrying the king''s head again. With quick precision, he sticks Icemite up the neck, then raises it high.


    ¡°Death to the humans,¡± he says to me. Then he looks past me and yells it to everyone: ¡°Death to the humans! Kill them all!¡±


    ¡°Kill them all!¡± I scream.


    Gutspiercer is happy to oblige.


    <hr>


    Wharoth stands in front of his gathered guild. His face is solemn. The guildhall feels empty, unbearably so. The chairs where Braztak, Erak, Zathar, and all the others who''ve gone to face the dragon sat seem cold, like shadows sit in them now.


    Surely they are not dead already. Yet soon they might be¡ªwill be.


    Voltost nods to him. It''s time to begin. Wharoth hesitates for one moment, then speaks:


    ¡°It was my deepest wish that our guildmates not go on this suicide quest. Their decision was, and remains so, a foolish one.¡±


    The remaining guildmembers stare back, wondering why he''s gathered them here.


    ¡°They have no hope of defeating the black dragon. They have little hope of even getting to it past Uthrarzak''s dwarves. Or, for that matter, past the humans of Tallreach.


    ¡°Maybe they have even perished already.¡±


    Silence. A few dwarves bow their heads.


    ¡°But I refuse to accept that their deaths are inevitable. If there is even the smallest chance that I can protect them, that we can protect them, our guildmates, then we must take it.¡±


    Voltost''s mouth becomes a grim line. Out of all the dwarves here, Wharoth has confided only in him.


    ¡°Our goal is not to slay the black dragon. That remains impossible. Nor is our goal to prevent them from reaching it. Like I said before, in this guild we are free to choose our own quests. No. Our goal is to help protect them in any way we can.¡±


    For several long moments, there is utter silence. It seems that no one expected this decision. Wharoth never changes his mind. For him to do so now¡ªwhat is going on in his head, in his heart?


    ¡°How many of us are to come to the surface?¡± someone eventually asks.


    ¡°I would hope all of you. Though I am not ordering anyone.¡±


    ¡°How are we to protect them from the black dragon?¡± someone else asks. ¡°Is that not the same as fighting it ourselves?¡±


    ¡°We will decide on that when we get to it.¡±


    ¡°Do you still hope they''ll turn back?¡±


    ¡°I hope so, yes. I do not believe they will, but that does not matter. That does not change my duty. Our duty.¡±


    He raises high his shield. Its runes of fire-eating glitter in a spiral. He raises high his axe also¡ªit''s an old one, but reliable. He has not had time to finish his hammer.


    ¡°Gather supplies, those who wish to come!¡± he shouts. ¡°We travel to the surface!¡±


    <hr>


    Vanerak examines his new boots. Most runeknights are not capable of truly understanding metal. It''s not just that they don''t understand it¡ªthat goes without saying. They can never understand it.


    Metal holds a secret all but a few can perceive. This is the real reason so few dwarves ascend past second degree. But it is a secret Vanerak understands well.


    The metal of his boots is nearly flawless. The iron gleams with a purity steel could never have. Their shape is near perfect also, though since this craft is such a rushed one, he can''t help feeling a little disappointed. These boots could''ve been much more.


    Now it''s time to create the runes. Affixed to the wall of his forge are two long sheets of paper covered in them. Each symbol is barely the size of a flea, though each is still perfect in form, even in ink. A runeknight must strive for perfection in every aspect of his craft. Anyone who cuts corners, especially of runes, is not worthy of the title.


    He''s prepared a roll of thin wire. Unfortunately he''s had no choice but to purchase the stuff, and so it''s a product of the hands of a common metalworker. A skilled one, of course, the best, but still a mere metalworker. Some sections are thicker than others. Most runeknights would not notice this, but Vanerak does. And the metal does not contain the secret.


    Still, there are times when speed is more important than perfection. Sometimes one must cut corners. And when the time comes to meet Zathar, he won''t be wearing these boots anyway. He''ll have his proper ones on.


    Smoothly he shapes the wire. Each symbol he forms he checks against the poems on paper. He makes no mistakes, never does, but still he must check.


    The twin poems sing of the surface wind. Vanerak has been up there many times, and knows the feel of it well. The wind flows across the grasses, through the trees, through the valleys and over the hills. The runes are of the Volot script, one of the only that contains all the words needed for describing the surface.


    He wonders if Zathar has used it before. Maybe he''s extended it. Vanerak''s mouth waters at the thought.


    He must have that dwarf! He must!


    The wind blows past the hills of Tallreach and onto the tundra wastes. It picks up flecks of snow. It brushes the hair on the backs of mighty white bears. The poem''s description of all this is detailed in the extreme, and beautiful. Vanerak imagines it would move many dwarves to tears.


    Then the wind is blowing up the foothills of the Mountain of Halajatbast, but the poem ends there. No one knows what the mountain looks like now, so it would be folly to attempt to describe it. And this poem is for the journey, not the destination.


    Vanerak readies his reagent mix. It''s a precisely measured concoction of half of the major reagents and three minor ones, but the exact contents are a secret.


    It flashes blue-purple as he grafts, and very brightly. The instantaneous shadows it casts are sharply defined. The air in the forge hums with power.


    Finally, after many hours, the task is done. Vanerak assembles the boots then equips them. He paces around the forge. He grimaces. His stepping doesn''t feel quite so even as he''d like, but there''s no time to remake the craft.


    Zathar is waiting for him.

 Dragonhunt 40: Xomhyrks Advice

    The valleys for three miles around our hill are filled with human blood and choked with human corpses. I feel queasy looking at the red, but it''s a good kind of queasiness, like the feeling you get after having ten too many beers. There''s a happiness to it. We have taken our revenge for those we lost a hundred times over.


    But our losses are great. Out of our army of five hundred, over one hundred have fallen, most to lightning. About the same number are injured, some seriously. Our guild fared better than most, but still worse than I feared. Ten of our sixty-two are dead, including Jerat, and thirteen are injured, including Guthah, whose spear-arm is broken badly and burned worse.


    Someone approaches, then sits down next to me on the outcrop. I feel colder all of a sudden. My craft may be my greatest yet, but it is still scrap compared to that of a first degree.


    "Congratulations on slaying the wizard," says Xomhyrk.


    "It was you who slew him. If you hadn''t done whatever you did, I''d be dead."


    "But you killed the other one by yourself. For that you deserve a great deal of praise."


    "Thank you."


    Xomhyrk shakes his head a little. ¡°But still we''ve lost so many. And now to bury our dead so high up... Doesn''t seem right, does it?"


    ¡°I suppose not.¡±


    ¡°A dwarf''s final resting place should be deep below. Preferably in the fires of the magma sea.¡±


    ¡°I can''t say I''ve ever really thought about it. I''d prefer not to die, if possible.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you are young, to be able to say that.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? Don''t we all strive for immortality?¡±


    ¡°Is such a thing possible?¡±


    ¡°It is, if your amulet is well-forged enough.¡±


    ¡°They are amulets of unaging, not immortality. A well-place axe-blow will fell even a Runegod.¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    He says nothing for a while. I sit still, hoping that he''ll go away and let me be alone with my grief and my blood-drunkeness.


    ¡°Isn''t the funeral starting soon?¡± I ask, when it becomes clear he isn''t leaving.


    ¡°Not for a while. We have time to talk.¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± I turn to him and frown. ¡°You seem interested in me.¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°Because I''m the traitor?¡±


    ¡°I heard that you were absolved of that crime.¡±


    ¡°Many don''t accept the ruling. I''m surprised that you do.¡±


    ¡°I understand dragons better than most. They can be very persuasive. I''ve never fallen for one''s words, but I was already fourth degree when I met my first.¡±


    ¡°I see. Then why are you interested in me?¡±


    ¡°Your runes.¡±


    I shift away from him instinctively. ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°They''re unique.¡±


    ¡°They''re like everyone else''s.¡±


    He chuckles. ¡°Allabrast has many great runic libraries. They are so deep that, when entering one, as I''ve done on a few occasions, it''s easy to believe that they''re endless, and the runes they contain endless also. But I know better than that. I know that the only runes there are, are those the Runeforger created all those tens of thousands of years ago.¡±


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    ¡°I don''t see what you''re getting at.¡±


    ¡°Yes you do. Your runes are new ones. That script on your armor¡ª¡°


    ¡°It was in one of the libraries. Deep at the bottom.¡±


    ¡°Ah, now you''ve proved it to me. You would not be allowed into the base levels of the libraries. Their guardians are strict about who gains access to those runes¡ªvery strict.¡±


    I scowl. ¡°It was just above those levels.¡±


    ¡°No. You created that script.¡±


    ¡°Impossible.¡±


    ¡°There''s no use lying to me, Zathar. When we left Allabrast I was keeping careful watch of the Runeking''s eyes. They were not staring at me and my guild, but at you.¡±


    ¡°If the Runeking was so interested in me, if he thought I had the power of runeforging, he wouldn''t have let me leave the city.¡±


    ¡°He might have. Who can predict what a Runeking will do?¡±


    ¡°It''s illogical.¡±


    ¡°Many dwarves are. Maybe he just trusts you, or trusts in fate, or some such force like that.¡±


    ¡°There''s nothing new about my runes.¡±


    ¡°You''re not a particularly trusting dwarf, are you?¡±


    ¡°Not of strangers, no.¡±


    ¡°That''s fair enough. But I''ll give you some advice. Not all scripts are created equal. The one on your armor seems, to me, to be one of the weaker ones. It suits your purposes well, yes, but the runes don''t have as much potential for power as most. And the way they rhyme is somewhat restrictive.¡±


    It takes a few seconds for what he''s just said to sink in.


    ¡°You can read them?¡±


    ¡°I am seven centuries old. I''ve learned to recognize certain patterns, and though I can''t be sure of every single rune, I can see the flow.¡±


    ¡°And you think it''s not good enough?¡±


    Despite my grief, my anger, my fear, and everything else in me, it seems there''s still room in my heart for one more emotion: offense.


    ¡°I think you''ve got a lot of work ahead of you if you''re ever to equal the first Runeforger.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± I say sharply.


    He stands up. ¡°I best see to my guild. But one last thing, Zathar: there''s no use hiding your powers. They''ll be known to all soon enough¡ªnot that I''m going to spread rumors, but others aren''t so tight-lipped.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure you do.¡±


    He makes to leave, then I shout after him:


    ¡°Wait, Xomhyrk! I want to know something.¡±


    He turns back. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°How did you get up the hill so fast?¡±


    ¡°You mean in the battle?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Take a good look at my armor. A good look.¡±


    I stand up and walk a few steps closer to him. I examine the blue tungsten. Unlike him, I''m not good enough to read runes I''ve never seen before.


    ¡°I can''t read the runes.¡±


    ¡°It''s not in the runes. Look at the metal.¡±


    I frown at it. It''s well-made, very smooth, incredibly polished even after being battered by so many arrows and spears, with barely a scratch on it. Yet I don''t see how that relates to him being able to fly from the top of one hill to halfway up another.


    ¡°I can''t tell,¡± I say.


    ¡°Then you aren''t ready to know. Keep thinking on it.¡±


    He leaves. I scowl and sit back on the outcrop. First he insults my runes, and now he won''t even give me a straight answer about his own forging! And after I all but admitted my powers to him.


    I shake my head. Probably I ought to feel happy that such a powerful dwarf has taken an interest in me. And not only is he a powerful dwarf, but he''s one who shares my goal, wants to help me see my oath through. I should accept his friendship. Or mentorship, since he''s too far above me for me to truly be able to call him a friend. Friend implies some degree of equality.


    I''m just in a bad mood. If grief can be called a bad mood. Jerat¡ªI can''t believe he''s gone. And poor Guthah, so promising. I saw his wound. There''s going to be permanent damage for sure.


    The dead are lying in rows at the top of hill. I walk up to where ours are, my armor creaking. It feels heavy¡ªit''s dented and scorched, and slightly melted where the lightning struck. It''s in bad need of repairs.


    Jerat is first in line, as our most senior loss. His visor is mercifully closed. Faltast is sitting beside him. He''s been there for a while. Strangely there are no tears on his cheeks.


    I sit opposite him.


    ¡°He was your closest friend,¡± I say. ¡°I can''t imagine how you''re feeling.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Not as bad as I expected, to be honest.¡±


    I''m not sure how to respond to that.


    ¡°Of course I''m sad,¡± he says after a long minute of silence. He sighs. ¡°But it was always going to end this way.¡±


    ¡°You might have been struck first.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. But... No. This was his fate. Maybe his punishment.¡±


    I frown. ¡°His punishment?¡±


    ¡°For never sobering up.¡± Faltast shakes his head. ¡°Doing things by instinct alone is a stupid idea, Zathar. What possessed him to make runes of lightning for a trip to the surface I''ll never know.¡±


    ¡°None of us expected the humans to have power like that.¡±


    ¡°Even so, lightning is of the surface. Of above the surface. It''s not something dwarves ought to wield. Just because runes exist for something doesn''t mean they should be written.¡±


    ¡°I see. But aren''t you being a little¡ª¡°


    ¡°Harsh?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°He was my friend. I have a right to criticize him. Even in death.¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°There''s no need to be sorry. Every runeknight dies in battle eventually. Those who don''t weren''t trying hard enough.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think anyone can accuse those here of not trying.¡±


    ¡°You''re right on that front. We''re all trying our damnest to get killed out here.¡± He suddenly laughs. ¡°Oh, shit. What have we got ourselves into, Zathar? Wharoth was right¡ªthis is a suicide quest.¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk will pull us through.¡±


    ¡°Against the dragon? Its breath has the power of a thousand wizards.¡±


    ¡°It''s not invulnerable,¡± I say stubbornly.


    ¡°No. But neither is it particularly vulnerable.¡± He looks down at his axe. It''s dark with dried blood. ¡°This thing kills humans well enough, but I can''t help but feel that the dragon will barely notice, even if it does get through its hide.¡±


    I grimace. ¡°Enough cuts and we''ll fell it, Faltast. And if we don''t¡ªwe tried.¡±

 Dragonhunt 41: The Roar That Is Flame Given Voice

    Hardrick stands at the mouth of the tunnel. He feels funny inside, a little sick. His heart is beating very rapidly. The feeling is fear, he realizes. He hasn''t felt fear for a long time, but he feels it now. He''s afraid.


    ¡°Afraid of what?¡± whispers the shadow. ¡°A mere dragon?¡±


    ¡°Mere?¡± Hardrick hisses. ¡°Just look at the fucking thing!¡±


    Runethane Broderick''s army has spread with remarkable rapidity¡ªborn of sure discipline¡ªthroughout the Mountain of Halajatbast to surround the black dragon, which has melted out a lair for itself in the mountain''s very heart.


    From a hundred tunnels dwarves stand ready to pour. Ballistae jut from hidden alcoves. The Runethane himself¡ªand two more, who''ve arrived suddenly with their own small, elite forces, half to Broderick''s chagrin and half to his relief¡ªare positioned near the dragon''s tail, just below its great mound of treasure.


    Despite the cave''s darkness, the black dragon is clear to see, for it''s not completely black. White heat glows through the gaps between scales.


    ¡°A blemish,¡± says the shadow. ¡°Dirty, foul beasts are all dragons are. I look forward to putting this one down.¡±


    ¡°Putting it down?¡± Hardrick hisses. ¡°Are you out of your fucking mind?¡±


    The black dragon has grown since he last saw it, or maybe it just looks bigger now he''s up close. Either way it''s huge. Its wingspan must be six hundred yards. Its claws could grasp a dozen dwarves at once to crush into paste. Just a tap of one finger probably has the force of a rockfall behind it. One swing of its tail would crush a good third of the army.


    And as for its fire! Some of Broderick''s scouts took a trip to the surface a few days ago, to check on the state of the mountain from without. They saw that the black dragon burned its way in¡ªa hole nearly a mile in diameter mars the center of the mountain. It gets smaller in diameter further in, apparently, so the dragon is thankfully not completely unlimited in power, but even so...


    ¡°Our runes will protect us,¡± says the shadow, but Hardrick can sense a trace of doubt in its voice.


    ¡°There''s no doubt!¡± it snaps.


    ¡°If you say so,¡± whispers Hardrick. ¡°If you say so.¡±


    He readies his glaive. The command could come any minute now. There''s no time to waste. A sleeping dragon, after all, is a lot easier to kill than an awake and angry one.


    <hr>


    Xomhyrk, after some discussion with his second in command Gollor and some of the representatives from the other guilds, decides after all that on top of the hill is not a proper place to bury dwarven dead. We carry them, two to a corpse, down the slope and north to where a deep valley sinks into the ground to become the nearest cave leading to the underworld.


    It''s damp and dank. White, flakey grass¡ªI''m not sure it even is grass, actually¡ªcrunches underfoot. The high ceiling looks unstable to me, is strangely sunken in parts. I wonder if the king had some plan to collapse it once we were in.


    No one will ever know that now.


    A river runs through the valley-cave. We make our way down alongside it. It''s roaring and foaming white. The white turns to gray as the darkness deepens, then black. I equip my runic ears. The sound of the river, while loud, is constant, so doesn''t disturb my balance so much.


    After an hour''s walk I can hear that the river will soon become a waterfall. Half an hour later, Xomhyrk guesses this too and calls a halt.


    ¡°Here is where we bury our dead!¡± he shouts. ¡°May the waters carry them deep below, where they might find rest after a hard-fought battle.¡±


    We take one last look at the dead. I look into Jerat''s visor and choke back tears. He wrote good runes, and maybe more importantly, he was a laugh to be around. I could never feel completely down with him beside me.


    Braztak and Faltast swing him back once, then forward, and then they let go, throwing him into the raging waters. He vanishes into the foam, forever.


    I can hear sobbing, shouts of anger, shouts of despair. It''s bad form for a runeknight to show too much grief, but that doesn''t mean we don''t feel it. Those shouting and sobbing think their voices are lost to raging of the river¡ªbut I can hear them.


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    It becomes too much and I remove my runic ears. My ones of flesh are ringing, and I''m shaking a little.


    Xomhyrk lets us grieve for a few minutes, then we turn and march out back into the moonlit hills. He orders us into a square formation just below an outcrop, upon which he stands. He lifts his visor so we can all see his face clearly. His expression is one of determination. He speaks:


    ¡°My dwarves, we have suffered terrible losses today. More terrible than I''d expected for so soon into our journey. The humans proved difficult opponents. Yet, thanks to our efforts, and the brave sacrifice of our comrades, we overcame them.


    ¡°Your friends died bravely. Their lives meant more than most dwarves'' lives come to mean. They died for a great purpose. They died that we might march on to rid the world of a most terrible threat. They are heroes.¡±


    I can see many dwarves nodding, but there are also a few shaking their heads.


    ¡°The humans will trouble us no longer,¡± Xomhyrk continues. ¡°News of such a great slaughter will spread. If they dragged in every wizard and every soldier from across their lands, maybe they could defeat us, but they know the cost will be far greater than it''s worth. In half a month we''ll be out of Tallreach anyway.


    ¡°Then we''ll be into the tundra. It''s a cold land, though not as cold as the very far north. It''s inhabited only sparsely by humans, though we will still face danger. Many beasts roam there. Some won''t fear to attack us.


    ¡°Yet I don''t think we will face anything as powerful as the humans'' wizard. The human king was not entirely lying when he said that dragons do not like to face wizards. So much lightning might have hurt the creature at least somewhat, if it had ever decided to attack them.


    ¡°And if we can hurt something that could hurt it, that means we can also hurt it. Do you see my logic? A fourth degree¡ªZathar, already striving hard to fulfill his oath¡ªwas able to kill the wielder of terrible power. That means each of you have the potential to harm the dragon also.¡±


    There''s some muttering at this. I don''t think everyone''s convinced of the logic. Dragons have hard scales and wizards do not.


    ¡°Scales have gaps!¡± Xomhyrk says. ¡°Stop doubting your blades, my dwarves. They''ll pierce dragonhide just so long as you have strength and precision. Cease from fearing loss also. Accept it!¡± He puts steel into his tone. ¡°We will lose a lot more before this quest is up! Accept that you may die also!¡±


    There''s a shocked silence, then more muttering. I sneer.


    ¡°Treasure,¡± I say under my breath. ¡°That''s all most of this lot were thinking about. Gold and runes and gems. But they aren''t prepared to die for those.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± whispers Braztak next to me. ¡°But we have a greater goal in mind. And we are prepared to die for it. We are!¡±


    ¡°I wonder,¡± Faltast says quietly, ¡°how many of this army will vanish in the night.¡±


    ¡°Many,¡± says Braztak. ¡°But not you, I''m sure.¡±


    ¡°No. Of course not.¡±


    I wonder about that a little.


    ¡°Quiet!¡± Xomhyrk shouts. ¡°We have things to do before we rest. First is the gathering of more supplies. The humans brought rations with them, water also. Let us¡ª¡°


    <hr>


    Dwarves! I can smell them as I dream. They''ve snuck up on me while I slept, these treasure-hunters and would-be dragonslayers. They''ve brought bolt-throwers with them. I can smell the lubricating oil. And at my tail are some powerful creatures indeed.


    Runethanes, if I''m not mistaken. Dwarves are small and weak, and like to be ordered around by those more powerful than them. Runethanes do the ordering.


    Against me they are nothing. Their equipment will make a delicious addition to my already succulent hoard. It won''t quite equal the magic in the runes of their king, but that magic is already fading quicker than I''d hoped.


    Wait. There''s another smell here. Far away, faint, the barest hint on the breath of the tunnels leading north.


    A very familiar smell, yet riper than when I last scented it.


    He''s alive.


    Alive!


    The one whose runes tasted so perfect.


    And he''s come to offer his magic to me once more.


    I must have it! I must take it! I must devour it! I must!


    First, though, I must deal with the more immediate issue at claw. I open my eyes.


    Dwarven shouts and the hiss of dwarven bolts fill the dark air. Metal rain beats on my skin. Blades pry at my scales. One pierces!


    I snarl in anger, then make the dark bright.


    <hr>


    ¡°Let us¡ª¡±


    The sky to the north lights up. I shout in shock, expecting lightning to fall, but there''s no thunder. This light is silent, like a sunrise, but one in completely the wrong direction, and it''s the wrong color too. It''s a hot, pale yellow, like that produced by molten stone.


    For several minutes we all stare up past the hill at it. Dwarves mutter:


    ¡°Could it be...?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°The mountain is still far.¡±


    ¡°Then what?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know. But it can''t be...¡±


    ¡°Dragonfire.¡±


    The heat comes next, in a dry wind rushing around the sides of the hill in front. I stagger back a few steps. Terrible memories surface in my mind. My legs itch to flee.


    ¡°It''s the dragon!¡± someone screams. ¡°It''s come for us!¡±


    ¡°Don''t move!¡± yells Xomhyrk. ¡°Stay where you are!¡±


    A few dwarves are already running down the valley into the caverns. More than a few. Xomhyrk''s Dragonslayers move to block them. There''s shouting, and the clash of steel on tungsten.


    ¡°Stop!¡± roars Xomhyrk. ¡°Let the cowards flee! If they''re scared now, they''ll be no use when the fight comes! I have no need for weaklings!¡±


    I was faltering back, but now I halt myself. This is no time to retreat. A magnetism takes hold in my legs, and in the metal of my boots also¡ªa magnetism pulling me north. I look up at the horizon, at the orange. My visor seems to grow more transparent. My armor is telling me that this is the direction in which I am to go.


    The roaring comes next: the sound of flame given voice. A sound I am very familiar with, yet today it strikes no fear into my heart.


    Only rage.


    ¡°Dragon!¡± I scream into the roaring and the heat. ¡°Black dragon! I''m coming for you!¡±


    The roaring grows louder, the heat hotter. I match its fury.


    ¡°I''m coming to kill you!¡± I scream. ¡°Kill you!¡±


    END OF ACT TWO

 Dragonhunt 42: Fallen in The Snow

    A week and a half after the battle with the humans and the subsequent fire and roaring from the north, two hundred and fifty of us march out of the hills of Tallreach into the tundra. Out of the four hundred who survived the battle, more than a hundred fled when they heard the dragon, and another fifty have perished from injuries.


    Before us stretches a land of half snow, half frozen dirt. The snows haven''t yet begun falling in earnest, I''m told, so the snow is not quite the pristine white I''d expected. Nevertheless I take a moment to stoop down and take a handful from the ground.


    The cold of my gauntlet freezes the flakes into one mass. I wish I was barehanded so I could feel them properly, feel how they melt against my bare skin, but I''ve no time to take my gauntlets off now.


    Xomhyrk''s had us marching double-time since the dragon''s roar. I think he''s worried that Uthrarzak''s dwarves have already defeated it. I share his worry. Gutspiercer aches to be buried in dragonflesh.


    My body is aching also, in a more mundane way. My ruby amulet succeeded in saving my life¡ªI can no longer imagine taking it off, now¡ªbut its power wasn''t enough to protect me from every injury. I have heavy bruises that haven''t yet healed, and many new scars, especially over my chest.


    A web of red is drawn across the skin under my beard. The lightning has left its mark. Maybe it''ll fade with time, or maybe it won''t, and will become a permanent blemish like the black line in my vision.


    My bodily injuries aren''t my main concern though. My armor''s are. Every step weighs heavily. The wind no longer flows over the metal so smoothly. The crystals that form whenever I place my palm against something quickly melt, and worst of all there''s a slight fog over my vision. In short, it needs repairing.


    There''s not a runeknight with us whose armor isn''t scarred or broken in some way. Mostly the damage is just dents from innumerable arrow and spear impacts, but a few have had their plates'' poems completely killed by lightning strike. Those need to be completely re-enruned.


    Pellas'' suit of armor is one of the worst damaged. She carries half the pieces in a sack thrown over her shoulder. Without runes of strength to help her, she looks terribly strained.


    ¡°Are you sure you don''t want me to carry anything?¡± I say, for about the tenth time.


    ¡°I can shoulder my own burdens.¡±


    ¡°I used to think that as well, and it got me on the side of a dragon.¡±


    ¡°Even so, I''m fine.¡±


    ¡°It''s still a long way until Heldfast Hill.¡±


    ¡°I''ll make it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but when you do, are you really going to be in any shape to forge?¡±


    ¡°I''ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think you will. Let me carry it for a few hours¡ªif you collapse you''ll slow us down.¡±


    She slows, then stops. She sighs.


    ¡°Oh, fine. If it''s just a few hours.¡±


    I''m a little surprised that she''s given in¡ªmust be even more exhausted than she looks. I take the sack from her and she looks relieved.


    It feels rather too heavy. I think she''s made the plates too thick, probably in the mistaken belief that the physical mass will make up for the lack of defensive runes.


    ¡°It''s too damn cold,¡± she says. ¡°It''d be bad enough in armor. In just clothes I feel like my skin''s going to freeze solid.¡±


    ¡°Better cold than fire.¡±


    ¡°I''ll almost be happy to see the dragon.¡±


    ¡°Hah! You''ll regret having said that when you meet it. Though I''m glad of your enthusiasm.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I feel everyone else''s has waned a little.¡±


    We walk in silence for a few more minutes. Then she asks:


    ¡°How far is it, exactly, to Heldfast Hill?¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk said a week.¡±


    ¡°He said that more than a long-hour ago. How long now?¡±


    ¡°A few days then, maybe. Only he knows for sure.¡±


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    ¡°I wish some of those bears he talked about would show up. I could use their furs.¡±


    ¡°It''s only going to get colder from now on. Best toughen up.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know.¡±


    Despite Xomhyrk''s eagerness to get to the dragon, he accepts that we need to make repairs, so right now we''re on a detour to the north east. Our plan is to visit a small, fiercely independent realm buried underneath one of the only rises in the tundra before the Mountain of Halajatbast. This is Heldfast Hill. Xomhyrk went there a very long time ago, apparently, and just so long as the dragon didn''t blast it on its flight up, we ought to be able to buy metal and hire out forges there.


    The gray sky darkens to black. I return Pellas'' sack of armor. White flakes of snow freeze onto the face of my helmet and I''m too tired to brush them away. I walk on blindly, until my fear overcomes my exhaustion, and I affix my runic ears.


    I can hear the shape of the landscape etched in the currents of the wind. It''s flat and almost featureless, and I realize that this is the place my poems mention, the plain of ice, frozen forever and which will remain frozen forever. Or is it just similar? I''m too tired to wonder too hard.


    I hear low voices in front and from behind.


    ¡°...doesn''t know where we''re going...¡±


    ¡°...we should''ve left with the...¡±


    ¡°...just wants the riches. The mountain. He''ll leave us for...¡±


    ¡°...don''t want to fight whatever could make...¡±


    ¡°Me neither.¡±


    I don''t think they''re from our guild. It''s still bad news though. Our army is even smaller than it appears to be. Probably once we reach Heldfast Hill, quite a few dwarves are going to vanish into the underworld. They''d rather take their chances with Runeking Uthrarzak¡ªalthough Heldfast Hill isn''t technically part of his lands, the dwarves there must be on good terms with him to still be alive. There''ll be plenty of tunnels leading down to less immediate danger.


    A glow comes over the sky. For a moment I''m startled, and I raise Gutspiercer, but the glow is from the east, not the north, and comes with little heat. Just the dawn. I lower my weapon. A groan leaves my lips¡ªeven the slow movement of lifting and lowering Gutspiercer is a strain.


    We continue to trudge north-east. Snow and gravel crunch underneath my boots. I spot a few clusters of short, pale green mushrooms. This land isn''t quite like the one in my poems then. There''s a little life here.


    More walking. The sun, just a pale light obscured by the clouds, curves over our heads and then it''s sinking below the lands once more. Blackness falls.


    I put my runic ears back on. I listen to the shape of the wind blowing around me and hear the sound-shadows of the dwarves of our army. They seem more spread out than before. Some must be lagging behind.


    Are those lagging the tenth degrees? It''s more than likely. And they''re meant to be my responsibility, are they not? Yes, a responsibility I took upon myself.


    I turn and trudge down the line. Will some look at me and think I''m retreating? No, their heads are bowed. They''re too exhausted to worry about others.


    Where are my tenth degrees? I see Pellas trudging along at a steady pace. Briefly I consider offering to help with her load again. Maybe later¡ªI need to check on everyone else first. I continue down, and see Katak. His back is bent. That heavy hammer, its shaft crooked now, isn''t doing him any favors.


    ¡°Stay strong,¡± I tell him. ¡°You''ll face worse journeys than this in future.¡±


    He nods and straightens his stance a little.


    I give similar encouragement to the next tenth degree I pass, and the next, and the following four as well. To my surprise, my words have an effect on all of them. Back in training, they listened to me only reluctantly. But now they''ve had a taste of the kind of danger I went through to reach my level of skill and experience, it seems they''re a bit more willing to listen.


    Where''s Guthah, though? I haven''t seen him yet, and I''m nearly at the end of the line. I hurry along. The wind whistles in my runic ears, making it hard to balance. I slip and fall a couple times. Then I reach the end of the line and he''s still nowhere to be heard.


    Shit! I''m running now. I saw him yesterday, I''m sure of it. Has he fallen? Has the strain of his injury gotten too much, even for him? He''s tough, but his blood is still that of jewelers, who are skilled yet soft.


    Is he lying dead in the snow? Surely not. No, he can''t be. Can''t be! I stop and listen carefully. Once the sound of my heavy breathing subsides¡ªit''s a tortured sound, but fear for my student means I''m barely feeling the strain it signals¡ªI detect an imprint in the snow only a few dozen yards ahead.


    I hurry toward it. Now I''m standing over it, and can hear the shape of a spear, and that of a dwarf lying by it.


    ¡°Guthah!¡± I shout. ¡°Wake up!¡±


    To my relief, he stirs.


    ¡°Zathar?¡±


    ¡°Stand up!¡±


    ¡°I can''t. I can''t do this.¡±


    ¡°Stand up! You''re a runeknight! Stand up!¡±


    ¡°I can''t.¡±


    I kneel down and grasp him by the wrist. I struggle to pull him up. His body is limp. He''s either refusing to move or genuinely unable to.


    ¡°You''ll die here now if you don''t stand!¡± I shout. ¡°Stand up, Guthah! I don''t want to lose another friend.¡±


    He gasps, and with a furious effort, strains to stand. It takes nearly a minute until he''s back on his feet, and then for a few minutes more I daren''t let go lest he fall back over.


    Eventually his breath steadies. I pick up his spear for him. ¡°Take it.¡±


    He does so.


    ¡°You can stand after all.¡±


    ¡°Zathar, I don''t think I''m going to last much longer.¡±


    ¡°You will. We''re nearly at our destination.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. A few more days march and we''ll be there.¡±


    ¡°A few more days of this?¡± He sounds like he''s on the verge of tears, or maybe gone past them.


    ¡°Maybe we''ll take a rest, maybe we won''t. Either way, you have to continue. Your legs aren''t injured, are they?¡±


    ¡°No. I''m just exhausted. My wrist... It won''t move properly, instructor.¡±


    ¡°That''s to be expected.¡±


    ¡°I think this is permanent.¡±


    ¡°It might be.¡±


    ¡°I won''t be able to fight properly.¡±


    ¡°Yes you will. Do you think fighting is about moving your body?¡±


    He has no reply to that.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°Fighting is about having better weapons, better armor.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Your runes are more important. Stop worrying so much. Some runeknights lose limbs and continue to fight.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Come on, Guthah. You shouldn''t lag behind everyone. There''s bears out here, remember?¡±


    ¡°I still don''t think I can do this.¡±


    I grip his shoulders. ¡°You must! We must! Who else is going to destroy the dragon?¡±


    ¡°No one. Only us.¡±


    ¡°And do you really believe that?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know anymore.¡±


    ¡°You do believe it. You must! We came on this quest because we''re going to destroy the dragon. You''re better than this, Guthah. Stronger than this. Now come on!¡±

 Dragonhunt 43: Heldfast Hill

    I lead Guthah up the line. As we pass the other tenth degrees of the guild, I order them to follow. From now on we''re going to stick together¡ªI won''t have any collapsing into the snow to lie unseen. When Braztak notices this, he nods in approval. He and Erak gather the rest of the guild as well, and we march in one troop.


    If the other guilds want to spread apart and risk ambush, that''s their trouble. The Association of Steel will stay disciplined.


    The march seems to get a bit easier after this. Maybe Xomhyrk has slowed the pace a little, but mostly I think the presence of friends is just giving us all a little more faith in our quest.


    At the end of the following day, a rise in the land becomes apparent. At first it''s indistinct through the haze of light snow, but in the morning the snow clears and we can see that the hill is indeed a place of dwarven ownership. A wall of well-cut, massive stone blocks encircles it, and upon its top are several squat towers. Metal glints in them. I suspect they house huge ballistae.


    The hill seems to grow in height as we advance. I catch sight of small figures on the walls and the top towers. Dwarves, but are they friend or foe? How deep does their friendship with Runeking Uthrarzak run?


    Xomhyrk seems unafraid. He increases the pace, and now that our goal¡ªour interim goal, at least¡ªis in sight, we''re happy to trudge a little faster.


    By late afternoon we''re on an even road leading straight to the main gates. Deep grooves are cut into it, I assume for tracks, which means that it likely leads to the underground. I look back to see if any dwarves have vanished and get the feeling that a few have.


    ¡°They''re opening!¡± someone shouts. ¡°Look!¡±


    I turn back to the front. The gates in the great wall are indeed swinging slowly apart. From between them emerges a small group of runeknights. Their armor glitters red, blue, green and white. As both we and they advance, I see the cause of the glittering¡ªI''ve never seen so many gems embedded into plate.


    Xomhryk calls for a halt. We watch as he and his commanders walk up to the party. I tense, wondering if a fight''s about to break out. I don''t want one to. Gutspiercer does, but I mutter under my breath:


    ¡°We''re here to kill the dragon!¡±


    After about half an hour of discussion, Xomhyrk calls for us to keep on moving. To my relief, the gates are staying open, and, moreover, the gem-covered dwarves seem to be talking quite happily to him¡ªI''ve put my runic ears on to see if I can eavesdrop anything. I can''t make out words, but I can at least tell the tone of their voices.


    It''s just getting dark when we finally reach the gates. Up close they''re truly quite high, and of truly high-quality stone work. Each block is smooth as if polished and barely looks weathered, even though out here exposed to the wind one would expect them to be in a poor state.


    Once through we head straight on through another pair of gates. These ones are enruned steel and set into the hill itself. We''re back underground now, winding down a neat tunnel with straight walls and an evenly curved ceiling, and it''s a right relief to have stone over my head again, even if I know we''ll be walking back up and out soon enough.


    One of the Dragonslayers comes down the line to give us some news:


    ¡°The dwarves of Heldfast have promised us a warm welcome. They are glad to have us here. In the past they have also suffered at the claws of dragons, including this one.¡±


    This shocks me. The black dragon attacked here also? And the place survived?


    ¡°We will rest for four short-hours, then they have offered us a generous discount for the use of our forges and materials. Those of you without much gold will be gifted some by Xomhyrk himself, as thanks for showing courage in the face of the humans.


    ¡°This is all.¡±


    He marches past to give the same news to some more dwarves further back.


    ¡°I''m glad we''ll get some gold at least,¡± Faltast says to me. ¡°I have a feeling I''ll need quite a bit.¡±


    ¡°You spent a lot on your new shield?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Nearly everything I had.¡±


    ¡°It''s less battered than I''d thought it''d get.¡±


    ¡°I find that when fighting humans, it''s better to duck than to block. They always aim slightly too high.¡±


    ¡°I can''t say I noticed.¡±


    ¡°We''re different kinds of fighters. I prefer to be a bit more methodical.¡±


    ¡°Dodging isn''t very dwarvish, though.¡±


    ¡°But practical.¡±


    ¡°Very true. Do you know what they eat up here?¡±


    ¡°A lot of good meat, but they drink terrible beer, from what I''ve heard. We''ll find out soon enough.¡±


    But when we get to our accommodation I am too tired to be thinking of food and drink. I collapse onto the bed still in my armor and go to sleep instantly.


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    <hr>


    I wake up and the furs under me are white with frost. I roll off them and a few bits of hair remain stuck to the titanium.


    Now I take my armor off, quietly. This is some kind of communal dormitory, with many beds all next to each other, and I don''t want to wake my guildmates, most of whom are still snoring.


    A robe has been prepared, folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and I put it on. Before I leave I examine my armor in the dim candlelight. It looks worse than I remember. A few runes are struck clean through. I hope they have palladium for sale here, and salterite and jasperite also.


    Repairs will have to wait for food, though. My belly is nearly sore with hunger. I walk out the dormitory and wander down the corridor. I hear the sound of talking, and laughter, so head toward it. Sure enough, through a high arch is what looks like a guildhall. I recognize a few faces from our army, though most here seem to be hill dwarves¡ªa little taller than those of us who dwell properly underground, with beards a little less long.


    I walk in, wondering if I''m going to have to ask one of the Dragonslayers to lend me some coin to buy a drink and meal with.


    Someone slaps me on the back. I turn, and it''s one of the hill dwarves.


    ¡°Here for food and drink?¡± His accent is strange, lilting up at the end of most words.


    ¡°Yes, though I don''t have any coin on me, I''m afraid.¡±


    ¡°No trouble. Your leader is paying for everything. Head to the table over there, write down what you want, and we''ll bring it to you.¡± He winks. ¡°Your leader''s paying, so buy whatever you want.¡±


    His friendliness unnerves me a little bit, but I''m hardly going to refuse free food and drink, so I go to the side of the room and the table he pointed out. A tall gray-haired dwarfess gestures to some slips of paper and a quill. I ask her what I can order, and how much, and she says whatever I want, within reason.


    I write down a fairly vague order, since I don''t know what they have available, for meat, vegetables, and two beers. The dwarfess smirks as she takes it.


    ¡°Wait here please. We''ll get you your food in a moment.¡±


    I look around the hall, worried about her smirk, thinking that I might have made some mistake. At the far end I can see Xomhyrk, sitting with what looks like all of the Dragonslayers. They''ve got up even earlier than I have.


    They''re damn tough, those dwarves. They barely look tired, and their armor isn''t half as damaged as most of the rest of ours is. It''s better forged than it looks, and it looks pretty well-forged already.


    ¡°Your food,¡± announces the dwarfess.


    She passes me a thin iron tray. It''s heavy with food. There''s a massive slab of dark red, steaming meat, a great pile of odd-looking vegetables, and two mugs of chilled, foaming beer, each nearly the size of my head.


    ¡°How much was this?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You never specified how much you wanted to pay. So we gave you the best. Don''t worry though¡ª¡°


    ¡°¡ªXomhyrk''s paying,¡± I finish. ¡°Thank you very much.¡±


    I hurry to the back of the hall to where hopefully Xomhyrk and his guild can''t see me, and tuck in to my meat somewhat guiltily. It''s very good¡ªI dread to think of how much it cost. The vegetables are coated with a strange smelling powder which, although it doesn''t taste good, does taste expensive.


    But the beer! It''s some of the best I''ve ever had. Very strong too¡ªonce I''ve downed both, I find I''m not too worried about the cost of my meal anymore. I sit back and close my eyes, satisfied.


    ¡°You took my advice, I see.¡±


    The hill dwarf who talked to me earlier sits down opposite me.


    "Yeah," I say.


    "Enjoying it?"


    "Yeah. Your best food?"


    "Close to. Your Xomhyrk is very generous, paying for all this luxury.¡±


    ¡°He is. More to the point, I think he''s sick of dwarves running away.¡±


    ¡°I don''t blame them too much. I wouldn''t want to face that thing.¡±


    Some more of his friends, intrigued by me for whatever reason, sit down beside him.


    ¡°I blame them,¡± I say. ¡°They agreed to come. It''s cowardly to back out.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, that''s fair. Our elders won''t ever forgive those who vanished when it came for us.¡±


    ¡°It really did?¡± I frown and sit up. My happy stupor fades as suddenly as it came on. ¡°How are you still here?¡±


    ¡°It was a while back,¡± says one of the other hill dwarves, slightly older and tougher looking. ¡°About fifteen years ago, give or take.¡±


    ¡°I see. Just after it destroyed my realm.¡±


    ¡°Ah!¡± says the younger one. ¡°You''re from Broderick''s realm?¡±


    ¡°Thanerzak''s.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. Sorry¡ªwe rarely get visitors from Ulrike''s kingdom.¡±


    ¡°Don''t worry, I''m not offended. We''re not here to make war on our fellow dwarves.¡±


    ¡°Good. War is a waste of life,¡± says the older one. ¡°Us dwarves have enemies enough. What''s your name, by the way? We should introduce ourselves properly.¡±


    ¡°Zathar, fourth degree,¡± I say.


    ¡°Fourth! You look young for a fourth. My name is Jorolot Hadlak.¡± He gestures to the one who first talked to me. ¡°And this here is my nephew, Yeralt Hadlak.¡±


    Two names each! I''d read in books that some dwarves have such a tradition, with one name for their family and one personal name, but it''s still a surprise to ear it with my own ears.


    ¡°It''s good to meet you,¡± I say. ¡°I''m very grateful for the food and shelter. As are all my guild, and the army as a whole.¡±


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± says Yeralt. ¡°We''re the grateful ones. I''m sure we''re next on the black dragon''s list after it''s digested poor old Halajatbast.¡±


    ¡°You think it wants revenge? How in hell did you drive it off the first time?¡±


    ¡°It was tired,¡± says Jorolot.


    ¡°I didn''t know they could get that tired.¡±


    ¡°Well, they''re flame, you see? If they breath out too much of it they get exhausted.¡±


    ¡°It still managed to breath out quite a bit,¡± says Yeralt.


    ¡°Were many killed?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Several thousand. But our ballistae pulled through in the end. Got it a big bolt right through the neck. It flapped off after that.¡±


    ¡°Shame that it took the bolt with it,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°I was one of those who worked on the poem. It was damn fine piece of work.¡±


    ¡°Two dwarves worked on the same poem?¡± I say, surprised.


    ¡°About ten of us did. One stanza each.¡±


    ¡°Seems like a lot of dwarves for one craft.¡±


    ¡°It was a very big craft.¡±


    ¡°They don''t work on crafts together down south,¡± says Yeralt. ¡°It''s a taboo.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How strange. Never?¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    ¡°Well, every place has its own customs, I suppose. Though I''ve heard you won''t be sticking around long enough for us to learn much more.¡±


    ¡°No. We can''t dally. We''ll repair our armor then it''s off to the mountain.¡±


    ¡°Ah, repairs. Always a pain.¡±


    ¡°An expensive pain,¡± adds Yeralt.


    There''s much nodding of heads at this.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± I say. ¡°Though I think you all ought to be happy, since it''s you we have to buy from.¡±


    Jorolot laughs very hard at this. ¡°True, true! I hope you''ll buy from our guild, Zathar. Times have been hard these past few years, with all this trouble with the humans. Trade has gone right down the shit-tunnel.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to see some catalogues?¡± one of the other dwarves asks. ¡°I have a few lying in my office.¡±


    ¡°I''ve got some with me,¡± Yeralt says proudly. He produces some rolls of parchment. ¡°Always ready for business, I am.¡±


    The other dwarf scowls. ¡°Us sixth degrees still have a lot to learn, it seems.¡±


    ¡°Here you are,¡± says Yeralt. ¡°Peruse, please.¡±


    I unroll them. I draw a sharp breath and my eyes widen.


    ¡°Something wrong?¡± says Jorolot.


    There is. Something very wrong indeed. On the parchment are listed pieces of fully-forged armor, pre-formed runes, and the introductory stanzas of full poems.

 Dragonhunt 44: Strange Customs

    My shock turns to anger.


    ¡°What the hell are these?¡± I demand.


    I glare at the younger dwarf then the older. What are they saying by giving me this? That I can''t forge my own armor, create my own poems?


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asks Jorolot. ¡°They''re bits of armor to replace those that got damaged. And new poems for if your runes were broken.¡±


    ¡°You expect me to buy these? Who made them anyway?¡±


    ¡°We did,¡± says Yeralt. He sounds offended. ¡°Are they not good enough for you?¡±


    ¡°That''s not the problem here!¡±


    ¡°Then what is?¡±


    ¡°You mean to say you sell your own armor? Your own runes?¡±


    ¡°How else are we meant to make money?¡±


    ¡°Money? This isn''t about money!¡±


    ¡°What is it about then?¡±


    I stand up. ¡°Pride!¡±


    ¡°Pride won''t bring in gold. How do you make your money in Allabrast, then?¡±


    ¡°The honorable way!¡±


    ¡°What the hell is that meant to mean?¡±


    ¡°Slaying dangerous beasts. Fighting against those who''d do you harm. The whole reason we have weapons and armor.¡±


    ¡°We do that,¡± says Jorolot. He sounds offended too. ¡°But we also make money from forging. Don''t you?¡±


    ¡°No! A runeknight makes his own armor and weapons.¡±


    ¡°What about those who aren''t good enough at forging yet?¡±


    ¡°Then they do as best they can.¡± I can''t help but scowl. ¡°You mean to say anyone here can buy their way into becoming a runeknight?¡±


    One of the other dwarves stands up suddenly. ¡°You take that back!¡±


    I stand up too. ¡°I will not! What kind of runeknight can''t forge?¡±


    ¡°Some fight, some forge. Some do both. What''s so strange about that?¡±


    ¡°A runeknight must do both!¡±


    ¡°Inefficient,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°Why not divide the labor?¡±


    ¡°Because that''s not how things are! And how can you use something you just took from another dwarf? It won''t fit you. Try forging your own armor and you''ll learn for yourself.¡±


    ¡°The fighters know a bit of forging too,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°They adjust things to fit. Or sometimes we help adjust it. It''s not impossible to make something for another, you know.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°It is impossible. When you make a craft, you learn everything about it. When you use another''s, it''s just a lump of metal.¡±


    Yeralt scowls deeper. ¡°Take that remark back. Our crafts are fine.¡±


    ¡°If they were so fine, you''d keep them for yourself.¡±


    ¡°Don''t be so quick to insult us,¡± says one of the others. ¡°Just remember where you are and who surrounds you.¡±


    I glance around. Many of the hill dwarves at the other tables are staring at me with angry looks in their eyes. The Allabrast dwarves look alarmed. I scowl at both groups.


    ¡°Is that a threat?¡± I say.


    ¡°It''s a warning.¡±


    I hear heavy footsteps behind. I turn. It''s one of the senior Dragonslayers¡ªGollor, I think.


    ¡°What''s going on here?¡± he demands. He eyes me suspiciously. ¡°Getting drunk and picking fights, are we?¡±


    I pick up the parchment catalogues and wave them in his face. ¡°They tried to give me these!¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± His expression softens. ¡°Ah, you Allabrast dwarves aren''t so well-traveled, are you?¡±


    ¡°I''m from Thanerzak''s realm,¡± I say coldly. ¡°And I''ve been nearly as deep as a dwarf can go as well. I''ve travelled plenty. Never has someone tried to insult me so.¡±


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    ¡°We intend no insult,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°We''re trying to help.¡±


    ¡°By implying I can''t forge my own armor?¡±


    ¡°We never implied that. We meant no offense¡ªthough I think you, in your subsequent remarks, did.¡±


    ¡°I only told you the right way to do things.¡±


    ¡°The right way?¡± snaps Yeralt. ¡°And what makes your way right, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Runeknights¡ª¡°


    ¡°Quiet!¡± snaps Gollor. ¡°Zathar¡ªyou''re Zathar, aren''t you? Not every dwarf thinks the way you do.¡±


    ¡°I know that. But giving away your crafts for gold! I mean...¡±


    I throw my hands up. I have no more words left to express my utter disgust.


    ¡°We don''t do that where I''m from either," says Gollor. "But every realm has its own way of thinking.¡±


    ¡°I know that.¡±


    ¡°You don''t know the half of it. Far, far to the south, in the sandstone catacombs, there are dwarves who''d laugh at you for forging armor. And they''d be insulted if you offered to give them metal to forge with.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow.


    ¡°Do you think I''m lying to you?¡±


    ¡°Dwarves that don''t use metal? I''ll believe it when I see it.¡±


    ¡°They do use metal. They just won''t buy it. There''s a great many rockworms in that land. They turn ore into skin, a bit like iron-trolls. A real dwarf has to craft with the spoils of a hunt. And only weapons¡ªif you need armor, that means your weapon isn''t good enough, and your jewelry not powerful enough. Their protection is speed and accuracy.¡±


    ¡°I see. And do they sell their weapons?¡±


    ¡°No. They would be as insulted as you are at the suggestion."


    "Well, there you have it. Exactly."


    "My point is that there''s many kinds of thinking out in the underworld.¡±


    "That doesn''t mean there aren''t right and wrong ways of thinking."


    Now it''s Gollor''s turn to throw his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. I''m not saying you have to like how they live here. But we are their guests and must show them respect."


    ¡°All right,¡± I say reluctantly. ¡°You''re right. We are their guests." I glare at Jorolot and Yeralt. ¡°But I''m still not buying anything from you.¡±


    ¡°We do sell raw materials as well,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°Untouched ore.¡±


    ¡°Runeknights generally don''t melt down their own ore.¡±


    ¡°Some of us do,¡± says Gollor. ¡°Some would say it''s silly to leave such an important task to mere metalworkers.¡±


    ¡°See?¡± Yeralt says triumphantly. ¡°You Allabrast dwarves might not be so perfect after all.¡±


    ¡°That''s enough,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°We''re trying to make a sale here. We sell metal as well.¡±


    ¡°What do you have available?¡± I ask suspiciously. ¡°And do you have reagent?¡±


    ¡°Yes, we have reagent too. I''ll get some catalogues from my office.¡±


    ¡°No need,¡± says Gollor. ¡°Xomhyrk already has them.¡±


    ¡°Not my personal ones! Our family do good trade in a very wide range of metals.¡±


    ¡°Do you have titanium?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Of course. It''s hardly rare.¡±


    ¡°What about palladium?¡±


    ¡°Not so common, but you''re in luck. My family has the rights to a rich vein. And we sell jasperite as well to go with it. We can offer a deal. A good deal.¡±


    ¡°All right. How much?¡±


    ¡°Half off¡ª¡°


    ¡°¡ªif you admit your way isn''t the only way to do things,¡± adds Yeralt.


    I feel my jaw clench. I don''t want to admit there''s any right in selling crafts, but I also need to repair my armor. And the dragon outweighs any problems I might have with these dwarves.


    ¡°All right,¡± I say through gritted teeth. ¡°Maybe there''s other ways as well.¡±


    ¡°Not maybe. Definitely.¡±


    ¡°That''s enough, brother.¡± says Jorolot. ¡°The deal is made. I''ll get the catalogues.¡±


    ¡°Excellent,¡± says Gollor. ¡°In the meantime, come with me, Zathar. Xomhyrk wants to talk.¡±


    I can guess what about. A little fear rises in me.


    ¡°Very well,¡± I say.


    ¡°You don''t sound very grateful.¡±


    ¡°No, no. I am. Just... Never mind. I''ll come.¡± I turn to Jorolot and Yeralt, and give a small bow. ¡°Thank you for agreeing to give me a good deal.¡±


    ¡°It''s no trouble,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°And we''ll forgive your rudeness.¡±


    <hr>


    I walk away not quite knowing what to make of our argument. Logically, I don''t think they said anything incorrect, and their way of life certainly seems to be working, since they''re maintaining their independence sat between two great kingdoms, which cannot be an easy task, yet the idea of selling crafts still doesn''t quite sit right with me.


    All my life I''ve believed that creation is what lifts runeknights above miners, farmers, and even other craftsdwarves. We make runes, that most difficult of crafts. We give metal life, and this in turn gives us the right to power over life and death. This is what puts us at the top of dwarven society.


    Mere riches does not a great dwarf make. Riches are just a side-effect of our striving.


    Though, is that really the case? Plenty of runeknights in Allabrast dedicate their lives to riches, and look down on poorer runeknights far worse than they do rich jewelers or even metalcrafters. And plenty of runeknights in Thanerzak''s realm did the same.


    Only the dwarves of the deep, then, had true honor, created runes for the right purpose. And they never used the crafts of others, even to defend against the darkness. Otherwise the shining maces of dwarves long since fallen would have been passed to the lower degrees instead of being interred with their creators. When Runethane Yurok had them pulled out and used to light the halls even that was taboo.


    Even borrowing a craft is unacceptable. As for buying a craft! The only thing that could be worse is stealing one.


    I shake my head. I can''t accept how these hill dwarves live, I simply can''t. I won''t say anything more about it, but all the same, I won''t accept it, and I won''t be coming back here any time soon. I''ll be glad to be rid of this place.


    ¡°Ah, Zathar,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°There you are. Up earlier than most, I''m glad to see.¡±


    ¡°I have a lot of work to do. I can''t waste too much time sleeping.¡±


    ¡°That''s very diligent of you. I approve. How are you finding Heldfast Hill?¡±


    ¡°He doesn''t think much of it,¡± snorts Gollor. ¡°Was about to start a brawl.¡±


    ¡°Don''t judge too harshly,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°It''s an understandable reaction. I had the same one when I first came here.¡±


    ¡°I worry that we''re going to have some trouble keeping the peace.¡±


    ¡°Our guild will forge in shifts then. Anyway, Zathar, I want to talk to you in private. Come with me.¡±


    Nervously I follow him out into one of the corridors. We walk for some time, through dim passages smelling slightly of damp. He''s not in armor, yet somehow still radiates an aura of power. Maybe it''s from his amulet, or maybe it''s just from his person. Some runeknights let their bodies go soft¡ªthis isn''t considered a particularly bad thing¡ªbut Xomhyrk has not. He''s solid and strong, and when he turns to speak to me, at the end of a small, old and thin tunnel, his eyes are as piercing as Icemite.


    ¡°Let''s talk about your runes,¡± he says.

 Dragonhunt 45: The True Nature of Runes

    I take a step back. Xomhyrk shakes his head.


    ¡°There''s no use pretending, Zathar. I can tell they''re original. Like I told you before, there''s no use trying to hide it¡ªnot from me.¡±


    ¡°There''s nothing special¡ª¡°


    ¡°Cut the pretense!¡± he snaps.


    I flinch.


    ¡°I said there''s no use trying to hide. Don''t get on my bad side, Zathar. Plenty of dwarves have done so, in the past, thinking that I only harm dragons¡ªwell, I never kill dwarves unless they try to kill me, but those that follow me on my quests and then disobey¡ªI make an example of them. And by coming with me you agreed to follow my orders.¡±


    ¡°I did not agree to reveal all my secrets.¡±


    ¡°It''s no secret. Not to any senior runeknight who chooses to take a closer look at that armor.¡±


    I open my mouth to tell him he''s wrong, and stop myself. He''s right. If Braztak, a third degree, could guess, that means a great many others can as well. And the further I rise in the ranks the more notice will be taken of me.


    My powers cannot remain hidden for long.


    ¡°So what do you want?¡± I say, after a few long seconds of hesitation. ¡°Are you going to imprison me? Use me, like Vanerak wants to?¡±


    ¡°Runethane Vanerak?¡± He looks confused for a second. ¡°Ah. He was Thanerzak''s lieutenant, wasn''t he? So he knows.¡±


    ¡°He does.¡±


    ¡°Who else?¡±


    ¡°My guildmaster, Wharoth. Braztak, the third degree in purple and green gold. Two friends in the deep. And Runeking Ulrike.¡±


    ¡°And probably a few more.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Yes, you''re probably right about that, though no one''s ever confronted me directly until now. But I ask again: what do you want?¡±


    His eyes glint. ¡°You want the honest truth?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°To know exactly what I want? Why I''ve brought you here?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He leans in closer. His dark eyes flash. ¡°I''ll tell you more. I''ll tell you everything I''ve ever wanted.¡±


    I take a step back. Then he smiles, and throws up his hands.


    ¡°All I want, all I''ve ever wanted, all I ever will want, is to kill dragons. That''s all. To kill dragons.¡±


    I still feel tense. ¡°That''s all?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I heard a rumor that you want the mountain and its riches for yourself.¡±


    ¡°Do you usually listen to rumors?¡±


    ¡°I suppose not.¡±


    ¡°You suppose not. Don''t.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I''ll believe you.¡±


    ¡°You quite obviously don''t.¡± He shrugs. ¡°Well, you''ll come to believe soon enough, I think. Once you see me risk my life, all I''ve built up, to slay the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°I hope I will see that. But commander¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just call me Xomhyrk.¡±


    ¡°Xomhryk, then. You still haven''t told me what you want with my runes.¡±


    ¡°I want to help you.¡±


    ¡°To help me?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Is that so hard to accept? I see myself in you, Zathar. Quite a lot of myself. I want you to succeed. I want you to kill this dragon with me. I''m not a selfish dwarf. I''m not interested in glory¡ªfrankly I don''t care who kills it. Some are saying I''m worried that Uthrarzak''s dwarves already have¡ªif so, all the power to them. I''ll congratulate them.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think it would turn out well if they get their hands on the dragon''s hoard.¡±


    ¡°Have you heard that he''s evil? Not really¡ªjust strict. But we''re getting off the tracks. I want you to become stronger. I don''t want to see you burned to charcoal by dragonfire¡ªlike I''ve seen many promising young dwarves burned.¡±


    I nod. I''m looking into his eyes, and I think he''s telling the truth. Wharoth''s told me many times that not every dwarf is out for himself. Nthazes wasn''t, Braztak isn''t¡ªand I don''t think Xomhyrk is either. It really seems that all he wants to do is slay the black dragon.


    Just like me.


    ¡°Satisfied?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Yes," I say after a pause. "And I''ll be glad of any help. But, and no offense, how? Have you known a dwarf with this power before?¡±


    ¡°Never.¡±


    ¡°So how, then?¡±


    ¡°I think I hinted at it the last time we met.¡±


    ¡°You said my script wasn''t good enough.¡±


    ¡°You sound offended. I said it wasn''t as good as the Runeforger''s scripts, though it is more suited to your purposes.¡±


    ¡°I''m not offended¡ªnot much, at least. Like I said, I''m eager for advice. It''s just that every time I''ve created my own runes so far, they''ve felt like improvements.¡±


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    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°These runes of ice are the first time I''ve created an entire new script. Maybe that''s why they aren''t so good.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. I took a look at your weapon as well, though. Many of the runes were altered, but I wouldn''t say improved.¡±


    ¡°The runic flow is smoother with them. And the metaphors better.¡±


    ¡°Yes, because they suit the purpose of your poem better. But in and of themselves, they''re at best equal to the runes around them.¡±


    ¡°I don''t quite get what you mean.¡±


    ¡°A rune is...¡± He frowns deeply and scratches at his dark gray beard. ¡°A rune is symbol of power... Ah, how do I explain? You''re not an initiate. You''re a fourth degree... How do I explain this?¡± He runs a hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck. ¡°A rune is a manifestation of the crafter''s will in distinct metal form, brought into being by the application of reagent¡ªthe soul to the body.¡±


    ¡°I know all this.¡±


    ¡°As symbols, though, they''re made by mortal hand, and thus imperfect.¡±


    ¡°Imperfect?¡±


    ¡°Almost blasphemy, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Blasphemy? What''s that?¡±


    ¡°It means when you speak against a god. Hah, how often is that word used? Once a century, maybe, since us dwarves have no gods. But runes are close enough to gods for us.¡±


    ¡°And they''re imperfect?¡±


    ¡°Yes. They''re just symbols. Not like human magic, or draconic. That''s pure. Elemental, of what makes up the world. Us dwarves are special¡ªlet''s ignore elves and trolls for now¡ªin that our magic is shaped by us, not merely harnessed. Power from the earth is given form so that we can be precise with it. That was the Runeforger''s gift. He could twist power. You can twist power.¡±


    ¡°But I''m not as good at twisting as he is, and even he wasn''t perfect. Is that what you''re saying?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Precisely. I think what''s gone wrong with your ice runes¡ªwrong being very relative, since your armor is nearly third-degree quality¡ªanyway, what''s gone wrong is that you didn''t understand the kind of power you wanted in them.¡±


    ¡°I wanted the power of cold.¡±


    ¡°But do you know cold?¡±


    ¡°I thought I did.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever been to the far, far north, or the further south?¡±


    I shake my head.


    ¡°Then you''ve never walked into an ice mountain.¡±


    ¡°No. Just read about them.¡±


    ¡°That''s not enough. The Runeforger traveled all over, you know. That''s why different places have their own scripts. He learned as much as he could about what he was going to write, and then he made his runes. You should do the same.¡±


    ¡°I did. I spent time with ice before writing it. Though¡ª¡°


    ¡°What kind of ice? Where?¡±


    ¡°An eatery,¡± I say, feeling somewhat embarrassed. ¡°That''s the only place I could think of in Allabrast.¡±


    ¡°You need to travel up the highest peaks and live in the snow for a few years if you''re going to equal the Runeforger¡ªthe first runeforger¡ªwith his colder scripts.¡±


    ¡°There isn''t much snow underground.¡±


    ¡°Well, no. And you were in a hurry to come on my expedition.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Once we slay the dragon, let''s travel up to the top of the mountain together. You and I, and our guilds too. We''ll roast goats over the campfire, then you can go up to the coldest places and ponder your runes.¡±


    ¡°Alone?¡±


    ¡°Only you have this power. You must find your own way with it.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I see.¡±


    And I''m not just saying that¡ªI can see. I can see Braztak and Erak and Faltast and the tenth degrees and everyone else sitting around the campfire on the slopes of the mountain. We''re scarred and scorched, but we have won a great victory. The greatest. A goat is turning on a spit, and we munch on roasted meat, and we drink pure melted snow. Xomhyrk and the Dragonslayers declare their eternal friendship with the Association. And then I, in peace, make for myself a forge atop the mountain and create runes of ice equal to any the first runeforger made.


    I feel hot all of a sudden. I remember the heat of fifteen years ago, burning through the rocks around me, making them glow. Fire obliterates the campfire, my forge, my runes, the mountain.


    ¡°I can''t see past the dragon, Xomhyrk. Only up to it.¡±


    He smiles gently. ¡°Yes. That''s right. I got ahead of myself. That''s all you should see¡ªit''s all I see as well. Still, it''s a thought, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Good. I''m glad we''ve come to a common understanding. Let''s head back now. I know you have a lot of repairs to make.¡±


    We start off back down the corridor. Through my mind fly my runes of ice. I look for imperfections in them, problems, reasons for Xomhyrk thinking they aren''t as strong as the first runeforger''s creations.


    I can''t find any. Well, that''s a problem I''ll lay aside for another time. In the meantime I flex my fingers in preparation for forging. I try to recall where the damage to my armor is worst, and think about how would be best to repair it. Which runes need to be remade? Ah, back to runes again. Frustration rises in me. I feel my face grow hot. Where are the errors? What is so inferior about my runes? They are my pride. I must improve them! But how?


    A sudden idea strikes me. I stop.


    ¡°Wait! I have a question.¡±


    Xomhyrk turns. ¡°What is it?


    ¡°Is it very cold at the top of Heldfast Hill? Have you ever been up?¡±


    ¡°It''ll be colder in a month or so, but yes, I suppose it''s pretty cold right now. Though I don''t know how much ice there''ll be.¡±


    ¡°Still, any cold could help, right?¡±


    ¡°You''re thinking of improving your script right now?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He nods approvingly. ¡°A good idea.¡±


    ¡°I''ll head up then. Now. I don''t want to slow us down.¡±


    ¡°No. Take your time¡ªdon''t hurt your craft with some shoddy repair work. Quality is more important than speed.¡±


    ¡°Even so, the sooner I start the better.¡±


    ¡°There''s a way up close to our hall. You can get one of the hill dwarves to lead you once we return.¡±


    ¡°All right then.¡±


    We restart our walk along the corridors.


    ¡°This is the first time you''ve left Runeking Ulrike''s realms, is it not?¡± he says.


    ¡°Well¡ªI started out in Runeking Uthrarzak''s, to tell the truth. But you''re more or less right.¡±


    ¡°Let me tell you about some of the places I have been, and the runes I have seen. Perhaps it will inspire you.¡±


    So, on our way back, which he takes at an easy pace, I hear more of the dwarves of the sandstone catacombs and their many rings and necklaces of speed and strength. I hear of their weapons: the only way to kill a rockworm is by hammer, so those are most revered. They use spears also, to hunt lesser game, and consider being slain by a spear to be the greatest insult there is.


    He tells me of dwarves that live deep below the jungles of the far east. The roots of the fungus¡ªthough apparently trees are not fungi, but something else entirely¡ªthe roots reach deep through the stones. They feed on the detritus filling the deep caves there, which are infested with insects that make dithyoks seem weak. The runeknights there enrune their weapons with poison, and their armor blocks their scent so that they might avoid attention.


    He tells me of dwarves to the west who live in flooded caves. Their helmets allow them to breath through water and their boots are made like the fins of fish.


    There are dwarves who live just above the magma sea, who sacrifice their crafts to it once they''ve fulfilled a certain purpose.


    There are dwarves who live in caves of salt and salterite, who''ve found a way to make that reagent graft runes¡ªthough they didn''t let Xomhyrk in on the secret.


    There is a realm where diamonds are as common as iron, but the dwarves there permit no outsiders, and no one is willing to risk death on their blades, the crudest of which can part all but the toughest armor like paper. They didn''t need Xomhyrk''s help to slay the dragon which harried them.


    The underworld is greater than I ever imagined. This must be how Nthazes felt when I explained to him the ways of the dwarves of Thanerzak''s realm. I thought myself worldly then¡ªhow wrong I was!


    I am ignorant. Books, it seems, are no substitute for travel.


    ¡°You must have learned scripts which have never been seen in Allabrast,¡± I say.


    ¡°I wouldn''t say that. Runeking Ulrike is well-traveled also, and your libraries are surprisingly deep. You should visit them. I''m surprised you haven''t already.¡±


    ¡°They are not cheap to enter, and we have books in the guild. And you said they wouldn''t let me into the bottom layers anyway.¡±


    ¡°Even the middle layers have runes you could never imagine.¡± Xomhyrk shakes his head. ¡°Truly, the Runeforger was a genius.¡±


    ¡°Runeking Ulrike told me he was killed.¡±


    ¡°He may well have been. That doesn''t surprise me. Jealousy is a powerful force. And it''s never one for good. I''m glad it''s something I''ve never felt particularly strongly.¡±


    ¡°I wish I could say the same.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I''ve met a lot worse than you.¡±


    But now we''re back at the meal hall, and our conversation ends. The room is a lot fuller than it was when we left, and I can hear shouting from several corners.


    ¡°Ah, looks like I''m needed,¡± Xomhyrk says. Gollor is hurriedly beckoning him over to where the shouting is loudest. An Allabrast dwarf has grabbed a hill dwarf by the collar. Seems I''m not the only one offended by the buying and selling of runes. ¡°See you later, Zathar. I look forward to seeing some improvements to your armor.¡±


    ¡°I''ll try my best not to disappoint.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure you won''t. Enjoy the cold.¡±


    With that, he hurries into the crowd, leaving me alone to my task.

 Dragonhunt 46: Runes in the Snow

    The tops of the ballista-towers, where it is coldest, are kept well clear of snow. The dwarves of Heldfast hill don''t want any operators slipping over if they have to rush out and loose at the dragon. So it''s shoveled off daily and thrown down the sides, where it becomes part of the snowdrifts piled against the stone. Into the biggest of these I wade, hoping to learn of true cold.


    Icy white flakes crunch under my feet. As I stride in deeper, they crowd around my legs. I''m wearing only thin clothes, to better feel the snow''s texture and temperature, and my skin is already going numb.


    Cold robs vitality¡ªI start to shiver once the snow reaches my waist. My feet are wet. My body heat is melting the ice around my legs. Maybe that''s the wrong way to think about it¡ªthe ice is drawing out my heat. The water will soon freeze back once I''m gone, but my heat won''t return to me. Ice as a thief? Maybe that''s a theme I could use.


    But I''m not really here to think of new themes for poems. I''m here to deepen my understanding of the individual runes themselves.


    I wade deeper. The snow comes up to my lower ribs. Now it''s coming up around my beard. My shivering is growing more violent, yet I''m barely aware of it; it''s just something physical, divided completely from what''s going on in my mind. I''m thinking of runes. Why are they shaped the way they are?


    I''ve never been taught why. No dwarf is. It''s not written down. They are the way they are because the Runeforger made them that way. As to why he made them that way, only a few mad scholars have ever attempted to find out.


    How can a simple shape have power? What''s the reason? Is there one? The fundamental difference between logic and magic is that the first has rules and reasons and the other doesn''t. Or maybe magic does have rules, but only the Runeforger could figure them out.


    The snow is rising above my jaw. Now it''s over my mouth, now my moustaches, and now it''s over my nose. It''s hard to breath. The little air that does make it to my lips is so cold it hurts. My lungs become two bags of pain. I can no longer feel my skin.


    Cold! What is cold in runes? How do the scripts shape it? Before the symbol, though, comes first the word: sazk. What does it mean? The sensation? The physical property itself? One word, multiple facets. Like a gem. So what is a rune? Is it a single part of that word, or is it a few parts of it, or the whole thing? It can''t be the whole thing, I don''t think. A single symbol could not hold so much meaning.


    The runes of each script only hold part of the meaning of the words they describe. So when the Runeforger made his scripts, he meant for the runes to have a theme to them. Cold in a script from the deep caves was different to the cold in a script from the ice mountains. Bright in a script from a city by the magma sea was different to bright as written in the scripts of light.


    One word, different meanings.


    In my script, what should cold mean? The numbness I feel in my limbs? The pain in my lungs? The sense of my life being drained from me?


    Strong hands take my shoulders and I''m dragged back out of the snow. I struggle, try to resist them and throw myself back into the snowdrift, but my strength is gone. Now I''m being pulled through a doorway, sat down on a chair. A thick blanket is thrown over me.


    I begin to shiver violently.


    ¡°Zathar, was it?¡±


    My teeth are chattering too hard for me to answer.


    ¡°I heard someone had gone crazy and dived into the snow. I guessed it might have been you. You seemed the type.¡±


    ¡°Jorolot?¡± I manage to say.


    He hefts a heavy sack onto the table in front of me, then places two small boxes beside it. ¡°It wouldn''t do to lose a customer. It was palladium you wanted, right? Plus some jasperite?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°I''ve thrown in some salterite as well. For free.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    I''m still shivering badly, despite the warmth from a fire going strong in the center of the circular room. But I''m alive enough to figure out where I am. We''re in the ballista tower. A few runeknights are looking at me with suspicion.


    ¡°It''s all right,¡± Jorolot says to them. ¡°He''s with me. One of the dragonslayers.¡±


    They continue to stare.


    ¡°How much?¡± I ask.


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    ¡°Xomhyrk''s already paid for it.¡±


    ¡°Already?¡±


    ¡°Yes. We talked just a few minutes ago. Said he''d pay for anything you need.¡±


    ¡°Damn but it''s cold in here.¡± I''m still shivering.


    ¡°Shall I put some more wood on the fire?¡±


    ¡°No, no. I don''t want to bother anyone.¡± Suddenly I laugh. ¡°I never thought I''d say this, but do you have any warm beer? Hot beer?¡±


    He gives me a strange look.


    ¡°Never mind.¡± I rub my hands together to bring some life back into them. They begin to prickle, a good sign.


    ¡°Would you like a look at the merchandise?¡±


    ¡°Yes please.¡±


    He pulls the sack open for me. White-silver coils gleam within. It looks a little softer than how the palladium I bought in Allabrast looked.


    ¡°Is this an alloy?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No.¡± He sounds a little offended again. ¡°It''s pure as can be. Better than what you get in Allabrast, I''m sure. Who knows where they import their palladium from? But our guild has strict quality controls.¡±


    I reach out with a still-shaking hand and pull out one of the coils. Maybe it''s just because my hands are so cold, but the texture feels softer as well. Yes, I can believe this is pure. My dwarven instinct tells me so.


    ¡°Where are the forges?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Are you sure you''re in a fit state to work?¡±


    ¡°I''ve never felt better. Please, show me to them.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    <hr>


    Jorolot leads me back down into the hill. I collect my armor and weapon from the dormitory. The titanium seems eager to be repaired. The runes that aren''t damaged are gleaming brightly, excited, perhaps, to meet new brothers and sisters.


    We go past the hall, which is nearly empty now, and along some of the corridors I walked with Xomhyrk. We make a turn down, and I feel heat on my face. The clangs of hammer on metal are ringing through the corridor. I can smell smokiness¡ªso many dwarves are forging, perhaps, that the ventilation can''t keep up.


    ¡°Here we are,¡± Jorolot says.


    The doors are already open. Inside is a forging hall about as huge as that in the fort against the deep darkness, except here there are no individual forging pits. Everyone is working out in the open, and the anvils are packed uncomfortably close together.


    ¡°There''s been some grumbling from you lot,¡± says Jorolot. ¡°About privacy. But here in Heldfast, we don''t have any private forges. Forging is something that should be done together.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°We don''t think it''s smart to keep things secret. Knowledge should be shared. I hope you don''t have a problem with that.¡±


    ¡°I''m not going to argue with you. Can''t lose my focus. Where''s my guild?¡±


    ¡°I''m not sure. You''ll have to look for them.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Thanks for the palladium, and the reagent too.¡±


    ¡°You''ve no need to thank me. Thank Xomhyrk for paying for it.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    With that, I bow and leave him, and walk through the rows of anvils and sweating, cursing dwarves. A pair bump into each other, and glare so fiercely I think for a moment that they''ll strike at each other with their hammers, but they just growl and turn back to their repairs.


    The Association of Steel is nearby the Dragonslayers. We''re next to the wall, and I see that Braztak has reserved a space for me in the corner.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°No trouble. I know you especially don''t need people watching.¡±


    ¡°You''re right about that.¡±


    ¡°Figure anything out up in the snow?¡±


    ¡°You knew I was there too?¡±


    ¡°A rumor spread you''d lost your mind.¡±


    ¡°Hah. Maybe I did for a moment. But I''ve gained greater.¡±


    ¡°That''s good to hear.¡± He wipes sweat from his brow. ¡°Best get started. We don''t want to waste time.¡±


    ¡°No. Of course not.¡±


    He gets back to tapping the dents out of his green and purple gold. I put on a pair of heavy gloves then take out my own armor. I run my hands over each piece, feeling where the dents and a few tears are. Worryingly the metal feels only barely cold, especially my breastplate, which is by far the worst damaged, with many dull and dead runes. The lightning was brutal to it.


    Fortunately the runes grafted with hytrigite are still in good shape. They seem to be what''s holding the power together.


    Dents and tears first, though. I need an even surface to write on, and I need to warm my hands and wrists up too. I take a small hammer from a nearby shelf, put it back when I realize it''s rusted, eventually find one coated in chrome.


    Tap by tap, hard and then gradually growing softer, I beat the titanium sheets back into shape. It''s dull work, but satisfying in its own way. The only thing that frustrates me is that because of the great noise of the forging hall, I can''t really use my runic ears. I have to judge my progress by hand and eye alone, and it''s fairly dark in here and the metal is starting to get colder as well.


    The work is long, but eventually I''m satisfied that the plates are as smooth as I''ll get them in these conditions. Next is to fix the tears. I use a glowing brand of tungsten for this. I go very slowly, and very evenly, but still leave a few slight scars.


    ¡°Damn!¡± I hiss.


    ¡°What is it?¡± says Braztak. He''s still polishing.


    ¡°I can never get welding right.¡±


    ¡°You should try to go slower.¡±


    ¡°I go as slowly as I can.¡±


    ¡°Even slower. And I think your brand was too hot. It needs to be hot, yes, but there''s a balance to be kept. Weld at a lower heat, and on both sides too.¡±


    ¡°Both sides? Even with just a thin sheet?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Then you don''t have to heat the brand up so much.¡±


    ¡°Won''t the middle still be broken?¡±


    ¡°Not if you get the balance right.¡±


    There''s one cut remaining, at the back of my helmet just above the neck plates. I have no idea how I got it¡ªmaybe an arrow smacked me there and I didn''t notice. I heat the brand up to only yellow heat, and carefully run it along the divide, slowly, back and forth. Then I do the inside. I hold it up to the light.


    There''s a scar still, but it''s barely visible.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say to Braztak, but he''s too absorbed in his own repairs to notice.


    He''s working on his axe now, re-sharpening it. I still haven''t seen it in action, but it''s gone quite blunt. It must have taken a fair few heads in the battle.


    Next to polish my armor. This gets more difficult the more I progress, as the cold radiating from it harshens. Until now I''ve been sweating from the heat and effort, but now my skin is prickling into bumps.


    After a few hours, the metal becomes too cold to polish. I look over it. It''s shining and I can see only a few scratches. But this is still not good enough. I come up with an idea: I wrap the polishing cloth around a long handled hammer, and return to work.


    Finally, done. Now to fix the runes. I get out the salterite, and immediately feel trepidation.


    I cannot ruin this armor. But the dead runes must be removed no matter the risk.

 Dragonhunt 47: A Colder Rune

    I open the box of salterite very carefully. The green hexagons are fatter than any I''ve worked with before, and brighter in color too. They''re very high quality, which means I''m going to have to be very careful with them.


    I won''t start on the breastplate, but instead with the vambraces. There''s only a couple runes on them so damaged they need removing.


    I lay one of the fat green crystals on the anvil and tap it gently with my hammer. It makes a discordant noise and splits apart into a dozen thinner, yet still perfectly formed hexagons. I bite my lip. Seeing the way salterite breaks always makes me uneasy. The smell is harsh as well. I give it another blow and the crystals get smaller, then I give it another and another until they''re powder.


    With a small chrome scoop I dig out from the side-shelves, I take up some of the green powder and place it very carefully on one of the broken runes. Already the palladium begins to smoke, without me even touching heat to it.


    Shit! I wasn''t expecting a reaction like this. I thought palladium wasn''t meant to react very strongly, just like its sister. Salterite seems to like it though¡ªor dislike it¡ªit''s burning through fast.


    I force myself not to touch. Spilling the crystals across the adjacent runes would be a disaster. Instead I grit my teeth and wait for the rune to disappear.


    Once it''s gone, I see that the titanium below is scarred quite badly. I curse.


    Well, that''s why I didn''t start with my breastplate. Now I know the correct amount of salterite to use¡ªmuch less.


    Over the next few hours I painstakingly remove every last dead rune. I can tell which are dead by feel¡ªany dwarf could. I also remove every instance of the rune sazk.


    It''s one of the most inferior ones. Not many dwarves could tell this¡ªmaybe they''d notice a slight weakness about them, but they wouldn''t blame the runes itself. They''d search for a reason in the makeup of the poem, or the particulars of the runic flow patterns. But thanks to Xomhyrk I now know better. Money for materials isn''t the only thing I need to thank him for.


    The whole process, despite the first failure with the salterite, goes quite smoothly. In only a few places do I scar the titanium to any significant degree.


    Yet I feel terribly nervous. I step back and take a look at my armor as a whole. It seems dead. The coldness radiating from it is barely present now. My skin is back to sweating again. I grow nervous. What if the new runes I create don''t fit with the poems, with the runic flow? What if the cold never returns?


    Have I killed everything?


    I pick up a coil of palladium and my fear vanishes almost immediately. I feel angry. Why am I doubting myself? This is not a time for fear! Am I not a runeforger? Can I not do what no dwarf in more than ten thousand years has accomplished?


    This is my ruby speaking, not me. Doubts are normal, and I''m not the Runeforger. This is no time for overconfidence either. It''s time to think deeply.


    I glance around the forging hall. No one is watching me¡ªthey''re all focused on their own work, as good dwarves should be. None are intrigued enough by my armor, I think, to want to spy, and if anyone did try surely someone in the Association would notice.


    I face the wall. I shut my eyes and imagine myself sinking down into the floor. I feel blackness around me, then heat. I''m in the magma sea, heading toward the sphere. My feet touch against it.


    What is it? Who is in it? I can''t help but wonder. Runeking Ulrike said the Runeforger was killed¡ªis this his casket? Yet there''s three shadows in it, not one. Three Runeforgers? Was the Runeking wrong when he said there was only one?


    Cold, I remind myself. I''m looking for cold. A rune for it. I sink into the sphere''s surface and am inside the cold and dark. I turn away from the dark shadows and think. I try to imagine how to make the feeling of eternal numbness into a physical symbol.


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    A line here, a line there, a jag curving leftways, one rightways... I''m going about this wrong. I have no basis for these decisions. I need to draw the power out of the deeps. That''s what a rune is¡ªpower from the deepest parts of the magma ocean wrought into meaning.


    Something is coming. A swell from below of shimmering heat, of boiling stone thinner than water. The sphere shivers, and in my mind I see the symbol I need to shape.


    My eyes open. I gasp. My fingers blur as I shape the palladium into what I saw: a jag, curving in at both sides. A line cuts through the left side at a steep diagonal.


    That''s all. That''s it. It''s a simple rune, yet in its simplicity is all the meaning I desired to imbue.


    I make eleven more the same and place them in the gaps left by the old version, whose shape has already left my mind. Cold, to me, is now the shape I''ve just twisted deep in the fires of the magma sea¡ªtwisted from the fires of the magma sea.


    I pack jasperite around the symbols, then light. Blue-white flashes, eleven times.


    Cold is pouring from my armor again. It''s as cold as it was before it was damaged, and I haven''t even fixed the poems fully yet. With eagerness I twist the other runes, the damaged ones, but not into new shapes. Though I''m confident that I could redesign every single one of them, I just don''t have the time. Many dwarves are already packing up to leave and I don''t want to be the last.


    When the last damaged rune is replaced with a blue flash, I step back once more. Then I take another step back, for the cold is deathly. I feel nearly like I''m back in the snowdrift with my lips turning blue.


    Braztak steps back from his forging and stands beside me.


    ¡°Did you change something?¡±


    ¡°Just one thing,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°The runes?¡±


    ¡°Just one rune.¡±


    His eyes widen. ¡°Just one?¡±


    ¡°That''s right. I improved just one.¡±


    ¡°Improved a rune...¡±


    He trails off; he''s speechless.


    ¡°I worked out how to do it. How to control things better.¡±


    ¡°That''s good... Very good. You should always be in control of your crafts.¡±


    ¡°Yes. And the runic flow worked out all right.¡±


    ¡°It didn''t change much.¡±


    ¡°A little. It could flow much better. But it''s good enough for now.¡±


    ¡°This is a very impressive piece of work, Zathar. Nearly as good as my own armor.¡±


    ¡°Nearly.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he laughs. ¡°Nearly. Your metalworking still has a way to go.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know how to improve it.¡±


    ¡°Practice.¡±


    ¡°But there''s something else as well. Something I''m not understanding. Something deeper.¡±


    ¡°Ah. You''ve realized it. Good. That''s the first step.¡±


    ¡°You know!¡±


    My jaw drops slightly. So there is something I''ve been missing.


    ¡°Yes. You don''t get to third without knowing.¡±


    ¡°What''s the second step? Tell me!¡±


    My heart is beating fast. I''ve mastered some small part of my power today, and now I''m on the verge of discovering another secret, the truth behind the metal, behind forging.


    He shakes his head. ¡°I can''t.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Keep your voice down, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°Why can''t you tell me?¡±


    ¡°It would hurt you.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean if you don''t attain understanding by yourself, you won''t gain a true understanding.¡±


    ¡°What''s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°It means you have to work it out for yourself. But I can point you in the right direction.¡±


    ¡°Please!¡±


    ¡°What goes into the Runeking''s palace, but never comes out?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°That''s all. That''s all I can let you know.¡±


    ¡°A riddle.¡±


    I''m disappointed. I''d expected more help from Braztak.


    ¡°You''re smart, Zathar. You can figure it out soon enough.¡±


    As I work on improving my boots¡ªI''ve had an idea for them¡ªI ponder his riddle, but can come to no answer. Into the Runeking''s Palace-Foundry pours metal, but as for what does or doesn''t emerge, I have no idea.


    <hr>


    ¡°We are prepared,¡± says Nazak.


    Runethane Vanerak looks over the nine runeknights. They''re the best and most loyal he has, yet he can''t help but see the flaws in their work. The plates of their boots are uneven, their runework uninspired.


    Since when did he see first degree crafts in such a way? Second degrees he''s been able to criticize for a century, at least, but when did he start seeing first degree armor as shoddy? Yes, shoddy. That''s the word that applies here.


    ¡°Was gold really the best choice for your boots?¡±


    ¡°Mine?¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°It seemed so. Gold is a favored choice for speed.¡±


    ¡°Yet not for endurance. We will be crossing many miles. Many hundreds of miles.¡±


    ¡°The tungsten will hold together. It''s well-made.¡±


    ¡°Is it now? In only five long-hours, you were able to create something deserving to be called well-made?¡±


    Nazak goes pale. ¡°I apologize, my Runethane! They are only fairly well-made. They do not approach your creations.¡±


    Vanerak looks down at his own pair of boots. They still feel uncomfortable on him.


    ¡°Never mind,¡± he says. ¡°As long as we reach Zathar in time, nothing else matters. Understood?¡±


    The nine runeknights chorus agreement.


    ¡°Excellent. Now let us hurry upwards. Our carriage is waiting, and after it, the surface and the traitor.¡±

 Dragonhunt 48: Whispering in the Night

    I''m one of the last to return to the hall. It''s already nearly full, and there''s only a few hill dwarves to be seen. Yet even so I can''t help but suspect that our army''s numbers have diminished. There''s quite a few exits to the realms below in Heldfast Hill. How many have taken them? A few dozen? With our numbers as they are, even just a few dozen is a hard loss.


    We wait another half hour. A few more dwarves filter in, but that''s all. Yes, we''ve definitely lost a few dozen.


    Xomhyrk gives no sign that he cares about this, and stands to speak:


    ¡°My fellow dragon hunters, I hope you''re recovered and repaired. Shortly we will leave. We have no time to waste. Each hour we spend here is another hour that the black dragon spends healing its wounds and absorbing runic power from its hoard.


    ¡°There''s a few less of you than arrived to the hill, I''ve noticed. Maybe some of you are concerned about this. I am not. If they hadn''t run away here, they would have run away when we faced the dragon. It doesn''t make a difference. I have no need for cowards.¡±


    His last words are icy cold. Is he warning us? I think so: his eyes sweep across the hall, daring us to voice any opposition.


    ¡°We who remain will continue. It''s their loss. Their names will not appear in the history books or be engraved into the tablets of honor. And Runeking Uthrarzak will not take kindly to interlopers. He has little tolerance for traitors, even for those who betray his enemies.


    ¡°Now, I must tell you all a little of the final stretch of our journey, from here to the Mountain of Halajatbast. It''s cold, as you''ve already had a taste of, but it''s also not so far as you might expect. There''s no more hills either. And though the snow will deepen, under it is earth and rock, not ice. There''s no crevasses¡ªhidden canyons of ice¡ªlike you find in the far north beyond the mountain.


    ¡°The hill dwarves warn me that the wild creatures may pose an issue. The dragon has disturbed the weather here. It''s become too warm for them to sleep like they usually do, and they''re angry and hungry. Bears will be our chief concern. Maybe many of you haven''t faced bears. Cave bears don''t venture so far deep as Allabrast.


    ¡°They range in size from the size of a large human to the size of a large troll. The largest are white, though that kind is rare here. Most common in these parts are the brown ones. They have no flaming breath like salamanders do, but they are as strong as trolls and their fur is passable armor. And they''re much faster than we are.


    ¡°Stay in the column. Do not wander out or you will very likely be attacked. Stragglers will almost certainly be attacked. If a bear does assail you, do not flee, but fight back as fiercely as you can. If you prove that you''re no easy meal, they''ll likely retreat. They feel pain just like us. They aren''t trolls.¡±


    Gutspiercer is shivering slightly. It''s keen to find out what bear blood tastes like.


    ¡°Good luck, my army. Soon we will meet the black dragon.¡±


    I grin.


    ¡°Let us go now.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Let us embark,¡± says Guildmaster Wharoth solemnly.


    He watches as the members of the Association walk one by one onto the carriages. The New Dynamium Guild has proven willing to transport them for a large sum of gold. Runeking Uthrarzak''s border-spies won''t care about a mere hundred dwarves from a second-rate guild moving close.


    Voltost walks up the step onto the front carriage. He nods to his guildmaster. Wharoth looks down the line of carriages and sees that everyone else has already embarked. He gazes around Allabrast station and across the gleaming pillars of the Fireflea district, and wonders if he''ll ever see all this again. He decides he ought not to care. His home is wherever his guild is.


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    He walks up into the oak and metal box and shuts the doors. Less than a minute later there''s a shudder and a jerk. The carriage is moving. Wharoth faces the senior guildmembers. They look back at him nervously.


    ¡°I know some of you think we''re making the wrong decision. But I''ll tell you again: we''re not here to fight the dragon. We''re on our way to protect our guildmates.¡±


    ¡°To protect Zathar,¡± one says.


    ¡°Not just him!¡± Wharoth snaps. ¡°All of them. Zathar won''t be persuaded anyway. Keep the others in mind if you still can''t forgive him.¡±


    The carriage turns, swinging them all to one side, then they''re pressed downward for an instant. Now they''re leaning back. The carriage is going upwards. It''ll still be many days until they reach the surface, but now they''re well and truly on the way.


    ¡°There''s no return until we reach them,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°No return until we''ve done our duty to our guildmates.¡±


    As for how they''ll carry out that duty, he still has no clear plan.


    <hr>


    The gates to Heldfast Hill swing shut behind us. I hear sound of a mechanism grinding then thudding and they''re locked. Warm halls, fresh foaming beer, hot food, the comfort of furnace and anvil¡ªthese are now things of the past. We will not see them again until after we''ve faced the dragon. Many here will never see them again.


    Onward we march. The wind picks up, throwing snow in our faces. The landscape becomes a white blur. Are the dark shapes in it low trees and boulders, or are they bears?


    Bears! Surely I''m not scared of them. A bear is nothing compared to an abyssal salamander, or a dithyok with blades for arms. Gutspiercer will enjoy sinking its tooth into some.


    Yet I worry about the tenth degrees. A bear could take one of them. Their armor isn''t good enough to resist crushing jaws, and they''re not skilled enough fighters yet to keep calm when faced with a foe far bigger and stronger than themselves.


    ¡°Stay only an arm''s-length from each other at all times,¡± I remind them. ¡°If you spot anything, shout out. And if you''re attacked stay calm. Ward whatever it is off with your weapon.¡±


    They nod, then bow their heads back down in the wind.


    ¡°Keep your heads up!¡± I order. ¡°Or how else are you going to see your foes coming?¡±


    Reluctantly they raise their heads.


    ¡°Better,¡± I say. ¡°Don''t worry. I''m here. And Gutspiercer is eager to taste blood.¡±


    I don''t know if these are particularly encouraging words, but they''re the best I have.


    The march continues over the hours. As Xomhyrk promised, there''s no hills to wind around or climb up. Our path is straight. I try to stare through the blur of snow. My visor gives me some clarity, opening up a kind of tunnel where I can see the snowflakes as individual specks and not an indistinct fog, yet there''s nothing at the end of it but more white. We aren''t yet in seeing-range of the mountain.


    We''re getting closer though. My armor is pulling me forward. My boots slide easily across the ground.


    I''ve made a couple alterations to their structure. Instead of having a switch inside that I need to click on and off, instead I''ve made it so that the runes are always exerting their full power. Friction, when I need it, is provided by spiked attachments I''ve welded to the toes. I use it to pull me forward, then I slide until my momentum runs out, then I dig in and push with the spikes on the other foot. This way, I glide across the ground.


    It''s not quite so effortless a process as I first envisioned. My boots may offer no friction, but the ground offers plenty. The snow is not even, and the rocks underneath it less so. Yet it''s still less effort than marching, even if it does look a little silly.


    Dwarves should march, I can imagine some runeknights saying. But learning from Xomhyrk about all the strange dwarvish cultures existing and thriving across the underworld has opened my mind somewhat. Who cares about what others think is the best way to do things? We should all forge our own way.


    The white around us turns to gray, then to black. Xomhyrk keeps the march going. We''ve just rested plenty. We don''t need more. We need to make the most of our energy. I take a sip from my beerskin and gobble down some rations.


    ¡°Eat something, all of you,¡± I order the tenth degrees. ¡°Keep your strength up. We won''t be stopping for a while.¡±


    I''m glad to see them obey. They seem to be handling this march better than they did the last¡ªhaving whole armor probably helps quite a bit. And worrying about bears is probably taking their minds off the much greater worry that lies at the end of our quest.


    The black turns to dull orange, then to white again. Daytime once more, and still we don''t stop. This is monotonous, truly so. I''d be glad of a bear attack.


    Yet three more nights pass and three more days, and there''s still no sign of any life, nor of any sign that we''re getting closer to the mountain. There''s nothing but snow, cold, and wind. Sometimes, when the latter dies down, I affix my runic ears and try to listen for animals, or other dwarves, or the dragon, or anything, but only hear the grumbling of others farther down the column.


    ¡°...he even know where we''re going?¡±


    ¡°No. The mountain isn''t even...¡±


    ¡°Maybe the dragon...


    ¡°This is hopeless...¡±


    I tense. That last voice was a familiar one¡ªI think it''s one of the Association. I take Gutspiercer into my hands. Is one of us about to prove himself a coward? Who? The voice was too faint for me to be sure. Faltast? Surely not. Yet, maybe. Perhaps Jerat''s death affected him more than he''s letting on. Or perhaps it was Mulkath, who I still don''t entirely trust.


    I listen closely for the voice again, but don''t hear it. Maybe it was my imagination.

 Dragonhunt 49: Sudden Assault

    Finally, the next day, Xomhyrk calls a halt and we make camp in the snow. Setting up the tents here proves a hard task. Tents are made of fabric strung through with aluminum poles, and those poles have to be fixed to the stony ground by means of steel pegs. The steel is low quality and unruned, and tends to bend when too much force is applied.


    Once they''re finally in, I''m well ready for sleep, but hit first watch again. I stand outside next to Guthah.


    Since our numbers have diminished so much, Xomhryk has had us pack the tents closer together. Our camp looks like a small town with runeknights as its encircling wall. On my other side is Mulkath, and past him is Erak. On Guthah''s other side are some dwarves of another guild. I don''t know them. They look about fifth degree.


    ¡°Feeling all right?¡± I whisper to Guthah.


    ¡°A bit better than before. My arm is healing up.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°I still worry it won''t recover fully.¡±


    ¡°Your runes will make up for it.¡±


    ¡°Will they, though?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You have hundreds of years to perfect them, don''t you?¡±


    ¡°Hah. Hopefully.¡±


    ¡°We''ll get past the dragon. Don''t you worry about that. We''ll slay it.¡±


    He doesn''t look convinced.


    ¡°We will,¡± I say.


    I go back to staring out into the darkness. Just as always, there''s nothing to see but a mist of snowflakes lit gray by the moon, and nothing to hear but the gentle hiss of the wind, and a few low voices from within the camp. No conspiracy for now¡ªnone will risk that kind of talk with Xomhyrk and his Dragonslayers in earshot.


    The night is passing slowly. I keep having to turn my head back to the front, for my helmet pulls my gaze left in the direction of the dragon. There the air looks clear, and I can sense a shadow in the sound, very faint, very far off, where the Mountain of Halajatbast must rise high.


    And then I hear something else: a crunch, foot on snow. I focus on where it came from: near directly in front of me, though still a long way off. Another one comes, and another. Something is walking toward us, I''m sure of it. A human? A dwarf?


    The sound is too heavy for that. Is it a bear?


    ¡°Erak!¡± I hiss, past Mulkath. ¡°Erak! I can hear something.¡±


    The older dwarf turns to me. The runes of fire on his plate glint copper in the moonlight.


    ¡°What can you hear?¡± he whispers.


    ¡°An animal, I think.¡±


    ¡°Just one?¡±


    I listen closer.


    ¡°Just one I think.¡±


    ¡°One bear is no problem.¡±


    ¡°If it is a bear,¡± says Mulkath.


    ¡°What else could it be?¡± I ask.


    ¡°There''s worse far north, that might have been driven south,¡± says Erak. ¡°Keep a close eye on it. Or ear. Where''s the sound coming from?¡±


    I point.


    ¡°Association dwarves, and you two fifths too, keep your eyes focused there.¡±


    There''s some worried mumbling. I don''t feel worried though. I lick my lips. Despite everything, despite all the danger and terror and death we''ve faced so far, the prospect of a fight excites me to no end. I suddenly feel as if the scars across my chest are no longer there.


    Gutspiercer begins to tremble in my grasp.


    The footsteps continue. I resist the urge to stride out to find our foe. If it''s a solitary bear, driven desperate by hunger, I think I can take it. I''ve killed trolls dozens of times. This will be no harder. Bears are just animals. They cannot regrow their flesh, and neither do they possess intelligence.


    The footsteps are getting louder now. They''re heavy, very heavy. Each step has two sounds to it: first the crunch of snow, then a thud, a compressing impact on the stony earth. I frown. Bears are meant to tread softly, I''ve read. They''re ambush predators. Yet this creature doesn''t seem to care who hears it.


    So maybe it''s not a predator then. I relax slightly, feeling somewhat disappointed. As soon as it sees us and our glinting steel weapons, it''ll turn and flee.


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    "Damn shame," I whisper.


    "What?" asks Guthah.


    "Nothing, nothing."


    But its advance does not slow. Its heavy, earth-crushing tread continues. Hasn''t noticed us yet then. I suppose this is no surprise, since I still can''t see it either, and I doubt its ears are as good as mine.


    Several minutes later, the sound is still gradually increasing. The thrill I felt when I first detected it returns. The beast is far off, yet its tread is starting to become deafening. My skull shivers with each step. It must be huge.


    Definitely not a bear then. Something else, but what? I try to remember what I''ve read about northern beasts. Some are massive. I try to recall the plant-eaters that exist in this region, but Gutspiercer is starting to tremble again, and my amulet is warm against my chest, and I can''t think properly.


    ¡°Look!¡± Guthah hisses. He points with his spear. ¡°I can see something!¡±


    I squint into the dark gray of the snow. There''s a tall, pale shadow in it, moving toward us heavily, inexorably. It looks to be many times the height of a dwarf. It''s no bear, that''s for sure. Two lightish things are ahead of it, swinging side to side in time with its walk. Between them is something darker, swinging also, in a more flexible way.


    "What the hell is that?" one of the fifth degrees says.


    "A beast from the far north," says Erak. "Hold still. I think it''s one of the plant-eaters. It should turn back."


    I lick my lips and take a step forward, then another.


    "Zathar?" says Guthah.


    However big it is, it''s no dragon. If I am to kill the dragon, then this beast can be no challenge. That''s logical, I tell myself. I have to kill the dragon, I must kill the dragon, therefore I am capable of destroying any beast less powerful.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Mulkath hisses. ¡°Get back in line!¡±


    I ignore him.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± Erak snaps. ¡°Get back and that''s an order!¡±


    I hesitate for a moment.


    "Get back!"


    I stride out into the darkness, pick up speed, and now I''m sliding.


    ¡°I''ll deal with this,¡± I shout back. ¡°No need to bother yourselves.¡±


    ¡°He''s lost it!¡± I hear Mulkath say, but find I don''t really care.


    "Raise the alarm!" yells Erak. "Everyone up! Up! Someone find Xomhyrk! Form a line of defence¡ªa double one. I think that''s a mammoth heading for us!¡±


    A mammoth. What was that again? I''ve read about them, somewhere, I think. Just plant-eaters, nothing dangerous. Just big. What did they look like again?


    Do they look like this thing stomping toward me? Like this beast with tusks twice the length of a pike, a nose like a snake, blunt teeth as capable of crushing bone as wood, thick mats of white fur, and bloodshot yellow eyes? They are meant to travel in herds. Why is this one alone? Fury is in its gaze, and despite all its fur, it''s somehow lanky. Unhealthy. Hungry.


    It raises its trunk and lets out a sound like a hundred brass trumpets. The noise deafens me¡ªI slip and fall to my knees. I tear off my runic ears, throw them into the snow. When the sound ends, the pace of its advance has increased. The earth is trembling as if from the impact of falling, bouncing boulders, like those I wrote about in the poem across my armor.


    It trumpets again. I raise Gutspiercer and yell back at it. Its full size becomes apparent. It''s more than ten times the height of a dwarf at the shoulders, and far greater in bulk than even the biggest blindboar.


    I laugh in its face:


    ¡°Come on, plant-eater! Be my prey!¡±


    It''s in range now¡ªI pivot and slide to the right and swing into its leg.


    Gutspiercer rebounds off. The force of the rebound sends me spinning into the snow. My arms have gone numb and my shoulders feel slightly torn. But the mammoth doesn''t seem to feel anything. It keeps on charging toward our camp, where the thin line of armored figures isn''t going to be enough to stop it.


    The sensation I felt when Gutspiercer hit it was a familiar one, I realize with a chill. It is something I have written about many times¡ªthe feel of a heavy blow being turned by thick ice.


    This is no mammoth. No beast of flesh. The great heat that has swept across this land has awoken ancient forces, powerful forces, but in their impotence against the dragon, they have gone mad with frustration, and now seek to do harm to whatever they judge to be weaker than them.


    Or so I guess. Whatever this monster is, it''s a terrible threat, and one no one has anticipated.


    I charge after the elemental, screaming to my friends:


    ¡°It''s ice! It''s ice!¡±


    But I don''t think they can hear anything over the monster''s tread and trumpeting. I see it swing its mighty head up to one side, then swing back down. Its tusks of white ice flash. Dwarves are sent flying¡ªGuthah is one of them. His spear''s silver runes trace a wild spiral through the dark air.


    He''s lucky, I realize. Its those caught under its tread that are sure to be killed.


    ¡°No!¡± I yell out, and continue my charge. In my haste to attack the creature, I wandered out far further than I intended. The camp is nearly a hundred yards distant still.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream again. ¡°Come back here! Face me! Me!¡±


    The elemental tosses its mighty head back and forth, tearing up the tents with its tusks. Runeknights scream in confusion, try to run. It tramples them. One shows courage; he turns and slashes up, but the monster''s trunk is fast as a whip. It wraps around his chest. The dwarf screams. The trunk squeezes and the scream stops, then the monster lifts him and tosses him with terrible force¡ªhe''s flying right at me¡ªI yell and only just manage to avoid. The impact of his body sends a shudder through the earth and scatters snow up high. I glance back to see who it was.


    I can''t tell. His body has been crushed and mutilated. The exposed flesh looks cold, jagged, like it was frozen before it was smashed.


    The elemental has the same power as my armor. Shit! I keep on sliding, pushing off hard to accelerate myself. This is terrible news. How can my runes, written by me who has only a poor sense of what ice truly is, stand up to a creature wrought of the very substance?


    A group of Dragonslayers has formed up behind the beast. They charge it, hack into its leg. The elemental kicks back with full strength and batters two of them into the snow. Those still standing hack at it again, and it stomps, crushing one. The rest retreat.


    They wield weapons of ice. What good will those do? None. Perhaps even Icemite will be powerless.


    I''m nearly at the camp now. The elemental sweeps another group of dwarves with its tusks, scattering them across the snow. Everyone able to is backing away now, forming a circle around it, yet what good can that do? This isn''t strategy, just fear.


    I break into the circle, panting and wheezing.


    ¡°Stay back!¡± someone warns me. ¡°Stay back! Xomhyrk will deal with it.¡±


    ¡°Where is he?¡± someone else shouts. ¡°Where''s Xomhryk?¡±


    As if called, he appears, walking out from the other side of the circle, blue armor and weapon magnificent in the gray moonlight. The elemental, still tramping and tearing apart tents, seems to feel his presence. It turns, but already he''s leapt¡ªsomehow leapt, with that secret I still don''t understand¡ªhe''s clinging to its side. Icemite glitters.


    He plunges it in.


    The elemental screeches, then whips around its trunk and tears him down, smashes him onto the ground, and rears up over him, heavy front feet poised to crush.

 Dragonhunt 50: Aftermath

    Below, the black dragon is asleep once more. Yet it''s plain to see that this is not a particularly deep sleep. There can be no more question of sneaking up on it, decides Runethane Broderick. He must put into action a new plan. A more complex one.


    The original one.


    He sits back against the black wall and scowls. His torn golden chainmail digs into his flesh. If only those damn fools had listened to him. They were old runethanes, very strong, and very experienced, they reminded him many times over, in the ways of underground combat. A dragon, to their minds, was just like any other kind of foe. It would break on the spear-walls. It might destroy many first, but each time it did, it would grow a little more tired, and eventually it would break upon one like a hurled egg.


    They were to be the focal point of this plan¡ªand Runethane Broderick too, of course, so he could be placated with a little bit of the glory. They were to goud it on, enrage it, send it crashing against the surrounding forces, while steel rained from above to further weaken it.


    Well, Runethane Broderick won''t have to deal with them and their fool ideas anymore. They lie dead underneath the dragon''s absurdly large left hand. White is glowing through the scales there as it drinks in power from their runes. Scattered around is more than half the rest of the force¡ªfive thousand corpses. Less than that, since many can hardly be called corpses. They''re just ash and re-solidified puddles of steel glowing dimly red.


    It took all of five minutes for the black dragon to tear apart the other two runethanes. It took less than two minutes to send the rest of the force fleeing back into the tunnels. The dragon''s fire melted through shields and made spears wilt. Its claws had sharpness beyond metal. The simple force of its wings and tail were enough to splatter weaker runeknights against the walls.


    Runethane Broderick winces as he adjusts his posture. He gave the dragon his best, slashed it down the face with his axes. They carved deep¡ªdeep enough to mortally wound an ordinary dragon, which he has done before¡ªbut the black dragon is simply too vast in scale.


    Trickery. That''s what you have to use to defeat a truly great dragon. That''s what Thanerzak did. As much as Broderick loathed that dwarf, he did know how to use his head.


    When he faced the emperor of the cavern, he first lured it into the chasm by throwing its riches down into the water. Desperate to save its hoard, the dragon dived down, and Thanerzak leapt after it, sliced its wing-joints with mighty strokes of his axe, and let the water do most of the rest.


    And then he didn''t kill it! That was his foolishness. You cannot turn a dragon''s power to your own ends¡ªBroderick realizes this now, realized it fifteen years ago. He has no plans to set dragon-forges into his current forging hall.


    ¡°Father,¡± someone is saying. ¡°Father!¡±


    He looks left. ¡°What is it, Braedle?¡±


    ¡°I''ve done what you asked.¡±


    ¡°What I asked?¡± He blinks a few times as his thoughts re-order themselves.


    ¡°Accounting the rest of the forces.¡±


    ¡°How many do we have, then?¡±


    ¡°Less than four thousand.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°You told me we had at least five.¡±


    ¡°I said I estimated at least five thousand. But it seems many more perished in the tunnels. Many are melted and inaccessible. And it''s possible that more have fled downward. So all we have now is three thousand and eight hundred.¡±


    Broderick scratches his head. ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°We should retreat.¡±


    ¡°I thought you would say that.¡±


    ¡°Father, it is suicide to stay here.¡±


    Broderick sighs. ¡°That may be so. But this is revenge for our people. If we come back to them without the dragon''s head, many will say it would''ve been better for us not to come back at all.¡±


    ¡°Even so¡ª¡±


    ¡°There''s no ''even so'' about it. Either we come back with the dragon''s head, or maybe a good hundred yards of black skin, or we don''t come back at all.¡±


    ¡°I don''t see how we can defeat it with less than four thousand.¡±


    ¡°Numbers aren''t the problem here. The problem is strategy.¡±


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    ¡°We made an examination of the roof before. Your idea won''t work.¡±


    ¡°Before. Before all that thrashing and roaring.¡± He looks up. ¡°The ceiling is weakened further now.¡±


    ¡°The troops won''t agree to mining. They won''t want their final hours to be spent banging on rocks. Besides, we haven''t got the equipment.¡±


    ¡°There are abandoned forges above here they can use to make picks. Metal can be re-purposed from their dead comrades.¡±


    ¡°There will be rebellion.¡±


    ¡°Then I will kill the rebels. We are going through with this plan, Braedle. I know you hate to be the bearer of bad news, but please relay my orders to the troops. Once you sort out the details, of course.¡±


    ¡°Of course, I will be the one sorting out the details. As always. While you do what, exactly?¡±


    ¡°While I think about where best to mine." He stands up, groaning at the pain from his scarred back. "Time to head up, I think.¡±


    He makes to head back into the tunnel. Braedle blocks his path.


    ¡°There''s another problem you need to deal with. The one you keep avoiding.¡±


    ¡°What problem?¡±


    ¡°Don''t play dumb! The one you''ve been ignoring for the past fifteen years! Since before then!¡±


    ¡°Hardrick?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°He''s always been a little crazy. I''m not sure why you''re so much more worried about him now.¡±


    ¡°He''s gotten worse.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Keeps muttering to himself.¡±


    ¡°He''s always done that.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but now he doesn''t seem to care when people are listening. And it''s what he''s muttering about that I''m most concerned about.¡±


    ¡°What, then?¡±


    ¡°That there''s someone here he needs to kill.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Broderick cocks his head. ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know. He doesn''t say any names. But I can only imagine that it''s you.¡±


    ¡°Me? Why in hell would he do that? I''ve given him everything and he knows it. He admires me. Even made his teeth gold to look more like me.¡±


    ¡°That''s just flattery. Everyone but you can see that. Stop being so blind, father. He''s a threat. He needs to be eliminated.¡±


    ¡°I''m not having one of my best warriors eliminated before the final battle.¡±


    ¡°I think you should. He means to depose you.¡±


    ¡°Rubbish.¡±


    ¡°He does! That''s why he''s been creeping his way to the top¡ª"


    ¡°He''s been making his way to the top because that''s a dwarf''s natural desire. Your mother never could understand that¡ª"


    ¡°My human blood has nothing to do with this. If you don''t do something about him you''re going to rue it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I don''t have time for this. Tell you what, once we kill the dragon, I''ll have a proper talk with him, and see what his problem is. Get to the bottom of this once and for all.¡±


    ¡°You are not taking this seriously.¡±


    ¡°I have a dragon on my mind at the moment. I don''t have time for other concerns. If you''re so worried about him, then just make sure he''s on the other side of the battle from me, all right?¡±


    ¡°I will do that.¡±


    ¡°And don''t try to kill him either.¡±


    ¡°I won''t.¡±


    ¡°Swear to me! However you feel about him, he is one of my greatest warriors. He is not called a legend for nothing.¡±


    ¡°I swear.¡±


    ¡°Swear on what?¡±


    Braedle scowls. ¡°On my mother''s grave. Happy?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Now let''s get going.¡±


    <hr>


    The elemental''s massive feet plunge down. Xomhyrk makes no effort to roll away. He lets his armor take the blow. The thud shakes the earth so much that even fifty yards distant I stumble. Xomhyrk grunts, but his armor resists the blow fully. The elemental raises one foot again, this time above Xomhyrk''s head. Again he doesn''t roll, but this time neither does he take the blow¡ªhe stabs up with Icemite.


    It pierces deep into the monster''s sole. It trumpets. He''s hurt it. It rears up to try and get the weapon out, and Xomhyrk lets it do so. Glittering red crystals fall like snow as Icemite''s point rips out its flesh.


    So there is a mortal component to this thing after all. Maybe my earlier guess was mistaken.


    ¡°What are you all doing?¡± roars one of the Dragonslayers at the other side. Maybe Gollor. ¡°Everyone! Charge!¡±


    I leap forward without hesitation, sure that just so long as I get the angle right, Gutspiercer can pierce right into the monster''s flesh. Alongside me is Braztak, holding his axe high and to the left to chop. The monster turns to face us and sweeps with its tusks. I slide and duck. Braztak lets it hit him, rolls with the blow so it doesn''t knock him off his feet. His armor brightens¡ªit seems to glow with captured moonlight for a second. He swings into the creature''s leg and red crystals spray out. He swings back then makes an identical cut on the other side.


    I drive Gutspiercer into one of the open wounds. It digs deep and shivers. The beast kicks me but icy foot slides on icy titanium and I''m barely knocked back.


    More dwarves are around us now, hacking and slashing and stabbing at its legs. Most blows don''t get through the icy white fur, but a few manage, and those wounds are opened further. The beast sweeps back and forth with its tusks. Dwarves are knocked down. It rears up and crushes someone. Its trunk wraps around another and it tosses them high into the air.


    ¡°Strike harder!¡± Braztak yells.


    He throws himself in the way of a kick. The force dents his armor, and it flashes bright again. His next axe-blow cleaves through the monster''s knee. I follow up, sink Gutspiercer into it. The beast falls forward. A tusk hits me and throws me onto my back.


    ¡°Go for the head!¡± yells Xomhyrk.


    The army rushes to obey, shoving at each other in a fury to destroy. I struggle to my feet then slide and elbow my way through the screaming mass of armor and brandished weapons to the front of the crowd. The monster''s trunk whips out at me. I see it coming, duck under it, then bury Gutspiercer into the monster''s mouth. A spear follows my strike, then axe-blows rain onto the monster''s skull. There is cracking like that of a sheet of ice shaking apart. Its skull is broken. Xomhyrk delivers the final blow, plunging Icemite deep into its cranium.


    The beast¡ªelemental or mammoth, I''m not sure anymore¡ªshudders then is still. Dwarves continue to hack away at it in their bloodlust, me included, scraping white-furred skin away from red frozen flesh.


    ¡°Halt!¡± orders Xomhyrk. ¡°Halt and see to the wounded!¡±


    I strike into the beast with Gutspiercer a few more times, and then my weapon stops shivering. I pull it out, confused, trying to remember what Xomhyrk just said.


    ¡°The wounded, Zathar!¡± shouts Braztak.


    Wounded dwarves. Shit, my tenth degrees! I remember them now, remember that I pledged to protect them, and instead ran out and abandoned them.


    My bloodlust fades. Fear and heavy disappointment replace it.


    I lost control again, didn''t I?

 Dragonhunt 51: The Deserters

    I rush through the wrecked tents, turning over smashed bodies and slamming visors up to see if any of the scattered dead and wounded are of the Association. Though, there aren''t many wounded, mostly dead. Whenever the monster got a hard blow in, it killed. Those who did escape with only injury are mostly senior runeknights.


    A sheet of canvas is covering one body. I pull it away and my heart sinks. I recognize the armor immediately. It''s one of the tenth degrees, Katak, the hammer-wielder, and his level of armor never could have survived such a heavy blow. His left upper leg and hip are crushed nearly flat. Judging by the shocked expression on his face, death must have been quick.


    I groan and cover his face with the canvas.


    ¡°Braztak!¡± I shout. ¡°There''s one of ours here. Dead.¡±


    ¡°We''ll deal with the dead later,¡± comes the reply. ¡°Find some healing chains, and quick! Pellas is wounded.¡±


    ¡°Badly?¡±


    ¡°Get the healing chains!¡±


    I dig around the snow in a panic, then notice a pack with chains spilling out of it not ten yards away. I gather them up and rush across to where Braztak and a few others are kneeling over a fallen Pellas. Her short blonde hair is spread in a halo in the snow around her head. They''ve taken her breastplate off¡ªit''s dented and crumpled like tin.


    ¡°Chains!¡± I cry, and throw them to Braztak, who''s more experienced at applying them than me. ¡°Pellas, what happened?¡±


    She groans and rolls her eyes. The right side of her chest is purple and red all the way down. Braztak starts to wind the chain around her. She groans and flails at him. Someone restrains her hands.


    ¡°She caught one of the tusks,¡± says a dazed-sounding Guthah. ¡°Threw her into the air. The other one got me. I''m fine, though.¡±


    ¡°I told her runes of strength were a bad idea,¡± I say under my breath. ¡°Damn this!¡±


    ¡°We''re still missing nearly a dozen,¡± says Erak. ¡°Zathar, tenth degree, the rest of you! Go find them!¡±


    I nod, reluctantly back away, and hurry back into the camp to see who else from the Association has perished.


    Everything is chaos, total disarray. Ripped canvas and splintered aluminum poles litter the ground. Red stains of frozen blood are everywhere. Dwarves from other guilds are dragging their torn dead and screaming injured through the snow, or huddling in groups and shouting and swearing and wailing in grief.


    ¡°Someone over here!¡± Guthah shouts. ¡°Zathar!¡±


    I rush over to see who it is. It''s one of the dwarves I don''t know too well, a sixth or seventh degree I think. He''s been decapitated, his neck-flesh torn and spine popped as if the beast ripped his head off with its trunk.


    ¡°Should we drag him back?¡± asks Guthah.


    ¡°No. Keep searching for wounded.¡±


    A groan sounds from the perimeter. I look up to see a dwarf stumbling back toward the tents. His armor is familiar.


    ¡°Mulkath?¡±


    I rush over. He nearly collapses into my arms once I make it to him. His mercury runes have changed color to a dull, almost dark gray. His belly plates are bent inward.


    ¡°Did it pick you up?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. And threw me out.¡± He coughs. ¡°I didn''t run away, Zathar. Never!"


    "I didn''t think you had."


    "No? So many did. Ran right past me! Pushed me into the snow, the fucking bastards."


    ¡°How many?¡±


    "I..."


    He coughs again and slumps to his knees. I pull him back up.


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    ¡°...saw a good couple dozen legging it out,¡± he finishes.


    ¡°Any of them ours?¡±


    He coughs again. ¡°Couldn''t see. Shit, everything looks so dark.¡±


    ¡°Come on. Braztak has healing chains.¡±


    I help him over to where Pellas and the rest are. Her eyes are closed now, but thankfully she''s breathing evenly. Her ribs may be broken but I don''t think any pierced her lungs. Someone''s found more healing chains, and I leave Mulkath to have them applied.


    As I make to rush back into the camp, Guthah holds up a hand and shakes his head. I stop.


    ¡°Found four more of ours,¡± he says grimly. ¡°All dead.¡±


    ¡°Any tenth degrees?¡±


    ¡°Two of them were. Losan and Yalot.¡±


    ¡°Ah, shit. I shouldn''t have run off. I shouldn''t have.¡±


    ¡°It''s all right. You did the right thing. You wanted to take it on in place of us.¡±


    I wish that was my reason.


    ¡°Are all accounted for?¡±


    ¡°There''s still two missing,¡± another guildmember says.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Faltast and Ulat.¡±


    I look across the camp. It seems that most of the bodies and the wounded have been cleared off to their respective guilds. In fact, I can see no more bodies.


    ¡°They might be buried in the snow. Or under canvas.¡±


    We go to check, tearing destroyed tents up from the snow, shoving through bloody snowbanks where the beast''s heavy movements scraped the ground up. We find open packs, crushed beerskins with their contents freezing onto the snow, a few twisted weapons¡ªbut no trace of Faltast, nor of Ulat, who is one of my tenth degrees.


    ¡°They might have been thrown out, like Mulkath was,¡± I say. ¡°We need to check around the camp.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± says a sixth degree. ¡°Faltast... He was the one with the big shield, wasn''t he?¡±


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    ¡°And an axe, right? Silver.¡±


    ¡°Steel with silver runes, yes,¡± I say. I''m getting a sinking feeling. ¡°Did you see him get thrown?¡±


    The sixth degree shakes his head. ¡°I saw him running.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I snap back. ¡°That''s not possible.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure it was him.¡±


    ¡°It can''t have been. He wouldn''t have.¡±


    ¡°I think I might have seen him too,¡± says another dwarf.


    ¡°Might?¡±


    ¡°Probably it was him. I recognized the shield.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°No. You must have made a mistake.¡±


    There''s silence for a few seconds. The sixth degree breaks it.


    ¡°He lost his friend. Maybe that affected him¡ª¡±


    ¡°He wouldn''t shame us!¡±


    The sixth degree bows his head. I shake mine. It can''t be. Faltast, running away? Yet I have to admit that if any of us was going to run away, it''d be him. He told me he wasn''t in this for death and duty. Not wholly.


    He even had the gall to say I was drunk on my reasons for coming. Drunk! I didn''t know if he was being serious then, but maybe he was.


    ¡°I''ll report this to Braztak,¡± I say. ¡°In the meantime, search around the camp. Stay in groups of at least three¡ªwe don''t know what still might be wandering out there.¡±


    I turn and slide quickly over to Braztak. I look down at Mulkath, who''s wrapped in furs¡ªthey look like they''ve been torn out of his armor¡ªtaking shallow breaths. I look at Pellas. Her face looks very peaceful now, but that''s not always a good sign. I look at the headless dwarf, who someone, against orders, has dragged back to lie with the other bodies of Association members.


    I look up at Braztak.


    ¡°What is it?¡± he says. ¡°Did you find anyone else? Faltast?¡±


    I can see deep worry in his eyes. I shake my head.


    ¡°What''s that look supposed to mean, Zathar? Did you find him? Is he dead?¡±


    ¡°They say he ran away.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°One of the sixth degrees said he saw Faltast fleeing.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°That''s what I said. But...¡±


    ¡°But what?¡± Braztak snaps.


    ¡°Back before we left off, he admitted he was in this partly for the treasure. That he wasn''t interested in charging headlong into danger¡ª"


    ¡°He''s always been cautious. Doesn''t make him a coward.¡±


    ¡°I''m as shocked as you are!¡± I say. ¡°But with my ears, a couple nights ago, I heard his voice on the wind.¡±


    ¡°Saying what?¡±


    ¡°Saying he thought all this was hopeless.¡±


    ¡°He wouldn''t betray Jerat''s memory.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think so either.¡±


    ¡°He might have been thrown out the fight, like Mulkath here.¡±


    ¡°I''ve got the other dwarves searching. What about the other fourth and third degrees? Where are they searching?¡±


    ¡°They''re scouting to see if there''s any more beasts headed our way.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Faltast will turn up. Dead or alive.¡±


    ¡°That may be so.¡±


    ¡°He can''t have run away,¡± Braztak repeats, as if he''s trying to convince himself. ¡°Can''t have!¡±


    ¡°Some others did. From the other guilds.¡±


    ¡°Of course. They always do.¡±


    ¡°Until now with no consequence,¡± someone says.


    Wait. Who said that? It was me, wasn''t it? That was my voice. For some reason it sounded a little distant.


    Braztak frowns. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Gutspiercer has started to tremble in my hands. My ruby is growing hot against my chest.


    ¡°Zathar?¡±


    Anger blazes to life within me.


    ¡°How dare they abandon their comrades? Abandon us! Abandon their quest, their promise!¡±


    ¡°They''re weak. It can''t be helped.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°No, it can. Xomhyrk told me that those who disobey him must be punished. In my opinion that''s what''s gone wrong here. None of those who''ve betrayed us have been punished. They''ve been allowed to go free.¡±


    ¡°His methods aren''t yours to question.¡±


    ¡°Why the hell not? If his Dragonslayers had caught a few of those who ran from the dragon, stripped them down, cut them up, maybe we''d have had more fighters tonight.¡±


    ¡°Listen to yourself, Zathar!¡± Braztak''s anger has turned to alarm. ¡°It might have resulted in more desertions.¡±


    ¡°Even so, betrayal shouldn''t go unpunished. I am here to absolve my betrayal. I won''t let others tarnish that!¡±


    ¡°Calm down! You''re not making sense!¡±


    I gesture wildly at the injured and dead. ¡°They turned their backs on our friends! They cannot be allowed to go free!¡±


    ¡°Stop this, Zathar! Calm down. Stay here!¡±


    He reaches for my shoulder and grabs it. He''s guessed my intentions. I pull backwards and his gauntlet slides off.


    ¡°There''s no stopping this!¡± I shout. Gutspiercer is shivering violently now. My ruby is blazing. ¡°They must be punished!¡±

 Dragonhunt 52: Zathars Justice

    Braztak¡ªhis horror writ clear on his face¡ªmakes to grab at me once more, but I''m already spinning around. I kick off hard, and let the slipperiness of my boots take on the momentum. A few more kicks, some dodges around broken shafts of aluminum, and I''m through the other side of the camp. I pass Xomhyrk talking to a couple of his Dragonslayers. I don''t see if he sees me; his face is just a blur in the darkness.


    I''ve no runic ears. They lie discarded in the snow, but I don''t think I''ll need them. The snow has reduced to just a thin scattering of flakes¡ªmaybe this has something to do with the monster''s death. Whatever the reason, I can see the silver-lit landscape clearly.


    No figures yet. They''ve got quite the head-start on me. I kick hard a few times, and now I''m moving faster than I''ve ever moved before, faster even, perhaps, than the chain in the Blue Shaft pulled me up to the surface.


    There! That was quick¡ªfive dark silhouettes not four hundred yards away. The ground grows rough all of a sudden, and I''m slowed, but a few more hard kicks into the stony earth gets me going again.


    I''m closing fast. I don''t think any of them are Faltast: at least, none of them carry a large shield. He might have discarded it, of course, but I find that unlikely. He''s pragmatic and knows equipment is more valuable than anything.


    Getting closer now. I can make out some of the details on their armor, and it seems fairly crude. These are eighth degree runeknights at the most. Gutspiercer will have little trouble getting through their armor.


    Thirty yards out, one of them hears me. He yells something and increases his pace to a run. The others follow suit. One glances back. His visor is down, but his body language signals shock. He raises his weapon, a short spear, and his shield also.


    Gutspiercer swings down. It pierces his shield. I tear it from his arm as I slide around him¡ªleather straps snap loudly. I dig the rough sections of my boots into the stony earth and skid to a halt. Sparks fly from my feet. I leap forward and strike down.


    My opponent turns and tries to parry with his spear, but misjudges the angle. Gutspiercer stabs deep into the space between neck and collarbone. I tear it out and a spray of blood follows.


    ¡°Halt, damn you all!¡± I scream at the rest of the fleeing dwarves. ¡°Halt, you traitors!¡±


    They continue to flee. I kick off and pursue.


    ¡°He''s too fast,¡± one of them shouts after looking over his shoulder. ¡°We need to stand and fight!¡±


    ¡°That''s Zathar!¡± another screams. ¡°We can''t beat him!¡±


    ¡°He''s only a fourth degree! Yes we can!¡±


    ¡°Face me!¡± I scream.


    Three of the dwarves stumble to a halt and turn around. They inch closer together. They''re terrified of me, of my face-plate that is a grinning skull. The two on the sides back away slightly, leave their comrade to do the fighting.


    He''s in slightly better armor than the others, maybe about sixth degree quality. He steps forward boldly and slashes down with his one-handed sword. I let the blow contact my shoulder. It slides off with a flash of sparks.


    I swing Gutspiercer at his lower body. He attempts to dodge back and to the side, but collides with his friend. Gutspiercer goes through his left side-plate and out the front of his belly-plate, bloody. He screams.


    His other friend cleaves at me with his own sword. Gutspiercer is still in the wound, so I have to bat the blow away using my forearm. It slides off cleanly. I pull Gutspiercer out, reverse it so the point is aiming at the dwarf who just struck at me, strike¡ªall in one movement. Gutspiercer bites deep into his ribs and shudders in glee as it goes through his heart, slaying him instantly.


    The other dwarf stumbles away. I leap forward and bury Gutspiercer through his helmet. His corpse falls to its knees then onto its face, making a muted clatter.


    ¡°Too easy!¡± I laugh. ¡°Too fucking easy!¡±


    ¡°Zathar!¡± the last dwarf screams. He''s on his knees in the snow, is holding his palms up to me. ¡°Please, stop! I''m sorry! I didn''t mean to run away! Please!¡±


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    I stride over to him with Gutspiercer raised high.


    ¡°Please! I''m sorry! I''m sorry for everything! I''m sorry for not listening to you in training! Sorry for running! Please forgive me!¡±


    I halt Gutspiercer mid-swing.


    ¡°Ulat?¡± I say.


    ¡°Yes! Yes, that''s me! Please, instructor, stop! Please stop!¡±


    I keep Gutspiercer poised to fall. Ulat pushes himself back a little. I take a step forward.


    ¡°Don''t try to run any further!¡± I spit.


    He stops. ¡°Yes, yes, I''m sorry! I won''t run any further, I promise!¡±


    Ulat has always been one of the least impressive of my students. I''d always thought, back when I was training them for the examination, that he had little will of his own. He never scowled back at me like Guthah, and when I made my decision to offer them the use of other weapons, he was one of the few who stuck with axe and shield.


    I was rather surprised he came with us on this expedition. Likely one or two of the other tenth degrees persuaded him to come. And now he finds himself caught up in something he''s wholly unprepared for.


    That''s no excuse.


    ¡°Why did you run?¡± I snap.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Yes, why? Answer me right now!¡±


    ¡°I... I was scared. Just scared, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Of what?¡±


    ¡°Of the thing. The thing that attacked us. Is it dead?¡± A hopeful note comes into his voice. ¡°Are we saved?¡±


    ¡°We slew it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that''s great to hear!¡± Tears pour from his eyes. ¡°Great to hear!¡±


    ¡°It slew many of us.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Oh, hell. Any in the association? Any of us tenth degrees?¡±


    ¡°Of course! No thanks to you!¡±


    I take another step forward and am right over him now. He flattens himself against the cold earth.


    ¡°I''m sorry!¡± he yelps.


    ¡°You should be. If you and your friends here hadn''t run off, maybe we''d have been able to kill it faster. Maybe Katak would still be alive!¡±


    ¡°Katak''s dead?¡±


    ¡°That''s what I just fucking said, didn''t I?¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry!¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡± I scream. ¡°And stand up now!¡±


    He hurries to stand up. He tries to back away. I swing Gutspiercer at him¡ªbring it forward just before its point stabs through the side of his chest. I hook him stumbling in and grab him by the neck.


    ¡°I''m sorry!¡± he wails.


    ¡°You''ve said sorry enough. But fine, you''re only a tenth degree. And I''ve been given chances to make amends for my foolishness, so I''ll give you a chance also. Get back to camp, now!¡±


    He nods. I release my grip on his throat.


    ¡°Go!¡± I shout.


    He runs away, kicking up snow as he does so. He''s rubbing at his neck¡ªthe cold of my gauntlet might have burned him. Good. He deserves a scar to remember this by.


    I look around at the four who ran with him. Their blood has already frozen onto the snow, dark stains upon the white. I make to spit on them, but remember my helmet is on, so settle for a few violent kicks.


    This is wrong, I think for a second. This is a crime, justice is not mine to deliver¡ªthe thought is gone as soon as it appears. I shake my head. Cowards deserve punishment. Those who abandon their comrades¡ª


    But that''s what I did, all those years ago. I did worse.


    None of that matters. The expedition is falling apart, and the others here must know that to disobey, to put our quest in jeopardy, means death. I look south and kick off, begin to slide fast across the land once more. There are more deserters to kill, and there is Faltast to find as well.


    Maybe he had a good reason for running. Maybe he can get a second chance like Ulat.


    Only a few minutes later I see another group of dwarves. There''s five of them, but this time they don''t hear me coming. I dispatch them in a frenzy of bloody stabs, and then I''m gliding through their carcasses toward the next group, which I can see already.


    These ones offer slightly more resistance. One is fifth or sixth degree, and he gives me a nasty scratch across the visor, at nearly the same angle that the scar across my vision is, so that the two lines align. He misjudges the next blow though and Gutspiercer buries itself in his thigh, then I slam it through his back.


    I laugh as I slide on. Their armor is too weak! Like fabric, not metal! Gutspiercer shivers at the praise. It''s hungry for more, and more I plan to give it.


    Soon I come to another group of deserters. They''re pitiful. The death of only one of their number has them begging for their lives. A few moments later they are silent and I''m alone again with among corpses. I watch as the streams of blood from them slow, congeal to a crawl, stop and freeze.


    ¡°How many have we killed so far?¡± I say to the dark air. ¡°Ten? Nearly ten? More?¡±


    But where''s Faltast? A dizziness takes hold of me¡ªhave I already killed him, without realizing it? I look at my bloody gauntlets. Who have I killed so far? I don''t know.


    Surely if I''d slain him, my friend, I''d remember. Surely.


    Shit! What am I doing? Have I really just killed a dozen other runeknights? But there''s no going back now. My ruby burns hot again. We must finish this.


    ¡°Faltast!¡± I shout. ¡°Faltast! I know you''re out here! Answer me!¡±


    No answer comes. I slide out of the circle of corpses. This time I go a little slower, and look around the night more carefully. He might have heard the screams and be hiding.


    ¡°Faltast!¡± I yell. ¡°I know you''re out here!¡±


    Again, no answer. Shit! He must be hiding. That''s the cowardly thing to do, isn''t it? Or the pragmatic thing to do. Maybe there''s no difference.


    ¡°Faltast! You''re alone out here.¡± I have to appeal to his cowardice and draw him out that way. ¡°You won''t make it back alone. That wasn''t the only monster out there.¡±


    Still no answer. I let my momentum slow.


    ¡°Faltast!¡± I yell. ¡°Come back! We can talk this out.¡±


    I hear a scuffling sound to my left, fairly distant. A figure has stood up. It holds a shield. He turns it toward me and it reflects the moon''s light so brightly it looks like the moon itself brought down from the sky. I kick off toward it.


    ¡°Faltast!¡± I say. ¡°Is that you?¡±


    ¡°It''s me,¡± comes the reply. He sounds weary. ¡°What is it, Zathar? Grown tired of killing us?¡±

 Dragonhunt 53: Judgement of an Oathbreaker

    ¡°Who is us?¡± I ask as I approach him.


    ¡°Us sensible ones.¡±


    ¡°Sensible?¡± I stop my advance a few feet in front of him. He lifts up his visor and looks into my eyes.


    ¡°This quest is doomed, Zathar.¡±


    Gutspiercer shivers. My ruby blazes. But I manage hold back my rage, just.


    ¡°Is it now?¡± I say, as calmly as I can manage.


    ¡°Five hundred set out. How many are left now? Just over two hundred, give or take.¡±


    ¡°It''s not about numbers. It''s about guts.¡±


    ¡°You know that''s not true.¡±


    ¡°Most of the most powerful runeknights are still with us.¡±


    ¡°Only in our guild and in the Dragonslayers. Open your eyes, Zathar. Those are the only two guilds with more than half their members remaining.¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk is with us.¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk alone can''t beat the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°He can with us.¡±


    ¡°You know that isn''t true. Even with five hundred he wouldn''t have been able to beat it.¡±


    ¡°Then why did you even come?¡± I fill my next words with venom: ¡°Hoped to scavenge some treasure, did you?¡±


    ¡°I told you my reasons for coming. A bit of everything. I still hoped back then we could get that. And I came because my friends were coming as well.¡±


    ¡°Jerat may be dead, but Braztak and Mulkath are not.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°I wish them the best. But it''s just reached the point that it''s not worth it anymore. It''s time to cut my losses.¡±


    ¡°Cut your losses? The loss of your friend?¡±


    ¡°Charging forward won''t bring him back.¡±


    ¡°That''s not why we take revenge! Not for Jerat and not for those killed by the dragon either! Have you forgotten what Braztak said back in the guildhall?¡±


    ¡°I haven''t forgotten¡ª¡±


    I''m drawn another step toward him. He backs away. I take another step.


    ¡°You have forgotten!¡± I yell. ¡°He said that we''re runeknights! Those who hurt us, we hurt! Otherwise who will take us seriously?¡±


    ¡°We can''t hurt the black dragon!¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°It''s too powerful! A mere human took out near half our forces! What hope do we have?¡±


    ¡°We don''t need hope. All we need to do is keep going forward.¡±


    ¡°We''re going to our deaths!¡±


    ¡°And? So what? If I die, I''ll still be fulfilling my oath. And as for you, you''ll be keeping your promise to Xomhyrk.¡±


    ¡°I never promised anything.¡±


    ¡°By joining us you promised to see this quest through to the end. To the very end. Not halfway to the mountain, scared witless by some simple beast."


    "I don''t want to die."


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Why not? Why not?¡± He''s raising his shield now. ¡°What? Listen to yourself! No one wants to die!¡±


    ¡°No, but a runeknight must accept the risk.¡±


    ¡°I did, to a degree. But there''s a difference between taking a risk and committing suicide. I''m sorry, but I''m out now, Zathar. I''m out.¡±


    ¡°I won''t let you go!¡±


    I lash out with Gutspiercer to hook it around his ankle, but we''ve sparred too many times for him to fall for that trick. He steps over it then dodges back, shield held high covering waist to collar.


    Yet his axe remains at his belt.


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    ¡°I''m going. I''m out,¡± he repeats. ¡°You can''t stop me.¡±


    ¡°Listen to yourself!¡± I cry. ¡°What would Jerat say if he could see you now?¡±


    ¡°He doesn''t see anything¡ªhe''s dead. He was drunk and his drink killed him. And now you, and Braztak, and Mulkath, and Xomhyrk, and everyone else¡ªyou''re going to kill yourselves too.¡±


    ¡°We agreed to fight to the death. And so did you.¡±


    ¡°I''m out now. I''m leaving.¡±


    ¡°You are not.¡±


    He shakes his head. He''s clasping the head of his axe with his right hand, readying to pull it up.


    ¡°We''re talking in circles here,¡± he says. ¡°This is over. I''m leaving. Go back to the camp.¡±


    I raise Gutspiercer. My ruby amulet is thrumming with power. My armor doesn''t seem to be pulling me back anymore either. It knows that what I''m about to do is for the good of the expedition. Cowardice and oathbreaking has lost us more than a hundred of our force already. It can no longer go unpunished.


    I understand how Wharoth felt now, wanting to kill me. Despite all the time he''d spent on me, all the effort he''d put into instructing me, his love¡ªfor that is what he feels for me, fatherly love¡ªdespite all that he knew that oathbreaking and betrayal cannot go unpunished.


    Faltast is my friend. But he has just admitted outright that he is breaking his oath.


    ¡°Zathar...¡± he says, backing away further. ¡°Don''t do this. Don''t be a fool. We''re guildmates, remember?¡±


    I can feel the poems engraved into the ruby. Their runes are burning into my skin. For a moment I hesitate¡ªdo I really desire to punish, to deliver justice, or do these feelings just mask the ruby''s simple desire to kill?


    Is it really me making this decision?


    Gutspiercer slashes down. The vertical strike is fast but predictable. Faltast brings up his shield and Gutspiercer''s tip slams into it at a shallow angle. Sparks fly, illuminating flecks of snow in the air, mingling with them before quickly dying. I strike again immediately, sideways this time. He brings his shield back and blocks this strike as well, but my angle is better this time. Gutspiercer digs in slightly and Faltast stumbles.


    I don''t let up, strike again. He blocks. I strike a few more times, looping wild swings yet each perfectly aimed. He blocks them all. He''s skilled.


    ¡°Zathar, stop this!¡± he pleads. ¡°We''re friends!¡±


    But I cannot stop. He''s an oathbreaker, a traitor, and must be punished. Nevermind the voice at the back of my head saying that I was given a chance, and that I just gave a tenth degree a chance, and so maybe Faltast deserves a chance too. That voice is too faint.


    Sparks spray from his shield with each strike. They scatter onto the snow. His steel is well-made, but Gutspiercer is the stronger of the crafts. His shield''s runic power is fading¡ªeach blow bites into the metal a little deeper.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Faltast shouts again.


    My next blow comes from below. It strikes hard into his shield, nearly gets through, and the force makes it ring. He''s lifted backwards off his feet. He sprawls into the snow. Gutspiercer is up, and now I bring it down at his chest.


    He parries with his axe, but a one-handed parry against a two-handed blow is never a sure thing. Some of Gutspiercer''s momentum is robbed, but not enough, and the point buries itself two inches into the side of his breastplate.


    He screams. For a moment the voice in my head telling me to stop and that this is enough grows louder, but then it suddenly diminishes. I tear Gutspiercer out and slash down once more.


    This time he rolls out the way. Gutspiercer strikes the frozen earth. Faltast cuts at my wrist and the blade cleaves into my titanium plate, nearly all the way through but not quite. I curse and flail my arm away to get the blade out.


    He quickly rolls to his feet and gets into proper fighting stance, with his axe held ready to strike.


    ¡°This is your last chance,¡± he says. ¡°I''m going to get serious now.¡±


    I ignore the threat and swing, once to feint, then circle back for a real blow. Again he uses his shield to block, and this time Gutspiercer goes right through. He shouts in surprise. I pull to free my weapon, but the point is through at an awkward angle. Faltast takes advantage of this, and turns his shield sideways to lock my weapon further. At the same time he slashes at my head. I twist my head to avoid the blow and so it crashes onto my collarbone.


    I feel a hot line of blood appear. I scream in rage and let go of Gutspiercer with my left hand to grab at his axe-arm. He pulls it back out of range, so I shove in closer and grab his neck. He lets out a yelp of pain¡ªthe cold must be intense.


    I''ll freeze his blood!


    He struggles backward in an attempt to free himself. I slide with him, keeping myself pressed close. My hand stays around the chainmail underneath his helmet. He gasps and tries to strike me with his axe, but with us pressed this close together both our weapons are useless. This is wrestling range, and contact with my frozen armor means slow death.


    He makes a gamble and hooks his leg around the back of mine. He twists his body. We both fall into the thin snow. Our armor-plates screech against each another. We roll, and he manages to get on top of me. He raises his axe high and brings it down.


    I''m forced to let go of his neck. I cross my arms in front of my face and block the impact. His axe bites for a moment, then skids off. He raises it again, batters down again. This time it cuts deeper, nearly into my flesh.


    It''s sharper than I ever gave it credit for, and given more time he could cut my wrists to pieces, but the cold gets too much for him. He throws himself off of me and rolls away. The momentum is enough to free his shield from Gutspiercer with another small spray of sparks.


    I watch him retreat for a few seconds, then I leap to my feet. It seems strange to have the energy to leap, after so much chasing, fighting, killing¡ªbut I''ve got just as much energy as I had when I first set off from the camp. It''s my ruby¡ªit''ll keep me going until the killing is done, and it isn''t yet done.


    I kick off and slide after him. He hears me, glances back, redoubles his pace, but it''s hopeless. The air flows around me. Usually when you run you can feel the wind dragging at you, at least slightly, but I don''t feel any of that.


    In a few seconds I''m in range. I hesitate, expecting him to turn around for a sudden strike, but he doesn''t, just keeps running. His coward''s instincts have got the better of him.


    I raise Gutspiercer and strike at his back. He throws himself sideways¡ªtoo slowly.


    Gutspiercer sinks into the back of his right calf. It continues into the ground, pinning him. He falls to his face, screaming like I''ve never heard him scream before, like a boar, like a hurt animal.


    ¡°You brought this on yourself!¡± I yell. ¡°Oathbreaker!¡±


    I tear Gutspiercer out. He tries to roll onto his front, but my final strike is filled with righteous fury¡ªI am doing the right thing, justice must be done, the quest must succeed¡ªit has the speed and power of an avalanche behind it.


    Gutspiercer sinks into his back just left of center, through his heart.

 Dragonhunt 54: Justification for Murder

    I remain standing over Faltast''s body for some time. Blood wells up around Gutspiercer. Moonlight reflects off the stain onto the weapon''s platinum runes, making them gleam redly. I stare at this scene and find myself sinking into it, yet it doesn''t quite seem real, but like I''m looking at some mosaic, an image, or some scene from a poem, rather than at my dead friend.


    Dead? Can he really be dead? Slowly I pull Gutspiercer out. Faltast twitches. My heart jumps. I watch closely for further movement, but there''s nothing. He''s as still as the frozen plain upon which he lies.


    I killed him. Reality sets in. I killed him, my friend! I stagger back, slipping on the snow. Why?


    Because he was a traitor. Because he betrayed our quest, abandoned his comrades to a fell beast bent on destroying us.


    Just as I did. Yet I was given a second chance. More than one chance.


    I gave the tenth degree, Ulat, a chance. Why didn''t I give one to Faltast?


    I shake my head. I went through these thoughts while I was fighting him. I found myself to be correct then, so why not now?


    Slowly, carefully, pressing into the snow with the fronts of my boots so I don''t slip again, I step back away from the body. I don''t want to see it anymore, don''t want to have anything to do with it. There''s can be no reason for this feeling¡ªI did justice, I did the right thing, he was a deserter¡ªyet all the same I can''t bear to be here; I want to be away, want to leave him in the darkness where I can no longer see him.


    I turn and flee, almost flying over the ice, skidding through the darkness. I''m breathing hard¡ªnow that the burning in my ruby has dimmed, fatigue has caught up with me. Something dark is in my way and I''m traveling too fast to turn and avoid. My boots smash into it and I go flying through the air. I tumble over and over, then skid to a stop. I scramble to my feet look back. The dark shape is a body, and there are others around it. Pale red circles are in bloom upon on many-times punctured armor.


    I continue to flee. How many did I kill tonight? A dozen? When have I ever killed a dozen of my fellow dwarves before? Back in the war against Broderick, perhaps, but those were my enemies. It was fair and proper to kill them.


    It was fair and proper to kill the deserters! They betrayed us.


    Yet I am also a traitor.


    I''m going in circles again; I''ve been through all this!


    ¡°I did the right thing!'' I scream.


    Then I slow myself down and take some deep breaths. I need to calm myself. I''m going to be back at camp soon, and I need to be in a sound state of mind if I''m going to be able to convince everyone of the truth.


    The truth being that what I did was right.


    I start back off at a slower pace. There''s a slight glow to the east. The sun is coming up. I''ve been out away from camp for a while now. My killing passed in a blur, but between the different fleeing groups there must have been more distance than I thought. I seem to have traveled quite a long way.


    Am I even going in the right direction? I look around me. There''s a faint line in the snow some way to my left. I travel toward it, and it looks like it might be my tracks. I step into it, and my boots fit.


    These are my tracks. I breath a sigh of relief. I take off alongside them. At least I know I''m going in the right direction now.


    This brings a new worry to my mind¡ªUlat. I spared him, sent him away, but can he find his way back? Did my act of forgiveness just condemn him to a slower death?


    I won''t know until I myself make it to camp. I continue. My wrist begins to sting with pain, and the cut beside my neck too. It''s growing warm, which means it must be bleeding again. Faltast''s strike was harder than I realized at the time. Another inch to the right and I would''ve been seriously wounded, perhaps fatally wounded.


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    As the glow to the east brightens, the clouds above fade and with them the snowfall. For a while I consider this good luck, for there''s no way it''ll become hot enough for my tracks to melt, but then the snow starts to glisten. It is melting.


    Briefly I take my helmet off. It''s not so cold as it''s been on the many miles we traveled to get here. Has our killing of the frozen mammoth disrupted something? Or is this just another effect of the dragon''s continued presence? Could it perhaps be waking up, recovering from its injuries?


    Likely it''s growing in strength, absorbing power from the new hoard of runic weapons and armor it''s taken from Uthrarzak''s forces.


    There''s no point in speculation. I try to clear my mind for what feels like the hundredth time¡ªand Faltast''s last moments appear before my eyes. I hear him plead for his life again.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± I hiss to myself. ¡°Shut up!¡±


    How long until camp? How long? Out here alone on the ice, I have nothing but my own thoughts, and they are torment.


    Finally, about mid-morning, I catch sight of the great red and white mound that was the icy mammoth, then the wrecked tents and the dark figures of my fellow dwarves. They are bent over, breaking apart the ground with the handles of their weapons. Everyone is doing this labor, the low labor of miners, even Xomhyrk.


    He''s the first to spot me. He suddenly straightens up and points. I brace myself¡ªsomehow I think he''ll be angry with me, and I remember his power to suddenly appear long distances away. Is he about to take my head for my crime? Maybe Braztak has told him what I left camp to do.


    He''s walking out of camp, though, not flying at impossible speed.


    ¡°Zathar!¡± he shouts. ¡°Where in hell have you been? What the hell were you thinking?¡±


    There''s a note of worry in his voice. I slide to a stop just before him. Some of my guildmates, Braztak and Guthah among them, rush out to join us.


    For several seconds I am struck dumb, unable to think of anything to say.


    ¡°Zathar?¡± Xomhyrk says again. ¡°Where were you?¡±


    ¡°Did you find Faltast?¡± Braztak asks.


    ¡°And Ulat?¡± asks Guthah.


    What is there to say? What can I tell them?


    ¡°Zathar?¡± says Braztak. ¡°What happened?¡±


    All I can tell them, I know, is the honest truth, and my honest reasons.


    ¡°Did you see Ulat?¡± Guthah asks again. ¡°No sign at all?¡±


    ¡°I found him,¡± I say. ¡°Is he not back yet? I let him go.¡±


    Guthah frowns. ¡°Let him go? What do you mean?¡±


    A strange look comes across Braztak''s face. He must now realize what I''ve done; my careless remark has confirmed his suspicions. But it is, surprisingly, not an angry look. Stern and cold, but not angry.


    ¡°What did you do out there?¡± says Xomhyrk. There''s a little more steel in his voice now. ¡°Answer me.¡±


    I straighten my stance and look him in the eyes. ¡°I did what I had to do.¡±


    ¡°And what was that?¡±


    ¡°Hand down justice.¡±


    ¡°Justice? Enforcing justice is not your role, Zathar.¡±


    A sudden anger comes upon me. My ruby is hot all of a sudden. What I have to say becomes as clear as ice:


    "I did what I had to do!" I cry. ¡°They were traitors! They left us to fight that beast alone. They cared only for their own skins. And they aren''t the only ones¡ªso many have run from this expedition, Xomhyrk. You know, everyone knows, but we say nothing. I took it upon myself to do something. No one can get away with betraying us¡ªno one!¡±


    Most of the expedition has gathered around now. Many are glaring in rage: I have killed their guildmates for betrayal, a crime I myself am famous for committing.


    ¡°I was ready to accept my punishment!¡± I snap at them. ¡°I was willing to die if found guilty. When I lost the final contest¡ªit was overturned later, but at that point I had lost¡ªI was willing to die. I was ready to meet the executioner''s axe.¡±


    ¡°And this gives you the right to play executioner, does it?¡± says Xomhyrk.


    ¡°Play? I did not play at anything. I did a duty no one else was willing to do.¡±


    ¡°I have said many times that those who do not wish to face the dragon are free to do so.¡±


    ¡°And as a result of that, our numbers are less than half what they were!¡±


    There is silence. Xomhyrk is staring into my eyes through my helm''s skull-sockets. I glare back. I don''t know what gives me the courage to do this¡ªto disobey a first degree directly¡ªbut I''m doing it all the same.


    The silence continues. No one is sure what to say. The Dragonslayers seem aghast¡ªI don''t think anyone has spoken to Xomhyrk like this before.


    Gollor breaks it. He steps between me and Xomhyrk and grabs hold of me by the shoulders. His hands are strong, and he seems unaffected by my armor''s cold.


    ¡°The commander''s judgement is not yours to question!¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± I say. ¡°Maybe I made a mistake. But his orders were not on my mind. All that was in my mind, in my heart, was rage that our comrades could abandon us. Our own guildmates!¡±


    ¡°Zathar,¡± Braztak says with a slight tremble in his voice. ¡°Did you find Faltast?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And then what did you do?¡±


    ¡°I told him to come back.¡±


    ¡°And what did he reply?¡±


    ¡°He refused.¡±


    ¡°Refused?¡±


    ¡°Yes. He said he was finished. That he thought we were doomed, and that he no longer wanted a part in our quest.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I told him that by coming he agreed to see this to the end. He admitted this, and then said he was going to turn back anyway.¡± I take a deep, shaky breath. ¡°He was an oathbreaker, Braztak. Dwarves of the Association of Steel, he was an oathbreaker.¡±


    ¡°And then what happened?¡± Braztak asks quietly.


    ¡°We fought.¡±


    ¡°And then?¡±


    ¡°I won.¡±


    ¡°And where is he now?¡±


    ¡°Lying in the snow.¡±


    ¡°Dead?¡±


    ¡°Dead.¡±

 Dragonhunt 55: Xomhyrks Decision

    Looks of shock fall across the faces of every member of the Association, and over the faces of the other runeknights too.


    ¡°You killed him?¡± someone cries. ¡°You killed our guildmate?¡±


    ¡°He was an oathbreaker.¡±


    ¡°So are you!¡±


    ¡°I was found innocent!¡±


    ¡°No one accepts that!¡±


    Fury rises in me. ¡°If you don''t accept the Runeking''s judgement, it''s you who''s the traitor!¡±


    ¡°You take that back!¡±


    The runeknight, a sixth degree I''m not too sure of the name of, makes to stride out to toward me, but his friends grab his arms and pull him back.


    ¡°Faltast left us to fight the monster alone!¡± I shout. ¡°If he¡ªand the rest of the cowards¡ªhad stayed, maybe there wouldn''t be so many bodies to bury! He betrayed us¡ªand his guilt was not in question!¡±


    ¡°You got a trial,¡± someone else says. ¡°Why shouldn''t he have?¡±


    ¡°There''s no time to carry out trials now, you fool! We''re not a week''s march from the dragon!¡±


    ¡°You had no right¡ª¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Braztak shouts. ¡°Silence, all of you!¡±


    The sixth degree ignores the order. ¡°How can you accept this?¡± he yells.


    Braztak glares at him. A fearsome expression comes onto his face. I draw breath. It''s the same expression he wore when he ranted at me about Wharoth being a coward and a traitor. His eyes are cold.


    ¡°I accept it because he''s right,¡± he says sharply. ¡°Faltast may have been my friend¡ªbut I reject that friendship now. He betrayed us. Zathar was right to exact justice.¡±


    I nearly gasp. I cannot quite believe what I''m hearing. For kind Braztak to say that to kill a friend in cold blood was the right thing to do¡ªthis would have been unimaginable before we embarked upon this quest. Something has changed in him, or maybe nothing''s changed, and it''s just that something deeply buried has been pulled to the surface.


    This is good for me, for I could not bear to lose his friendship, and yet his judgement still, somewhere deep inside, feels very wrong.


    ¡°But¡ª¡± someone begins.


    ¡°Betrayal must be punished!¡± Braztak snaps. ¡°Cowardice is not an acceptable trait for a runeknight to have. I told Zathar this, and now I''ll tell all of you as well: too long in Allabrast has made us soft. We''ve been among dwarves who live only for treasure for too long. They''ve forgotten what the job of a runeknight is¡ªto fight and face death.¡±


    ¡°Take that back!¡± a dwarf from another guild shouts. ¡°How dare you enjoy our hospitality, then insult us so!¡±


    ¡°I tell the truth! I tell of what I have seen! How many from your guild have run away? Did you make any effort to stop them, like Zathar here has?¡±


    ¡°We don''t kill our own.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe you should.¡± Now Braztak turns to Xomhyrk. ¡°I apologize for my guildmate disobeying your orders¡ªeven if they were indirect orders. And I apologize for him criticizing you in front of the expedition. However, I cannot apologize for his passion for our cause, and anger at those seeking to sabotage it through their selfishness.¡±


    Gollor turns to him. ¡°You apologize for Zathar criticizing our leader, and yet all but do the same yourself.¡±


    ¡°We are losing too many dwarves. And more than half to desertion.¡±


    ¡°We do not execute deserters. We have never executed anyone.¡±


    ¡°Then maybe it is time to start!¡±


    ¡°Who are you to say that? Who are you to tell us what to do?¡±


    ¡°Someone who wishes to see the dragon dead!¡±


    ¡°If you truly wish that, then stay in line and follow Xomhyrk''s orders. Take your own advice!¡±


    ¡°Wait, Gollor!¡± says Xomhyrk.


    ¡°Wait for what? For what?¡± Gollor is enraged, his face ruddy around his dark gray beard. ¡°His dwarf goes on a rampage, cutting down his fellows in cold blood, and now he has the gall to say we should behave the same way! We are dragonslayers, not dwarf-killers.¡±


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°This is true. However, perhaps he has a point.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Xomhyrk sweeps his eyes over our much-diminished army. I flinch. There''s coldness in his eyes, fearsome coldness.


    ¡°Maybe he has a point,¡± Xomhyrk repeats.


    ¡°Commander?¡±


    ¡°We lost too many last night. Many of our own guild also. We cannot afford to lose any more.¡±


    ¡°Violence to our own won''t solve that.¡±


    ¡°Those who flee our no longer ours. They can no longer be counted among us¡ªthey''ve abandoned our quest.¡±


    ¡°If we have them punished harshly, more will flee.¡±


    ¡°How do you know that?¡±


    The big dwarf throws his arms up. ¡°You have said so yourself! Isn''t that why you stopped branding dwarves with your ice?¡±


    ¡°True. But with outsiders, it seems that words alone are not enough. Discipline has frayed at every obstacle we''ve faced. In the humans'' town, in our battle with them, when we heard the dragon''s roar¡ªevery time.¡±


    ¡°All that means is that when we do reach the dragon, we have an army, not a rabble.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but we still have to get to the dragon.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think this is the right way forward. And we shouldn''t let others make our decisions for us¡ªleast of all third and fourth degrees!¡±


    ¡°I am not letting them make the decision!¡± Xomhyrk shouts. Gollor steps back. ¡°All they have done is made the facts clear to me. Made clear what I should''ve realized a while ago: that too many on this quest are not dedicated to it, have not pledged their lives to it.¡±


    He lifts Icemite and sweeps it in an arc in front of him. Its point, sharper even than the point of Gutspiercer, traces a white line of reflected sunlight. I feel a cold wind rush over us¡ªrush through us.


    ¡°Listen here, all of you!¡± he shouts. ¡°From now on, deserters will be dealt with harshly, by me. I can move fast, faster than all of you know. Run and I will find you¡ªme personally.¡±


    He gives me a hard look.


    ¡°Do not take justice into your own hands again, Zathar. It is mine to take. Mine alone.¡±


    I nod.


    ¡°Is that clear, all of you? Do you understand that now that you have come this far, you have no choice but to keep on going, all the way, to the black dragon''s end or to your own?¡±


    We nod.


    ¡°I cannot hear you,¡± Xomhyrk says coldly. ¡°Do you pledge your lives to the quest?¡±


    ¡°I do!¡± I yell, and Braztak and most of the Association do also, but many from the other guilds stay silent.


    ¡°Either you pledge your lives to this quest, and carry out the job you signed up to do, or you leave as deserters.¡±


    ¡°Are you threatening to kill us?¡± says one dwarf, a senior runeknight in steel plate with razor edges.


    ¡°Are you threatening to let the black dragon roam free to end the lives of thousands more of our kin?¡±


    He has no reply to that.


    ¡°I ask you again: do you pledge your lives to the quest?¡±


    ¡°I do!¡± I scream, and this time every other dwarf shouts the same, though some with more enthusiasm than others.


    ¡°Good,¡± Xomhyrk says. ¡°From now on there will be no more disobeying my orders. Disobeying will mean punishment, ranging from branding to death. And I mean all of my orders. You have pledged your life to the cause¡ªif I tell you to charge into the dragon''s maw, you will do it.¡±


    He pauses. The silence is deep. It seems that only now are many of the dwarves here truly coming to understand what coming on this quest means¡ªalmost certain death.


    ¡°But unlike some leaders, I will not ask you to do anything I would not do myself. I will be first into battle. If I am not, you have my permission to desert.¡±


    We nod solemnly.


    ¡°Your first test comes now: I am about to give an order many of you Allabrast dwarves will not agree with.¡±


    I think I can guess what it''s going to be.


    ¡°There is a high chance that when we enter the mountain we will meet dwarves from Runeking Uthrarzak''s realms. If we do, and if they are willing, we are to ally with them.¡±


    There are gasps of shock. A high degree runeknight in plate of sharpened steel steps forward angrily.


    ¡°Ally with Uthrarzak''s scum?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°He is a monster. A demon. Worse than the dragon!¡±


    His hand goes to the handle of his sword, which gleams with yellow runes showing through a slit down its scabbard in the typical Allabrast fashion.


    ¡°Warak, isn''t it?¡± Xomhyrk says. ¡°Of the Steel Raiders.¡±


    ¡°Of the Steel Raiders, yes! We are warfighters. We have been to the border, many times, for the protection of Runeking Ulrike''s caverns, and we have faced Uthrarzak''s dwarves there.¡±


    ¡°I see. And I imagine you have lost friends and family to his forces.¡±


    ¡°Indeed we have!¡±


    ¡°Yet when you came on my expedition, you came to fight the dragon. You did not come to fight against Runeking Uthrarzak.¡±


    ¡°We did not come to ally with him either!¡±


    ¡°But we may have to.¡±


    ¡°You cannot expect us to accept this order.¡±


    ¡°I can.¡±


    ¡°You do not know the depths of our feud!¡±


    ¡°Your feud does not matter here. All that matters is that we slay the black dragon.¡±


    Xomhyrk angles Icemite at his belly. My eyes are drawn to the shining tip. Runes I cannot read spiral around it and into it. It''s translucent, and I notice for the first time that there are layers of runes inside the metal, tightly wound coils that speak of cold.


    Warak seems to wince a fraction. Then he clasps the hilt of his sword. The yellow runes visible through the slit in the scabbard brighten a touch.


    ¡°You will not slay me,¡± he says.


    ¡°I will.¡±


    "You will reduce the expedition further?"


    "If you do not obey my orders, you are not part of the expedition, but a deserter. I keep my promises, Warak. If I say I will slay a dragon, I slay it. If I say I will slay a dwarf, I will do that also."


    Warak''s hand tightens around his sword''s hilt.


    "Do not throw your life away in ignominy."


    Warak draws the blade an inch. Xomhyrk shifts his back foot a little. He''s now ready to lunge.


    "Do not do this!"


    Warak pushes the blade back in and takes his hand off the hilt. He steps back. I let out the breath I''ve been holding. He''s seen sense. No more dwarves will have to die today.


    ¡°You do keep your promises, don''t you?¡± he says.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I don''t want to throw my life away, nor the lives of my guild. But if we are to ally with Uthrarzak''s dwarves, then do not place us next to them in the ranks.¡±


    ¡°I will place them as I see fit. Though, considering your hatred for them, I think the best place will not be near you.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    Warak takes another step back, into the lines. Xomhyrk brings Icemite back up to vertical.


    ¡°Remember well what I''ve said today,¡± he says to all of us. ¡°All of it. Now, let us return to burying the dead.¡±

 Dragonhunt 56: The Race for Zathar Begins

    It has been a hard journey up for Wharoth and the Association of Steel. Their specially rented train arrived at the planned destination at the planned time, but that was still underground, and so the past two long-hours have been spent climbing up a long, steep tunnel to the surface. According to Wharoth''s map, it was meant to be a flight of stairs, but those have long since eroded away.


    The path upslope was arduous and not without loss. There were sudden pits, and vicious bats set upon them also. Now, though, they have finally arrived on the surface from a small hollow in a hill. Water runs from the cave in a thin stream, cutting a path through the dirt to join a wide, languid river at the hill''s base.


    ¡°Northwest Tallreach,¡± says Voltost. ¡°I can''t help but wonder if that cavern road was really ours to take.¡±


    ¡°If it wasn''t, Uthrarzak''s dwarves were somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. I''m glad we didn''t meet any. And I hope we don''t meet many humans either.¡±


    Wharoth consults his map. ¡°We are rather far west of the central hills. Unless we get unlucky, we shouldn''t have to fight much.¡±


    ¡°We have not been lucky so far.¡±


    ¡°Then we will have to hope our luck improves.¡± Wharoth shrugs. ¡°What do you want me to say? This is a dangerous place to be.¡±


    He turns to address the guild, who are gathered on the slope below. They look exhausted from the climb: armor grimy with cavern dust, shoulders sunken from the strain of bearing heavy supply packs, eyes pained from witnessing the sudden loss of too many friends. They need a rest.


    ¡°I''m sorry, but this is not a safe time to rest, while the sun is up,¡± Wharoth announces. ¡°Nor is this a safe place to rest, up on the hill. And we cannot afford to rest too often in any case. Haste is everything for us. So, let us march.¡±


    The guildmembers nod as one, and make no complaint as he leads them down into the valley.


    They travel for many days. The landscape is unforgiving¡ªthis area of Tallreach is sparsely populated for good reason. The hills are cragged and broken, the rivers deep and fast. There are cracks in the earth the Association of Steel must find ways over. Wild beasts watch from the cliff-clinging trees, eyes and fangs yellow. Voracious hunger is in their bellies.


    Once a day or so one will attack. Several more dwarves are lost¡ªalthough the beasts'' fangs cannot pierce plate, the force of their blows is enough to break even a sturdy dwarven neck.


    And then there are the humans. The guild avoids them where they can, but sometimes they have no choice but to pass below clifftop villages. Arrows and rocks rain down. A few dwarves are lost to these barrages as well, and usually their bodies must be left behind, for there is no way to counter-attack and drive the humans away.


    Only occasionally does Wharoth let the guild rest, and only ever for a few hours at a time. He shouts down any protests:


    ¡°Do you want to abandon your friends to the dragon?¡± he says furiously to an eighth degree one night. ¡°If we do not make it in time, it is our responsibility if they die.¡±


    This is a line he repeats many times, for the protests never totally die away as the journey continues. Fortunately, neither do they get louder. There''s discontent, but it''s only at a simmer. No one serious challenges Wharoth''s authority and nor does anyone challenge the reasons for and goal of their quest. This comes as a welcome surprise¡ªhe''d been expecting more pushback.


    ¡°The split in our guild is a wound that must be healed,¡± Voltost says to him one night. ¡°It must be. Everyone understands this. And they don''t want to cause any further splits.¡±


    ¡°I can''t help but feel that there''s things they aren''t saying. Things that will burst out when we come under real pressure.¡±


    ¡°Each has his or her own feelings, but there will be no mutiny against you.¡±


    ¡°I hope that is the case.¡±


    ¡°It is!¡± Voltost insists. ¡°Those here with your now are those most loyal to you. Remember that.¡±


    Finally, a few weeks after their arrival at the surface, they make it past the craggy cliffs and into the cold wastes at the northwestern border. Wharoth leads the guild a few hundred yards out into the snow, which is glistening. It''s strangely warm today. He ignores this oddness and addresses them:


    ¡°We have had a long journey so far, yet thankfully not one so arduous as I''d feared. The humans have mostly left us alone, and now here we are, all of us but fifteen, who will never be forgotten.¡±


    Suddenly Wharoth grows worried. His dwarves don''t look focused. Their eyes have a glazed look and they''ve drawn together in the cold.


    Did the flash from the north a week ago frighten them that much? It and the accompanying thunder were made faint by the high cliff they were sleeping under than night, but everyone could still tell their origin: the black dragon.


    But no. Wharoth believes this languor to have a more mundane cause: lack of supplies. This was the drawback of not risking interactions with the humans. All they''ve had to drink is riverwater, and the hard-tack and jerky brought from Allabrast is running dangerously low. On Wharoth''s map is marked a small realm called Heldfast Hill where they might be able to purchase supplies¡ªbut he has no idea if the black dragon has destroyed it or not.


    ¡°We will now walk over the tundra. It is cold here, but easier to traverse than the hills. We can travel straight. We aim for Heldfast Hill, a small realm between here and the Mountain of Halajatbast. There we will buy supplies.¡±


    He decides to gamble that the dragon has not destroyed it. And even if it has, there still might be stores left somewhere. Some deep-buried preserves¡ªsomething, at least. There has to be something.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    This is a terrible risk¡ªseeing hope spark in his dwarves'' eyes, he''s already regretting mentioning the hill¡ªbut this whole expedition is a terrible risk.


    ¡°Let''s go. I have no more to say than that. All we can do is walk.¡±


    <hr>


    A human watches from a high hill as ten silvery figures sprint through the valley. They look small¡ªdwarves? That can''t be, decides the human. Dwarves have short legs. They can''t run fast. These must be spirits.


    She closes her eyes and turns her face up to the sun. She makes the sign of the stars on her chest, then hurries back toward the village, water-bucket only half full.


    Vanerak doesn''t notice her. His eyes are set firmly on the path ahead. Which way to weave next, left or right? He will not stop to check his map, never does. It''s memorized perfectly¡ªif one can memorize runes, one can memorize a map. The map is imperfect, which is why he needs to put thought into where he''s heading, but to stop to think¡ªfoolishness.


    Zathar is headed for suicide. Vanerak cannot allow that to happen. He must reach him in time.


    For an instant he doubts: maybe the shortbeard is dead already. Only an hour or so after they arrived on the surface there was a faint flash and a rumble from the north. Most likely that was Uthrarzak''s forces taking on the dragon, for surely he sent some, and they would have arrived earlier than any expedition sent from Allabrast, but there is a slim possibility that Zathar got mixed up with them somehow.


    Such thoughts are pointless¡ªhe refocuses on the route ahead.


    He leads the party left. They bound across a small river. He wonders if his dwarves feel exhilarated by this act, or perhaps even joyous. Vanerak, however, has long known that he does not feel the same things other dwarves feel.


    There is no joy in his step, no exhilaration. And he is proud, in a very subdued way, of this fact. He is a true runeknight. There are only two things that give him joy: killing and creating. And he suspects that even this joy isn''t quite the same as what others feel.


    The sun begins to set. They won''t rest. Their boots are forged in such a way that momentum is conserved. Even this rapid speed uses only a little more energy than marching does.


    Only now, reflecting on his creation, does Vanerak feel a slight happiness. To create such boots in such little time is a feat few could match. As armor, they are not much, and he would not wish to traverse caverns in them¡ªthey do not have the grip most dwarven boots do, nor the balance¡ªbut they are perfectly suited to the surface.


    Stars appear in the sky, one by one and then a hoard, and then the sun rises to obliterate them in a wash of orange. It becomes rather hot, hotter than it should be for this season, but it''s no hotter than a forge, no problem for dwarves. They continue to run.


    And reach a killing-field.


    The stink is the first thing that alerts them. One of his runeknights, the only one among them in an open-faced helm, risking sunblight for better visibility, rushes forward to his commander. Vanerak turns to him.


    ¡°Yes, Halax?¡±


    ¡°There''s death around that hill.¡±


    They are still running as they talk.


    ¡°Speak clearly,¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°I can smell bodies rotting in the sun.¡±


    ¡°Many bodies?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Dwarven or human?¡±


    ¡°Human, I think.¡±


    ¡°Understood. Tell the rest to close in behind me, then run ahead and tell me if there''s any living humans also.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my runethane.¡±


    Vanerak starts to feel a strange sensation in his stomach and chest. Worry, he thinks. Whatever the feeling, it''s uncomfortable, made more so by the fact that he shouldn''t be feeling anything like it. Humans are always fighting each other. There''s no reason to believe Zathar was mixed up in this.


    ¡°There''s been a battle,¡± says Halax when he returns. ¡°A large one. More than a thousand are dead.¡±


    ¡°That''s not so large.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°Yet not small either. Were there any living humans?¡±


    ¡°A few. Savage ones, or impoverished. Picking through the bodies for anything valuable, no doubt. But they ran when they saw me.¡±


    ¡°Interesting.¡±


    The smell is growing so great now that Vanerak can scent it even through his mirror-mask. It''s not so ripe as it might be¡ªhe guesses that the humans have been lying out for more than a week.


    ¡°It''s only natural for humans to run when faced by runeknights,¡± says Halax. ¡°They are as limestone to diamond. One will always split open the other.¡±


    ¡°It''s not the living humans that interest me.¡±


    ¡°Very good, my runethane.¡±


    ¡°Let us round the hill.¡±


    They curve around the low hill before them. The blades of grass become flecked with spots of blood, making them look as if they have rusted. Rain, which has surely fallen once or twice between now and the day of the battle, has not been sufficient to wash away the violence. The dust the dwarves tread kicks up has a reddish tinge to it also.


    The battlefield, a wide swathe of trampled earth scattered thickly with the sun-scorched corpses of humans, comes into view. Vanerak leads his runeknights uphill. Their boots groan in protest¡ªtheir poems are for flying across flat land. But he only calls a halt once they''re nearly at the top. He wants to be sure of something.


    ¡°Look,¡± he says, gesturing. ¡°What do you see, Nazak?¡±


    The first degree squints. ¡°Dead bodies. Mostly crowded around that hill, that one with the ruins. They''re old ruins, though. Maybe they had sentimental value.¡±


    ¡°You think that''s what they were fighting for?¡±


    Vanerak''s voice has an edge to it that Nazak takes to mean that he''s wrong.


    ¡°They weren''t fighting for the hill,¡± says Halax. ¡°Otherwise the winners would be there now. At least a token force.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°They were fighting to get off the hill. That''s why the ground is so churned up on that slope, and why most of the bodies are at the base.¡±


    Nazak shrugs. ¡°Whether they escaped or not, we''re fast enough to outrun any humans. Even if they''re on horseback, we have more endurance. And better weapons.¡±


    ¡°You think this does not concern us?¡±


    ¡°I don''t quite see how.¡±


    ¡°None of you are looking close enough. For runeknights, you have terrible eyes for detail.¡±


    His runeknights tense.


    ¡°Can none of you see it?¡±


    Each of Vanerak''s first and second degrees has known him for a long time. They can recognize when he is annoyed. No one dares to answer.


    ¡°They have left their metal,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°It''s shining on the slopes. Plate armor¡ªor what passes for it amongst humans.¡±


    His runeknights remain quiet.


    ¡°If this had been a battle between two groups of humans,¡± Vanerak continues. ¡°then the winning side would have looted the other. And there are no trolls or elves in these parts.¡±


    ¡°So it was a battle between humans and dwarves?¡± says Nazak. He looks back at Vanerak excitedly. ¡°You think the traitor was here?¡±


    ¡°I think it possible. Any army of Uthrarzak''s would have emerged further north.¡±


    ¡°He must be part of quite the army, if it wiped out such a large force.¡±


    ¡°Or an army that includes some very powerful dwarves,¡± says Halax. ¡°We may have trouble securing him.¡±


    Nazak shrugs. ¡°We rush in, slice his head off, rush out. He''s only a fifth degree. There''ll be no fight to speak of.¡±


    ¡°I suppose.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Vanerak coldly.


    The runeknights freeze. Nazak bows low.


    ¡°My Runethane, I apologize!¡± he says. ¡°He must suffer more before the final blow, and in front of all those he betrayed.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Nazak frowns. ¡°I see. He is to suffer for eternity.¡±


    ¡°All those killed suffer for eternity. You know this.¡±


    Nazak bows again. ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°We must not take his head, his life, not now, not ever¡ªor at least not until his purpose is fulfilled.¡±


    The runeknights stare at him, confused.


    ¡°His purpose?¡± asks Halax. ¡°What do you mean, my Runethane?¡±


    ¡°There is something you do not know about Zathar. Something you must know¡ªand then you will know that our quest is to an end far greater than revenge.¡±


    ¡°Greater than revenge?¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°Much greater. My runeknights, it is time for me to tell you about the future.¡±

 Dragonhunt 57: Who Now Wields Whom?

    It is midday now. The snow is bright with reflected sunlight, almost blinding. The black scar in my vision is more vivid than ever. Its edges are ragged, and it even hurts a little, as if the excessive light is worsening the damage.


    We are digging out the last graves. They''re rough and shallow, for the stony earth is near impossible to dig into without tools. Most are being dug out in a row on the other side of camp, but Braztak has me working away from the rest¡ªfor my own safety and for their safety too perhaps.


    I refuse to use Gutspiercer. It may be suited in shape but I feel it will become wrathful if I insult it so. This is a foolish reason to not use it¡ªother dwarves are using their weapons to dig, since making a grave is about the only occasion when it''s suitable for a runeknight to mine, so by all rights I should be using Gutspiercer, yet I''m starting to fear it, and not only it, but my other crafts also.


    A tool should be under the control of its user, not the other way around! The armor is moved by the body it covers, the weapon by the hands that wield it. An amulet works for the body, slows its decay.


    It should not make the body work to its own ends.


    Did I choose to kill Faltast? Or did my amulet?


    ¡°Zathar?¡± someone says nervously.


    It''s Guthah. I''m thrown from my thoughts.


    ¡°Yes?¡± I snap. I cease my digging and look up at him. His face is very pale.


    ¡°I''m worried.¡±


    ¡°About your arm again? I told you it''ll heal¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not about my arm,¡± he says quickly. ¡°Ulat still isn''t back yet.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± The sound of my voice shocks me: when did it become so cold?


    ¡°How far away from here was he when you found him?¡± Guthah asks.


    I try to soften my tone a little. ¡°Not so far. He was one of the first.¡±


    ¡°And you let him go?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Yes I did, you have my word on that.¡±


    ¡°But he''s still not back yet.¡±


    ¡°Hah. Maybe he ran away again.¡±


    There it is again, more coldness in my voice.


    ¡°...back to Heldfast Hill?¡±


    ¡°In that direction.¡±


    ¡°Did he have supplies with him?¡±


    ¡°I don''t recall. He could have taken some from the others he was with. From their bodies.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°He betrayed us, Guthah.¡±


    ¡°Just a mistake¡ª¡±


    ¡°A mistake that cost lives.¡±


    ¡°He was only a tenth degree, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Doesn''t matter. Every last body is helpful in a fight. Even if it''s just to get in the way.¡±


    ¡°He agreed to come back though, right? He''s learned from his mistake.¡±


    ¡°If he comes back, we will judge that he has learned. If he doesn''t, we will judge that he has not.¡±


    ¡°Instructor, you are being harsh. He doesn''t deserve to die!¡±


    ¡°Neither did anyone who fought last night.¡±


    ¡°He wasn''t responsible¡ª¡±


    ¡°He was in part. Just like those dwarves who ran away in your exam were responsible for the deaths of those who stood and fought. Were you not disgusted by them? I remember seeing anger on your face.¡±


    ¡°I was mostly just scared.¡±


    ¡°And also angry. No? Did I see things?¡±


    ¡°Maybe a little.¡±


    ¡°Good. You should have been.¡±


    ¡°But I can''t feel angry at Ulat.¡±


    ¡°Why not? The situation is the same.¡±


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    ¡°It''s not.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°The thing we faced in the examination was bad, but it wasn''t... That thing.¡±


    He gestures to the mound of red and white fur in the center of our ruined camp. An eyeball hanging from its smashed and cloven face is glaring down into the snow. Its tusks still gleam¡ªno one was able to break them. Its feet remain coated with frozen gore.


    ¡°There''s no difference,¡± I say. ¡°A foe is a foe. You shouldn''t abandon your friends to it.¡±


    Guthah frowns. ¡°You told me you''ve run from battles before.¡±


    ¡°That was to save my friends,¡± I snap. ¡°I didn''t abandon them.¡±


    This is no lie: when I fled the battle for Thanerzak''s city I took Yezakh and Hayhek with me, and when I fled the deep darkness, I saved Nthazes'' life.


    ¡°I apologize!¡± says Guthah. ¡°I shouldn''t have... I mean...¡±


    ¡°Shouldn''t have what?¡±


    ¡°Doubted you.¡±


    ¡°I accept your apology.¡±


    ¡°But instructor...¡±


    Things go black for a few moments.


    ¡°Never mind!¡± he cries. ¡°I apologize!¡±


    He turns and hurries off. I let out a deep breath, then blink a couple of times. Did he just run from me?


    ¡°Wait!¡± I call, but he just increases his pace and vanishes behind a group of gravediggers.


    They aren''t even from our guild. Did I scare him somehow? I try to remember what just happened, but I can''t remember anything. We were talking, then I did something. But what?


    There''s something odd about the way I''m positioned. I look down. I''ve taken a long stride forwards¡ªI don''t remember stepping forwards. And Gutspiercer is poised to strike.


    ¡°Ah, shit,¡± I say under my breath.


    It happened again. I lost control. Or rather, my amulet and Gutspiercer gained it.


    Come to think of it, when did I even pick Gutspiercer up?


    ¡°Shit!¡± I hiss under my breath. ¡°Oh, shit! Hell!¡±


    I was about to kill him, wasn''t I? After all, what''s one more dwarf, one more friend, after all those I killed last night? An excuse for the murder comes to mind: he confided in me that he was going to run when we met the dragon, and I took pre-emptive action.


    I sit down in the snow. I stare at Gutspiercer, at its runes of brutality. This has gone too far. I need to get rid of it, get a new weapon. And I need to take off my amulet as well. It doesn''t matter how well it protects me if it''s going to make me kill more of my friends.


    Yet if I take it off, I''m putting my chances with the dragon in jeopardy. And I can''t throw Gutspiercer away. It''s not like I brought a spare weapon with me.


    Maybe I can ask someone else to carry it¡ªno, that would be irresponsible. What if it starts to influence them? Then, what if I use some ruined tent fabric and poles to make a case for it, and then I drag it behind me at a distance where its bloodlust can''t reach me so easily? Yes, this seems like a passable solution. It might bring a few strange looks, and it''ll leave me vulnerable on the march¡ªto my fellow dwarves too, some of whom might, against all good sense, seek revenge for their murdered comrades, deserters though they may be¡ªbut that can''t be helped. Keeping control of my mind must be my foremost priority.


    I look at the tent nearest to me. In my mind''s eye I sketch designs for a kind of fabric sled. Yes, this plan can work. I can confide in Braztak the problem¡ªhe''ll understand, I''m sure, and he''ll make sure no one tries to get revenge on me.


    So I stand up, let go of Gutspiercer and¡ª


    I haven''t let go. Gutspiercer is still in my hands. For a moment I''m confused, then a sinking feeling comes into my stomach.


    I try to open my fingers, but they won''t open. My muscles won''t respond to my will.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I whisper.


    I try to let go again¡ªmy hands won''t respond. They''re paralyzed, like this is some waking nightmare where my eyes are open and there''s something in the room with me but however much I try I just can''t move.


    I try again. It''s no use. I lift Gutspiercer high and try to throw it. Instead I lunge brutally northwards, pulling myself off balance. I nearly skid on the snow and fall, but my legs steady myself and suddenly I''m back on my feet and sliding forward.


    Shit! Shit! I don''t want to go forwards. We''re not moving yet. I will my legs to stop their movements, and it''s only after a few long strides than I''m able to come to a halt.


    "Not yet!" I say to my armor. "Not yet!"


    With great effort I manage to turn myself around and walk back to the grave I''m meant to be digging.


    A few dwarves are looking at me curiously. I glare and they turn away.


    Body, ground. I''m meant to be digging.


    ¡°Let me let go!¡± I hiss to Gutspiercer.


    My fingers still won''t unwrap themselves.


    ¡°Please!¡±


    No response.


    ¡°The faster I can dig this grave, the sooner we''ll be on our way.¡±


    My fingers still won''t move.


    "Please!"


    Again, nothing. Begging and reasoning aren''t working. I bite my lip. Maybe my only option is to threaten.


    ¡°I''ll be forced to use you to dig, you know.¡±


    Suddenly my fingers tighten. I cry out in pain¡ªI''ve never gripped anything so tight before. My knuckles feel as if they''re going to burst from my skin.


    ¡°I''m sorry!¡± I yelp.


    My hands relaxe. I attempt to let go again, to go with the momentum and make my fingers continue to relax. This idea fails as well. My grip remains firm.


    ¡°Look, how am I going to eat?¡±


    Am I expecting it to answer? Even if there''s life in runes, they have no mouth with which to talk.


    ¡°Look, please. I need to dig this grave. Then we can get going. You can kill again. Please! Give me one hand, at least.¡±


    I attempt to let go with just my right hand, and to my shock, my fingers come away. I breath a sigh of relief. At least I''ll be able to eat.


    With my free hand I''m able to grip the broken length of pole I was using to dig out the grave and complete it. Then I start on the next, and then I do another one too.


    It''s late in the afternoon by the time all the graves are ready, then it''s time to lay the bodies inside them. All the while I move awkwardly, forced to do every action with only one hand. No one comments¡ªno one dares to.


    Once the burials are complete, the dead hidden from the harsh sun, Xomhyrk gathers us. We line up in ranks.


    ¡°They will not be forgotten,¡± he says. ¡°Unlike those who ran. Those who did, and any foolish enough to do so in future, will have no grave. They will lie under the sun to rot and be torn apart by beasts. My anger from earlier has not softened¡ªdo not disobey me.¡±


    Everyone nods in understanding.


    ¡°Let us move out.¡±


    We do so, slowly, the wounded limping or being carried in makeshift stretchers. My right hand remains clutched hard around Gutspiercer. My boots are pulling me forward too fast. My ruby is warm.


    "Braztak," I say. "I... Have you ever felt that you''re not the one making your decisions?"


    "What?" He gives me a bitter smile. "Don''t lose your nerve now, Zathar."


    "That''s not what I mean. Braztak, can a craft control a dwarf?"


    "Of course not. Our crafts are what we will them to be. If you feel like your craft controls you, it''s really the you back in the forge urging you forward."


    His bitter smile widens to a joyous one. His eyes brighten. He taps his green and purple breastplate. The ringing sound it makes is discordant.


    "At least, that''s how I feel about my craft."

 Dragonhunt 58: Some Happy News

    A couple of nights later, I hear a change in the air. My runic ears¡ªI retrieved them soon after we restarted the march¡ªpick up on a shadow in the wind on the far horizon. It''s as if the world ahead has been split into two by a great gap of silence.


    When dawn breaks, a sudden fear comes over the march, for now we can see it. A triangle of gray rises above the horizon. The color is brighter lower down, more reflective. It''s been melted. The reflectivity is due to the smoothness of the stone.


    By midday, a small black curve appears upon the slope. This rapidly expands: now it''s a circle, now a tunnel.


    That, right there, is where the black dragon melted its way into the mountain. And it''s still in there. Just in there, maybe a little below.


    ¡°I''ll kill you,¡± I whisper.


    A cold wind blows from behind, takes my words and carries them forward. A thrill runs through Gutspiercer into my right hand and from there up into my heart and guts.


    Soon it will be time.


    <hr>


    A mound appears upon the horizon and sighs of relief run through the Association of Steel. Wharoth breaths the longest sigh of all. A cloud of cold steam rushes out his helmet. The walls surrounding the mound are whole¡ªthere''s no smouldering ruins here. Heldfast Hill is intact.


    This past week, more than a week, has been one of the most exhausting marches he''s ever undertaken. Certainly it''s the most exhausting he''s ever led his guild on. The white plain seemed endless. A few dwarves have fallen from cold and exhaustion already; just a little longer and they would have started dropping one by one. No longer were they an army, but a mere crowd, and one on the edge of dispersal.


    But now, finally, some succor. Wharoth orders the pace of the march increased and the guild is happy to obey. The thought of beer and warm meat is like a magnet for them.


    The dwarves here will drive a hard bargain¡ªWharoth has heard rumors of their greedy, immoral ways, but he thinks he has enough gold to buy a good amount of supplies, and perhaps news too. Xomhyrk''s force may well have stopped by here for their own restocking and repairs.


    The Association is greeted at the gate by stern guards, in armor adorned with gems that glitter palely in the sunlight, but the guards'' expressions soften when Wharoth tells them that they are on their way to the dragon. They lead them through gladly.


    ¡°Are we the only ones to come to your realm recently?¡± he asks as the guild is led down a neat tunnel.


    ¡°No. There was another force, bigger than yours. Of just over two hundred.¡±


    Voltost looks sidelong at Wharoth with a worried expression.


    ¡°Just two hundred?¡±


    ¡°You talk as if you were expecting more. Did you know them?¡±


    The dwarf they are talking to is a fairly senior runeknight, whose steel armor has at least a hundred precious stones of varied colors embedded in it. The runes scratched into each accentuate the poem on the steel without being an intrinsic part of it.


    ¡°We knew a force of at least five hundred left Allabrast to hunt the dragon,¡± says Voltost.


    ¡°Five hundred, you say? Led by a dwarf called Xomhyrk Dragonslayer, by any chance?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± says Wharoth. ¡°They were here?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. But they left over a week ago.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°Were you seeking to join them?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and we still are. A week, you say?¡±


    Wharoth is keeping his voice calm, but his heart is beating rapidly. Could Zathar already be at the dragon, if he hasn''t perished already?


    ¡°That''s right, a week. But the Mountain of Halajatbast is more than two weeks'' march north, and longer in winter¡ªwell, perhaps not in this strange winter, but still¡ªso if you hurry, and they decide not to attack immediately, you have a chance to meet them.¡±


    ¡°I fear they will attack immediately,¡± Voltost says in a low voice to Wharoth. ¡°We shouldn''t stay the night here. We should buy our supplies and leave as soon as we can.¡±


    ¡°The guild needs rest.¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk''s force will not be resting.¡±


    ¡°Let me think. We will see what supplies there are, then I will make a decision.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    Later on, they sit down for a simple meal of beer and bread with pork sausages. It has cost them dearly¡ªthe hill dwarves justified the high price by saying the fee was also for the use of their hall. Wharoth knows he is being ripped off, but the warmth and smell of sausages is too good for him to care too much.


    He asks many questions of the runeknights here. For more golden wheels he learns that the dwaves of Uthrarzak have likely lost to the black dragon, and that it is now resting and drinking in their power. He is told that Xomhyrk faced the humans and won, but also that many of his forces are deserting him.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Eventually Wharoth manages to work up the courage to ask about Zathar:


    ¡°Was there a somewhat strange dwarf with him? He has a black beard and blue eyes. He''s tall for one of us, about as tall as you are, though slimmer. He wields a warpick¡ª''


    ¡°Ah!¡± says one of the hill dwarves at the table. ¡°Yes, the dwarf with the warpick. Zathar! That was his name.¡±


    ¡°He was with Xomhyrk?¡±


    ¡°Yes, he was. Got into a bit of a fight didn''t we?¡± The gray-bearded dwarf and another next to him who can only be his younger brother, or maybe son, laugh hard. ¡°Turned out fine in the end though.¡±


    ¡°Was he injured at all?¡±


    ¡°A little battered, but no worse than anyone else. Helped kill a human wizard, they say.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And he was strange just like you say. He stripped down to just his clothes and dived into a snowdrift. Said he wanted to reflect on cold.¡±


    Voltost gives a chuckle. ¡°Sounds like the sort of thing he might do.¡±


    ¡°You''re sure he was uninjured?¡± Wharoth asks.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°So he left with the rest of them?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, with his armor colder than it was when he arrived by a good mile. Diving into that snowdrift did him good, somehow.¡±


    ¡°What about the rest of the dwarves in his guild? Our guild.¡±


    ¡°When I went down to the forges, there were quite a few in the part we gave to them. If I was to guess, I''d say they fared better than most of the guilds with Xomhyrk.¡±


    At that, the other dwarves of the Association begin to ask after their friends, but it seems that Zathar and a few of the senior dwarves were the only ones to make much of an impression. Then the dwarves of the Association ask for confirmation about the strange ways of the hill dwarves. They are rightfully shocked that the dwarves here sell their crafts, and a fight nearly breaks out.


    Voltost breaks it up. Wharoth cannot really concentrate on anything. He''s too happy by far. His guild is well! Zathar is alive, and Braztak and Erak also!


    This is a great omen. But Wharoth knows he can''t let his happiness affect his decision. His guildmembers may be alive for now, but that will change once they reach the dragon. He comes to his final decision: they will not rest here for long, but leave only a few hours after they finish their meal and buy the rest of the supplies they need.


    An odd feeling comes upon him, the feeling that he has just made the most important decision of his life. Yet whether it is a good decision or a mistaken one, he cannot tell.


    <hr>


    Over the horizon, a slight rise. It heightens rapidly as the sun sinks and Vanerak''s force speeds toward it. Before long they can see the encircling wall and the tall-ballista towers jutting from the top, whose mechanical sentinels are pointed away north, in the direction of the dragon.


    Nazak accelerates to come beside Vanerak.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°The traitor and whoever he''s with will have stopped at this place.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that''s more than likely.¡±


    ¡°So this is a chance to get detailed information.¡±


    ¡°That is my intention.¡±


    ¡°Let me extract it for you! The dwarves here are soft, greedy. I have heard rumors that they sell their crafts to the highest bidder. Anyone with enough gold can become a runeknight here. They are not hard, like us. They will break quickly.¡±


    ¡°You plan an assault, do you?¡±


    ¡°Not an assault. Just a simple abduction. The guards posted out front will be senior runeknights, for theirs is an important task. Nine of us can overwhelm them easily. Or even just one or two. Then we can tear their secrets from them.¡±


    ¡°Or we could just ask.¡±


    ¡°Ask?¡±


    ¡°The possibility that they might welcome us did not occur to you, did it?¡±


    ¡°Why would they welcome us?¡±


    ¡°Because they are enemies of the dragon, which we have come north to slay.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Ah, I see.¡±


    ¡°There are better ways of getting what you want than brute force.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°We wear runes of power, but that power is best used only when needed.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Think on this.¡±


    ¡°I shall. And I apologize for my foolishness.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now get back in line.¡±


    Nazak slows and slinks back. Vanerak focuses front. Two runeknights are already moving out to intercept them. As Nazak predicted, they are senior runeknights. Vanerak holds up a hand to order his dwarves to slow.


    ¡°Halt!¡± says one of the two, a third degree in ill-fitting steel adorned very garishly with gems. ¡°Who are you? What is your business? Why do you not show your face?¡±


    ¡°My name is Vanerak.¡± He does not announce his title¡ªhe does not want to intimidate them.


    ¡°And your business?¡±


    ¡°We travel north. We seek the black dragon.¡±


    ¡°Ah! More dragon slayers.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Have there been many?¡±


    ¡°Two armies so far¡ªsmall armies, though.¡± He frowns. ¡°There are only ten of you.¡±


    ¡°We are strong. As a runeknight, you know that quality is of far more worth than quantity.¡±


    ¡°Well, indeed. We believe Runeking Uthrarzak, or at least a large force of his, made an attempt on it recently as well. He would have brought numbers. I do not think they counted for much, though.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°The weather has stayed unseasonally hot. The dragon still lives, our elders think.¡±


    ¡°I think they are correct also.¡±


    ¡°You have come for supplies, no doubt. We will be happy to provide for a fair price.¡±


    Vanerak shakes his head. ¡°We have all the supplies we need. We can travel fast. Perhaps on the way back we will stop here to celebrate.¡±


    The runeknight frowns. ¡°Then why have you come to Heldfast Hill?¡±


    ¡°We seek information. We were late in setting off, and wish to the know the disposition of those who''ve already come. Their numbers, leaders, ratio of degrees. Military information.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Can you provide?¡±


    The runeknight looks at his partner suspiciously, but the other dwarf, in gilt titanium decorated with sapphires, just shrugs, and says:


    ¡°We can provide¡ªfor a price. We''ve already said too much for free.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Nazak, give him some gold.¡±


    Nazak walks forward quickly and gets out a small purse from his supply pack.


    ¡°How much?¡± he asks.


    ¡°What coinage do you have?¡±


    ¡°Allabrast golden wheels.¡±


    ¡°Rather impure, but acceptable. Twenty and we''ll tell you whatever you want to know.¡±


    ¡°Twenty?¡±


    ¡°Yes, twenty. Like I said, Allabrast gold is not worth so much to us. It is diluted, usually with silver, sometimes even with copper, then plated over to hide the impurity.¡±


    ¡°Twenty is acceptable,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Nazak, if you will.¡±


    Nazak takes a few coins out of the purse, puts them in his pack, then hands the nearly full purse to the runeknight in titanium and sapphires.


    ¡°Purchase accepted.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°How many dwarves were in each force?¡±


    ¡°In the first force, a little over two hundred. In the second, less than one hundred.¡±


    ¡°Degree ratio?¡±


    ¡°Better in the first than the second. The first army''s commander in particular was very impressive.¡±


    ¡°His name?¡±


    ¡°Xomhyrk Dragonslayer. Have you heard of him?¡±


    ¡°It stirs a couple of memories, yes. Though I have never met him in person.¡±


    ¡°Well, he looked to be as strong as a Runethane. If not quite as strong as our Runethane,¡± the dwarf adds with pride.


    ¡°And who led the second force?¡±


    ¡°I can''t recall. Belaryk, you spoke with him, didn''t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the first guard. ¡°He was a second degree called Wharoth. No second name, of course.¡±


    Behind the mirror-mask, Vanerak''s eyes widen. So Zathar has come north.


    ¡°Wharoth!¡± Nazak exclaims.


    ¡°Do you know him?¡± asks Belaryk.


    ¡°He is a firm friend of ours.¡±


    ¡°That is good news. His army was exhausted. He would be happy to have friends as powerful as you join him.¡±


    ¡°Happy indeed,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You have given us excellent news. Well worth the price.¡±


    ¡°You are welcome.¡±


    ¡°When did they come?¡±


    ¡°You just missed them. They passed back out the gates not three hours ago.¡±

 Dragonhunt 59: Two Dreams

    ¡°Those must be the tracks,¡± says Halax. ¡°Over there.¡±


    Vanerak looks to where the runeknight points. The snow is heavily trampled.


    ¡°We will move at half-speed,¡± Vanerak orders. ¡°We will catch up with them once we''re out of sight of the hill.¡±


    They slow their pace as they make their way around the walls of Heldfast Hill, whose guards they took leave of just a few minutes ago. The dwarves on the walls, faces shadowed from the sun by long brims, look down on them curiously. Vanerak barely notices them. His palms are itching. Zathar is nearly in his grasp.


    Onto the tracks they move, adding their bootprints to those left by Wharoth''s Association of Steel. Which pair of tracks is Zathar''s? Runes do not leave imprints on snow, so there is no way to tell.


    They come around the walls, and immediately Vanerak sees his quarry. The figures are made tiny by the distance, only just illuminated by the crescent moon. Yet if they''re in seeing distance, they''re in running distance, just a few miles away.


    Now, how to take Zathar?


    For all his earlier talk of guile being more effective than brute force, Vanerak knows that Wharoth will not give Zathar up easily.


    ¡°Halax, circle around them then try to get as close as you can without being seen. I want to know where Zathar is and the strength of the runeknights with him.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    <hr>


    Wharoth feels warm inside, warmer than he''s felt in a very long while. His belly is full of beer and meat and bread. Vitality is flowing through his veins, and he can feel vitality glowing from his guild as well. They are no longer huddled together in fear of cold and isolation. Their strides are long and strong and the rhythm of the march is even.


    It feels like they''re a proper army again.


    ¡°How long do you think we can keep up this pace?¡± asks Voltost.


    ¡°A few days. Then we''ll rest once, and after that slow a little.¡±


    ¡°We still won''t make it in time.¡±


    ¡°There''s a chance we will.¡±


    ¡°Guildmaster, with respect, I do not think there is.¡±


    ¡°You heard what they said about Xomhyrk. He impressed them. He''s no fraud.¡±


    ¡°He still got half of his dwarves killed in a fight with the humans.¡±


    ¡°But not Zathar.¡±


    ¡°No, but they will reach the dragon soon.¡±


    ¡°I am sure they will wait before attacking. We will have time to catch up.¡±


    ¡°We have no way to know that.¡±


    ¡°Either way, I know. Just as I know that we will meet Zathar there.¡±


    ¡°Guildmaster, you are drunk.¡±


    ¡°I am not drunk!¡± Wharoth snaps.


    ¡°Then admit that our hope is slim. Very slim.¡±


    ¡°What''s your problem today? Are you suggesting we turn back?¡±


    ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Then what are you suggesting?¡±


    ¡°I just want to make my misgivings clear. That''s all. Get them off my chest.¡±


    ¡°All right.¡±


    ¡°I have followed you all this way, haven''t I? I''m not going to turn back now. I''ve been with you since the beginning. Since Zathar''s first betrayal.¡±


    ¡°You still haven''t forgiven him, have you?¡±


    ¡°I will abide by the decision of my Runeking.¡±


    ¡°Yet you do not agree with it.¡±


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°It''s not my place to question him.¡±


    ¡°Do you wish him dead, Voltost? Do you hope that the black dragon devours him?¡±


    ¡°No. If only because I don''t want to see you any worse hurt than you already are. I know, for whatever reason, that he means a lot to you. As much as a son, maybe.¡±


    ¡°A son?¡± Wharoth laughs. ¡°He is more than a son. Voltost, he is a hope! A promise!¡±


    ¡°I don''t follow.¡±


    ¡°Have you never read the runes he writes?¡±


    ¡°Why would I? I have no interest in fourth degree equipment.¡±


    ¡°They are unique. New.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°They are new runes, runes which have never been written before.¡±


    Voltost looks at him strangely.


    ¡°I have not gone mad!¡± Wharoth snaps. ¡°When we meet him, you will see. I''ll make you see. And I''ll make the rest of the guild see as well. His runes are new!¡±


    ¡°That isn''t possible.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying I''ve made a mistake? You know of my studies. I know more runes than you, Voltost! More than most first degrees!¡±


    ¡°Even so, it''s not possible.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Only the runeforgers could make runes. And they are long gone.¡±


    ¡°He is long gone,¡± Wharoth corrects. ¡°I am sure from my research that there was only one. But yes, only he could, but now, another can!¡±


    ¡°Zathar went down to the deeps, and originally he came from Broderick''s realm, did he not? Just because he knows different runes to us doesn''t mean he''s created new ones.¡±


    Wharoth scowls. ¡°You think I haven''t gone over that possibility a thousand times over? Broderick''s dwarves use the same scripts as we do, and the deep dwarves use only the three scripts of light. Zathar''s runes are new. Mostly variations on other runes for now, true¡ªbut some are so varied it''s hard to tell what script they''re even meant to be part of.¡±


    ¡°Variations maybe I can believe.¡±


    ¡°Not just variations. Don''t you hear what I''m saying?¡± Wharoth is too excited to stop. ¡°New runes! New possibilities! Don''t you see, Voltost?¡± Wharoth is speaking loudly now. He doesn''t care who hears him. ¡°If Zathar can do what no dwarf has done in tens of thousands of years, maybe a hundred thousand years, then we are on the brink of a revolution!¡±


    ¡°A revolution?¡±


    ¡°A new age. And a better age. With the ability to create new runes, who knows what wonders we''ll accomplish?¡±


    ¡°You said only Zathar has the power.¡±


    ¡°If he does, maybe others do too. And maybe it can even be taught. Although all my attempts to figure out how he''s done it have met with failure, cleverer dwarves might meet with success. And then...!¡±


    ¡°Then what?¡±


    ¡°A new age.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think you do.¡±


    Voltost shakes his head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You can see that I believe though.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can see that.¡±


    ¡°So that''s why we''ve come up here. This is about more than just Zathar. It''s about everything. Every dwarf. The future.¡±


    ¡°You believe this very strongly.¡±


    ¡°You will believe it too, when you read his runes.¡±


    Voltost is silent for a while.


    ¡°Why did you let him go after the dragon then, guildmaster?¡±


    ¡°I shouldn''t have.¡± Wharoth looks down at the snow. He lowers his voice to nearly a whisper. ¡°Ah, I shouldn''t have. I should have refused him permission, kept him in his forge. But us runeknights are artists as well as warriors, and without freedom, inspiration, what happens to art?¡±


    ¡°You were afraid his powers would vanish?¡±


    ¡°A little. I don''t know their nature. But I had a more solid reason too: he swore an oath, and if I denied him the ability to keep it, what kind of a guildmaster would I be? He might hate me for it.¡±


    ¡°You talk like a father, you know, guildmaster.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Maybe you''re right about me seeing him as a son. Looking back, probably we all should have gone up together, to protect him¡ªbut I didn''t want to risk your lives either.¡±


    ¡°You are the same as me. Neither of us like taking risks.¡±


    ¡°That''s right. But now¡ªah, I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. And now we''re split up, and we don''t even know if he''s alive. The tundra is dangerous.¡±


    ¡°He''s a survivor, that dwarf. Maybe he''ll even escape the dragon.¡±


    ¡°You''re just saying that to be nice to me. Oh, shit, I am drunk.¡± He blinks heavily to get the tears out his eyes. ¡°Well, we''ll see once we get there, won''t we?¡±


    <hr>


    The wind on Halax''s face is bitingly cold. He''s running so quickly that the air is even blowing through the thick hair of his beard, parting the red strands to chill skin that''s never been chilled before.


    But compared to the other pains he''s gone through to gain the favor of Runethane Vanerak, it is nothing. He is a first degree and has taken many a blow for his master.


    He runs in an arc across the front of Wharoth''s guild, close enough that he can see them, but far enough that he looks like less than a speck of snow to them. They do not look particularly strong, on first impression. There''s a lot of lower degrees.


    He focuses intently to see if his first impressions are correct, for first impressions should never be trusted. The runes at the sides of his helm hum slightly; the diamonds there make a keening sound.


    Wharoth himself will put up a fight: that shield is well-enruned and large, will be hard to get any blow past. He may be a second degree in rank, but in skill he is most assuredly a first. Next to him is a dwarf close in skill, with heavy armor and a heavy build, also with an axe and shield. He''ll put up a fight, but he''ll be a poor match against Halax. Speed does not look to be his forte, whereas Halax hates to rely on brute defense¡ªthe runes of speed on his armor are rightly feared.


    Then there''s a few other dwarves of third degree, and some fourth degrees that might be trouble if they can coordinate themselves properly. As for the rest, the remaining eight tenths, they are like flakes of ash that will be easily swept from the forge.


    No sign of Zathar though. Halax circles back to look again, but still can''t see him. There''s a few dwarves with black beards, and some of those also have blue eyes, but they aren''t Zathar. Zathar has a distinctive face, with a straight nose, angular cheekbones, and brows in a permanent frown. His eyes are piercing as well, always absolutely focused.


    Maybe he''s one of those with covered faces, for there are a lot of those. It''s impossible to tell.


    Bad news. They might have to round up the entire guild before killing them. Still, maybe that''s a good thing. Vanerak will enjoy it, and that fun on top of finally getting hold of Zathar should put him in a decent mood for a while.


    They just need to be careful not to accidentally slay him. Any dwarf who does so will meet a painful end¡ªVanerak seems to believe that Zathar holds the keys to a new age. Halax isn''t quite sure if he believes this, but if there is to be a new age, well, who better to lead dwarfkind into it than Vanerak?


    With Halax at his side, of course.

 Dragonhunt 60: Runethane and Guildmaster

    ¡°Guildmaster!¡± someone shouts. ¡°Guildmaster!¡±


    Wharoth turns. A sixth degree is running through the formation toward him, waving his hands in a panic.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    The sixth degree slows down and stumbles along behind Wharoth, panting.


    ¡°I saw something in the distance.¡±


    ¡°Saw what?¡±


    ¡°A dwarf. Something glinted¡ªfar off. I''m sure it was a dwarf though.¡±


    ¡°How far off?¡±


    ¡°Nearly a mile I think.¡±


    ¡°You saw a dwarf a mile off at night?¡± Voltost says skeptically.


    ¡°I have good eyes. Everyone says so.¡±


    ¡°Did you see what the dwarf looked like?¡±


    ¡°No. My eyes aren''t quite that good.¡±


    ¡°Well, one dwarf is nothing to worry about. Get back in line. Thank you for the message.¡±


    ¡°The metal looked like tungsten. I could tell that much.


    ¡°Tungsten?¡± Wharoth frowns. ¡°I see. But anyway, get back in line. Probably another crazed dwarf hunting the dragon¡ªexcept alone. Nothing to worry about.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°Tungsten...¡± Wharoth whispers once the sixth degree has left.


    ¡°You don''t think...?¡± says Voltost.


    ¡°No, no. How could he be here? How could he know where to come? No, that''s impossible.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°No Zathar?¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°He probably just had his visor down.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That is most likely. Though it does make our job a little more difficult.¡± He raises his hand to call a halt; his dwarves obey.


    ¡°Face me,¡± he says.


    They do so. He looks across at them, and at their boots as well. They''re starting to deteriorate quite badly, with jagged parts where metal has broken off, and many of the runes have begun to warp. Still, they''ll hold up for a while longer yet. Not in the fight though. Vanerak respects Wharoth''s combat ability enough that he''ll have his dwarves wear proper boots to meet him.


    ¡°Now, we need a plan,¡± he says. ¡°Our objective is to take Zathar alive.¡±


    His runeknights wait for his orders.


    ¡°I have a plan in mind. But as our realm grows in size and strength, I will need commanders who are capable of thinking for themselves. I wish to hear what you have to say.¡±


    His runeknights look at each other nervously.


    ¡°A willingness to step forward first is also a desirable trait for a commander.¡±


    ¡°Then I will step forward!¡± says Nazak, stepping forward. He pushes up his mirrored visor to reveal bright eyes and a curly beard. ¡°I believe our strategy should be a simple one.¡±


    ¡°Elaborate.¡±


    ¡°We take them with surprise from behind. Pierce through and in the chaos eliminate Wharoth. His guild will scatter, then we can chase them down one by one. We are faster than they are.¡±


    Vanerak waits a minute or so before he replies, to see if Nazak will waver, or go back on what he just said. The dwarf begins to go pale, but doesn''t speak.


    ¡°Careful consideration is also a desirable trait for a commander,¡± Vanerak finally says.


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    ¡°You believe there to be an issue with my plan?¡± Nazak''s voice is wavering slightly.


    ¡°You fail to look past our immediate objective. Do you remember what I want with Zathar?¡±


    ¡°Of course. His runes.¡±


    ¡°He must work for us. Even if he is to be our slave, we still need his cooperation¡ªhe is the key to everything. Killing his entire guild in front of him would not be conducive to our ultimate goal.¡±


    ¡°I see. Well, we do not need to kill everyone. Just Wharoth.¡±


    ¡°Again, you rely too much on brute force.¡±


    ¡°We need to reason with him,¡± says Halax, stepping forward. ¡°Persuade him¡ªthreaten him, I suppose.¡±


    Nazak scowls. ¡°I hadn''t finished.¡±


    ¡°Silence,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°I will hear Halax''s suggestion.¡±


    ¡°I apologize.¡±


    Vanerak ignores the apology. ¡°How do you propose we go about threatening him?¡± he asks Halax.


    ¡°First we circle around to await their arrival from the front. When we meet, we order Wharoth to hand Zathar over. When he refuses, we subdue him and his senior dwarves without killing them. Zathar sees that if he does not obey, they will die. He doesn''t want Wharoth to die, so he obeys. We walk away with him.¡±


    ¡°Good. I approve.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°But even you fail to see far ahead enough. Wharoth will eventually seek to take Zathar back.¡±


    ¡°I see!¡± says Nazak. ¡°Then, some of us must return in secret to eliminate the guild.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I get there in the end, my Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°So, is our plan decided then?¡± asks one of the other runeknights. Her voice is raspy¡ªinhalation of smoke from dragon''s flames. She is one of those who hates Zathar the most.


    ¡°It is,¡± says Vanerak.


    "What will we do on the off chance Zathar is not with them?" Halax asks. "Will we take some as hostages?"


    Vanerak considers for a few seconds. "No," he says. "We won''t be able to carry them quickly enough. If Zathar is not with them, we will just kill them all."


    "Very good," says the dwarfess with the raspy voice. "They deserve it."


    ¡°It is more likely that he is with them, however,¡± Vanerak says. "Now follow me in single file."


    He wheels suddenly and pushes off hard. His boots squeal in protest. They are nearly at breaking point, but he pushes them further. Flecks of snow blur past his mirror-mask.


    In his mind mighty visions appear. Castles wrought of gold and platinum twist themselves into shape. Weapons that can sever mountains leap from the forge. Humans, trolls, and even elves bow before dwarfkind¡ªwhich is led by Vanerak, a figure like one from myth who all follow, and follow eagerly.


    He will be a Runegod! A Runegod! And not only a Runegod, but the greatest there has yet been. Within Zathar lies the power to accomplish that, eventually. First he will forge a crown, challenge Runeking Ulrike, take his realm, tear it apart, and rebuild it into something no dwarf has ever dreamed of.


    <hr>


    They appear suddenly, running in from the left at incredible speed, speeds no dwarf could manage unless he had some very powerful boots on indeed. Their armor is tungsten, turned to dull orange fire in the burgeoning dawn.


    ¡°Halt!¡± Wharoth shouts to his guild. ¡°Halt, all of you!¡±


    The army grinds to a confused, stumbling halt at the same time the ten figures stop and turn.


    ¡°Oh, shit!¡± says Wharoth.


    Their leader is faceless¡ªhis helmet is a mirror-mask showing white below and pale blue above. Only one dwarf wears a helm like that: Runethane Vanerak.


    How is he here? How could he know? But it''s only logical, isn''t it? Vanerak heard Zathar swear to kill the black dragon just as clearly as every other spectator did. So as soon as he heard the rumor that the black dragon had smashed the Mountain of Halajatbast, he forged some boots of speed and started to run.


    ¡°What do we do?¡± says Voltost. ¡°Do we fight?¡±


    ¡°We may have no choice.¡±


    ¡°Vanerak is a runethane now.¡±


    ¡°I know. But numbers have to count for something, don''t they? Maybe we can surround them and pull them down.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know about that.¡±


    ¡°Then what do you propose we bloody do?¡±


    ¡°Trick them somehow. Send them the wrong way.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know.¡±


    ¡°Better think quickly! They''re changing their boots.¡±


    The ten figures, including Vanerak, are kneeling down and pulling different boots from their supply packs. It almost looks silly, yet makes perfect sense. Boots created in a hurry are unlikely to be good for both fighting and running, and they''re likely worn down and in bad need of repairs. Nothing to fight in.


    ¡°If we charge now, maybe we can take them!¡± someone shouts.


    ¡°Silence!¡± snaps Wharoth. ¡°We''re too far away.¡±


    Vanerak is already standing back up. He turns and strides along in front of the other nine dwarves until he''s at the center of the line. By the time he''s in position, the rest have finished re-equipping themselves too.


    ¡°Weapons up!¡± orders Wharoth, though everyone already has theirs drawn.


    Vanerak and his dwarves begin to walk forward slowly. They''re in absolutely no hurry. Their quarry is within their grasp¡ªso they think.


    How will he react when he finds out Zathar isn''t here? Somehow Wharoth doesn''t think he''ll be very pleased.


    ¡°What are we going to tell him?¡± Voltost asks.


    ¡°We can''t tell him the truth, or he''ll just take off north and beat us to him. We need to send him the wrong way somehow.¡±


    ¡°But how?¡±


    ¡°Shit, I don''t know. Let me think!¡±


    But no ideas come. All that occupies Wharoth''s mind right now is Vanerak. The mirror-mask, that symbol of terror, hiding who-knows-what cruel features, is getting closer. Wharoth can see his guild reflected in it, and between the vast sky above and the white expanse below, their silvery line looks very small.


    Vanerak advances closer still. Wharoth can see himself right in the center. His axe gleams. Can it cut through Vanerak''s tungsten? And will his shield, crafted to resist fire, offer any protection from Vanerak''s triple-weapon, the pollaxe resting upon his right shoulder?


    Vanerak stops a few paces in front. Wharoth''s fearful face is reflected clearly in the mirror-mask. If he can see the fear, surely Vanerak can too.


    Before a fight you must not show weakness. Wharoth grits his teeth, steels himself.


    ¡°Hand over Zathar,¡± says Vanerak.


    His voice, as always, is calm and cold.


    ¡°He is not here,¡± Wharoth replies.


    ¡°We both know that is a lie.¡±

 Dragonhunt 61: Fight to the Last

    ¡°We tell no lie,¡± says Voltost. ¡°He is not with us.¡±


    ¡°You lie,¡± repeats Vanerak. ¡°You have ordered him to pull his visor down.¡±


    ¡°We have not,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°I will prove it: those of you with your visors down, put them up!¡±


    He hears the scraping of metal as his order is obeyed.


    ¡°See?¡±


    Vanerak turns his head from left to right. ¡°Call those with black beards forward.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Those with black beards, step forward to the second rank!¡±


    There is shuffling as this order is obeyed too. Vanerak looks from left to right once more.


    ¡°It seems that he is indeed not with you.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Wharoth. ¡°Now, if you do not mind, we are on our way to the dragon¡ª¡±


    ¡°So where is Zathar?¡±


    ¡°Dead,¡± says Wharoth without a moment''s hesitation. It''s the first excuse that comes into his mind.


    Vanerak sees through it immediately:


    ¡°You lie. There is no bitterness in your tone.¡±


    ¡°Why should there be?¡± says Voltost. ¡°He betrayed us. It''s his fault the black dragon roams free.¡±


    ¡°Wharoth, at least, put a great deal of effort into saving him. He loves him as a son.¡±


    ¡°What would you know of love?¡± says Wharoth.


    ¡°I know what grief sounds like. I will ask again: where is Zathar?¡±


    ¡°He remained in Allabrast. He gave up on his oath.¡±


    ¡°We both know Zathar would never do that.¡±


    ¡°He was injured. He''s recovering inside Heldfast Hill.¡±


    ¡°Another lie. He would drag himself to the dragon even if both his legs were severed.¡±


    ¡°He''s unconscious there.¡±


    ¡°Lies followed by lies.¡±


    ¡°He is!¡±


    ¡°If you were now telling the truth, your tone of voice would have changed at least a little. This is your last chance, guildmaster. If you do not tell me where he is, I and my runeknights, all of whom, by the way, are at least second degree, will kill your dwarves one by one. Where is Zathar?¡±


    Wharoth flinches. Vanerak has always sounded cold, but this coldness is different. It''s the cold of cutting steel. There''s anger behind it. His veneer of collectedness has gone. He will stop at nothing to get Zathar¡ªnothing! And he is more than capable of following through his threat. He''s telling the truth about his runeknights too¡ªtheir armors and weapons are masterpieces.


    ¡°Do I need to give you a time limit?¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Tell me now.¡±


    Vanerak needs Zathar alive. That''s the only silver lining to this catastrophe. Even if he captures him, maybe one day Wharoth can get him back.


    ¡°He''s further ahead of us,¡± Wharoth says. ¡°He joined with an army lead by a first degree called Xomhyrk. I didn''t trust Xomhyrk, so I kept the rest of the guild back, but then I changed my mind. Those who went to slay the dragon need our help and protection. So here we are.¡±


    ¡°I see. Thank you. We will catch up to this Xomhyrk shortly.¡±


    ¡°Zathar will not go with you quietly.¡±


    ¡°No. But he will go with me. Now, my Reconquerors, kill them all.¡±


    The nine tungsten-clad runeknights throw themselves at the Association of Steel. They were waiting for this order, coiled like springs. The screech of metal on metal erupts and cries of pain follow almost immediately.


    Wharoth has no time to shout a battle-cry¡ªVanerak is slashing at his face, the axe-side of his weapon a dark silver blur. Wharoth raises his shield and there''s a loud crash. He''s forced backward a single step. Automatically he swings with his axe for the counter-blow. Vanerak leans back and it only glances, leaving no mark.


    There''s a lot of screaming now. Wharoth knows his guild is no match for nine first and second degrees. He feels sick, but he can''t help them, can''t spare even a single glance back.


    Vanerak stabs this time. Wharoth turns the blow on his shield, more expertly than Vanerak perhaps anticipated. For a single moment the runethane is off balance, then Wharoth hits him solidly on the side of his chest.


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    His axe bounces off with a clink, leaving a single thin scratch, which is only visible because of the angle at which the dawn light is catching it. Vanerak widens his grip on his weapon and shoves Wharoth back using the handle. Wharoth slips on blood and now he''s the one off balance. Vanerak smashes at him with the hammer-side of his weapon. It crashes onto Wharoth''s shield and throws him down. Another blow comes, another. Each feels like it has the strength of a troll-chieftain behind it. Wharoth''s shield rings with each slam. The sound grows more discordant. The metal is being terribly warped and damaged.


    This is the power of a Runethane. Wharoth knows he must do something, strike at a joint, a gap. He needs to finish this quickly. His armor and shield are not going to last. He yells and pushes up, and in the same moment swings at Vanerak''s knee.


    Vanerak sweeps the blow away. The block is not only incredibly fast, but also accurate. His axe-blade collides with Wharoth''s and a shiver of force shakes the air. Both blades cut into each other, but Vanerak''s cuts deeper.


    Wharoth yells again and throws himself forward up off the ground. He puts his shoulder behind his shield and slams into Vanerak, who''s shunted back.


    This could be another opportunity. He swings down at Vanerak''s mirror-mask.


    Vanerak blocks with perfect accuracy once more¡ªbeyond perfect. He jams the spear-point of his weapon underneath the head of Wharoth''s axe where it connects to the haft. The point goes in slightly. The blow''s momentum is stopped completely, then Vanerak twists his pollaxe back and left to try and rip Wharoth''s weapon from his grasp.


    Wharoth feels the attempt¡ªan experienced runeknight feels his opponent''s blows rather than sees them¡ªand moves forward while pushing up to try and free his axe. Vanerak knees him in the side of the leg.


    The power in the blow is immense, like that of a warhammer. Wharoth is sent stumbling sideways. He falls over. Vanerak bears down on him immediately, aims to stab through his neck. Wharoth gets his shield in the way just in time.


    Like the sting of some monstrous insect, the spike pierces right through. It stops at the top of Wharoth''s breastplate, scrapes across it in a bright flash of sparks. Wharoth hacks blindly and feels his axe contact metal then bounce off. By the feel of it the blow did not cause much damage.


    But that was a strong blow, borne of desperation. Wherever it struck, it should have cut, at least a little, damaged at least a few runes. There is something to Vanerak''s armor that Wharoth has never experienced before in combat.


    It is forged with metal''s true secret, that secret that Wharoth has barely scratched the surface of. He may have the knowledge, yes, but he does not have the vast amounts of money and materials required to take full use of it, whereas Vanerak has gone from strength to strength this past decade and a half. He has channeled his reputation to amass a fortune, and with it, he has become able to take the stride past first degree, and leap the gap in power from runeknight to runethane.


    Yet Wharoth must defeat him somehow. He hacks again. This time his axe hits nothing; Vanerak must already be stepping away. He tears the point of his weapon out Wharoth''s shield.


    Wharoth rolls up. He''s now standing side-on from where the front of the line was, and for the first time can see the battlefield.


    Many dozens lie dead, their armor rent through cleanly. There is more blood than snow¡ªit forms a shallow lake around the corpses. The morning sun is reflected in it as a bright crimson orb.


    Those still alive fight desperately. Eight groups surround eight runeknights¡ªone of Vanerak''s has fallen, his helm cloven in two. But the groups trying to down the others are diminishing dwarf by dwarf.


    Wharoth spins and raises his shield on instinct. Vanerak''s hammer-blow sends him stumbling back. Pain shoots through his arm¡ªthe force penetrated right through his armor. Vanerak flips to the axe-side and swings.


    He''s out of range, but Wharoth recalls how he sent lines of cutting force at the dragon, all that time ago, on the first dragonhunt where they fought side-by-side. He raises his shield to take the blow.


    The line of power slices through the battered steel right down the middle. It cuts into his knuckles through his gauntlet also. The two halves of his shield fall to either side. Wharoth bellows in pain. Blood pours from his hand and splashes onto the ground to mingle with that of his guild.


    ¡°No!¡± he yells, in utter despair.


    Is this where it ends? Is there where everything ends, his guild, his life''s work, and his life also? It''s happened too fast. Less than a day ago they were drinking together, happy and filled with new confidence, but now guild and guildmaster both have been utterly overwhelmed. The clashing behind is dying down already. He backs away and risks a glance back at the same time¡ªonly one group of his dwarves remains alive, led by Voltost.


    The thickly-armored dwarf yells in rage, shoves his opponent away, smashes him with his heavy shield, swings his axe at his head¡ªa sword flashes through his wrist. The wielder, a dwarf in an open-face helm with a red beard, spins the blade around then cuts through Voltost''s neck.


    Blood spraying from his throat, he falls dead.


    ¡°No!¡± Wharoth yells again.


    He turns back to Vanerak in fury.


    ¡°Many call Zathar a traitor, but the only traitor here is you! We are both subjects of the same Runeking! And you do this!¡±


    ¡°I am a subject of no one,¡± Vanerak replies. ¡°Whoever controls Zathar has the power to control every dwarf in the underworld.¡±


    ¡°He''s a fourth degree, and barely thirty!¡±


    ¡°He is just a short-beard, are you trying to say? You see the dwarf¡ªyou do not see the power.¡±


    ¡°Of course I do. Why do you think I''ve gone to such lengths to protect him? Protect him from you!¡±


    ¡°You protect him because you are blinded by love. But where has that led you? Your love has seen your guild destroyed. You set out to protect, but instead you have killed them all.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Wharoth howls. ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°Yes. See what your love brings? Zathar doesn''t need love¡ªhe needs control. He needs discipline, not freedom. That his how his powers will be brought forth into the light.¡±


    ¡°You will kill him!¡±


    ¡°No. I will preserve him.¡±


    ¡°I won''t let you touch him!¡±


    Wharoth raises his axe and charges headlong. He feints left, strikes right.


    Vanerak blocks right. The axe-side of his weapon severs the haft of Wharoth''s. The axe-head, runes flashing in the morning light, flies off into the snow. Vanerak slams the hammer-side of his weapon into Wharoth''s right ribs.


    The armor there crumples. Wharoth falls to his knees then onto his side. He coughs blood. The coughs bring terrible pain¡ªhe can feel bone splinters in his lungs.


    Vanerak plunges his spear-point into Wharoth''s heart. The guildmaster gasps once in shock. An icy feeling spreads through his body. It''s the cold of death, of eternal oblivion.


    The life in his eyes fades. Vanerak tears out his weapon. Blood drips. He makes a sweeping gesture with his left hand, and says:


    ¡°Make sure every last one is dead.¡±


    His runeknights look around, then at each other.


    "I think they are," Halax says. "None ran, at least."


    Vanerak looks back and forth across the snow. Strangely, Halax seems to be correct. None have run.


    "Interesting," he says.


    END OF ACT THREE

 Dragonhunt 62: Exit The Surface

    The mountain is like a corpse: all gray skin and with a gaping black wound through its heart. Its mere presence weighs on us¡ªmany cannot bear to look up at it and walk with their heads bowed to the snow, of which there is only a thin layer here.


    Only a few of us seem to want to approach the end of our quest, and I am one of them. I keep wandering out a little from the main force, Gutspiercer tightly gripped, or sometimes I''m twisting the weapon through the air in looping motions. It''s my boots that are moving me. If I force myself to stop still, I can still feel myself sliding, like the mountain is a great lodestone and my armor neodyne.


    At first Braztak keeps warning me, keeps pulling me back in line, then abruptly I find him joining me on my little jaunts. When I glance at his eyes, there''s anger in them.


    ¡°I wish he''d find this damn tunnel!¡± he spits.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°We''re going around in circles.¡±


    ¡°A fold in the rock. There''s no fold. We should go straight.¡±


    ¡°It almost makes me think he''s stalling.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    The Dragonslayers don''t seem to mind so long as we don''t go too far out. If we do, we obey their warning glares and fall back in line. They do no more than that though¡ªmaybe they don''t want to risk me going berserk again. And perhaps they empathize with us somewhat, for our journey does seem to be taking a lot longer than necessary.


    Xomhyrk thinks that scaling the mountain and traversing its gaping wound would incur unnecessary risk. If any of Uthrarzak''s dwarves survived, they are likely to be watching there, or even guarding it. So instead we are searching for a hidden tunnel, marked on the great quartz map as being somewhere around here, lying hidden under a fold in the ground. So far there has been no sign of it. The ground, exposed here and there by the melted snow, is flat.


    A few whisper that it''s been closed up through the slow movement of the stones over time, or else melted shut by a stray flame from the dragon.


    Whatever the reason, our journey has slowed. Two days we spend wandering below the foothills of the looming mountain, yet during them we draw no closer. My armor is growing furiously impatient. A couple times Xomhyrk has us double-back; each time he does, my legs end up shivering with strain from working against the runes.


    Then, on the third day, Xomhyrk stops dead. He looks down at his feet. Then he cries triumphantly:


    ¡°Here!¡±


    We line up beside him to look. Just as he described seeing on the map, there''s a fold in the ground. We''re standing at the top of a ridge just a few feet high, all but invisible on the flat, near featureless plain. Cut into it, below us, is a hollow circle just large enough for a dwarf to squeeze through.


    ¡°Some of my Dragonslayers will move in first,¡± he says. ¡°Once they confirm the route, we follow them.¡±


    He nods to two of his dwarves. One produces a lantern of a design I''ve never seen, then they jump down the ridge, duck low, and vanish into the darkness. For a long time we wait. I sense the dwarves around me become tense: will the two emerge? Or perhaps the tunnel is blocked, and we''ll have to approach the mountain directly, and maybe even crawl into that awful black gaping wound. I relish the prospect. The others do not.


    Wind howls around us, neither hot nor cold. It kicks up heavy flecks of slushy snow.


    ¡°All fine,¡± comes a voice, and then the two dwarves crawl out. They''re covered in black dust that stains the snow they tread on.


    ¡°There''s a bit of rubble,¡± the second says. ¡°And a lot of ash. Other than that the way into the halls looks clear.¡±


    ¡°What about the halls themselves?¡± asks Xomhyrk.


    ¡°It seemed like most everything is intact. Well, the stone at least. Everything else is, well...¡±


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    ¡°Burned.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°We are well-used to fire though.¡±


    ¡°And will be more used to it by the time this hunt is done.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    Xomhyrk jumps down the ridge and walks forward a few paces. Then he turns to address us:


    ¡°Here begins the final leg of our journey: the burned halls of Halajatbast. It will be uncomfortable and dangerous. There may be some of Runeking Uthrarzak''s dwarves lurking¡ªdeserters or perhaps posted guards. If we meet any, we will reason with them.¡±


    I sense some very dark looks being thrown in Xomhyrk''s direction.


    ¡°We went through this before,¡± he says, narrowing his eyes. ¡°You may find it distasteful, but we are here to make war on the black dragon, not on our fellow dwarves. If we meet any of Runeking Uthrarzak''s forces, we tell them we are here to help. And we may need their help, considering how few of us are left.¡±


    Whatever darker looks these words bring, Xomhyrk ignores.


    ¡°Now,¡± he continues, ¡°we have brought lights for this occasion. Many were trampled by the ice beast, but I think we still have enough for a safe journey. Dragonslayers, distribute them please.¡±


    The tungsten-clad dwarves hand one lamp to every tenth dwarf. They are of glass, and within each is a teardrop of enruned crystal, held in place by wires. I examine Braztak''s closely¡ªI can read these runes, they''re runes of light! The poem is well-made, describing a single flame in a cave that refuses to go out despite the storm of wind and spray rushing over it.


    I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach: I followed these same runes deep below once before, to face an different impossible foe, as part of another army that was far inadequate for the task.


    And I deserted then! Same as Faltast¡ª


    My ruby blazes hot. This is different! Back then my duty was to root out the killer, not to die for Runethane Yurok''s suicidal delusions. And this time we are led by Xomhyrk, and the foe, while strong, is known to us and known to be mortal also. There is no reason for any honorable dwarf to desert.


    ¡°Step down and form up in single file!¡± Gollor bellows. ¡°It''s time to hunt a dragon!¡±


    I''m startled from my thoughts by the sudden shout and movement. Someone pushes me forward off the ledge and I land heavily. I glance back, scowling, but the dwarf who''s to follow me is some way back. I wasn''t pushed, I realize, but pulled by my own armor.


    I make to form up with the rest of the guild, but without me really realizing how I got here, I end up near the front of the line, just a few dwarves behind Xomhyrk.


    ¡°Eager, aren''t you!¡± says Braztak, and he slaps me hard on the shoulder. He''s only one place behind me.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say.


    ¡°I haven''t complimented you on your boots enough. You just slide where you want to go, don''t you?¡±


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    Is it? Do I slide where I want to go, or do I slide to where my armor, amulet, and weapon want me to go? Or do I, like Braztak suggested before, slide to where the me from back in the forge knows I have to go?


    ¡°...mobility is under-rated by most dwarves,¡± Braztak is continuing. ¡°But we''ll need it when we get to the dragon. Xomhyrk knows this too.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± I frown. ¡°Have you figured out how he does it?¡±


    ¡°Flies through the air?¡±


    ¡°Appears where he needs to be.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I haven''t.¡±


    ¡°Take a closer look at his armor and you''ll figure it out. And at Icemite too¡ªthey''re made of the same material.¡±


    ¡°Material?¡±


    ¡°Ah, have I given it away?¡±


    An idea hits me. ¡°Wait¡ª¡±


    ¡°Forward!¡± Xomhyrk yells, and now we''re marching.


    One by one we duck down into the tunnel. Blackness envelops me, and the light of Braztak''s lantern can only partly ward it off. I get the feeling that the power in the glass is limited¡ªin duration as well as strength, or we might have used them when we took the bodies to the underground river after the battle with the humans. We will have to get to the dragon quickly.


    I equip my runic ears just in case.


    The tunnel is thin and crooked, though evenly paved. It turns at sharp angles and there are branches hidden in the walls that come to dead-ends. This would be a difficult place to attack down. The air is humid and smells of old ash and tastes bitter on my tongue.


    We come to a steep set of stairs down. Each is angled slightly differently, and it takes all my concentration to not topple over and plummet down them.


    When we finally reach their end, we enter into large circular room. It''s shaped almost like an arena, with steps leading up all around it. Dwarves with long spears might have been posted here, to stab down at any disorientated intruders, or maybe they had crossbows¡ªmaybe the dwarves of Runeking Halajatbast were not as averse to ranged weapons as us dwarves of Runeking Ulrike are.


    After the arena, we pass through some thin doors and now it seems we''re past the fortifications. We''re now in a wide hall, its arched roof held up by four rows of stone pillars. Xomhyrk orders us to stop and reform into a column five dwarves wide, with those with longer weapons toward the middle, those with shorter at the edges.


    ¡°Here, Guthah!¡± I order.


    He comes to stand beside me and Braztak. As the rest of the army reforms around us, I try to make some small talk about the tunnel, and the warmth and the blackness, and the increasingly intense stench of ash, but he doesn''t really want to discuss anything with me. He won''t even meet my eyes.


    I feel I should care more about this. Wasn''t I meant to be looking after the tenth degrees? I look back but can''t see them all. At least Pellas seems to be doing better. She''s walking on her own now, though with armor in that state I don''t know what she''s going to be able to do if we''re attacked.


    ¡°Quick march!¡± Xomhyrk orders, and we''re off again.

 Dragonhunt 63: Abandoned

    The architecture is grand. The arch of the roof continues to heighten until our lanterns'' rays can no longer reach it through the haze of soot. The pillars are slimmer than I feel they should be, and worked with incredible detail: they are carved with images of weapons and armor of every description, and gems also, which are displayed as if unfolded along the facets so their poems can be read in full.


    Yet the carvings are marred with an uneven coating of soot, and this is not soot from coal or wood. It has a different smell to it, one unassociated with the forge. It smells like death. The blackness in the air which our lanterns has such trouble penetrating is, I''m sure, the remains of dwarves. The floor feels a little slippery, as if waxed¡ªI think we tread across a thin patina of melted fat. Now and again I''ll feel a twisted piece of metal beneath my boot, or crush to dust a loose shard of bone, but not very often. The annihilation of this place has been thorough.


    If the black dragon''s fire reached even down here, how is my armor meant to stand against it? Even if Uthrarzak''s forces managed to injure it, even if it expended a great deal of power in the first attack, as Xomhyrk conjectures, the heat of its flames must still be immense.


    A chill flows across my skin. My ruby blazes. My grip on Gutspiercer tightens.


    My crafts will not let me doubt myself.


    The pillared hall stretches far. After what feels like many hours, Xomhyrk calls a halt and we sit down for a meal and a short rest. This time I''m given no guard duty. Braztak refuses his when Erak tells him he ought to take first watch.


    ¡°I might go wandering off on my own,¡± he says. ¡°I won''t make a very good guard. But I''ll stay awake as long as I can.¡±


    I go to talk to Pellas, but she''s already asleep. She has a pained expression on her face. I don''t know if that''s a sign that her ribs are healing and that she''s fighting her wounds, or if it''s a sign things are getting worse.


    The next day, though whether it''s day above or not we of course have no way to tell, Xomhyrk increases the pace of our march. Before long the hall comes to an end and stand before what was once a tall gate. The bars lie in a tangle on the stone like a nest of iron snakes. We march over them without slowing.


    ¡°Look!¡± someone shouts a few minutes after we pass into the corridor beyond. ¡°Bodies!¡±


    ¡°Halt!¡± Xomhyrk shouts. ¡°Gollor, investigate.¡±


    We halt. Gollor readies his shield and spear and marches to where the dwarf who shouted is pointing. Sure enough, there''s bodies there or, at least, suits of armor. The metal has sagged somewhat. Gollor picks up a helmet, and ash mixed with sections of bone falls out. A gray cloud rises from the floor to mingle with the black soot.


    ¡°These were Runeking Halajatbast''s runeknights,¡± Gollor says, gently laying the helmet back down. ¡°Characteristically thin armor with poems of Volot script grafted in gold, though impure gold in this case. These two weren''t very high ranking.¡±


    ¡°They didn''t leave many guards down here,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°They sent everyone strong up to fight the dragon.¡±


    ¡°And still they lost,¡± Gollor finishes grimly.


    ¡°Which just goes to show numbers aren''t everything.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°Don''t let a few bodies strike fear in you, runeknights. We''ll see more soon enough, many more. Restart the march!¡±


    The rumble of our march restarts. Might we wake something up? This part of the city is no spacious hall or plaza but a tight corridor with many doorways, blackened around the edges where their doors have been burned. Could there be salamanders hiding within?


    Unlikely, I decide. There''s nothing to eat here but ash. Even salamanders don''t eat ash. There isn''t much air either; it''s getting steadily harder to breath. Ventilation is something no one thinks about very often, but it''s vital. All inhabited caves have tunnels leading to wide, airy caverns, or sometimes even directly to the surface, for the purpose of making sure we don''t suffocate.


    The dragon''s attack must have melted many of these shut. Others have probably been clogged with soot. I hope it doesn''t get too hard to breath. If I''m going to die, it must be in combat, not gasping and retching on the floor.


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    The corridors end more quickly than I expected and we enter another hall of pillars. I look around, wondering what it was used for.


    ¡°Braztak, do you know much about this place?¡± I ask.


    ¡°A little.¡±


    ¡°Why such long halls, with nothing much in them?¡±


    ¡°Nothing in them now. I don''t think they were just for going from place to place. This hall and the last were markets, I''m fairly sure.¡±


    ¡°Markets? Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. The dwarves here valued commerce. A lot like the hill dwarves we met.¡±


    ¡°I see. They sold their crafts?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°I don''t know. But they were famous for their wealth. The mountain itself was long ago mined dry, of course, but the stone below is rich. And they were famous for good meat as well, I think I read somewhere. They had goats, not boar, whose meat keeps better.¡±


    ¡°Interesting.¡± I shake my head. ¡°But it''s all gone now.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Fucking dragon,¡± he spits. ¡°It deserves everything we''re going to do to it and more.¡±


    ¡°I wonder if there aren''t any survivors who might help us. Surely someone managed to escape.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure many did, but they won''t be back here any time soon. The dragon shattered them.¡±


    We continue to walk. I spot a glint in the distance. The echoes of our march are oddly broken up there. I focus, try to see through the soot, and spot the glint again. It''s yellow¡ªgold. I tell Braztak.


    ¡°Keep your voice down,¡± he warns. ¡°Someone might get greedy.¡±


    ¡°If this was a market, I''m surprised there isn''t more of it.¡±


    ¡°Probably most hid it or fled with it as soon as they heard the dragon was on its way.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°You know, there should be more dwarves up here. Halajatbast''s realm wasn''t just the mountain. It extended right down.¡±


    ¡°Down to the magma seas?¡±


    ¡°Yes. They should be gathering forces¡ªbut something tells me they aren''t, that they''d rather cut their losses. Cowards! Just like a certain guildmaster, no?¡±


    ¡°They might just be biding their time.¡±


    ¡°Yes, until the dragon leaves. Come to think of it, that might be how Runeking Halajatbast claimed this mountain in the first place.¡±


    ¡°I don''t follow.¡±


    ¡°The biggest dragon Runethane Thanerzak killed was said to have taken its treasure, and its power, from some mountain kingdom. Maybe it was this one.¡±


    ¡°There''s no way to know now.¡±


    ¡°And it doesn''t matter. All we care about is the black dragon. I can feel its heat. Can''t you?¡±


    ¡°Honestly, no.¡±


    ¡°Hah! Good, good. Means your armor''s doing its job.¡±


    ¡°For now. I''m starting to think I ought to have made a shield like Wharoth''s too, one that could eat the flames.¡±


    ¡°No. Better you''re forced to attack than rot behind a shield your whole life. Don''t worry, Zathar. Your ice is plenty protection. As long as you don''t get struck directly you''ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°And you?¡±


    ¡°You know how my armor is. The more damaged it gets, the more power goes into my strikes.¡±


    ¡°Up to a limit, surely.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I''ll have to be careful¡ªbut I''ve been thinking about how I''d get my revenge every night for a decade and a half. Every night since it took her from me.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Strike harder!¡± Hardrick bellows. ¡°Harder! Put your fucking backs into it, you''re breaking rock, not chalk! Harder!¡±


    To be in the midst of a mining operation again, after so many years spent at the forge or on the gloriously blood-drenched battlefield, is deeply unpleasant. The crack of iron on stone, the smell and taste of dust, the grunts of dumb, manual labor¡ªthese all bring back memories of a time when Hardrick was one of the lowest of the low.


    Runethane Broderick has ordered that every connecting wall and supporting pillar in an area of more than five hundred by five hundred yards be demolished, bar one central spire of stone, which is instead to be drilled and run through with cable. It will become the key. When pulled, the ceiling, and maybe the entire top section of the mountain, will collapse onto the sleeping dragon.


    This should injure it enough that the Runethane and his elites can finish the job they started, hopefully. Hardrick is not too sure. It seems more likely that the ceiling will collapse early, bringing down the runeknights-turned-miners with it.


    But orders are orders.


    ¡°Harder!¡± he yells as he stalks through the debris and clouds of dust. ¡°Strike harder!¡±


    However hard they strike this job won''t go quickly. Their picks are makeshift, of melted iron bars taken from the ruins of a mountainside prison where criminals were once exposed to the sky for their punishment. They are cruder even than regular picks, and as a once-miner, Hardrick knows that the quality of one''s pick matters a great deal.


    ¡°Damn fool of a runethane!¡± he hisses under his breath. ¡°Doesn''t know a thing.¡±


    He waits a moment for the shadow''s usual biting reply. Nothing comes. Come to think of it, it''s been silent for a long while. This is very odd. Recently it hasn''t been silent for more than a few minutes at a time.


    Has it abandoned him? Hardrick stops still, stops his shouting. Fear has grabbed hold of him.


    The shadow is the root of his abilities. More than that, it is his abilities. With words and more it guides him in the forge and in the fight. If it was to leave...


    ¡°Where are you?¡± he whispers.


    There is no answer. The only sound is the crack of stone and the grunts of sweating dwarves. They take on a new significance for him¡ªperhaps mining has not been totally confined to his past, for if he cannot be a runeknight, what else remains for him but the mines?


    ¡°Where are you?¡± he says.


    Still no answer.


    ¡°Where are you?¡± he screams at the top of his lungs, uncaring of the shocked looks from the runeknights around him.


    There is no answer. He bends double, coughing on dust.


    ¡°Where are you?¡± he chokes. ¡°Come back! Where are you? Where are you?¡±

 Dragonhunt 64: The Legionary

    We take another short rest. I lie down but find that I cannot sleep. My ruby is burning hot, and my right hand, clasped around Gutspiercer, is shaking. I can''t stay still. My armor keeps trying to pull my legs in and make me stand up.


    I decide that if I''m going to be awake, I ought to do something useful with my time. I''ve been neglecting the tenth degrees for too long. I walk down the line to see if any are awake.


    To my surprise, Pellas is. I kneel down beside her.


    ¡°Evening, instructor,¡± she says in a pained voice.


    ¡°How are your ribs?¡±


    ¡°They hurt. Everything hurts.¡±


    ¡°Are the chains on correctly?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But they hurt. They''re cold.¡±


    ¡°Healing chains always feel that way.¡±


    ¡°Instructor, we are going to die.¡±


    ¡°If we die, we die doing what we vowed to do.¡±


    ¡°That''s no comfort.¡±


    ¡°Why not? We are runeknights. It is our job to face danger. Did you not know that, when you chose to follow your father?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°Then you should have no problem with dying.¡±


    She flinches, tries to press herself back into the stone. She wants to get away from me.


    ¡°You''ve changed,¡± she says quietly. ¡°You never talked about death before.¡±


    ¡°I talked about it many times.¡±


    ¡°Not about your own.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure I did.¡±


    ¡°Instructor, your armor has done something to you.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°Because my helm appears like a skull, you think it''s leading me to my death? Runes don''t work like that.¡±


    ¡°Don''t they? Everyone says you change the longer you spend at the forge. Do the runes have nothing to do with that?¡±


    ¡°You don''t know what you''re talking about.¡± I scowl. ¡°What does a tenth degree know of runes? Get some rest, Pellas. Sleep. You will be in combat soon.¡±


    ¡°In this wreck of a suit?¡± She sounds terrified. ¡°I will go into battle in this?¡±


    ¡°What else?¡±


    ¡°The injured are to fight as well?¡±


    ¡°Obviously. Otherwise why would you be here?¡±


    I stand and walk off, shaking my head. We will all do battle. There is nothing wrong with her sword, at least. It should sting the dragon at least a little.


    I go to the other tenth degrees, but they''re all asleep. I go back to my place in line and lie down again.


    Was I too harsh with her? My skull-helm must have been a terrible sight, looming over her, cold pouring from it. I must have looked like a specter of death. I sigh. I was too harsh with her. I should have been a little more careful with my words, shouldn''t have lost my temper. Her words about my runes hit a little too close to the truth.


    But what does it matter? As long as she survives long enough to get to the dragon, who cares how she feels?


    Xomhyrk orders us to get up. We spend another hour or so walking through the pillared hall, then I can hear its end. There is another great doorway in the wall. Through it, it sounds to my runic ears, there is a great space. My heart starts to beat faster. Could we finally be here, at the dragon''s lair?


    Unfortunately not. It''s just another cavern, though a very oddly shaped one. Its roof is very high, and natural, not held up by pillars. Its floor is formed like a series of terraces. Each terrace is covered with rubble, the upper ones more than the lower ones.


    ¡°We are now below the center of the mountain,¡± Xomhyrk announces. ¡°This is Stepping Cave, where many of the richest dwarves lived. The lower terraces were for their servants. Once we pass the upper terraces, there should be stairways leading to halls which the dragon has no doubt melted out to make its lair.¡±


    He leads us across to the lowest terrace. The stone wall is smeared black. We turn left. I imagine there''s some kind of ramp leading up this direction, and I hope we find it quickly, because this cavern is the hardest yet on our lungs. The soot is thick and choking, and it gets worse as we march and kick up more and more. It hangs in the air. Whatever ventilation this place had must be almost totally melted shut.


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    Finally we reach the turn. We walk up a steep slope. At the top of it Xomhyrk turns right¡ªand suddenly stumbles. It looks like he''s tripped on something.


    ¡°Halt!¡± he shouts, and we obey.


    He kneels down and brushes soot from his find. His lantern''s light reflects off steel. It''s another body. He pulls up the visor, and this time there''s a face to see. Its features are twisted in agony, and there''s deep red vertical lines on it, from where flame has gone through the visor.


    ¡°This dwarf was a part of Runeking Uthrarzak''s forces,¡± he announces. ¡°I recognize the standardized armor. Be on the lookout for more, and remember¡ªyou will not attack unless they attack us first.¡±


    It''s not long before we do come across more. I am shocked: each dwarf wears nearly identical armor. In fact, in shape each suit is exactly the same. Only the poems differ, and even then they are they are in the same scripts and deal with the same theme, of strength and courage in numbers.


    I''d heard that Runeking Uthrarzak controlled how his runeknights were allowed to craft, but I never imagined his control went this far.


    Onward and upward we wind along the terraces. Once we''re at the middle layers, the soot is thinner, yet the rubble has started to slow us down a great deal. Xomhyrk orders us to loosen our formation so we can more easily clamber over the smashed walls and crunch through the remains of tiled roofs. For me, with only one hand free, and boots not designed for such uneven terrain, the journey is especially hard, and I start to drift toward the back of the army.


    There''s sudden movement to my left. I spin and leap at it. Someone rushes out at me, yelling. I raise Gutspiercer to strike¡ªone of the Dragonslayers leaps at me from the side, shoves me and I sprawl. The dwarf crashes into him. The Dragonslayer wrestles him to the ground. Two more runeknights jump in to help hold our surprise attacker down.


    Except I don''t think he''s an attacker:


    ¡°Water!¡± he rasps. His face and beard are black with soot. ¡°Beer! Wine!¡±


    ¡°Who are you!¡± shouts the Dragonslayer.


    ¡°Drink!¡± he repeats, as if he didn''t hear the question. ¡°Drink! For the love of the Runeking, give me something to drink!¡±


    I pull my beerskin from my pack¡ªI feel the need to make up for nearly killing him; I do not want to anger Xomhyrk.


    ¡°Oh, thank you!¡± he cries as I place it in his blackened hands. His accent is strange, the vowels lengthened and almost musical. ¡°Thank you, comrade!¡± He gulps it down, splutters and coughs a fair bit up, then takes another gulp. ¡°Ah!¡± he says. ¡°And chilled too. Thank you, my comrade, thank you! May the Runeking favor you!¡±


    ¡°You''re welcome,¡± I say, as he hands me back my beerskin.


    More of our army gathers around. The dwarf looks up and around at them. A confused look comes over his face.


    ¡°You aren''t legionaries,¡± he says. ¡°Are you from below? Come for revenge on your attacker?¡±


    ¡°We are not of Runeking Halajatbast, no,¡± says the Dragonslayer.


    ¡°Then from where?¡±


    ¡°We are warriors of Runeking Ulrike!¡± one runeknight shouts, stepping forward from the gathered crowd.


    He draws his blade and holds it high. Its yellow runes glow fiercely. It''s Warak, the guildmaster who was so vehemently against allying with Uthrarzak''s dwarves.


    A look of pure terror comes across the dwarf''s face.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Gollor yells, hurrying in from ahead. ¡°Put that away, Warak!¡±


    He keeps the blade raised. ¡°No. I will not kill him, but neither will I sheath my blade in his presence.¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡±


    Gollor kneels down in front of our terrified captive. ¡°We are not here to harm you,¡± he says.


    ¡°Why, then?¡± the dwarf asks.


    ¡°The same reason you are here. To slay the dragon. And we do not act on the orders of Runeking Ulrike. We are an independent force.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You will not come to harm while you are among us.¡±


    He glances up at Warak''s blade. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yes. In fact, we could do with your help.¡±


    ¡°Help? With what?¡±


    ¡°Getting to the dragon.¡±


    The strange dwarf''s eyes widen. ¡°To the dragon?¡± he says. ¡°Toward it?¡±


    ¡°Of course. We are dragonslayers.¡±


    ¡°It killed ten thousand of us!¡±


    ¡°Is that how many of you there were?¡±


    The dwarf shuts his mouth tight.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°You know I cannot give information to the enemy.¡±


    ¡°We are not your enemy.¡±


    ¡°You are from Allabrast. You are of Ulrike.¡±


    ¡°Not all of us.¡±


    It''s not Gollor who speaks this time, but Xomhyrk. Icemite glows bright with the light of his lantern. Our captive looks up at him in awe.


    ¡°My name is Xomhyrk Dragonslayer. I am not from Allabrast, but further south and further deep, from the realm of Runethane Ikthoryst sworn to Runeking Kylst.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°We need a guide upward.¡±


    The dwarf shakes his head. ¡°I cannot.¡±


    ¡°What''s your name, legionary?¡±


    ¡°Davath of the seventh degree.¡±


    ¡°And your rank and legion?¡±


    ¡°Third ranker in the fifth legion of Runethane Athrar¡ªthough he is dead now.¡±


    ¡°Killed by the black dragon?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And is it not your duty to seek revenge?¡±


    Davath''s shoulders sag. ¡°You know our ways well. Yes, my duty is to seek revenge on my commander''s killer. But it is impossible. The dragon is too strong. You should turn back.¡±


    ¡°We will not.¡±


    I feel my right hand come close to Gutspiercer''s shaft. This dwarf is a deserter just like Faltast.


    ¡°Then go,¡± Davath says. ¡°But leave me in peace to find my own way out of here.¡±


    ¡°With no water? No food? We cannot spare any to someone who refuses to help us.¡±


    Davath shrugs. ¡°Either way is death.¡±


    ¡°Death in ignominy,¡± I say. ¡°Or death with glory.¡±


    Xomhyrk gives me a cold look. ¡°If you are to die, that is. But it is not us who will die, but the dragon.¡±


    ¡°Ten thousand of us perished and the dragon is barely scratched. You are strong, Xomhyrk, maybe even as strong as my commander was, but there were two more as great as he who faced the dragon. Now all are dead.¡±


    ¡°They were not as experienced with dragons as I am. And were their weapons crafted for the task?¡±


    ¡°Runethane Broderick was an acclaimed dragonslayer.¡±


    My eyes widen. Runethane Broderick is dead?


    ¡°Not as acclaimed as me,¡± says Xomhyrk.


    ¡°I will not go up. I refuse.¡±


    Warak aims his sword at Davath''s neck. ¡°You will do as Xomhyrk says or I will take your head.¡±


    ¡°Back!¡± Xomhyrk snaps, and Warak flinches away.


    ¡°We will not kill you for refusing to join us. But neither will we give you any supplies. So, how about this deal? If you lead us to the dragon, I will give you enough supplies that you might, with luck, be able to make it out of the mountain alive.¡±


    Davath looks deep into Xomhyrk''s eyes, as if trying to work out if he''s lying or not. He glances again at Warak''s yellow-runed blade.


    ¡°And no one will slay me on the way?¡± he asks.


    ¡°If they do, I will slay them in turn.¡±


    Davath stares at Xomhyrk a little while longer, then he nods.


    ¡°Very well. I''ll lead you up the way I took.¡±

 Dragonhunt 65: Hardricks Regret

    The Mountain of Halajatbast stabs up through the horizon like the point of a spear. Vanerak accelerates. His boots are trembling on his feet, their metal straining, their runes screaming silently. He ignores their pain. Zathar is within reach¡ªhe has to be!


    And he is Vanerak''s alone to claim. Wharoth the fool, who so desperately tried to keep hold of him, yet at the same time allowed him to split from the guild, is now dead.


    This has been quite the stroke of luck¡ªor so the other dwarves might be thinking. Vanerak believes in chance, but he does not believe in luck as most dwarves do. To them, luck is a resource, like copper and iron, that can be gained and used up.


    A foolish belief. Copper and iron are not used up either, but refined, made purer, greater, transformed to create the secret that only the greatest runeknights come to understand, and which only Runethanes have the ability to tap. Chance is different. It simply exists, and those who can take advantage of it.


    A black circle, like a wound through the heart of the mountain, comes into view. Vanerak licks his lips behind his mirror-helm. Through there they will climb to get at the power within.


    And Zathar will be given no chance to slay the dragon.


    <hr>


    Hardrick sits hunched over in a dark corridor somewhere near the summit of the mountain. His head is in his hands.


    ¡°Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?¡±


    Over and again he whispers this through his fingers. Once every few minutes or so he will peer down and up the corridor, searching for a patch of darker black in the blackness. But he sees nothing.


    ¡°Where are you?¡± he repeats. ¡°Where are you?¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± comes a sudden whisper.


    Hardrick spins around. He feels a cold sensation in his chest, and he gasps in pain, fear, and relief all in one.


    ¡°Where were you?¡± he whispers. ¡°Why did you leave me?¡±


    ¡°I never left.¡±


    ¡°You did! You lie!¡±


    ¡°I am bound to you. I cannot leave. But if you stand before a light, where does your shadow go?¡±


    ¡°Don''t do this again!¡±


    ¡°Where does it go?¡± repeats the shadow.


    ¡°You cannot leave me!¡±


    ¡°It goes behind,¡± the shadow hisses. ¡°It stretches. I did so¡ªbecause something crucial has come into the mountain.¡±


    ¡°Crucial?¡±


    ¡°Yes. A piece of something. It lies north and down of here. Come now, we must go.¡±


    Hardrick looks down the corridor. A piece of what? The darkness suddenly frightens him.


    ¡°I can''t go.¡±


    ¡°And why is that?¡±


    ¡°My orders are to supervise the mining. Make sure it gets done quickly.¡±


    ¡°You''ve already abandoned those orders.¡±


    ¡°I have to get back to them.¡±


    ¡°Why? Whether the dragon lives or dies¡ªirrelevant! We have more important things to accomplish.¡±


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    Hardrick turns and starts to hurry back along the corridor. He thinks he can remember the random twists and turns that brought him here.


    ¡°Stop! That is the wrong way!¡±


    ¡°I need to get back!¡±


    He is suddenly in absolute terror. It is as if every fear, every worry, every thought that he might be a fake, that this blessed life of his could be a delusion¡ªall those things he ought to have been feeling this past decade and a half during his time as the Silver Legend¡ªsuddenly they are pouring into him.


    This power he''s pretended is his own for so long is not his. He does not control it. The rumors were correct. He''s been possessed by a demon from the deepest, hottest depths of the magma oceans.


    ¡°Demon?¡± laughs the shadow. ¡°I am beyond those. Halt, Hardrick. Halt!¡±


    Hardrick continues to run. He comes to the stairs at the end of the tunnel, begins to sprint down them three at a time. Shit! What possessed him to try and become a runeknight? Wasn''t he doing just fine as a miner?


    Sure, the work was dull¡ªbut not so strenous, so long as the overseers were drunk, which was often. The company was mixed¡ªbut he had been popular, had had friends. Drinking buddies who laughed at his jokes. His family had been a right pain, true, but all things considered he''d never had to spend so much time with them.


    The money had been good as well. The materials he''d spent on that shitty little knife had paid for themselves many times over. Robbery, conducted properly, had been lucrative.


    It had been a life a great deal more fun than the lives most miners led. While they wallowed in pity, or else let their hope kill them, Hardrick had accepted his station, and in doing so, he had become the best of them. He knew he was never going to rise above mining, so he''d never over-reached¡ªlike that idiot Zakath and his little brother¡ªand instead he had done as best as he could within the circumstances. And through this he''d become a first degree miner: as respected and well-off as one could ever be.


    So why, back then, had he decided to make that sword?


    He glances back. There''s a patch of darker darkness on the wall. The shadow is still behind him, moving at the exact same speed he is.


    ¡°Get away from me!¡± he screams. ¡°I was doing fine. Why did you have to¡ª¡±


    The stairs come to an end. His foot comes down at an odd angle and he collapses onto the stones with great force. He sprawls out backwards. Upon the wall beside him, the shadow is standing tall.


    ¡°Get up, Hardrick!¡± it snaps. ¡°You can''t get away from me. We are together now, whether you like it or not.¡±


    ¡°I have to get back to the Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You will do no such thing. You will do as I say¡ªor I will make your life very difficult.¡±


    ¡°You already have!¡± Hardrick screams back.


    The shadow laughs. ¡°You live an easier life than any runeknight yet has, and trust me, I''ve seen a lot of them come and go. All you have to do is relax and do as I say, and all the gold and fame and ladies and everything you could ever desire fall into your lap like stalactites after a quake. And they will keep on falling.¡±


    ¡°If the Runethane becomes angry¡ª¡±


    ¡°A mere runethane is no threat to me. What is a runethane, Hardrick, ay?¡±


    ¡°More powerful than us!¡±


    ¡°So far, so far. Your muscles haven''t quite gotten used to obeying my commands yet. The precision with metal that surpassing him requires still hasn''t quite come to you. But we''re getting there. And behind those golden links he is just flesh.¡±


    Hardrick''s eyes widen. ¡°You mean to kill him?¡±


    ¡°I mean for you to kill him, yes. We need more power, more metal, if we''re ever going to accomplish what we need to do. Much more.¡±


    ¡°He is guarded. Braedle¡ªshe is stronger than us too.¡±


    ¡°Not for long. Not once we get what I''m searching for.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°A piece of something important.¡±


    ¡°Another shadow?¡±


    ¡°Just know this: be ready to fight.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°Where the hell is he?¡± Broderick yells. ¡°Where''d he go?¡±


    ¡°He ran off that way!¡± the terrified runeknight yelps back. ¡°Up there, up those stairs!¡±


    ¡°Did he say why?¡±


    ¡°He was looking for someone. Asking where he went.¡±


    ¡°Looking for whom?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know. No one knows!¡±


    ¡°Shit.¡±


    Broderick scowls at the rubble-field. He can''t see much, for everything is obscured by a thick haze of choking dust, but he can see one thing¡ªthat the mining is nowhere near completion. At this rate the dragon will wake before the roof falls in on it, and then it''ll take only one blast of flame upward to destroy what''s left of his forces.


    ¡°He was meant to make you all work faster!¡± he spits.


    The runeknights around him cringe back. They''re all holding their pickaxes by the very end of the handles, and as loosely as possible.


    ¡°You aren''t working hard enough,¡± he says. ¡°Get back to mining! All of you! I want every wall and pillar destroyed by the time I return, or you''ll taste my axes. Understand?¡±


    ¡°Understood!¡± his dwarves scream back.


    Broderick storms through them on his way to the next group of mining runeknights, a couple of adjoining walls away. Braedle hurries after him.


    ¡°Father, I''ll search for him myself.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I''ll search for him. He''s hiding out somewhere close, I can feel it.¡±


    ¡°No. I know what you''ll do if you find him.¡±


    ¡°Isn''t this all the proof you need? He''s after you!¡±


    ¡°He''s just had a bit of a breakdown. Too much stress. He was a miner before he became a runeknight¡ªthis job must have stirred some bad memories.¡±


    ¡°What are you saying? Maybe he was a miner once, but he''s the Silver Legend now. You''ve seen him in battle just as I have. He''s a runeknight through and through; his past is dead.¡±


    ¡°How would you know?¡±


    ¡°I just do!¡±


    ¡°Fine!¡± Broderick snaps. ¡°If you insist, I won''t complain. Go and look for him¡ªand ask him what in hell he''s doing. But do not touch him! Not a single beard-hair!¡±

 Dragonhunt 66: Behold the Black Dragon

    After we make it to the top of the terraces, Davath leads us to the corridor he came down through. It''s one of many that lead out. They all look identical to my eyes, with high arches of stone that have been softened and smoothed by heat.


    ¡°I think this might be the only way,¡± he says, in that strange sing-song accent of his. ¡°I was the only one who went down this path. It was a little out of the way, and I didn''t want to be caught in the crush.¡± He swallows. ¡°I think the others melted. I could hear screaming through the cracks when I emerged.¡±


    Xomhyrk gives a curt nod and walks into the corridor after him. The rest of us follow, many reluctantly. They don''t like the idea of following a dwarf of the hated Uthrarzak into the most dangerous place they have ever been.


    The walls of the corridors grow thinner, squeezing us until we''re forced into single file. They squeeze further and we''re forced to turn sideways and shift along like river crabs. Perhaps crabs that are about to boiled in their shells.


    Over an hour of squeezing ourselves through sideways later, the corridor widens a little. Some of us sigh in relief. I am trembling in anticipation. The black dragon is very close now.


    We reach a set of steep stairs. Each step is melted slightly, and very smooth.


    ¡°We may have some trouble getting up,¡± says Davath. ¡°I mostly just fell down here.¡±


    There''s some muted grumbling. I''d expected more, but we''re too tired to shout, or even talk. The dark stairs are blisteringly hot, with that hot, dry, awful heat I know all too well: the heat of the black dragon. It''s muted by my armor, of course, but I still recognize it.


    I place my boot upon the first smoothly sloped step. My boot doesn''t slip as much as it ought to. In fact, it seems to be freezing itself to the step. It takes a small burst of strength to pull off, and when I do I hear the faint sound of ice shattering. My palms also freeze to the wall when I touch it to steady myself.


    For most it is a hard climb. The dwarves behind me are groaning, panting with strain. Yet each step I take seems to lend me further energy. Halfway up, and I''m feeling almost no fatigue at all.


    My ruby burns.


    I reflect again on what Braztak told me: that if your craft is driving you to do something, it''s really the you back in the forge driving you. The you in the comfort of your second home, not yet facing the tribulations of the caverns or the surface wilds. He knows that even if you''re to falter out there, you must go on, and so he hammers that urge into the crafts you are to wield and wear.


    Still, he may be wrong about this.


    We come to the end of the stairs and emerge into a wide corridor. Solidified tears run down the walls, which have sagged and buckled. The floor has become like waves. And permeating the air is the dragon''s dry heat and the stench of burned flesh. There''s a lot of bodies here, all in armor like Davath''s, but semi-melted and with dead runes.


    ¡°Left,¡± says Davath quietly. ¡°We keep going left. Then we''re at your dragon.¡±


    Xomhyrk says nothing, just turns to the left and walks on. We follow him, stepping carefully over the dead. I half expect some of our number to step on the bodies, kick or even spit on them, but not even Warak does this.


    The dry heat, the stench of death¡ªthe dead here are not our hated enemies, not anymore, but fellow dragonslayers. I can''t even blame them too much for running away. I think the battle was well and truly lost when this lot fled.


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    We walk along the buckled floor, our column shifting and turning with the bulges of the solidified waves. My strides grow longer and faster. Soon I find myself nearly at the head of the column next to Xomhyrk.


    Gollor steps in beside me.


    ¡°You are not leading here,¡± he says sharply.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. My voice sounds somewhat distant.


    ¡°You''re too eager,¡± he says. ¡°Eagerness will get you killed on a dragonhunt.¡±


    ¡°It''s better than cowardice,¡± I snap.


    ¡°Are you calling me a coward?¡±


    ¡°...no. No, I''m sorry. I don''t know why I said that.¡±


    ¡°I''ve killed more than a dozen dragons, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°A dozen?¡±


    ¡°Alongside Xomhyrk. That''s how many our guild has slain. I''ve been with him since the beginning.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°I''ll give you some advice: obey his orders. He knows what he''s doing.¡±


    ¡°I wasn''t planning on disobeying.¡±


    ¡°No, but you''re losing your mind. Your desire for revenge¡ª¡±


    ¡°It''s not about revenge. It''s about keeping my oath. Redeeming myself for my sins. Undoing, in some small way, all the damage I caused.¡±


    ¡°Very well. Your desire for redemption is causing you to make foolish decisions. Be careful. Hold yourself back until Xomhyrk gives the order.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°You understand now. But when you see the dragon before you, will you still understand?¡±


    I try to think, but my thoughts are clouded. The heat is making me itch. Why isn''t my armor blocking it?


    Ah, this isn''t the dragon''s heat, heat from without, is it? It''s from my ruby. Heat from within.


    ¡°I said, will you still understand?¡±


    ¡°I will!¡± I say. ¡°Of course I will. My mind hasn''t entirely gone.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± He nods. ¡°Good.¡±


    We walk in silence for a few more moments. Then he says, softly:


    ¡°I understand your pain, Zathar. I''ve lost many friends to dragons.¡±


    ¡°You didn''t lead the dragons to them.¡±


    ¡°No, but... In the heat of battle I''ve made mistakes. Been outsmarted¡ªXomhyrk has too, on occasion, though he always pulls through in the end. But always not everyone pulls through. There are always dead.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Dragons are deadlier than other creatures.¡±


    ¡°Because they''re not creatures¡ªthey''re fire made flesh.¡±


    ¡°I feel that. Have felt that many times. Just being near it was like standing next to a furnace, though also not. Furnaces are for creating.¡±


    Gollor nods. ¡°And dragons exist only to destroy."


    He says nothing for a few seconds, then:


    "Do you know how old our guild is? Can you guess?¡±


    ¡°I''m not sure.¡±


    ¡°Two and a half centuries.¡±


    ¡°Old.¡±


    ¡°Not so old, shortbeard. Not so old. But in all that time, we''ve only killed a dozen dragons. That''s because after every hunt, we have to rebuild. We lose so many. So many.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°And now we''re going for this dragon.¡±


    I feel alarmed. Is the steadfast Gollor, who''s never shown a single trace of doubt so far, about to break down?


    ¡°You''re not scared, are you?¡± I say, half jokingly, half not.


    ¡°If you''re not scared you''re a fool,¡± he says. ¡°Fear is a good thing to have in moderation. Xomhyrk has very little, so he needs me to keep him cautious. But now you''re here, and he''s taken a strange liking to you, and I worry that you''re a bad influence on him.¡±


    ¡°Me? Influence him?¡±


    ¡°Yes. For what reason I cannot fathom: after all, your grudge against the dragon is no stronger than that the others in your guild hold.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°By rights he should have branded you with Icemite after you killed your guildmate. Or slain you. And for some reason he didn''t.¡± He shakes his head again. ¡°Well, whatever. His reasons are his reasons. He''s as strong as a runethane. A first degree like myself can''t understand him.¡±


    ¡°I don''t quite get what you''re trying to say, Gollor.¡±


    ¡°Maybe I''ve gone a little off the tracks. It boils down to this: keep low in the fight. You''re not special here, Zathar. Doesn''t matter what Xomhyrk thinks, what anyone thinks. You have your oath, yes, but everyone here has their own reasons too, just as valid as yours. So act like you''re part of the force. Don''t go running off on your own. You hear me? I''m repeating myself, but it needs to be said: don''t go running off without orders.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± I say.


    ¡°I bloody well hope you do.¡±


    Then, abruptly, the corridor ends.


    ¡°Halt!¡± shouts Xomhyrk, though not quite as loudly as usual.


    We stumble to a sudden halt. The dwarf behind bumps into me and I skid forward slightly. Gollor grabs hold of my shoulder to stop my momentum. I get the sense that he''s glaring at me, but my eyes are focused firmly ahead.


    Past the broken corridor is a downslope of solidified magma, and past that is a glass-smooth floor of a thousand shades of stone all twisted and coiled together. Bodies, their armor half melted into the stone, lie scattered around¡ªthousands of them. Past them, coins and gems glitter. Broken armor and shattered weapons shine, though their runes seem dulled.


    They turn to a dense carpet toward the center of the cavern, then rise up into a hill of a hundred different shades of precious metals.


    And on top of this hill of treasure slumbers the black dragon.

 Dragonhunt 67: Vengeance for the Burned

    Despite its massive size, twenty times larger than when I last saw it, the black dragon is instantly familiar. The curve of its limbs, the darkness of the scales, the color of the fiery light shining through the gaps between those scales, the shape of the spurs of its bat-like wings, the curves of its claws¡ªbut for its many hundreds of new scars, glowing brightly as it absorbs runic power to heal them, everything I recognize instantly.


    Fifteen years have passed, yet my memories of it are as fresh as if it were only yesterday that I handed it the diamond key, then took its eye when it betrayed me.


    ¡°I''ll kill you!¡± I whisper. ¡°I''ll kill you. I''ll kill you!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Gollor hisses. ¡°Shut up, Zathar. Remember what I said!¡±


    I clench my teeth and press my lips together. My chant continues in my head.


    ¡°Let me leave now,¡± begs Davath. ¡°Please. Give me my supplies. I was on the edge of death back there, you know. I couldn''t move. But now I think I''m healed. It''s a miracle from the Runeking. Please, repay me.¡±


    Xomhyrk nods. ¡°Gollor, give him some supplies. Plenty of supplies.¡±


    I listen to the rustling as Gollor prepares a bag of supplies for him. There''s no other sound than that. The presence of the dragon has utterly stilled everyone''s voices.


    Apart from one, very quiet:


    ¡°I''ll kill you. I''ll kill you. I''ll kill you.¡±


    It''s not my voice. I glance back and see Braztak''s lips moving in just the way mine were, shaping and spitting out the exact same syllables.


    ¡°Here you are,¡± says Gollor. ¡°Be careful on the journey back. We wish you luck.¡±


    ¡°I''ll need it,¡± says Davath. ¡°Thank you, dragonslayers. Kill that thing. For my dead comrades. Kill it.¡±


    He hurries past our column and disappears into the darkness. Gutspiercer trembles slightly, angry, perhaps, at a missed opportunity.


    ¡°Follow me, my dragonslayers,¡± says Xomhyrk. ¡°Keep quiet. We don''t want to wake it until it''s time.¡±


    Very slowly, very carefully, we make our way down the slope. The bright¡ªthough fading¡ªlanterns illuminate discolored patches in the stone. I spot some warped runes. Encased in the stone here are bodies, and not even the ruby can stop the sudden fear that comes upon me and makes me tremble.


    Once we''re onto the glassy floor, Xomhyrk orders us to spread into a wide formation, with at least six feet space between each dwarf. If the dragon wakes, he doesn''t want us all fried in one breath.


    ¡°Listen carefully to me,¡± he says, very quietly. The Dragonslayers relay the words in a chain of whispers. ¡°This what we are to do.¡±


    <hr>


    They have finally arrived. The slopes of the Mountain of Halajatbast rise high before them, smooth and pale. All they have to do is climb them.


    ¡°Change your boots,¡± Vanerak orders.


    Most have already fallen to pieces. The poems were written to get to the mountain as fast as possible, and now they''ve arrived, their purpose is over and their magic is failing. Straps are coming undone, cracks are widening, screws and rivets are coming off and apart.


    The runeknights take them off gladly. Vanerak does the same¡ªthough they''ve fared better by far, they''re still no longer worthy of being worn by a runethane. He puts on his regular boots. They''re tungsten, of metal imbued with the secret, enruned with a poem about standing unwavering in the midst of battle. Vanerak does not like to dodge and leap when he fights: he moves on his own terms.


    ¡°Up,¡± he orders.


    They begin the ascent. Although the rock directly below the wound in the mountain''s center is as smooth as a frozen waterfall, that around it remains rent with crags and spurs from the uneven weathering of aeons. And there is very little snow or ice.


    It''s still hard going. At several points, Vanerak has no choice but to order his runeknights to besmirch their weapons by breaking apart the stone to make handholds, or to clear boulders off their pass. Up and around they wend, zig-zagging back and forth. The wind howls past them. Stones fall from above, battering their armor. Halax nearly has his face crushed by one, ducks only at the last moment.


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    The runeknights grow fatigued. They''ve been nearly flying over the land until now, carried by their runes, but now they''re forced to work for every step. Only Vanerak feels no fatigue, or rather, only he is capable of ignoring it entirely. His desire to find Zathar drives away any sense of pain.


    ¡°Climb faster,¡± he orders, after scaling a particularly difficult slope. ¡°Faster. The future lies at the end of this journey.¡±


    The runeknights grit their teeth and redouble their pace. Torn muscles and cold-burned throats are nothing compared to the pain Vanerak will inflict if they fail him.


    ¡°Nearly there,¡± Halax hisses to himself. ¡°Nearly there!¡±


    The black wound in the mountain is only a few dozen feet above them now.


    <hr>


    ¡°He is close!¡± the shadow hisses. ¡°So close, so very close. He''s after something that was stolen from him, but in its making he stole from me. He has what by rights is mine.¡±


    Hardrick stumbles onward through the black corridors. He does not know what direction he is going, nor why he makes the turns he does; he doesn''t even know if the walls are close to him or if he''s come into an open cavern. All is black around him. Only the shadow can sense where he and their quarry are.


    ¡°So many things were taken from me! So many things!¡±


    Hardrick gets the feeling that the shadow isn''t really talking to him, or even talking at all. It''s just thinking, and its thoughts are somehow leaking into his mind.


    ¡°Left! Now right!¡±


    His movements don''t feel like his own anymore. In his first crafts, the shadow had said nothing, just given him a feeling about when to strike. After he advanced past second degree, it started to give him more specific advice, guide him more firmly, yet it had always only given guidance. In the end the movements of hand and hammer had been Hardrick''s to make.


    Now the movements are the shadow''s.


    ¡°He doesn''t deserve what he has. He didn''t work for it, was just gifted it, by my enemies! The scum who threw me down. They''re going to get what''s coming to them. Oh, yes they are. I''m going to punish them. I don''t care where they are, or what form they''ve made for themselves. I''m going to tear them apart!¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Hardrick whispers. ¡°Who are we after? Who are we going to tear apart?¡±


    ¡°What? What''s that voice?¡±


    ¡°It''s me!¡±


    ¡°Who? Keep on running, keep on running. I have to keep on running!¡±


    <hr>


    Xomhyrk has placed the Association of Steel a hundred yards away from the black dragon''s right foot. We stand in battle formation, a wedge, ready to charge. Braztak and Erak are the tip, then the two other remaining third degrees and I form the second rank.


    The plan is simple. Xomhyrk explained that the right way to see a dragon is as a large problem. You cannot tackle a large problem all at once, so you break it into parts. One group attacks the legs, another the arms, another the belly, the head, the tail, and so on. It shouldn''t be thought of as a singular foe. It has the power of an army, and must be tackled in the way an army is tackled. Each section must be defeated individually until the whole no longer has the power to win the fight.


    It''s all very logical, and he sounded very logical when he explained it. For once he said nothing grand. We have arrived at the problem we are to fix, and now we will tackle it in parts.


    They were calming words, but not everyone is calm. I can feel the fear behind me. I glance back guiltily, searching for Guthah and Pellas. I swore to protect them and lead them, but that promise has been forgotten, shoved violently aside by my fury to destroy the dragon.


    Pellas especially I''m worried about. Her armor can barely be called such. It''s more dead weight than anything protective. A single splash of the dragon''s flame and her battered flesh will burn like a torch.


    ¡°Just look at it,¡± Braztak whispers. ¡°Look at it, Zathar.¡±


    My head snaps around. My eyes focus on the target. My hands tighten on Gutspiercer. All my thoughts about the tenth degrees vanish like smoke in the wind.


    ¡°I see it,¡± I whisper back.


    ¡°It''s misfortune incarnate. All the pain our guild has suffered¡ªit''s right there in front of us.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Erak agrees. ¡°We kill it, and we are healed. We will be the burning brand that quells the bleeding wound.¡±


    ¡°A fine way of putting it,¡± says Mulkath. He''s in the centre of the formation, a couple rows behind me.


    ¡°Indeed,¡± says Braztak. ¡°Indeed. We''re the burning brand. Wharoth couldn''t see that. Couldn''t see that if someone else was to kill the dragon, without us being involved, we''d never be whole again.¡±


    ¡°He''s going to get quite the shock when we return with its teeth strung to our belts,¡± laughs Erak. ¡°Won''t know what to say.¡±


    ¡°He will. He''ll say he''s sorry for doubting us. Who knows¡ªI might even accept the apology.¡±


    ¡°I will,¡± I say. ¡°Even if the decision he made was wrong, it was made out of love.¡±


    Braztak, surprisingly, nods.


    ¡°Yes. Love¡ªthat I can agree with. He never makes a decision that doesn''t have what he thinks are our best interests at heart. Even if those decisions end up being wrong and cowardly.¡±


    He pauses, struck by sudden emotion. Tears well in his eyes. We wait for him to compose himself.


    ¡°My decision to come here was made out of love too,¡± he says. He raises his axe. ¡°I haven''t been able to say her name since the dragon took her from me, but I''ll say it now: Marath. I kill the black dragon to avenge you.¡±


    Erak raises his axe too. ¡°Batath and Kelgor,¡± he says. ¡°My dearest friends.¡±


    ¡°Gorok,¡± says one of the third degrees.


    ¡°Halga,¡± says the other.


    ¡°Nazek,¡± Mulkath says.


    ¡°Rastak.¡±


    ¡°Joroth.¡±


    ¡°Whelt,¡± I say, remembering my red-bearded friend who gave me so much advice in my earliest days as a runeknight.


    ¡°Lastak.¡±


    ¡°Ralgor.¡±


    ¡°Erkast...¡±


    The names go on and on. Every victim of the black dragon is listed, whether they were lost in the first attack on the guildhall, slain in the stalagmite forest on the hunt led by Vanerak, or burned when it rose again with its strength renewed a hundred-fold by Thanerzak''s hoard. Not a single name goes unmentioned. Not a single one of its victims has been forgotten.


    Each syllable spoken sounds to me like the heavy beat of a war drum. These names are our reasons to fight.


    Far above, at the entrance of a broken tunnel near the cavern roof, a light shines twice. That''s the signal. Xomhyrk is in position.


    We ready to charge.


    ¡°It''s time,¡± says Braztak. ¡°Good luck, all.¡±


    Xomhyrk angles Icemite down toward the dragon''s wing-joint. He reaches out with his left hand also.


    And a claw of ice flies.

 Dragonhunt 68: Dragonfire

    It takes only an instant for Xomhyrk''s claw of ice to reach the black dragon''s back, and in that instant I realize fully the genius of his armor. He has forged it not out of metal, but of ice itself. My first thoughts back in that silly restaurant, about how ice and metal are more or less the same, were not as incorrect as I eventually dismissed them as.


    Water has run up his arm to become the chain and claw. It isn''t a separate craft from his armor; that''s why I never spotted it. It is his armor, melted and reformed.


    Four icy talons pierce into the dragon''s black skin and hold firm. Xomhyrk jumps. His chain shortens at great speed, incredible speed.


    Xomhyrk flies at the dragon''s back.


    It can''t just be ice his armor''s made of, of course. Surely it''s been imbued with metal: steel and copper and tin dissolved into it a thousand times over. Maybe it was runes that were dissolved into it, a bit like how Barahtan forged his final craft in the trial. Except Xomhyrk will have done it a great deal more expertly¡ªor so I presume. In truth, I have no idea how he has accomplished this feat of forging.


    How could a craft be so malleable, and yet so strong at the same time? What else can it do, I wonder? And what powers does Icemite, made of ice also, hold beyond simple cold sharpness?


    The black dragon trembles at the cold claw''s touch. In the next moment Xomhyrk slams into its back. He''s just a speck, like a beetle on the back of a great blindboar.


    He lances Icemite deep into its right wing-joint. The dragon''s jaws and remaining eye, just visible from our position, open suddenly. It roars in agony. Blood, gleaming gold and red, steaming with heat, fountains from the wound.


    Xomhyrk may just be a speck upon the black dragon, but Icemite is a deadly sting. We raise our weapons and roar in joy, and now we''re charging.


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡± we scream. ¡°Drazakh nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°Death! Death to the dragon!¡±


    The black dragon tries to fly. Its left wing, all two hundred and fifty yards of terrible darkness, lifts up then down. A whirlwind of heat howls around us. Its hoard is thrown to pieces: gold coins and crafts of every kind, runic power drained, batter us like stones in a rockfall. But the tempest brings no flight, for the black dragon''s right wing, stuck deep with Icemite, can unfurl only a few yards.


    Xomhyrk pushes Icemite deeper. The fountain of blood diminishes. The shimmer of heat from the wound becomes less intense. The black dragon roars louder. It''s a roar of pain, the loudest roar of pain I''ve ever heard.


    Gutspiercer trembles violently in response. My ruby blazes and becomes like a drop of molten metal. Sweat forms on my brow. My icy armor pushes me forward faster, but I restrain it, remembering Gollor''s warning. We are all here to kill the dragon, not just me.


    It curls its snakish neck around and snaps at Xomhyrk. Its movement is like a sudden flow of boiling lava, too fast for a creature of such size, but not too fast for Xomhyrk. He throws out his claw at the cavern wall and vanishes an instant before the black dragon''s jaws snap around empty air.


    The clack of its great teeth echoes. It turns and moves its head in the direction Xomhyrk vanished to. His icy claw shoots out from a completely different part of the cavern¡ªhe''s repositioned expertly in the darkness. The talons grasp into the black dragon''s flank.


    He''s a blue blur, Icemite extended out before him, its tip a white star. It jabs deep into the black dragon''s side.


    Many of the Dragonslayers now copy their leader. They spin their own hooks and chains and throw them at the black dragon where they catch deep in the scales. They swing up onto it, slashing and stabbing with icy blades.


    The black dragon roars flame onto them. It''s not that hot though¡ªan orange wash rather than a white beam. It doesn''t want to risk damaging itself, especially wounded as it is. It may have defeated Uthrarzak''s forces to the last dwarf, but their weapons took their toll, and the scars have not fully healed.


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    Davath was wrong¡ªhis legion did more damage than they suspected. And perhaps the battle to take the mountain was also not quite as one-sided as rumor had it. Some of the longer scars can surely only have been inflicted by the weapon of a runeking.


    ¡°Go for the gaps in the scales!¡± Braztak yells. ¡°Anyone''s weapon can get through there!¡±


    We''re closing the distance to the dragon''s foot rapidly. We leap over scattered glinting treasure. Thirty feet, now twenty. I can''t hold my armor back anymore and put on a sudden burst of speed. The black wall of the dragon''s skin is before me¡ªGutspiercer bites deep into a crevice between two scales. Heat shimmers around the steel. Just above, Braztak''s axe slashes apart a half-healed scar.


    A dozen more blows follow, then another dozen. The Association of Steel slashes apart the skin on the dragon''s leg. Blood hot as fire gushes out. It covers me. I barely feel its heat, though. All it does is make Gutspiercer crazy with joy.


    I slam the pick into the dragon''s flesh again, again, again. Each stroke bites more fiercely than the last. The dragon''s leg, a pillar of black steel, pulls up as it attempts once more to lift off. We suddenly have nothing to strike at and a tempest rushes around us.


    Its foot slams back down fifty or so yards distant. Shock buckles the glassy floor. Cracks shoot out, and splinters of jagged stone jump up from them. I''m already leaping over the cracks. I slide at the monstrous foot with incredible speed.


    The other guilds are attacking their own targets. One charges its hand, still on the ground to stabilize itself. Their leader¡ªmight be Warak with his yellow-runed sword, I can''t quite tell in the darkness¡ªslashes into a finger.


    The black dragon rears up suddenly. The movement dislodges several Dragonslayers on its side, and they plummet to the ground. Target gone, Warak''s guild comes to a confused halt. The dragon glares down at them with its emerald eye.


    Warak¡ªI''m sure its him¡ªshouts the order to scatter, but it''s too late. A torrent of white heat subsumes him and those immediately around. They are annihilated. The glassy rock under the feet of the rest of his guild turns to a perfect circle of yellow lava. The dwarves sink into it, screaming in agony. Steam jets from their visors and every gap in their armor.


    Xomhyrk collides with the dragon''s neck and lances Icemite deep. The black dragon''s breath splutters. It tries to swat him away, but he''s already leapt and swung back into the darkness of the cavern roof.


    I''m still charging while all this rages. The dragon''s right foot is before me again and I slam Gutspiercer into it. This time I strike directly in the center of a shield-like scale, and the steel goes clean through.


    I tear it out, slam it in again. Braztak appears beside me and cleaves down with his axe. The cut he makes is long, longer than he is.


    The dragon''s ankle buckles slightly. We''re hurting it! I laugh and strike once more. The rest of the guild joins me. We''re hacking its toes apart. Each is more massive than an abyssal salamander, and the scales are thick armor, but we''re succeeding. Its bright blood pools around us.


    Yet now we have its attention. I feel a sudden fear, look up to see its emerald eye blazing down at me.


    It flaps its left wing to give it some more momentum, and its foot rushes up from the ground. I''m taken aback by the sudden speed. We''ve dealt so much damage¡ª


    No, we haven''t. We''ve torn apart its skin, that''s all. A runeknight in broken armor can still move, and a dragon relies even less on armor. The only one who has done any real damage so far, I think, is Xomhyrk.


    Its talons hover above us. I scream up at them, but it''s not the talons it plans to kill us with. It slams its foot down another fifty yards distant. There''s a thunderous cracking sound. Waves of force buckle the rock below us. I''m thrown to the ground, as are many around me.


    It opens its jaws. Light builds in its throat, brighter than the burning sun. The dark scars in my vision become hot with pain.


    ¡°Scatter!¡± Braztak screams.


    I charge forward. White flame splashes from behind and engulfs me. The incandescent wave carries me on its crest. The heat is terrible: I can feel it through every joint in my plate, and through the cuts Faltast gave the metal also. There it burns my skin like molten wires.


    I slam into the ground. My helmet rings like a bell. There''s a senseless roaring in my ears. My runic ears have been half-melted just from that instant of flame. I tear them off¡ªdon''t need them in the glow of magma anyway.


    I hurry to my feet and turn around to see if anyone is left.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream.


    More than half of us are lying motionless, half-subsumed into dark red magma. Steam and smoke rises from their armor. Even here, thirty yards away, the scent of roasted flesh is horribly strong.


    One attempts to pull himself out. He shivers for an instant then collapses back down.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream again.


    Only two who took the direct heat remain standing: Braztak and Erak. The latter''s golden runes glow brilliantly. They''ve absorbed the heat¡ªmostly. A few have melted.


    As for Braztak¡ªhe''s standing, but is he alive? He''s wreathed in flame, and motionless.


    ¡°Braztak!¡± I scream.


    He lifts his head. The flames on his armor ripple as if blown by wind, then vanish smokelessly to reveal a brighter glow.

 Dragonhunt 69: Mortal Armor

    Braztak''s armor is shining from without and within. Beams of purple and emerald brilliance are thrown into the smoke-filled air from each plate, and more brightly from every gap between them also. The metal has become like slabs of translucent gemstone. The light carries on it runic power which is greater even than the light. I can feel it through my armor, in my bones.


    ¡°Drazakh Nachroktey!¡± he screams.


    Then he leaps into the air, a fireball of gold and emerald and purple, with axe held high. The black dragon slashes at him with its talons. Braztak strikes into its palm with such force that the hand is thrown back. Hot blood sprays over him but does not stick to his armor¡ªthe light and runic force blows it away. The drops evaporate.


    Braztak''s armor has long been rumored to have greater power than he let on. Speculating on some greater hidden function was a popular topic of conversation when its creator wasn''t around.


    I think I now know what that hidden function is. The runes are not just grafted to the outside of the armor, but to the inside as well. Where the outer runes turn damage to the armor to power, these inner ones turn damage to Braztak''s body to power. The dragon''s flames burned him, and this burning will be its demise.


    Braztak lands heavily. The stone at his feet shatters. Immediately he leaps forward, straight at the dragon''s leg. He flies past it, cleaving as he does so. His axe slashes deep, the entire head going in and tearing through the black scales. Boiling blood blasts out the wound. The black dragon roars in pain.


    Xomhyrk is still fighting hard, flying in and out of the darkness, striking deep with cold Icemite whenever he lands.


    ¡°What are you waiting for, Zathar!¡± Erak shouts. ¡°Charge!¡±


    I yell and throw myself forward. I leap over a crack of shattered stone and slide. The dragon shifts its foot. I chase and slam Gutspiercer into the wound Braztak just inflicted. I see the dragon''s flesh tremble and my ruby fills my heart with heat. I stab again and again. Steaming blood coats me. Erak comes beside me and cuts with his axe.


    The pain is too great for the dragon. It contorts its body in a fury and spins away, using its left wing to give it further momentum. The howl of hot air, a tempest of sound and force together, throws us tumbling back.


    We hurry to stand. We see that it''s leapt to the far side of the circular cavern. Its one eye glares at us, and not just at me and Erak, but every blood-drenched, half-scorched runeknight still alive.


    It lowers its head and opens its jaws wide. It''s about to throw flame over every last one of us with a single fell breath.


    ¡°Charge!¡± someone screams.


    We yell and run toward the open jaws. Despite the terror and loss, no one is afraid. We have been driven into a battle-frenzy by the sight of the dragon''s blood. No longer is it an abstract fear, a nightmare lurking within the mountain, capable of any method of destruction we can imagine, but a real beast with limits to its power and flesh that can be broken.


    Runic armor and golden coins spin across the stone as we sprint through the main part of the dragon''s scattered hoard. I jump over one sword, accidentally brush against another. It spins to point at the black dragon. I laugh joyously even as orange flame rushes out to meet me.


    It comes as a wave, more like water than fire. The masses of gold coins scattered over the floor soften at its approach. A dwarf screams as he is engulfed. I yell in defiance as the fire washes over me.


    My armor makes a keening sound. The titanium is screaming. It grows hotter and hotter. Any hotter and it will be burning my skin¡ªand abruptly the wave of flame is past. The black dragon''s jaw is hanging open like that of a slavering dog, strings of orange flame dripping from between its massive teeth.


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    Xomhyrk flies from above. Icemite is angled directly at the back of the dragon''s neck. It twists and Xomhyrk falls past it. He swings around, avoids colliding with the floor by mere inches.


    I''m still charging, alongside some of the Dragonslayers, and Erak, whose armor has remained more or less intact, though about half its golden runes have been liquified. Gollor is ahead of us. His dark blue tungsten has been blackened. He''s discarded his shield, and is holding his spear with two hands.


    ¡°Drazakh Nachroktey!¡± he screams, and we scream it with him.


    How many of us are left? I glance around. Only about a dozen. A dozen! Can so many really have been killed? But those who are left are only the most powerful. Third and second and first degrees¡ªI am the only remaining fourth. Mulkath and his mercury runes are nowhere to be seen.


    As for the tenth degrees, Guthah and Pellas included, the first burst of dragonflame that hit us must have vaporized them. I should be feeling sorrow, maybe shame, yet all that''s in my heart is joyous fury.


    We can win this. We''re about to win this. The black dragon''s life is ours. All the damage I did is about to be undone.


    A wave of darkness slashes out at us. It makes no sound¡ªit''s traveling faster than sound, like lightning before the thunder. It''s the dragon''s tail, a whip of black iron, and it slams into us.


    Force, pure force¡ªthat''s what it feels like¡ªhits me square on. My armor crumples as it slides on the scales. Runes and metal scream. Cold steam bursts out to be swept away by momentum. I''m traveling through the air.


    Gutspiercer has lodged itself into the dragon''s tail and I''m carried up high. I scream. I can see the whole cavern laid out before me.


    Those who charged with me are tumbling over and over in the air, flying helplessly toward the cavern wall. It''s as if backwards has become downwards for them. I watch in horror as they smash into the stone. Clouds of dust and splinters are thrown out. Then they tumble down like broken toys to lie still upon the floor.


    A terrible dark sound fills the cavern. It fills me with dread. A few moments after it finishes, I realize what it was: the black dragon''s laughter.


    Only three of us are left now. Xomhyrk waits somewhere up in the darkness, but he''ll have a harder time hitting the dragon now there aren''t so many dwarves to steal its attention. Braztak stands in the middle of the cavern. His armor is bright, but before the massive darkness of the dragon, he is like a single star in the entire vastness of the night.


    And then there''s me, clinging to the dragon''s tail. The ambient heat from the scales is half-cooking me. My armor''s runes are all but dead, and the titanium is crumpled and battered. The rough scales are scratching it further¡ªits power to remove friction is gone.


    I try to pull myself up to balance on top of the tail, maybe get into a striking position, but the dragon shifts and I''m left flailing. There''s nothing I can do to help Braztak.


    He stands defiant before the monster.


    ¡°Beast!¡± he yells. ¡°You killed my wife, you killed my friends, you killed my guild! Now you''ll pay for it!¡±


    The black dragon laughs again. It rears up. As it does so, it swings down its tail. Its collision through the ground sends a shockwave through me, knocking the breath from my lungs. Black spirals form in my vision for an instant.


    The tail is resting at an angle though, so I can still see Braztak.


    ¡°Answer me, dragon! What made you think you could take on the Association of Steel and reap no consequence?¡±


    Again the dragon only laughs. It seems that its gain in power has brought an equal amount of arrogance. It does not speak to lesser beings. Why use guile when it has this much strength?


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡± Braztak yells. ¡°Death!¡±


    He charges. The dragon opens its maw and a jet of flame flashes out, pure white. It subsumes Braztak, and his armor glows brighter. Emerald and purple shine through the dragonflame. He''s still moving, the dragon''s flame is following him¡ªdespite the stone-melting heat, he is alive!


    I came on this quest believing that it was my destiny, my fate, to face the dragon. I was prepared to die in battle with it, but secretly, in my heart, I could never imagine dying without striking at least one grievous blow. If I was to die, I believed, in my very death-throes I would wound deep its belly, head, neck, or at least break a limb or wing.


    It seems that it was not to be me who does this, but Braztak. Just as Gollor said, this quest is not about my redemption: it is about all who suffered at the claws and fangs and flame of the dragon. And few suffered as terribly as Braztak did.


    Still within the jet of flame, he leaps with immense speed. The dragon''s one eye widens in shock and it pulls back its head, yet too late. Braztak strikes it in the lower jaw. There is a crack like the first tremor of a cave-in¡ªblunt impact, his axe has been turned to vapor by the flames but he can punch¡ªthe dragon''s jaw warps and breaks.


    The white flame sputters, and with it so does the light pouring from Braztak''s armor. I can no longer see him.


    The dragon roars in agony, more gutturally than before. Its jaw flops down. Broken shards of tooth drop from it, and with them fall drops of molten gold trailing wisps of ash.

 Dragonhunt 70: Hunts End

    Gold fragments, all traces of color and power burned from them, clatter onto the stone. Broken teeth from the dragon''s lower jaw shatter beside them. The dragon lets out another guttural roar.


    I feel no sadness at Braztak''s death. That may come later. Instead I feel awe. I thought, when I crafted this armor of ice and death, that it was the ultimate expression of commitment to the quest. Yet I was wrong¡ªBraztak''s craft was superior. While I created armor to get me to the dragon uncaring of death, he crafted armor whose power could only be unleashed through death. Only through mortal wounds could his runes gain the power to wound the dragon.


    Xomhryk darts down from the darkness and stabs again, then vanishes as the dragon tries to slash at him. It roars in frustration out its hang-jawed gape. Fire and blood spatter out.


    A great blow has been struck, but the battle is not yet over. I angle my feet so the soles of my boots are firmly flat against the dragon''s scales, and push up while ripping Gutspiercer out. I rise about four feet, slam Gutspiercer back into the dragon, repeat. A few strokes later and I am finally balanced on top of the dragon''s shifting tail.


    ¡°Nachroktey!¡± I yell.


    I charge up the tail, stabbing Gutspiercer down whenever I feel myself losing balance. The blows are pinpricks compared to Braztak''s final strike and to Xomhyrk''s stabs with Icemite, but I will keep on making them.


    <hr>


    Vanerak rushes down the tunnel. It is like the throat of a dragon itself, rippled and smoothed by intense flame, flashing with white light at the end. They were too late; the battle has begun. Zathar may already have perished.


    ¡°Get the healing chains ready!¡± he yells back. It is the first time in a century that he has raised his voice. ¡°They need to be out and ready to use as soon as we reach the cavern!¡±


    The tunnel echoes with their footsteps and shakes with the roars of the dragon. It seems to be in pain, but even if this Xomhyrk is winning, that''s no guarantee Zathar is unharmed.


    How long will this sprint last? The tunnel looks short, but that is only because of its incredible width and height, half a mile in diameter. In these boots for defense and stability, running feels like walking. It''s like his feet are encased in lead.


    He must reach Zathar! He must! He will not allow him to die.


    <hr>


    Runethane Broderick lies belly-down on the stone, his eye pressed to a crack through which bright light is flashing. He cannot quite believe what he is seeing.


    <hr>


    Hardrick and the shadow are sprinting through a black tunnel.


    ¡°Almost there!¡± they scream. ¡°Almost there! Almost there!¡±


    They sense their goal¡ªa dwarf in dark armor hurrying through the tunnels in the mountain¡ªand they sense his goal also. A piece of metal, thrown up here from the dragon''s hoard, imbued with runes of complete perfection in form.


    <hr>


    ¡°Where is it?¡± that dwarf whispers.


    He has wound his way through hundreds of broken corridors, searching and searching. He watched the dragon throw it into the air during its first battle, with the ten thousand strong army that fell apart in a matter of minutes. He was sure then, that that glint of gold had been the craft he sought.


    Unlike the rest of the dragon''s hoard, there was still a small well of power within it. It was his craft, stolen from him so long ago¡ªhe is sure of this!


    Yet where, in these winding tunnels, could it be?


    <hr>


    ¡°Death!¡± I yell for the hundredth time, as I stab Gutspiercer once more into the dragon''s back. ¡°Death!¡±


    Xomhyrk''s chain slices out from the darkness and freezes its claws into the dragon''s neck. He comes flying in a second later, ice armor thickening as the chain flows back into it. The dragon rears up and slashes at him.


    It has done so many times so far, each time missing. Its body is pocked with holes from Icemite. Each one bleeds less than the last. Slowly but surely the black beast''s blood is being cooled. That which bubbles up when I strike with Gutspiercer, bubbles up less vigorously than before.


    The claw on its thumb brushes his back. The force makes him tumble. His chain wraps around him. His armor immediately subsumes it before he crashes into its back.


    He stands up, raises Icemite high, point down. It seems to thin and extend as he drives it into the dragon''s flesh. How deep exactly does each of his freezing strikes reach?


    He gives me a single nod of acknowledgement, then is off again. I watch him fly into the darkness. A second later, the dragon brings its maimed head around. I freeze under its emerald gaze.


    I cannot help myself: ¡°Remember me, black dragon?" I scream. "Remember who took that eye?¡±


    It screams back through its broken mouth. Heat washes over me, making it hard to breath. I stab into a nearby scar and its scream loudens.


    Xomhyrk slams into its neck. He drives Icemite deep into where its jugular would be, were it were any normal beast. It roars and swings its head away while swatting at Xomhyrk as if trying to kill a fly. Once again Xomhyrk is too fast and skilled for it. He vanishes, and the dragon claws its own neck.


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    Blood pours from the slashes: yet more wounds to add to the innumerable cuts and stabs that have already been inflicted upon its fiery flesh. It is terribly injured. The Dragonslayers, before they were shaken from its sides, cut deep into its chest and belly. Braztak ruined its jaw. Xomhyrk is cooling its blood stab by stab. Gutspiercer has helped tear open its feet, and my strikes on its back must be causing at least a little pain also, even if they are only a fraction as powerful as Xomhyrk''s.


    And what is more, the many wounds Uthrarzak''s army inflicted on it are reopening from the stress and movement of battle. Scars on the verge of healing are oozing blood. The cleave in its face is beginning to glow again.


    Strike by strike, the black dragon is dying.


    How can this be? I am massive as a hill, strong as an avalanche, and my fire has the heat to burn through mountains. Before me, dwarves are nothing¡ªnothing but the creators of my food. They exist for me to feed upon.


    How have these ones injured me so? How are these few dwarves doing what tens of thousands could not?


    The wounds struck by my earlier victims, which I thought healed, are burning with cold pain. I annihilated those dwarves! I stole their power and made it my own, as it rightfully should be! So why are their axe-strokes beginning to hurt again?


    My jaw hangs broken.


    My blood is going cold.


    Is it truly possible?


    Is this my end?


    I cannot let it be!


    I''m nearly at the dragon''s neck now. The muscles under its shoulders shift as it bats at Xomhyrk coming in for another strike. I ram Gutspiercer into a pale scar just ahead of me. The metal shivers.


    The scar glows white where I strike, then the glow spreads along it in either direction, both back through my feet and forward to the dragon''s neck. There''s a wet cracking sound. Blood erupts out. I yell and step aside, lose my balance and am sliding down the dragon''s scales.


    I twist and dig Gutspiercer in just in time. Now I''m hanging from the dragon''s side just behind its shoulder. The scales are rent here from many strikes. Some hooks wielded by the Dragonslayers are still hanging from ragged breaks in the skin. Blood drips sluggishly from them.


    The dragon is roaring in pain. The noise echoes around the cavern, and the echoes don''t fade and disappear but overlap. The cacophony grows louder and more discordant each passing second. I want to climb back up the dragon''s side, hurt it further, make it scream even louder, but I''m on the underside of its body''s curve, and can''t. I''m hanging off with nothing but fifty feet of air between me and the stone.


    Xomhyrk flies in for another blow. He''s a blur aimed directly at the black dragon''s face.


    The black dragon flails its claws at him.


    And, whether driven by pain, or desperation, or perhaps by pure disbelief and refusal to accept that it could possibly be killed by anything as mean as a single dwarf¡ªthis strike is faster than any yet.


    The dragon''s palm collides with Xomhyrk at full force. There''s a sound like a gong being crushed and Xomhyrk goes flying sideways. His chain snaps with a cyan flash, and icy shards explode from the break.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream.


    The dragon turns and lunges at him. The exertion opens its old wounds further. Hot blood pours over me. I scream in sudden pain and twist Gutspiercer out. I plummet to the ground.


    I collide with a small mound of treasure. Pieces of armor, drained of their runic power, bend and soften my fall, yet the shock of impact is still tremendous. I gasp as pain shoots through my back and left leg.


    Then I''m sliding down. Softened and warped coins are thrown up around me. They spin in the air. Past them I can see the tunnel where the dragon burned its way into the mountain, and it seems to me that there are figures standing on its lip, wearing armor that gleams darkly.


    The dragon lets out another guttural roar and my attention is drawn back to Xomhyrk. He''s clinging to the side of the wall, frozen to it maybe. Icemite is pointing at the dragon, which is storming onward toward him.


    ¡°Move!¡± I yell as I crawl to my feet. ¡°Xomhyrk, get out of the way!¡±


    He remains still. Is he unconscious? Is he dead, his blue armor now just an empty shell?


    The dragon stretches its great neck forward. It cannot bite any longer, so it raises its head as if to use its upper jaw like an axe and cut Xomhyrk from the wall.


    Xomhyrk stretches out his hand, and from his armor leaps another glittering chain of ice. It strikes into the dragon''s eye. It screams and pulls its head back. The momentum tears Xomhyrk off the wall. He''s swinging down like a pendulum, then he begins to shorten the chain¡ªhe''s going right toward the dragon''s face.


    Not its face. Its mouth.


    He vanishes past the teeth. I can''t see him anymore. I run, though he''s too far away now for me to reach him.


    ¡°No!¡± I yell.


    The black dragon roars terribly¡ªbeyond terribly¡ªevery roar it''s let out so far has been terrible, but this one¡ªthere exist no words or runes that could describe its fury. Coins and bits of debris are swept up in a storm and clatter on my armor.


    The black dragon quivers. The strength vanishes from its limbs and they bend, blood fountaining from the wounds in them, and then it hits the stone bodily. Its collapse is like the night-sky falling down to the earth. A tremor ripples out and throws me from my feet. Its head and neck are still up, straining to stay aloft, but then it can no longer maintain even the strength for this. Its neck crashes down like a slain snake. A second later, its head smashes a mosaic of black cracks into the floor.


    I climb out of the broken treasure and run toward it.


    ¡°Xomhyrk!¡± I scream. ¡°Xomhyrk!¡±


    I can''t see him. I sprint alongside the dragon''s twitching body, the limp tail, unmoving claws¡ªcan it be dead? Can it really be dead? It does not seem possible, but the bleeding from its wounds is slowing, and the brightness in its one massive eye is fading.


    The dragon''s jaws, now that its head is resting on the stone, are closed. Xomhyrk must be within. Finally I reach them. It''s like approaching a furnace¡ªwithin is still terrible heat.


    The dragon''s lips curl into a snarl. It struggles to lift up its head a few feet. Its jaw opens slightly. I yell in horror. Within its broken mouth I see Xomhyrk lying in white flames, his ice armor running like water. He''s struggling to stand.


    ¡°Remember me, dragon?¡± I scream. ¡°You fucking lying bastard? Do you?¡±


    Its snarl intensifies. I don''t think it does.


    ¡°It was I who gave you the key. The key. Do you remember that, at least? Who brought you all your power? Me!¡±


    Its eye, scarred from the chain but still functioning, widens. I grin madly¡ªmy face become a rictus of righteous fury.


    ¡°A dwarf gave you your power, and now dwarves take it away!¡±


    I raise Gutspiercer and charge. The black dragon raises its massive head fully off the stone. Its broken jaw falls open and Xomhyrk tumbles out. The black dragon brings its head over me, cleaves down with its upper fangs. White dragonfire falls upon me. My armor becomes hot, burning hot. I scream.


    Xomhyrk reaches out his hand. The last remnants of his armor become one final chain, which lashes out and freezes onto the side of the dragon''s head. The chain shortens and he slams into the scales and drives Icemite deep into its temple.


    The dragon''s head lurches and falls toward me. I leap out the way. It crashes down next to me, one of its fangs shattering apart not a foot distant. I roll, still yelling in pain. The titanium around me has become like a suit of fire. It glows dull red. I struggle with the clasps and tear off my skull-helm.


    I suck in air that''s hot, though not quite burning. My vision becomes blurry for a second, then clears.


    The black dragon''s head lies still. Its eye is half open, yet there is no longer any gleam within.


    Can it really be? I stand there staring, waiting for the gleam to return, expecting some resurgent flare of flame, but the gleam does not return, and the last flames around its mouth flicker and vanish.


    Finally, it is dead.


    The quest is complete.


    We have won.


    We have won!


    But at the cost of all of our number but for me and Xomhyrk. I rush around the dragon''s head to find him, hoping desperately that his injuries are not mortal ones.

 Dragonhunt 71: Upon the Field of Victory

    I sprint around the dragon''s jaw. Xomhyrk is lying on the stone beside its temple. Water is dripping from Icemite, still buried in the monster''s skull. It''s melting. The drips sound to me like the ticking of a clock.


    I rush and stand over him. His armor is all but gone. Only a framework of thin wire remains, the runes on it impossibly small, and many of the strands are broken. His body is red and burned. His legs lie at wrong angles.


    His eyes are closed.


    ¡°Xomhyrk!¡± I yell. I bend over his face. ¡°Xomhyrk, can you hear me?¡±


    His eyelids open a little.


    ¡°Zathar?¡± he says.


    ¡°You''re alive!¡±


    His eyelids close again. He sighs. ¡°Not for much longer.¡±


    ¡°There must be some healing chains somewhere in all this. I''ll find some. Wait!¡±


    I stand to rush away¡ªthere have to be healing chains in someone''s supply pack, at the back of the cavern where we first charged from, at least a few must be undamaged¡ªbut Xomhyrk hisses:


    ¡°Stop, Zathar!¡±


    I turn back to him. ¡°Xomhyrk?¡±


    ¡°I''ve met... Thousands of dwarves in my life.¡± He opens his eyes a little. Even that movement seems like a strain. ¡°Thousands of runeknights. Most... They just care for money, and power... Hah. And even I wanted some treasure... I won''t deny it.¡±


    I kneel back down. His voice is faint, hard to hear.


    ¡°Most runeknights would spend their lives in the forge if they could... They don''t want to risk anything. They want to get stronger, but they have no reason to. They don''t want to use their power... Don''t want to risk death.¡±


    He gasps. The sound is half a death-rattle.


    ¡°I wasn''t sure about this quest, you know. I wasn''t sure about bringing on dwarves from outside the guild. Gollor told me not to. Said we couldn''t trust them... I''m glad he was wrong.¡±


    ¡°Most ran,¡± I say. ¡°Mostly he was right.¡±


    ¡°But enough remained, didn''t they? Your guild especially.¡± He fixes his eyes on me. ¡°I''m glad I met you and Braztak. Two dwarves with power, skill, and utter commitment. Just like me. Real dragonslayers.¡±


    I laugh softly. ¡°It was you and Braztak who did most of the work.¡±


    He shakes his head. ¡°It came close to hitting me a few times... Missed by millimeters. If you hadn''t been there on its back, hurting it, I think... Think it would have hit me sooner.¡±


    ¡°Then I''m glad I could help.¡±


    ¡°You should be more than glad, Zathar. You should be... Be proud. Your runes are not the only thing uncommon about you.¡±


    He shuts his eyes again. His breathing is growing slower.


    ¡°I need to get some healing chains,¡± I say. ¡°You can''t die, Xomhyrk. Not now. Not after your greatest victory.¡±


    He laughs softly. ¡°What better time is there?¡±


    ¡°There are more dragons out there. Maybe some will end up as powerful as the black one. Or more powerful. You can''t die, Xomhyrk!¡± Tears are pouring down my face, cool streams on my red-scorched skin. ¡°You need to keep fighting!¡±


    ¡°Someone else will be needed to end those dragons. You, Zathar.¡±


    ¡°I''m not as strong as you.¡±


    ¡°You will become stronger, Zathar. Zathar Runeforger. Zathar Dragonslayer.¡±


    His eyes close.


    ¡°Xomhyrk!¡± I shout. ¡°Xomhyrk!¡±


    But he moves no more. I sit down heavily beside him and weep. My tears splash onto his armor. It''s melting further, the runes worked into the wire frame vanishing. I hear a clatter behind me and turn¡ªIcemite has fallen from the dragon and broken in two upon the floor.


    ¡°No...¡± I whisper. ¡°No.¡±


    Xomhyrk is dead. Braztak is dead. Guthah and Pellas, the tenth degrees I failed to protect, dead. All of the guild who came on this quest¡ªdead. The Dragonslayers too. Everyone but me, slain by the dragon.


    I stand up. I swallow my sobs. This no time to grieve. I stand in the middle of a ruined mountain, with no supplies, stranded many miles from civilization. I cannot sit around sobbing. If I''m to honor Xomhyrk and the title he has bestowed upon me, I must live. Find my way back to Allabrast somehow, and tell Guildmaster Wharoth what has happened here.


    Then, footsteps.


    I turn. They are from the other side of the dragon. I tense. Could some more of Uthrarzak''s dwarves have survived? Maybe it is Runethane Broderick, hiding out until now to sweep in and take credit for killing the dragon himself.


    But there is something horribly familiar about these footsteps. They are slow and deliberate, and their dull clinks suggest tungsten.


    From around the dragon''s head, he steps. I and the body of Xomhyrk behind me are reflected in a mirror-mask. He is resting a pollaxe upon his right shoulder, its triple-head flecked with blood. The runes on his armor emanate solid power.


    How? How can he be here? Why is he here?


    ¡°I am glad to see you alive,¡± says Runethane Vanerak.


    I can do nothing but stare in horror. Any urge to aggression is utterly suppressed by the presence of his armor.


    ¡°I congratulate you. Your power and skill have grown far greater than I ever expected.¡±


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    I raise Gutspiercer to guard myself. But Vanerak''s pollaxe remains rested on his shoulder.


    ¡°There is no reason for us to fight,¡± he says.


    I step back.


    ¡°Neither is there any reason for you to run.¡± He turns to the side and beckons. ¡°Runeknights, bring them forward.¡±


    I hear further marching. Some footsteps are even, some of them are stumbling, scraping. Eight runeknights in supremely worked tungsten armor emerge from behind the dragon''s head. Five of these pull dwarves with them, whose armor has been stripped. But these prisoners are also wrapped in healing chains of great quality.


    Despite my shock and fear, tears of relief spring into my eyes. Pellas and Guthah are among them. Their skin is burned, but the thin web of silvery healing chains is working to rejuvenate the scorched flesh even as I watch. Though, they do not meet my gaze.


    ¡°We are not enemies, Zathar,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°See? I have saved your comrades.¡±


    I blink a few times. No words of reply come.


    ¡°You do not thank me?¡±


    ¡°I... I thank you, Runethane.¡±


    ¡°We should leave now. There is a chance that some of Uthrarzak''s dwarves fled upward or downward.¡±


    ¡°Leave?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You will leave with me to my newly founded realm, in the far south and depths of Runeking Ulrike''s domains.¡±


    It takes all the mental strength I have left to prevent myself stepping back.


    ¡°Is there something unclear about my order, Zathar?¡±


    I want to ask why he has saved them, but fear that just the simple act of asking the question might result in one of them dying. He is unpredictable.


    ¡°I can see that you are confused.¡±


    ¡°A little,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°Indeed, I could easily take you by force if I so wished¡ªand that option remains. But the truth is, Zathar, that I have grown to respect you since your coming to Allabrast.¡±


    ¡°Respect me?¡±


    ¡°As I said, you have grown in skill far faster than I ever thought possible. Your runes especially¡ªyou well know that I find them fascinating. More than fascinating. They are the path to the future.¡±


    I remain silent.


    ¡°For a while I thought I had dreamt your powers,¡± Vanerak continues. ¡°But the trial confirmed that I had not. It was a sore blow when you defeated Barahtan, yet also a source of great excitement for me. Your final craft and its runes of light, made more powerful and suited to task than any yet, proved to me that you are the future of dwarfkind.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± I can''t think of anything else to say.


    ¡°You are of great importance. Your skills must be developed. I have come to believe that they will develop better in an environment where you are kept safe and content¡ªand free, to a certain extent. So to that end, I wish for you to come with me willingly.¡±


    He gestures to the five survivors.


    ¡°I have saved your comrades in order to prove my honesty. I wish only the best for you, Zathar.¡±


    He is leaving out, I think, the other reason that he has taken them¡ªthey are a hammer held over me. He will kill them one by one if I disobey him. I do not believe for a moment that he has my best interests in mind. Yet I am not about to say this. Instead I bow low. I have no other choice.


    ¡°I understand. I will go with you, my Runethane.¡±


    <hr>


    The dwarf in dark armor searches desperately through the tunnels. Flashes of fire light up distant turns and forks, yet they do not illuminate the glint of gold he searches for. He begins to doubt himself. Why should the black dragon have taken that trinket, one of thousands in its small hoard, and one surpassed in power by many orders of magnitude by the artifacts it has gathered since?


    Perhaps, he thinks, and not for the first time, he ought to give up.


    He stops. The tunnel echoes with the black dragon''s roar of pain. Maybe he really should give up this time. Is the golden axehead really so vital to him? He already knows the runes on it. There''s no great secret about it.


    Or is there? His subsequent crafts, for at least a few years, were not so powerful. There was something special about that axehead, very special. He wants to know exactly what.


    And his ally will be curious as well. Probably. It''s hard to tell what it wants, even when it attempts to speak clearly.


    He hears an echo. It sounds like stones clattering down. There''s not much time¡ªthe mountain is terribly damaged. He rushes down a turn he doesn''t think he''s gone down yet. The half-melted relief on the walls seems vaguely familiar. Shit. He has been down this one before.


    The echo grows louder. He listens more closely. Is it really stones falling? No, no, it''s not. It''s someone running very fast, madly fast. And they''re very near and getting nearer.


    ¡°Shit,¡± he whispers.


    He thinks fast: who could be after him? No one knows he is here. He has barely met another runeknight once in these past two decades. Certainly no one knows of his power.


    The footsteps become more distinct. They are no longer echoes. Zakath looks down the corridor and sees a figure charging at him. The runework on the dwarf''s titanium armor is complex, and his sword, held above his head, looks very sharp indeed.


    Zakath hefts his axe and shouts:


    ¡°Halt!¡±


    The figure ignores him. He''s close enough for Zakath to make out his eyes. They are dark.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°You have what is mine!¡± the dwarf screams. ¡°Return it to me!¡±


    Zakath''s eyes widen. The voice is rough, unpleasant. It''s a miner''s voice, ruined by rock-dust, but that''s not all. There''s a touch of cruelty about it. This is a voice he''s heard before.


    ¡°Hardrick?¡±


    Hardrick swings his sword down in a silver flash. Zakath turns the blow with his axe. The silver blade cuts into the stone wall as if it wasn''t there. Hardrick curves it around and cleaves sideways at him.


    Zakath jumps back. The blade misses his belly-plate by a half inch.


    ¡°Hardrick?¡± he shouts again, in utter disbelief. ¡°Hardrick, is that you?¡±


    The voice is Hardrick''s. Judging by height and length of limb, the body is also Hardrick''s. The eyes, though, are not.


    ¡°Give me back what is mine!¡± screams the dwarf.


    Zakath suddenly realizes what the figure is. He clicks a switch within his glove. There is a flash of magenta.


    Hardrick''s sword cleaves through a perfect sphere of stone. The two halves fall to the ground and crack loudly.


    ¡°No!¡± yells the dwarf. ¡°No, no, no!¡±


    <hr>


    Broderick finally pulls away from the crack in the floor. He sits back, stunned. His dwarves wait for his orders.


    ¡°I cannot believe it,¡± he says. ¡°I cannot fucking believe it.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane?¡± one of his runeknights says nervously. ¡°Should we resume the mining?¡±


    ¡°No, no! Throw down your picks!¡±


    There is a loud clatter as the dwarves obey.


    ¡°I cannot believe it,¡± Broderick repeats. He shakes his head. The broken links at his neck pull at his flesh, but he barely feels the pain. ¡°Do you know what has happened? All of you, can you guess?¡±


    No one answers.


    ¡°The black dragon is dead! Dead!¡±


    The runeknights remain staring at him. Their disbelief is clear to see. Broderick presses his eye to the crack again, suddenly worried that he''s made a mistake¡ªbut no. There''s no mistake. He knows a dead dragon when he sees one. Its skin is already beginning to flake away like ash.


    ¡°It''s dead,¡± he says again as he stands. ¡°We are the luckiest dwarves in history.¡±


    There is a long silence.


    ¡°We don''t have to fight it again?¡± someone is eventually brave enough to say.


    ¡°No. No more fighting.¡±


    One of his first degrees, who watched the battle from his own hole in the floor, says: ¡°That was Vanerak down there at the end. Thanerzak''s best fighter. Maybe his successor.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Looks like he''s a Runethane now. Don''t know why he showed up¡ªwhat all that was about¡ªbut who cares? The black dragon is dead, everyone! Dead!¡±


    No one cheers. They''re too shocked. Broderick shrugs.


    ¡°What is more, we will take the credit. Let''s go down. Grab us some skin before it all turns to ash¡ªit won''t vanish entirely if we hurry it from the corpse fast enough. I don''t know why¡ªthat''s just how dragons are. Convenient!¡±


    ¡°Father!¡±


    There''s a commotion, cursing from the back of the cavern, and Braedle comes rushing through the ranks, shoving aside anyone not fast enough to get out of her way. Rock-dust eddies around her. She stops before her father, panting.


    ¡°Braedle? What is it?¡± Broderick frowns. ¡°Did you find Hardrick?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I found him,¡± she says. Her voice is pained and her face looks very pale. "Or at least... Father, we must talk in private. And quickly."


    She falls to one knee. Blood is running from the rent plates on her back and pooling on the floor behind her.


    "And someone get me some healing chains. Quickly!"


    <hr>


    The last of the dragon''s black scales turn gray and crumble to ash. The last warmth leaves its ruin. Never again shall it burn another dwarf, destroy another kingdom. Its slayers, who lie beside it in death, have succeeded on their final quest, and can now rest peacefully upon the field of their victory.


    All but one, upon whose amulet it is carved that he shall never know peace.


    THE END


    OF A SUCCESSFUL


    DRAGONHUNT

 Beyond the Magma Shore 1: Borehole Lake

    Borehole Lake reveals itself as a shimmer in the snow just like the shimmer you see over distant magma, looking like nothing real. Can we finally be here? Can this terrible harsh journey east across the snow have finally come to an end?


    No, I decide. What I see has to be an illusion. The cold has finally made it through my skull and is freezing my mind. Borehole Lake has to still be many miles march distant, for in this white plain of nothing, nothing ever changes, nothing new ever comes into view.


    A gust of wind howls over us. I duck and grit my teeth hard against a chill that goes through the skin of my face and deep into the front of my skull. The dragon''s final breath of fire killed the runes upon my armor, including those on my helmet that made its front transparent. Now I walk bare-headed, with only my beard to protect my face from the cold.


    And with the dragon gone, the cold has become harsher.


    ¡°Finally!¡± shouts Nazak, one of Vanerak''s favored first degrees. ¡°Food and the underground!¡±


    I look up. The shimmer I thought to be illusion is still there. It''s water, isn''t it? Heated water bubbling up from the underworld just like Vanerak told us there would be. There''s even a slight haze of steam over it.


    ¡°Oh, finally,¡± Guthah whispers behind me. ¡°Finally.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say. ¡°We can have some warmth and decent food. There''s fish in the lake, they said. And places where the stones are hot enough to cook them.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Hopefully. But at the very least we can have a break from marching. A long break.¡±


    He hasn''t taken the journey well. None of my fellow prisoners have¡ªindeed, one perished soon after we left the mountain, succumbing to the shock of cold on his burned skin. They trudge painfully, panting heavily. Their healing chains rattle with each step and need to be tightened every hour or so, to the clear irritation of our guards.


    You''re meant to stay in bed while being treated with chains. That''s common knowledge. But Vanerak does not care about this. He just wants us away from the mountain as fast as possible. Probably his judgement is correct. Yet all the same I still cannot help but hate him for it. Maybe if he''d stepped in sooner¡ªstepped in at all¡ªXomhyrk wouldn''t be dead.


    A flurry of snow turns the world white for a few minutes. Again, I begin to suspect the sighting of the lake to have been a hallucination, but just as I become sure of this, the snow dies away and I spot its warm, inviting shimmer again. We really are nearing the end of this first and, hopefully, hardest leg of our journey.


    Vanerak does not acknowledge the sighting. He marches on in silence. Nothing seems to tire him or perturb him in any way. Not the snow, not the ice, not the cold nor the wind. He barely talks, not even to me. I''d expected him to bring me up to the front and interrogate me about my powers as we marched, but it seems that he''s biding his time.


    Perhaps there wasn''t room in his pack for torture instruments.


    Over the next couple of hours, as we close in on it, the lake''s form becomes clearer. It looks to be about seven or eight hundred yards in diameter, and is a perfect circle, betraying its dwarf-made origin. There''s a line starting from the far shore and ending in the center, where a small platform floats. It glints brightly¡ªmetal. I wonder what it''s for.


    Other than that, and the thin steam hovering over the surface, it''s as featureless as the snowy plain through which we''ve been marching. There''s no trees, no jumping fish, and no obvious tunnels to the underground either.


    ¡°Stay strong,¡± I say to Guthah, Pellas, and the other two prisoners. ¡°We''re nearly there.¡±


    Another half hour of marching and we''re at the shore. There''s no pebbles nor sand, just snow, and the water around the edges is covered by a thin layer of ice. Pale rainbows glimmer on it.


    ¡°Halt,¡± Vanerak orders.


    We halt.


    ¡°Halax, Helzar, Valeek, you are to find us some food below. The rest will wait by the shoreline. Do not stray too close. The lake is wider than it appears, and there are amphidons within. Their meat is, unfortunately, toxic.¡±


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    The three he called on grab some empty sacks and start around the shore while the rest of us sit down. My armor plates grind and screech as I stretch out my weary legs. I start to lie back, then stop myself. If I do, I don''t think I''ll ever be able to get up again. I am just that tired.


    Nazak passes around some crumbly jerky. It''s as hard and cold as ice, but I thank him nevertheless. I have some slushy half-melted snow out my waterskin too. It hurts my tongue and lips.


    I watch as the party of three walks around the lake. Their progress seems very slow to me, like they''re shadows creeping around in the sun, but I can''t really tell¡ªthis exhausting journey has confused my sense of time by about as much as if I''d been in the blackest depths of the underworld. How many days has it been since we left the mountain? A few dozen at least.


    The battle with the black dragon seems like a half-forgotten dream. Did I really run along its back, striking deep into its old wounds, while Xomhyrk darted from every angle and every dark corner to lance deep with Icemite? Did Braztak''s armor really glow like the sun from power brought out by his mortal burning? And did it truly die, its reign of destruction finally ended?


    The events seem unbelievable, like something out of a legend engraved on the wall of a runethane''s palace, not events from my own memory. But my memory cannot be lying, because how else would I have ended up in this company?


    The three runeknights reach the opposite side of the lake and start across the walkway to the center. It shifts and bobs slightly at their passage. I see a hint of dark shapes swarming underneath it. One comes close to the surface.


    A line appears in the water where Halax swept his sword through it¡ªI couldn''t see the movement, his strike was so fast. Blood blooms. The dark shapes scatter and vanish.


    Maybe it was just an amphidon, but¡ªthe power of these dwarves! First and second degrees all, each as strong as Wharoth at least, or maybe stronger. Certainly they are far stronger than me. Even if my plate and Gutspiercer were undamaged I still wouldn''t be able to so much as scratch them.


    The three make it to the center without any further disturbances. They turn and vanish into it. The platform must not be just a piece of metal floating on top of the water, but the start of a shaft leading into the underworld.


    We continue to wait. The prisoners have fallen asleep sitting up; their chains shift in time with their breathing. I look at Pellas. She''s the worst injured out of all, covered in burns from head to foot. It''s a miracle she''s alive, especially considering that she has no armor, but is simply wrapped in furs torn from the remains of others'' broken suits.


    Her fair face is scarred and reddened and pitted in places with black char. Guthah''s face has not fared much better and, worst of all, his beard was burned away. Though new hairs are emerging through the links of the chains around his face, I doubt it''ll ever regrow to be as thick and long as a dwarf''s should be.


    I wonder how my own face and body look. If Vanerak ever deigns to provide me a bath and mirror I get the feeling I''ll discover quite a few new scars.


    The sky becomes crimson, then black. My belly rumbles. I tell Nazak that we need more to eat. He refuses.


    ¡°Please,¡± I beg. ¡°Give us just a bit. A half ration at least.¡±


    ¡°Silence, traitor. You''ll get better food soon enough.¡±


    ¡°If they ever return.¡±


    ¡°Are you doubting my comrades? There''s nothing here nor under here that could harm them. Nothing at all.¡±


    A few minutes later he''s proven correct. A small light appears at the platform, casting three shadows onto the water, which waver in the steam. The runeknights cross the walkway and walk around the lake. They carry armfuls of juicy basket-fungi, and their supply sacks are bulging too.


    ¡°Earlush!¡± says Nazak. ¡°An excellent find. If only we had a still, eh?¡±


    ¡°Distribute one quarter of it,¡± Vanerak orders.


    I get a handful of the stuff and cram it into my mouth gladly. It''s chewy, and juice stinking of the caves runs down my beard. After a month of powdery jerky with all flavor but salt burned from it, the earlush tastes like the greatest steak I''ve ever paid for. A meal fit for a runeking, or at least a runethane.


    Vanerak is eating too, I notice with surprise. He''s lifted his mirror-mask up a little, revealing a mouth and dark gray beard. Both look fairly ordinary. If his mask is covering up any hideous scar or deformity, it must be located further up.


    He finishes his meal and pulls the mirror-mask back down. He turns toward me. He stands up. I flinch.


    ¡°Come here, Zathar,¡± he says, beckoning.


    Quickly I get up and hurry over to him. He leads me off around the lake until we''re well out of earshot of the others. After he stops, I stay silent. I''ve learned from observing the other runeknights that with Vanerak, it''s best to wait until spoken to before speaking.


    ¡°You have fared well,¡± he says. ¡°Especially considering the state of your armor.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Though this is not the harshest journey you''ve undertaken, is it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°After fleeing the black dragon, you wandered the underground for a decade, did you not? Wearing little but rust.¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°Remarkable. Fateful, some may say.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know about that.¡±


    ¡°No. No one knows about fate, if it be real or illusion.¡±


    ¡°I''m worried about the others, my Runethane. Once we pass into the underground, will the rest of our journey be long?¡±


    ¡°Fairly long, but we will be traveling where dwarves are suited to travel. Your comrades will be fine. We will be able to take more rests also.¡±


    ¡°Will it really be safe to rest in a different runeking''s realm?¡±


    ¡°Runeking Talamat is no enemy to Runeking Ulrike. Even if he were, I am here.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°But I have not called you here to talk about our traveling plans. Zathar, I wish to ask some questions about your runes.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 2: A Conversation with Vanerak

    I shiver in the cold. To my left, I can hear the faint splashing of the amphidons. Vanerak is looking at me patiently, waiting for my reply. I can see in the reflection on his mirror-mask that my beard is white with frost and my skin still redly burned.


    ¡°Ask me whatever you wish,¡± I say. ¡°I will do my best to answer.¡±


    ¡°Do your best?¡±


    ¡°I have only just started to use my powers in full, my Runethane. I do not know every detail of them.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    His voice remains cool, but there''s some sharpness to it now. Does he not believe me? I can''t tell any emotion through his mirror-mask. All I can see in it is my own fear.


    ¡°It''s true, my Runethane. I swear it on my life. I have only just begun to realize its potential. There are many aspects of it I am unsure about. Probably there are many aspects that I am not aware of even slightly.¡±


    ¡°I see. Of course. After all, if you were able to use the power of runeforging as the Runeforger could, the black dragon would have been as an insect before you.¡±


    ¡°I believe so, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, I will hear what you do know. Everything that you know.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. I will leave nothing unsaid.¡±


    But I am lying. This power of mine is too great. Cruel Vanerak, this monster with the blood of so many innocents on his hands, and who tried to corrupt the justice of the Runeking himself, cannot gain it. He already has in part, of course, since he has captured me, but if he were to somehow become able to use it for himself...


    The consequences do not bear thinking about. The merest of them would be the death of me and the other prisoners. We would no longer be needed.


    ¡°Then I will begin with a simple question,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°What is the first rune you created?¡±


    ¡°It was similar to the rune for halat in the Jalrat Fourth script, except at the top corner the line extended both ways instead of out to the right only.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I remember. Your guildmaster featured it on his axe.¡±


    ¡°He did?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Now tell me how you made that rune.¡±


    ¡°At the time, I didn''t even realize I had. It just came out that way.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I just thought I was writing halat in Jalrat Fourth. I didn''t know that what I made was new.¡±


    He is silent for a few moments. I swallow. My guts feel like they''ve turned to stone.


    ¡°Is that truly so?¡± he says in a voice now like cold death.


    ¡°Yes!¡± I blurt. ¡°I am not hiding anything from you, my Runethane. At first I didn''t even know I was creating new runes.¡±


    ¡°When did you realize they were different?¡±


    ¡°Wharoth told me. But at first I didn''t believe him.¡±


    ¡°When did you understand that he was telling the truth?¡±


    ¡°I came round to the idea after you started taking an interest in me.¡±


    ¡°And after you accepted that you had this power, how did you learn to control it?¡±


    ¡°I... Through trial and error. Bit by bit.¡±


    ¡°Explain.¡±


    ¡°I discovered that if I allowed my mind to fall into a kind of... I don''t know, a trance? A trance¡ªwhile I shaped the runes, then they would alter.¡±


    ¡°Alter how?¡±


    ¡°A changed line here or there, to make them fit better into the kind of poem I wanted. Sometimes the changes were drastic, sometimes not. I didn''t have much control.¡±


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    ¡°Interesting. Did it feel like something was working through you?¡±


    ¡°Something?¡±


    ¡°A spirit. A demon¡ªthey exist, you know. You may soon face some.¡±


    ¡°I don''t think it was a demon, no. I wasn''t in control, but I don''t think I was being controlled either.¡±


    Am I lying to him here? If so, am I lying on purpose or because I don''t want to admit to myself that maybe I am being controlled? Is something in the sphere, perhaps, controlling me? That''s a thought I''ve only rarely dared to think.


    ¡°I see,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Since then, have you gained control?¡±


    ¡°I have.¡±


    ¡°Explain further.¡±


    ¡°During the trial, when I was forging my shield¡ªthe one with runes of light¡ªI had a vision of being deep in the magma ocean. I drew power from there.¡±


    ¡°Tell me in depth of this vision. From start to finish.¡±


    I hesitate for the briefest moment. Shit! Did he notice that? I cannot tell through his mirror-mask.


    ¡°I suddenly felt myself sinking,¡± I say. ¡°As if the floor turned to lava beneath me. The sinking increased until I was immersed in dull red. The red grew brighter, to orange, then to yellow. I felt hot, as if I was burning, yet I didn''t feel any pain either.¡±


    ¡°You felt as if you were burning, yet also felt no pain?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It''s a contradiction, I know, but I can''t explain it any other way.¡±


    ¡°Did you then move back up through the magma? Or did you sink past it?¡±


    The sphere is key. I cannot make any mention of it.


    ¡°The magma turned white around me and I felt the hottest yet. Then I was back in the arena, and the poems were there in front of me¡ªmy greatest work yet. My hands were bleeding¡ªmaybe you saw.¡±


    Is that truly how it happened? It''s been so long, and it is hard to think properly in front of a dwarf as powerful and cruel as Vanerak.


    ¡°I did see," says Vanerak. "You seemed fully concentrated while you worked, yet you imply you have no memory of creating what you did.¡±


    ¡°At that time I didn''t.¡±


    ¡°It sounds as if you lost control, rather than gained it.¡±


    ¡°I had no control then. After the trial though, whenever it came time to twist my poems, I tried to get back into the magma sea. It was difficult at first, but the more I practiced, the more easily the vision came again.¡±


    ¡°Always the same vision?¡±


    ¡°Yes, exactly the same.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°After seeing the vision, I would be able to improve my poems with a bit more control. For example, on the haft of my weapon here.¡±


    I hold up Gutspiercer. I feel only a faint tremor from it¡ªthe dragon''s hot blood has warped its runes somewhat. To my estimation its power has been lessened by more than half. It''s only a little hard to let go of when Vanerak takes it from me. He turns it around a few times.


    ¡°A fair attempt at a poem,¡± he says. ¡°If a little sparse and short. I see that the runes are mostly Volot script, with alterations, yet the runes on your armor, where I can see them, are of no script I''ve ever learned. Did you make the weapon and armor differently?¡±


    ¡°I made my own script for the armor.¡±


    ¡°A full script?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°When we come to my realm, you will write it down for me.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°How did you make this script?¡±


    ¡°I wanted poems of ice, so I bought some ice and tried to... I can''t explain well. Experience it. Understand it. I touched it, broke it, tasted it, watched it melt. I tried to understand what ice is and I reflected on how its properties could be used in armor.¡±


    ¡°Then you made runes to reflect those properties. How?¡±


    ¡°The shapes just... Appeared to me. Ones that seemed right. Then when it came to turn them into metal, I made myself fall into the magma sea again, and then when I was out, I made the runes, and they worked. They had power.¡±


    ¡°You did not calculate the shapes? What runic flow they would have?¡±


    ¡°No, nothing like that. They just seemed right to me.¡±


    ¡°But you had control over what you wrote this time?¡±


    ¡°Mostly.¡±


    ¡°So there was an aspect you had no control over?¡±


    ¡°When I made my helmet, I didn''t draft the poems and runes first. I just went straight into twisting the metal. That time ended up similar to before¡ªI didn''t have total control over what I was writing.¡±


    ¡°And the result? Was your helmet better or worse than the rest of your armor? It is hard to tell now.¡±


    ¡°It was superior.¡±


    ¡°Would you say that you forge better when you have no control?¡±


    ¡°I... No, I wouldn''t say that. My crafts become dangerous when I do that.¡±


    ¡°Dangerous?¡±


    ¡°When I created my amulet of unaging I was fully unconscious of what I was writing. I am now unable to remove it. Though, I am thankful that it saved my life.¡±


    "It saved your life?"


    "When we battled the humans, I was struck by a wizard''s spell. It stopped my heart. Then my amulet restarted it."


    ¡°A truly potent craft. When did you make it?¡±


    ¡°At the tail-end of my time in the Fort Against the Deep Darkness.¡±


    ¡°So before you had the vision.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I don''t know why it ended up so powerful.¡±


    ¡°It is one of many mysteries that must be unlocked. You will make a copy of your amulet''s runes for me as well.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    "I have one more question tonight for you: what did you discuss with Runeking Ulrike?¡±


    How does he know I had a meeting with him? Was I being watched? Undoubtedly.


    ¡°He asked me about my runes, just like you are doing.¡±


    ¡°What about them in particular?¡±


    ¡°About how I made them. I told him about my vision.¡±


    ¡°What were his thoughts on it?¡±


    ¡°He seemed oddly disinterested. Then he told me that my runes were just alterations, and not true runeforging.¡±


    ¡°He was crafting while he talked to you, was he?¡±


    ¡°Yes. How did you know?¡±


    ¡°If he had focused better, he would never have let you leave the foundry-palace. But he is ever distracted. I imagine his Eyes do not help much with that either.¡±


    Vanerak sounds faintly amused.


    ¡°I suppose you have met him as well,¡± I say.


    ¡°I have. But what we have discussed does not concern you.¡±


    ¡°Of course, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You seem tired. We will finish now.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Over the coming journey, we will have many talks like this. And after the journey too, when my schedule permits it¡ªand I will make room.¡±


    ¡°I''ve told you all I know.¡±


    ¡°You''ve told me all you think you know. But I believe we can come to understand more, if we work together.¡±


    ¡°I am humbled by your attention, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Goodnight now, Zathar Runeforger. Rest well. We have many more hard marches ahead of us.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 3: Insurmountable Strength

    As soon as the sun rises the next morning, we crawl from the covered snow hollows we made to sleep in¡ªthat''s how we''ve been sleeping every night, three to a hole for warmth, and in armor¡ªand make our way around Lake Borehole to the walkway. The metal plates shift unsteadily. There must be runes on the underside that make them lighter than the liquid beneath. Hopefully they''re not too rusted.


    Dark shapes swarm beneath us and the walkway wobbles further. I stop and tense, trying not to slip. If they''re amphidons, they must be fairly large ones, nearly as big as salamanders. I glance back at the other prisoners. They''ve stopped still too.


    Vanerak, ahead of us, lifts his pollaxe and sweeps it into the water. The water around us turns bright crimson. Froth follows shortly, and then black-scaled arms and legs. Slime glistens on their claws.


    ¡°Keep going,¡± he orders.


    We make it to the central platform. It''s a thick pipe, lip raised out the surface of the water by about a foot. A set of spiral stairs lead down it. Vanerak walks down them with no comment and we follow him.


    The walls are brown with rust and smell acidic. There is a thick hot fog in the air. The clank of our steps is loud, but not quite loud enough to drown out the scratching of the amphidons outside. I feel slightly ill. Just the sight of their black scales brought back terrible memories.


    But it''s over, I remind myself. The black dragon is dead.


    The steps continue for some time. I wonder how deep exactly this borehole leads, and what its purpose might be. Maybe it doesn''t have one anymore, and is a long-forgotten craft of long dead dwarves, fated to rust into ruin over the coming millennia.


    I''m not about to ask Vanerak about it, at any rate. Nor any of his runeknights. They hate me, each and every one of them¡ªI can see it in their every glance.


    We come to a vertical crossroads; one pipe leads left and the other right. Vanerak leads us left with no hesitation. A line of slime has pooled at the base of the pipe''s curved floor, which I take care not to tread in. The scratching of the amphidons ceases abruptly¡ªwe must be out of the borehole and into stone now.


    The scraping of our metal boots and our soft breathing are the only sounds there are. No one speaks; there is no friendly chatter, nothing to break up the monotony. No one mutters so much as a single curse at the rancid smell, or the moist heat.


    About an hour later, the pipe splits into two. We go left again and soon emerge into a flattish cavern. We skirt along a ridge of stone then make our way down a rough slope flecked with rust running from pitted and rotten shards of pipe. Vanerak leads us to the cavern''s center, then calls for us to halt.


    ¡°Halax and Helzar, gather more food. The rest can sit down and rest. We will sleep here for a short while, and then our journey proper will begin.¡±


    ¡°Hear that, you four?¡± I say to the other prisoners. ¡°We can finally get some proper sleep, with a roof over our heads.¡±


    But they''ve already slumped down in a huddle and shut their eyes. I look over their faces one by one, again. I truly am worried about them, as I never was before. With my armor destroyed and Gutspiercer''s strength halved, my mind is free to think of more than death and blood, and each day that passes I grow guiltier. I said I''d protect them, then ignored that promise entirely.


    Guthah, Pellas, Yuzak, Urast. The last two were junior dragonslayers. I wonder why they survived while Gollor and the other strong ones did not.


    A wave of disgust hits me. Probably a few more did survive, were also lying injured on the cavern floor, but Vanerak did not choose to save those. He went for weaker looking ones because he knew they''d be easier to control. I''m sure his runeknights have many more lengths of healing chains in their packs. He saved only as many as he judged necessary to put me in his debt.


    I slump down against the rock wall. Oh, shit. I fought so hard in the trial¡ªall for nought, it seems. I cannot sleep. With no cold to occupy my mind, no danger of freezing to death, my thoughts turn to the future. A future under the control of the cruel Vanerak.


    How long will it be until he judges me of no further use, and discards me?


    I have to find some way to escape him. There must be some way to. Has to be. I must escape, and get the other prisoners out too, before we get to his realm.


    I shut my eyes and try to think of how I might slip away. No idea comes to me. I open my eyes to see if any of our guards are distracted, and they are not. They form a tight ring around us, three facing in and three out. A few feet away from them sits Vanerak, staring down the cavern. I get the feeling that behind the mirror-mask his eyes are not closed, that he is wide awake.


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    I''ll get some sleep. An idea will come to me in the morning. There has to be some way to escape. Has to be.


    ¡°Get up!¡± hisses Nazak. ¡°Wake up, all of you!¡±


    Bleary eyed¡ªI can''t have been sleeping for more than half an hour¡ªI stand. Then I hear why he''s woken us. Heavy, lumbering footsteps. Trolls. I stop still and raise Gutspiercer.


    The walls of the cavern are shaking slightly. The noise seems to be coming from one of the far tunnels. It grows louder.


    ¡°It seems that this exit from the surface is not entirely without a guard,¡± says Halax softly. He must have returned while I slept. He spins his sword with such speed that it is a circular blur.


    ¡°The amphidons hardly count, do they?¡± laughs Nazak.


    He and Halax are the only two that speak much in our party. They are Vanerak''s favored, and most powerful.


    ¡°Keep close watch on our guests,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°We do not want them to come to harm.¡±


    ¡°They will not suffer even a single bruise on even the least vital part of their beings,¡± says Halax. ¡°You have my most solemn word on that, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Get behind me,¡± I tell the four other prisoners.


    They shuffle behind.


    ¡°Stay down, traitor!¡± snaps Nazak. ¡°You won''t be needed in this fight.¡± He laughs loud. ¡°And I doubt we will be either.¡±


    Vanerak has stepped forward. His pollaxe is off his shoulder and in position to swing, its axe-edge facing out.


    ¡°Whatever emerges will die,¡± says Nazak. ¡°Watch, traitor! Witness the power of your Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Silence,¡± Vanerak says.


    Nazak shuts up. I listen to the approaching footsteps. They''re extremely heavy, and it also sounds like there''s only one, which is odd for trolls. Maybe it''s not a troll, but something worse.


    There''s a glitter in the furthest tunnel. Something massive emerges. It''s the same shape as a troll, with over-long arms and a hideous too-round head, but its skin is neither the gray of a stone-troll, nor the rusty red of an iron-troll. It is not a lava troll or river troll either.


    Its hide is glistering diamonds. Thousands of them coat every inch of its body. I''ve never seen anything like it. It''s beautiful¡ªa troll, beautiful!


    It crouches down and charges. The light of our lanterns is scattered from its skin into ten thousand dots that spin and dance on the dark cave walls. For a moment I am mesmerized. Vanerak''s runeknights are not. They immediately shift into defensive stances and level their weapons. I shake off my stupor and do the same, for it might well barrel straight through them. It''s faster than any troll I''ve yet seen as well. The cavern thunders with its strides; the walls shake, slime coming down from them like green dribble.


    Vanerak takes a few steps forward. The troll roars at him and its roar is like the breaking of a thousand panes of glass. I wince; Vanerak does not. He waits until the troll is only a dozen feet from him, then slashes down.


    The air shimmers and flexes with runic power. A line opens in the troll''s skin from shoulder to hip. It staggers and slows. Red blood floods out, turning the diamonds of its skin ruby red. Vanerak takes another step forward and thrusts the spearpoint of his weapon into the left side of its chest.


    The troll roars like shattering glass again and sweeps down its left arm. Its claws are edged with diamonds, but when they clash into Vanerak''s armor no sparks fly. Its arm just stops dead. Then, strength spent, the diamond-troll collapses onto its back with a clattering thud. Blood fountains high from the hole in its chest and splashes loudly on the stone.


    Vanerak takes a step back. There is, quite literally, not a single scratch on him.


    I stare at the great troll''s corpse, which is five times the size of a dwarf, and my mouth falls open. I am in awe. Two strikes! Only two strikes to slay such a beast. In my examination for fourth degree, I nearly died to a troll not half as powerful as this one. The gap in our power, I am reminded, is insurmountable.


    ¡°Incredible, my Runethane!¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°A most mighty feat, my Runethane,¡± says Halax.


    ¡°I have heard of diamond trolls,¡± says Vanerak, ¡°though until now have never seen one. An interesting beast.¡±


    Nazak walks up to the corpse and kneels. He takes off his gauntlet and runs his fingers over its skin.


    ¡°Real diamonds.¡±


    ¡°That''s obvious from appearance alone,¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Nazak says hurriedly. ¡°There was never any doubt. It''s just... So many! My gemcutters will be pleased at this opportunity¡ªshould you deign to allow us some of its hide, of course, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Gemcutters? You are a first degree, Nazak. You should not be relying on common dwarves to do your crafting for you.¡±


    ¡°I apologize, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°It is no matter.¡± He looks upon the runeknights for a while, as if considering. ¡°Let it not be said that I am ungenerous. You may each take a strip of skin. Divide it evenly among yourselves. I will take none¡ªI have enough diamonds, and better quality than this.¡±


    ¡°Thank you!¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°You are most generous, my Runethane,¡± says Halax.


    The rest of the runeknights offer their own thanks, and then the carving begins. The glistering hide of the troll is torn redly from its body, exposing muscle and fat. Each runeknight does it expertly, though some do it better than others. Halax is particularly skilled, not leaving a single mark on the flesh beneath, while Nazak cuts right through to bone several times.


    When the cutting is done, Vanerak turns to me and the other prisoners. Or maybe just me¡ªit is impossible to tell who he is looking at.


    ¡°I apologize for my boorishness,¡± he says to us. ¡°As slayers of the black dragon, you each also deserve some reward. It was, after all, a creature that did grievous harm to us from Runethane Thanerzak''s realm. My runeknights, cut a sliver off each of your pieces. Our wounded guests will have two each. And as for our special guest, he shall have the claws of the feet.¡±


    With two clean strokes he severs the troll''s toe-claws. He bundles them like fire-sticks and wraps them in a sheet, then hands them two me, still dripping blood, while the other runeknights give the other four prisoners inch-wide strips of diamond skin.


    ¡°I am very generous to those who deserve it,¡± he says to me as he holds them out. ¡°And can make use of what I give.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane. I am honored.¡±


    The claws'' diamond edges shine in many colors. Halax shoots me a nasty look. The other runeknights likely do too, through their visors. I''m sure they expected Vanerak to give them one apiece also.


    ¡°You seem perturbed,¡± Vanerak says to them. ¡°But remember that Zathar, traitor though he may be, is the key to a glorious future.¡±


    I flinch slightly. Vanerak may believe this, but I don''t know that all his runeknights do.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 4: Cave of Vines

    Our journey through the underground wilds of Runeking Talamak''s realms proves long and arduous. We walk through tunnels wide and narrow, tall and low. We trek through the winding remains of dry rivers, kicking up dry stones, and through spear-straight corridors long abandoned, their walls carved with unknown runes and reliefs of heroes long forgotten. We cross high silver bridges across black chasms and pass under high stalactites that shiver in time with our steps.


    The color and character of the stone changes as we journey. At first it is dark gray, then it lightens, then we come into caverns of smooth white marble which have neither stalactites nor stalagmites, just gentle ripples in the ceiling and along the floor. After these we pass into a realm of green slate and dark lines of coal. The air smells of danger, like at any moment a blast and firestorm could engulf us.


    Vanerak leads us quickly out of these caves. I grow worried that he doesn''t know where he''s going, then hopeful that he doesn''t. The further lost we grow, the greater my chances, I start to think, that I can escape.


    But my guards are no fools. There is not a single moment when less than three of them are looking upon me. I can hardly blame them for their vigilance¡ªif I were to escape, those responsible for watching me at that moment would suffer painful deaths indeed.


    The cavern beasts leave us alone for the most part. When one does attack¡ªsalamander, dwarf-eating boar, monstrous bat¡ªVanerak dispatches it with ease, and on the next rest we feast on meat, a welcome break from fungus and vile crunchy wall-insects.


    We come into a series of long halls of black stone. The walls are rent with jags and splinters, and the air becomes very warm. I recognize this kind of stone: we must be above the magma seas.


    My mind wanders to my journey down to the fort. I saw the magma seas then, didn''t I? And in them a boat of metal. What was it, exactly? Truly a Runegod? Will I see it again? Where, exactly, does Vanerak''s realm lie? He said deep, but how deep, exactly?


    A couple weeks of exhausted, sweaty travel through the black tunnels, we begin to move up again. The stone turns yellowish from deposits of sulfur. When we come to a defensible position, a small dead-end, Vanerak speaks to us:


    ¡°So far we have been able to avoid meeting any other dwarves. But we now approach the border, Yalast''s Gap and its Hundred-two Bridges. It is heavily guarded. Though Runeking Talamat is neutral to us, his dwarves will not take kindly to our unpermitted presence in his realm.¡±


    Nazak is nodding and patting the handle of his axe.


    ¡°Any confrontation, however, risks inflaming tensions. Especially considering my presence, the presence of a runethane. We will not be able to move through the main gap.¡±


    In that case there is only one way we are going. Fear takes hold of me.


    ¡°Instead we must make our way through the underburrow.¡±


    Nazak stops patting his axe. Halax''s eyes widen slightly.


    ¡°It is a dangerous place indeed. Yet it should not prove an insurmountable barrier.¡±


    The underburrow. I have read of this place, and it is no place for any dwarf, no matter how well-armored.


    Runeking Talamat''s kingdom is somewhat smaller than both the kingdoms of Ulrike and Uthrarzak, however it has resisted conquest, and indeed kept its boundaries more or less the same for over a thousand years, due to its favorable location. Between it and its neighboring kingdoms are masses of nigh-unmineable stone, and where caverns do link them, they are caverns overrun with beasts from nightmare.


    Black and oily slinkers live there. So do salamanders of every description and some undescribed, and hordes of trolls and troglodytes. There are even rumors of clans of deep elves.


    The underburrow is one of these caverns, and while it is not the most dangerous, it is also by no means the least.


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    ¡°We will not be in it for very long,¡± Vanerak assures us. ¡°And the part we will pass through is well-mapped. The only real threat to us will be river trolls, which I have heard strange rumors about. They are spreading fast through the wetter parts of the underworld. Slinkers may also cause trouble, but they are rare.¡±


    I sleep uneasily this rest. Slinkers... I''d hoped never to meet one. It would be an ignoble end to face after victory against the black dragon. And I hope we don''t meet any river trolls either. I still consider them my allies¡ªthough maybe these down here are unaffiliated with Dwatrall¡ªnonetheless I do not wish to see Vanerak slay any.


    <hr>


    I wake from the point of Helzar''s boot jabbing me hard under the ribs between two broken armor plates.


    ¡°Get up, traitor!¡± she snarls, her voice a rasp. ¡°We have a long fight ahead of us today.¡±


    I hurry to stand.


    ¡°Not that you''ll be fighting, traitor. That''ll be done by us, to protect you. I hope you''re grateful.¡±


    ¡°I am most grateful.¡±


    ¡°You don''t sound it, traitor. Hurry and get forward!¡±


    Out of all Vanerak''s runeknights, she is the one that hates me the most. The way she enunciates traitor makes me fear for my life.


    The march starts as any other. We exit the chamber and traverse another long, yellow-streaked tunnel. It grows thin until we are forced to edge along sideways. Then the roof becomes low and we are forced to duck. The smell is that of rotten things, and as we progress the walls grow damper, until they become covered in stinking slime. White insects scatter at our approach. I wonder how many centuries it has been since they last saw light, shining out from two dim lamps. Halax, scouting slightly ahead of us, holds one, while Nazak, the rearguard, takes the other.


    Our footsteps start to sound hollow. I trace a finger along the wall. My titanium scratches the stone easily through the slime. It''s covered in small pits and hollows. A translucent centipede crawls out one of these suddenly, making me jump.


    Mudstone. Without me realizing it, we''re suddenly in mudstone¡ªstone that can barely be called such, compressed detritus. My unease, which I thought was at its nadir already, grows even deeper. Caves like these are very prone to collapse.


    I walk past a patch of darkness, a hollow. For the briefest second the urge to flee down it comes over me, but who knows where it leads? To a dead-end, or worse. And if I was recaptured I would likely see one of the hostages killed in front of me.


    ¡°Halt,¡± Vanerak says quietly.


    We do so. I peer past the runeknights before me and see that we''ve come to a fork. One way is wide, and leads upward. The other is narrower. It''s jagged and cracked, and stones scattered across the floor toward us suggest that someone, or something, once forced their way through from the caves beyond. Predator, or prey? Whatever it was, the stones are a bad omen.


    Vanerak thinks for quite a while. Maybe this part wasn''t on whatever map he''s memorized. Eventually he says:


    ¡°We go down. Weapons ready.¡±


    His runeknights raise their swords, axes, pollaxes, shields. I raise Gutspiercer. No one has tried to take it off me yet¡ªI am that little a threat to them. Likely I''m little threat to whatever beasts we''re about to face below too.


    ¡°Forward,¡± Vanerak orders.


    Down we go. The tunnel is coated with slime, and I can hear the rushing of water somewhere nearby. The smell is no longer that of sulfur, but of decayed things, and the moist air is hot. I feel something in my beard and tear out a winged thing with too many legs, dash it against the wall.


    Something crunches underfoot. I look down and immediately wish I hadn''t. It''s a bone, and unmistakably dwarf. Maybe the friend of whoever broke their way out this passage.


    ¡°You all right?¡± I say to Guthah behind me.


    ¡°Fine,¡± he whispers.


    ¡°You sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Just keep your pickaxe up.¡±


    ¡°I will. Don''t you worry.¡±


    The passage levels out, then opens into a cavern. It''s flattish and looks to be huge, but we cannot see far past the vines hanging from the ceiling. The rushing sound is coming from past them. There must be a river to the side of us, channeling the cave deeper with its constant frothing passage.


    The ground is very soft, and more vines lay coiled upon it.


    ¡°We will journey downriver until we find a crossing-point,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°We are in luck¡ªthis should be a shortcut. Keep your eyes all around you, however. There are bound to be slinkers here. This is their favored terrain.¡±


    It is not my favored terrain. My boots keep on sinking into the earth, and every fifteen minutes or so a vine will coil around my ankle like a snake. They tighten almost as if they are snakes, and I have to work hard to free myself each time.


    Runeknights with slashing weapons move to the front to chop through the vines hanging from the ceiling. The sap smells slightly bloody, and sometimes I think I can hear a peculiar keening sound when one is cut.


    I also get the feeling I am being watched. An eye through the vines to the left meets with mine. It looks slightly trollish. But it vanishes as soon as it appears.


    For a long while we march in this fashion, yet I do not think we march far. Our pace must be less than half of what it was through more solid tunnels and, after only a few hours Vanerak has no choice but to call a halt. Everyone is plainly exhausted. We move up to the cavern wall and dig out rations.


    But as soon as I sit down and bring my waterskin to my algae-smeared mouth, Halax cries out:


    ¡°Slinker!¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 5: The Deadly Slinker

    I leap to my feet. I can neither see nor hear the slinker, but I fancy that I can feel its presence. There is the sense of something slimy here, something primal, ancient, only vaguely alive. The vines are rocking just a touch.


    ¡°All of you but Halax and I, back,¡± Vanerak orders. ¡°Huddle together, prisoners against the wall.¡±


    I press up against the vine-covered stone. Nazak pulls me away from it. ¡°Not right up against it!¡± he snarls. ¡°Don''t you know what a slinker is?¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± I say.


    ¡°Not well enough!¡±


    He holds his lantern high and peers at the ceiling, then the floor, the walls, all around. I see no hint of black. It must still be ahead of us, poking around to find a weak-point in our defenses. Or maybe it''s already underfoot.


    ¡°There!¡± cries Halax. He points with his sword. ¡°That blackness!¡±


    I see it¡ªand it''s as horrid as anything I saw in the caverns above the fort: a black mass of slime and long conical teeth five feet in diameter. Lengthy arms wriggle around it, tipped with claws that do not look too different from its teeth. Many eyes, white circles with small dots of black, like frogspawn, stare at us.


    One of the arms lashes up at Halax. His sword flashes through the moist air, but I can''t tell if it cuts or not. Another arm grabs at his foot and he leaps back. Yet another arm bursts up from a coil of vines below him. He slashes and this time his sword goes through, but slinkers feel even less pain than trolls do. Both halves of its cloven arm continue at him. They latch on.


    Vanerak slashes. Runic force slams into Halax''s legs. Sparks illuminate the glistening blackness and Halax is sent rolling back, shouting in shock.


    Now the slinker darts at Vanerak, squeezing its body forward incredibly fast. There''s a wet slicking sound Three arms strike simultaneously. Vanerak jabs the point of his weapon into the ground between his feet and vaults backward.


    He knows that the touch of a slinker means death. No matter how well-forged your plate, it will find a gap to squeeze its black flesh into, and then it will tear you apart with those white claws and teeth from the inside out. A full chainmail body-hauberk might offer some protection, but it would have to be of very fine links indeed, and strongly enruned too. A slinker can crush as well as tear.


    One of the runeknights steps out the semi-circle and strikes with his long axe. He buries the head right in its center. A tremor shivers through the monster for an instant, before an unseen arm springs up and wraps around the axe''s haft. The slinker pulls, and the runeknight makes the mistake of not letting go. He tries to wrest his weapon back and slips on the slimy ground.


    Another arm wraps around his leg. I watch in horror as it vanishes into the knee joint. An instant later he begins screaming.


    Vanerak raises his pollaxe. For a moment I think he''s going to strike the runeknight, put an end to his pain, yet he has no such mercy. He takes advantage of the slinker''s distraction and plants a hammer-blow onto its main body. Its arms convulse, but again, only for a moment. It strikes back almost immediately and this time latches onto him¡ªNazak jumps forward and severs the arm before it can find a crevice.


    The runeknight with the axe stops screaming. Blood is running out his visor and every gap in his armor, coating the vines beneath him. What he looks like under the tungsten I don''t dare to imagine.


    Vanerak sinks a stab into the nearest arm. It looks to me like it does nothing, but then the slinker abruptly pulls away and vanishes into coil of vines. I catch a glimpse of blackness as it darts past Halax, who''s hurrying back toward us. He turns as if to give chase.


    ¡°Stop,¡± Vanerak orders. ¡°Come back, Halax. It would like to lure us.¡±


    He bows when he gets to us. ¡°I apologize for my recklessness.¡±


    ¡°Accepted. And thank you, Nazak. It was about to do me a nasty injury.¡±


    ¡°You are most welcome.¡± For once he sounds solemn. Then he turns angry: ¡°Cowardly beast! Killing then fleeing. I''ll have its hide.¡±


    ¡°It is not cowardly. It is a beast¡ªit does what is in its nature.¡±


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    ¡°Of course, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Do not lose your temper at it. It preys on the reckless. Murak should have known better.¡±


    ¡°Very true, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°We will rest for one short-hour here. Half will sleep and half watch. I think we hurt it slightly, but in return it got its fill. It may judge us worth attacking again. I will devise a plan to slay it.¡±


    "And how should we bury Murak?" asks Halax.


    "He was a strong runeknight, even if he did prove a fool in his final moment. We will throw him into the river later. May the waters carry his remains far below."


    "And may his armor protect them from the carrion-beasts."


    "Let his death be a reminder to you all: just one moment''s lapse can result in an eternity of pain."


    "Yes, my Runethane," chorus the seven runeknights.


    I sink down to my haunches, very tense. Rest? How can I rest with a slinker about? I turn to face the wall. I can barely see the stone for the vines hanging down it¡ªfrom behind them the beast could emerge at any moment. I would have no time to react. Black slime inside my armor, terrible pain, then death. It would take only a few instants, yet that would still be too long a time to experience such horror.


    ¡°What in hell?¡± Pellas whispers. ¡°Oh, what in hell?¡±


    ¡°Worse than the fucking dragon,¡± whispers one of the two dragonslayers.


    ¡°Silence!¡± Helzar rasps. ¡°Do you want to attract it to you?¡±


    They shut up. I stare at the vines for as long as I can until my eyelids begin to grow heavy. Before I know it, Helzar is jabbing me with her boot once more.


    ¡°Up!¡±


    We eat quickly then continue downriver. The humid heat intensifies until I no longer feel like I''m breathing air, but hot fog. The vines like this atmosphere¡ªthey get thicker and tangle around us more often. Everything''s slippery too.


    Our pace slows to a crawl. Vanerak raises his pollaxe and slices horizontally. Runic force cleaves through the vines, severing them. I hear a faint screaming. He swings two more times, turning the wormish lengths into chunks for us to wade through. My dull titanium becomes smeared with orange sap-blood. Its stink is strong.


    ¡°Hurry the pace,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°We have drawn attention to ourselves, out of necessity.¡±


    The severed vines make sloppy sounds as we wade through them. More seem to descend from the ceiling to stay our progress. Vanerak slashes them asunder as well. The ground becomes flooded with their sap-blood. The icy power may be gone from my boots, but I''m sliding all the same.


    Where the hell is this crossing point he mentioned? We can only see glimpses of the river we walk alongside, and it is in a deep crevasse. There is no place to ford, and no convenient bridges of stone that lead across it either, and it is far too wide to consider jumping. And certainly I would not trust these vines enough to make a rope-bridge from them.


    Maybe this isn''t the river he thought it was, and there is no crossing point. We will wander until we reach some kind of dead-end, then we will have to make our way all the way back.


    When he calls our next halt, my legs are shaking with fatigue. I sink down to the ground, desperate for some kind of rest. Rune-dead armor is heavy. The other prisoners, though their wounds are mostly healed by now, sound even closer to collapse.


    ¡°My Runethane!¡± says Nazak. He sounds very nervous. ¡°I do not wish to question your judgement, but I don''t think this is a good spot to camp. Nor time. I think the slinker is still on us.¡±


    ¡°Our guests are tired,¡± Vanerak says.


    ¡°Then maybe we should carry them. We need to get out of here.¡±


    ¡°We shall get out of here eventually.¡±


    ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°Have patience, and don''t try mine.¡±


    ¡°I apologize, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°We stop here precisely because this is such a poor spot. It is here that the slinker is most likely to attack us.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± rasps Helzar. ¡°The prisoners are to be bait.¡±


    ¡°The slinker makes no distinction between us and them. To it, flesh is flesh, whether that flesh be behind first degree armor or tenth. We are all bait.¡±


    ¡°Poisoned bait.¡±


    ¡°Yes. When it comes we will abandon all pretense to defense and attack it, from all angles. Let it latch onto your armor. We will kill it before it can find a hold. This is my gamble. Form up around the prisoners.¡±


    They surround us facing outward. I struggle to hold up Gutspiercer. The slinker''s body is soft, so if it gets through, even my damaged weapon might be able to do some kind of damage.


    My ruby heats up for the first time in more than a month.


    ¡°There!¡± says Halax. ¡°To the river-side. It''s coming around us. Thinks we can''t see it.¡±


    I can''t see it. No one but Halax can, I think. At the edges of his helm, just beside the corners of his eyes, are two gems, heavily enruned. I think they enhance his vision to an extreme degree.


    He turns his head left, then right, then left again. He spins around to follow.


    ¡°Now!¡± he says. ¡°Coming in! From behind!¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± orders Vanerak. ¡°Let it come in for the kill, Nazak.¡±


    Nazak readies his axe and buckler.


    ¡°Now!¡± says Halax, at the same moment two white-tipped arms stretch out of the blackness to wrap around Nazak''s shield hand.


    He yells out and strikes fast, severing one. The other wraps around the back of his shield and clutches to his gauntlet. The two runeknights flanking him leap and strike at its main body. The rest rush around. Nazak screams, but does not pull back. He strides forward, kneels and chops heavily into the slinker''s main body.


    Vanerak and Halax rush past me and stab with their own weapons. The air shivers with runic force. The black mass of the slinker trembles. Its primitive eyes blink open and shut. Sharp metal impales them, cleaves them, crushes them. Its wriggling limbs fall still. The one around Nazak''s gauntlet falls away. Blood pours out.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Nazak screams, scrabbling at the clasps on his armor. ¡°Healing chains, hurry!¡±


    One of the others helps him pull the gauntlet off. Beneath, the skin is torn to shreds. Halax appears with some thin lengths of silver chain and wraps them tightly and expertly around the wound. The blood congeals on them like jelly.


    ¡°My thanks,¡± Nazak says through gritted teeth. ¡°Though you were a little late with your warning, don''t you think?¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± says Halax.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 6: Further Interrogations

    We are fortunate not to meet any more slinkers. Vanerak was right about them being rare. It seems that was the only one in this part of the cave, lurking by the entrance in wait for any juicy travelers.


    That''s not to say the next five long marches are easy. Two times packs of amphidons attack us, of the biggest specimens I have ever seen. They are driven off, though one of the second degree runeknights is wounded. Poison snakes strike at us from within the vines. Sometimes their venom drips through gaps in armor and causes burning pain, though thankfully nothing more than that.


    Our final foe before the crossing point is a copper crab the size of an ore-wagon-pulling blindboar. Vanerak and his runeknights do put it down, though not without damage to their armor; even Vanerak gets a single scratch.


    All while they fight, I can do nothing but watch. My ruby burns with the desire to do battle, yet what can I do to assist these masters of forging and fighting? The weakest, even in his damaged armor, is twice my power, even were my equipment newly repaired.


    The crossing-point is nothing as convenient as a bridge, just a section of the river where the banks aren''t cliffs and the water calm enough to wade through. The water is clear, too. The amphidons see our blades and decide we''re not worth attacking.


    We continue to head downward, but this time Vanerak is keeping a close eye on the wall for openings. Each time we come to one, he sends Halax paired with one other down to quickly scout. The first ten Halax reports back as being danker than here, likely leading to further rivers and vine-jungles. The eleventh, however, he says leads to a drier tunnel of black stone.


    ¡°Let us see where that tunnel leads,¡± says Vanerak.


    It twists and turns, and all the while leads downward. Could we have hit the mark¡ªcould we finally be leaving this place? Surely it is too good to be true, but a few long marches later and Vanerak is confident enough to announce that we are out of the underburrow.


    ¡°We have come into the realm of Runethane Irik. Finally we have returned to our kingdom.¡±


    Finally indeed. Every fiber of my legs aches, my head is throbbing, my nose is running and I feel sick. In the right environment, and under the right stress, disease can affect even the toughest runeknights with the most powerful amulets of unaging. The other prisoners look even worse than I feel¡ªthe two dragonslayers are being held up by two runeknights, and Pellas and Guthah are slumped against the wall.


    Still, though, we are out. So the underburrow is not so impassable after all¡ªjust so long as you have half a dozen first degrees and a runethane with you. Why post guards when you have slinkers to do their job for free, and far more effectively? I would not like to fight a war there. No wonder our relations with Runeking Talamak are kept neutral. Any army that had to go through here would emerge at one tenth strength, if that.


    ¡°We will find a caravanway,¡± Vanerak continues. ¡°Until then, do not let your guard down. These are still wild and dangerous caverns. I can smell the stench of salamander.¡±


    Salamanders! They hold no fear for me after the slinker. I lie down on the warm rock and shut my eyes. For a few seconds, I bask in relief¡ªthen I remember who I am with.


    Vanerak is crueler and more dangerous than any slinker. He is crueler and more cunning even than the dragon.


    And he has me in his grasp. At every break in the march from this point on he takes me out of earshot and interrogates me about my runes. His questions become more detailed, more pointed, and he does not abide vagueness. He asks after every last aspect of my runeforging:


    ¡°Describe every sensation you felt when you walked into the snow.¡±


    ¡°Tell me why you formed sazk in this shape.¡±


    ¡°Did your fingers heal more slowly or more quickly after they bled during the trial?¡±


    ¡°Describe in more detail what you felt while sinking through the magma.¡±


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    ¡°Did you see or feel anything through the magma?¡±


    I answer his questions as best I can, but he is never satisfied. Unlike the first time he questioned me, which took all of ten minutes, his interrogation sessions on this final leg of the march last an hour at a time at least, and each is an hour of intense discomfort¡ªto talk into your own distorted reflection while seeing nothing of the face of your interrogator is unpleasant beyond words.


    We march onward through the tunnels of dark stone. We''re back down to the layer above the magma seas, I think. The dry heat provides evidence for this, and red glows through occasional cracks in the walls, and now and again our path will be blocked by a crevasse with a river of molten stone flowing at its base.


    Many tunnels we are forced to abandon because the air becomes unbreathable. Down this deep, in an untamed part of the underworld, ventilation shafts, natural or dwarf-constructed, are rare. Toxic gas fumes up in certain tunnels too, and more than once we are forced to flee a roiling cloud of sulfur and smoke.


    All the same, Vanerak does not seem so hurried. We are in friendly territory now. Eventually we meet some of Runethane Irik''s dwarves¡ªsalamander hunters in fire-resistant armor wielding long spears. They tell us where the nearest caravanner run is, and we reach it in only a couple of long-hours.


    It''s different to the caravan road down to the fort was. Maybe because it''s less well-traveled, for only salamander hunters have any reason to come to these particular caves, the stone is rough and broken, and it twists and turns only slightly less sharply than regular caverns do. Nevertheless, there is a station, a hollow with a trickle of water bubbling out a crack in the wall, in which we make our final rest.


    Vanerak interrogates me for longer this time. After many questions about the exact runes I used on my armor and weapon, and on my shield of light also, he moves on to the topic I like discussing the least:


    ¡°Describe to me again how it felt as you sunk into the magma sea.¡±


    ¡°I felt a warmth around me, and saw a red glow¡ª¡±


    ¡°The magma sea glows orange and yellow, not red. You cannot sink through rocks at only red heat.¡±


    ¡°That''s what I saw.¡±


    Is it, though? We''ve been over this so many times that I''m beginning to doubt my own memory. Maybe there was no red.


    ¡°Where did you first feel the heat?¡±


    ¡°Around my feet.¡±


    ¡°How hot was it, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Just warm. Like warm water, like a bath.¡±


    ¡°A lot cooler than real magma would feel.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I suppose so.¡±


    ¡°Why do you suppose there was no pain of burning?¡±


    ¡°I... I don''t know. I wouldn''t hazard to guess.¡±


    ¡°Do you think it was simply a vision, or do you think some part of you was transported to the magma seas?¡±


    ¡°I''m not sure.¡±


    ¡°Think hard.¡±


    I bow my head from his unnerving mask and look at the black rock of the ground. It''s rough, a jagged roughness, like glass shattered and remelted with only a medium heat. There are reddish streaks through it of some mineral I do not know the name of. The stone is warm. If I didn''t have boots on, it would be too hot to walk on. Beads of sweat drip from my beard and wet it.


    I look back up.


    ¡°I think it was simply a vision,¡± I lie. ¡°I don''t think any part of me really went to the magma seas.¡±


    ¡°Is that what you truly think? Or are you just repeating what Runeking Ulrike told you?¡±


    ¡°He never told me it was just a vision.¡±


    ¡°You said that he told you it was just symbolic.¡±


    Did I? He told me the sphere was just symbolic. A few rests ago, maybe I told Vanerak, falsely, that he said my journey into the magma was symbolic. My mind is addled from heat and fumes¡ªI can''t quite remember.


    I think quickly. ¡°Yes," I say, "But he didn''t say that it wasn''t real either. A symbol can be real, can''t it? Like a rune.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. But whether your journey was symbolic or real is of importance.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°You do not see how important.¡±


    ¡°It appears not, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°The power of runes is the power of the molten world beneath bound into shape and meaning. You told me Xomhyrk instructed you of this, and I and all senior runeknights would agree.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°So if part of you went down into the magma sea, it would imply that you took some power from there, and brought it into the forge. Do you follow?¡±


    ¡°I think so, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Whereas if it was a mere vision, your power came from somewhere else. Within you.¡±


    I wonder if his mind is turning to thoughts of cutting me open to see exactly where within me the power might be.


    ¡°Perhaps that is the case, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°But in such a case, I do not see why you should feel as if you were sinking downward. You would sink inward.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I really don''t know.¡±


    ¡°Not yet. But we will find out. My realm lies very close to the magma seas.¡±


    ¡°So I have heard.¡±


    ¡°It lies closer than those in Allabrast know. Only a few miles from my nascent palace is the shore. A dangerous place to colonize, yet there are signs of riches washed up there.¡±


    ¡°You mean to say the magma is metal-rich?¡±


    ¡°No. Riches beyond metal. Knowledge¡ªthat is the purpose of founding the realm there. Lost knowledge. Runeking Ulrike believes there to be a great deal of it in the caverns we are conquering. You will soon learn more.¡±


    ¡°I would be honored to, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Go and rest now, Zathar. And think on your vision, or journey. It is key.¡±


    Just one short-hour later, a caravan stops by. Vanerak pays the caravanner to turn back and transport us to his realm, and several long-hours'' rumbling journey later, we arrive in his realm.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 7: The Engraved Road

    The caravan slows and stops. I wait, tense, wondering what kind of realm Vanerak has carved out for himself. I somehow doubt it will have any place like the glittering pillars of Allabrast, overflowing with drink and music; I can only hope it is a little brighter than the dark passages of the fortress, and I fervently desire it to be a little less war-torn than the dueling realms of Runethanes Thanerzak and Broderick, for I am sick of death and destruction.


    It has a character like none of these. Each realm I have resided in until now was an old place, inhabited for centuries at the least, a dozen millennia at the most.


    After a short walk from the caravan station¡ªwhich is itself newly carved out¡ªwe emerge into a city in the throes of mining and masonry. Miners are hacking apart walls of stalagmites, throwing down shards and spilling choking dust into the air; the light of torches glares through the gray clouds. Short-beard masons sand and smooth the floors, while their seniors carve into the walls reliefs depicting great battles and beast-slayings. The city is being extended past this place too¡ªat the far side is a wide tunnel, from which I can hear the loud rumble of picks striking stone. The whole cavern is shaking slightly from this, and all the other numerous activities. There is also an occasional cry of pain. Runeknight overseers watch over the work of their lessers. In their hands are whips.


    One of them, overseeing the demolition of a row of black hexagonal pillars, spots us standing in the dust and shouts for his miners to cease work and prostrate themselves. One is too slow, and catches a lash across his back. Further screamed orders and the cracks of whips cross the cavern as the overseers of other groups notice our arrival. Once all the commoners are on their knees, bowing their heads to the floor, the overseers and guards yell out in greeting:


    ¡°All hail Runethane Vanerak! All hail guildmaster of the Reconquerors!¡±


    ¡°All hail!¡± scream the commoners. ¡°All hail the Runethane!¡±


    Vanerak gives the slightest nod to acknowledge them. The cracks of many whips echo once again, and the miners return to their frantic work. The masons get back to sanding and carving, though they are fortunate enough to enjoy the privilege of not being struck.


    ¡°Halax,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You are to go ahead and inform my stewards that there is to be a grand meeting held in two short-hours. Let it be known that I have two pieces of very great news to share. All runeknights of the Reconquerors, and all runeknights of other guilds also must attend, bar those on guard duty.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. Your wish shall be carried out with utmost haste.¡±


    He rushes away and we continue our journey.


    This first cavern, a full hundred meters or so in length and half that in width, proves to be but the merest of those we pass through. The next is a curve two hundred meters in length, with chambers at the sides being hollowed out for dwelling-holes. The doorways are thin and close together¡ªaccommodation for the lower commoners. We pass tall scaffolds also, which reach into the ceiling. Rock chips rain down from these upward-growing ventilation shafts. On the floor, masons are carving a pattern of interlocking dragons.


    The next space is a vast natural cavern, nearly a mile in diameter to my eyes. Its roof is high and marred with many slim holes where bats have made their nests. The stains of their blood discolor the dark rock. Some houses of stone blocks are being built up, but there''s less activity than I would expect for such a grand place, and there are many runeknights here. Clearly some of the holes above are still inhabited.


    Vanerak stops to speak to one of the senior runeknights:


    ¡°Why have the beasts not yet been exterminated?¡±


    The runeknight, a third degree by the looks of him, bows very low. ¡°My Runethane! I apologize most profusely.¡±


    ¡°Did I not say that they were to be cleared by the time I returned?¡±


    ¡°You did, my Runethane, you did. But the smaller dranag have proven elusive, and they are the most deadly, with the more potent venom.¡±


    ¡°How have you been hunting them?¡±


    ¡°We have been trying to smoke them out. To no avail.¡±


    ¡°To no avail indeed. Dranak inhabit more noxious caves than this one. Equip yourselves in fine chain and climb into their burrows.¡±


    The runeknight pauses for a second, as if he''s about to remark on the extreme danger of such an undertaking, but thinks better of it.


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    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. We will begin work at once.¡±


    The next two caves we pass through are similar to the previous, long tunnels with cramped doorways lining the walls. The one after these is the same, except the doorways have doors in them, of copper sheets with an impression of salamanders beaten in. Masons are detailing the stone between the doorways with simple geometric figures.


    Vanerak addresses the old dwarf in charge of this effort:


    ¡°Mason. What are your short-beards doing?¡±


    ¡°My Runethane! I did not expect you back so early. We are overjoyed to see you!¡±


    ¡°Answer my question.¡±


    ¡°We are, as you may see if you be so inclined as to look upon our meager work, detailing the stone with reliefs of decahedrons, and concave-edged diamonds.¡±


    ¡°The floor should be a greater priority.¡±


    ¡°I thought to give the shortbeards some practice before letting them undergo that more impressive carving you have asked for.¡±


    ¡°If you wish your shortbeards to have practice, they may practice on the caverns west and east and above of here. This is a throughfare from the caravan station. Its carvings must impress.¡±


    ¡°Cease work!¡± the mason screams at his apprentices. ¡°I apologize most profusely, my Runethane!¡± He has gone white in the face.


    ¡°Apology accepted, barely. Do not make a similar mistake again, or I will be most displeased.¡±


    The mason''s face goes even whiter, then we move on. I glance back when we''re at the exit to the hall, and see that he''s leaning back against the stones breathing heavily, with a stupefied look on his face.


    The next cave is another one for accommodation, although, judging from the spacing and size of the doors, one for slightly better-off dwarves¡ªlower degree runeknights and higher class commoners. The one after that is a thin corridor which bends at sharp angles. There are small enclaves in the sides where guards could stand, and holes in the roof through which noxious substances or perhaps even magma could be poured.


    It is the line of defense before the main cave, which, when we enter, astounds me. It is a great black cavern struck through by veins of glittering quartz of pale cyan. Each vein encircles the cavern like a band, and even the merest of them is as thick as a dwarf is wide, and the widest are the width of caravan tracks.


    The shape of the cavern is like that of a quarter of a sphere. One flat side is the floor, and the other flat side the wall facing us. Into this wall Vanerak has carved his palace¡ªa portcullis gapes like a fanged open mouth¡ªits under-points are the shape of dragon''s teeth. Above in many rows are arched windows through which smoky red light shines. Leading to it a road has been carved. It cuts through the quartz bands and is a masterwork of the craft of masonry: each stripe is a different scene of battle, the quartz ones victories, and the dark ones terrible defeats.


    Runeknights pour out the open portcullis to line the road.


    ¡°Hail to Runethane Vanerak!¡± they chant. ¡°Hail to guildmaster of the Reconquerors. Hail to Runethane Vanerak! Hail to...¡±


    The chant continues all the way down the road, yet I barely hear it. The carvings on the floor are engrossing me: the figures in them are fine as if made by the strokes of a brush, not those of a chisel. Never have I seen such stonework; the beauty and realism has caught my eyes like fishes in a net. Dwarves battle hordes of trolls, frothing tides of water-beasts, fight in single combat against elvish and human champions. The hated armies of Runeking Uthrarzak are depicted also, in the dark panels at first, their shield-walls impregnable. The rise of Runeking Ulrike comes next: dwarves solemnly watch on as his predecessor throws himself onto his own sword, shamed by how utterly his rival has defeated him in a contest of crafting. In the next cyan-white panel, Runeking Ulrike''s forces fall upon Uthrarzak''s dwarves from hidden tunnels and unknown places, and tear the rigid formations asunder.


    A while later, Runethane Thanerzak''s conquest of the dragons of the stalagmite forest is depicted. Beside him in several sections is a dwarf wielding a pollaxe that might be Vanerak, though his face is always hidden by a helmet of some design.


    There are more victories and defeats, single-combats and battles, great natural disasters and contests of crafting also. History is laid out before me, shaped by master craftsdwarves with power and skill I can but dream of.


    Then, when I reach the penultimate streak, I draw a sharp breath. Carved into the rock as black as night is the destruction of the city of Thanerzak and Broderick. Dwarves of the warring sides are depicted as paused mid-combat, staring up in horror as the black dragon blasts its way up through the mountain in a fountain of fire.


    And at the very bottom left corner of the scene, I spot a figure sprinting through a tunnel away from the battle. His beard has been carved from a speck of rock darker than black, and for his visible eye there is a tiny bead of blue agate.


    I stop dead. I stare at his face, which is twisted into a cruel sneer. Nazak shoves me harshly between the shoulders. I stumble forward a little then fall to one knee, still staring at the figure.


    ¡°Did your Runethane call a halt, traitor?¡± spits Nazak. ¡°Ah, you''ve spotted yourself, I see. It would have been remiss of the master mason to omit such a pivotal figure, disgusted though he was when Vanerak ordered that he carve your likeness.¡±


    I feel cold all of a sudden. I look up at the runeknights lining the road. They are glaring at me. They know well who I am. I stand.


    ¡°The black dragon is dead!¡± I shout. My voice sounds shrill, panicked, desperate. ¡°And I had a hand in slaying it! If the Runeking''s justice proved nothing to you, then perhaps that will!¡±


    ¡°Come along now, Zathar,¡± Vanerak says quietly.


    I freeze, then bow low. ¡°Yes, my Runethane. I am sorry for my insolence.¡±


    He lowers his voice to a whisper, ¡°If your hand in slaying the black dragon will not redeem you in their eyes, be pleased that you have the power to make up things many times over in the coming centuries you will abide here. When they witness the glories made by you and I, unequalled by any dwarf before us, they may, in some small part, come to forgive you.¡±


    ¡°I hope so, my Runethane.¡±


    We move past the last dark band and onto the last white-cyan one. It has been left blank, but I can imagine what will be carved into it¡ªthe slaying of the black dragon by Vanerak. Disgust fills me as we pass under the portcullis, almost overwhelming my fear, though not quite.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 8: Drink and Song

    Beyond the portcullis a grand entrance-hall has been carved out. It looks entirely artificial, yet also too large to be so. It must have taken Vanerak''s miners a long time to mine it out, or else they were driven very brutally indeed. Masons are still hard at work on the floor, polishing it and rubbing it down with some kind of solution, perhaps to make it resistant to scratching¡ªor at least, they were doing so until we entered a few moments ago, for right now they are prostrate before us.


    All but one, in the corner. He is wrinkled and his beard is pure white.


    ¡°Master mason,¡± Vanerak addresses him.


    After a few seconds the ancient dwarf looks up, then he bows low. ¡°Welcome back, my Runethane,¡± he croaks.


    ¡°You are taking your time with this hall.¡±


    ¡°One should never rush.¡±


    ¡°That was praise, master mason.¡±


    ¡°Then I am most grateful for it.¡±


    He bows low again then gets straight back to work. Vanerak turns to a senior runeknight who has just appeared before us.


    ¡°Steward Kalvak, are preparations for the grand meeting underway?¡±


    ¡°They are. The kitchens are blazing at full capacity, and the hall is undergoing a thorough cleaning. Would you care to inspect?¡±


    ¡°Not yet. I wish to inspect something else first.¡±


    "And what may that be, my Runethane?"


    ¡°I notice that I can still hear the sound of mining, and also feel its tremble beneath my feet.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ªwork to link your palace with the cavern below and along continues.¡±


    ¡°I was given to understand it would be a simple job, and fast.¡±


    Drops of sweat appear on Steward Kalvak''s bald pate. ¡°That is what I was told also, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°And were you told anything else during the time that I was gone?¡±


    ¡°I was, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°And what was that information?¡±


    ¡°I was told that the rock had become hard, my Runethane. Too hard to mine through with any great speed.¡±


    ¡°Is this true?¡±


    ¡°I do not know¡ªI am not a miner, nor have I ever dealt directly with them. There are rumors that the miners have been given too much drink, however it is well known that drink is required to dull their nerves. Like how blindboars are given certain herbs to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Drink is not herbs, Kalvak. Moderation is important, as too few dwarves understand.¡±


    ¡°Of course, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I will see for myself how hard this rock is.¡±


    ¡°Do not bother yourself, my Runethane! I will hurry them.¡±


    ¡°You have proven unable to thus far¡ªso I shall do it.¡±


    ¡°I... Of course, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°And you should hope that they are not too far behind on their work, or you shall face punishment also.¡±


    Steward Kalzak bows very low indeed. Vanerak ignores it and turns to us. I feel his gaze come to rest on me through his mirror-mask.


    ¡°Come, Zathar, and you other four guests also. Nazak, you too. We will take a trip below. The rest of you I give permission to rest. Tell Halax to rest as well, if you see him.¡±


    We leave the entrance hall by a corridor to the left and walk through a series of bare chambers and thin corridors, until we reach a set of downward stairs. They are roughly carved, rent with pick-strokes¡ªno masons have come here to sand things down yet. From below I can hear the grating sound of mining, and some drunken singing too.


    ¡°Just listen to them,¡± Nazak says under his breath as we make our way down. ¡°Never permit a miner to sing¡ªit creates joy in what by all rights should be a harsh and thankless task.¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°We do not want to make them aware of our presence.¡±


    We reach the end of the stairs and walk down a misshapen corridor. The floor is uneven, tilting this way and that. My heart beats fast. My mind travels back to days I thought well-forgotten, days spent with a pick in my hand and rock-dust in my lungs, and the fear of the whip ever-present.


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    The tunnel turns and widens slightly into a long hall and our boots crunch on a thick layer of gravel not yet cleared away. At the end are half a dozen miners, overseen by a single runeknight leaning against the wall. The whip is slack in his hand, and beside him is a barrel of beer topped with many mugs flecked with froth.


    The miners are singing:


    Strike the stone! Strike the stone!


    Break it like bone! Like bare bone!


    Ah-hey-own, ah-hey-own!


    Like bone!


    Strike the rock! Strike the rock!


    Break it like chalc! Like pale chalc!


    Ah-hey-alc, ah-hey-alc!


    Like chalc!


    Strike the gray! Strike the gray!


    Break it like clay! Like dry clay!


    Ah-hey-ay, ah-hey-ay!


    Like clay!


    They do not notice us even when we come to a stop only fifteen or so yards from them. Vanerak taps the base-spike of his pollaxe on a chunk of stone. It makes a gentle clink. The overseer turns to look and the drunkenness falls from his features in an instant.


    ¡°Hail to the Runethane!¡± he screams.


    He throws himself to the gravel-strewn floor. The miners toss down their picks and copy him, screaming the same too:


    ¡°Hail to the Runethane! Hail to the Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Silence,¡± says Vanerak.


    His quiet voice cuts through the shouting and wailing like a razorblade. The runeknight and miners fall silent in an instant.


    ¡°Runeknight, why have you not yet pierced through to the next chamber?¡±


    The overseer gibbers unintelligibly.


    ¡°Stand up and speak clearly,¡± Vanerak orders.


    He stands. ¡°The rock... Black stuff... It''s too hard!¡±


    ¡°Your miners are drunk. Why do you permit them to drink so much?¡±


    ¡°They said they work faster when drunk!¡±


    ¡°And you, a runeknight, took the advice of miners?¡±


    ¡°I thought... Well, I mean, I thought, well, that they know more about breaking rock than I do.¡±


    ¡°Why did you not ask a more experienced overseer for advice?¡±


    ¡°I... I don''t know.¡±


    ¡°What degree are you, runeknight?¡±


    ¡°Sixth, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°So you are an overseer with some experience.¡±


    ¡°I... I suppose so, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You suppose? Answer yes or no, runeknight.¡±


    ¡°I am, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You should know better than this.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. I am sorry.¡±


    ¡°You do not sound sorry.¡±


    ¡°I am most sorry, my Runethane!¡± he screams. ¡°I shall do better in future! My best!¡±


    Vanerak raises his pollaxe high and steps forward. He sweeps it down. The overseer ducks back down to the gravel, but Vanerak is not aiming at him. The blade goes through the neck of the nearest miner. His head rolls along a little. A tide of blood floods out into the gravel, staining it dark red. The other miners tense up but say nothing.


    ¡°Remove your armor,¡± Vanerak orders the overseer.


    He hurries to obey, but his hands are trembling so badly that he cannot manage the clasps.


    ¡°Assist him, Nazak.¡±


    Nazak lifts his axe and slashes at the buckles and clasps with expert precision. Bits of steel ping off the walls, then the tunnel is filled with clattering as the overseer''s plates fall from him, leaving him in only a thin cotton shirt and trousers. He looks like a peeled crayfish, and as vulnerable as one too.


    ¡°Take up the miner''s pick. Now, if you will. Good. Turn to face the wall, and strike.¡±


    A crack echoes. A chunk of gravel falls to the ground. The dwarf looks back at Vanerak, terrified. Tears are running down his face and beard.


    ¡°Since you enjoy the drink and singing of miners so much, that is who you now are.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane?¡± whispers the dwarf.


    ¡°My words were not unclear. You are now a miner. Be thankful I did not shave your beard from your face, or your skin from your body.¡±


    The dwarf stares, unmoving, unspeaking.


    ¡°Did you not hear your Runethane?¡± spits Nazak. ¡°Be thankful! Thank him!¡±


    ¡°I... I thank you, my Runethane,¡± says the dwarf. ¡°You are most merciful.¡±


    ¡°Get to work now,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°A new, stricter, overseer will be down shortly. He or she will be ordered to leave the body of your fellow where it lies. Let it be a reminder of what happens to those who work laxly.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± scream the miners, still prostrate. ¡°All hail Runethane Vanerak!¡±


    ¡°Hail him!¡± Nazak shouts at the ex-overseer.


    ¡°All hail Runethane Vanerak!¡± screams the new miner. ¡°He is most merciful!¡±


    We leave the hall and return up the stairs. My hands are shaking slightly. I clench them into fists, but my terror does not abate even slightly. With a single stroke and a few words, a proud runeknight¡ªand a somewhat decent one, who did not drive the miners like beasts, maybe he was one of the only decent runeknights in this entire nest of tyranny¡ªwas given a fate worse than death.


    I look at Vanerak''s pollaxe, its edge red with fresh blood still dripping. This was a warning to me. He knows that I was once a miner, and knows I would rather die than be thrown down to that slavery again. He knows that very well.


    <hr>


    After this, he leaves us for a while. The other four are sent with more junior runeknights to wash and be given clean clothes, while Nazak is tasked with leading me off to a high, secure guardroom for the same.


    ¡°You are to be the main event of this grand meeting,¡± he says as I strip my armor and change into plain black fabrics. ¡°We are all looking forward to seeing you¡ªand I''m sure many will like to speak to you as well.¡±


    I ignore him and try to wipe the rock-dust from my face.


    ¡°Leave your skin grayed. A dwarf should never forget where he came from.¡±


    ¡°I ought to look my best before my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You say ''my Runethane'' a great deal, but I don''t think you truly consider him your Runethane, do you?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do.¡±


    ¡°I think your allegiance still lies with a certain guildmaster.¡±


    I look him in the eyes. ¡°It does also,¡± I say. ¡°I am still part of the Association of Steel, no matter how far away they might be.¡±


    He smirks. ¡°They are very far away. They cannot help you here. They can''t save you.¡±


    ¡°I am not looking to be saved. I am here to obey my Runethane. I will stay however long he wishes me too.¡±


    ¡°You can''t fool me, traitor. You''ll flee at the first chance you get¡ªjust like you fled from the black dragon after setting it loose on us. Not that you''ll be given any chances to flee, of course.¡±


    ¡°Hope that I don''t,¡± I say coldly. ¡°Vanerak will not be happy with you if I do, I imagine.¡±


    Nazak''s mouth twists into a snarl. ¡°He will be even less happy with you. Your friends will suffer first, and worst. He enjoys killing a great deal¡ªthat is why they are here, so he can kill them when you displease him.¡±


    ¡°I know. I am no fool.¡±


    ¡°We will see.¡± He glances at a sand-timer he placed on a shelf when we entered. ¡°Now, we still have a short-hour to go before the grand meeting. Spend that time thinking carefully about how you will act toward the runeknights attending. Very carefully. You do not want to upset anyone. Some here hate you even more than they fear their Runethane.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 9: Two Pieces of News

    The last grains of sand drain into the lower half of the timer. I stand up from the hard chair I''ve been sitting in, thinking in, worrying in, and Nazak leads me out the guardroom and through the winding corridors of the palace. We emerge back into the entrance hall, where the master mason is still polishing the floor to perfection, and go through it to a wide set of stairs.


    The steps are already crowded with hundreds of runeknights. A group of senior ones, their weapons bared, flanks me at Nazak''s beckoning. Judging by the vicious stares some are giving me, they may have cause to use them before the grand meeting is over. Waves of hate radiate over me, hot as if from the magma seas themselves.


    At the base of the stairs are doors of brilliantly worked platinum bars. Thin platinum sheets over them are wrought into the shape of dragons, each unique, and slightly different in proportion and face to the black dragon¡ªthese must be the ones Runethane Thanerzak defeated.


    Through the gates is the grand hall. Grand is indeed the word for it: it is like the cave outside in miniature. Bands of quartz encircle it. It is worked as finely as the road outside was, however the theme here is not history but geography, the floor and walls and ceiling made to look like the chasm of Hazhakmar and the stalagmite forest¡ªeach spike and hill has been portrayed with painstaking detail and accuracy. Runic inscriptions detail where each dragon was thrown down by Runethane Thanerzak, and tell of who injured where and who fell to what kind of blow.


    Nazak and the guards hurry me past the benches, which are already full. Those on them glare at me hatefully. Food and drink has already been laid out, but no one is touching it, despite its rich scent. Dwarves of Allabrast would be already digging in, uncaring of whether or not so-and-so Runethane or Thanic Guardsdwarf was here. Not so Vanerak''s dwarves¡ªthey have been disciplined through fear.


    The far end of the hall is raised up a few steps. It is bare of furniture but for one well-carven chair, and it is bare of common runeknights also. Nazak takes me up the steps and leads me to a corner. He and the other guards form a protective wall in front of me¡ªhe''s taking no chances with my safety.


    The hall fills up until it is packed, then it fills up some more. The crush becomes like a close-linked chainmail of steel armor and bearded faces, spears and other polearms poking up here and there. The air shimmers with runic tension. Voices of gleeful hate carry through it:


    ¡°He finally pried him out!¡±


    ¡°The traitor is here! He''s ours!¡±


    ¡°How will he be executed?¡±


    ¡°He says he helped slay the dragon¡ªI don''t believe a word.¡±


    ¡°Burning my money''s on.¡±


    ¡°Flaying, then beheading.¡±


    ¡°De-bearding.¡±


    ¡°But what''s the other piece of news?¡±


    After some more waiting, and trying not to listen to everyone speculating on how I''m to be killed, the other four prisoners are brought in by Halax. He leads them to the other front corner. A few runeknights look curiously at them, but most still only have eyes for me.


    A hush falls. I peer past my guards'' wall of weapons and see that Vanerak has entered. The silence becomes absolute¡ªit''s as if the whole hall holds its breath. The soft, low clinking of his armor is the only sound. He hasn''t cleaned his pollaxe of the miner''s blood: he wants it to be completely clear that what he decides is law, on pain of death, no matter how much his runeknights dislike it.


    And I have a feeling that they are going to dislike what he has to say very intensely.


    He walks through to the front of the hall, up the steps, and to his carven chair. He turns around but does not sit down.


    ¡°All hail Runethane Vanerak!¡± Nazak bellows.


    ¡°All hail Runethane Vanerak!¡± bellow the runeknights. The sound is deafening. ¡°All hail guildmaster of the Reconquerors! All hail! All hail!¡±


    Vanerak holds up a hand for silence; the chant stops still in the runeknights'' throats.


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    ¡°I have returned from my quest,¡± he says.


    His voice is as cool and quiet as ever; he has no need to bellow.


    ¡°And I have brought you two very great gifts.¡±


    Nazak signals with his hand and the hall erupts into cheering. He makes another signal and it ceases immediately.


    ¡°The first gift is a piece of news. It is knowledge that will set your hearts at ease, though maybe some will feel bitter nonetheless: the black dragon is dead.¡±


    The runeknights cannot help themselves: there are gasps, cheers, and a few even break down weeping. Vanerak does not stop them, just looks on impassively through his mirror-mask. Eventually silence falls of its own accord.


    ¡°Some of you are in disbelief. That is a fair reaction. I can assure you, however, that I witnessed its death and final flaking apart to ash with my own eyes. So did the runeknights who came with me on my quest. So you have no reason to doubt.¡±


    I tense up, wondering what lies he''s about to tell of its death.


    ¡°The slaying was accomplished in main part by a first degree from the south, one Xomhyrk Dragonslayer. It was a long battle, and would have resulted in the dragon''s victory had it not been for our timely intervention.¡±


    I struggle to control myself. My stomach is churning, and my vision blurry and spinning, like I''m drunk¡ªdrunk on rage! How can he tell such foul lies? Does he feel no shame? Victory over the dragon was Xomhyrk''s, Braztak''s, the Dragonslayers'', the Association''s, the other guilds'' too. It was also a victory of Broderick''s forces who struck great wounds that we reopened, and of Runeking Halajatbast before him too, who struck even greater wounds. And yes, it was my victory as well. I am Zathar Dragonslayer as well as Runeforger. Xomhyrk bestowed that title upon me.


    The only dwarf who entered that mountain who has no claim to victory over the black dragon is Vanerak, and yet he is the one who will have the credit for its final slaying.


    ¡°We assisted in striking down the dragon,¡± he continues to lie, ¡°But unfortunately Xomhyrk Dragonslayer perished of his wounds before we could administer any healing chains.¡±


    Another lie¡ªI''m sure Vanerak could have made it to him before he perished if he''d wanted to, but a first degree, who surely had also taken notice of my powers, would have caused too much trouble.


    ¡°We did save the lives of several other dragonslayers, however. Halax, bring them forward.¡±


    He leads them to stand beside Vanerak in a row. I try to catch the eyes of Guthah and Pellas, but they don''t so much as glance at me.


    ¡°You see how scarred they are, despite the healing chains we administered. It truly was a terrible battle. They will tell you just how so, should you care to know. They have also asked to be admitted into the Reconquerers out of gratitude for our help. I grant this request. They will be given money to buy materials to reforge their armor and weapons with.¡±


    Did they really ask, or is he forcing them? I''m honestly not sure. I''ve told Guthah and Pellas many times exactly how cruel Vanerak is, but perhaps they think I''m not much better. After all, I abandoned them when I swore to protect them, did I not? And I proved to be somewhat cruel and unpredictable myself, at least when it came to deserters¡ªeven when said deserters were my friends and guildmates.


    Not much better than Vanerak. Could they really see me that way? I feel a little ill at the thought, and sad too. Yet another emotion to add to the turmoil of fear and anger churning in my heart.


    ¡°So,¡± says Vanerak, ¡°The black dragon is dead. It is great news. Yet I have brought greater news.¡±


    All eyes turn to me. Weapons are gripped, lips licked, teeth bared.


    ¡°Zathar, come forward.¡±


    Nazak walks me across to Vanerak. I stand beside him, flitting my eyes this way and that¡ªI cannot hold against any of the hateful glares for long. They pierce through me as surely as the runeknights wish for their weapons to.


    ¡°Who should we find on our journey,¡± says Vanerak, ¡°But the traitor to our realm?¡±


    The dwarves open their mouths to roar their hatred¡ªbut Vanerak holds up a palm to silence them.


    ¡°You all wish him to be punished. That is fair. He is the main cause of our downfall. It was he who stole Runethane Thanerzak''s diamond key for the black dragon. The black dragon owed its power to his efforts. Even his participation in the battle against it cannot atone for that. Nor can the Runeking''s mercy, which was born, as we know, from corruption within the courts plotted certain factions that wished to see us rough, warlike, and uncivilized dwarves humiliated.¡±


    A few runeknights in the front row look as if they''re about to pounce forward to slay me. Nazak gives them a warning look, but they remain like coiled springs.


    ¡°He deserves harsh punishment, yes. I agree with this. Torture and lingering death, and more. To be thrown into the magma seas to burn for all eternity. So what I am about to say I also think unjust.¡±


    The runeknights look confused.


    ¡°The second piece of great news is not simply that we have captured the traitor. No. It is that we have captured for ourselves a great power. A power lost for a hundred thousand years or more. That has been gone from the underworld for the lifespans of Runethanes, Runekings, and perhaps even Runegods. Cultures have grown, withered, and died that never knew it¡ªthe greatest power ever given to dwarfkind.¡±


    The runeknights continue to look confused. Some narrow their eyes at me, perhaps starting to suspect that I''ve played some trick or lie on their Runethane.


    ¡°I speak, of course, of the power of runeforging. Of creating new runes, more powerful and more suited to their meanings. The power of the Runeforger¡ªthe one Runeforger, no matter what some scholars misbelieve.¡±


    A few bearded jaws drop. Those looking at me with suspicion narrow their eyes still further.


    ¡°The power called runeforging has returned to us,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°And, however unjustly and ironically, as of now it is contained within only one dwarf, and that dwarf is Zathar, the traitor.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 10: The Magma Shore

    Upon Vanerak''s proclamation, the silence in the hall deepens even further. Not a single breath is exhaled or inhaled. Time itself has stopped in shock.


    At last, one of the dwarves in the front row cannot bear it:


    ¡°Impossible!¡± she screams. ¡°It''s not possible!¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Vanerak says, in an oddly kind tone.


    ¡°I will not believe it!¡± she screeches. ¡°I will not!¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± snaps Nazak.


    ¡°No,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°I permit her to speak. She gives voice to what many feel, and as your Runethane I must reply.¡±


    The runeknight, in titanium armor of about fourth degree quality, levels a long-bladed spear at me.


    ¡°How could this scum have been given such a gift?¡± she says.


    ¡°I am as eager to find out as you are.¡±


    ¡°I cannot believe it.¡±


    ¡°You soon will. The runes he creates will be made public knowledge.¡±


    ¡°He cannot escape punishment like this!¡±


    ¡°He will not escape. He is a prisoner¡ªan eternal prisoner.¡±


    ¡°He should at least be tortured.¡±


    ¡°I am afraid I cannot risk that. I do not know how his powers might be affected by too much damage to his flesh.¡±


    ¡°But he must suffer!¡±


    ¡°He will not enjoy his imprisonment.¡±


    ¡°Imprisonment is not a fitting punishment for what he did. Not even if it lasts a hundred eternities.¡±


    ¡°How about a thousand eternities?¡±


    ¡°Not even then. He must suffer pain like we did. Burning pain, then death.¡±


    ¡°You will never forgive him?¡±


    ¡°What kind of a question is that?¡± She flinches. ¡°I''m sorry, my Runethane. Those were rash words.¡±


    ¡°I do not mind¡ªnow. You only speak what is in everyone''s hearts.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane. To answer your question, no. I will never forgive him.¡±


    ¡°There is no way he can atone?¡±


    ¡°Unless his runes can bring back the dead and burned, our friends and kin, then no.¡± She glares at me, the look in her eyes as sharp as her spear. ¡°Can they, traitor?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Not to my knowledge.¡±


    ¡°Not to your knowledge? Yes or no!¡±


    ¡°I cannot use my powers well yet, but I cannot imagine any rune that might bring back life to ashes. I am sorry. All I''ve done from that moment forward has been¡ª¡±


    ¡°I''m not interested!¡± she spits, and I shut up. She turns back to Vanerak. ¡°There is indeed nothing he can do.¡±


    ¡°Even if his power brings us to the very roofs and roots of the world?¡±


    ¡°Yes. He cannot bring back our friends and kin.¡±


    ¡°But his power could make a glorious future for our descendants. Our future kin. Have you considered that?¡±


    She is silent for a few seconds. ¡°I must say that I have not, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Then do so.¡± He looks out over all the gathered runeknights. ¡°All of you, do so. Consider what this power means for us. Even if it remains usable only to the traitor, new scripts¡ªwhich could well prove to be more powerful than the old¡ªwill be a great boon to us, both in combat and in peace. We will perform great feats and create greater wonders.¡±


    ¡°Even so¡ª¡±


    ¡°That will be all, runeknight,¡± Vanerak says coldly.


    She closes her mouth and sinks back into the crowd, bringing her spear back up as she does so.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°I hope my words allay your anger somewhat,¡± he says to the hall. ¡°If they do not, know this: no harm is to come to him. Not a single cut or bruise. To touch him means death. You may think of him as a tool which will be used harshly, but never to breaking point, and a tool for my use alone, though whose fruits I will share to all. Do you understand me, my runeknights?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± they chorus.


    ¡°Do you truly?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± they scream.


    ¡°I still see hatred in your eyes. I suppose that cannot be helped. But do not act on your feelings, under pain of a tortuous death.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± they scream yet again.


    But I can see in their eyes that Nazak was right: for some, hatred of me outweighs their fear of Vanerak.


    <hr>


    ¡°This way, traitor,¡± says Nazak. ¡°The Runethane has tasked me with bringing you to your new home. I was glad when he told me of its location. You will not find it a comfortable place to dwell.¡±


    ¡°I am thankful for whatever lodgings he finds fit for me.¡±


    He sneers. ¡°Of course you are. Come along now, traitor.¡±


    With five other guards, he leads me out of the palace and down the banded road. We make a right turn onto a somewhat rougher trail that leads along a streak of black stone. It continues across to the far wall, into which a rough archway appears. Beyond is blackness, and pouring from this dark is hot, dry air, thick with smoke and sulfur.


    Like the very gateway to hell. No¡ªit is the gateway to hell, for Vanerak said that I may soon face demons. I am being taken to the magma seas, where dwell boiling horrors of untold ferocious power. What else are the seas but hell, even if hell is whispered to lie even deeper underneath?


    ¡°Hurry along, traitor!¡±


    We walk into the archway. The glow of the lanterns turns yellow, green, sometimes reddish according to the kind of the billowing fumes. The air grows still hotter as we walk down a steep tunnel. It''s a dry heat, though thankfully it has none of the malice that dragon''s heat has.


    Bits of rock crunch under my plain leather shoes. The sensation against my soles unnerves me. I do not feel safe without armor here.


    Where is my armor now, I wonder? Doubtless Vanerak is examining its runes, and maybe I will never get it back. Will he let me forge new armor, or if I will be forced just to write runes upon paper for him and his underlings to use and abuse as they see fit? Though he said he wanted me to be free to at least some degree, I cannot believe him.


    The tunnel bends slightly and a reddish glow appears at its end. Could that be the magma sea? Just a few short minutes later and I can see that it must be. The smoke and fumes shift now and again, revealing the true color beyond, orange and yellow, and I can also see thin sheets of black obsidian which form, are subsumed, and form again.


    The heat increases as we approach, then when we pass through another archway, it becomes unbearable, far hotter than I remember it being on my journey to the fort. Back then I viewed the seas from a high cliff¡ªbut the ledge we emerge on to is a mere twenty feet above the magma. There is only a low barrier alongside it too. A hard enough push and that would be my end.


    ¡°Come along now!¡± says Nazak. ¡°Let''s get out of these fumes. I''m used to them, but you aren''t yet.¡±


    We trek along the road a short distance then enter another tunnel. It''s slightly cooler, and the fumes are being drawn up a hole in the ceiling a few paces in. This place at least has ventilation. Vanerak doesn''t want his dwarves choking to death in their sleep, even miners.


    The tunnel straightens then turns sharply to the left. Bright light shines through a window of thick quartz. Nazak grabs my shoulder and pushes me against it.


    ¡°Look well,¡± he says. ¡°This will be your only view of the world outside your cell for the next few centuries.¡±


    I look. Beyond the window is the magma ocean in all its boiling glory, and with the heat and fumes lessened now that we''re inside, I can take in the full shimmering spectacle.


    It is perhaps the grandest sight I have ever seen. The expanse of shifting black, orange, yellow and red seems to continue on forever. The colors warp and blur into each other, and in the far horizon the heat-shimmer makes the magma look like roaring flames.


    Eyes sore from the burning light, I look up from the inferno and see, many hundreds of feet above, the black roof. Spinning columns of fumes are being drawn up into it in some places, while from other places, the highest places, clear air is falling down and blasting the fumes away. Here and there the ceiling is so low that it brushes against the sea. From these points, I know from reading, magma is drawn up into chasms and tunnels of the underworld above in vast and complex systems.


    There are flecks flitting here and there¡ªmagma wyrms, perhaps, or salamanders, or perhaps they are the demons Vanerak mentioned. Something huge breaches in the middle-distance. It is a black salamander with five pairs of legs and a great frill around its neck.


    The corridor shivers slightly and I brace myself against the quartz. A mile or so out, a black plane of obsidian breaks apart and the magma below bulges up. The bulge bursts suddenly and grandly, spraying yellow and white molten drops right up to the ceiling. They seem to travel slowly. A moment later, the sound of the explosion reaches us. The quartz window rattles at the booming.


    I flinch back. Nazak laughs.


    ¡°That was only a small eruption. Fortunately the larger ones are mostly far out.¡±


    ¡°Mostly?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes magma bursts right against the wall here. The beach-combers have to run in fast when they feel a strong tremble.¡±


    ¡°The what?¡±


    ¡°Look at the shore.¡±


    I look down to where he gestures and see that up against the base of the wall is something akin to a surface shoreline, except instead of the blue sea and bright white sand illustrated in the tomes I''ve read of the surface, there is bright yellow, molten rock, and broken black glass as sharp as can be.


    It is hard to believe that anyone might tread there before the molten waves, but there they are. Beach-combers¡ªI assumed he meant some kind of animal, but no. Dwarves in suits of shining foil dig into the glass with long-handled shovels. One reaches into the hole he just dug and pulls out a semi-melted shard of something. He tosses it back.


    Vanerak mentioned that the caves here contained lost knowledge. Is that what these beach-combers are looking for? There''s many dozens of them, all along the shore for hundreds of feet. A few in enruned suits might be overseers, though they hold no whips, just shovels like everyone else. They are paddling in the yellow molten rock itself. One has a net of thin wire. He casts it, but dredges up nothing.


    ¡°Let''s move on,¡± says Nazak. ¡°What they''re searching for doesn''t concern you.¡±


    Lost knowledge in the magma seas?


    I get the feeling that their work concerns me very much indeed.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 11: Reassurances of Vanerak

    I am led on a zig-zagging path upwards. Along one side of the corridor, the one furthest from the outside, are many close-packed doorways. The doors are plain and the dwarves that bow low to us have the grayish skin and dusty beards of miners. They look unhappy¡ªI doubt Vanerak is giving them any more wages than they would get for their usual, less dangerous occupation.


    Or any wages at all, beyond food and shelter.


    We continue upward. Quartz windows look out onto the magma sea, though they are very small, and their crystal is much thicker than that in the observation window downstairs. The glow they cast is eerie; shades of fire change, fade, brighten as the currents of the sea below ebb and flow.


    We reach the upper levels and the doors become more widely spaced, and the dwarves that greet us here are runeknights. They are dressed in heat-resistant armor, mostly tungsten, and some of it is very finely enruned indeed.


    ¡°Halt,¡± says Nazak, and we stop in front of the door at the far end of the corridor. ¡°Your quarters are through here.¡±


    One of the other guards unlocks the door¡ªit has a large and complex steel lock, enruned¡ªto the accompaniment of a series of loud clicks. He swings it open and enters with spiked axe ready, looks side to side. Then he nods to Nazak.


    ¡°You may enter,¡± Nazak says.


    I do so and am rather surprised at how decent the quarters are. The bed looks comfortable, though the blankets do look a little thin, and in the center of the room there is a dining table of marble and several chairs of the same, all carved with flames. On one wall is a bookshelf, stocked with many dictionaries of runes, and there is a partitioned area at the opposite side that I presume is for washing and ablutions. There are also several empty armor racks and weapon stands, and a writing desk of wood too.


    ¡°This place too nice for one such as you, in my opinion,¡± says Nazak. ¡°But the Runethane knows best.¡±


    ¡°What now?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Now, we will leave you¡ªsome of us. There will always be at least four guards posted outside your door. For your protection.¡±


    I look at the runeknight guards. The looks in their eyes are only slightly less hateful than those I received during Vanerak''s grand meeting.


    ¡°Can I trust them not to murder me? And when am I going to get my armor back, or an opportunity to forge better?¡±


    ¡°That decision is the Runethane''s to make. As for if they might murder you, I should think not, unless they want to take a dip in the sea to enjoy the warm sensation of flesh boiling from their bones.¡± He smiles.


    ¡°You told me yourself that some here hate me more than they fear our Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I assure you that I have chosen only the most fearful guards.¡± The ugly grin on his face suddenly drops. His tone becomes low and serious. ¡°And I am also responsible for your safety. I may dislike you, and the task, but I am loyal to my Runethane.¡±


    I bow. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Settle in. A meal will be brought up shortly enough, I imagine. Our Runethane wants you well-fed and healthy.¡±


    With that, he leaves. The door shuts and a series of sharp clicks echoes. I notice that there''s no keyhole or lever this side of it. I am trapped. This might be a nicely furnished prison cell, but it''s still a prison cell.


    I sit down on the bed. There are no windows in the room; light is provided by a phosphorescent globe hanging from a wire. Its glow is off-white, like that of cave-worms. Probably it''s made of glass impregnated with their juices, a popular choice for cheap, reliable indoor lighting.


    I stare into the globe, worrying. Firstly about how the other prisoners are faring¡ªthough I suppose they are not prisoners any longer, but valued members of the guild of Reconquerors. Did they really request to join? I can''t imagine it, just can''t. They must have been coerced or threatened. Must have been. And I doubt they''ll be allowed to leave Vanerak''s realm at their pleasure.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    How much freedom am I to be allowed? Obviously very little when it comes to my moving around¡ªbut what about my forging? I don''t want to forge crafts solely for Vanerak''s perusal, to apply my skill merely so he can examine it. As a runeknight the thought disgusts me.


    I''m worried about my safety too. I need new weapons and armor. However Runethane-fearing and skilled my guards might be, there is always a chance a killer could get through. And there are also the demons and beasts of the magma sea outside to contend with.


    I sit on the bed for some time. There is no timepiece on the wall, no clock or sand-timer of any kind, but I reckon it about an hour before the lock clicks and the door opens. I quickly stand up and steel myself, expecting Vanerak, but it''s only a serving lady.


    She brings in two covered dishes and places them on the table without a word, and my heart sinks. I am to have a guest for this meal, and I think I know who it''s to be.


    I am not kept waiting long. The measured clink of tungsten heralds his arrival in the doorway. I see my nervous reflection in his mirror mask, lit in sickly fashion by the phosphorescent globe above; the effect is to make me look even more frightened than ever. I bow very low.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger,¡± he says. ¡°If I may sit down.¡±


    He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits down without waiting for a reply. I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at me from behind his mirror-mask¡ªI think he''s staring at me, anyway.


    ¡°Sit down,¡± he orders.


    I do so.


    ¡°Let us eat first, then talk,¡± he says.


    He lifts the lid of his dish¡ªit is worked with an image of a coiled fire-snake¡ªand within is fine food. I lift the lid of my own and let out a small sigh of relief. Within is the same fine food. I''d been half-expecting the head of a miner, or the head of Guthah or Pellas, or just manacles.


    Famished, I eat my salamander in sauce rapidly¡ªbarely considering the possibility of poison. I draw deep draughts from the mug of water set beside my plate. It is very pure, and after breathing for so long the bitter fumes of the magma ocean, it tastes almost sweet.


    Vanerak eats too, lifting up his mask so that I can only just see his slate-gray beard and full mouth. Once more I am struck by how ordinary they are. I sink my stance a little and bend my head as I reach for my mug, and manage to see a little further, to a combed moustache and the beginning of a wide nose, but there are still no hideous deformities yet visible.


    He changes the angle of his head. Worried that he''s looking at me, has noticed me trying to peek, I move my gaze back to my meal and keep it there until I''m done. He finishes soon after, takes a long draught of water, and pulls his mirror-mask back down.


    ¡°So, you are finally in my realm,¡± he says. ¡°Tell me, what do you think of your accommodations?¡±


    ¡°They are far better than I deserve.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. But more than simply comfortable, they are safe. You do not need to worry about any attempts on your life.¡±


    ¡°I hope not, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Your guards have been chosen not only for their loyalty to me, but also because they lost less in the black dragon''s inferno than most. They will not turn on you. And they will give their lives at my command.¡±


    ¡°A most wise choice, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°There will always be at least four posted outside your door. If you wish to leave your chambers to go to the forges, or indeed to anywhere else in my realm, eight will accompany you.¡±


    ¡°So I am to be allowed some freedom, then?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Understand that all my talk of you being a prisoner, a tool to be harshly used, was just to mollify your worst haters. You are freer than many of my subjects.¡±


    ¡°Though not totally free.¡±


    ¡°No, for your own safety. You are not to leave your shoreline lodgings more than once every twenty long-hours. It must look to everyone that you are indeed being harshly treated. If you are seen to be enjoying yourself too often, you risk jealousy and rage being turned against you like hammers.¡±


    ¡°I understand, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You are to have more freedom in your forging. Gold will be no barrier to you, as it was during your trial.¡±


    ¡°You mean I can use however much metal I want? Whatever kind?¡±


    ¡°However much and of whatever kind, and of the highest quality available.¡±


    ¡°You are most generous, my Runethane. So much so that I can barely believe it.¡±


    ¡°My generosity is not to you, but to all dwarfkind. The more easily you can work, the greater the runes you will produce. That is my belief.¡±


    ¡°I hope they will meet with your satisfaction.¡±


    ¡°You will make sure they do.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You will forge a new suit of armor first. Your last set is well beyond repair¡ªthe dragonfire was not kind to its runes.¡±


    ¡°You have already examined it then?¡±


    ¡°I am still doing so. Some of the runes I cannot read¡ªso you will see it again, to explain what you wrote. Then I will take it back.¡±


    ¡°As you please, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I will not melt it down¡ªit will be put on display so that all its runes may be examined, by all who care to look. Your weapon will be treated in the same manner.¡±


    ¡°I understand, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°There is also the question of your amulet. I am most interested to see it. Withdraw it from your garmets, though I will not ask you to take it off.¡±


    For an instant I stop in shock at his request. He says nothing, just stares, waiting patiently.


    I have no choice, and there is no way to stall. I reach up.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 12: Analysis of the Ruby

    With trembling hands I withdraw the ruby amulet from below my shirt and beard. Even in the sickly phosphorescence of the wormlight globe its color is a clear and brilliant scarlet, and its runes are wounds of even more vivid red.


    Vanerak leans over the table. ¡°Hold it up higher, and closer to me,¡± he orders.


    I do so. He leans in a little further until his mirror-mask is almost touching it. He remains in this position for some time. He orders me to turn it around, then back the other way, then side on, then to the other side, then upside down. Finally he pulls away.


    ¡°They are most interesting runes,¡± he says. ¡°I can only guess at their meanings, though my guesses are often accurate. It is a shame that you used such an imperfect and shoddily carved gem to inscribe, and the setting leaves a great deal to be desired also.¡±


    ¡°It was the best ruby I could afford, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°If you can carve runes onto a gem, you can carve a gem yourself. I believe you heard me tell Nazak something similar.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°This amulet can be much improved. I will task you with doing so, in the future.¡±


    My heart misses a beat. The amulet, made more powerful? I do not want to contemplate the idea. It might overwhelm me completely, drive me into a frenzy at the mere thought of blood.


    ¡°First, though, your armor. Even guarded as you are, the underworld is a dangerous place, and the magma sea doubly so.¡±


    ¡°You talked of demons before. Might they attack up here?¡±


    ¡°They only attack those who wade into the ocean itself. But firewyrms and salamanders do often come onto the shoreline.¡±


    ¡°Have any ever broken into here?¡±


    ¡°They wouldn''t fit through the gates.¡±


    ¡°I see. I do not wish to criticize your choice of lodgings for me, my Runethane, but is there no safer place in your realm?¡±


    ¡°You know why you are here¡ªthe power of runes is the power of the molten world bound into shape and meaning. The closer you are to that molten world, the more your power may show itself. And you are safe enough. The rock is thick and tough in this part of the shoreline cliffs.¡±


    ¡°That relieves me, my Runethane. When am I to begin work on my armor?¡±


    ¡°As soon as your personal forge has been furnished. In the time between now and then, you are to transcribe the runes of your ruby onto paper, with phonetics and details of runic flow as well.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Any further questions?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ªyou said I am to have whatever metal I want, but what about reagents? Even if gold is no barrier...¡±


    ¡°You can have whatever reagents you want also. However, you are to refine them yourself. They are the root of our magic, and I do not abide by common dwarves handling them.¡±


    ¡°I have some experience with refining reagents already, my Runethane. Very well.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± He stands up. ¡°I have many things to oversee, and my own forging to do also. I do not know when we will next speak to each other, but when we do so I expect you to have finished transcribing the runes of your amulet. It is most fascinating to me.¡±


    I bow my head to the table. ¡°I will do it at once.¡±


    ¡°Good. Make sure what you write is accurate¡ªI will be able to tell if it isn''t.¡±


    He leaves. I stand up and throw myself backwards onto the bed, shut my eyes, and try to sleep. My dreams are all of mirrors reflecting seas of blood and fire.


    <hr>


    I wake up feeling as if I haven''t slept at all. The mattress is too soft; my back hurts terribly. My legs still have not recovered from the long journey; my muscles are tattered. And then there is the oppressive and ever-present sense of being trapped. Vanerak may have said I have freedom here, but his visit has proven that I have exactly none. All I can say to him is yes, and all I can do is obey his orders. I have no volition.


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    I look around the room. The stone walls seem too close together. I look toward the door, and remember that beyond it is a bare corridor through which I can never walk unless accompanied by four stern and cold guards.


    The worst thing of all about my condition, I decide, is the lack of company. I have no one to ask for advice, no one to have a friendly chat and drink with, no one to even give me a nod of acknowledgement. I think back to long nights in the guildhall drinking with my friends¡ªwith Faltast and Jerat and Braztak, and the tenth degrees, and on rare occasions even Guildmaster Wharoth. We joked, and swapped tales of adventures whose horror was made distant by drink and time so that only glory remained, and we sang and we ate good food, and we went out and strolled through the streets of Allabrast, proud and happy. And when one of us was troubled, another was always there to extend a hand to help.


    I groan and turn over. They''re all gone. Jerat and Braztak killed, and Faltast slain by my own hand. He ran away and abandoned us, true, and that was a crime deserving of death, yet perhaps if I''d let him run with a warning he might have returned, and then in a calmer frame of mind I might have forgiven him, and we could have been friends once more.


    All gone. Guildmaster Wharoth can''t come down to this cell to bring me out into the light, as he once did in Allabrast. I''ve no saviour here but myself.


    I turn over and over. The sheets cling to my sweaty skin, wrap me and tighten like snakes. My thoughts are of escape: how can I get out of here? Vanerak says I may go where I want within his realm so long as many guards are with me. That''s my only opportunity to make a dash away. But I do not know the caverns of his realm, while his guards certainly do. I would be caught.


    Then, like a ball and chain around my ankle, are the hostages. If I''m to escape, they must come with me. I won''t have them punished for my crimes¡ªhow could I ever look Wharoth in the face again? I don''t even know if I can after slaying Faltast, and unlike him, Guthah and Pellas truly are innocent.


    So for now I am utterly trapped. My only option seems to be to bide my time and hope some miraculous opportunity presents itself, even though I haven''t the slightest idea of what such a miracle might be.


    Staying in Vanerak''s good favor is a must if I''m to be allowed out my cell with any regularity, so after I untangle myself from my sheets to rise, and ask the guards outside if I might be allowed some breakfast, I find some paper in my desk drawer, a very fine and vivid inkstick, and get to work transcribing the poems of my ruby.


    I bite my lip and pull it from my shirt. I attempt to draw the chain over the back of my head to take it off fully, but my hands will only move a certain amount up before they refuse to go any further. So instead I hold it in my left palm while I write.


    It''s been a long time since I looked upon it. Against my chest it felt bigger than it really is¡ªhow could a piece of stone only a centimeter long and half that in width exude such power, have such control over my heart?


    The how of it becomes clear when I read over the runes again. They''re exactly as powerful as I remember, each one part of an original script¡ªthough how I managed to create a new script back when I had such poor control over my own power, I can''t imagine. I''d never seen the sphere before at that point.


    Blood was on my mind after defeating Fjalar, as strongly as ice was on my mind when I created my script of ice, or even more strongly. Maybe that''s how I managed it with no conscious thought. Which would make this script a script of blood.


    This revelation, though it''s one I''d always half suspected, makes me feel slightly ill.


    I go over the runes again, and again, examining the runic flow and mouthing the poem carefully. As I do so, I see mistakes here and there, minor irregularities in the angles, rough scratches for some lines instead of smooth strokes, and the material of the ruby itself is, as Vanerak said, imperfect. The facets are not as smooth as I remember them being. My eye for such things is better now.


    Despite its great power, the ruby is still not as powerful as it could be.


    I curse under my breath. It is the dwarven instinct, the runeknight instinct, to want to improve one''s work. But this work should not be improved. It needs to be controlled. Restrained, in independence if not in power.


    How might I accomplish this? I examine the poems I''ve copied onto the paper. Written in ordinary ink rather than bloody stone, I''m able to feel a little distant from them, able to examine them a little more logically.


    I sit back and ponder. The poem gives the impression that my chisel ran over the ruby like a rabid salamander, wild and uncontrolled, and though the runic flow works well, it is also extremely chaotic. The power emanating from it is constantly shivering. The directions of the streams of power flowing over it switch and turn.


    It is immensely complex¡ªyet if I exert all my mind, I think that I can rewrite it to bring some order upon it. To do that without losing any of its power will be very difficult¡ªbut not impossible. Only nearly impossible.


    Over the next few days I go through half a hundred sheafs of paper trying to tackle the task. I rework and rearrange the runes, reorder the runic flow. I try to understand what the runes are, what their subtle meanings are¡ªwhat aspects of the words they form do they embody the most? Bloody ones, always.


    That is not neccessarily a bad thing: blood has good aspects as well as evil. It is, after all, required for life and living. It is only evil when spilled, and even then, if the blood spilled is that of your enemies, that is a good thing also.


    I shake my head, scrunch up another piece of paper and fling it into the corner. I hold my head in my hands. Good and evil¡ªit is the chaos I need to tame, but I can''t. No matter how much I rearrange the runes, shift lines around, recalculate runic flows¡ªI cannot impose order on anything. My calculations come up wrong every time, with impossible fractions and infinite loops.


    I simply do not have the skill required for the task.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 13: A Runeknight from Memory

    ¡°I need to go down there, at least to the shoreline.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°It''s for my runes. I''m not going to try and escape. Where would I even escape to?¡±


    ¡°You might try and kill yourself,¡± suggests one of the other guards.


    ¡°If I was suicidal, I''d have done it a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°It''s for your safety,¡± snaps Nazak. ¡°We are tasked with making sure no harm comes to you, however much you deserve it.¡±


    ¡°And I have been tasked with creating new runes. You know how much our Runethane values this.¡±


    ¡°I fail to see what going down to the magma sea has to do with runes. You are plotting something.¡±


    ¡°My power derives from the depths of the magma. Did he not tell you this? Why do you think he put me here in the first place, rather than some secure corner of his palace?¡±


    ¡°Because this is a hellish place, fit for a traitor like yourself.¡±


    ¡°Ask him yourself then, if you don''t believe me. I am here because he thinks my runes will gain more strength by my being here.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane has important matters to attend to.¡±


    ¡°I believe he will make time.¡±


    Nazak scowls hard at me, scrutinizing me. Eventually he relents:


    ¡°Fine. I will ask him.¡±


    A week later, which I spend on sketching designs for armor, none of which come together very well, he gives me Vanerak''s answer:


    ¡°The Runethane says you are to go as far as the lower observation hall, and no further. You are not to be allowed onto the shore itself.¡±


    ¡°I thank you greatly.¡±


    ¡°You should. We will leave now¡ªwe are in a lull in eruptions now, and neither have the salamanders been particularly active.¡±


    ¡°I would prefer to go in my armor, however broken it may be. Does our Runethane still hold it?¡±


    ¡°He does. You do not need armor¡ªeight guards of second and first degree are plenty for you.¡±


    ¡°All the same¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane is still examining your armor thoroughly. It is said that he pours over it every night. He will give it back when he sees fit. Now come! You were not simply granted permission to go down¡ªsince you think it will help your rune-making, our Runethane orders that you go down.¡±


    I bow. ¡°Very well, honored runeknight.¡±


    He and eight others escort me from my room and down the switchback corridors and steep flights of stairs. My skin prickles with heat under my thin fabric clothes.


    Dwarves press themselves against the sides of the corridors or retreat back into their rooms at our passage. There is more fear on their faces than hate, oddly enough. On this most dangerous job, maybe they don''t have time to worry about old history, and the goings-on of others. How many die each long-hour down at the shore, I wonder? A few at least, and sometimes many more. I imagine some just sink to their knees from heat and exhaustion to never stand again.


    We pass the tunnel I first arrived through, then descend into the very lowest corridors. I see rows of beds stacked three high through some of the open doors. This is a place for the poorest, for miners. Exhausted dwarves lie on many of them as if dead, their foilsuits still on, their dust-contaminated beards tangled and stiff with dried sweat.


    Then there''s a few bare corridors leading back into the cliffs. In their ceilings are wide ventilation shafts which powerful gusts blow from, slowing and speeding our passage in turn, then there is a wide spiral down to a guarded gate.


    As soon as the guards, fourth or fifth degrees in armor of tungsten, see Nazak, they open the gate. Past it is a long, pillared chamber crowded with both commoners and runeknights together, all in foilsuits. It seems to be some sort of common hall, furnished with tables, chairs, armor racks and weapon stands. At the far side of the chamber is a long strip of a window. Bright yellow light from it makes the silver-wrapped dwarves as phantoms of flashing fire.


    When we enter, about half stop to look at us. The other half are too preoccupied with various activities¡ªdrinking, inspecting their suits for damage, sleeping with their faces down on tables. There is food here too, of a mean sort, which some with their baggy silver helmets removed are devouring rapidly.


    ¡°Ill disciplined,¡± Nazak remarks with disgust. ¡°But the heat and fumes clouds their minds down here. It can''t be helped.¡±


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    They do not seem so ill-disciplined to me: there is little idle chatter, and everything is done quickly. The dwarves who were eating when we came in are already putting their helmets back on; now they are making their way to a large gate. They pick up long-handled shovels from a rack beside it.


    Four of my guards form a wall in front of me. One of the suited-up dwarves takes hold of a wheel and starts to turn it. The gate, a wide sheet of aluminum dirtied by yellow and green dust, slides partway up into the dark stone, to just below head height. The dwarves duck through, and a few moments later the wheel starts to turn back automatically, and the gate slides down shut.


    The whole process was very quick, but still long enough to fill the hall with that terrible heat and a strong scent of sulfur.


    ¡°Didn''t you want to get a closer look?¡± says Nazak. ¡°Come along to the window.¡±


    We walk through the thick black pillars to the thin strip of quartz that serves as the observation window. From this low angle the entire sea looks as if it''s ablaze from the heat-shimmer. At the horizon the low roof is warped into black flames that point downward to intersect with the yellow ones of the magma itself. Heat radiating through the window is bringing sweat to my face.


    Despite the warmth and spectacle I feel no particular supernatural power, but I pretend I do, and breath in and out deeply. I let my eyes glaze a little as if I''m in some kind of trance. Nazak gives me a very strange look, but says nothing.


    I am really considering deeply about what is being dug up from the beach. The dwarves seem to be searching for fragments of some kind of stone, all of a particular type that is unmelted by the magma''s heat, though in color the same as the obsidian constantly reforming and remelting on the sea''s surface. I see runes on one, runes I don''t recognize, yet on another longer piece being hauled out the sea by two runeknights¡ªperhaps a section of a pillar¡ªthere are no runes, just a picture that I can''t make out properly.


    Remnants of some lost society. The runes being pulled out makes sense, but as for the images, I never thought Vanerak one to be interested in ancient history. Like most runeknights he is absolutely focused on his own work and power, not the works of those long dead.


    I puzzle over what I''m seeing, letting my mouth hang open slackly a little for show, for a while, but come to no conclusion. Eventually I refocus my eyes and start breathing normally again.


    ¡°Finished?¡± Nazak says suspiciously. ¡°You don''t have some kind of illness, do you?¡±


    ¡°Not that I know of, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°Come along then. We''ll go back. No knowing when another eruption might happen.¡±


    I step away from the window, and at that moment, the gate starts to pull up again. Three dwarves, two carrying the fragment with the picture, and one with a shard with runes inscribed, enter. Some of the commoners hurry to take their burden from them.


    ¡°Come on,¡± says Nazak. ¡°I told you before that their work doesn''t concern you.¡±


    Not wanting to irritate him any further, I start to turn away, but at that moment I see the runeknight who held the shard with runes pulling off his helmet, and our eyes meet.


    He goes pale, as if looking on someone that should be long dead, whose return when announced by Vanerak he could not believe.


    My jaw opens slightly, and this time it is not for show.


    The runeknight looks a little healthier than last I saw him, perhaps even a little younger, with some color returned to his gray beard, and there are a few new scars and burn-marks, but I cannot forget his face. How could I, after all the horrors I put him through, after the deadly adventure we embarked on together below the chasm?


    The runeknight is Hayhek, whose son died for my foolishness in those far away days before the black dragon''s rise. He turns away quickly, saying nothing. I also say nothing.


    What could I possibly say to the dwarf here with the most cause to hate me?


    <hr>


    Over the next couple of long-hours I continue to sketch designs for my new armor. My inkstick wanders across the paper, drawing lines and shapes that lead nowhere and become nothing useful. I cannot focus on the task. My mind wanders into dark corners, and every so often I will feel a groan building him my chest, then I will hear it come out through the back of my throat, low and mournful. At that point I will put down my inkstick and slump back in my chair, and be able to do no more work until after a long sleep filled with visions of the past.


    I don''t think it is just my encounter with Hayhek that has brought on this malaise. Rather, all the guilt over all the terrible things I''ve done separate to my deal with the black dragon has come to weigh on me. This feeling that slaying the black dragon has not redeemed all of my sins has been building for a while, like a great boil of black magma in my heart, and now it has finally erupted.


    Three sins weigh on me:


    Firstly, my getting Yezakh killed. Secondly, ignoring my promise to the tenth degrees. And thirdly, my slaying of Faltast and my good-as-killing of the tenth degree Ulat too.


    That third crime is justified as far as military discipline is concerned, but as for where friendship is concerned? Once more I see that I should have let Faltast go, yet my ruby and Gutspiercer¡ªbut I made those crafts and chose to wield them¡ªthey do not absolve me of responsibility for my actions.


    The second crime is not justified by anything. I should have told them to stay back, and that to come with me was almost certain death, and that in the midst of the battle with the black dragon I would have no time or stamina to spare to protect them.


    And the first one? I drag up fifteen year old memories. I believe my justification to Hayhek was that I had saved both their lives in the first battle against Broderick. But how can that possibly excuse getting him killed after? There is really no logic to what I said. Protecting something does not give you the right to destroy it later.


    It is no wonder that Hayhek had no forgiveness for me.


    I can see no way to make up for these crimes. What''s worse, I cannot shake the feeling that I will do worse in the future. For one, giving Vanerak knowledge of new runes, or worse, to somehow let slip some vital insight that allows him to do it himself¡ªwith that power, he could do far worse damage than the black dragon ever unleashed.


    There is a sharp knock on my door. I jerk up from my slumped position. Vanerak has come, likely for another interrogation.


    But when my door is opened it is not Vanerak who stands in it.


    It is Hayhek.


    ¡°You have a visitor,¡± says Nazak. ¡°Ordinarily you would not be allowed one. However Vanerak has accounted him special dispensation, for it is he that first informed him that you were the one who stole Runethane Thanerzak''s key.¡±


    ¡°It''s been a long time, Zathar,¡± says Hayhek.


    I cannot tell his feelings from his tone¡ªit is relieved, exhausted, as well as holding a touch of anger and fear all at once.


    ¡°A very long time,¡± I say quietly.


    ¡°I have some things to say to you.¡±


    ¡°I thought you might.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 14: The Beachcombers Request

    I step away from the door to allow Hayhek to enter. Nazak walks in right after him, glaring as if to warn me from challenging his entry.


    ¡°I will be present for your conversation,¡± he says. ¡°This dwarf''s friendliness confuses and raises my suspicions. I do not trust that you aren''t plotting some way to escape.¡±


    ¡°I assure you that we are far from friends,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°We have things to talk about. That is all. Catching up to do.¡±


    ¡°I don''t see why.¡±


    ¡°I owe it to him.¡±


    Nazak scowls. ¡°You, owe something to the traitor? What? And why?¡±


    ¡°I owe him a conversation for things that happened long ago.¡±


    ¡°Be reminded that everything you say will be reported to our Runethane. You know of Zathar''s importance.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°And I also know that you are all in my debt, as you said before, for informing Vanerak about whose fault it was the black dragon grew so powerful.¡±


    ¡°It would have gotten out eventually.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, maybe not. As it stands however, I do have permission from the Runethane to speak to Zathar.¡±


    Nazak gestures to the chair across from me. ¡°Get on with it then.¡±


    He sits down and I sit opposite. I look at him. My first impressions were correct: he does look healthier than when I last knew him. He hasn''t aged a day¡ªor maybe he has aged, a few years backward. The strands of blonde in his beard as the same color as his son''s hair was.


    ¡°I should apologize again,¡± I say. I swallow. ¡°I am sorry about Yezakh. I am as sorry about him as I am about the black dragon.¡±


    He observes me for a few seconds, frowning.


    ¡°Truly I am sorry,¡± I repeat. ¡°Honestly sorry, from the depths of my heart. If there was any way to make it up to you I would, although I know there is not.¡±


    He stares at me for a few seconds more, then says: ¡°You do sound sorry.¡±


    ¡°I am. Truly and honestly.¡± I know I''m repeating myself, but there isn''t anything else to say. ¡°I''m truly sorry and if there''s any way for me to make it up to you, I will.¡±


    He purses his lips and looks down at the table. His eyes are boring into the stone surface. I prepare myself for an outburst of rage¡ªyet when he looks up I see only a little anger in his eyes.


    ¡°You have made some of it up to me, Zathar. I want to show you something.¡±


    He loosens the front of his breastplate, which is of well-enruned tungsten, embedded here and there with small tear-cut rubies like red candleflames. He reaches in, pulls out an amulet on a chain and holds it out to me in his palms.


    ¡°This is my amulet of unaging.¡±


    I lean in a little, though I''m careful not to lean in so close that I look rude. My eyes widen to drink in the beauty¡ªthe jewel is hytrigite, a sphere of dark blue with a shining starburst in the middle, a whole two centimeters in diameter. The star''s light is caught by thin runes which seem to dance as I lean to the right and left to try and see as much of it as possible. The setting is a thin ring of silver wire.


    It is a truly fine craft, and to see such made by Hayhek, the eighth or seventh degree who struggled so hard in the caverns to craft a simple suit of steel, astounds me.


    ¡°You have worked hard,¡± I say simply.


    ¡°It''s not just my hard work I have to thank,¡± he says. ¡°You were the one who showed me what forging could be.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I was nothing back there. I was only a tenth degree.¡±


    ¡°But you were better than me. Don''t try to deny it.¡±


    ¡°A little, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°A lot. For me back then, nothing ever came together in the forge, not really. I don''t know why. I think I was too caught up in worrying about getting things as the textbooks and my older guildmates said they ought to be.¡±


    He puts the amulet back into his armor and tightens his breastplate up again, then continues.


    ¡°After the journey down to Allabrast, I was given a reward for telling honored Vanerak about you stealing the key.¡± He pauses. ¡°I won''t apologize for that. He needed to be told, for everyone''s sakes.¡±


    ¡°I don''t want nor need an apology. I have not tried to hide my crime since then, Hayhek. I even confessed it. I was ready to die for it.¡±


    ¡°That is good to hear. You have changed, then.¡±


    ¡°Only a little, I fear.¡±


    ¡°We will see. As I was saying, after we came to Allabrast, I decided to make a fresh start with my forging, to throw out what I thought I knew, to try and forge more like you did. You never seemed to care about precedent¡ªyou did what you thought would work best. That''s the impression I always got.¡±


    ¡°I suppose that''s true,¡± I say. ¡°I''m glad I ended up being a little help, then.¡±


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°More than a little. This amulet¡ªthe best thing I''ve ever forged, by a long way too¡ªI was able to forge because of the time we spent together. Without it I''d be bent and gray, shuffling toward the end of my life. But I''m not¡ªI''m a fifth degree, hale and healthy, and I can support my wife, ailing now, and my daughters. Teach them as well¡ªtheir mother didn''t want them to become initiates, and understandably¡ªbut I disagreed. Dragons don''t care what dwarves they kill. So every dwarf should strive to forge his or her own armor.¡±


    He sits back and breathes heavily for a while. I think he''s been planning out this speech for a while, maybe since even before my trial in Allabrast. I open my mouth to make a reply, but close it, for it looks as if he still has more to say.


    ¡°I still can''t forgive you fully,¡± he says. He scowls at me, though I get the feeling that the scowl is also directed at himself, that he''s angry at the fact he''s able to forgive me even a little. ¡°Not so much for Yezakh''s death. You never lied when you said you saved both of us. But in the end he ended up sacrificing himself for a dragon, and the black dragon at that. It''s a stain on his honor. One he''ll never be able to make back up.¡±


    I look down.


    ¡°Yet all the same,¡± Hayhek sighs, ¡°I also think he''d be proud of the runeknight I''ve become. Once he became old enough to see what I was, a joke, he never really respected me. Who would want a joke for a father? But now I''m a fifth degree. That''s a respectable rank no matter how long it takes you to get there. A fifth degree has to be a skilled smith and a fine warrior. And I think I can call myself both now.¡±


    ¡°You can,¡± I say. ¡°And you could back in the caves as well, and before then. You were never a joke. It was you who trained me into shape, remember?¡±


    He makes a dismissive gesture. ¡°You were like metal that forges itself.¡±


    ¡°You still guided me. And treated me like an equal despite the fact I was a miner. Few runeknights would ever do that.¡±


    ¡°You were an initiate at that time,¡± he points out. ¡°Others showed you kindness as well.¡±


    ¡°Even so, you were one of the first. And then I repaid you by... Again, I''m truly sorry. If there''s anything I can do, anything to help you further, even a little, I''ll do it if it''s within my power.¡±


    ¡°You are to do as our Runethane orders,¡± snaps Nazak. ¡°Not to do errands for your friends.¡±


    I glare up at him with as much anger as I dare to show. ¡°Our Runethane wishes for me to help all dwarfkind through my runes. And I plan to do so.¡±


    ¡°You should be more careful about how you speak.¡±


    ¡°I speak only the truth, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°I am not going to ask you for any personal favors,¡± Hayhek says quickly, giving Nazak a worried glance. ¡°I only wanted to say my piece, that''s all. I wanted you to know that even if you hurt me, you helped me also. I''m a proper runeknight thanks to you. You made me suffer, but you helped me too. You need to know that.¡±


    ¡°I...¡± I struggle to find the words. ¡°I''m thankful for you telling me. My guilt... It''s not an easy thing to bear. Not that I''m complaining. I deserve it, every ounce of it, every nightmare it gives me. Even so, I''m grateful for the slightest relief.¡±


    ¡°I''m happy to have given you some.¡±


    Our conversation pauses. Nazak looks impatiently at the door, but Hayhek doesn''t budge. He seems reluctant to leave me¡ªin his position I think I would want to get away as soon as possible, but something is keeping him welded to the chair. He is frowning.


    ¡°Our job down here is difficult,¡± he says suddenly, and he looks into my eyes. ¡°The magma is hot, and what''s in it is deadly.¡±


    ¡°You mean the demons?¡±


    He shudders. ¡°It''s bad luck to talk about those.¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry. I ought to have guessed.¡±


    ¡°No, no. You just came down here.¡±


    ¡°I expect I''ll learn about them soon enough.¡±


    ¡°There''s no doubt about that. Even if the Runethane keeps you up here, you''ll learn about what they are soon enough. But I don''t want to talk about them.¡±


    ¡°I''m not asking you to.¡±


    ¡°I think there is a favor I''d like to ask, actually. But not a personal one.¡±


    ¡°I''ll do anything.¡±


    He hesitates a little, considering his next words. ¡°You know,¡± he says slowly. ¡°The dwarves down here at the magma sea don''t despise you as much as you might think.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Most still despise you, don''t get me wrong.¡±


    ¡°I don''t blame them.¡±


    ¡°It''s just that our job is hard and difficult, and deadly, so we don''t have much time to waste on hate. Plus many of the miners aren''t from our original realm, but have been hired from the realms to the up and north of here, and they''re young¡ªthey were beardless when the black dragon struck. It was terrible news to them of course, yet very distant. You''re not quite a real figure to them, you might say. A part of history, recent and living history, but history all the same.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡± Nazak spits. ¡°They need to be educated properly. Fucking miners. I will teach them myself.¡±


    ¡°They do not like him either!¡± Hayhek says. ¡°He just isn''t quite real to them.¡±


    ¡°And what good will it do Zathar to know this, fifth degree? You do understand that his residing here is a cruel punishment. He is not meant to have comforters.¡±


    ¡°I understand that.¡± To my surprise, Hayhek suddenly turns to meet Nazak''s angry dark eyes. ¡°What I''m about to propose,¡± he says, with force, ¡°Will be a benefit to our efforts¡ªour efforts which the Runethane deems to be of the utmost importance.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± I ask, though I think I can guess.


    ¡°Heat is our main problem down here,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°If you could make runes that somehow work better to protect us from it, it would be a great help. A lot of the runeknights have spoken about this over meals. About how good it would be if our armor kept out the heat better. About if maybe your power could help with this. Of course I don''t know how your power works, if this is even possible, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Stop right there!¡± says Nazak. ¡°Zathar is to forge what our Runethane orders and nothing more.¡±


    ¡°He has given me leeway to forge whatever runes I wish,¡± I say.


    ¡°He would not be happy were he to know you let a fifth degree choose your runes!¡±


    ¡°I choose to help him myself. And not just him, but all the runeknights down here. If their job is really as important as Vanerak says it is, then why would he be angry at my helping it?¡±


    Nazak grits his teeth; he has no reply.


    I bow to Hayhek. ¡°I will grant your request. My first runes will be ones to keep out the heat. I don''t know quite what they will be yet, but that''s the purpose I''ll work toward.¡±


    ¡°Only if the Runethane gives permission,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°Please don''t obey our wishes over his. That''ll just cause trouble for us.¡±


    ¡°I''ll make sure he knows,¡± I say. ¡°Nazak, if you would be so kind as to tell him?¡±


    His face is twisted with anger¡ªit hits me that although he may have control over me, by the nature of my position, I also have control over him. It is a fact that I, the traitor, am more important to Vanerak than he, his loyal soldier is. He snarls his next words:


    ¡°Like I said, I will tell him everything, as is my duty.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, with proper deference and respect. I do not want to make him too angry.


    ¡°Thank you, Zathar,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°You have no idea how cruel the magma seas can be. Anything to make our lives and work a little easier will never be forgotten.¡±


    ¡°I will try my utmost to grant your request.¡±


    Hayhek stands up and reaches out a hand. I take it and shake firmly.


    ¡°We cannot be friends,¡± he says. ¡°But all the same I will put a good word in for you now and again. You made me suffer, but you also helped me a great deal. I suppose that''s in your nature¡ªeither you do great things or terrible. Nothing in between.¡±


    Nazak escorts him out. I sit back down at my desk, feeling a great deal better about myself all of a sudden. I may have done terrible things, hurt and even killed many who did not deserve it¡ªbut I am capable of good as well.


    I take out some fresh sheafs of paper and begin to draft ideas for how to cool off the terrible heat of magma.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 15: Passage to the Forge

    The long-hours pass in soothing silence. I feel nearly relaxed as I sketch my designs; my inkstick moves smoothly over the paper, creating breastplates, greaves, helmets and gauntlets. None are quite right, but each is an improvement upon the last, striking a little closer to the mark.


    I think over what poems I''ll graft to them as well. To get the power Hayhek and his comrades need, I''ll need a script just as strong as my one of cold¡ªstronger. Each and every rune will have to be as powerful as the one for salz I forged after diving into the snow.


    What element, what material, should my script''s power be inspired by? Stone and magma as the only two I have access to. How about something more esoteric? Certainly most of the first runeforger''s scripts don''t seem to have been inspired by anything as simple as snow, or magma, or stone. They are more broad. For me though, who is far less skilled than he was, starting off with a simple and tangible concept seems best.


    More than two long-hours after Hayhek''s visit, Vanerak finally returns to see me. I jump up from my desk when I notice him standing in the doorway¡ªI didn''t even hear the lock click in my concentration.


    ¡°Greetings, my Runethane,¡± I say, bowing low.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger. I see that you are working hard on your armor. I assume that to mean my first request has been completed.¡±


    ¡°Indeed it has, my Runethane. Let me get it for you.¡±


    I open my desk drawer and retrieve the full diagram of my ruby and its runes. I hand it to him. He unrolls it and briefly looks it over.


    ¡°Not just unaging indeed. Vitality. And violence.¡±


    ¡°An amulet of violence?¡±


    ¡°It could be called that. An amulet of unaging exudes power into the wearer''s body, keeping the bones from becoming brittle and the muscles from wasting. You have written for yours to do further, for your strength and stamina to be sustained during in combat¡ªand then further still, to make that combat a very part of you, to be the thing that gives you strength.¡±


    It is a very succinct description of my ruby, and an accurate one. It''s worrying how easily he seems to understand the craft, as if he understands my runes better even than I do.


    Surprisingly, he doesn''t seem to think as much of it as Wharoth did. He does not speak in reverent tones. To him this craft is clearly similar in neither quality nor character to the work of a Runeking. He speaks almost as if it''s normal to forge an amulet like this. Maybe it is, for him and other Runethanes, and Wharoth was wrong. Or perhaps he just doesn''t want to make me feel too confident in my power.


    ¡°Indeed, my Runethane,¡± I say. ¡°It''s a bloody craft. Many would say that fits my character well.¡±


    ¡°Yes. There are very few dwarves who have spilled as much blood so young as you have. I am not here to talk about your deeds, though. Sit down.¡±


    I quickly do so. He sits opposite and looks into my eyes¡ªI can feel his own from behind his mirror-mask. They are on me, and gazing intently, searching for something.


    ¡°It remains intriguing to me how you created such unique runes,¡± he says, ¡°truly new ones, before your powers properly awakened.¡±


    ¡°It is a mystery to me also.¡±


    ¡°Tell me again: when you created your most powerful rune, that reading salz, what did you see and feel?¡±


    I repeat the same story I''ve told him a dozen times already: ¡°I closed my eyes and focused on what I wanted the meaning of the rune to be. Cold, the sound of the word itself, salz, and in particular its aspects of emptiness and numbness. Then I felt myself sinking into the stone. My feet, then the rest of my body grew warm¡ª¡±


    ¡°Simply warm?¡±


    ¡°Hot,¡± I correct myself. ¡°Boiling hot yet with no pain. I saw yellow and orange light, shifting tides of it. Then I felt a surge of heat and power below me, and the form of the rune came into my mind.¡±


    I realize that I''ve closed my eyes; I open them.


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    ¡°Is that everything?¡± asks Vanerak. ¡°Every last detail?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say, worried that I''ve left something out.


    ¡°The form just came into your mind? You had no control over what it was?¡±


    ¡°Yes and no. I shaped it, but I didn''t put any thought into the shaping. I just shaped it into the form it was meant to be in.¡±


    ¡°That does not make sense to me. Explain yourself more clearly.¡±


    ¡°I...¡±


    I struggle to come up with something. To tell the truth, it is hard to remember exactly how I did it. What did I say last time he asked me this? Has he ever asked me this? I feel that he has, and that he seemed satisfied then at the answer I gave, but I can''t be sure. Our journey through the fume-clogged tunnels on the way to his realm is already hazy in my memory.


    ¡°I''m sorry, my Runethane. It''s difficult to recall every detail. It was quite a while ago now, and so many things have happened between now and then. When I next forge a new rune, I''ll try to remember the process in more detail.¡±


    Vanerak is silent for a few seconds. Fear grows in my gut.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he says. ¡°I would rather you tell me you do not know than make up some lie. It would not be a good idea for you to lie to me. As I''m sure I don''t need to tell you.¡±


    ¡°You do not, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°More than anything else, it would be a grave insult to us who took such risks to bring you back here. After the dragon''s death, it would have been extremely difficult for you to make it back from the mountain alone. Impossible, in fact, with the snows growing heavier and colder.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. I shall not lie to you. I have never even considered lying to you.¡±


    ¡°I should very much hope not.¡±


    ¡°I will write down every moment of the process in detail after I forge my next rune.¡±


    ¡°That you shall. And you shall create it soon¡ªyour forge has been completed and your supplies stocked.¡±


    I can''t help but feel a little joy at this. ¡°It has, my Runethane?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. Nazak will take you to it. I do warn you, however, that you may find one aspect a little distasteful. But it is necessary for the good of all dwarfkind.¡±


    My heart sinks. What aspect? Yet the only reply I can make to him is: ¡°Of course, my Runethane.¡±


    Seemingly satisfied, Vanerak stands up and exits the room, taking the detailed sketch of my ruby with him. Nazak comes in a moment later, scowling as always.


    ¡°Get up, traitor. It''s time for you to see your place of work.¡±


    I follow him out. Guards close tightly around me, more of them than usual, more than a dozen. They walk so near to me that my shoulders brush the plates of their tungsten armor. The metal is cold. I read the runes on those whose scripts I''m familiar with, and I am little put out to realize that the poems are not so different to the ones I put on my own armor of ice.


    They are a little less passionate, perhaps, but in form they are better made. There are no flaws in rhyme or alliteration, and their rhythm is exact also, the meters unwavering. The choice of runes has also been well-thought out¡ªactually, I have to admit, better thought out than my own choices were. Often in my poems I''ll put a word in that works with the poem, but whose power does not necessarily coincide with the power I want in the piece of armor.


    Their armor has been made to be armor as well, armor alone. Protection is foremost. It''s crafted to keep out heat and heavy blows, do nothing more and nothing less. And there''s a focus especially on keeping out the heat. I think that was a flaw in my own icy armor. My poems described a field of ice withstanding heavy blows, but only in one stanza did they have to resist fire.


    Perhaps if I''d gone for a more appropriate metaphor it wouldn''t have ended up melted beyond repair. Well, I''ll just have to think a bit more carefully on my next attempt.


    Nazak leads me and the guards through a zig-zagging tunnel that bores deep into the cliff. It''s well-ventilated, though after a certain point there are no more ventilation shafts. Instead alcoves in the wall appear, slightly raised. As we pass, guards step out from the formation into them.


    We take a sharp left down a corridor pointing backwards, and it''s so thin that we have to shuffle sideways. Then there''s a set of steep and uneven stairs, flanked by more alcoves into which several more guards step.


    Finally we reach a grand metal gate. Its lock is a vast, circular beast, humming with runic power. It exudes impenetrability, so much so that I wonder if Vanerak forged it himself.


    Nazak makes another sharp turn. Beside the gate is another thin corridor, cleverly worked into the dark stone so that it''s all but invisible. We travel down another twisting route and come to a different gate, with a different lock. This lock is smaller, and square¡ªordinary looking. The power it exudes, however, is far from ordinary. The runes covering every millimeter of it are too small to make out without a lens.


    ¡°I forged this lock myself,¡± Nazak says proudly. ¡°No one with less power than a Runethane could break through it. Our Runethane himself even said it would take him a while to get through. And the door was forged by me also, with the metal that only the greatest dwarves can utilize.¡±


    ¡°With the secret of true metal,¡± I say, almost unconsciously.


    ¡°You do not know that secret,¡± says Nazak. ¡°I can tell.¡±


    ¡°In order to forge the greatest runes I can,¡± I say carefully, ¡°perhaps I need to know it.¡±


    Nazak laughs sharply. ¡°Are you suggesting that I teach it to you?¡±


    ¡°Someone of your high level, or our Runethane himself, if he deems it appropriate.¡±


    Nazak laughs louder. ¡°The secret to making true metal is one that a runeknight must figure out for himself. It is too dangerous otherwise.¡±


    ¡°Dangerous in what way?¡±


    ¡°I''ve said too much already. You will be concentrating on runework, not metalwork, in here. Do not waste your time trying to find out the secret.¡±


    The lock clicks, one incredibly solid click that I feel in my bones. Nazak swings open the door. Three of the remaining six guards walk through with weapons drawn. A few seconds later they tell Nazak it''s clear.


    ¡°In, traitor!¡±


    He leads me into my new forge. I look around, and my heart sinks.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 16: Wealth of Resources

    There is nothing wrong with the forge itself. That''s not why my heart sinks. It''s equipped as well as any forge I''ve ever seen, with an anvil the size of a small boar, a heavy-duty, if primitive furnace, and a rack of hammers and tongs of every size and shape I might want spans the length of one wall. It is ventilated with small openings behind the furnace and over the top of the anvil, so despite the somewhat low roof I will not be choking. Light is provided by a dozen lamps of daycrystal, each of which catches the sun in its facets through a hundred miles of stone, or at least this is the spectacular effect they give off.


    No, my heart sinks because of what is around the forge. High in the walls small, barred windows are set, ten of them. Through each I can see a plain seat. They are positioned at just the right distance so that the viewers can observe the whole forge, everything I''m doing in it, and attached to each window is a lens on an adjustable arm as well, for when the viewers want to get a really close look at my runes.


    ¡°I''m to be watched while I forge?¡± I ask.


    ¡°You were in your trial, so why wouldn''t you be also in your punishment?¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°That was to ensure I wasn''t cheating. Why am I to be observed here?¡±


    ¡°I think you know.¡±


    ¡°I will be able to create new runes easier with some privacy.¡±


    ¡°You managed just fine during your trial.¡±


    ¡°Those were not my greatest works.¡±


    ¡°Is that so? Our Runethane disagrees. If you have a problem, you may take it up with him.¡±


    ¡°Is it he who will be watching me?¡±


    ¡°When he has the time. When he does not, I will watch you, or else another senior runeknight will. We will take extensive records which our Runethane will peruse when he sees fit.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    There''s no argument I can make which will sway him, nor Vanerak. That my work in the trial was some of my best is certainly no lie, and Vanerak is not going to throw away the opportunity to watch the second runeforger perform his magic just because of a minor taboo. In the future I''ll find some way to get rid of them. For now I''ll just have to bear the discomfort.


    ¡°Are you ready to get to work now, or do we have to walk you all the way back to your room? Do you need to sleep off the shock?¡±


    ¡°I''m ready to do some work if I have the materials. Do I?¡±


    He points. ¡°Check through that door.¡±


    I walk over to a tall door in the wall. I open it. A few strides down a short corridor and I come into a large storage space.


    A very large storage space. I stop still in shock, look from left to right. Before me are shelves bent with the weight of blocks and bars of steel, bronze, titanium, and tungsten. Rolls of silver, copper, gold, platinum and palladium wire lie upon others. At one side are open cases of glittering gems, and at the opposite side, on higher shelves, are labeled boxes, though boxes may be too small a word¡ªeach is a chest, and the labels read:


    Incandesite, jasperite, glasolite, quizik, jadyl, ratrag, wexspyr and hytrigite.


    All the eight major reagents, and all in great quantities. The air around me shivers with their power. In my nose is the smell of burning metal and molten glass, of dry ice and incense and distilled poison. I look back and forth over the boxes once more, taking in the various shades they glow in. I take down one of the boxes of incandesite and open it up.


    Inside are seven fist-sized nuggets of dark orange. Their warmth is stronger than that of burning coals, and the power I feel from them makes me giddy.


    The nugget I found buried in the wall, all that long time ago while I was a miner, was half the size and quality of even the smallest one in this box. My head begins to spin. I put the box back, and turn around, take in the sight of metal again.


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    This is a truly vast storage space for one dwarf, I realize. The scale didn''t quite hit me when I first walked in, not properly, but now it does. This room is about half the size of one of the Fort''s storage chambers, and those contained materials for the use of over two hundred.


    I look at the shelves with coils of wire on them. It cost half a year''s savings to buy just one coil of palladium, and there are ten here waiting for my use. And I have no doubt that if I exhaust my supply, the next time I return to the forge, there will be ten fresh ones sitting there.


    Advancement as a runeknight is as much about wealth as it is skill at the forge and ferocity in battle. I know this well¡ªthe armor of Broderick''s slain, fished out from the chasm river and melted down, was in large part to thank for my advancement from tenth to fifth degree.


    And now my resources are unlimited.


    Xomhyrk told me to become stronger. I can do this here, become much stronger. I can get to second degree at least, first degree if I can figure out the secret to true metal or maybe coax it from my watchers somehow, or even Vanerak. I was wrong to complain just before. Being observed is a small price to pay for a treasure trove such as this.


    ¡°Well?¡± says Nazak. ¡°I''m sure what you need is in there somewhere. And if not, I''m sure Vanerak can find it for you. You''re not to have any almergris though, nor any other material that might injure you too badly.¡±


    ¡°That''s fine,¡± I say. ¡°I don''t need any almergris. Just some tungsten will do for now.¡±


    ¡°Tungsten, is it? Try not to waste too much. You are to be given all the metal you need, but if you don''t accord it the proper respect our Runethane will not be happy.¡±


    ¡°What do you take me for? Even if I am the traitor, I am still a runeknight, and a dwarf. I do not waste my materials.¡±


    ¡°Tungsten is far harder to work with than even titanium. You will have a great deal of trouble at first¡ªbut fine, if that''s what you want to go with, it''s your decision.¡± He scowls. ¡°It''s not as if you''ll be losing any money if you fuck up.¡±


    He sounds resentful¡ªwell, who wouldn''t be? To see your hated enemy be given such wealth¡ªI am starting to feel bad for him, vile though he may be. Two of his comrades died so that I could be brought here and given these riches.


    I don''t feel bad enough to let his tone affect me though. After donning a salamander leather apron and pulling on a skin-fit pair of gloves of the same, I go to one of the metal shelves at the back where the tungsten is. I wrap my fingers around one of the smaller bricks. It feels cold even through the insulating leather. I grasp and pull it up. Momentum pushes me back, and I stagger a little, then nearly drop it. I end up squatting down in an extremely undignified fashion, straining to keep it from the floor, face going red.


    It''s not even that big! It''s just twenty or so centimeters long, half that wide and half again as thick. Yet it weighs a good portion of my own bodyweight.


    I knew it was more than twice as heavy as steel, but to feel it for myself¡ªsuddenly the task is daunting.


    Grunting and groaning, I manage to stand and carry it out the storage room. I grit my teeth and lift it up onto the anvil. Upon impact it makes a solid-sounding clang. I wince. Nazak is looking at me with disgust. Some of the other guards, who have taken up positions behind the windows, seem to be stifling laughter.


    I take a step back, breath deep a few times, and stare at the block of dark metal. Its color makes it more intimidating than steel or titanium. I sense a stubbornness about it, like it''s animal that''s going to refuse to move no matter how hard I goad it.


    I shake my head. I am being stupid¡ªI am a dwarf, a runeknight, and no metal is going to get the better of me. Before the short-hour is out, this brick is going to be a sheet. And through the hammering I will learn exactly the limits of this material.


    First it must be heated. I inspect the furnace, find the temperature dial and crank it up as high as it will go. There is a low rumbling, a sudden yellow glow, and magma flows into the heating chamber then around both sides of the tray. A magma furnace! I was wrong to assume this furnace was a primitive design. It is not complex, but it is sleek and efficient. It''s already hurting my skin to be too near it.


    I inspect the tongs on the tool rack and choose the heftiest pair. I close them around the block and, being very careful about where I put my weight, place it into the bright mouth of the furnace.


    Now to wait. I step back and try to remember all I''ve studied about forging with tungsten. The temperature must always be high, for at lower temperatures the metal is brittle and can shatter, although even at high temperatures the metal resists the hammer-strokes. I have heard it said that this metal is one that must be beaten into submission. It is the complete opposite to titanium. Tungsten doesn''t want to change shape; it wants to stay in the form it is. It does not want to be turned into armor¡ªthat is why in an unruned state it''s one of the worst metals a dwarf could fight in. It''s brittle and too heavy, like leaden glass. The poems I''m to enrune it with are going to have to be very clever.


    Yet despite all this, the minimum degree for a runeknight of Thanerzak''s army was fifth. Xomhryk''s Dragonslayers all wore tungsten too, and the lowest of them were fifth degree also. This task is well within my capabilities.


    The tungsten is glowing red, now orange. After a while, yellow. Should be about ready. I grasp it with the tongs and lift it back to the anvil. I pick up a lead-cored steel hammer of medium size and line up my first strike.


    I bring it down firmly. The impact reverberates up my arm, jangles my nerves and makes my wrist and shoulder hurt sharply. There''s no visible change to the tungsten.


    Just out of practice, that''s all. I need to be firmer, and totally unafraid. It''s just metal and I am a runeknight. It will be shaped as I see fit. I bring the hammer down again and there''s a sound like a gong cracking mid-ring. The tungsten cracks jaggedly down the middle and I shout out in dismay.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 17: An Insult to the Metal

    It was at yellow heat¡ªhow could it have cracked? How have I messed this up already?


    The guards behind the windows are shaking their heads. I don''t need to glance back at Nazak to know that he''s scowling in disgust at my incompetence. It only took two hammer-strokes for me to insult the metal.


    ¡°Not hot enough,¡± I say under my breath. ¡°Not hot enough, that''s all.¡±


    Tungsten emits bright light. I''ve read that before. So it follows that just because it''s glowing yellow, doesn''t mean it''s yet hot enough. It needs to be much brighter before I dare to strike it. So back into the furnace it goes¡ªone half of it anyway. The smaller broken part I move to the back of the anvil. I''ll shape it later.


    The metal goes from red, to yellow, and now to bright white. It hurts to look upon, but I''ve gazed on harsher light before. There is nothing supernatural about this light; it''s not the light of almergris. I can make out its shape clearly, the jagged crack and artificially cast edges. I place it on the anvil and strike firmly.


    It flattens, a little. Not hard enough! I strike again with more vigour. A dull clang rings out. My ruby blazes against my chest. It likes this kind of forging, this beating the metal into submission, and I think the metal is finally starting to bend to my will. It flattens where the hammer hits, and with each further beat it flattens more. It becomes a slab rather than a brick. Now I begin to aim my strikes with more care, trying to even out all the bumps.


    The broken gong sound comes again. I swear loudly. I''ve opened another crack, one leading from the side to the center. The metal has cooled down to whitish yellow, that''s why. I put it back in the furnace and wait for it to become white again. Once the color is a perfect counter-shade to the scar in my vision, I put it back on the anvil and get back to hammering.


    It''s tough work. With titanium, when I wanted to only flatten a small part, I''d take some strength from my swing, but with tungsten each and every strike must be brutal. I need to hit as hard as I can while still being as accurate as I can.


    Surely I''ll get used to it soon. Yet I don''t. Twice more the sound of a broken gong clangs through the forge, announcing another failure.


    Sweat drips from my beard. It runs down my arms and creeps into my salamander-leather gloves. My hands are shaking. My muscles feel as heavy as the tungsten I''m beating on. I ought to rest. How long have I been in here? Just like in my quarters, there''s no clock. Maybe Vanerak doesn''t approve of keeping track of time, or at least of me keeping track of it.


    I really ought to rest. But to rest now would be to admit defeat. Maybe if I were alone in here I would, but not while being watched. It would give my watchers, many of whom wear wry smiles on their faces, too much satisfaction.


    Back to hammering, heating, hammering again. I keep the metal blazing white. But maybe now I finally have the knack of it. It begins to submit to me, properly this time¡ªthere are no more rebellions. I am breaking its will; it flattens out into a half-inch thick rectangle. I aim carefully, strike violently. The ragged edge becomes even. The cracked parts meld back together.


    Now it''s an even quarter-inch thick. I lay down my hammer and step back. It is done. I have successfully transformed a brick of tungsten into a sheet. No¡ªI''ve only succeeded with half the brick, haven''t I? So I''ve half failed.


    I let my arms drop to my sides. I''m still going to call this a success. This was a practice, after all, just getting a feel for the metal. It''s been cracked and melted back together several times, so it''ll be useless for a craft anyway, unless I fold and re-hammer another half a dozen times until the flaws are worked away.


    That''s what I''ll do, actually. That''s the only thing to do¡ªI may have unlimited supplies of tungsten, but like Nazak said, Vanerak will not be happy if he hears that I''m wasting it.


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    ¡°I''m finished for now,¡± I say to Nazak between pants. ¡°I''ll head back to my room.¡±


    ¡°Already?¡± he says through the bars of his viewing-chamber. ¡°Aren''t you going to insult the metal further?¡±


    ¡°I will fold it and refold it until it is as strong as it was before. Stronger, even.¡±


    ¡°You will need to do that a hundred times before you come close to undoing the harm you just did. Your forging is disgraceful. I''ve seen sixth degrees work tungsten better. Runeking Ulrike''s examiners have gone very soft indeed, it seems.¡±


    I don''t let the insult affect me. ¡°I am happy to do it a hundred times.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane will not be. He wants to see your runes as soon as he can.¡±


    ¡°First I need a worthy surface to graft them to.¡±


    ¡°I''ll tell him he''s in for a long wait then. I don''t think you''re capable of creating a surface worthy of even the basest runes.¡±


    ¡°All the same, I need to rest now. In my bed and alone.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Pack your tools up then. Not your crafts¡ªget in the habit of that. You never know when our Runethane might decide to take a walk down here, and you don''t want him to think you''re hiding something.¡±


    I pack up my tools and take one last look at the tungsten sheet. Nazak is right to be dismissive. It is indeed an insult to the metal. If it were steel, it would be tenth degree work.


    How can I improve? Simple practice? Yet I get the strange feeling that I''m forgetting some vital aspect of forging. That I''ve forgotten some key, some tool, that''s always been a great help to me.


    ¡°Come on!¡± says Nazak. ¡°Or have you changed your mind?¡±


    ¡°Ears,¡± I say under my breath.


    ¡°What was that?¡±


    ¡°Never mind. You''ll know soon enough.¡±


    ¡°No mysteries, traitor. What did you say?¡±


    ¡°I said, ''ears''. That''s all.¡±


    He looks puzzled, then his familiar scowl reappears and I hurry to walk after him.


    <hr>


    I sit down at my desk as soon as I return to my room. I grab a new sheaf of paper and begin to sketch. No longer do I feel much exhaustion¡ªI let my arms dangle as we walked here, and the fatigue is all but gone from them.


    Runic ears. They were the greatest blessing, I think, that I got from the dwarves of the deep. It''s hard to imagine forging anything decent without the precision they give me.


    How were mine shaped again? And what poem did they have? I recall the basic outline and sketch it. I draw in settings for the garnets, or perhaps I''ll use diamonds this time¡ªyes, those from the troll. I draw its mirror image. They must both be exactly the same or they won''t work. That was ever the tricky part.


    Now to think of a poem. It must be short, and the structure will be strictly determined by the shape of the ears, yet that doesn''t mean I can''t be creative with the runes and metaphors. I think of cold mountains, and the whistle of the wind across the tundric plain. My script of cold won''t be any good for this poem; Volot script, that rare one of the surface, will serve me best.


    I sketch rows of runes across the pages. Wind twists and swirls. I calculate runic flow and power until my head pounds. Nothing perfect comes. I lay my head down on my desk, and wake up with an interesting idea swirling in my mind, desperate to get out.


    I write it down. It might serve, yet so might the next, which I write down also. I calculate runic flow. Yes, the second is best: it tells of a flake of snow, a crystal of almost infinite complexity, being brought to the peak of the mountain by wind that twists through the crags. Subtle and complex information is brought up by gentle flows of air.


    These runic ears are not for combat use. There is plenty of light here from the magma sea, and it isn''t even blinding light. No, my new runic ears will be for use in the forge only. They will be for small sounds close by.


    I have Nazak called:


    ¡°I wish to go back to the forge.¡±


    ¡°So soon? I thought you''d need more rest. Or does the memory of your crimes prevent sleep?¡±


    ¡°I''ve slept enough. I have work to do. And new runes to make.¡±


    We go back down through the twisting corridors, past the great false door, through the darkness-hidden passage to the true door. Nazak unlocks it and I walk in. Reverently I set the tungsten pieces from last session aside, and on the anvil instead place a small sheet of titanium. With a metal-pen I gently trace a diagonal line from corner to corner, then I cut very carefully with a diamond-edge saw.


    ¡°Let me warn you,¡± says Nazak. ¡°Our Runethane doesn''t abide by the use of saws. They waste metal by the dust they make. You ought to cut by blade.¡±


    I look at him. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°He would desire me to warn you of this. So consider yourself warned. At least use a chisel.¡±


    ¡°You are trying to sabotage my efforts.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane would have my head for that. And I can tell what you are going to ask next¡ªwhy even provide you a saw? He knows you are a lower ranking runeknight, who may out of necessity have to use such a crude tool. But you should not, if you are to stay in his good favor.¡±


    ¡°Then I thank you for the advice. Why tell me, though?¡±


    ¡°Like I said, he would desire me to. Now get on with your work, traitor. We''re all eager to see your runes.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 18: The Upper Excavations

    I heat the titanium then get to shaping. The anvil is spotless, without a single speck of rust upon it, so I have no need to mess around with glass-woven sheeting. With practiced care and quickness I bend each triangle concave, then I curl the edges around a little. I let the ears cool and examine to make sure they''re symmetric. They aren''t, so I tap away until I can see no difference between the two. I then take up the smallest hammer I have and chime each. I can hear a difference.


    I work hard to correct it. It''s painstaking work, and frustrating, but still it goes a lot better than my attempt with the tungsten. At the very least it''s not embarrassing. My watchers look confused, not disgusted or amused. Probably most have never even heard of runic ears before.


    Basic shapes done, it''s now time to work in the subtle folds and creases which will bring sound toward the harmonizing gems. I do one ear, making sure each fold is smoothly perfect, then use it as a model for the other. Again, they end up not quite symmetrical, so I pass another short-hour fixing this.


    I look around. Was it really a short-hour that''s just passed, or shorter, or longer? This forge is a timeless place, more so than any forge I''ve ever been in. But what does it matter how much time has passed? There is no rush¡ªVanerak is not on the edge of hurting me or my guildmates. He is being patient, and so I must be so too.


    For a runeknight, skill is forged in the slow-burning furnace of patience.


    So I spend yet more time perfecting the creases of the ears. When finally satisfied that they''re as symmetrical as I''ll ever get them, I take out my troll-diamonds. They glitter brilliantly under the sun-crystals'' light. One might expect diamonds grown from the skin of a troll to be dirty yellow ones, but no, they are pure and clear, of the best quality a gemcutter could ever hope to get his hands on.


    I recall that Vanerak does not abide pre-cut gems. Not for his senior runeknights. I don''t want to ruin something so noble as a diamond, so I go to my storage chamber and over to the open cases of gemstones. It''s strange to see diamonds and rubies glittering in the open without even glass to cover them. I ignore these most precious ones¡ªthough what does precious even mean when your resources are unlimited?


    For practice I''ll try cutting a garnet. Orange-red rather than blood-red, common dwarves call them false rubies, but this is a gross insult. Like all gemstones they are still concentrated power. I take the largest one back to the anvil, figuring it''ll be the easiest to work with.


    I kneel down and stare into it. Gemcutting. The second most noble form of art, though still quite a bit less noble than forging. Its secrets are passed down from father to son or mother to daughter. The gemcutters'' techniques are not taught in guilds¡ªall is kept within the family. Gemcutters'' guilds are commercial alliances only, I seem to remember Guthah telling me. I wish I''d asked him more about it.


    There''s an idea. He must know how to cut gems. He can tell me¡ªyet somehow I doubt Vanerak will grant him permission to come down here and teach me properly. And he wouldn''t be able to tell me much more than the basics anyway, since he decided to become a runeknight at an early age and was not much liked by his father for that.


    I''ll give it a try using only instinct first. Then I''ll arrange some way to seek his advice.


    I find myself a vise and clamp it to the anvil. Next I pick out a diamond-tipped chisel and lean in close to the garnet. Where to strike? I''ve heard that a gemcutter might spend months poring over a fine diamond, worrying over where and how to make the first cut. I''m sure they don''t spend that long with garnets, but all the same, I must be patient.


    This garnet is misshapen, a squashed sphere with protrusion at the top. I should get rid of the protrusion. That''s where to start. I line up my chisel so it''s pointed at a flaw running through the bulge and into the main part of the gem. I don''t know if this is where you''re meant to strike, but it seems like the right thing to do.


    I commit, strike firmly. The protrusion chips away and flies off into the recesses of the forge. It leaves a clean surface behind, which glints in the crystal light like a dull flame. I smile¡ªthis seems a decent enough start. My smile quickly turns into a frown though, because I have no idea where my next strike ought to go.


    What shape am I even going to cut it into? I have a vague image in my head of a cube, octagonally faced, with diamonds at the corners. When have I ever seen a gem that shape, though? And how will the shape affect the nature of the runes I carve into it? Nthazes taught me a little about gem shapes and enruning when he taught me how to forge runic ears, but I can barely remember his lessons. I think I barely understood them even at the time.


    My mouth curls into a grimace. This garnet is going to end up looking even worse even my sheet of tungsten. I attack it again; there''s a clinking sound and a jagged splinter flies off. I chip a few more splinters off. I take it out the vise and hold it up to the light. Well, I''ve managed to make a portion that''s vaguely octagonal. Very vaguely. I put it back in the vise and strike again. Now the octagon is a nonagon.


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    ¡°Oh, to hell with this!¡± I snap, and I slam my chisel down on the anvil. ¡°What''s wrong with buying gems?¡± I glare at Nazak. ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°With enough patience, a runeknight will become better than even a master gemcutter.¡±


    ¡°After a hundred years or so.¡±


    ¡°Or more.¡±


    ¡°In the meantime, what is wrong with buying gems?¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all. There are gemcutters here, you know. Our Runethane has not exiled them from his realm. Nor has he exiled all the metalcrafters.¡±


    ¡°Then I would like to purchase two diamonds, each the exact same size and cut.¡±


    ¡°The exact same size and cut? You would have to commission that job for a considerable fee.¡±


    ¡°Aren''t I to have all the resources I desire?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But why are you rushing?¡± He laughs. ¡°You are to remain here for many centuries. Many millenia, perhaps. For as long as you live. Why are you hurrying? You''re a runeknight¡ªhave patience. I am three centuries old myself. As old as your guildmaster. I have learned patience. Runethane Vanerak taught me it, and he will teach you it.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane wants his runes quickly, doesn''t he?¡±


    ¡°Well, that is true. But there is no need for you to make these first crafts perfect. Some in the lower degrees think the greatest runeknights spend centuries on a single craft. Some do, of course, on their greatest crafts, but for most of us, most of what we create is based on a dozen lesser creations that came before.¡±


    ¡°So what''s your point?¡±


    ¡°Make something decent so we can get our runes. Make something a little better next, so we can get more runes. And so on. I think that arrangement would be to everyone''s benefit.¡±


    ¡°This craft won''t work at all if the gems are badly cut!¡±


    ¡°So cut them well! It''s not so hard. I''m already getting the hang of it. It''s not so different to forging. You aim, you strike, you shape. Simple. Now get back to your work!¡±


    I scowl, but he has a point. It isn''t so different to shaping metal, just far less forgiving of mistakes. Maybe I should just buy some pre-cut ones¡ªbut that feels like admitting defeat. I whisper an apology to the garnet then spend the next short-hour hacking it apart. Flakes like dull sparks glint in the crystal-light before disappearing into the shadows. I am just starting to get a feel for the gem''s texture when suddenly there is nothing left of it.


    I pull at my beard. Becoming able to cut any kind of gem that''ll work will take an age. And become able to forge tungsten properly might as well. I look up at a blank space in the wall, wishing there was a clock so that I knew how much time everything is taking. How long will Vanerak''s patience last?


    I calm myself and get myself another garnet to practice on. More dull sparks fly. Some of the faces become more or less regular, yet not enough. Surely gemcutters sand their gems into shape, sometimes? Yes, I''m sure they do, and then they polish them. It''s not all cutting.


    I really do need to talk to Guthah about this.


    <hr>


    ¡°How do the miners progress?¡±


    ¡°Quickly, but to no avail.¡±


    ¡°None at all?¡±


    ¡°There have been a few signs, a few hints, but they all led to nowhere.¡±


    ¡°All of them?¡±


    ¡°All of them.¡±


    ¡°How many tunnels are being dug right now?¡±


    ¡°Forty-three, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°Of those being dug right now, yes. There are several hundred more that I have ordered abandoned. They uncovered no artifacts, and no black impervious.¡±


    ¡°Impervious. Is that what the miners call it?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It is all but impervious. We do not know what to make of it. The masons have never studied its like before. They cannot fathom how it was produced.¡±


    Runethane Vanerak is in the caverns above his rapidly-developing city to inspect the upper excavations. It is here that Runeking Ulrike predicts ancient knowledge to be held. He told Vanerak that he had great confidence in this, confidence founded in deep studies of his predecessor''s map and certain texts in the library pits. Yet so far there has been nothing. Just this strange black stone that the miners have taken to calling impervious, and uncarved, unlike the shards of it washing up on the magma shore.


    ¡°Do not call it by what the miners do. Nothing is impervious.¡±


    ¡°Very well, my Runethane,¡± says the excavation chief. ¡°I will have the masons come up with a better moniker.¡±


    ¡°You told me before I left that the stone comes in vertical layers, like walls.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Exactly like walls.¡±


    Runethane Vanerak listens to the sharp snapping of stones being broken. Though the two stand at a crossroad fortification far from the tunnel ends, the crack of the picks echoes down clearly through the lightless air.


    ¡°If the formations are exactly like walls, then it is probable that they are walls.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. I agree that that would be the most obvious explanation. But a wall with no lines between the blocks? It would have to have been cast, yet the stone is unmeltable, as its existence in the magma sea proves. And why go to the bother of making walls just to fill the rooms they create with more solid rock?¡±


    ¡°There was some calamity, of course.¡±


    ¡°Most masons still favor a natural explanation for the layers'' shape.¡±


    ¡°That is because it wounds their pride to consider that the ancients could build better walls than them.¡±


    ¡°You are likely right there. Still, it is too great a mystery for my mind, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°We will solve it. Runeking Ulrike is onto something vitally important. Push your miners harder.¡±


    ¡°We are pushing them as hard as they can take, my Runethane. Several die of exhaustion each long-hour. I do not mean to criticize your command, or impeach upon your authority in any way, shape or form, my Runethane, but if we push them any harder then before long we will have no miners left.¡±


    ¡°I will have more brought down.¡±


    The chief of excavations nods solemnly. ¡°Very well. But I must ask, what is the hurry?¡±


    ¡°The war between Runekings simmers. It is not frozen. And it could come to the boil at any point.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. That is just as you say.¡±


    But as Runethane Vanerak walks away, the chief of excavations cannot help but wonder if the promise of great power, of great new runes, has affected him somehow. Until now there was no reason to hurry.


    What, exactly, is his master plotting?

 Beyond the Magma Shore 19: Stone Leaves and Cutting Jewels

    ¡°Our Runethane says it is too soon for you to be let out into the main part of his realm, even under guard. However, you may meet your friend. He will be brought down. You will see that no harm has been done to him. Not a single hair in his beard has been so much as touched.¡±


    ¡°I thank you greatly,¡± I say, and bow deeply.


    ¡°It is not me you should thank, but our Runethane.¡±


    I bow even deeper. ¡°Of course. I apologize to our Runethane, and now thank him greatly also.¡±


    Halax shuts the door gently behind him. I breath out in relief, for he unnerves me even more than Nazak does. It''s something about the way he stares¡ªeven without his helmet of clarity of vision on, his eyes seem to be piercing right into my heart. In a way, his open stare is just as disturbing as Vanerak''s mirrored one.


    I''ve decided to stay away from gemcutting until I get my meeting with Guthah, since it''ll just waste materials, and right now I don''t particularly feel like wrestling with the tungsten while my guards watch on laughing either. So I go to my bookshelf and take a look at the titles Vanerak has provided me with.


    Until now I''ve only given them a cursory look, being more preoccupied with my amulet and designs for my armor, but I decide to choose one to read properly. Just because I don''t have the energy to go down to the forge doesn''t mean I can''t grow my skill.


    Dictionary of Upper Balhalgal; Dictionary of Lower Balhalgal; Comprehensive Dictionary of Yettrig Fourth Including New Discoveries from the City of the Dead; Thesaurus for Golthog, Valstrid and Holstig Basic Scripts...


    All are dictionaries and their like. Vanerak probably presumes that the more I expand my knowledge of existing runes, the deeper an understanding I''ll be able to obtain of the form of runes in general, which will show through in my runeforging, somehow. Probably he''s right, but I''ve already decided what script to use on my ears, and for my armor I promised Hayhek I''d pour all my energy into making a new script from nothing.


    I yawn. Maybe I should sleep¡ªcertainly I don''t feel like putting in the hard work of memorization. Then at the very bottom right of the bookshelf one catches my eye. The title is unreadable, but its color is unlike that of the others, a deep gray.


    Could it be...?


    Intrigued, I pick it out. The cover is cold and hard and the pages stiff. My suspicions are confirmed¡ªthis is not paper, but stoneleaf! I turn the book over in my hands, flick through it gently, marveling. How old is this thing? And where and how did Vanerak get his gauntlets on it?


    The secret of making stoneleaf, paper that is not treated fungal fibers but instead woven stone whose individual strands are all but invisible without the power of a thick lens, has been lost for many thousands of years. Books made of it are rare beyond rare, and more ancient than the past two generations of Runekings.


    I have never even seen one for myself before, let alone touched one. I thought they were kept in the basement archives of the very deepest libraries of Allabrast. Vanerak is a Runethane, so it wouldn''t have been much trouble for him to go down to peruse one, but to bring it back? Or if it is not from the libraries, then where?


    I open it up and am disappointed to find that I cannot make out a single rune. I am not familiar with this script, and it bears no resemblance with any other that I know. Maybe Vanerak has given me a dictionary that could be of use? I inspect each in turn. They pile up in a tower behind me. Now the shelves are empty, and the script the stoneleaf book is writ in was not noted down anywhere.


    I curse. There might be something vital in this book. It could be about the Runeforger, or the first runes. Maybe I''ll ask Vanerak about it, but then again, I don''t want to spend any more time in conversation with him than absolutely necessary.


    Xomhyrk could read runes he hadn''t seen before. He said there were patterns a knowledgeable enough runeknight could recognize. Could I develop that ability? Through memorizing enough scripts, I think I could.


    I turn to look at the tower of dictionaries stacked behind me. I smile grimly. I pick the top one off, take it to my desk, and get to memorizing.


    <hr>


    Guthah arrives quicker than I expected, only about half a long-hour after Halax told me my request would be granted. He seems reluctant to walk in, but the guards shove him through the doorway hard.


    ¡°Our Runethane orders that you speak to Zathar,¡± says Halax. ¡°It is your duty to help the runeforger, and through this help all dwarfkind who will be raised to great heights and deeps by his power.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± says Guthah. ¡°I''m sorry for being reluctant.¡±


    ¡°Sit down,¡± I say to him. ¡°Please. I just want to know how you and Pellas are getting on up there.¡±


    He sits down. ¡°Yes, instructor.¡±


    ¡°So, how have you been? How is life in our new realm?¡±


    He looks fairly bad. His face is warped by the burn-scars; patches of skin are shiny like melted wax. His light brown beard has grown back, but only thinly. He''s bound it into a single pleat which hangs down over his breastplate limp and sad.


    ¡°We''re both doing okay.¡±


    ¡°Just okay? Are your new guildmates treating you well?¡±


    ¡°Surprisingly well. Well, they don''t know I was once part of the Association. They regard us as small heroes for taking on the dragon, though some seem a little jealous.¡±


    ¡°Jealous? Do those ones pick fights with you?¡±


    ¡°Nothing like that. They just act unfriendly.¡±


    ¡°I see, I see. And your health?¡±


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°My skin is still a mess. Inside I''m fine. I can forge.¡±


    ¡°So your arm is fine too? That''s a relief.¡±


    ¡°It''s still slower and weaker than it once was, but I can use it.¡±


    ¡°That''s good, that''s good. And Pellas?¡±


    ¡°She''s well too.¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry, I should have asked for her to come down as well. It was rude of me not to.¡±


    ¡°It''s fine. She doesn''t want to come down here anyway.¡±


    ¡°I see. Of course. I can understand that. I sense that you don''t really want to be here either.¡±


    Guthah shifts uncomfortably and looks away.


    ¡°You don''t have to reply to that,¡± I say.


    ¡°We can''t help feeling that you somehow abandoned us. And I know the black dragon was more important, far more important, yet¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yet all the same I promised to protect you. I''m sorry that I couldn''t do that. I should never have made a promise I couldn''t keep.¡±


    ¡°And then there was poor Ulat as well.¡±


    ¡°He deserted of his own will. And I did spare him.¡±


    ¡°You left him alone in the cold wilderness. He''s probably dead now.¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± I admit. ¡°I''m sorry for that as well. I should have brought him back to face a just punishment. Same with Faltast.¡±


    ¡°You should have.¡±


    ¡°What''s done is done though. All I can do now is try better. I won''t let Vanerak harm you.¡±


    ¡°Runethane Vanerak,¡± Halax corrects. ¡°You are to address him properly, no matter the context in which you speak.¡±


    ¡°I apologize. I won''t let Runethane Vanerak harm you.¡±


    ¡°Can you keep that promise?¡± asks Guthah.


    His voice has a force to it I''ve never heard from him before. I bow my head.


    ¡°You''re right to doubt. I don''t know if I can. I take it back. But if it''s in my power, I''ll try to see that you come to no harm. That''s what I swear. I''ll protect you if I can.¡±


    Guthah nods. ¡°I''ll accept that. Though to be honest I''d rather rely on my own armor than you anymore, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Of course. That''s what you should do. I see you''re in new plate. Has our Runethane given you materials as promised?¡±


    ¡°Plenty. And we''ve paid for instruction from some of the senior runeknights too. I think I''m getting better with my poems.¡±


    I read the first few lines on his breastplate. The runes are well chosen, and they rhyme while keeping a decent flow of power. They''re not the best formed, and the metal they''re made from is low quality, but as a whole, the work is of solid ninth degree quality.


    ¡°You are getting better," I assure him. "Are you looking to take the examination soon?¡±


    ¡°We both are, but we''ve heard they''re harsh down here. Our Runethane doesn''t think progressing up the degrees should be easy.¡±


    ¡°Many deaths each time?¡±


    ¡°A few, yes. The others don''t care¡ªthey say if the examination had no risk then it would have no value.¡±


    ¡°They''re not wrong, although...¡± I feel Halax''s eyes boring into me. ¡°Well, I''m sure you''ll both do fine. It can''t go any worse than your exam for tenth did. I don''t think he''ll unleash anything like a bzathletic on you.¡±


    ¡°I hope not.¡±


    ¡°You''ll face up to whatever comes at you just fine. You''ve faced far worse than whatever he can bring in.¡±


    He nods. ¡°I can''t imagine there being lightning, or a monster of ice, or, well, a dragon.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. If you could face down the black dragon without fear, you can face down anything.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Even if my arm doesn''t work as well as it once did.¡±


    ¡°A better spear will make up for that.¡±


    He nods again. ¡°It will have to.¡±


    I pause, feeling a little awkward.


    ¡°There''s another reason I asked for you to come down here, actually. A somewhat selfish one.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°I wanted your advice on something. About forging.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± His brows shoot up in shock. ¡°You want advice from me?¡±


    ¡°About gemcutting. Your father was a gemcutter, wasn''t he?¡±


    ¡°He still is.¡±


    ¡°So I assume you know the basics of it.¡±


    ¡°Just the basics. He only taught the real secrets to my brothers.¡±


    ¡°You must know more than me though. I know nothing.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. I had plenty of chances to watch him work.¡±


    ¡°I was hoping you could tell me how to do it. Our Runethane doesn''t like his senior runeknights using pre-cut gems. He thinks we can do it better ourselves.¡±


    ¡°Yes, a lot of runeknights are of that opinion.¡± He glances at Halax, and doesn''t expound on the thought.


    ¡°I don''t mean to offend you or your family, of course. But it is his opinion, and so I''ve been trying myself.¡±


    ¡°How did it go?¡±


    ¡°It went poorly.¡±


    ¡°That''s why apprentices practice on stones.¡±


    I laugh. ¡°Yes, I ought to have done that too. I broke it apart completely.¡±


    ¡°You broke it apart? How?¡±


    ¡°I couldn''t aim the chisel properly.¡±


    ¡°And it shattered?¡±


    ¡°Not as such. I just couldn''t get the shape right, and kept going, and after a while the gem wasn''t there anymore.¡±


    ¡°That''s no surprise. Instructor, it''s gemcutting, not gem-chiseling. The chisel is just to get out the rough shape. Then you use a saw. A very fine saw, with diamond teeth.¡±


    ¡°And if I''m to cut diamond?¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t try that anytime soon.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course. I won''t. Not anytime soon. So you''re saying I cut it into shape?¡±


    ¡°First you make a diagram of what shape you want. Then you get the rough shape with the chisel, then you gradually facet it. Then you sand, then you polish. Polishing takes the longest, though it isn''t as nerve-wracking as the faceting.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I think I understand.¡±


    ¡°Those are only the very basics. You have to think about what shape will best fit the gem, bring out its best qualities. And when you sand you need to be careful not to sand away too much and ruin the shape. Then...¡± He waves his hands. ¡°There''s too much for me to explain. And a lot more I can''t explain. I don''t know what degree I''d be if I were a gemcutter, if they had degrees, but not a very high one.¡±


    ¡°The basics are all I need. I''ll work out the rest for myself.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I''m sure you will. I''d like an equal exchange though, instructor.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°I''d like some advice on my own armor.¡±


    ¡°Stand up.¡±


    He does so. I read the poem on his breastplate in full. It describes a dwarf taking blows from many opponents, though none fell him. It has all the right runes but very little originality.


    ¡°You can sit back down. It''s decent enough metal, but your runes... Well, they''re better than they used to be. You need to be a little more creative though. The metaphor is important as well as the runic flow and what runes you use. It''s more important, in my opinion. Try to be a little more original.¡±


    ¡°How could the runes tell if the poem is original or not, though?¡±


    ¡°Why would they have to?¡±


    ¡°I mean, surely they''re what gives the poem power. Not the reader.¡±


    ¡°It''s... It''s not about the originality, not really.¡±


    ¡°What then?¡±


    ¡°It''s about if the metaphor fits you and this particular piece of equipment especially. You write a poem the same as everyone else''s, with the most obvious themes, then you''re not writing a poem for your equipment in particular.¡±


    He nods. ¡°I think I understand.¡±


    ¡°Think carefully about your way of fighting, and what you want your equipment to do. Then create a poem to fit.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± His face takes on an expression of grim determination, mouth a thin line, eyes hard, so that despite the weak beard he looks more dwarvish than ever. ¡°I''ll remake it from the start. I still have the funds. And I''ll pass the advice on to Pellas too.¡±


    ¡°You''re more patient than I ever was,¡± I say. ¡°You, and Pellas also. Do you spend a lot of time with her?¡±


    Something shines in his eyes, and his grim expression softens slightly. ¡°You could say that.¡±


    I smile. ¡°Good on you both then. And good luck with your forging.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, instructor. We''ll try to do you proud.¡±


    ¡°And I''ll do the same, down here. I hope my runes prove useful to you, when our Runethane lets them filter up.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure they will.¡±


    "And... I really will try to protect you. Maybe I can''t do much from down here, but at the very least, I''ll do my utmost not to put you both in any danger."


    "Thank you, instructor. Please try to keep that promise this time."


    "I will."


    He stands, bows, exits. I feel a little sad, a little empty. He didn''t think my last words meant very much. I could tell by the look on his scarred face.


    ¡°That was good advice you gave him,¡± Halax says to me. ¡°Many runeknights undervalue the beauty of metaphor, but you seem to understand it well, even if your poems are too short and simple to be truly great.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say, a little taken aback.


    ¡°I look forward to utilizing your runes. They have the potential to raise up my power to even greater heights.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 20: Vanerak Watches

    Over the next dozen long-hours, I apply myself fully to the three tasks I''ve set myself: undoing the harm I caused to the tungsten block, gemcutting, and memorizing the four dozen runic scripts on my bookshelf.


    The forge echoes with the dull clang of tungsten as I beat it into shape. Its bright white glow casts vivid shadows from the barred windows onto the guards behind them, who, on the few occasions I spare them a glance, look bored. They want to see me make runes. I will, soon enough, once I''m confident enough with my gemcutting.


    I progress fast with that new skill. It''s small and tricky work, but that''s what I''m good at. Shaping a gem is not so different to shaping a rune¡ªboth are things of power and alive in some way. I take to the task naturally.


    One by one the rough garnets become good enough, if not for crafts, then at least for some semi-expensive jewelry. I make no major errors. Maybe Vanerak is right: if you can create runic weapons and armor, cutting gems should be no issue at all. This way I''ll be able to get the exact shape I desire for my runic ears too. Rather than having to work my poem around the shape of the gems, I can shape the gems to be the perfect fit for my poem.


    Hour after hour goes by like fast-flowing water as I chip, cut, sand and polish. Gemcutting, I realize, ought to be as vital a craft to a runeknight as forging is. The hill dwarves covered their armor in gems. They realize this too I''m sure. Gemcutters must turn a very tidy profit in their realm, enough to buy themselves good enough runic armor to leap ahead in the degrees.


    Back to the tungsten. I hammer away. Whoever told me working tungsten was beating it into submission was incorrect. It''s the same as hyrtrigite¡ªit won''t abide weakness. The harder I beat it, the more respect I show it. I am telling it that I believe in its strength. And if I believe in it, it will believe in me.


    All metaphor, of course. It''s not alive¡ªI can''t sense the secret of true metal, that strange solid power that Vanerak and his first degrees'' armor exudes.


    What goes into the palace-foundry, but not out? Metal does.


    The riddle distracts me sometimes when I''m deep in my dictionaries. I can still find no answer¡ªand I won''t get it from these books.


    It''s been a long while since I sat down and actually tried to memorize a script. It shames me to admit it, but when composing past poems I''ve often had a dictionary on hand for reference, for when I forget the rune for a certain word, or what connotations and secondary meaning a rune I''ve just written also carries.


    A runeknight should carry all that information in his mind and in his mind alone. You can''t create art if you have to keep stopping to flick through the pages of your dictionary. You need to be aware of connotations and secondary meanings as you write, in the moment, or the metaphors won''t flow.


    But it''s damn hard work. I write each rune and its meanings down fifty times and fifty times again. Then when I test myself a few pages later, I''ll find I''ve forgotten how to write one, or five. The process is like walking up a hill of ice. Just when I think I''ve advanced, I realize I''ve actually slid back fifty yards.


    Back to the tungsten and gems, to give my mind a break. I fold the tungsten over for the hundredth time. I beat hard. Hammer-stroke by hammer-stroke it flattens out. The white light that shines out from it becomes pure, almost like the sun''s light. It overwhelms even the beauty of the daycrystals embedded in the ceiling. I even out the edges a little and step back.


    ¡°Well?¡± I say to Nazak. ¡°Will you admit that I''ve done a good job?¡±


    ¡°You have repaired the insult,¡± he says, begrudgingly. ¡°But our Runethane wants his runes sooner rather than later. He is getting impatient.¡±


    ¡°He will have them very soon.¡±


    I pick out two garnets of roughly equal color. I spend an hour examining both thoroughly. I draw their shape and shade in their imperfections onto a blank sheet of paper. I lodge them into the vise next to each other. Onto the diagram of each I overlay a pattern of facets, and I draw an unfolding of the facets below with exact measurements noted down.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Then, very carefully, taking a minute to line up each blow, I chip them into size and rough shape. Dull shards glitter on the darkness of the floor. These aren''t waste¡ªthey''re like the limestone shell, the grit, or dirt that must be taken away to reveal the gems'' true beauty. While metal can always be melted down and reforged, gemstone cannot, and thus I am insulting nothing.


    I take out a tiny saw. It''s one I ordered specially, smaller than any for cutting metal. The blade is but the length of my finger. It is of course diamond edged, and the edge is formed from one diamond, formed somehow into peaked waves as razor sharp as the teeth of deepwater amphidons. It cost as much as any other diamond of such quality and beauty would¡ªand I have been provided with it for free.


    It slices through the garnet as if the stone is soft as steak. Each stroke I measure carefully with both eye and measuring ruler, which is also the best gold can buy, an ancient piece from Allabrast, calibrated without error against the official notches.


    Slice by slow slice I facet the two gems. They become twins. I can feel the life in them set loose by my shaping. Once the facets are cut, I sand down the few rough angles. This takes less than a short-hour. I worry that I''m not taking enough time while I do it, but when I finish and take a good look at them under the light of the daycrystals, my worry vanishes.


    If only a poor worksdwarf blames his tools, what does that make a dwarf who thanks them? My saw made the cutting almost easy.


    I turn the garnets over a few more times. Maybe I''m praising myself too much. These are not the most powerful or heaviest gemstones, and the cut I''ve chosen is only a simple brilliant octagon. Maybe I should have gone with something more complex, since one of the themes of my poem is to be the complexity of the information brought to the mountain''s peak, and a tricky series of short stanzas across many facets would have achieved a certain poetic reflection between theme and structure.


    I''m no master gemcutter, that''s for sure. But they''re good enough, and I don''t want to keep Vanerak waiting too long. On my next session I solder them into the ears with a titanium-silver alloy. I chime the crafts just to make sure they''re still symmetrical. There''s a slight discordancy¡ªone gem is a little squint. I melt the solder with a rod of bright tungsten and adjust. I chime again. It''s fine.


    I''m ready to enrune. From my storage I bring out a coil of palladium wire. I unwind a little and examine it closely. It''s not quite as high quality as that I got from the hill dwarves, with very little of the softness and feeling of life that material had, but it''s still very pure. I unroll my paper with the draft of the poem on it. I read over, make some adjustments, and stretch out my fingers.


    ¡°Stop!¡± says Nazak.


    I jump¡ªI''d forgotten about my watchers'' presence.


    ¡°Are you about to enrune?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°You should have warned us beforehand. Our Runethane will wish to watch himself.¡±


    I can''t help but scowl. ¡°You never told me this.¡±


    ¡°It should be obvious.¡±


    ¡°You said you were going to take extensive notes for him. That implies he isn''t going to watch himself.¡±


    ¡°No, but since this is the first time, he will appreciate it if given the opportunity. Perhaps he will be angry if he is not.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps he will be angry if I am delayed.¡±


    ¡°That is my business, not yours. I will make the judgement¡ªstop your hand while I have a message sent.¡±


    He orders one of the guards to go and find him. I sit down on the floor. My irritation slowly gives way to fear. What if I can''t explain the process to him properly after I write? Already he suspects I''m hiding something. I''m sure he does. Just a single wrong word from me and I condemn Guthah and Pellas to painful deaths, right after I made a new promise to them.


    I can''t sit down any longer¡ªend up pacing around the forge. Vanerak is on his way. He could walk in at any second. He will drop everything to come and see this.


    He has. The door opens and through he walks. The daycrystals are like nine spots of fire on his mirror-mask. They seem to shiver a little.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    I bow. ¡°Greetings, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I hear that you are about to create runes for the first time in my realm.¡±


    ¡°That is correct, my Runethane. I am sorry that I did not notify you of my intentions.¡±


    ¡°I accept the apology.¡± He positions himself on the other side of the anvil. ¡°I see that on the paper there are nothing but old runes.¡±


    ¡°Yes. New ones never come onto simple paper. I must have metal in my hands.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, you have told me this before. It is interesting to see it for myself. I am greatly looking forward to seeing the whole process.¡±


    ¡°Today I plan to do things my old way, where I make the runes I''ve set into a poem more suited to that poem through certain alterations.¡±


    ¡°That will suffice for now.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane.¡±


    He leans forward. I sense that his gaze is cast upon my hands, which are already clutching a length of palladium wire and a set of clippers.


    ¡°Begin, Zathar Runeforger.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 21: Prerogative of the Runethane

    I read through my poem again, twice, to get its words firmly into my mind. I shut my eyes, erasing Vanerak. I concentrate hard, trying to imagine the magma seas and the sphere. But nothing comes¡ªI just begin to feel sick. I smell sulfurous fumes, see jagged black shards, but no vision comes.


    I open my eyes, gasping and sweating. Vanerak is watching impassively. I screw my eyes up tight again. I will the magma sea to come, for me to sink into its depths. I go through my poem again. No power comes.


    Gasping for breath, I slump to my knees. I nearly retch. Where''s the power? Where''s it gone? In Vanerak''s presence it won''t show itself.


    ¡°If you could... If you wouldn''t mind... Stepping back a few paces?¡± I manage to choke out.


    Vanerak takes a single step back.


    ¡°I thank you most greatly, my Runethane.¡±


    I stand back up and shut my eyes again. I try to remember what I told myself in the arena when I felt fear of him then. How did I break out of that fugue? I reminded myself of something, something important. What was it?


    Try as I might, I cannot recall. I''ll have to think of something new then. What?


    I find something: I have a power no dwarf has held for a hundred thousand years, and it is my power. Mine alone. Try as he might, watch however closely as he might, Vanerak will never learn it. It is not something that can be learned. It springs forth from me and me alone.


    And through it I will surpass him. When I grow great in skill, he shall be my prisoner, and he''ll pay for his lies and tortures.


    Heat subsumes me, the heat of magma, of deep and hot magma. It''s thick and thick with power. Something displaces it, pushing me forward¡ªthe sphere. I can feel a coldness behind my back, the metal touching me, and beyond the metal three further coldnesses.


    I chant my poem in my head, and alter it. Boiling heat eddies around me and around the lines I chant, and I see the runes twist. They take on new meanings. The runic flow alters, becomes smoother and stronger.


    The flake of ice grows tenfold in complexity and fragility. The winds that carry it take on the forms of hands, passing it quickly and carefully from crag to crag, through wind-blown tunnel and over snow-coated spire. It comes to rest on the mountain peak under a dark sky of complete clarity.


    I open my eyes. My fingers blur as I hurry to shape the runes. The script is still Volot, yet not quite. There are more flowing curves, less sun-circles. Elements inappropriate for my poem, for the particular objectives and imagery I want, have been culled.


    All the while Vanerak watches on. But I will surpass him with this power. He can watch all he likes, but he will never be able to copy what I do.


    I hope.


    The poem is done. I rest my hands either side of it and breath heavily. My fingers are shaking and twitching. My ruby throbs warmly as it offsets my fatigue¡ªthis was combat of a sort, of my fear against my mind.


    ¡°Describe to me what you just did,¡± Vanerak orders.


    ¡°I...¡± I struggle to gain control of my breathing. ¡°I felt the magma around me¡ª¡±


    ¡°At first you did not. Why? And how did you eventually find the power?¡±


    My vision swims. My fear has returned. One word wrong and terrible consequences will follow. As for surpassing him! I feel the solid power surrounding his armor more strongly than ever. It doesn''t just surround his armor; it is his armor. There is no distinction between runic power and tungsten; they are one and the same.


    ¡°I was afraid,¡± I say quietly. I should be as honest as I can.


    ¡°Of me, I presume.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Yet you overcame this fear.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°I simply ran away from it," I lie. "I told myself that within my power there was no fear. That I could just exist in the magma.¡±


    ¡°And then it took you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I felt the heat come around me as it always does.¡±


    ¡°I thought it always came around your feet at first, as if you were sinking into it. Has something changed?¡±


    ¡°This time was different,¡± I say. My mouth has gone dry.


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    ¡°Yet you said, ''as it always does.'' Or did my ears deceive me?¡±


    ¡°Your ears did not deceive you, my Runethane. I misspoke, that is all. It has been a long time since I last used this power. For a moment I forgot how it usually came upon me.¡±


    ¡°Very well. And did the heat increase after it first subsumed you?¡±


    ¡°The magma grew thicker. Then it grew hotter as my power came forth.¡±


    ¡°Did it come upon you with no warning?¡±


    ¡°Not quite. I chanted my poem in my mind, and then my power came upon me. It swirled around me, changing the runes as I imagined them.¡±


    ¡°You did not consciously choose the design of the runes, however. They changed in their own ways to fit how you wished to improve your poem. Is this correct?¡±


    ¡°You are correct, my Runethane.¡±


    He is silent for a while.


    "Is there something wrong, my Runethane?" I say, beginning to feel sick. Has he seen through my lies, my omissions?


    "Always when you create the runes you see them in your vision, then hurry to create them once your vision has faded. Is this correct?"


    "It is, my Runethane."


    "But how much of the new runes remain after your vision has faded?"


    "Everything remains."


    "How can you be sure of that?"


    "I have a good memory for runes."


    "But the place your vision takes place in is far from here. Who knows what becomes lost on the way back? Would it not be better to twist the runes while you remain in your trance?"


    "My Runethane, with all respect, I do not see how that could be accomplished."


    "It will not be if you do not try."


    "My Runethane, I don''t think it is possible."


    "But it may be." He waves his hands over the runes. ¡°This poem is improved. But it can be improved further, the runes made more original, more powerful and fitting. The sensitivity of your runic ears can be improved tenfold. Do you not want this?¡±


    My nausea is increasing with every word he utters. ¡°I''m not sure what you are suggesting, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I think I have made it very clear what my wish is. Take this poem and rewrite it while you are in the midst of a trance.¡±


    ¡°I... I don''t know how, if¡ª¡±


    "Your greatest craft you have yet made is your ruby amulet. Yet you told me that you were not fully aware of what you were writing when you created it. At that time, you had never yet fallen into your magma trance¡ªall the same, I think it is possible that you were in some kind of trance while you wrote it. Does that not seem likely to you?"


    "I mean, maybe that''s possible, but my Runethane, my ruby is cruel! I have told you what it drove me to¡ª"


    ¡°Your ruby saved your life. You should be thankful to it. You should honor it.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane, I do not see how I can do what you ask!¡±


    ¡°As my runeknight, I expect you to do any task I set you, no matter how unclear the way may be. Some tasks I set my runeknights prove deadly¡ªbut that is my prerogative as Runethane. I may order you to do as I please. I have that right, which derives from my superior power. That is how order is maintained, how discipline is kept strict. The weak do as the strong¡ªwho are strong through hundreds of years of experience and wisdom¡ªsay, or the order of the underworld would disintegrate.


    ¡°So as your Runethane, I order you to redo this poem while in a runeforging trance. I am wise and see that you have the capability. You will now exercise it.¡±


    I can see nothing past his mirror-mask. But in his voice there is anger and hunger. It does not sound quite like the voice of a dwarf. It is like the voice of the black dragon.


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane,¡± I whisper.


    ¡°Begin,¡± he orders.


    I read over the poem, the new runes. I memorize them fast, like they''re how the runes of Volot always were, how they should be. Then I brush them away with a sweep of my arm. They clatter on the floor. They are old runes too now.


    I draw out a length of wire and ready my fingers to twist. I shut my eyes. For a few moments I feel nothing; fear still has hold of me. Gradually, however, the heat comes around me regardless. My vision turns into shades of red, orange, yellow and white. The presence of the sphere weighs on me, a solid shadow. I go through the runes, and they twist further¡ªbut not far enough, not for what Vanerak wants to see. The power isn''t strong enough. I''m not drawing on enough of it.


    I will more forth. The colors around me lighten. The heat increases. It becomes pain, like I''m in a bath that''s too hot and getting hotter. Far away, I feel a groan escape my lips.


    The pain is becoming unbearable. The poem! I must warp the runes. I must put this power into them before it tears me apart. I focus on the first rune. It alters beyond recognition.


    Far away, my hands move.


    Next rune! It warps as well. This time I don''t feel my hands move, but they must have. If they hadn''t, if I hadn''t released some of this power into the world outside my vision, it would have burned me to ash.


    The runes start to move faster through the power, or maybe the power moves more quickly through them¡ªthe power, for surely it is not my power, but the real molten power of the world''s blood, merely being harnessed by me.


    The Runeking was wrong and Vanerak is right. This is not internal power, but the power of magma deep below. My vision is reality.


    The white magma grows hotter. Someone far away screams. The final runes pass through the magma, altered in some way I cannot tell right now. The power is still there though, and flowing through me fast. It is starting to burn me up¡ªand my ruby is burning too, against my chest.


    It is something solid and real. It is where my body is. I imagine myself swimming up to it, away from the boiling rock and metal of the world''s core. It is a drop of vital red amid the merciless heat. I envision myself reaching for it¡ª


    I fall backwards. My head cracks on the stone. My skin feels as if aflame. The air inside my lungs is hot and choking. My ruby has gone past heat and become cold. Waves of relief wash out from it, cooling me from within.


    ¡°Get him some water,¡± says Vanerak.


    Nazak grabs the back of my head and forces a cup to my mouth. I gulp it down, cough and splutter. He pulls me up and slaps me hard on the back.


    ¡°Nearly killed yourself there, runeforger,¡± he laughs.


    I stare at my hands. They''ve gone red as if burned, though the red fades by a shade with each cold wave that washes through my body from the ruby.


    ¡°Stand him up,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°He should see his own craft. He should feel its power for himself. And he must read its runes to me.¡±


    Nazak grabs me under the armpits and pulls me up. He pushes me toward the anvil. I prop myself up against the cool steel and stare blankly at my craft.


    I blink a few times.


    I''ve done it again. I''ve crafted without being aware of what I was crafting, and this time I have gone farther than ever.


    Upon the anvil is a completed set of runic ears, its runes grafted with jasperite and its garnets deftly and complexly inscribed.


    And the poem''s meaning has changed.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 22: Unanswerable Questions

    ¡°I am impressed, Zathar Runeforger. You have done powerful work here.¡±


    I can''t reply; I remain frozen with shock at what I''ve created. My eyes run over the runes over and over again.


    The structure of the poem remains the same, the basic narrative also. Most of the verbiage is intact too, though the runes for those words are new, and their connotations often reversed. The runic flow also remains surprisingly intact.


    The nouns have changed. Nearly every one of them. A flake of ash, carrying on its texture the record of a burning battlefield, is brought down into a twisting cavern by cold and fierce wind, which is said to be like clawed hands. It sinks through broad tunnels, passes by stones in the shape of bones, by piles of dry obsidian sand, around hollow pits and down some of these latter also. Finally it comes to rest in a black place. There is stillness where it rests, the stillness of oblivion.


    ¡°It won''t work,¡± I whisper. ¡°The metaphor is wrong. The information must come to an open place, not a closed one.¡±


    ¡°Is that what these runes say?¡± asks Vanerak. ¡°Read me them.¡±


    I do so. Vanerak nods in satisfaction.


    ¡°I think they will work as intended. Is your ear not a cave leading into your head? The underworld is a living place also¡ªwhat falls into it, should it prove interesting enough, will eventually be uncovered. Equip them.¡±


    ¡°I have not yet forged the band to keep them in place, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Then do so. Does it need to be enruned also?¡±


    ¡°No, my Runethane. It''s just to hold them in place.¡±


    He steps away from the anvil. I find myself a small sheet of titanium and saw a thin strip from it. Glittering metal-dust coats my hands. I recall Nazak''s warning¡ªbut Vanerak says nothing. He just stares impatiently.


    I heat the band, bend it, quench it. All my movements feel automatic. I''m too exhausted to think, to afraid to worry. I cut notches into the band at either end, polish, and am finally done.


    I fix the ears to it.


    ¡°Equip them,¡± Vanerak orders.


    I do so. For a few moments I hear nothing, then it comes all at once¡ªevery single sound in the forge. I can hear the breathing of each individual runeknight, hear the creak of every one of their armor plates. The one at the third window from the entranceway on the left needs to oil his boots. Their creaking is deafening, nearly as deafening as the gurgling of the furnace as magma is brought up then flows down.


    Nazak shifts his posture. Everying seems to spin. A runeknight shifts on his chair. A grinding sound fills my ears, and yet at the same time I can still hear everything else on top of it. Nothing is drowned out. Each new sound becomes a new layer over all the others.


    Vanerak is absolutely still, and somehow that silence is worse than the discord that surrounds him.


    It''s getting overwhelming. I shut my eyes, but nothing changes. Something is wrong. I open my eyes again. No difference.


    The blackness remains.


    I cry out and tear the ears from my head. For a few moments I do not draw breath, then, by degrees, my vision returns.


    ¡°Why did you remove them?¡± Vanerak asks. ¡°Are they defective?¡±


    ¡°When... When I put them on, I might as well be in that lightless place in my poem. I cannot see.¡±


    Nazak laughs loudly. ¡°Impressive power!¡±


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Vanerak orders.


    Nazak shuts his mouth.


    ¡°I crafted these to enhance my forging, my Runethane. But I lost control of my power, and now they are useless.¡±


    ¡°You insult both your craft and your power. There are blind runeknights, some of senior degree. They use their hearing, touch, and heat-sense alone. And you did not lose control of your power. When you forged you were lucid.¡±


    ¡°I don''t remember forging. I don''t even remember getting the jasperite and grinding it down. Not a bit of it.¡±


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    ¡°Even if you don''t remember, it was you who did it. You did not lose control of your power. You utilized it to its fullest extent.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but in the wrong direction.¡±


    ¡°In the right direction. They are powerful, are they not? I can tell. The runic flow is excellent, and I do not often praise my runeknights'' crafts as such. To bring such power out of such poor metalwork and inferior gems is especially impressive.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for the praise, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You do not sound thankful¡ªyou sound tired, and worried. You have no reason for the latter. Power is not something to be worried over. It is to be harnessed.¡±


    He picks up my runic ears and hands them to me. ¡°Write down this poem on fresh paper. Translate the runes and define every aspect of them also. Then I will take your craft for a short while. Do not worry¡ªyou will have it back, unharmed, within the long-hour. Then you can return to your crafting. I am eagerly looking forward to the results of further runeforging.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    <hr>


    I am returned to my quarters. I still feel sick, and empty also, and cannot eat nor drink anything. Neither can I sleep. I lie upon my bed staring up into the cheap phosphoresence of the wormlight. My body still feels hot. Sweat soaks into the sheets from my skin. My mind whirls with strange images, and when I finally do sleep, nightmares assail me.


    Vanerak features in them heavily.


    I wake up gasping, my throat parched. Water is brought to me and I gulp it down. I crawl back into my bed. My door remains open; guards are watching me as I sleep. Maybe they are worried that I might die on their watch.


    But I don''t die. My fever clears and I manage to sup down some thin broth. Nazak, looking unusually worried, asks when I next plan to go down to the forge.


    ¡°I feel drained,¡± I reply, and this is no lie. ¡°I won''t be going down for a while yet. Instead I will study runes. Our Runethane will have no problem with that, surely?¡±


    ¡°He should not.¡±


    For a while, however, I can''t find the strength even to open one of the books. And when I do eventually manage to, I find that I don''t have nearly enough energy for the gruelling task of memorization. All I can do is lie with my head propped up on my pillow and one of the books stood, open, upon my beard.


    I flick through the pages of the Dictionary of Upper Balhalgal, trying to find some pattern to the runes. According to the book''s foreword, rusted armor featuring the script was discovered when an eruption diverted the river feeding Balhalgal Lake, resulting in its draining. A further breakthrough was made when explorers broke through the lakebed into a series of caves below, and found more runes carved onto an obelisk in what must have been a Runethane''s palace.


    In a cavern below that another script was discovered, Lower Balhalgal, yet despite their proximity they are only distantly related.


    What is the script''s theme?


    The foreword does not mention one. It is a script termed ''general'', which means it contains runes for all common words and very few for specialized ones. It''s not particularly broad either, with few runes for more subtle variations.


    For example, it has the rune for zhekh, meaning steel, but no runes that mean bright-steel, sharpness-of-steel, steel-as-power, steel-malleability, white-yellow-of-heated-steel. So if the runeknight wishes to include these meanings in his poem, he must use multiple runes of simpler meanings. This makes the task awkward and difficult, and the final result inferior.


    I''m not sure what the point of using this script would be. Maybe if you wanted to emphasize simplicity and directness. In that case, any script could do. Why did the first Runeforger even create this script? Was it an earlier, inferior work? Yet it''s said to be newer than the script found below it.


    I just don''t know. I don''t know anything about runeforging, not really. Nausea hits me¡ªit seems that Vanerak knows more than I do!


    How was he able to draw that power out of me? How could he know that if I forged while still in a trance, my runes would change further? Did he really just work it out through deduction, or does he know something about runeforging, or about the first Runeforger, that I don''t?


    One thing is clear to me at least: I cannot allow Vanerak to know more about my powers than I do. I need to work out how they work, exactly how they work, their nature, their limitations. I need to think hard. Perhaps I need to go into a trance and explore the sphere, even.


    Not right now. If I go back there now I''ll burn myself up. But I can think.


    So I think:


    What exactly happens when I go into a trance?


    I go somewhere, not physically, but my mind or soul goes somewhere. Which? Both mind and soul, I think. Well, are they not one and the same? It doesn''t matter. They go somewhere, my conscious self goes somewhere¡ªdeep into the magma sea.


    Where in the magma sea?


    Where the sphere and its three shadows are. Where exactly that is, I have no way to tell. It might not be so deep, though. That''s why I didn''t feel myself sinking this time. The heat came around me all at once because this time I stood at more or less the same level that it exists at.


    Next, I draw power into my runes. No, that''s not quite right¡ªI draw power into myself, then put it into my runes. I''m the conduit, the valve through which the power of the world''s blood flows, and I shape it into symbols. I then come out of the trance, remembering the symbols, and twist metal into them.


    Apart from this time, and the time I made my ruby, when I made the symbols while still in my trance. My body moved while I was still swimming within the world''s blood. Somehow that made the symbols more different and more powerful. How?


    I think hard. My head begins to ache. I clutch at my temples and groan. I need to find the answer to this. I need to know what Vanerak has worked out.


    It''s no good. I climb out of my bed and pace around my room, still clutching at my temples.


    Why is my power greater when I shape the runes still in my trance?


    I cannot find an answer. It''s another mystery, like the mystery of true metal, that I cannot unravel.


    But perhaps Vanerak can.


    One thing is clear to me: I cannot allow him to learn any more of my powers, because if I am only a conduit for this power, the power of the world''s blood, then perhaps there is a way for other dwarves to become conduits too.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 23: A Gamble Against the Runethane

    ¡°I see that you are back to work. Some believe memorizing scripts to be a waste of time, when dictionaries of runes are so readily available, however I am glad to see that you are not part of that foolish and feeble-minded majority.¡±


    I look up from my papers. ¡°I thank you for the praise, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    ¡°Those who claim such effort is of no use, claim so merely because the effort defeats them. They are weak. It takes great strength of mind to recall runes perfectly.¡±


    ¡°It is not easy, certainly.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane will be glad to hear that your health has recovered. He has been somewhat worried for you.¡±


    ¡°I am honored that he should be worried for a traitor such as myself.¡±


    ¡°He will return here soon with your runic ears. In return for their return, he wishes for you to tell him in full what happened during your trance.¡±


    ¡°I will be pleased and honored to do so.¡±


    ¡°I will relay those words to him. In the meantime, organize your memories and thoughts so that your explanation is smooth and clear for him to understand.¡±


    ¡°I will do so.¡±


    ¡°Then goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    He leaves and shuts the door. I pick my inkstick back up and continue writing the rune, one of Lower Balthagal, that I was trying to memorize when he interrupted. It is a subtle and tricky one, with oddly angled branches.


    The black ink runs the wrong way¡ªmy hand is trembling. I let out a shaky sigh and return the inkstick to its case.


    Fear has sunk its icy claws into my guts once more.


    Vanerak cannot be allowed to understand my runeforging!


    <hr>


    The lock clicks. I jump up from my desk. The door opens. In his mirror-mask I see my face lit greenish in the wormlight. He gestures for me to sit at the table and I quickly do so. He sits down opposite me.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    ¡°Greetings, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I have something for you.¡±


    He places my new runic ears upon the table and I force myself to look at them. The poem is as I remember. It makes me feel empty to read it, as if when I come to the final line the flake of ash comes to rest within some void within my soul.


    ¡°I thank you greatly, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You are welcome. I think Halax has told you to prepare an explanation of what occurred during your runeforging trance.¡±


    ¡°He has.¡±


    ¡°I shall hear it then.¡±


    I hesitate. Am I really going to make this gamble? I steel myself. I am. He cannot be allowed to understand my runeforging.


    ¡°At first it began like any other trance,¡± I begin. ¡°I felt the heat around me¡ªall around me at once, like when I originally changed the poem.¡±


    Vanerak holds up a hand to interrupt. ¡°Again, why do you think this is?¡±


    ¡°I... I''m not sure, my Runethane. I think it is because of my proximity to the magma. My power has something to do with the magma, of course. Maybe the heat from the sea is drawn into me quicker here.¡±


    ¡°I see. Continue with the explanation.¡±


    ¡°Just like before, I changed the runes. This time I felt a little more power flowing from me, though. I started to put it into the runes, and then everything went white.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Everything became white, blinding white... And then I was lying on the floor of the forge, my craft completed, and me with no memory of completing it.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Vanerak is silent for a few long moments. A few very long moments.


    ¡°It is the truth, my Runethane,¡± I lie, being very careful to keep my voice even. ¡°I have no memory even of my trance. The words that I chose I didn''t choose consciously, or else I did and forgot, though I do not know why I would make such a dark poem.¡±


    ¡°You chose it because there is power in darkness, and your heart knows this even if your mind does not.¡±


    There is that edge of sharp steel in his voice again.


    ¡°That may be true, my Runethane. But the fact remains that I don''t remember anything of my trance.¡±


    ¡°Nothing at all? No hint of where the further power came from?¡±


    His words are like cold razors.


    I continue to lie. ¡°None at all,¡± I say. ¡°I just felt it well up from within. I don''t know where from. The magma maybe, or maybe my heart, which like you say knows the truth of things better than my mind does.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. And what does your heart say about lying to me?¡±


    My head spins. I feel as if I''ve been struck.


    ¡°...I''m not sure what you mean, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Your mind may say that lying to me is something you ought to do, but what does your heart say? I see that it quavers¡ªyou are fearful of me.¡±


    ¡°I am not lying to you, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Is that truly so?¡±


    He does not stand, does not even lean forward. His words are the only weapon he needs. More powerful than any rune: the words and commands of a Runethane. They nearly force me to my knees. Right here and now I nearly bow. I nearly throw myself to the stone floor and beg for forgiveness.


    Yet I do not! He must not come to understand my power any further!


    ¡°It is truly so,¡± I say. ¡°I would never lie to you, my Runethane. After the power in me increased, everything went blinding white, and from that point on I have no memory of even my trance.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± he says, after a few more long moments'' thought. ¡°Loss of memory is not an uncommon phenomenon after an event of great pain. I will believe you.¡±


    ¡°I thank you most greatly, my Runethane, for believing a traitor such as myself.¡±


    ¡°Do know, however, that if I later find out that you have spoken falsehood, the punishment will be severe. I will not harm you physically¡ªbut there are greater tortures than physical ones.¡±


    ¡°I assure you that I will never give you any reason to punish me, my Runethane.¡±


    He nods once. My reflection in his mirror-mask distorts with the movement. Terror is clear to see on my face, in the pallor of my skin and rigidness of my features, in the wideness of my eyes. A new fear takes hold also¡ªwhat kind of power lies in his mirror-mask? Does it show him the true thoughts of those he looks upon through it, perhaps? In that case, is he going to leave now just to return an hour later with the heads of Guthah and Pellas?


    He stands up. ¡°Goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger. Though it is disappointing that you remember so little of your use of your power, you will have plenty of opportunities to apply it to more of your forgings, and hopefully, bit by bit, you will come to understand more of its nature.¡±


    ¡°I hope so too, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You will start work on your armor as soon as your strength is fully returned. I hear that you promised one of the excavators that you would create a script that can be utilized easily to deflect heat. I support this effort. It will be a great boon to our work, should you be able to accomplish it.¡±


    ¡°I shall accomplish it, my Runethane. You have my word.¡±


    ¡°The word of a traitor is not worth so much. Yet perhaps the word of a runeforger is.¡±


    ¡°It is, I assure you.¡±


    ¡°Then I am expecting a great deal from your coming efforts.¡±


    He leaves, shutting the door behind him. There is a series of clicks as the lock is turned.


    I crawl back into my bed, shaking and sweating. My skin feels as if it''s boiling once more, and my heartbeats have become fast and shallow.


    <hr>


    Balhu, runeknight of the fifth degree, wades through the magma. It is thick and glutinous so that each step is a hard effort, a small battle of dwarf against nature, despite the poems praising strength grafted to his tungsten thigh-plates. A bright trail in the black coating of the magma extends behind him. From it the uncovered heat is scorching even through his tungsten backplate which is marked with a series of bright and cold sapphires. The runic energy being furrowed into them through the poem is only barely enough to keep his flesh from cooking.


    The magma reaches his waist. The pressure around his lower half is crushing now, and he knows he cannot go any further. It is from here that he will have to cast his net.


    He takes it from the salamander-hide case on his back. It is one of the crafts he is most proud of: its threads are inscribed minutely so that they will seek out and wrap around any shape they brush against. Its weights are tungsten bearings enruned to have double their weight and half their friction so as to slip down into the magma quickly and with almost no resistance.


    ¡°Aren''t you going a bit deep?¡± someone calls out.


    Balhu turns and shouts back. ¡°Well, we haven''t found anything in the shallows this short-hour, have we?¡±


    ¡°Just be careful! I thought I saw a shimmer around there earlier!¡±


    ¡°I''ll be fine!¡±


    Balhu shakes his head. That damn Hayhek¡ªhe''s never met a greater worrier. Always seeing odd shimmers. They''re never anything.


    Damn graybeard. He doesn''t have enough heroic spirit, that''s his problem. What glory is there in shifting about in the shallows, bringing up the tiniest shards and only fragments of runes? The Runethane wants more, and what he wants will be found only in the deeps. Balhu will dig it out for him.


    A few more good catches and he''ll have enough gold to purchase the reagent he needs to enrune his new suit. Then he''ll be able to join the divers and pull up some real treasures. Real runes and real history.


    He twists his body back, breaths in, and throws, putting every ounce of his strength and weight into the action. His net, attached to the end of a long tungsten cable enruned with a ode to toughness even in the direst and hottest of circumstances, flies out gracefully and sinks deep into the magma. Balhu waits a minute or so, then begins to reel it back in.


    He is so absorbed in his task that he doesn''t notice the shimmer of heat that leaps from the magma and flows instantly through his visor. He shudders as scorching heat fills his blood. He stops moving for a moment.


    The demon blinks a few times, then continues to reel in the net.


    ¡°Are you sure you''re all right?¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°I''m sure I saw something shimmering!¡±


    The demon turns Balhu''s head to look. Through the dwarf''s eyes, everything is different. Duller. The demon can see only simple colors, not the thousand shades of heat it is used to admiring.


    ¡°I''m fine!¡± it shouts through Balhu''s mouth. ¡°The magma sea is always shimmering, you damn graybeard!¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 24: Hammer on Tungsten

    My second fever passes quickly, but the fear that brought it on remains. Vanerak suspects me¡ªthis is no longer just a conjecture but fact, for he said so himself. He warned me directly, which he has not done until now.


    If I don''t want to anger him any further, I best get started on my armor as soon as I can. I tell the guards that I''m ready to go down to the forge. A half hour through the winding passages later and I''m here.


    I lay some paper down on the anvil and draw my final designs for the plates. Since I already drafted up a lot of designs back before I started work on my runic ears, I have a solid idea in my head of what I''m making.


    The sketching goes perfectly. I go over the lines again, make sure I''ve measured and calculated everything properly, and I have.


    This suit will be the most complex I''ve ever created. The plates will fit perfectly to each other and slide tightly when I move. I''ll be able to wade into the magma sea up to my neck, if I''m ever allowed out on the shore. This lack of friction between the airtight plates will be achieved not by runes¡ªthe armor''s poems will have to be entirely focused on strength and heat resistance¡ªbut by quenching each plate in salamander''s blood. It''s an expensive resource back in Allabrast, but here in Vanerak''s realm there are salamanders by the swarm. It is not an especially egregious request.


    Designs ready, I get myself some sheets of tungsten. My first task is to hammer them down to one third of their current thickness.


    I switch on the furnace. Magma gurgles and pours forth around the wide heating plate, which is made of a kind of dark gray stone that shines like glass a little and shows no signs of melting even where the magma runs around it directly. I wonder what it is, and how expensive a forge like this would be to hire out in Allabrast.


    I wait for the heat inside to become even, then I place in the first sheet. It glows yellow, then goes white, then shining white. I withdraw it and place it on the anvil.


    I strike! The clang echoes around the forge. The sound is like the violent clash of hammer on shield, a battlefield noise. A few of the middle degree guards jump a little behind their barred windows. I strike again and again, relentlessly. The tungsten resists my first few efforts, but quickly starts to give in to my superior power. It recognizes my strength and starts to flatten out. This might be a deception though; it could be getting ready to crack, to humiliate me. The white is not quite so blinding any more¡ªI hurry to put it back in the furnace.


    Its color becomes blinding again. I take it out and return to violently hammering it. My lengthy practice sessions repairing the block I broke on my first attempt have given me a real feel for exactly how much power I need to put into each blow to distort the metal the way I want. My hammering is violent, but also precise. The thickness evens out.


    It''s too big to go into the furnace all at once now. I put it aside to cool, and in the meantime start work on flattening another sheet.


    When it comes time to return that one to the furnace for a second time, the first sheet has cooled enough for me to cut it. Vanerak didn''t seem to mind me using a saw to make the band for my runic ears, despite what Nazak told me¡ªmaybe he was just trying to make my life difficult¡ªso I get out a long one and cut the sheet into quarters.


    I hammer my second sheet until it is also too wide to place into the forge, set it aside to cool, then I heat and hammer the quarter sections of the first sheet. Each of them becomes the correct thickness. I let them cool as well¡ªwhile I carefully cut the second sheet¡ªand then it''s time to check they''re even.


    I take off my gloves and run my bare palm over each. They seem very smooth. I''ve done better than I thought. I then use a small hammer to chime each. The sound seems even, at least to my ears of mere flesh.


    I have come to the point, I know, that I ought to put on my ears of titanium and runes. Yet I can barely bring myself to look on them, let alone equip them again. This is not just because of the blindness they caused¡ªthey might be nearly as powerful as my amulet. They''re at least as powerful as Gutspiercer was. I might find that after a short-hour with them on, I can no longer remove them.


    No. I''m not going to wear them. It''s just too much of a risk.


    Once more I check that the sheets are smooth, then I thin out the four quarters of the second sheet. I check that they''re smooth¡ªone isn''t and I spend some time correcting it. Then I have to do the third sheet, and the fourth.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    By the time I''m cutting the fourth into quarters, my arms are trembling and my breath is coming in short gasps. I have to continue, though. I need to get my armor done quickly, lest Vanerak''s patience grow thin, or he changes his mind and decides that I really am lying, or...


    ¡°Drink up, traitor!¡±


    I''m sitting against the wall. One of my guards is forcing a waterskin to my mouth. I take a deep draught of coolness. Nazak is standing over me, looking annoyed.


    ¡°If you die in the forge, our Runethane will not be happy.¡±


    I gulp down some more water.


    ¡°You should be more careful. Know your limits.¡±


    ¡°He won''t be happy if my runes are delayed.¡±


    ¡°He is more than five centuries old. He has more patience than you think.¡±


    ¡°Still¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are to return to your quarters and rest. After a period of half a long-hour you may return.¡±


    ¡°I need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are still not fully recovered from your fever. Your health is my responsibility, traitor. If I say you are return to your quarters, you will return.¡±


    I bow my head. ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    So, I return to my quarters to rest. I eat, drink, memorize runes, and then it''s back to the forge. When I enter, it seems more real than real¡ªthe only solid thing amidst the winding black tunnels of this realm. All that passed between this session and the last one is like a forgotten dream. I don''t even remember which dictionary it was I was studying.


    Once a fifth and sixth sheet have been thinned, cut into quarters, and thinned again, I have finally prepared all the metal I need to start shaping the armor. I draw the shapes of the plates onto the tungsten with slow precision. I measure everything thrice. Thrice again. Only then do I ready the saw. It''ll spill metal dust, and make each plate slightly smaller through the wastage, but I''ve accounted for this in my measurements.


    Time to saw. Tungsten-dust sparks brightly under the daycrystals before transforming into gray clouds. I cough¡ªbut even though rock-dust destroys your lungs, it''s said that metal-dust strengthens them. I don''t let my coughs disrupt my sawing, which I do with almost painful slowness. Before each stroke I take care to check that my tool is angled correctly, and each stroke itself is slow also.


    My arms tremble with impatience. They want to move faster. I want to move faster too, to quickly be able to start on the runes, and have something to help diminish Vanerak''s suspicions. Yet a shoddy job will only irritate him.


    I glance up at Nazak once. He shakes his head.


    ¡°Don''t blame me when he lambasts you for insulting the metal.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane had no problem with me sawing when I made the band for my ears.¡±


    ¡°That was not a craft, being unruned. And he had other things on his mind.¡±


    ¡°My new runes will impress him enough.¡±


    ¡°You better hope so, traitor.¡±


    I continue to saw slowly. After many sessions, the plates that will go around my limbs are cut. After many more, those that will wrap my torso and belly are too. It takes longer to make the plates that will come together to form my gauntlets and boots, since they are small and tricky. My helmet and visor pieces do not take quite so long, but the work does not go quickly either.


    During the long, enforced rests between forging sessions I work through my dictionaries gradually. I can still see no patterns.


    It''s time to bend the pieces into shape now. I heat a section of an arm-plate to blinding white, and hammer. Each strike takes intense concentration. I''m not just hammering it flat, but into a precise angle. If I put in just a fraction too much power, then the metal bends too much, and I must bend it back. Each time this happens, the metal is weakened just a fraction.


    Just a fraction, but many fractions add up. Quenching will not be able to undo all these invisible cracks.


    The finger plates prove the toughest. I can''t use one of the larger hammers on these, so most of the force of the blows must come from my arm and body rather than from the hammer''s weight. This makes it very hard to put in the right amount of power, especially when I''m half-delirious from heat and exhaustion toward the end of a session.


    Eventually the finger pieces are all done. But the metal has been insulted. I can feel it. When I chime them, there is a slight hint of discordancy that I can do nothing to fix.


    The helmet also proves tricky. Unlike the rest of the armor, it''s to be formed from one solid plate. The curve is three-dimensional, and to hammer so precisely is nearly beyond my abilities. Even though I''ve left it to last, in order to gain as much experience as possible through shaping the other pieces, it nearly proves a botch-job. Half a dozen times my hammer comes close to tearing through the metal on a badly-angled stroke.


    All the while the guards watch on, stroking their beards. Some are half asleep by the end of each session. Only Nazak, Halax, and occasionally the rough-throated Helzar, commanders of the guards, are totally focused throughout. It is frightening how focused they are, actually, how patient, how obsessed. Why do they watch so closely? Do they think that by watching my movements they will somehow gain a clue to my abilities?


    I deliver the final stroke to my helmet, evening out a corner. This stroke at least I manage perfectly. I step back, look over my hoard of shaped metal, and let out a long, deep, ragged breath. Finally done.


    Now to heat each individually to an exact brightness, quench in salamander''s blood for an exact amount of time depending on the weight of each piece, and then, and only then, finally, will I be able to start work on my runes¡ªwhich means, in this case, creating an entire new script as promised to Hayhek.


    So I am not even half done. I lean my forearms on the anvil and groan.


    I need a drink, an adventure, an exploration... Anything. Even a dwarf as focused as me needs a break from the forge once in a while.


    A drink. That''s what I need the most. Not one alone in my quarters: one with my friends, as we laugh together in the guildhall.


    But in this life Vanerak has trapped me in, there is no time for any of that. I am to forge, and that is all.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 25: The Nature of Magma

    I take a break from the forge to work on my runes. If they''re to resist the heat of the magma seas, they''re going to have to be better than any I''ve yet made. Or rather, have more potential than any I''ve yet made. Whether they resist the heat or not is up to the dwarf who composes with them, after all.


    On a piece of paper I''ve made a list of all the scripts in the dictionaries on my bookshelf, along with their themes and form-family:


    Upper Balhalgal ¨C A so-called general script. It has a limited vocabulary for the deeper meanings of words, though it is broad. A great many pieces of rusted equipment have been recovered that use this script, though none are thought to have been especially powerful. Each rune is composed of lines branching out from a central line, placing this script in the crystalline family of forms.


    Lower Balhalgal ¨C Another general script, though with a deeper vocabulary than Upper Balhalgal. It has runes for many variations on words for blood, and cutting. The author of the dictionary says this bias is not from the script itself but because its sources, mainly weapons. Each rune is composed of lines branching from an opened square, placing this script in the containment family of forms.


    Golthog ¨C A script from the jungle caverns of the south. It has runes for many words relating to poison and sharpness. It''s closely related to the two below scripts, which are also from the south. The verbiage it has runes for is aggressive in nature. Each rune is composed of lines branching out from a central line, placing this script in the crystalline family of forms, though it is in unorthodox fashion written right to left and left to right on mirrored lines, boustrophedon.


    ...and so on for forty more scripts. Some have a theme, a particular goal they''re orientated towards, but none are as focused on one element as my script of ice was. This makes plenty of sense. The more words you can use a script to write, the more flexibility you''ll have with your compositions. That''s why the most popular scripts in the underworld are those with extensive vocabularies.


    So maybe I should make my next script a more general one. But if I do that I''ll be going against my instincts. When I created the powerful rune for salz, cold, it was because I''d focused strongly on cold, and furthermore on certain aspects of it.


    Do I go with my instincts or with what''s written in the dictionaries?


    I pace around the room, but only once. The answer is obvious. The dwarves who wrote these dictionaries were not the Runeforger. They are looking at his work from a hundred thousand years'' distance, and only pieces of his work too. Whereas I have forged runes for myself. I know how to make one strong. I focus on one particular element.


    Besides, even if that''s not what the first Runeforger did, I am the second. It is possible my power works slightly differently.


    Except this method poses a problem¡ªthe only element down here is magma, and my script is to be one to help its users ward off the heat of magma. Not increase it, or imbue its power into their weapons.


    A solution will come. I''m sure of it. One always does when it comes to runic poems, if you think hard enough. I''ll have to search for it though, and I''ll search for it through reflection on the element itself.


    I call on Nazak:


    ¡°What is it?¡± he demands.


    ¡°Honored runeknight, thank you for coming so promptly.¡±


    ¡°Answer my question.¡±


    ¡°I need to go back down to the shore.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°It is for my new armor, and the new runes I''m going to create for them.¡±


    ¡°It''s too dangerous for now. Forge some different runes.¡±


    ¡°I don''t need to go onto the shore. Just to the window.¡±


    ¡°It''s too dangerous right now. A particulary nasty salamander has made the shore its hunting grounds. A dozen miners and two lower degree runeknights have already found themselves in its belly.¡±


    ¡°Surely it will not get past the doors. Nor past the guards.¡±


    ¡°It is too great a risk.¡±


    ¡°If I am not allowed down to the shore, then I cannot make the runes I need. Which our Runethane needs.¡±


    ¡°Make some different runes then! Or if you want magma, you have a magma forge.¡±


    ¡°My runes based on magma will be more powerful, and I need to look upon the grandeur of the whole ocean for them. My power comes from magma, you know. Hasn''t our Runethane told you that?¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°I think he has, now that I recall. Fine then! If our Runethane gives permission. And only after the salamander is dealt with.¡±


    ¡°When will that be?¡±


    ¡°After someone slays it! When else? Have some patience for once.¡±


    <hr>


    About a long-hour later or so Nazak returns to tell me that Vanerak has dealt with the salamander himself.


    ¡°It must have been quite the beast to require our Runethane''s personal attention,¡± I say.


    ¡°Not at all. He has just been bored, I think, by a lack of action. Needed to get his pollaxe wet.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Get moving. I have my own forging to get back to.¡±


    Guards close around me as Nazak leads me from my quarters. We wind down the black corridors. As always, miners and other runeknights hurry to get out of our way. The heat increases as we descend, and my skin starts to tingle with anticipation. I lick my lips. I''m approaching power, runic power. My power!


    We come to the corridor that passes the crowded miners'' dormitories. I notice that each of the doors has been opened. And unlike the time I passed through here before, the miners are not asleep, not sprawled on their bunks still in their dirty foilsuits. Instead they stand and stare.


    I hear a few whispers:


    ¡°They say he used to be a miner...¡±


    ¡°The runeforger returned...¡±


    ¡°A miner...¡±


    ¡°A miner who killed a dragon...¡±


    Nazak turns furiously to the nearest door. ¡°I hear you whispering!¡± he shouts. ¡°Miner scum! This is the traitor, not some great hero. He is the lowest of the low, even lower than you. So cease your babbling! The next miner I hear speak will lose his head!¡±


    The doors slam shut. Nazak glares at me.


    ¡°I can''t help what they say!¡± I say. ¡°And I''m no miner either.¡±


    ¡°Once a miner, always a miner. Once a traitor, always a traitor.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    We move on into the hall before the shore. It''s just as busy as I remember it being, filled with dwarves shoveling down food and gulping down ale between trips outside, inspecting foilsuits or suits of armor for tears or cracks, or readying nets, hooked poles, and weapons. At the front dwarves are placing their findings in collection boxes. Scribes, who I didn''t notice on my last visit, or maybe whom I just forgot about, are scribbling down who has found what.


    There seems to be very little organization¡ªit''s every dwarf for himself. I imagine that the more useful your find is, the more you get reimbursed. Probably this does not exactly encourage cooperation.


    ¡°Get a move on, traitor miner,¡± says Nazak. ¡°Over to the window.¡±


    He and the guards march me over to the long strip of quartz. It''s stained by black dots. I wonder if they''re of salamander blood, or just magma splatter from one of the eruptions that sometimes rumble the stone of my quarters and make my desk quiver as I work.


    I press up close to the crystal so they don''t disturb my view. I focus. I concentrate on the great magmatic seascape, drinking in what I see. The molten stone ripples slowly, moved by great forces below, shiftings of heat and pressure and toxic fumes. Everything is constant slow movement. I focus harder, and come to understand that there are different types of magma here, mixtures of different stone, as different from each other as oil is to water is to blood is to bile. Some magmas are thin and hot, some cooler¡ªrelatively¡ªand thick, some are pregnant with gas bubbles and some are so solid a dwarf could not sink into them no matter how high he dived from.


    Until now I''ve thought of magma as being like liquid fire. This is entirely wrong. Fire and magma may both be the same color, completely destructive, and produce terrible heat, but fire is ephemeral. It burns and is gone. Magma''s power is deeper and slower. It bides its time, building in pressure and heat, until it bursts forth with a destructiveness that quick-lived fire could never hope to wield.


    Slow, steady heat. That''s its main strength, and thus my script will have a hundred different runes for heat. Every word there is for it, and runes for combinations of words too. Such runes are always unwieldy, but they''re powerful, and skilled runeknights will be able to make good use of them.


    As for deflecting heat¡ªrunes also represent the words for grammatical structures. Usually these runes have little power of their own, but they are vital to not just the poetic language but also to the direction of runic flow.


    I will build a negative version of each rune also, if I can, and I think I can. Heat will stand opposite not-heat in the dictionary, molten-glow will oppose molten-glow-darkened. I look up at the rippled black cavern ceiling, and the reversed mountains that dip into the ocean below. Magma can be stilled.


    When I return to my forge, I will scoop out some of the magma and watch it solidify to understand how magma becomes not-magma better, understand how its heat dies. Understand this, and I''ll understand how to build grammatical negatives into each verb and noun of heat.


    I open my eyes wider. I listen closely, to try and pick up the sea''s bubbling, gurgling, distant roaring. I place my hands against the dark stone to feel the heat better.


    Closer! I must get closer! As close at the runeknight beachcombers are, waist-deep in magma casting their nets out far.


    After my armor is complete I shall get close. My first script of magma, the one I''m about to make for my first armor, will be a mere lesser version. My second script will be supreme, however, and equal to anything the first Runeforger made.


    For a long while I stand pressed to the quartz, feeling the magma through my every sense, though they are dulled by distance.


    There is a screeching sound as the doors out open. I bask in the sudden rush of heat and fumes¡ªI realize that my script must describe the latter also. Runes for those words will add great flexibility.


    The doors slam down shut. The fumes and heat fade, and my concentration, held for so long, finally falters and is broken. I pull away from the window and breath deep. My muscles are stiff.


    ¡°Finished?¡± Nazak asks.


    ¡°Yes. I think so.¡±


    One of the dwarves who just came through meets my eyes through his visor. It''s of course Hayhek¡ªI recognize the rubies on his breastplate. I nod in greeting. He raises a hand in reply. The movement is tired; his muscles are weary. His steps, and the steps of the others of his group, are stumbling. And I can smell the sweat and sulfur on them even from two dozen paces away.


    They don''t seem to have found much in the way of artifacts either. A few clutch small shards, but that''s about it. All that exhaustion, and for such little pay.


    I am not the only one being worked to the bones by Vanerak. Miners and runeknights of all degrees alike suffer for his will.


    Nazak turns abruptly. One of Hayhek''s group is striding out towards us. His hands are not at his weapon, but even so there is violence and purpose to his movements.


    ¡°Balhu!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°What are you doing?¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 26: Possession

    The runeknight, Balhu, ignores Hayhek and continues to advance. Nazak steps forward.


    ¡°Halt!¡±


    Balhu halts his advance, yet does not seem cowed in the slightest, and speaks harshly:


    ¡°You are Nazak?¡±


    ¡°I am. What of it?¡±


    ¡°You are a first degree runeknight, is that correct?¡±


    ¡°You ought to know that by now.¡±


    Hayhek hurries over to us. ¡°Balhu!¡± he shouts. ¡°What in hell are you doing?¡±


    ¡°So you are one of the leaders of this excavation?¡± Balhu continues. He looks to be about fourth or fifth degree, in tungsten armor with lines of runes that wind around coldly-cyan sapphires.


    ¡°You know I am. What is it you want? If you have a complaint about pay, you can take it to one of the second or third degrees.¡±


    Hayhek grabs Balhu by the shoulder and tries to pull him away. Balhu resists.


    ¡°I apologize for his behavior, honored runeknight!¡± says Hayhek. ¡°The heat has gotten to him. He must have caught a fever.¡±


    ¡°I have no fever, graybeard!¡± Balhu snaps.


    Two guards of about fourth degree step forward to flank Nazak. ¡°Step away,¡± they order.


    ¡°Are you responsible for the disruption of the magma sea?¡± says Balhu.


    ¡°What?¡± says Nazak.


    A look of horror comes across Hayhek''s face. He''s suddenly realized something. ¡°Zathar, get back!¡± he shouts. ¡°He''s possessed!¡±


    Possessed?


    In an instant, Nazak has slammed down his mirrored visor and drawn his axe. In the same instant, flames burst from Balhu''s helmet, from around the neck and his visor. Nazak swings his axe at his face with incredible speed and power. Balhu catches the haft in one hand.


    ¡°You will pay for intruding upon our domain!¡± Balhu roars, except it isn''t Balhu roaring. It''s something within him, something of heat and flame. His tungsten armor is beginning to glow.


    ¡°Zathar, get back!¡± Hayhek screams.


    I''m already stepping back¡ªwith no armor or weapon I can do nothing. Guards close in front of me and now I can''t see what''s happening. There''s a scream, and the smell of burning flesh grows stronger.


    ¡°Slash him!¡± Nazak yells. He sounds panicked. ¡°And get the runeforger out of here!¡±


    ¡°Runeforger?¡± shouts the demon burning Balhu''s body.


    That''s what it has to be, a demon. What else could take over the body of a dwarf to burn them from the inside with terrible power? I''ve heard tales of demons, tales I was told were exaggerated, or plain false, stories to frighten children. But it seems the tales were true.


    Guards pull me back. Others close in front of me. ¡°To the exit!¡± one yells. ¡°Get him out of here!¡±


    I turn to look where they''re taking me, and with horror see that the exits are blocked. Screaming miners still in their foilsuits are crushing into every available doorway. Some hold long shovels and are brandishing them in our direction. They scream unintelligibly.


    ¡°Cut through them!¡± yells one of the guards. ¡°Get them out the way!¡±


    ¡°Stop!¡± I yell.


    Two run out in front of me with axes raised high. Some of the miners in their way throw themselves to the floor. Others who cannot see continue to try and push their way into the press for the exit.


    ¡°Out the fucking way!¡± one of the guards yells at their backs. ¡°I''ll cut you down!¡±


    He sounds just as terrified as the miners do.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I shout, and I grab his axe-hand. I try to pull it down but his rune-enhanced strength is far too much for me. A guard behind me wraps his arms around my chest and pulls me back. I yell out in horror for the miners.


    ¡°Behind you!¡± someone yells¡ªmaybe Hayhek.


    I turn my head and look into the face of the demon.


    Its heat has melted Balhu''s tungsten helm to blinding white, dripping slag. Through sagging, distended eye-slits I can see his flesh burning with yellow flames on black char and bubbling fat around his eyes, and his eyes are balls of brighter flame, shimmering, and twisted weirdly by the shimmering. He has become an animated torch¡ªanimated with ferocity beyond anything his physical body, even enhanced with runic armor, was ever capable of. The demon has thrown Nazak into a pillar¡ªthe first degree is pulling himself from the rubble¡ªand torn its way through the guards meant to be protecting me. They lie scattered with burning, molten hand prints in the metal of their armor.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Runeforger!¡± it yells at me, and its burning hands, dripping metal, reach for me.


    ¡°Get away from him!¡± Hayhek shouts, and he charges from behind, bringing down his axe into the demon''s head. The flames flicker. The demon turns with such force that the axe is twisted from Hayhek''s grasp.


    One of the guards to my front pulls me away while another chops at the demon''s arm. The axe bites deep. The demon yells out¡ªit seems to feel pain, thankfully, or maybe it just yells in rage. It kicks with a flaming leg, sweeping the guard from his feet. The guard screams. Part of his shinguard has been melted. Steam scented by fat whistles from a small hole there.


    ¡°Nazak!¡± the guard dragging me back screams. ¡°Help!¡±


    Nazak rushes from the rubble of the broken pillar with his axe held high. Gravel flies from his armor tracing a path in the air, and before the first stones reach the ground he is again at the demon, again slicing at its head. His axe cleaves into its shoulder, deep.


    The arm and part of the shoulder falls away, hits the ground and turns to fine ash. The demon has no defense against runic blades, it seems, not with Balhu''s armor burned away by inner fire. Yet I don''t think it needs them. Like the dragon, it is a creature of elemental force, and its power is in that force turned to offense.


    It kicks up at Nazak''s chest. Like a proper dwarven warrior, Nazak does not dodge but trusts fully in the strength of his armor to take the blow. He leans into it. Even so, the force knocks him back a step, and a red glow forms where the demon struck. He yells in fury and sweeps his axe at the offending leg.


    The demon is fast, and the blade only brushes through the flames. Yet the other runeknights here are no cowards either and one of Hayhek''s group slashes a leg from behind. The short-sword cleaves deep into the burning flesh. The runeknight rips it out in a flare of flame, then cries out in horror to see that the metal is now twisted and melted, as if he had thrust it into the magma itself.


    Hayhek picks his axe back up. The demon as it is turning to the dwarf with the sword, meets him halfway through its movement. Hayhek slashes its face.


    ¡°Damn graybeard!¡± screams the demon. There is no trace of Balhu left in its voice, though I guess it still has some of his memories. ¡°Burn in our fire!¡±


    It throws its flaming hand out, hooking as if to draw him into a one-handed hug, an embrace which will scorch his armor to slag and turn his flesh to charcoal.


    Nazak severs both its feet in one sweeping slash. It topples to the ground, which bubbles around it in shades of yellow-orange. Nazak slashes its legs at the knees, then slashes off the hand that flails at him as the demon tries to sit up. He slashes off the forearm at the elbow next. He is methodical, like a butcher with a boar, and there is no sense of anger to his movements. He gives me an impression of grim satisfaction.


    The demon''s limbs rent away, it lies on the ground helplessly as the rest of its stolen body turns to ash and embers. I watch in horror: its flames burn as ferociously as dragonbreath. By the time the burning is done, there are not even any bone chips. All is fine gray powder.


    ¡°Fucking hell,¡± I whisper. ¡°Hell!¡±


    ¡°You all right?¡± Hayhek asks.


    I nod. ¡°Are you? You fought the damn thing.¡±


    ¡°I''m fine.¡± He holds his axe up to inspect. ¡°Damn near ruined my axe though...¡± He looks back down at the pile of ash. ¡°Shit! I warned the fool to be more careful.¡±


    ¡°How... How did it get in him?¡±


    ¡°Through his mouth,¡± says Nazak grimly. ¡°That''s how they possess you. They''re shimmering heat in the air, and when you breath in that air, it''s in you.¡±


    ¡°Just by breathing?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°It gets through your visor and onto your face first. When you feel that, you have to shut your mouth tight in an instant.¡±


    ¡°What about your nose?¡±


    ¡°You exhale hard then pinch it shut.¡±


    ¡°And then?¡±


    ¡°Run out of the magma sea.¡±


    ¡°Cowardly,¡± Nazak spits. ¡°But it''s the only way. Once you''re on the shore they won''t do anything. Or so we thought.¡±


    ¡°You thought?¡±


    He ignores me to address Hayhek''s group. ¡°You five! You will come with me and you will report in full the events of your excursion just now!¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight!¡±


    He addresses the rest of the hall also: ¡°Until Runethane Vanerak declares otherwise, the excavations of the magma sea are to be halted. No one is to exit the cliffs. The guards are to be posted inside¡ªnow quickly, bring all those outside into here!¡±


    There is a clamor as the gates slide up and high-ranking runeknights rush out to relay Nazak''s orders. He himself runs out also to make sure they''re followed correctly.


    ¡°What''s going on?¡± I ask Hayhek. ¡°Haven''t there been demon attacks before?¡±


    ¡°There have. But not inside here. Usually when a dwarf is possessed, the demon will show itself almost immediately.¡± He swallows. ¡°But I think that one was inside Balhu for many long-hours. A while back, I thought I saw a shimmer take him just after he cast his net. He was out far then.¡±


    ¡°Many long-hours? How many?¡±


    ¡°I''m not sure.¡± He shudders. ¡°That thing ate with us! Talked with us!¡±


    ¡°You couldn''t tell?¡±


    ¡°No. This is bad news, Zathar. Very bad news.¡±


    ¡°They seem intelligent.¡±


    ¡°They are. Who knows what kind of thoughts they have when they''re swirling above their ocean, but when they enter a dwarf, they think like he or she did.¡±


    ¡°Once in, is there no way to¡ª¡±


    ¡°No. Not that anyone knows of. Instant death. And no armor can protect against it.¡±


    ¡°I suppose every helmet needs some way to breath.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    He looks down at the fine ash that used to be his comrade, and shakes his head once more.


    ¡°I''m truly sorry for your loss,¡± I say.


    ¡°Just another one of many,¡± he says bitterly. ¡°And there''ll be many more to come as well. Runethane Vanerak will have the excavations continued soon enough.¡±


    ¡°I''ll have the script ready soon,¡± I promise. ¡°You''ll have new defenses from it. Its runes will be masterpieces. I can already see it.¡±


    He nods as if he doesn''t quite believe me.


    Two guards suddenly flank me. ¡°Come on up, runeforger. Nazak has ordered us to take you back to your quarters.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± I say. ¡°Goodbye for now, Hayhek.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, Zathar. I hope you don''t mind if I don''t call you runeforger. I''ll call you that once I''ve used your runes for myself.¡±


    But as I''m escorted back up the black tunnels towards my quarters, I''m far too rattled to think any more of runes.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 27: Quenching in Blood

    Balhu''s flame-ravaged face is still vivid in my mind as I sit down on my bed, trembling. I feel that the demon''s eyes are still staring at me out of their stolen sockets, shimmering.


    What kind of power can take control of a dwarf, take his memories, and form its thoughts into the same patterns he had in life? Wear him like a suit of armor, a suit of skin and hair and flesh that fits so well even his closest friends and comrades notice no difference?


    Their fire may burn like a dragon''s, but these demons also have a power far more subtle. The dragon was pure destruction; the demons have destruction and deception both.


    Yet their power is still that of heat. My new script, with runes for both that force and the denial of it, will be able to form a strong basis for poems to oppose their attacks.


    I take a deep breath, go to my desk, and get back to work. I need to decide exactly what runes my script is going to have¡ªI won''t draw them, just write out the words in phonetics and the connotations I want each rune to emphasize.


    What aspects of heat will work best? Slow power, but¡ªhow slow? Heat that blazes forth evenly, or that which grows within the heart of a stone, melting it from within? Heat of life, or heat that brings death?


    I consider deeply. So deeply, in fact, that I soon am asleep.


    But nothing comes to me in my dreams. So I will see if anything comes to me in the forge.


    <hr>


    Quenching tungsten properly is not so simple a task. Much like titanium, it has to be heated to the correct temperature, then plunged into a bath of the correct temperature¡ªand of the correct volume also, to account for how much the water, or blood, will heat up. And once you have done this, you are not anywhere near finished, for each piece of tungsten should go through multiple heatings and quenchings as well. At least half a dozen.


    But I believe I''m up to it. The only tricky part will be the helmet, since it''s formed from such a large and oddly-shaped piece of metal. I really should have done it in multiple pieces, but I want the few parts that don''t have to slide around each other to be strong and have plenty of space for long and uninterrupted sequences of stanzas.


    I will start with the more average sized pieces. I turn on the forge¡ªthen take a minute to stare deeply into the magma, though I think of nothing to help my script. Then I place in a long segment of belly-plate. As I wait for it to heat up, I prepare the salamander blood. It''s in a massive tank about as wide as I am and twice my length lying down. I place the empty quench-bath at its front and turn the tap.


    There''s a burble. Reddish-green fluid flows out fast. I shut it off when it reaches the right volume mark¡ªa gallon and a quarter. Runes on the bath quiver and I feel a chill expand through the air.


    I used a similar bath before, down in the fort when I first forged with titanium. Nazak, when I requested one, warned me that Vanerak wouldn''t approve. Using enruned forging equipment is, after all, nearly breaking the taboo that a dwarf should not use another''s craft. It''s allowed, at least in most realms, because it results in better equipment throughout the ranks¡ªsometimes necessity trumps tradition. But the use of such items is still frowned upon by many senior runeknights.


    Nazak told me there are other ways of cooling liquid, better techniques I could use, but he refused to teach me. So I decided I didn''t have much of a choice.


    I dip a thermometer into the blood and watch the mercury creep down. It''s nearly at the right temperature. I withdraw the heated tungsten, which I judge by its bright yet not too-bright glow to be ready, and thrust it into the bath. There''s a burst of iron and acid smelling steam, and a hiss like that of a salamander itself, like some part of its essence, some conscious part, has remained in its blood, and is only now being released.


    Carefully I time the seconds, then I withdraw the piece and lay it down at the back of the forge. Now I heat the next piece, adjust the volume of the blood by adding a few drops more. When the metal is the right shade of white, I thrust it in. More steam roils forth¡ªthe guards'' view of me becomes half-obscured by reddish gray.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Heat, quench, onto the next piece and the next. I am going from larger pieces to smaller. The blood-level dips accordingly as it is transformed to steam with each burning insertion. My mouth fills with the taste of salamander blood, which is like spiced iron, and my hair and beard become drenched from its condensation.


    The flavor and scent remind me of my first terror from Vanerak, when he unleashed the abyssal salamander on us initiates¡ªfor his own amusement, no matter what excuse he gave that it was just punishment for our weakness. But it also reminds me of triumph. I slew an abyssal salamander not a year after that, in the tunnels below even the chasm, fighting beside Hayhek. And that is a memory that gives me strength.


    Down to the finger-sections now. Each is a small loop, carefully sized and angled. They aren''t closed yet, but as long as I heat and quench at the right temperatures and timings they should seal perfectly.


    I flex my shoulders and arms. I don''t want to slip up. I take some deep breaths of bloody mist, and it seems to lend me strength. My ruby likes the taste¡ªit warms against my breast. Fatigue drains from my muscles and my lungs.


    Heat, time, wait¡ªperfect blinding white¡ªnow into the bath. A hiss of blood brings out more red steam. I hold for a few seconds¡ªout it comes. I examine the join. It''s perfect; not even a line can be seen. A far cry from the jagged welds I used to blemish my crafts with.


    In a frenzy of bloody steam, I quench, heat, lay aside, quench¡ªI continue with total focus. Time does not seem to pass. I am in my own world of crimson and metal. I can no longer see the guards for the red haze, and for a moment am reminded of the golden cloud that obscured Runeking Ulrike''s forging.


    No! I should not be so arrogant¡ªthis is salamander blood, not whatever surrounds the crafting of a Runeking.


    I lay down the last segment, the toecap of my left sabaton. I look over at the winding row of metal sections. Drops of blood have condensed on them as they''ve cooled. They will take on more of the essence of salamander from this, I''m sure. None have become warped in the slightest¡ªnot even my helmet, which I was so afraid of destroying. Its seams are invisible now also.


    Now to repeat the process five more times, with no mistake, no slip, no error to undo the hours that have gone into creating each flawless section of tungsten.


    <hr>


    I make five returns to my chambers for a quick meal and sleep, and five returns to the forge, to quench and heat in the mist of blood. I do not hurry. I do not let hubris get the better of me. I know that I could relax, and that my reflexes would carry out the movements for me, so used to them I have become, but I do not take this option. Each movement, even the most seemingly insignificant, I take with the greatest care.


    No errors, no mistakes, no imperfections. I am a runeknight of the fourth degree. At my hand and hammer, metal moves into the shapes I envision.


    And now¡ªdone! The metalwork is complete. I inspect each piece in turn with eye, ear, and palm. There are no mistakes that my senses can make out. They are smooth and redly marbled. When I chime them, the sound is deep and resonant. Truly this is metal worthy of taking on new runes. Dictionaries! The only dictionary a dwarf should need is a section of armor or a blade. That is where runes are birthed onto from the magmatic power deep below.


    Still, though, I have no runes as of yet. My understanding of magma has been stunted by my imprisonment. The excavations have resumed¡ªbut with new security, and I am not going to be allowed back down for some time.


    Yet I have my magma forge. I request a crucible of tungsten enruned to have its melting point doubled, and one is shortly brought to me. I dip it into the magma current and lift it up. I grip it close to the scoop and bring it to my face as if to sup from it.


    The heat is intense. The meat of my face is being cooked like pork in the oven. My vision blurs as the jelly of my eyeballs softens; the black scars in my vision blur and expand slightly. Yet I resist the pain¡ªmy ruby is protecting me, blazing coldly as it seeks to undo the damage even as I inflict it upon myself.


    Exposure to power, whether that be the freezing cold of snow or the heat of magma, entails pain. A good deal of pain. As I feel the pain, I come to understand further the nature of magma. It is power condensed into stone, so much power that the stone is defeated. It is a violent power. Intrinsically violent.


    Nazak is striding toward me with a pail of water in hand. I let him come¡ªlet him drench me in it. I barely feel the sudden cool¡ªI am watching and listening to the magma. It blackens and cracks, yet only the surface. Magma is power long-lived as well. To extinguish magma utterly would take more water than sits in all the oceans of the surface combined.


    It is the center of power. Below sky and sea, there is magma, rock imbued with power beyond even the sun¡ªand is the sun itself not a great globe of magma? Scholars wiser than I say so.


    ¡°Fool!¡± Nazak spits. ¡°You''ll bake your skull like that, idiot!¡±


    ¡°If I am to understand magma, I must expose myself to its power.¡±


    ¡°It''s baked your brains.¡±


    I blink. My blurred vision is back to normal. ¡°I''m fine.¡±


    ¡°Don''t pull anything stupid like that again. If you want to gaze at magma, do it from a yard''s distance at least.¡±


    ¡°I have bathed in the magma seas,¡± I hear myself saying. ¡°Its power runs through me. My blood is magma.¡±


    Nazak curses foully. ¡°Your mind is boiled. Time to return to your quarters, I think.¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°I take it that on your next trip down here, you will enrune?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I will inform our Runethane. I''m sure he is looking forward to it.¡±


    Before we leave, he looks across at the sections of armor and shakes his head.


    ¡°What?¡± I say hotly, my heat induced fugue driven away by the offense.


    ¡°Barely acceptable, traitor,¡± he sneers. ¡°Barely.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 28: A Rune for Heat

    Sleep takes me and I dream of runes. They are not new ones but old, the runes for heat in a dozen different scripts. Some are specific, speaking to particular aspects of the word heat, Iahj, for example its capacity to bring two things into one, or to its capacity for destruction. Most embody all its aspects, all its powers, to melt, burn, remake, hurt, obliterate.


    Related runes spin through my mind also¡ªso vividly that I''m not sure I''m dreaming anymore but have returned to the world''s blood. There are runes for the word lahr, meaning sudden-blaze-of-heat, and runes for the words lazukh and hankah, heated-steel and process-of-heating. Lazukh is a rare one. Most scripts have runes only for lahj and zhekh, heat and steel, which the runeknight must link with some grammatical piece.


    On its own lazukh is more powerful, yet in each script I''ve found it in its runic flow is restrictive, which makes it sore work to fit into a poem.


    I wake up gradually. My room''s wormlight glow penetrates the darkness of my sleep, but the flow of runes does not fade nor slow down. The time has come. The steel is hot, ready to be struck. I call on Nazak:


    ¡°I must runeforge now. Is our Runethane ready?¡±


    ¡°He will not be able to observe this time. There are things upward that must be dealt with.¡±


    ¡°More salamanders?¡±


    ¡°None of your concern.¡±


    ¡°Of course. I apologize for my impertinence.¡±


    ¡°You will have breakfast and then we will go.¡±


    ¡°I don''t need food.¡±


    ¡°You do. I won''t have you collapsing face-first into molten metal. Eat and be grateful for it!¡±


    A servant brings a meal. I eat it in the doorway, standing up, barely conscious of what I''ve shoveling into my mouth. I wash it down with a deep draft of water and then we are walking the black tunnels again.


    The guards we pass in the hidden alcoves are wide-eyed. Runeforging is going to take place just below them, they are thinking, a new script is going to come into existence; I can tell this is what they think because there''s no malice in their gazes, just awe. Maybe some of them have been tasked with guarding the magma shore before and have heard that my new runes are going to be for their use.


    They still think of me as the traitor too, of course. That will never go away. But they also think of me as the second Runeforger, and this identity might start to weigh heavier than the old one.


    We come to the first door, turn to walk through the concealed tunnel and reach the second. Nazak unlocks it. Guards precede us as always, search the storeroom and their own viewing-points to confirm there are no intruders. Then I''m in.


    Gold and incandesite are what I''ll forge my poems from. The two work well together, gold taking in incandesite''s rage well and stabilizing it, just so long as the gold wire is thick and the runes bold. Until now I''ve always chosen thinner wire for my runes, and my text has sometimes been as thin as webs. For some poems this is the correct choice¡ªyet not always.


    I uncoil a few inches of gold wire from a coil sitting on the shelf. Point four millimeters, thick yet flexible enough so long as the runes aren''t made so small. I take the coil to the anvil, then return to the storeroom for the incandesite. One nugget will suffice, I decide, and I take it to the anvil also. Very gently I break it apart, then sweep the pieces into a stone mortar for grinding.


    I grind the pieces into fine sand, then dust, then dust so fine that it almost acts like liquid. As I do so the glow warms and brightens. I breath in its power. My mind whirls. I know what the runes are going to be. They are ready to be created.


    I lay down the pestle. I step back and shut my eyes. I hear scratching¡ªmy watchers are making records¡ªthey will write down my every movement and word. Yet I find that I no longer care. My power is calling to me too strongly.


    Heat envelops me. The darkness behind my eyelids becomes dull red, then bright orange, and finally streams of white-yellow. Magma is boiling through me. The heat is a thrill.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    The magma is moving, buffeted from behind, its flows warping around a great object. I will myself to turn¡ªbut of course magma is not water and I cannot see the sphere. It''s there, though. Close enough that if I had hands I could reach out and touch its surface.


    It''s time. Lahj, heat¡ªI imagine the concept as it applies to magma. I feel slow, concentrated power that can destroy at a touch. Power so great that nothing can contain it. Power that all the water and cold in the world cannot extinguish. Power that is the origin of everything¡ªfor with no heat there is no movement, no life.


    From my own mind the form of the rune bursts forth, a triangle open at one side from which lines extend. Heat rushes through me, hurting me, but I restrain it.


    Next rune¡ªwhat is next? I have not planned this poem¡ªhow could I without yet having had the runes to form it from? A grammatical piece comes, the negative topic-marker. Beyond it I can imagine vaguely the rest of the line.


    Rune by rune, I reel it in toward me¡ªtoward the core of power that turns concept and word to rune of real power. I am a focus, a concentrator. Words come to me and emerge as vivid forms.


    Soon¡ªor perhaps it has taken many hours¡ªthe first stanza is complete. I release the power, an action akin to uncurling my fingers from around a length of flesh-magnetic iron. The heat around me fades and vanishes and I am back before the anvil.


    I reach for the golden wire and begin to twist and clip, hammer flat. With each hammer-strike that finalizes the shape of a rune, power trembles through the air. I feel it in my heart. The guards feel it also, and shiver. Even Nazak is not unaffected. Each new rune I create, he leans a little closer.


    The poem, for my right thigh-plate, is nothing complicated. It''s almost simplistic¡ªor rather, pure. It speaks of heat, and then it speaks of heat''s denial, how it can be bent around an object properly attuned. It does not mention salamanders directly, but the allusion is clear.


    This is only the first stanza though. I start the second, and then I need a rune I haven''t created yet. So for the second time this session I shut my eyes and feel myself subsumed in the world''s blood.


    The sphere comes and shortly after the power. I draw the word and meaning I want into a symbol, and then more symbols as I compose the rest of the second stanza. The power is rushing through me. I feel that my body, far from here, is drenched in sweat.


    With great effort I release the power¡ªif this was a physical act, it would have torn the muscles of my fingers.


    Back in the forge. With each dull clang, more new power is brought into the underworld. A couple of the guards have stopped writing and are staring transfixed with awe. I suppose they weren''t present at my last session¡ªor perhaps they were, but of course that time I was only altering runes, not creating new ones.


    They will be able to tell their guildmates, friends, children: I was there when the Second Runeforger made his second script, the one of magma. And the word traitor will not be mentioned in that story.


    But the third stanza proves my limit for this session. I''m barely able to let go of the power this time, and when I return to the forge my skin is bright red and I''m trembling. I feel like it''s coated in a thin layer of very hot oil.


    Only barely do I manage to twist the last few runes into shape. After the last one, I find myself slumped against the anvil accepting cool water from a guard.


    ¡°Time for a rest, runeforger,¡± says Nazak. ¡°The incandesite won''t go rusty that quickly.¡±


    <hr>


    ¡°How far until the breakthrough from this crossroads?¡±


    ¡°A solid mile, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Is the path steep?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane, and rough too. Much of the rock has not been cleared. And I would keep one eye on the ceiling. The miners have done fast work, but as a result have been untidy. There are dangerous cracks.¡±


    ¡°I am a Runethane, Yalhal. Falling rocks are no threat to my armor.¡±


    ¡°Of course, my Runethane. I will lead you there with haste now.¡±


    Chief of Excavations Yalhal leads Vanerak upward through the tunnel. It starts off fairly smooth, then after the first branch upward becomes tight and rent with wild pick-strokes. The floor is of shifting gravel and broken stones. It steepens as they continue to a near ninety-degree angle. They must clutch the shattered walls to keep from sliding down, and the light of Yalhal''s lamp can only just penetrate the black fog of rock-dust.


    Finally they reach the last bend and the tunnel becomes level.


    ¡°Through here,¡± says Yalhal, leading them through an oval exit. ¡°Here is our discovery, my Runethane!¡±


    Vanerak perceives a cave. At his first few glances, it seems natural. Then he notices certain things about the chambers, of which there are five in a row, linked by wide portals. They are even in size, for one, and the portals are aligned exactly. He approaches one of the walls. The miner chipping at it hurries out his way. He runs a tungsten-encased finger down it.


    There are flat sections.


    ¡°You can tell, can''t you, my Runethane?¡± says Yalhal. ¡°The solidblack has been formed into an artificial structure here. Very smoothly, as if cast.¡±


    ¡°Very smoothly indeed,¡± Vanerak agrees. ¡°Not even my master mason could create a wall so smooth.¡±


    ¡°I theorize that it gained in solidity over time. Perhaps many years.¡±


    ¡°A theory is no theory if it cannot be tested.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. Of course. And I can think of no test of this material that has not already been carried out.¡±


    ¡°Are there more sequences of chambers beyond this?¡±


    ¡°We are not sure. The final one of this sequence has turned out to be a dead end, but perhaps there are ways in the sides that have not been cleared yet.¡±


    ¡°I see. Keep your miners working hard. Whoever discovers a way to another chamber will receive three long-hours of paid rest.¡±


    ¡°A most generous reward, my Runethane. Miners! Praise his generosity!¡±


    The miners throw themselves to the gravel-strewn ground. ¡°Thank you, Runethane Vanerak!¡± they scream in unison. "Thank you!"

 Beyond the Magma Shore 29: A Rune for Dwarf

    For my boots: poems praising the physical strength and pressure of magma as it flows relentlessly over the surface of the stone. The magma bonds to the stone also, and in fusing creates further stability¡ªrendered in my runes as reverse-liquidity.


    For my shin-plates: an ode of heat reversed. The stanzas speak of the power of magma reversed, energy to stillness, bright-heat to dark-cold. Power contains its opposite, and all exists together as one. Thus my armor will exist within the magma without being destroyed by it.


    For my thigh-plates: a similar ode, but more direct, and it also speaks of the power inherent in magma''s flow. It will give me strength to wade through the molten rock¡ªstrength far beyond what my ordinary muscles are capable of.


    Upon my belly I enrune an ode to heat''s source. It also describes how power contains its antithesis. In order for magma to have the capability to grow hotter, it must necessarily have the capacity to grow cooler. Within the poem I include a metaphor: of a battle of heat and cold. They cannot slay each other, because they are both degrees of the same.


    I graft the last rune of this poem with a flash of red-gold, then I step back and grimace. I read over it again. It doesn''t seem quite so strong as the others. I had to make a rune for cold, yet while in the magma I could not quite form a solid idea of what cold can be in a theme of pure heat. The runic flow is a little weak, and the wording slightly awkward.


    I remind myself that this is to be only the first version of this script. Once I can wade into the magma sea¡ªin my physical body¡ªI will become able to find the answers I seek. Cold exists there too in some form.


    I shut my eyes and get back to task. It''s not quite so draining now that the basic vocabulary of the script has been set.


    For my breastplate and backplate I create the central poem of the sequence. I describe a being of magma made separate from the ocean by a layer of a different kind of molten stone, a layer that is not elemental heat but heat-as-life, and heat-as-power cannot dissolve it, for it knows how to resist. It is part of the sea, able to move freely with the currents, and also not part of it, able to move against the currents by utilizing great strength of will.


    Strength, flexibility, and the power to resist heat. These are the core tenets of my poems.


    For the armor wrapping my arms: a poem of more concrete metaphor. Too much philosophy is not right for limbs that will be used for fighting. It tells of a battle between salamanders, who strike as quickly and lethally as fire that bursts from dry wood touched by magma and who can tear down weaker foes with ease. I continue this theme on my gauntlets, which speak of the claws of salamanders which drag their prey to fiery death.


    The final runes on the fingers flash strangely. Concerned, I inspect the metal closely. The grafting is a little uneven¡ªthen I remember the trouble I had shaping these tiny segments, and how many times I had to bend them back and forth to get the right shape.


    I curse. I''d held onto some hope that the quenching would improve things, but it hasn''t by much. Shit! What will Vanerak have to say about this mistake? To see the new runes grafted to inferior metalwork?


    There''s no helping it now¡ªto throw away enruned metal¡ªthe rest of the poem would know, somehow. And it would be a terrible insult to the new runes I''ve just created: to be brought forth into the world just to be tossed away. No. I cannot do that to my script.


    And I don''t want to keep Vanerak waiting any longer than necessary. He''s pouring over our past conversations even as I forge, I''m sure of it. Looking for any mistakes in my suspected lies. Anything he finds that doesn''t match up he will seize upon and use as an excuse to torture me, to drench his weapon in the blood of my friends. I must regain his favor soon.


    I return to my quarters. I can''t forge with fear digging its claws into my heart. I have a good sleep, sketch out some ideas for the poem that will go on my helm¡ªthough this goes poorly, for it is hard to calculate runic flow from blank spaces.


    Back to the forge. I turn the blank tungsten helm over and around in my hands. There is plenty of space. Uninterrupted, a long and complex poem here will have a strong, constantly increasing runic flow. The power will be great¡ªyet what is it to say? It won''t be submerged in the magma sea, so maybe I don''t have to lean so hard into runes of heat and grammatical negations. Should I write of salamanders again? But I can''t think of anything they could give me here.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    I decide not to take any strange risks. This poem will re-iterate what''s said on the rest of my armor. It''ll reinforce the themes of strength, flexibility, and heat resistance. I won''t need many new words. That''s fine. From seeing the same runes used in slightly different contexts, the runeknights of the magma shore can deepen their understanding of my script.


    For the first few lines, I don''t need to go into my trance. Halfway through the second stanza I want a rune for steel-melted, and only then do I shut my eyes and let myself be drawn into the magma sea.


    I create it, compose up to the next line, create the next rune I need. It''s getting easier¡ªI can draw in the power more easily, and what''s more, I seem to have real control over whatever I''m doing. The flow of heat through my heart, soul¡ªwherever it''s going¡ªisn''t threatening to overwhelm me anymore. And the runes are coming out strong¡ªmost of them.


    Some that aren''t related to the theme, but necessary for the composition, have weak runic flows. Either the passage is restricted or the runic power they output isn''t quite enough.


    But that can''t be helped. Again, this is only the first version of my script. It will be refined.


    I write the poem for my helmet smoothly. It tells a complex tale of how a single current of magma winds its way up from the lowermost depths of the sea. The current is heat-as-life. Similar to the being of magma I''ve described in great detail on my breastplate and backplate, it is part of the sea, sharing in its power, but also is separate from it.


    Halfway through, I begin to feel a little disappointed in myself, a little irritated too. I''m repeating myself. The rhythm is different, but most of the runes are the same. Am I scared of going back into the sea? Why? My control has improved¡ªbut maybe this is just because I''m not drawing in as much power as I know I can. Maybe this is what''s making some of the runes so weak.


    I start to catch myself choosing words that don''t need new runes¡ªbut I must be more creative! This composition is feeble. A living current of magma is too vague. I need something more vivid¡ªfor my last helm I told of a dwarf striding across the world to meet the shadow of its regret. I need something like that.


    I haven''t yet created a rune for dwarf, dway, in this script. Why not? Every script has to have a rune for dwarf. Nearly half of all runic poems feature a being like their creator.


    So I brace myself, step away from the anvil, shut my eyes. The heat of magma surrounds me in an instant. A thrill of fear rushes through me, for never has it taken me so fast. The sphere seems to rush at me also, buffeting my soul, sending me turning over and over.


    A rune for dway, for dwarf¡ªwhat does dwarf mean, even?


    Humans say it means short. Elves say it means ugly. Dragons say slaves. Trolls say prey.


    But what do I say?


    I say dwarf means love and greed. Strength, toughness, yet also mortality. And through our flesh runs heat-of-life, to fuel the heat-of-forging in our hands, and with the power that our crafts give us we can inflict heat-of-life-negated upon creatures as mighty as dragons.


    Dwarf means power.


    Holding all these meanings in me¡ªthis is no easy task¡ªit''s like trying to hold on to blazing fire that keeps flickering out through the gaps in my fingers¡ªI draw in the power. It rages forth, crashes into me like a wave from below, and the sphere trembles beside me. Far away I feel my body crash to its knees then backwards.


    I must draw in the power! It rages through me. I focus. I don''t let it control me. Through the meanings I weave its flow, and from the weaving a shape emerges, a triangle from which wave-lines burst forth.


    This is the rune, the rune for dway in my script. The form is burned into my mind.


    Abruptly the power leaves me. It''s done the job I needed it for. It flows back into the deep depths even as I rise.


    Slowly I open my eyes. Nazak is rushing at me with a pail of water held high, again. I laugh loudly and hold out my palms.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I say. ¡°I have the rune I need.¡±


    He makes no sign of stopping, and I let him douse me. My skin feels so hot that I half expect the water to boil off me in clouds of steam, but no, it''s just cold and wet. I brush drops from my beard as I stand up.


    ¡°You¡ª¡±


    ¡°Watch me!¡± I say. ¡°All of you, watch!¡±


    For once, Nazak says nothing. He steps back abruptly.


    ¡°Watch!¡± I say again.


    I draw out a length of gold wire. Deftly I shape it into a perfect triangle. I clip it carefully, then I clip out ten more lengths, a little shorter. With painstaking concentration I bend each into a wave. Some are violent and uneven. Others are calmer with equal numbers of peaks and troughs.


    I lay them over the perfect triangle¡ªagain, precisely. I take up a hammer and bring it down hard.


    There is a clang, and within the clang are notes of music, both deep harmony and high melody. I hear it only for an instant yet am filled with awe. Something is about to be brought forth. It just has been, in fact. Now it just needs to be brought to life.


    I lay a web of incandesite upon the forehead of my helm. Very gently I place the rune over it.


    Nazak is deathly still, barely breathing. The guards, every last one of them, have pressed their faces to the bars. I take up my tapered iron and heat it over the magma. It glows bright yellow. I bring it to the red trails underneath the golden rune. I tap.


    The color of burning gold illuminates the forge. It is brilliant. It overwhelms, for a brief moment at its peak, even the black scars in my vision. The guards shout out in wonder. Nazak stumbles back, mouth open in awe.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 30: Ready for Judgement

    My helmet is wreathed in runic power. It is invisible, of course, felt and not seen, but no less a spectacle for this. This single rune, dway, is more powerful even than my new rune for cold was. I have failed with my runes several times today, but with this rune I''ve managed to harness my power expertly. And what is more I did not lose control. This is no dark rune, no bloody rune of the desire to kill, but one that has life and death both woven into it.


    I step back to admire. The guards and Nazak remain speechless with awe.


    ¡°Now for the rest of the poem,¡± I say. ¡°Then you can call down the Runethane.¡±


    Nazak nods, then orders a guard to run up to find Vanerak.


    My fear of him returns to gnaw at me; it intrudes upon my triumph. I focus. Yet I can''t let something mundane like fear ruin such a great work.


    I think: what can this poem be?


    The answer comes to me. I take the runes I folded for my failed poem and rearrange. I shape some more. I plunge into the magma sea, pull my power through me to create new ones for the words I need. Making the more straightforward ones seems easy to me now.


    The poem comes together. It is, naturally, about a dwarf.


    <hr>


    The Reconquerors do not have just one guildhall, but half a dozen. They are spread throughout Vanerak''s rapidly expanding realm. No other guilds are yet permitted to be established, for Vanerak wants a tight hold on his domain. Perhaps, once his realm has grown a little further, he will allow the existence of groups not under his direct control. In the meantime there are only the Reconquerors¡ªutterly loyal to him for leading them to safety from Thanerzak''s dragon-blasted realm.


    Guthah and Pellas sit opposite each other in one of these guildhalls. Not for the first time, Guthah is feeling out of place. This particular hall is just a short distance from Runethane Vanerak''s palace, and apart from them and the two surviving Dragonslayers, only runeknights of fourth degree and above are allowed entry.


    But they have been told to forge and take meals here, by first degree Halax himself, and so no matter how isolated they feel, this is where they must spend most of their time.


    ¡°...it''s going well enough,¡± Pellas is saying. ¡°The handle turned out to be...¡±


    Guthah cannot quite concentrate on what his wife-to-be is saying. There''s a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. His sausages and beer sit in front of him untouched. Even though he''s hungry, has been working steel all day, he cannot fathom eating right now. His belly is already full with fear.


    ¡°...silver was the right choice, I think. But all the same...¡±


    What''s come over him? Is it something about the other runeknights here? Has there been some subtle change in their manner of walking and speaking? There are rumors of demons loose by the magma shore. Might they have infiltrated even to here?


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± says Pellas, suddenly concerned.


    ¡°I''m fine.¡±


    ¡°You''ve gone pale.¡±


    ¡°Not enough sunlight,¡± Guthah tries to joke.


    ¡°Did something happen?¡±


    ¡°No. It''s just... Something feels off.¡±


    Pellas frowns.


    ¡°You don''t feel it?¡±


    ¡°I don''t know. Not really.¡±


    ¡°Like something''s about to happen.¡±


    ¡°With the magma shore? We''ve been told everything''s under control down there.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know where it''s going to happen. It''s not like that. Just...¡± He throws up his hands. ¡°Maybe the heat from the furnace got to me. It might have been set a little high.¡±


    Pellas lays down her knife. ¡°Now you''ve got me worried.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. It''s just a feeling. It''ll go away.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Yeah.¡± She lowers her voice. ¡°It''s hard to feel relaxed in here at the best of times.¡±


    ¡°Finish your beer and let''s get back to our room.¡±


    ¡°Let''s.¡±


    The guildhall is not such a quiet place¡ªVanerak''s dwarves are not reflections of him, they talk of forging and fighting over their beers, and of more uncouth topics too, and there are always dwarves walking through to the forging chambers past the main hall¡ªbut a sudden sound cuts through all this. It is not loud. Yet to Guthah something sets it apart from the others. It''s coming from over Pellas'' shoulder.


    It''s footsteps. A lady runeknight has emerged from behind a small knot of fourth degrees now hurriedly marching away. She is of the first degree, and is right now unhelmed. Her face is disfigured by burns¡ªmuch like Pellas'' is¡ªyet there is a harshness in Helzar''s gaze unmatched by even Vanerak''s other first degrees.


    Nothing but hate is in those eyes. They are like bloody daggers, and the same color, red and dark gray around a point of soulless black.


    Guthah''s muscles spasm tense. She is approaching them, directly. This is what his terrible feeling meant. She has come for them. Zathar has failed in his promise¡ªhe has committed some act worth of punishment and now Guthah and Pellas are to pay the price.


    He wants to scream. His breath wants to burst from him. Why must he pay for the traitor''s crimes? Haven''t they suffered enough from Zathar already? He who led them on the dragonhunt, promising he''d protect them, only to ignore and break that promise?


    Just because he is the Runeforger, that means he cannot be touched. Why was he blessed with this power? Who could have been less fitting?


    Helzar stands right behind Pellas. Her blood-dagger eyes dart down for a second, then back up.


    ¡°Ularak!¡± she snaps. Her voice is like crushed obsidian. ¡°The delivery is late! I needed that tungsten load half a long-hour ago!¡±


    ¡°I''m sorry!¡± cries a startled runeknight sitting two places away from Guthah. ¡°I''ll go and see what''s happened!¡±


    ¡°You will. And you will do it now.¡±


    He leaps up from his place, bows hastily and dashes away, leaving his half-eaten meal on his stone plate. Helzar shakes her head, sneers a little, and walks away without another glance back.


    Guthah breaths out slowly.


    But the ill-feeling remains.


    <hr>


    The dwarf dives into the magma sea. He breaks through the black crust of it with ease; its fragments smash apart on his tungsten skin. Warmth subsumes him, which is in truth raging heat, yet to a being of magma it feels like home, like the heat of the furnace. It is a comfort. He is heat, after all, a dwarf is heat, of love and greed and rage. How could heat possibly melt his tungsten skin?


    Deep he swims. The weight of molten stone presses upon him. Instead of crushing him, it only makes him stronger. His tungsten skin thickens. His inner heat grows to meet the pressure and temperature, to match it.


    His very blood responds. It rushes in his veins, bringing the heat-of-life through him more strongly. His legs beat through the magma with greater force, and his arms move as if the power-overwhelmed stone weighs nothing and exerts no friction.


    The poem ends with no conclusion. The dwarf continues to swim down, down, down.


    This is the poem''s strength¡ªits stroke of brilliance. Descent is its main theme, and the runic power thus flows down from it, to run through the rest of the conjoining metal. It is the embodiment of the themes below in narrative form and through it the sequence both begins and is complete.


    Red and gold flash as I seal rune to tungsten. Nazak and his guards remain transfixed. Though they know what I am making is powerful, they cannot quite tell the power of this craft¡ªthey are waiting for the final rune to be grafted so they can see the full potential of my runes for themselves.


    When I do graft the final rune, lahj for heat, the whole helmet glows warm gold for a few seconds, before the light gradually fades. Yet I''m still not done.


    Piece by piece I fit the suit together. The tungsten sections lock perfectly against one another. I tighten the boots around my feet. I could stride out into the magma shallows in their current state with ease, but I still want a little extra security.


    The threads of the black glowworm are a prized commodity. A six inch length costs a full gold wheel back in Allabrast. I never touched them, never even glanced at them, knowing my gold needed to be spend on metal and reagent, and that no armor was ever defined by its undercoat.


    Yet my resources are now unlimited. A few long-hours ago I asked for sheets of woven glowworm threads to be precisely measured, cut, and sewn by an expert tailor. It arrived quickly¡ªincredibly quickly¡ªand now lies in the storeroom.


    I take out the package, unwrap the paper carefully. I remove my boots and replace them with a sock of the fabric. It''s cool against my skin, and so soft that I wouldn''t know it was there but for the coolness.


    The black glowworm devours only one kind of prey: the silverskin bat. Creatures of skin and critters of chitin brush against its hanging webs harmlessly. But when a silverskin bat, attracted by the light which is a perfect imitation of the glow of lesser worms, makes contact with the black threads, they bond instantly to its metallic skin.


    No matter how much the creature thrashes, it can do nothing to escape. Eventually it goes limp and accepts its fate¡ªconsumption from the inside after the worm enters through the nearest orifice.


    The thread bonds with metals other than silver too, but much more slowly. I place my foot back into my boot, adjust for comfort, and wait. A few minutes later, I feel the coolness of the fabric pull away a little as it bonds to the tungsten. A few more minutes and I judge the process complete. I pull my foot out the boot, put it back in.


    Both movements are smooth. I flex my foot. The fabric stretches and the armor-plates glide over each other soundlessly.


    Over the next hour I don each piece of fabric and section of armor in turn, bonding them tightly. Once each is fully complete, I don the whole suit.


    A glow of heat fills me. I feel invigorated, drunk on the heat. I take a few steps and I feel light. I flex my hands. My fingers snap quickly and tightly. I kneel down and reach for the magma of the furnace, let it run around my fingers.


    My fingertips feel hot, but they do not burn¡ªunless they are burning with power. My strength seems to grow the longer I leave them in contact with the substance.


    I turn to Nazak.


    ¡°Done,¡± I say. ¡°Now I await our Runethane''s judgement.¡±


    ¡°He is on his way,¡± he says. "You will not have to wait long."

 Beyond the Magma Shore 31: Disappointed

    I am watching the door through the slits of my visor. I glance down briefly at myself. The glow from the daycrystals glints unnaturally upon my armor. Sunlight shouldn''t shine on my tungsten; it''s an unnatural power to it. The glow of the magma is what my metal must bathe in. Under sunlight, it looks strangely weak and mundane.


    Nazak said I wouldn''t have to wait long, and maybe he wasn''t lying, but I feel like I''ve been standing here an eternity. The thrill of forging has died away totally, and in its place fear has returned. I examine my gauntlets. The some of the fingertips are a slightly different shade¡ªthey don''t have the slight reddish tint to their gray that the rest of my suit does. If I can notice this, so will Vanerak.


    My waiting ends; a loud click sounds from the lock and in he walks, his mirror-mask reflecting me and my new armor at the center of a distorted forge. The bright gold of my runes appears diminished, made dull by the slight darkness of the mirror-mask''s color.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    I bow low. ¡°Greetings, my Runethane. I have completed my armor. I am sorry for the delay.¡±


    ¡°There was no delay worth speaking of. Approach.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    I approach him. My movement seems to happen quickly, very quickly. In this armor I move very smoothly. The armor plates make no noise as they glide against each other.


    I stop before him. Vanerak stares at my helmet. With no way of seeing his eyes, I can''t see if he''s looking at the rune dway, or at some section of inferior metalwork, or at some rune that has less power than it should.


    He tilts his head down. Now he is examining my breastplate. He walks around me to look upon my back. I flinch when he grabs my left forearm and lifts it up. He does the same to my right, then walks around, examining both my arms closely. He takes a step back and looks over my legs, then kneels to look at my sabatons.


    A crazy urge to laugh comes over me. Vanerak is kneeling at my feet! But he stands up again and my mirth vanishes in a wash of icy fear.


    ¡°You may relax your arms,¡± he says.


    I do so.


    ¡°Some of your runes are powerful,¡± he says. ¡°Especially the one on your helm that is the anchor of its poem, and another one that repeats throughout all of your poems. These are what give your compositions most of their strength.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I would guess that the second means heat. It is the rune for lahj.¡±


    ¡°That is correct, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°The one on your helm has a complex runic flow. It contains many connotations. I guess that it is the rune for dway, or for the rune tway.¡±


    ¡°It is the rune for dway, my Runethane. This script does not have a rune for self yet.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that makes sense. Runes meaning self usually have a less clearly defined runic flow. They are more open.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°The rest of runes for this script are more varied in their power. Some produce a great amount but direct the flow awkwardly. As if they are not quite sure what they are meant to be. Others have a simplistic flow and little power. As if they know what they are but also know they are inferior.¡±


    ¡°I am still not used to controlling my powers, my Runethane.¡±


    My stomach feels like a knot.


    ¡°Yes, I am aware of this. And I am aware that pushing them too hard is dangerous for you. You must come to master them slowly. I can forgive certain inferiorities with them.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane. You are indeed most forgiving.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Yet I cannot forgive the inferiority of your metalwork. You have rushed it. And then you have degraded it by introducing an element foreign to it.¡±


    The knot grows tighter. ¡°I don''t quite follow, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You do not? You are a fourth degree, yet you do not understand what you have done to the metal?¡±


    ¡°No, my Runethane.¡± My voice is quavering.


    ¡°I see. I suppose that is to be expected. It is your power that has brought you this far, after all, not your skill with metal, of which you have only a small amount. Your lack of patience also does your crafts an injustice.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Many of your plates show evidence of being badly shaped and then beaten back for their transgressions¡ªalthough it was their forger who transgressed. Your fingers especially, and also parts of your helmet, and in many other plates also.¡±


    ¡°I see, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I can tell by the tone of your voice that you do not.¡±


    ¡°I understand that I forged badly, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Yet you do not understand the reason. You think, as most lesser runeknights do, that metal bent out of and into shape over the course of many mistakes can be fixed by a few rounds of heating and quenching. Some scholars, who see things from only a physical perspective, also believe this. They then write their lies down in books for the upper levels of the libraries and are believed by fools. You have clearly read such books.¡±


    ¡°I have, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Their writers do not understand metal. They believe that with a powerful enough lens, the truth of metal might be revealed to them. This is false. The truth of metal is only revealed to those runeknights who have worked a hundred and a hundred more years with it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Metal remembers. Metal feels. Through every blow of the hammer, metal understands the mettle of its striker.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You hear yet you do not understand. You have not the experience. You have not taken the time to understand metal. Not with this craft, nor with any other.¡±


    ¡°I only wanted to get you your runes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Runes are only as powerful as the metal they are grafted to. Applied to inferior metal, their power is diminished and their flows unclear. A distortion of a tenth of a millimeter can render one completely ineffective.¡±


    ¡°I know this, my Runethane. But my runes are not distorted.¡±


    ¡°They are¡ªby the inferior metal they are grafted to. I will copy these to paper, of course, yet I will not be able to tell their true form, the form you made them into under the magma, because they are slightly distorted. Whenever a dictionary is written, the runes are copied from the highest grade of equipment they appear on. And that grade is far higher than that of the metal you are wearing.¡±


    I bow my head low. ¡°I apologize, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I will accept your apology when this metal is remade. That is what you will spend your time on from this point forth¡ªyou will remake this armor. Each section of tungsten you will hammer perfectly. If you bend a piece out of shape, you will heat and reshape it half a hundred times over until you are sure that the insult is forgiven. Better that you make no mistakes, of course. You will become patient enough to see when you are about to make one, and stop.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°It is clear that your eyes are not yet attuned enough to metal for you to understand it. So you will use your runic ears. You have not yet used them for the purpose you created them for. I presume that you are afraid of them.¡±


    ¡°...I am, my Runethane. I am concerned that they might destroy my vision. If that happens, I do not see how I might make further runes.¡±


    ¡°You make them by feel, not by sight. Under the magma sea you have no body, and thus no eyes¡ªor do I misremember?¡±


    ¡°You do not misremember, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I did not think I did. You will go over your less-accomplished runes also. I do not know how many iterations the First Runeforger created for each of his runes, but it may have been many. And you are not so skilled yet as he was.¡±


    ¡°Very well, my Runethane. I shall do as you ask.¡±


    ¡°And one last point: this time you will not introduce foreign substances to the metal. The threads of the black glowworm do have their applications in forging. But to bond them to the metal so unevenly, with no thought or skill applied at all, was to insult your armor most grievously.¡±


    I hang my head in shame. ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Once you have worked the metal, I will be called. I will judge if it is yet worthy of applying runes to. If the perfect forms will show on them.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger. Try not to disappoint me again.¡±


    ¡°I will not, my Runethane. You have my promise on that.¡±


    ¡°I hope that is a promise you can keep.¡±


    After that final remark, he turns and leaves. I lean back against the anvil, shaking, ashamed of my failure and deathly afraid of failing for a second time.


    <hr>


    ¡°Did you feel that?¡± says the miner.


    ¡°No,¡± says his friend, who then coughs loudly on black rock-dust. ¡°Feel what?¡±


    ¡°A kind of shiver in the rock.¡±


    ¡°Didn''t feel nothing. My arms are shaking already.¡± He coughs again. ¡°Need something to wet my throat. And deaden my arms.¡±


    He strikes again at the wall. A long sliver of black falls away and shatters to pieces at his feet. There is no true black behind it though, the imperviousness that cannot be scratched. Hell! If only he could find some, and finally be allowed a rest.


    ¡°I''m sure I felt a tremor,¡± the first miner says nervously.


    ¡°Just withdrawal. Fucking beer shortage!¡±


    ¡°It''s not a shortage,¡± says a third miner. ¡°It was orders of the Runethane that we be given less.¡±


    ¡°That''s just an excuse. We''ve run out.¡±


    One of the beardless boys shoveling chips into the wheelbarrow says, ¡°I felt a tremor too.¡±


    ¡°It''s nothing,¡± snaps the second miner. ¡°You''re all just trying to come up with excuses to skive off. Put your backs into it! I don''t want to get another whipping.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 32: A Place of Only Metal

    I hammer, I heat, I hammer, I heat. That is all I know, and all I have known for a time indeterminate. How long have I spent on this single segment of my armor? I feel that I have remade it ten times fifty times over. Each time I think I have finished, I run my hands along it, feel that it is finally good enough, and then I equip my runic ears and know that it is not.


    The bright glow of the loop fades. The forge becomes dark. I equip my runic ears and it becomes darker still, until there is no light at all; there is only sound.


    I hear the breathing of the guards. I hear the scrape of metal as Helzar shifts in her seat. I hear the burble of magma from the inner parts of the furnace. I hear the low hiss of wind as air moves in and out the vents in the ceiling.


    I can also hear a very low and continuous rumble through the stone. This is a relatively unfamiliar sound; it started only a few long-hours ago.


    I chime the loop of metal. Its tone is clear and pure. Its melody, the wave of increase and decrease of pitch, is perfectly even¡ªah, no, not quite. There is a kink somewhere. I listen more closely, searching for its origin. I cannot find it so I chime again, and again a third time.


    There, I think: a slight bend in the metal where the lower part of the loop starts to widen. It''s an error of less than a millimeter, but for metal to be worthy of runes, and to be worthy of its own self-respect, there must be no errors.


    I have only one chance to correct it. If I over-correct, the metal will know. Vanerak will know too, but that is not so important. In this place my thoughts are only of metal.


    For many minutes I adjust my hammer''s angle. I focus hard to decide the speed at which I''ll strike. I cannot see the metal, but that is no matter. I can hear how other sounds shift around it. The shifting is regular. It is almost breathing.


    My runic ears are not the sight-mutilating beasts I''d feared them to be. There is no death in their poem, I''ve realized, just calm and knowledge, and even if that knowledge be of things that were once alive, when the fleck of ash passes their bones, it is like some part of them has come alive again to be brought down to me.


    I heat the loop once more, to an exact temperature¡ªwhich I do not tell by color, but by the feel of warmth on my face, as a dragon might tell the location of its prey by its warmth alone. I do not mind making this comparison¡ªthis place is far from dragons.


    It is a place of metal and metal alone.


    I aim. I tap. I go too far, and hold back a curse¡ªit''s not the metal''s fault¡ªit is the fault of my own inferior skill.


    Yet this is the closest I have come to perfection. Another few attempts and this piece will be complete.


    This one segment of more than a hundred.


    <hr>


    I heat, I hammer, I heat, I hammer, I heat again and hammer again over and over and over. Time does not seem to pass here in this place of metal. Once in a while I will be forced to take a break, when my strength runs from me and I fall to the stone sweating yet already struggling to stand back up and wield my hammer again. On these occasions I am returned to my quarters for food, drink and rest, but am always soon back in the forge again, remembering nothing of what I consumed or what dreams I had.


    Nazak will speak to me sometimes, or Helzar will or Halax. I reply¡ªyet I can''t remember what it is we discuss. Likely Vanerak is often mentioned, and some crude remarks are made about my skill. Yet I am in a place of metal and am not concerned.


    The loop is ready to test once more. I run my fingers around it and can feel no imperfection. I chime it and hear low music, which becomes high, then low again. There is no disruption to the pattern.


    None at all. That cannot be right. I chime again, but can still hear no disruption. I chime a third time, this time concentrating to my fullest.


    Yet there is still no disruption. It follows that there must be something wrong with it visually; I remove my runic ears.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    The silence startles me. The brightness and color that comes after a few seconds is strange to me. I blink a few times to focus my vision.


    I bring the loop up close for examination and yet there is no mistake. The color is pure, unmarred by shaded patches or too-bright patches, or parts where the light reflects off in an odd manner.


    Finally, after what must have been two dozen long-hours, I allow myself to smile. It is complete. For the first time in my life, I have forged a piece of armor worthy of applying runes to. Now I truly understand what Wharoth meant when he told me of patience¡ªwhy a single circle of metal took him three years in the forge to create, though perhaps he should have spent even longer on it.


    One segment of armor does not a suit make, however. There are still more than a hundred to go, and some will prove to be far trickier. I fancy that my helmet will take me more than a year.


    But time has no meaning in the forge. There is only metal. I measure the next piece of tungsten, and apply myself to cutting it from its sheet with my diamond blade.


    I heat, hammer, heat and hammer.


    That is all there is to do in this place of metal.


    <hr>


    My eyes open. I am in my quarters. The wormlight glow looks strange to my eyes, as if it''s a shade I''ve never seen before; it is not gray, nor silver, nor is it burning red and yellow and white.


    The fugue dissipates quickly then I''m pushing my body up and swinging my legs off the bed. I immediately go to the door. I knock on it¡ªit''s strange to have to knock to get out of a room rather than into it, I think for a brief moment.


    It opens. It seems that it is again Halax''s turn to observe me.


    ¡°You have not eaten, Runeforger. Your breakfast is ready on your table and it would be detrimental to you if you were not to honor its mean cooks, for there can be no furnace without fuel.¡±


    I blink. ¡°Honored runeknight Halax, how long have I been here?¡±


    ¡°You have slept for approximately two short-hours.¡±


    ¡°I mean, since I arrived in this realm of our Runethane Vanerak.¡±


    He thinks briefly. ¡°Around one hundred and fifty long-hours.¡±


    ¡°And how many of those have I spent on remaking this suit of armor?¡±


    ¡°A little over one hundred of them.¡±


    One hundred! So I have spent nearly a year on just this one suit of armor. Yet the idea of spending so long on one piece doesn''t appall and confuse me like it once did. Instead the only feeling that assails me is worry: am I rushing things?


    ¡°I would request that you inform our Runethane that it may take me two hundred further long hours to have it ready for his inspection.¡±


    ¡°Yet you are halfway through, from what I have seen.¡±


    ¡°The helmet will prove difficult. To make it perfect is beyond my current level of skill. It will be an exceedingly difficult task, honored runeknight. For you it might be easy, but not for one such as me.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Zathar Runeforger. I shall inform him. He will be pleased, I think, that you seem to have learned at least some of the value of patience. What is two hundred long-hours to one of us, after all, whose amulets allow us lives of tens of thousands?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, honored runeknight.¡±


    A sudden tremor runs through the stone. I''m nearly knocked from my feet, must put my hand against the wall to steady myself. The wormlight globe swings wildly. I fancy that I can hear distant cracking, and some of the guards behind Halax look at each other in alarm. This is the biggest one we''ve had for a while.


    ¡°Another eruption?¡± I ask, though I know it was not. When the magma sea is disturbed, the vibrations are as strong, yet their frequency is not so deep.


    ¡°It is of no concern to you, Runeforger. All you must think about is your metal.¡±


    Yet for the first time in a hundred long-hours, my thoughts on the way down to the forge are not of metal, but of stones, and mining. I have heard whispers from the guards that thousands of miners are being poured into the excavations above, to rend hundreds of tunnels through the stone to find the knowledge Runeking Ulrike believes buried here.


    For a dwarf of patience, Vanerak is certainly not showing much. I think he is desperate to find something. Why and what, though, the guards do not speculate about within my earshot.


    As soon as the door to the forge is opened, these thoughts vanish. I am back to my place of metal where the only thing that matters is my suit of tungsten.


    It stands half completed on the armor-rack. The dark reddish tinge from the salamander blood is more vivid than it was on my first attempt.


    I''ve decided to quench and perfect each piece as I go, rather than leaving this process to the end. If I managed to somehow ruin my whole suit of armor in one go, I think my sanity would shatter apart. Most times the quenching went well. I only ruined a few segments.


    Now for the breastplate, one of the trickiest pieces. I already cut the sheet I''m to use on my last session. I place it in the furnace. It begins to glow brightly, outshining the daycrystals¡ªthey look almost dim. I take it out and place it on the anvil.


    Heat, hammer, heat and hammer. The sound of my strikes entrances me. The long-hours vanish, eaten up by the tungsten, greedy for its own perfection. Because the breastplate is too bright to look at, I only listen and feel.


    The clash of hammer on metal reverberates. It grows gradually more tuneful, like a mosaic taking form from scattered shards, yet this mosaic is a failure. The tune is too complex. Different ripples and curves make sounds that overlap and create discord.


    However much I try, I cannot eliminate them entirely. By continuing, all I am doing is insulting the metal.


    ¡°I apologize,¡± I whisper.


    I return it to the furnace, beat it flat, fold, shape with painstaking care, again and again, an apology on my lips with every strike I make.


    Heat, hammer, heat. Will this forging ever end?

 Beyond the Magma Shore 33: Great Improvements

    I chime my breastplate. Its music is now as that of an orchestra''s, except even the greatest orchestral performance of brass trumpets and steel cymbals and mild silver triangles has its errors, its mistimed or out-of-tune notes. My breastplate, on this thirty-second improvement, has none of those.


    Each curve and bend rings with a perfect note, in perfect harmony with each of the others, and there is not a single discordance that my ears can detect. Neither can my hands feel any mistakes, and the color is unmarred too. After I quench it a dozen times, it is a perfect dark crimson.


    I set it aside and over the next many long-hours I work on its counterpart, the backplate. It only takes me twenty-three improvements. My skill is growing. My accuracy with each hammer-stroke has more than doubled. The power in my arms, in their base muscles, has increased and I have firmer control over how much of this power I push into each movement. No longer do I make mistakes with the temperature of the metal either. The heat from it speaks to me clearly as to whether it''s ready to bend or not.


    Now for the arm-plates and loops. Creating them is noticeably easier than creating the similar leg-plates and segments of my sabatons was. Though, this is not to say it is easy. I still make mistakes. I still insult the metal and have to apologize to it a hundred times over before I feel that it has forgiven me.


    Is this the secret of true metal? I often wonder this, but always come to the same conclusion: it is not. Metal flows into the Runeking''s foundry-palace but never out. Yet I am using the same amount of metal I always have. To throw it out, discard it before it''s had a chance to become a craft would be an insult, as I have been reminded time and again.


    Perhaps the secret is that the metal must be condensed somehow. Could a bar of metal be enruned so that when it is melted down, it decreases in volume? I think this would be possible, yet at the same time, I still think I''m missing the mark. I have a feeling that the secret does not involve runes, at least not directly.


    After many more long-hours I reach the finger-tips of my gauntlets, the pieces that caused me so much shame on my first attempt. They cause me trouble here too. Their concave-curves are so small and exact that even with my improved skill, striking with just the right amount of power proves nearly impossible. Perhaps I should create a mold to pour the tungsten into¡ªyet this would be a surrender. And their character would be different to the rest of the armor, inferior, and insulted by how little effort I put into their shaping.


    So I hammer, heat, hammer, heat. Eventually they are done, perfect, their chimes more harmonious and purer than those of any bell I''ve ever heard rung. My striking is more accurate for the effort I''ve put in also. If I concentrate, subtle movements that were impossible for me before become possible.


    I shake my head. How could I ever have been so foolish as to rush my first pair? Why did I have to ruin them?


    The stone shakes and I look up. The daycrystals are rocking slightly. Some of the guards have grabbed onto the bars to steady themselves¡ªI do not see all this, but hear it. And I hear that this quake has a note of violence in it that none yet has had.


    ¡°Fucking miners,¡± one of the guards mutters under his breath, so quietly that only I can hear him.


    Yes, damn the miners, rending and tearing the rock with no respect for it. All they can do is destroy, never create. That is why they are hated so. But it is Vanerak pushing them to do this. I''d rather curse his name.


    I think I have a meal and sleep after the quake¡ªbut soon I''m back in my place of metal. The quenching of the finger-pieces goes well¡ªI make no fool mistakes with the quantities or heating.


    Six inches an hour, I slice out the base shape of the helmet. There''s another tremble through the stone and my hand slips a millimeter. I spit a curse, and add the name of our Runethane to the end of it inside my head.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    After I''ve cut it all out, I trim a sliver out and weld it to where the mistake is. Then I heat, fold, hammer, heat that patch a hundred times until the insult has been forgiven.


    I start to bend the white-hot tungsten. Even though I am seeing it with sound as I work, it is still white: the shimmer of distorted noise around the hot metal is color to me. Each level of heat has its own shimmer¡ªthough even if there was no shimmer, I''d still be able to tell the temperature by its feel on my face.


    The bending proves just as difficult as anticipated. The shape of the helm is complex, with curves that flow in precise ways, and all are more extreme than those on my breastplate were. Yet my skill does not fail me.


    I only have to re-do the craft nine times before it is perfect.


    Now for the final quenchings. I wheel out the tank of blood and fill the bath¡ªan ordinary, unruned one, of course. I heat the helm to the correct heat, just a touch higher than if I were to quench it in cooled blood, and push it under the surface with quickness born from confidence that all is well with every aspect of my action.


    Bloody steam fills the air. It clouds and muffles the sounds of the forge, and my nose is filled with its scent. My ruby shivers with delight. I pull the helmet out of the bath and chime it. No distortions. I take off my runic ears¡ªafter a few moments I see that the slight redness has been taken on evenly.


    I refill the bath back to the correct volume, and quench again. Again. Ten times the metal sinks into the bloody bath and comes out a little redder than before. Finally, it is the same shade as the other pieces, and I mount it on the armor stand.


    And here my craft is finished. I have no need for glowworm threads, or fabric studded with welds. Each piece fits tighter to its neighbors than the pieces of my last attempt did, and they should glide more smoothly against each other too.


    I test this by equipping the armor: first I put on the pauldrons. They have loops that go around my armpits, and into these loops I twist and lock in the loops that make up the flexible first section of the arm, then I attach the long upper-arm plates, then I fit in the loops that go around my elbows, to which I attach the forearm plates. I twist and fit in the wrist-loops. To these I fit the many clever loops that make up my gauntlets. Each new piece attached makes only the slightest of sounds.


    I flex my hands. When I clench them, the back of my fists become sharp with jutting metal edges, yet no gaps are formed, even though there is nearly no hindrance to how tight I can close my fingers. I should have no trouble gripping a weapon.


    Next I clasp together my breastplate and back-plate, and under them I fit the wide loops to go around my belly, which are shaped so that I can twist and bend my body as needed. Then I attach my codpiece, then I fit the plates of my legs and feet together just as I did with my arms. On I put the neck-protection, and finally I pull off my runic ears and equip my helmet.


    Through the thin slits of my visor I can see only a sliver of the forge. That''s the disadvantage of this suit, and it will take a fair bit of getting used to after having perfect vision through my cold skull-helm. Yet I don''t want any flecks of magma in my eyes.


    ¡°Finished already?¡± Helzar sneers, in that sand-and-gravel voice of hers. ¡°Are you sure you want to show that thing to our Runethane?¡±


    ¡°I am nearly finished,¡± I say, refusing to rise to the bait even a little.


    I walk around the forge. The unruned tungsten is certainly heavy, but for all its weight it doesn''t impede my movements very much.


    ¡°I''m finished,¡± I say. ¡°You may call on our Runethane.¡±


    ¡°I may?¡± Helzar tightens her grip on her barbed spear. ¡°You speak as if you are giving me permission.¡±


    ¡°I apologize, honored runeknight Helzar. I mean to say that I am ready to begin runeforging, and that if you believe it appropriate, now is the time to inform our Runethane, so that he may judge if my metal has been worked well enough.¡±


    ¡°I shall inform him. Porok! Run up to the palace!¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight Helzar!¡± shouts a guard, and he vanishes through the door.


    I twist and pull each loop and plate from my body and return them to the armor stand. I take a coil of gold wire from the storeroom and place it on the anvil. I place my bowl of fine incandesite beside it, and then I wait.


    Fear settles in my stomach like a cold stone, yet it''s not so heavy as it usually is. I am confident right now. This armor is a fine piece, and Vanerak will have no cause for complaint.


    <hr>


    Guthah wakes in a cold sweat. His eyes open so wide they hurt; he sits up and only just manages to suppress his scream. The nightmare was a terrible one, and its memory is not fading fast enough.


    In it he was standing opposite Pellas, and between them was a barbed spear, and it was spinning, pointing at him, then her, then him again. It was Helzar''s spear, already drenched in blood, tracing a circle of crimson between them.


    It had just begun to slow when he woke.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Pellas asks sleepily.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± says Guthah. ¡°Nothing at all.¡±


    Yet he feels that it was a premonition.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 34: Praise and Fear

    Vanerak is kneeling silently in the deepest chamber of his palace. It is also the most recently-made chamber; he ordered it to be dug out upon his return. It sinks close to an underground river that feeds the magma sea, and he can feel the heat of the deep molten stone through his knees and lower legs.


    He is not in his forge, yet he wears his forging leathers. He has even removed his mask.


    ¡°Sink,¡± he whispers. ¡°I must sink. Into the sea, I sink.¡±


    No feeling of heat comes around him. It never does. Try as he might, he cannot find the hidden depths from which Zathar''s power springs. He cannot take even the first step on the seeking of it.


    There is a knock upon the thick door.


    ¡°Yes?¡± Vanerak snaps.


    ¡°I have a most important report from one of the guards,¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°I see. You would not have disturbed me unless it was of very great importance, I hope.¡±


    ¡°No, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Then what has happened?¡±


    ¡°Zathar wishes for you to inspect his metal.¡±


    ¡°Ah. That is most important.¡±


    <hr>


    He enters the forge, his mirror-mask reflecting my new armor in its dark-crimson glory upon the armor stand, which I''ve set near the center of the room. Plain it may be, my tungsten still bears the mark of excellent craftsdwarfship¡ªand of course that mark is a lack of marks. Each piece of metal is seamless, scar-less, smooth.


    ¡°Inspect each piece as you please,¡± I say proudly¡ªusing pride to mask my fear. ¡°You''ll find no mistakes.¡±


    Without speaking, he walks over to the armor stand and removes one of the fingertips of my right gauntlet. He holds it close to his mirror-mask and turns it over and around, examining it from every last angle. It expands and stretches in the reflection. He replaces it and picks up another fingertip, still without a word. He examines it in the same way, though with this one he takes a little longer.


    Icy fear begins to creep into me, but he puts this one back with no word either. He takes up another piece, and another, and another. Each he examines thoroughly before putting back without comment. Their red shades reflect and spread across his mirror-mask each time.


    He finishes examining the gauntlets and moves on to the sabatons and legs. I stand statue-still, waiting for the inevitable scathing critique. Yet it never comes.


    He takes my breastplate from the stand. Surely there is a mistake here. For all my earlier prideful words, I think it is impossible for me to have created something with absolutely no error. Such a feat is beyond the capabilities of a fourth degree. Even Wharoth''s crafts were not totally perfect, and he was of the second degree.


    Vanerak turns away from me. He moves one hand up to his mirror-mask, and raises it from his face. My heartbeat jumps a little, but all I can see is the hint of a dark-gray beard.


    For a long while he stares at my breastplate with his naked eyes, but even now it seems he can find no issue. He lowers his mask and puts the breastplate back. The backplate he examines in the same fashion, and finally he looks over my helmet. He spends close to half an hour on it, his eyes roaming¡ªI assume¡ªover every millimeter of it. Inside and out, every curve and edge of my helmet undergoes his harsh checking.


    Then he lowers his mask again and puts my helmet back on the stand. Only now does he turn to address me. I brace myself.


    ¡°You have shocked me, Zathar Runeforger,¡± he says. ¡°I came down here expecting another suit of second-rate scrap metal, grievously battered and insulted. Instead I come down to a work approaching second degree in quality. Perhaps you do have some talent with metal after all, if you truly apply yourself to it.¡±


    ¡°I thank you most greatly, my Runethane!¡± And for once I am thanking him genuinely.


    ¡°This is not to say it is perfect. There are slight inaccuracies here and there, in the deep structure of the metal. However they are nothing you would have been able to notice. You did not, at least, ignore anything that was a clear failure.¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Indeed I did not, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°The quenching could have been approached with a little more care. That is my only real criticism. But the metal is still plenty worthy of taking on new runes.¡±


    ¡°Then if I have your permission, my Runethane, I shall begin.¡±


    ¡°I assume you are planning to graft the same poems as before.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane¡ªyet they will be improved. Like you told me on my earlier attempt, it is unknown how many times the First Runeforger iterated on each of his runes. It may have been many times. So I will iterate on my own also. Am I correct in assuming this is what you wish me to do?¡±


    ¡°You are correct.¡±


    ¡°Then with your permission, I shall begin.¡±


    ¡°Begin.¡±


    I detect a touch of impatience in his voice, a sharp edge of steel, and I quickly unroll a portion of my gold wire. I ready my clippers too, then shut my eyes and allow the magma to flow around me.


    It comes eagerly. I am not so afraid as I usually am. Vanerak has praised me¡ªthough if he is being truthful or his patience for waiting has just run out, I cannot tell. The red heat subsumes me, then intensifies to blazing white heat, and I become filled with vigor. The sphere arrives or else I come to it. Whatever the case, I suddenly sense its weight behind me.


    I recall the poem of my boots. It spoke of the slow strength of magma as it rolled over rock, partly fusing to it. It was not a bad poem, but I have never written a poem I thought couldn''t be revised by at least a little. I examine each of the runes in turn¡ªlike Vanerak told me, some are indeed weak, not sure what they are meant to be.


    What is rock to magma? Something to be filled with heat until its form breaks down in surrender. There is solidity, but that solidity is only temporarily. I hold this revised meaning in my head and twist the rune for korl around it. On I go to the next rune, for movement, whar. To magma movement can be quick or slow, but more often it is slow, rolling forward with a sense of impending destruction. I put more of these connotations into the runes.


    On I continue through the poem. Each and every rune I examine. Most, close to three quarters perhaps, do not quite hold the connotations they ought to. I twist the new meanings into them, pulling the power into them as I think of what they should mean, and through this make small adjustments to their forms.


    Do these adjustments have any logical meaning? None that I can find. If they do mean something specific, if one angle of a line gives the rune some aspect of power, I still cannot see a pattern. For now the shapes seem arbitrary.


    I finish the last rune of the poem, then drift out of the magma sea and away from the heavy sphere. My eyes open and I quickly cut and twist the runes into shape. My memory of their form is strong. Before, when I forged my runic ears, Vanerak suggested that after I emerge from my trance I lost some of my memory of what the runes were. But this is not true. If my runes are weak, it is because I have not put the correct connotations into them; they do not fit the original vision for my script.


    My fingers blur until the poem lies before me on the anvil. Yet with the changes to the runes have come changes to the runic flow. There are parts where it will, once fused with reagent, spill off and out, or wrap into useless eddies. I lean my elbows on the anvil and focus hard, trying to see where needs to be fixed, what lines need to be altered, what rhymes and alliterations replaced.


    It is hard work. No matter how much I rearrange, there are always issues with my calculations. This has happened when I improved runes before, though never to this degree¡ªalways on those occasions I was remaking the runes half-unconsciously. It seems that if I''m to manually recreate runes, without relying on some terrifying, uncontrolled inner force, I must also do the hard mental work of runic flow calculations on my own too. Or perhaps the reason is that I''ve altered these runes of my script more than usual. When I alter the first runeforger''s runes I generally make only minor adjustments, after all.


    I flick my eyes over to Vanerak. He is standing just one step away from the anvil, head angled slightly down. His focus is fully on my fingers right now. I can tell this, somehow. I wonder where he looks when I''m in my trance. At my face?


    After I finish my re-composition, which involves several more journeys into my trance, I take a step back and a few heavy breaths.


    ¡°Is this poem finished?¡± Vanerak asks.


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°To the utmost of your ability?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You will graft them.¡±


    ¡°As you wish, my Runethane.¡±


    I''ve grown quite tired, both physically and mentally, yet I cannot refuse him. I must obey with haste¡ªand precision too. Very carefully I sprinkle incandesite onto one tungsten loop of my sabatons. I brush it into the shapes of runes¡ªvery slowly. I lay the runes on top, taking several minutes at least to adjust each one and make sure every tiny speck of reagent is positioned correctly under it.


    I heat a rod to yellow heat and touch each rune in turn. Blood-gold light flashes off Vanerak''s mirror-mask, illuminating hints of tiny runes writ over every square inch of its surface. Each must be all but illegible to the un-lensed eye.


    With each rune fused to the metal, the runic power grows stronger. Even with each part separate and unlocked, by the time I am done the hairs on my skin are standing on end. I glance over at Vanerak; he makes no reaction. I cannot tell his emotion, but guess that he''s impatient. So I twist and lock the loops together and make my sabatons whole. The power that glows out invisibly when I twist in the final pieces sends a thrill through me. I gaze upon them for a few seconds, then step back.


    ¡°My boots are complete,¡± I say.


    Vanerak steps forward without warning and picks them up from the anvil. He brings them close to his mirror-mask. The runes are backward in the reflection. I feel disorientated for a fraction of a second.


    ¡°These are strong,¡± he says. ¡°They are powerful.¡±


    ¡°I am beyond pleased that you judge them so, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Yet your next pieces can be more so.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean to say that my skills will improve as I remake the next poems?¡±


    He puts the boots down and turns to stare directly at me.


    ¡°I mean to say, that you can push your powers further.¡±


    My heart feels as if suddenly gripped. ¡°My Runethane, when I pushed my powers with the ears¡ª¡±


    ¡°In the end, you suffered no injury, and neither did your powers. If anything, the experience strengthened them.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane¡ª¡±


    ¡°Begin the next poem,¡± he says.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 35: In Delirium

    Hands trembling, I attempt to start work on the next poems, those for my legs. I try to recall what I last wrote but cannot¡ªin the presence of Vanerak, the runes won''t come. I grip the anvil. Where are they? What did I write? But nothing comes.


    ¡°Why have you not yet begun?¡± Vanerak asks. ¡°You are not in your trance. I can tell this.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± I hiss. ¡°Give me some time.¡±


    Still nothing comes. I remember the theme, of becoming one with heat, and then the same was on the thighs with another theme of strength, yet what were the runes? What was the deeper meaning?


    I glance at Vanerak. He is staring at me through his mirror-mask. I turn away and shut my eyes. I will the power to come forth, and it comes as called. I feel red heat around me, white, and then the heavy presence of the sphere behind.


    Heat, lahj, that''s how my poem began. That was the first word. The heat met its equal in the magma and the two were one. Heat cannot do harm to heat, only strengthen it. I recall the poem, finally, and yet I can see no way to make it stronger.


    But if I do not, Vanerak will maim or kill Guthah and Pellas and the two dragonslayers.


    Heat can overwhelm heat. The wind whipped up by a raging fire can extinguish lesser candles nearby, can it not? So the heat of my armor can be made overwhelming¡ªit can meet the lesser rage in the magma and shame it, make it fall away. Maybe there is no physical process for this, but these are runes, metaphor given power. If I write with enough skill then reality will bend.


    I write that heat, lahj, gives way to fearsome heat, lahj-erj. Two words in one rune. I thrust the meanings together in the furnace of my power and something twisted is born. The form of the rune is half-disintegrated, like it''s melting. Yet the runic flow is strong and flexible. I can use it, though I do not wish to.


    Yet I have to.


    The poem becomes one of greater heat turning aside lesser. It is not a tale of harmony, but of battle. Runes that were of simple power take on connotations of violence, of power being wielded and used to crush. The white heat around me grows hotter. I alter rune after rune, and far off I can feel my hands twisting the golden wires.


    I cannot stop. Yet I am at the end of the poem for my shins¡ªI extend it. The power must go somewhere or it will burn me.


    My poem of strength to wade through the sea, to push aside the molten stone, becomes one about the power to push against it. Force tears apart stone already bursting with power; the theme is greater force against the lesser, and the object foreign to the magma prevails.


    A river of power is rushing through me. The sphere is directing heat from below directly into my soul. I am burning up. My ruby works furiously to cool my body, but I sense that my hands drip with sweat as they work the golden wire.


    I try to stem the flow, cut the white heat off. Yet what can one dwarf do against all the heat from below, sent forth by an artifact with power equal to that of a Runegod?


    Yes, who else could have created such an artifact as the sphere, but a Runegod? And before them I am nothing. Even Vanerak is nothing before one of them.


    To save myself I must continue the composition. I start the poem that will wrap around the loops that form my belly and lower back armor. This was the poem that came out weakest on my original armor: it was about power and its antithesis, heat and cold, yet magma has no cold within it.


    I rewrite it totally and create an ode to the sheer power of pure heat, that blazing force that destroys all it touches. My last poem here had no solid metaphors¡ªthis one does. It tells of a blazing star of heat that descends into the depths of the underworld whose fearsome heat forces the tides of magma to recede. They are afraid of its power.


    My script is one of magma, yet that does not mean it must praise magma, take its power from magma¡ªrunes for magma can discuss its defeat also.


    The sphere directs more power into me. The magma is shimmering around me. It has gone beyond white heat into something else, something that cannot be seen by eyes of flesh. My soul sees it though, experiences it, and suffers from it. My mind is beginning to go blank. I am barely aware of what runes I''m forming and altering as I move onto the poem for my breastplate and backplate.


    I describe a being of blazing heat that the magma cannot bear to touch. The being rips through the magma ferociously. I think this poem speaks of more as well, but it takes all my focus to keep the power being thrust through me from turning my soul to ash. I am only barely aware of what I''m writing. At some point I finish, and write the poems for my arms and gauntlets.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The runes I make are brutal ones. I cannot tell any more than this. The power is a spear piercing me, killing me. If I lose focus, it will swell and rend me asunder. I direct it to the poems for my helmet. The runes twist into terrible things of heat-pain and heat-obliteration. Far above and away, red-gold power flashes through the forge. I have no control of my body, little over my runes¡ªI am just barely aware of what I am doing.


    This is what happens when I draw on power too great for me, I now understand: all my focus is on keeping me alive. I have no time to think about how to make my compositions noble, so some dark part of my inner mind sets itself on them. The rest is only thinking of survival, of suppressing the power directed by the sphere, which is like a lens for the deep heat, and it is like a machine, with no care for if I live or die, stay whole or turn to ash.


    And suddenly there is nowhere for that heat to go. It builds up within me. My ruby fights it, screams against it, but the cold flowing out is not enough.


    Flames erupt from me.


    <hr>


    Nazak watches, entranced, as Zathar is flung to the stone as if smashed down by the hand of a giant. The young dwarf is drenched in sweat, his life pouring from his skin, which has become red. His eyes are open. In their pupils flames seem to burn.


    ¡°My Runethane?¡± Nazak says nervously. ¡°The healing chains?¡±


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    Not yet? But to Nazak, Zathar seems on the edge of death. His breathing, which was heavy and ragged while he twisted and grafted his runes, is now weak and shallow. His hands clutch and open in quick spasms. His skin has become as crimson as blood and his veins stand out like black worm-tunnels on it. His eyes roll up then close.


    Nazak hefts the web of fine silver chains in his hands. ¡°My Runethane?¡±


    ¡°Have some patience.¡±


    Could it be that Runethane Vanerak plans for Zathar to die here? Has he already discovered the secret of runeforging in his long meditations? Maybe Zathar''s performance here has given him final confirmation of the knowledge, and he no longer needs him alive, and is reveling in his final suffering.


    A flame flickers on Zathar''s cheek. It is blue. Two more catch on his bare upper arms¡ªthen more. It''s like the sweat on his skin has become oil.


    ¡°Now!¡± says Runethane Vanerak.


    Nazak throws the web of chain over Zathar''s convulsing, burning body. The silver links glitter like white raindrops¡ªthese are the finest healing chains in the realm, forged by a first degree runeknight for a staggering price, and the moment they fall over Zathar the flames vanish. Nazak breathes a sigh of relief. Clearly the Runethane still needs Zathar: he has not yet found the secret of runeforging. If Zathar were to die here, his rage would be terrible.


    The flames on Zathar''s skin spring back up again.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Nazak yelps. ¡°Water, now!¡±


    A guard standing by with a heavy bucket of water glances at the Runethane. After the briefest pause Runethane Vanerak nods, and the guard drenches Zathar. The flames die away. But the water is starting to hiss and turn to steam. Nazak feels that they will return.


    ¡°Everyone!¡± he shouts. ¡°Go out and get more water! Quickly! Quickly!¡±


    The guards rush from the forge.


    ¡°A wise order.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane.¡±


    Runethane Vanerak walks over to Zathar and kneels beside him. He leans over the young dwarf''s face. Nazak approaches a few steps too. He watches Zathar''s face turning red and white at intervals; heat blooms in patches to be wiped away by waves of cold white, and then more heat wells up from within and red patches appear again. It is not clear which force is winning.


    ¡°Wake up, Zathar Runeforger,¡± orders the Runethane.


    Zathar does not respond. His eyes are rolling behind his eyelids as if trapped.


    ¡°He''s still in his trance, I think,¡± Nazak says quietly.


    ¡°He must be woken from it.¡±


    ¡°A few more splashes of cold water might do it.¡±


    ¡°There may be no time. Hit him across the face.¡±


    Nazak raises his hand, brings it down gently. His rune-enhanced strength turns Zathar''s head violently. The young dwarf''s right cheekbone crunches on the stone. His eyelids flicker, yet he does not wake.


    ¡°Again.¡±


    Nazak repeats the action, bringing Zathar''s head around to the other side. His other cheekbone crunches. This time his eyes flicker open for the briefest second.


    ¡°Wake up, Zathar Runeforger!¡± says Runethane Vanerak.


    His eyes open a little further, but close again.


    ¡°I think you can hear me.¡±


    A hiss escapes Zathar''s lips like steam. A flame flickers at the corner of his mouth.


    ¡°You do hear me,¡± says Runethane Vanerak.


    ¡°Burning...¡± says Zathar.


    ¡°Where do you burn?¡±


    ¡°Everything.¡±


    ¡°You have drawn in too much power again.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Burning. Cool. Need cool.¡±


    ¡°What did you see in the magma?¡±


    ¡°Too hot. Too much power. The...¡±


    ¡°The what?¡±


    ¡°Need cool. Water! Give me water! Ice and snow!¡±


    More flames are flickering up from where his skin is exposed.


    ¡°Did it feel like when you made your runic ears?¡±


    ¡°Ice and snow!¡±


    ¡°Tell me and you shall have it.¡±


    A guard appears, panting, bent double in the door-hollow, clasping a heavy pail of water to his chest.


    ¡°Water! Ice and snow!¡±


    ¡°Did what you feel this time, feel the same as what you felt when you forged your runic ears? You were burning down there. Did you also burn when you made your runic ears?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Zathar hisses. Flames burn from his forehead. ¡°Power, too much! Through me like a spear!¡±


    ¡°The same as when you made your runic ears?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it was the same!¡±


    ¡°You remember clearly?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Power through me like a spear! Ice and snow, please!¡±


    ¡°Throw the water on him.¡±


    The guard dumps the water over Zathar''s head. The flames vanish, and the red of his skin fades too. After a few moments, his breathing becomes more even. His eyes close.


    ¡°Imprison him,¡± orders Runethane Vanerak. ¡°He has committed the crime of dishonesty and is to be chained to await my judgement.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 36: Vaneraks Injustice

    I awaken to darkness and heat. My skin feels as if it is still burning; my ruby is giving me only slight relief. I blink, to check if my eyes are open or closed, and the movement brings pain. Fear too¡ªmy eyes are open yet I only see black.


    I struggle to remember what happened¡ªI think I was creating runes when my power became too great for me. I couldn''t hold it, and it started to tear my soul apart. I remember feeling flames on my skin, and then cold water. There were healing chains thrown over me at some point too. Vanerak was there, leaning over me.


    Did I equip my runic ears while in my trance? Is that why I''ve lost my sight? Fear sinks into me. I am blind.


    It might not be permanent. Likely I am being kept where I lie for examination. Vanerak does not want me to lose my forging ability. He will have my eyes healed, surely.


    Yet the stone beneath me is rough, and I can feel my forging leathers on my skin. They stink of sweat and metal. If I''d been taken to a chamber for healing, surely my clothes would have been taken from me so my injuries could be examined. That doesn''t seem to have happened. And I would be on a bed, not a stone slab.


    Slowly and carefully I attempt to sit up. Lines of friction burn across my chest and legs, wrists and ankles. I am bound to the stone by chains. I cry out in shock.


    Vanerak has imprisoned me. I curse and struggle. I see sparks fly from my manacles as I beat them against the stone¡ªI am not blind after all, it''s just that this is a dungeon and dungeons are kept unlit.


    ¡°Let me out!¡± I shout in panic. ¡°Let me out!¡±


    But there is no one to rescue me down here. My Guildmaster is far away, and does not know where I am. Nor do my friends in the fortress, and they are not powerful enough to oppose Vanerak anyway. Neither is Wharoth strong enough, for that matter, not with all the guild behind him. And Runeking Ulrike likely does not know where I am either and even if he did would barely care.


    I am totally alone and totally helpless.


    ¡°Help!¡± I scream into the silence anyway. ¡°Help me!¡±


    The only answer is my echoes. Shit, what have I even done? What did I say to Vanerak? He asked me questions, I''m sure of it. Did I mention the sphere? Have I been caught out on that lie?


    No¡ªI''m sure I said nothing of the sphere. That secret is locked away tight. So what, then? What did I say?


    I lie here in the blackness, yet my memory of my last runeforging is just shreds of light and pain. He asked me about my power. I''m sure of that, yet what did I reply to him? As long as I didn''t mention the sphere, there should have been nothing that gave away my lies.


    Eventually, exhaustion and pain from the chains chafing against my raw skin pull me back down into sleep. I dream of fire, magma, and demons shimmering through the air.


    <hr>


    Once again, Guthah cannot touch his food, for his stomach is filled to the brim with nausea. His mouth is dry. The noise and light of the hall seems to be swirling around him, like he''s trapped in a whirlpool, being dragged down against his will to the deeps of despair.


    ¡°Are you feeling it again?¡± asks Pellas, laying her hand on his.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he whispers. There is no point denying it.


    ¡°It''s nothing. Both times before it''s been nothing.¡± She squeezes her hand. ¡°You''re just tired. A good sleep and it will pass.¡±


    A noise cuts through the bustle behind them. It''s brisk footsteps. Pellas looks up in surprise. A small groan escapes Guthah''s lips¡ªhe can tell who it is.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    ¡°Runeknight Pellas,¡± rasps Helzar. ¡°You are to come with me.¡±


    ¡°What for, honored runeknight?¡±


    ¡°You will find out soon.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± shouts Guthah.


    He stands up and turns to face the first degree. Her black glare nearly cows him, but he forces himself to speak:


    ¡°I will go!¡± he says. His fists are trembling. ¡°Whatever task you wish her to do, I will take it on.¡±


    Helzar''s burned lips curl cruelly.


    ¡°But it has been decided that this task is for her,¡± she says.


    <hr>


    When I wake for the second time, I am staring into my own face. The light illuminating me is only dim, but I can still tell the red rawness of my skin, and I can also make out dark bruised circles around my eyes.


    ¡°You have enraged me, Zathar Runeforger,¡± says Vanerak.


    ¡°Why?¡± I shout in panic. ¡°I''ve done nothing, my Runethane! Nothing!¡±


    ¡°You have lied to me.¡±


    ¡°Never! I would never lie to you!¡±


    ¡°You did lie to me. You said you remembered nothing of the forging of the runes for your ears. Yet when I asked you a second time as you lay burning on the floor of the forge, you admitted that you do remember. You felt power running through you, burning you. You said it was like a spear.¡±


    ¡°I don''t remember anything!¡±


    ¡°There is no further use in lying to me, Zathar Runeforger. You will only increase the severity of your punishment.¡±


    ¡°I never lied!¡± I beg. ¡°Please believe me! Please let me go! I made the runes for you, didn''t I? I''ve only ever done as you asked!¡±


    ¡°No. I asked that you tell me of your powers, so that we may unlock their mysteries together, and in doing so improve the lives of all dwarfkind. Yet you have not told me of your powers. You have kept many things hidden from me.¡±


    ¡°Never, my Runethane! I haven''t hidden anything!¡±


    ¡°You have been telling me lies every time I questioned you. It is easy to tell one lie and be believed, but to tell a story of lies is much more difficult. Each time I have asked of what you knew of your powers, of what you have experienced while runeforging, you have told me something slightly different.¡±


    He gestures to Nazak and Halax, who are standing behind him. They unlock my manacles and drag me from the stone slab. I shout as pain reverberates through my burned skin and half-cooked flesh. They pull me up with irresistible runic strength and push me against the wall, and hold me there by my upper arms.


    ¡°For example,¡± Vanerak continues, ¡°sometimes you told me you sank through the stone, and other times you described magma coming up around you. Sometimes you said you were in the depths of the magma sea, and other times said that you didn''t know where you were. On occasion you spoke as if something was giving you the power, and other times you implied that it rose from below.¡±


    ¡°Each time you have questioned me, I have been half-delirious!¡±


    ¡°That is exactly the point. It is difficult to keep a web of lies intact while your mind is overheated and your body weakened by fumes. If you had been telling the whole truth, you would have said it the same each time. It would have been an anchor amid the pain. Instead the pain befuddled you and broke your concentration. Your greatest error was to say that you created the runes of light on your shield while in your trance; then later you said that the creation of the runes for your ears while in a trance was the first time such had happened.¡±


    ¡°The trial was a long time ago! I didn''t recall perfectly, that''s all!¡±


    ¡°You would have recalled such an important moment without such a grievous error.¡±


    ¡°It was a simple mistake!¡±


    ¡°Yet it was one of many. Your stories have had too many contradictions. You have created a fiction to tell me, and behind it is a great truth you refuse to reveal. More than one truth, I think.¡±


    ¡°I am not hiding anything!¡±


    He steps aside, revealing the doorway. Through it marches first degree Helzar wielding her barbed spear. After her come two pairs of guards, each holding a struggling figure between them.


    ¡°No!¡± one of the captives shouts. It''s one of the dragonslayers. ¡°I''ve done nothing! Nothing! And he''s no friend of mine!¡±


    The other captive is Pellas. She stays silent, but looks at me with terror in her eyes and I suddenly feel sick.


    ¡°Hold them still,¡± Vanerak orders.


    The guards grip their arms tighter. Both are in armor, but their guards are of at least fourth degree. Pellas'' and the dragonslayer''s steel plates bend in their tungsten grips.


    ¡°They''ve done nothing!¡± I shout. ¡°Let them go! Please!¡±


    ¡°They have indeed done nothing,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°It is most unjust that they be punished for your crimes.¡±


    ¡°Then please let them go, my Runethane,¡± I beg.


    ¡°Whether they are let free or suffer terribly is up to you, Zathar Runeforger. Do you understand this?¡±


    ¡°Please, my Runethane¡ª¡±


    ¡°Tell me what you have been hiding from me.¡±


    If Vanerak learns of the sphere, if he can somehow gain access to its power, then he will become more powerful than a Runeking. A hundred realms will suffer under his cruelty, millions of dwarves instead of mere thousands. He cannot come to know. He cannot come to know any more!


    ¡°I have been hiding nothing!¡± I say.


    ¡°You think that I am bluffing,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°I will show you I am not. I can kill with a gesture.¡±


    He gestures to the dragonslayer. A moment later, Helzar thrusts her barbed spear through his heart. He screams in agony¡ªfor a half a second, then he falls limp. The guards holding him let him collapse to the stone. Blood runs out from beneath his chest.


    Pellas whimpers. Her eyes glisten. Helzar smiles at her.


    ¡°I will ask again, Zathar Runeforger,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°What are you hiding from me?¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 37: Agony

    The pool of blood around the fallen dragonslayer spreads over the stone. My worst fear has come to pass¡ªyet another dwarf has died for my mistakes. And no longer do I have the excuse that I am young, a foolish tenth degree who knows nothing of the underworld.


    ¡°Do you still refuse to tell me?¡± asks Vanerak.


    I remain silent. What can I do? I cannot allow Vanerak to know the secrets of runeforging, yet how can I allow Pellas to die?


    ¡°Cut her where you please,¡± Vanerak orders.


    Helzar stabs her barbed spear into Pellas'' right foot. Pellas shrieks. Helzar then draws it out slowly and at an angle. Pellas shrieks louder. Blood pours out over the stones, its flow pulsing. Once the spear is fully out, Helzar holds it horizontally to show me the shreds of flesh hanging from its barbs. Her burned mouth curls into a grin.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I cry, and I try to pull forward, but Nazak and Halax hold me back.


    ¡°What are you hiding from me, Zathar Runeforger?¡± Vanerak demands.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I beg. ¡°Wait!¡±


    Is there some lesser lie I can think of? Something believable enough to placate his anger?


    ¡°How do you shape your runes?¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± I beg again.


    ¡°I will not wait. Helzar, cut her once more.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± screams Pellas.


    The word is elongated into a high scream as Helzar mutilates her other foot.


    ¡°I draw power through myself!¡± I shout. ¡°That''s what happens, that''s what I figured out when I made my runic ears!¡±


    ¡°Explain further.¡±


    ¡°The power comes up through the magma sea¡ªI will it to, but once it starts it''s hard to stop¡ªand as it passes through me¡ª¡±


    ¡°Through what part of you? You say you have no body there.¡±


    ¡°I don''t! It comes through my soul, or the center of whatever of me is down there. I put meaning into it¡ªI think of a word and what I want it to mean, what connotations it should have, what aspects of meaning, and the rune is formed.¡±


    ¡°It is formed? Do you form it or does something else? Something else that you are not telling me of?¡±


    ¡°I form it! But I don''t know why I make the shapes I do. They just seem the right shape. I can''t explain further.¡±


    ¡°You cannot explain further? Helzar, again.¡±


    ¡°But I can''t!¡± I scream, as Helzar thrusts her spear into Pellas'' thigh. She rips it out in a draw-cut and blood streams from the punctured steel. Pellas'' third high shriek is like needles in my ears.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I scream. ¡°I can''t explain why I make the runes the shapes¡ªhow they are¡ªI don''t know! It just feels like they need to be that way! I don''t know why!¡±


    ¡°Maybe you do not, but I sense that you are still hiding something from me. You were on the edge of mentioning another secret as you burned from your latest forging.¡±


    ¡°I wasn''t!¡± I cry. ¡°Please believe me!¡±


    ¡°You lie again. You uttered the specific-importance article before stopping your tongue. You have another close secret. You are not alone in the magma, are you?¡±


    ¡°I am alone!¡±


    ¡°Helzar, again.¡±


    Pellas screams like an animal as Helzar''s spear takes yet another deep bite of flesh and blood. Helzar is still smiling as she does this¡ªshe''s been smiling the whole time; her grin never leaves her face. Halax''s face is blank¡ªhe does not care about the pain of others. Nazak looks troubled¡ªthough he enjoys killing, maybe he does not have the stomach for torture.


    And behind his mirror-mask, Vanerak is enjoying this even more than Helzar. To most he seems emotionless, but I know him too well. He enjoys killing. He will put his goals aside, albeit briefly, to inflict pain, for it is the only thing that makes him feel joy. Behind his mirror-mask, I am sure that he is smiling broadly.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I beg. Tears are streaming from my eyes. ¡°Please stop hurting her. She''s done nothing wrong.¡±


    ¡°The only one who can stop her pain is you,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Tell me what you are hiding.¡±


    ¡°There''s a sphere,¡± I say. ¡°When I go down into the magma, there''s always a sphere near to me. Usually behind.¡±


    ¡°What kind of a sphere? Explain further.¡±


    ¡°It''s of metal, though I can''t tell what. An alloy, maybe. It''s enruned all around with tiny runes. I can''t read them.¡±


    ¡°How big is it?¡±


    ¡°I have no body so I can''t tell for sure. Maybe just larger than a dwarf, or maybe it''s thousands of times bigger than that. I can''t tell.¡±


    ¡°Is it solid or hollow? Do you think it holds something?¡±


    ¡°I have been in it once, when I forged the runes for my shield. It held three shadows. They were cold.¡±


    ¡°Shadows of what?¡±


    Vanerak leans forward; he''s excited. I think anyone listening can tell this. There''s enthusiasm in his tone I''ve never heard before.


    ¡°I think they''re of dwarves.¡±


    ¡°You could see this?¡±


    ¡°I could feel it. One¡ªone was cast by me. And the two beside me¡ªone I felt love for. The other I hated. I couldn''t tell anything else, my Runethane, please believe me¡ªit was only for a moment¡ªa brief moment!¡±


    ¡°I believe you,¡± he says. ¡°Tell me how the sphere affects your power. Does it control how you shape your runes?¡±


    ¡°I don''t think it controls my power. But it brings it up. It brings it up from the depths and directs it through me. I felt this clearly during my last runeforging.¡±


    ¡°If only you had told me then, this wouldn''t have had to happen.¡±


    Pellas'' face is white. She has lost far too much blood.


    ¡°Please let her go, my Runethane. She has done nothing wrong. Give her some healing chains. Please!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Your transgression has been too severe for me to consider such mercy.¡± I am sure that behind his mirror-mask his smile has just broadened further. ¡°She is to die. Helzar, make it quick¡ªyet she should also suffer. Zathar must hear her scream one last time.¡±


    ¡°Stop!¡± I yell. I throw myself forward. Nazak''s grip loosens just a touch, yet Halax''s remains firm and I cannot move.


    Helzar pushes her barbed spear into Pellas'' guts. The movement is slow, and Pellas tries to pull away, but cannot pull away far enough. The sound she makes fills my mind, fills the chamber, stains every part of my hearing. Helzar twists and the sound grows louder, then she pulls her spear out inch by slow inch and the scream cracks and stops. Pellas'' eyes bulge. Something in her throat has broken.


    Strings of flesh swing back and forth from the barbs. Blood gushes down Pellas'' legs. A section of gut has been pulled through her armor, and it stains the steel around it with bile. The guards keep her standing up until her final strength drains away, then they let her fall face first onto the floor. Her blonde hair splays out into the pool of blood and is dyed crimson.


    ¡°Do not lie to me again,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Do not disobey me. You know that I have one more of your friends. He will suffer much worse, and for much longer than she just did, should you lie to me again. I repeat: never lie to me. Do you understand?¡±


    I continue to stare at Pellas'' body. I try to speak, but my throat feels blocked.


    ¡°Do you understand, Zathar Runeforger?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I manage to whisper.


    ¡°You will now be returned to your quarters. After you have been given some time to reflect on your crimes, and what has resulted due to them, you will return to your runeforging. It will not be a long amount of time, though neither will it be overly short. A hundred long-hours or so should be enough. Or perhaps two hundred. I will decide after we speak again.¡±


    He turns to address his runeknights:


    ¡°You will say nothing of what happened here. What has been uttered is a secret within secrets. I trust my first degrees, but as for you fourth degrees, if rumor spreads of the true nature of Zathar''s runeforging, or of the deaths of these two, your tongues will be severed. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± they chorus.


    ¡°Good. These two perished on the magma shore. That is all that will be said of their fates. Nazak, return Zathar to his quarters. Feed and water him as before, but take out his furnishings. He is to have no distractions from his reflections.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    I am dragged from the chamber by the guards, for I barely have the strength and will to walk. Pellas'' blood and that of the dragonslayer stains my feet.


    Their deaths were for nothing.


    <hr>


    Can it truly be? The miner swings again. The rock does not chip. He draws his pick back behind his head, and swings with all his might. The iron rebounds from the stone, bent, and that is the final proof he needs. He has found some!


    ¡°Impervious!¡± he cries in joy. ¡°It''s impervious!¡±


    ¡°Rubbish!¡± spits the miner next to him. ¡°Let me hit it!¡±


    He brings his pick down in a violent vertical strike. The iron sparks and shatters. The force sets the second miner''s arms trembling, and he collapses backwards into the gravel.


    ¡°You''re right!¡± he says. He breaks into tears suddenly. ¡°We''ve found some!¡± He cries, then coughs hard on the rock-dust. ¡°We can finally rest! Rest!¡±


    A tremor runs through the stone, as if the mine is responding to their cries. The miners are too thrilled to care.


    ¡°We''ve found some!¡± yells a third, and he yells down the tunnel to the beardless boy who carts down the gravel. ¡°We can rest!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± shouts the boy. ¡°No, you lie!¡±


    ¡°It''s no lie!¡± yells the first miner. He laughs loudly. ¡°We''ve found some! We can rest!¡±


    Another tremor runs through the stone.


    ¡°We can rest!¡± yells the second miner through his tears. ¡°Rest!¡±


    The tunnel swings violently to the left, then to the right. The boy is knocked from his feet.


    ¡°It''ll stop soon!¡± says the third miner. ¡°Don''t be afraid!¡±


    The tunnel jerks up suddenly, then is pulled down. Gravel floats in the air for a few seconds. The first and third miners, and the boy, are thrown from their feet. The second is thrust from sitting to lying and he yells in pain as his spine bends against a large chunk of stone. Their lantern shatters and all becomes black.


    ¡°Shit!¡± the second miner cries.


    ¡°We''re going to die!¡± screams the boy.


    ¡°No!¡± yells the first. ¡°We''re going to rest! We can finally rest!¡±


    The tunnel jerks up once more, then comes down faster, and keeps going down. The rock roars. Light blazes beneath the falling miners from a thousand widening cracks. The world has shattered around them. Alongside great dark chunks, they are plummeting down toward the magma. Above, they can see the glint of the picks of other miners, also falling.


    All is falling, down, down, down toward the magma sea.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 38: Behind the Mask, Beyond the Shore

    Vanerak is on his way to his lowest chamber when the news comes to him. One of the junior masons, lost, racing up through the black corridor in a panic, yells it out:


    ¡°Runethane, save us! Save us!¡±


    Vanerak smashes him out of the way. He has no time for tremors. He has an artifact of untold power to find.


    ¡°My Runethane, stop! It isn''t safe! There''s been a collapse! Everything''s collapsed!¡±


    Vanerak stops and turns. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The roof! The roof above the magma sea! It''s collapsed! We need to get lower¡ªeveryone''s heading lower.¡±


    ¡°Tell the master mason to perform an assessment. Tell Halax to get together some runeknights and stop the panic.¡±


    ¡°But my Runethane¡ª¡±


    Vanerak is already striding away from the bruised mason down the corridor. He has a focus for his search now, a locus toward which he can set his soul. The sphere¡ªif he can find the sphere, he can find the power, and use it with far greater skill than Zathar can.


    Another tremor briefly knocks him off balance but he gives no thought to it. Let the masons and his commanders deal with the cave-in. Such catastrophes are a fact of life, and not uncommon, however disastrous they may be. More miners can be hired to replace the crushed.


    Quick footsteps approach. Vanerak turns and sees a figure blurring toward him. He thrusts out with his pollaxe but Halax shifts to avoid the blow, then kneels, armor scraping up white sparks.


    ¡°My Runethane!¡± he says. ¡°I apologize for startling you. There is great news that needs your attention.¡±


    ¡°I have heard,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You are to deal with it. Re-establish discipline and tell the master mason to perform an assessment.¡±


    ¡°Very well, my Runethane, but I feel that you should understand the severity of the situation. The entire excavations above the magma ocean have collapsed.¡±


    This gives Vanerak pause. ¡°The entire excavations?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. Every last tunnel has been shaken down and there is not a single miner left alive. The head of excavations is also believed perished, as are more than a hundred overseers.¡±


    Vanerak pulls the head of his pollaxe up. ¡°I see.¡±


    Halax looks up. ¡°But my Runethane, there is more. You must see for yourself. It must be seen to be believed.¡±


    ¡°You see better than I do with your helm. Tell me.¡±


    ¡°A great network of ceilings has been uncovered. All of the stone the miners call impervious. This is the place of lost knowledge that Runeking Ulrike spoke of. A great city above the magma seas, filled in ages past by an eruption. Now it has fallen.¡±


    ¡°We have found little knowledge so far in what we dug out.¡±


    ¡°I believe I know the reason for that. Come with me, my Runethane, and I will point it out.¡±


    ¡°If you think you know the reason tell me it now. I have a very great task to accomplish now and must strike while the steel is white.¡±


    ¡°Very well, my Runethane. I traced with my eyes the patterns exposed by the fall, and discovered that they extend far out over the seas.¡±


    "Explain further."


    "I mean to say that certain parts, that lead away, were already exposed before this latest cave-in."


    ¡°I see. Why did you not notice this before?¡±


    ¡°I did not know what to look for, my Runethane. And the exposed ceilings leading out are but a few thin lines. Roads, I presume.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Could you see where they lead?¡±


    ¡°I focused until my eyes ached like spheres of hot lead, and I saw. They lead to a hollow, an inverted caldera filled with smoke that my vision only barely pierced. The caldera is large¡ªfive or six times the area of the excavations that just collapsed.¡±


    ¡°And does this caldera bear traces of civilization?¡±


    ¡°Indeed it does, my Runethane. The patterns across it are similar to what has just been exposed by the cave-in, though on a far grander scale.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Whatever city was there fell into the sea in ages past. What we have been searching through was but an outer town. The main part lies in the molten rock more than twenty miles out. I predict that it is the origin of the shards that wash up upon the magma shore.¡±


    ¡°On the shards are only old runes.¡±


    ¡°The old runes are as powerful as the new, my Runethane, or at least Zathar has not yet proven otherwise.¡±


    ¡°We shall see." Vanerak considers; Halax detects vague irritation from him. "Whatever the case," Vanerak eventually says, "it is our duty as subjects of Runeking Ulrike to dig them out. Now you are to do two things: stop the panic, then gather the runeknights, and masons also, in the main hall of the palace.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°The collapse has been a terrible tragedy. Yet tragedy can lead to glory¡ªsuch as the tragedy of Zathar has just proven.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, my Runethane. You are most astute.¡±


    ¡°We will see what lies in this fallen city. The old may lead us to the new.¡±


    "It may indeed, my Runethane."


    <hr>


    The great hall of Runethane Vanerak''s palace is, just as it was on the date of Zathar''s arrival, packed. Yet this time the doors are not closed, but set wide open, and through them and up the stairs the stone tiles are crowded with hundreds of masons. This news concerns them too, after all.


    Standing at their head is the quiet, ancient master mason. He watches as Vanerak rises from his throne¡ªa stone throne, carved by him of blue granite. Runeknights draw their power from metal but they know that in stone is power also. They do not know how much¡ªyet neither do the masons. Too much has been lost since the time of the First Runeforger.


    ¡°Greetings, my loyal runeknights, in this sad hour. And greetings to the masons also.¡±


    Long ago, the master mason resented how he and those of his craft were treated as secondary, but he has since grown resigned to their position.


    ¡°A great tragedy has occurred,¡± the Runethane continues. ¡°You all felt the most recent tremors. Even those of you deep in sleep were woken by them¡ªthe greatest we have yet felt. And you are likely all by now aware of their origin¡ªa disastrous cave-in.¡±


    If the overseers and their chief had thought to consult us, thinks the master mason, such a tragedy could have been avoided. Stone was struck in the wrong place. That was the cause of this disaster. Stone wishes to be struck in some places, left whole in others. It has a will just as metal does.


    ¡°Yet with tragedy comes opportunity. The lives of so many of our comrades, those who were working tirelessly in the darkness to goad the miners on, have not been lost in vain. For the cave-in has revealed something truly great. Maybe some of you have already seen it. If not, you soon will, for it is clearly visible from the magma shore.¡±


    The dwarves listen closely, rapt.


    ¡°A complex network of ceilings has been uncovered. Imprints of the ancient black stone the city we were uncovering was constructed from. The whole of that city has fallen into the magma sea¡ªyet this is no cause for despair. Our excavations were uncovering nothing. They did not find a single rune. Wherever the shards in the magma sea came from, it was not from there.¡±


    The shards in the magma sea. Of parts of runes and pictures no one has yet been able to put together. They ought to show the masons. Things of stone should be examined by dwarves of stone, thinks the master mason.


    ¡°We could not tell their origin. We assumed they were from somewhere buried deep by the magma, or perhaps set adrift from distant caverns. But the cave-in has also uncovered a road. A road to a hollow in which a great city, of domes and castles carved into the rock, once was. We were excavating but a town, yet now the capital is revealed to us.¡±


    Runethane Vanerak steps forward.


    ¡°My runeknights!¡± he cries. ¡°That capital fell into the magma deeps in ages past. Perhaps during the age of the First Runeforger. We must uncover it! Are you willing to?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± shout the runeknights, and some of the masons also.


    ¡°You have not convinced me! Look upon my face and tell me yes!¡±


    Every runeknight in the hall draws breath as one. The master mason raises an eyebrow. Is their Runethane really about to show his face? He keeps it hidden to stir fear, but he is savvy, and knows that now is not a time for fear but for grand inspiration.


    Runethane Vanerak undoes the clasps at the back of his helm and lifts away his mirror-mask. His face is revealed to his dwarves for the first time: it is bluntly carved, as if by an axe, with a wide nose and wide jaw. His eyes are the color of cold blued steel. His beard, cut neat and short, is slate-gray despite his unaging. His lips are unusually red.


    ¡°My dwarves!" he roars, and his teeth when he opens his mouth are like pale axe-heads. "Runeknights and masons all, are you willing to uncover this mystery alongside me? To battle demons in their molten homes? To swim through fire? Are you willing to travel with me, beyond the magma shore?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± comes the screamed reply. Weapons, armored fists, and rock-hammers thrash the air. ¡°Yes! Yes!¡±


    They are driven not only by fear, reflects the master mason. They may be petrified by him, but they also trust him utterly. This is the dwarf who is leading them toward the future. He saved them from the burning realm of Thanerzak; they are his chosen people he guided from that slag-rent cavern. They are the future of dwarfkind. Old runes and new, all will be for their power.


    And the masons, as usual, will acquire nothing.


    END OF PART ONE

 Beyond the Magma Shore 39: A Long Darkness

    Sometimes, as I lie here in my dark cell, I feel as if I have traveled back to my long wanderings, to my flight from the black dragon and my terrible crime. There were moments like this, I recall, when I would lie back in some dark, quiet cavern, weary from my downward walking. Just like here, there were no sounds, no light, and the only scent was that of stone; the only company was that of myself.


    During those times, before I slept, I would reflect on my guilt. Did I do the wrong thing by delivering to the dragon Runethane Thanerzak''s key? The consequences it brought were terrible, yet my brother had also suffered terribly. Had it not been my duty to find him, to help him?


    The conclusion I reached was always that I had done wrong. To help a dragon destroy a realm of a hundred thousand just so I could meet my brother¡ªthat was a crime. And so when I finally reached the fort against the deep darkness, my only desire was to atone for that crime.


    How about now? Was it a crime to lie to Vanerak, knowing that I was risking the lives of those who trusted me and even fought with me in my greatest battle?


    Sometimes I come to the conclusion that it was a crime. Vanerak was always going to see through my lies eventually. I knew that to continue lying was to condemn my guildmates to death.


    And sometimes I come to the conclusion that my wrong was something else: to give in. I should have kept my knowledge to myself, denied everything. Then, at least, Pellas'' pain wouldn''t have been for nothing.


    But I was so scared! To watch, helpless, as someone you care for is tortured so cruelly, is impossible for all but the most heartless to bear. I, at least, am not heartless. Short-tempered, yes. Foolish, often. Obsessed, certainly. But if I have ever committed acts of cruelty they were born from passion, not cold calculation. I am not Vanerak.


    Every so often, yet not too often, I am given food. It is gruel, and the only drink is beer of the lowest quality, cheaper than water. I''ve never kept count of how many meals I''ve been given. Many thousands by now, perhaps. Or tens of thousands.


    The darkness is endless. Time does not exist for me. I have become like one of the dwarves of the deep¡ªthe next moment and the far-away future have become the same.


    I should have kept to my lie! I beat my fists against the cold rock. Pellas and the dragonslayer died for nothing because of my weakness¡ªthat was my crime: weakness. Now Vanerak surely has the power of runeforging. He has surely sunk his soul into the magma sea to seek it out, and now the power of the world''s blood is directed as he wills it.


    Surely he will enter this cell and run his weapon through my heart. It will happen in the next moment, or in the far-away future, yet when does not matter.


    I have given him the power of runeforging, and Pellas and the dragonslayer died for nothing.


    <hr>


    Vanerak sits within his newest and deepest chamber. It is deathly hot¡ªhe can only be in here unprotected for less than an hour at a time. He shuts his eyes and presses his palms against the black floor. Heat conducts itself through his skin and into his body and blood.


    Where is the magma? He waits calmly for it to pour over him. Sweat beads on his bare skin, then before long it is streaming down and pooling on the rock around him. The sensation of this is a little like that of magma around him, but not quite. The magma is not here. Either it will not come to him, or his soul will not go to it.


    Can it be that only Zathar has this power? That it cannot be learned? All runes can be memorized, and forging techniques improved by even the dullest and slowest dwarf given enough time, but perhaps this power is different. It may be something created by a Runegod and bestowed upon Zathar for reasons unknown.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Vanerak''s fists clench. That cannot be right. All techniques can be learned. All runes can be memorized. There is no reason that he also cannot find the sphere and use its strength for himself.


    He hears a knock and is thrown from his thoughts. He grits his teeth¡ªhe has been angry often lately, an alien and unpleasant sensation¡ªand stands, walks to the door, opens it violently.


    Nazak backs away.


    ¡°Forgive me, my Runethane!¡± he says. ¡°I have more bad news.¡±


    ¡°Tell it to me quickly.¡±


    ¡°Another expedition has been lost. It was an elite one¡ªten fourth degrees, two third, one second and one first¡ªSteward Kalvak.¡±


    ¡°How were they lost? And why was Steward Kalvak on it? Expeditions were not his duty.¡±


    ¡°There were no survivors, so we do not know how. If I were to guess, my Runethane, I would say that a demon managed to possess one of the more powerful runeknights. A salamander should have given such a party no trouble.¡±


    ¡°I see. My condolences to the family and friends of the lost. I shall return to my meditations.¡±


    He turns away.


    ¡°My Runethane, at this rate we shall have no more runeknights left!¡±


    Vanerak turns back. His cold eyes narrow. ¡°You know better than to speak back to me in such a way, runeknight.¡±


    ¡°I am sorry for my insolence, my Runethane, but I only speak the truth! We are getting nowhere. We have not been able to make it even half of the distance to the fallen city. A quarter of our runeknights have perished in the magma. A full quarter!¡±


    ¡°More can be recruited, from other realms and guilds if needs be. The Runeking was most intrigued by the news of our discovery.¡±


    ¡°We cannot trust dwarves from other realms. If news gets to the Runeking that we have Zathar imprisoned, he will not take it kindly.¡±


    ¡°We will invent more serious charges to accuse him of. Then our Runeking will have no choice but to agree with my decision to imprison him.¡±


    ¡°And what if the Runeking decides that he is important after all, and should be returned to Allabrast?¡±


    ¡°Ulrike is too distracted by his own works. He will do no such thing.¡±


    ¡°He may!¡±


    ¡°I have already warned you not to speak back to me, Nazak.¡±


    Yet Nazak is not cowed. Without his mask on, Vanerak is another dwarf. A powerful and skilled one, yes, and cruel, but he is not a faceless entity whose emotions can only barely be deciphered.


    ¡°We must use Zathar again, my Runethane. That is our only chance for success. His script has already proved a great boon to us. I have used it myself, and it is perfectly suited for our quest. Without it we wouldn''t have made it even a quarter distance to the fallen city.¡±


    ¡°He has not spent long enough in the darkness. He is not yet broken.¡±


    ¡°He is broken enough. I have seen it in his eyes. He is wracked with guilt for lying to you, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°He must be broken further. He is stronger than you think. In his heart there is still a flame of rebellion that must be snuffed out.¡±


    ¡°He will not rebel. The death of his guildmate has scarred his heart. You saw that as well as I did. We all saw something break in him¡ªHelzar and Halax will say the same. He will not risk losing another.¡±


    ¡°He has lost friends before. Many friends. Those losses did not break him.¡±


    ¡°Then fine, he remains unbroken! But we still need his runes. The old scripts are still powerful, but they are so much harder to use for what we need. If his script is given further vocabulary, we can make it to the city. Its knowledge will be ours.¡±


    ¡°I will think on it,¡± says Vanerak, then he turns away once more.


    <hr>


    I continue to lie in the blackness. Sometimes I believe that I am dead, and that hell is not in the fiery depths of the magma oceans, ruled by demons, but here in the blackness and ruled by Vanerak. In magma is life and power. Here there is nothing but my own memories. They torment me worse than a demon ever could.


    I see my brother''s broken hands, Yezakh''s severed head rolling, dwarves burning in the city¡ªthese last rendered in mosaic. I watch as my comrades are taken by the darkness, and by bright lightning. I see my own hands bringing Gutspiercer into the heart of a friend. The dragon burns Braztak, and then Xomhyrk.


    Pellas is tortured before me, then the cycle repeats.


    The door opens. I know I should stop eating what they give me. If I could do that, the visions would end, and I would be in true cold and blackness, that of peaceful death, yet a spark in me remains that prevents this.


    The spark says there is hope. It says that I must hold on, for Vanerak is not invincible.


    But no gruel is splattered over the floor for me this time. Instead the light from outside renders a figure in polished tungsten, and in place of his face is my own haggard one, distorted darkly.


    He has finally come.


    He has finally taken the secret of runeforging, and my life is at its end.


    His pollaxe gleams.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger,¡± Vanerak says in his cool-metal voice. ¡°I trust that you have reflected well upon your crime.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 40: Nearly Broken

    ¡°I have, my Runethane,¡± I say. My voice comes slowly, and it rasps like a rusted blade being drawn, as if I have nearly forgotten how to use it. ¡°I have reflected most deeply.¡±


    ¡°And to what conclusion have you come to?¡±


    ¡°I was wrong to lie to you, my Runethane.¡±


    He waits for me to talk further, but no words come.


    ¡°Explain why what you did was wrong.¡±


    After a few seconds I manage to rasp: ¡°Because you are my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°There is a deeper reason.¡±


    ¡°Lying itself is a crime.¡±


    ¡°Indeed, and a very grave one. Yet there is a reason why your particular lie was so foul, so terrible, that two lives had to be taken for it. Even the worst crimes, worthy of execution, only take one life as payment.¡±


    My voice seems caught in my throat.


    ¡°Say the reason.¡±


    ¡°It was because the lie was about my runeforging, my Runethane,¡± I rasp.


    ¡°Explain further.¡±


    ¡°My runeforging is the future of dwarfkind. It was wrong to conceal it.¡±


    ¡°Correct.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane.¡±


    He stands there staring at me for a while. I want to back away¡ªthe force of his gaze is as a gale blowing against me. It proves greater than my will and I retreat a step.


    ¡°I will leave now. Reflect further upon your crime, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    He steps back out into the corridor and the door shuts. He vanishes like a nightmare, back into the blackness. I sit down trembling, wondering if he ever visited at all, or if he visited a hundred long-hours ago.


    Eventually more gruel is given for me to scrape up from the stone, and a skin of foul beer also. The cycle repeats many more times until it is as if Vanerak never visited me at all. I become convinced that his appearance was merely a dream to torment me, to give me hope that he was considering my release, that he had not discovered the secret to runeforging after all.


    The door opens. My stomach rumbles. It feels constricted¡ªit has been a while since my last meal¡ªI was starting to think that my execution by starvation had begun.


    Once more I am looking into my own distorted face. I back away. Vanerak has returned.


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane!" I cry out. "Greetings to you also!¡±


    ¡°Have you reflected further on your crime?¡±


    ¡°I have, my Runethane, most deeply.¡±


    ¡°Explain to me why it was so grevious.¡±


    The words pour out. They are rehearsed: ¡°Because my runeforging is for the good of all dwarfkind, and in order for its potential to be realized, its secrets must be entrusted to a dwarf so wise, noble, and strong as yourself.¡±


    ¡°A good answer. Yet I feel that you do not really believe it.¡±


    ¡°I do, my Runethane! I swear to you that I do!¡±


    ¡°And how can you prove this to me?¡±


    ¡°I will never lie to you again. Then you will know!¡±


    ¡°I will know until you lie to me once more. You must prove your conviction to me in more solid fashion.¡±


    ¡°I will serve you. I will obey your every command without hesitation.¡±


    ¡°That goes without saying.¡±


    ¡°Then I do not know what I can do to make you believe me, my Runethane!¡± I am weeping and have sunk to my knees. My beard is wet with tears. ¡°But I will never lie to you again! I know what will happen if I do!¡±


    ¡°You do not know the half of it: your friends will be tortured in ways you cannot imagine. Their pain will last many long hours. Their wounds will be healed with healing chains, and then reopened, time and time again until their minds are naught but vessels for their pain.¡±


    ¡°I understand, my Runethane!¡±


    ¡°What was done to the lady was a mercy.¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane! You were merciful to her!¡±


    He nods slowly. ¡°Yes. You seem to realize this at last.¡±


    ¡°I do, my Runethane, I do!¡±


    He nods again. ¡°I have made my decision. You will be returned to the forge. You will create more runes for dwarfkind to use in our battles.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane! Thank you!¡±


    ¡°Your furnishings will be returned to you, and your armor also.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane,¡± I weep. ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger. Do not lie to me again.¡±


    ¡°I will not, my Runethane! I will never!¡±


    The door shuts and I am in blackness once more. I curl up, panting. Tears are still running down my face. Could that really have been real? Could that really have been Vanerak? Yes, I think it was. What else could have brought such fear into me? What else could have turned me into such a quivering, shameless, begging wreck?


    Some length of time passes, and I crawl up from my knees. If that really was Vanerak, and I''m sure it was, then I am to be released from my prison to return to the forge, which is also a kind of prison. Yet in that prison I at least can work for the benefit of all dwarfkind.


    Nauseous fear wells back up within me. I grit my teeth to force it down. I fight it.


    I am still lying to Vanerak. I said I would never lie to him again, and yet that was a lie. He thinks I am broken¡ªmaybe part of me is. If he ordered me to strike down an innocent in cold blood, for no good reason, I believe I would do so. I am too afraid of what he will do to Guthah.


    But in me is still that spark of hope that says he can be brought down.


    <hr>


    The wormlight globe is returned to my chamber, and shortly afterwards the rest of my furnishings are too. I once again eat off plates upon a table, while seated on my chair, and I have the option to sleep not on stone but on a bed with sheets. All of this is awkward to me. My body finds it hard to fit into the shape of the chair, and when I lie down in my bed, sleep will not take me.


    I sleep on the stone instead.


    My bookshelf is also returned to me, with all the same books I was halfway through studying. My desk comes back too, with my papers left in it just as if I had been working on them only a few hours ago. I read through and I''ve forgotten most of the runes I wrote down.


    With light returned, time seems to return also, and I begin to wonder just how long the blackness lasted. I suspect quite a while, by the way my body is so maladjusted to comfort and how some fairly well-memorized runes have vanished from my memory.


    A long-hour or so after my dark isolation ends, Nazak is sent to me. I flinch. On seeing him I remember Pellas'' death¡ªremember that it was partly his strength that held me back from helping her.


    ¡°Greetings, honored runeknight Nazak,¡± I say, and my voice is trembling a little. I''m unable to keep the fear from it. His mirrored visor, though up, demonstrates his unwavering loyalty to Vanerak.


    ¡°Our Runethane has told me to instruct you on what you are to forge next,¡± he says.


    ¡°Very well, honored runeknight. I will be glad to do whatever he tasks me with.¡±


    ¡°Our expeditions into the magma have proceeded greatly since the collapse. This has brought our forces into more frequent contact with the demons. We need weapons against them. There are very few scripts with words for the creatures, and those that do have them are difficult to use.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°So our Runethane wishes for you to extend your script with words for demons. He believes runes that combine the word demon with various words for death could prove effective.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight. But may I ask one question?¡±


    ¡°If you wish to, traitor.¡±


    ¡°What is this collapse you mentioned?¡±


    He frowns. ¡°You do not remember?¡±


    ¡°I do not, if I was ever told.¡±


    ¡°I suppose it happened after your interrogation. Very well, you ought to know now. It does affect you. The excavations above the magma sea fell in.¡±


    ¡°All of them? But how many were working up there?¡±


    ¡°We lost a hundred overseers. A sad blow. As well as several thousand miners. But their sacrifice was not in vain: the collapse exposed a path leading to a past collapse, one of a greater city. It''s there the shards washing up on the magma shore are from.¡±


    The deaths of so many does not seem to faze him at all. This does not shock me, though the scale of the losses does.


    ¡°I see,¡± I say. ¡°So we are heading towards this sunken city.¡±


    ¡°You are not, traitor. Your life is too valuable to risk.¡±


    ¡°I understand this, honored runeknight. Yet I must ask¡ªhow am I to create runes representing demons if I do not face them myself?¡±


    He scowls. ¡°You faced one before. Surely that was enough.¡±


    ¡°It was a long time ago, and I only saw it after it had already possessed a dwarf. I apologize for being so combative, honored runeknight, and so soon after our Runethane saw fit show me mercy, yet I only wish to obey our Runethane''s orders to the best of my ability.¡±


    His scowl deepens. ¡°I will talk to the Runethane. In the meantime, you are to examine your armor and devise ways to improve the runes you''ve used on it further.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    Surprised, I step aside as two guards walk through the door, bearing an armor stand between them. Upon it is a set of plate made of hundreds of perfectly formed loops. The metal is dark reddish tungsten shining with bright gold runes. It clinks as the stand is set up at the side of my room.


    I stare¡ªis this really my armor? It is too well-made. Surely I am not capable of creating such a craft.


    ¡°Your runes, and those upon your failed armor too, have proved a boon to us. Be pleased that you have made up, very slightly, for your betrayals.¡±


    ¡°I am very pleased to hear that,¡± I say, and I''m telling the truth¡ªif my runes have saved Hayhek and his comrades, then my coming to Vanerak''s realm has been of some use, at least.


    ¡°I will return when I have further orders from our Runethane. In the meantime, do not slack.¡±


    ¡°I will not, honored runeknight.¡±


    He leaves with the guards and I am alone with my armor. I look up and down it. It still seems unreal to me¡ªcould I really have made a craft so perfect? Some of this feeling might be to do with the distance of time between its crafting and now, but also¡ªI am simply amazed. There is not a single flaw.


    I approach it cautiously. The air is warm around it, and when I touch the metal it almost burns my skin. The heat is strange though. It does not quite feel like the heat of magma, nor like that of dragonflame, nor even like that of the surface sun. I cannot quite wrap my mind around what it feels like, nor why one heat should feel unlike another.


    On re-reading the poems, I understand. They describe fighting against magma, beating it down, overwhelming it. A foreign heat descends into the magma on the poem for the belly-plates, and this metaphor is taken further on the breastplate and backplate: a being of heat hateful to the magma tears a ragged road through it.


    It is far more violent that what I remember writing¡ªbut then again, I barely remember writing the poem on my breastplate, for all my focus was on keeping my power from burning me to ash. I wince. I cannot recall at all what I wrote on my arms, gauntlets, and helmet. I was too far gone then.


    With great trepidation, I read them.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 41: Armored in Arrogance

    Writ on each arm is a separate poem that leads down to the wrist, over the gauntlet, then right down to the fingertips in runes of decreasing size. The first one, for my left arm and hand, continues the story of the being of foreign heat that rends the magma sea. It describes the being reaching out to tear at currents that seek to wrap around it. Its hand reaches into them and they are blown asunder by overwhelming heat.


    The language used is visceral. The magma currents are described as blood and sinew. When they are torn apart, the words are those for pain and fear. The magma sea, after experiencing its attacks defeated in such fashion, is repelled.


    I wince. My armor may be brilliant¡ªif I saw another dwarf wearing it, I would assume them to be at least high third degree, ready for second¡ªyet its poems are too arrogant. The poems on my original armor were written with a theme of harmony in mind. If I was part of the magma, it could not harm me, so my thinking went.


    When I wrote these poems I was not concentrating on nobility. I was focused on power, and then I was focused on nothing but survival, and some part of my mind, the vicious undercurrent in me that enjoys blood and killing, that says I must gain in strength at all costs, was in control of these runes.


    The right poem is a little different. It uses the metaphor of salamanders that my original gauntlets had¡ªyet here they are not physical beings but composed of hatred for the sea they have been plunged into. They tear at the currents alongside the being of foreign heat, and their claws and strange flames prove fearsomely effective.


    A partner to the being the rest of the armor describes¡ªI wrote this poem with wielding a weapon in mind. The salamanders are accurate with their bites and slashes. I think their power will be added to the weapon I am to create.


    These poems are strong¡ªbut again, too arrogant! Will they not bring the wrath of the sea down upon me when I dive? And I''m to go deep into it. The city is sunken and its pieces scattered. A boat of tungsten, like the one I saw long ago, would be of no use for Vanerak''s task.


    Hoping earnestly that the poem upon my helmet is not so aggressive as those on my arms, I read:


    The dwarf smashes through the black skin of the magma. It recoils from him, and he falls rather than dives. Heat reaches for him, attempting to stop his rapid descent toward the magma''s heart. His own heat dissolves that heat. It cannot even touch his skin. The magma attempts to attack multiple times, from multiple angles, and each time fails, and its failure is described in excruciating detail with runes for flesh and blood and bile.


    Down, down, down the dwarf falls, its power blazing brighter with every yard traveled. A ruby embedded in his skin glints brightly, and I read not only the rune for dway in the final stanza, but that for tway also, the rune of self-reference, ''myself''.


    It is a masterful addition, well-calculated. It increases the power of the runic flow twofold while destabilizing it not quite enough to cause total chaotic collapse. To calculate so expertly would ordinarily take me a week¡ªbut when the depths of my mind takes over, so many hours of planning aren''t required.


    I look through the eyeholes. They are small and hooded. I should have made the metal transparent, I suppose, if I''m to dive wholly into the sea. Yet I could come up with no way to make my tungsten like Vanerak and Nazak made theirs, not while keeping to a theme of the destruction of heat. For my titanium skull-helm, the theme for its poem was that of gazing across the frozen surface to fix my eyes on my regret. A kind of vision was the theme, while this helm is simply designed for protection.


    How do Vanerak''s runeknights breathe beneath the magma, I wonder. How do they see? Even if their helmets are partly transparent, magma is not water. It is stone. Have they created some kind of runic ears to sense ripples of sound through it? Yet I can''t imagine anything so thin and delicate as a runic ear surviving under the magma sea for long.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    <hr>


    While I wait for Nazak to return, I obey the Runethane''s command to think on more ways to improve the runes I''ve already written. This proves an impossible task¡ªthe runes I wrote on this brilliant, arrogant armor seem beyond improvement.


    I copy them down onto paper anyway and note down the meanings, both denotations and connotations. Vanerak never had me do this for these runes¡ªsomehow he''s figured out the meanings himself. I suppose they''re similar enough to the ones on my last armor that it wouldn''t have been so difficult for a dwarf of his immense skill.


    On paper or metal, it makes no difference. I still cannot see any way to make them stronger. I think hard: do I need to get closer to the sphere, perhaps? I don''t know what effect that would have. Thinking back, when I made the runes for my shield in the trial, I was actually inside the sphere, but recently I''ve merely been close to it. How much does that matter? I don''t know¡ªbut Vanerak will demand I tell him at some point.


    I resume studying the books. The runes come back to me¡ªthough I can''t feel much enthusiasm for them. I can still decipher no pattern, no clue to the inner nature of how and why the symbols are as they are, and also I am likely never going to use these runes. Not anytime soon, at least.


    Vanerak wants new runes. He would not take kindly to me trying out the old ones, and there are no runes for demons in these books that I have yet seen. Perhaps in the stoneleaf book¡ªwhich is still completely indecipherable.


    The click of the lock as I am deep in study announces the return of Nazak. Quickly I stand then bow.


    ¡°Greetings, honored runeknight Nazak,¡± I say.


    ¡°It''s time, traitor. Our Runethane has given us permission to take you into the magma seas. We will find a demon if we go far enough. That is certain.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. And I thank our Runethane most graciously also.¡±


    ¡°Now equip yourself. Everything below has been prepared.¡±


    I turn to my armor stand. ¡°Wait!¡± he snaps. ¡°One thing!¡±


    ¡°What is it, honored runeknight?¡± I say, hurriedly turning back.


    ¡°I should say this now, as soon as possible: obey all orders without hesitation.¡±


    ¡°I of course will.¡±


    ¡°I mean it!¡± There is fear in his eyes. ¡°If you do not, you could die in an instant. It takes less than a second for a demon to force its way into you, and once it is in, you are gone.¡±


    I nod. ¡°I won''t let my guard down.¡±


    ¡°This isn''t about your guard. Do as I say, right when I say it. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    I equip my armor piece by piece. First I place my pauldrons onto my shoulders, then I clasp my breastplate and backplate around myself. There is a click as the metal plates lock together, and I feel a rush of power.


    Loop by loop I fit in the arm-pieces and plates, then the hand and finger pieces. Once I''m done, I flex my hands and my fingers move fast. My muscles feel supple, as if them and my joints too have been oiled with the same hot salamander blood that''s dyed this armor red.


    Next I fit on the loops that go around my belly, then on goes my codpiece, then ring by ring I armor my legs and feet. The heat that comes against my skin as I fit each piece ought to be unbearable, ought to be burning me, but it is instead invigorating.


    Power runs down my feet and into my soles as I twist and lock in the final toecap. I take a step. The movement is not particularly fast, like the movements of my hands are, but I feels solid, stable, and strong. When I walk forward I feel a thrill¡ªnothing will dare get in my way.


    And now it''s time to put on my helmet. I take it up in both hands and look into the face: the small eyes and small formation of breathing holes that make up the mouth. I read over the poem again, about the dwarf''s complete dominance over the magma sea and how it can do nothing to prevent his descent¡ªand in the final stanza it''s revealed to be my descent. My thrill dies a little.


    ¡°If I may ask one more question, honored runeknight Nazak?¡± I say nervously.


    ¡°Ask on the way down. You are keeping me waiting, traitor.¡±


    ¡°I apologize.¡±


    I plant the helmet upon my head. Its runic strength pours down my armor like a bucketful of salamander''s blood. My skin prickles with it, with heat¡ªit''s a similar sensation to being immersed in the magma in my trances¡ªthough this heat is different. The magma is the blood of the world, yet this heat¡ªI finally recognize it.


    It is the heat of vital life, of the blood of dwarves and other creatures of flesh, increased to boiling. It is life that plunges into the magma sea in my poems. Their meaning, their deepest theme is revealed to me: the triumph of dwarf over the natural world.


    ¡°Is something wrong?¡± Nazak asks suddenly.


    ¡°No,¡± I say. ¡°No, honored runeknight Nazak. I am fine.¡±


    ¡°You stopped dead. If you do that in the magma sea, you will be dead.¡±


    ¡°I was simply reflecting on the power of this armor.¡±


    ¡°Don''t get ahead of yourself, traitor. It''s still not as good as mine.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. I did not mean to suggest any such thing.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now move.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 42: Strange Equipment

    Guards close around me as we march out into the corridor of black stone. Maybe I should feel some kind of happiness on being let back out of my chamber, but I am too ill with worry. For so long I''d been dreaming of being let into the magma sea, to bask in the heat and breath the fumes, and attain a better understanding of it for my script. Yet now that I am finally to face it, and not only face it, but oppose it, I worry that my dreams are going to turn to black nightmares.


    Though, my armor, for all its arrogance, does give me some confidence. Some of the hotness of my blood has returned. My strides are confident. The air seems to give way to this armor, as if it is unwilling to be run down by me. It reminds me a little of how my last armor felt, my cold titanium that drove me on toward the dragon.


    And like that armor also, my ruby seems to respond vigorously to this latest creation. It''s warm against my chest like a drop of hot blood. It understands¡ªgems are alive, surely they are¡ªthat I am on my way to do battle. To continue the story writ upon it.


    I need to remake it. I really need to. Yet how can I improve upon a craft that restarted my heart? I examined the runes once before, when I first came here, and could see no solution. And I still cannot.


    We come to the barracks. The doors are shut, unlike last time, and there are heavy locks on them. I wonder if this is meant to prevent the entrance of errant demons. Could it be that there have been further infiltrations?


    When we enter the main hall, I notice that security has been increased here also. No one is changing their armor, or drinking beer, or talking with their friends. All present are ready for combat¡ªno one here is not in armor, or a foilsuit in the case of non-runeknights.


    There are a lot less dwarves in here too. When I first went down, however many hundreds of long-hours ago that was, this pillared hall was thick with figures, and stank of sweat and life. Now there must be less than fifty here, and the smell is mostly of sulfur.


    ¡°Over here,¡± orders Nazak.


    He leads us to the far end of the hall where a dozen elite runeknights are gathered. One is in familiar armor¡ªI flinch. It''s Halax, though his helmet is a new design. Gone is his open faceplate: in its place is a solid plate with small eyeholes and, more interestingly, a blank visor studded with long rods, a ruby mounted on the end of each. It''s open right now though, and his eyes meet mine.


    ¡°Greetings after a long time, Zathar Runeforger,¡± he says.


    ¡°Greetings, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    He turns to Nazak. ¡°Is it truly wise to take him down here so early, with no heat-mask yet of his own?¡±


    ¡°He must experience one in use before making one for himself. And he should make his after he extends his script further.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, he will not see accurately.¡±


    ¡°Neither would he with an inferior craft. This way is safer. The miners are equipped with them also, are they not?¡±


    ¡°You believe him lower than a miner.¡±


    ¡°My feelings do not come into this. I am simply obeying our Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Well, if our Runethane should wish it, I am not one to disagree. Come, Zathar Runeforger. You must be equipped.¡±


    I approach cautiously. The other dwarves around him part¡ªI start in surprise. There''s another set of armor I recognize here, well-made tungsten embedded with ruby tears. Hayhek is with us. He nods in acknowledgment, and I nod too, though only by the barest amount. I do not want Vanerak''s elites'' eyes on him any more than necessary.


    Two runeknights open a large chest. Tungsten glints red and orange within. Halax withdraws a mask somewhat like his own, a narrow, curved plate fitted with tungsten rods.


    ¡°It has been shaped exactly,¡± he says. ¡°Equip it.¡±


    ¡°Who made it?¡± I ask. ¡°Forgive my reluctance¡ª¡±


    ¡°Put it on!¡± Nazak snaps. ¡°There are times when taboos must be broken. And besides¡ªit is your runes that are upon it.¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    This is true, I realize. I quickly read over them: grafted in platinum is a masterful poem describing the many forms heat can take. It''s as well composed as anything I could make, and power hums gently from the runes.


    It is still not my craft, even if the runes are. Yet as Nazak says, sometimes taboos must be broken, however uncomfortable this makes me feel. I fit it to my helm and it locks in snugly¡ªmeasurements must have been taken of my armor.


    Blackness covers my vision.


    ¡°Can you see anything?¡± Halax asks.


    ¡°Nothing, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    ¡°That means all is well. It cannot be used unless exposed to extreme heat. We usually keep them up, however, until the moment before we sink down. I suggest you do the same.¡±


    I push it up¡ªit takes quite a bit of strength, even with my arms enhanced by runes. They won''t be knocked aside by any errant blow, however I can''t help but think they ought to be welded on, or better yet, built into the helmet from the first. Some of the others here have made their visors as such.


    ¡°You must also equip this,¡± says Halax. ¡°It is to allow you to breathe.¡±


    He offers me a long length of chain. I examine it, a little confused, until I realize that it''s not chain at all, but a cable with enruned tungsten segments enclosed around it every centimeter or so. It''s rather thin, and the mouthpiece, which I unwrap from the chains, looks flimsy. It''s unruned foil.


    ¡°For this design, you wrap the foil around your helm so that the end of the cable goes over your breathing holes,¡± says Halax. ¡°Do this now and become used to it. Breathing is not so simple with it on.¡±


    I wrap the foil around my helm. It sticks well to it, almost magnetically. If it''s not enruned, it must be composed of a very strange alloy indeed.


    One attempted breath later, and I am not thinking of alloys and runes. The air seems caught somewhere. I try to choke, and cannot. I grasp for the foil around my helm but cannot tear it off. It''s too thin, and my fingertips cannot catch.


    I fumble at my helmet, trying to twist and pull the whole thing off. Nazak grabs my hands roughly and wrenches them apart from my neck.


    ¡°Stay calm!¡± he orders. ¡°It takes a while for the air to come.¡±


    Red and black are swirling around the edges of my vision. They encroach¡ªthen retreat when sweet air finally floods my lungs. I gasp it in, more of it in, then splutter and cough.


    ¡°Breath out slowly too,¡± Nazak says.


    I control myself and do as he tells me. Once I feel the airless sensation again, I breath in slowly. Warm air comes into me again.


    ¡°The runes around the hollow cable serve two purposes,¡± says Halax. ¡°First, to reinforce the cable against heat, pressure, and violent blows. Second, to accelerate the flow of air in and out. Be careful around the float section. The air exhaled can cut, if you are not in armor.¡±


    I examine the float section for myself, at the other end of the cable. It''s a wide circle of tungsten, thin but well-enruned, shaped like an inverse buckler, with a small hole in its center where the cable joins. The poem on it describes movement up from the magma sea in abstract terms, yet for all its lack of solid metaphors, the language is so precise as to be beautiful¡ªalbeit in an austere, mathematical way.


    ¡°I thank you for the explanations and warning, honored runeknights,¡± I say, but they do not seem to hear. My voice echoes inside my helmet.


    ¡°Are you trying to say something, traitor?¡± asks Nazak, after a second.


    I nod then bow.


    ¡°Then remove your helm. We cannot talk with air-cables equipped. We use signs only.¡±


    After a short struggle, I manage to twist away my helmet. I take some deep gasps of air¡ªbreathing with the cable equipped may take some time to master.


    ¡°I thank you for the explanations, honored runeknights,¡± I say after I get my breath back. ¡°What signals are we to use? Are they very complex?¡±


    ¡°Not in the slightest,¡± says Halax. ¡°We point where you must go. We hold up a hand to say halt. We make a dagger with our thumbs to say danger, and point with two fingers to say there is a shard.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. And we can see all this with these heat-masks on?¡±


    ¡°In a way,¡± says Nazak. ¡°You will understand when you enter the seas. These crafts are advanced¡ªthey alter things in ways you cannot understand at your level.¡±


    ¡°They are of a different character to your runic ears,¡± says Halax. ¡°Those develop your sense of hearing, yes? Yet the gems and runes on the heat-masks give you a new sense entirely. This is the reason why we must break the taboo to equip enough runeknights. Lower degrees are not capable of work so skillful. They just harm themselves.¡±


    ¡°I see, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°You must experience the heat-sight for yourself before attempting your own. You must gain a complete understanding of it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight. I will strive to.¡±


    ¡°There have been permanent injuries,¡± adds Nazak. ¡°Badly made heat-masks are deadly. Our Runethane does not want to see the front of your mind boiled from inside.¡±


    ¡°I am very grateful for that. If I may ask, however, who made this one I wear now?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± says Halax. ¡°It is one of the first I perfected, though it is still strong.¡±


    I bow. ¡°I am honored.¡±


    ¡°No, the honor is mine. It is your runes that allowed me to create a craft so exquisite. I hope that on your own attempt, you will be able to surpass me.¡±


    Nazak gives him a disgusted look. ¡°Let''s get going.¡± A guard hands him his own heat-mask, and he replaces his mirror-visor with it. Compared to Halax''s, it looks somehow crude. I notice quickly that the rubies are all of different cuts.


    ¡°Wait,¡± he says. ¡°You had another question before, traitor. What was it?¡±


    I''d forgotten. ¡°It was about the demons, honored runeknight Nazak.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°Why do they come for us?¡±


    ¡°Why? Why not? They hate us.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but why?¡±


    ¡°They''re demons. Why should they need a reason? Hate is what they are.¡±


    I detect a note of his own hatred in his tone, and decide it would be wise not to push the issue any further.


    ¡°Thank you, honored runeknight Nazak. I understand now.¡±


    We make our way toward the sealed doors.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 43: Seeing with Heat

    We now stand before the doors. They have been greatly strengthened since I was last down here: they are of tungsten, with many thick support struts running through them, forming a grid of triangles, and they are enruned with blue-tinted platinum that suggests quizik reagent. They are made for solidity¡ªand the runes tell of enemies of formless heat beating against metal in vain.


    Nazak told me they needed my script to mention demons directly¡ªperhaps that means these poems haven''t been so effective. Well, this doesn''t matter to me right now: the demons won''t have to go to the trouble of penetrating this door to get me, for we''re about to step right into their domain.


    One of the guards goes to a wheel jutting from the wall. He grasps it hard and turns. At first it turns slowly, then some gear grinds inside, blue sparks jump, and the turning speeds up; the wheel squeals.


    The tungsten doors retract to either side. A line of orange light appears in the gap and illuminates the guards in front of me brightly. The scars in my vision are outlined vividly. Fumes billow over us, bringing yellow dust. I cough as it burns my throat. What I do not feel is any extra heat¡ªmy armor is working well so far.


    ¡°Forward,¡± orders Nazak.


    We march out. I step over the boundary between rock and obsidian shards and my foot sinks a little. I hear scratching as the shards try to scar my boots. I glance down and see they are not succeeding. The power of my runes combined with my near perfect metalcrafting puts my armor above being harmed by mere glass.


    I am in the exact middle of the formation. Ahead of me are six guards, with Halax in the front. Behind are six also, and Nazak behind them. There are three each to my left and right also. Hayhek is one guard away from me to the left. His rubies are glinting brightly.


    There is no clear division between beach and magma, I notice. The place is not like one of the beaches of the surface I have read about, with sand bordering water¡ªthose are two different elements, while here the land and the sea are just different degrees of the same. The obsidian shards become gradually redder and less solid and my boots sink a little with each step. Drops of orange fall from them as I walk.


    When we reach a point where each step is only barely taking our feet out of the half-magma, Halax holds up a palm, the signal to halt. We do so. I feel myself slowly sinking down, though after a few inches my feet thankfully find solid rock.


    ¡°Equip your air-cables,¡± Halax orders. ¡°Erot, Ragnay, make sure the runeforger''s is tightened securely¡ªyou will be held responsible if it is not.¡±


    I fumble with the thin metallic wrappings, trying somehow to equip myself with one hand, before I remember that these cables are capable of withstanding far higher temperatures than those of the glistening, semi-molten black glass I''m standing in. I lay down the concave float-section and use both hands to tighten the breathing end around my helmet.


    One of the runeknights beside me curses, undoes it, and re-tightens it hard. I make no protest, even though she touches my helmet rather roughly. I really don''t want to breath in magma. The guard on my other side tightens it further for good measure.


    ¡°Is it on correctly?¡± Nazak barks from behind.


    ¡°Yes!¡± the guard on the right says.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the guard on the left.


    ¡°Are you breathing properly, traitor?¡±


    I nod. The cables seem to be working¡ªI am taking deep slow breaths, and the air tastes sweeter than that I was breathing unfiltered.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Nazak equips his own breathing cable. His helmet is constructed so that it locks in smoothly¡ªit only takes him a moment. Should I remake my helmet in such a way? Probably it would be a good idea. I''ll see how it performs down here first.


    Halax turns around and pulls down his visor. The guards either side of me pull mine down also¡ªeverything becomes black. There is no sight, and no sound but for the rumbling of the sea''s heavy waves, molten rock crashing up and down with the force of a cave-in every few seconds. Panic starts to rise within me¡ªthere could be a salamander bearing at us and I would have no idea. Vanerak could be stalking behind me, and I would have no idea.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Someone shoves my back. We''re marching. I stumble forward and fall onto my knees. Magma closes around my gauntlets, thick and heavy. The guard behind me grabs me by the armpit and pulls me up. I''m shoved forward.


    I stride¡ªI can''t panic, must regain control. This is the magma, where I need to be, for Hayhek''s sake if no one else''s.


    The obsidian is just a crust now, breaking against my armor. My shins are deep in molten stone, and now it is around my knees, and now my hips. I feel a sense of pressure¡ªmy joints don''t bend quite so easily now that stone is around them.


    But I still don''t feel heat. The magma''s most potent force is being repelled.


    I stride with more confidence, taking greater steps. Soon I''m not stepping at all, but swimming, and sinking rapidly. I sense that the magma is at my neck.


    Sight that is not sight comes into being. I gasp in shock. I can see¡ªyet I am not seeing. My heat-mask has begun to function, and what a function it is. It is like no experience I have ever had, like no dwarf has ever had. My runic ears extended my hearing, yet this is, just as Halax said¡ªsomething new.


    It has some connection to my eyes. That is proved by how this new not-vision has scars of emptiness cut into it. They are not scars of blackness, though. This world has no black, nor white. It only has heat and lesser heat. That is what I see, or rather sense.


    There are no runes to describe this sensation, yet.


    Someone grabs my shoulder and pulls me roughly around. It''s Nazak¡ªI can sense the shape of his armor clearly, a cold gap in the magma. He taps my heat visor, then he pushes his helmet up against mine.


    ¡°Is it working?¡± he says. His voice is distorted and metallic, and sounds like it comes from far off, so I can only barely make out the words.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say back.


    He pulls away and points forward. Halax, another shape cut out of the heat, nods.


    We swim forwards. The guards spread away from me a little as we do so¡ªI imagine this is so that the air-cables, lines of cool unwrapping and straightening as we travel forwards and down, don''t get tangled together.


    I copy the technique of those around me. It is not quite swimming we are doing, for the molten stone subsuming us is far thicker and heavier than water. It is half climbing, almost, pulling through the stone as well as kicking. Like I''m laying down with my hands out and grasping the floor, and pulling myself along, except the floor is all around me, not just below.


    Could a rune describe this action? If I were to make it, certainly. Though to make a rune, a word is also needed. Could a word be made? Dwarven words, unlike human ones, are immutable¡ªyet does that need to mean new ones cannot be coined? I will try.


    Likely Vanerak will make me try.


    We continue down. Although there is a sense of what is above, a great coolness, there is no sense of anything below. The stone that makes up the floor is at the same temperature, of course, it just is solid because its melting point is higher. And it''s not as if it has a different color.


    How, then, will we know where a shard of the impervious black stone is? I would ask Hayhek, whose rubies are spots hotter than the surrounding magma, if I could speak.


    A few minutes of diving, and the surface vanishes. The furthest ends of the breathing-cables are gone too¡ªthe cool metal lines fade into nothingness. Clearly the heat-masks have a range. They are not vision which continues until light is blocked by something. This is a disadvantage, yet there is an advantage to their nature as well: I can sense anything cool within their range. I can sense every guard in the formation. My not-view of Halax at the front, for example, isn''t blocked by the two guards between me and him.


    It is very odd to have both the front and back of objects defined to me at the same time.


    A greater heat flashes into view below us and to the left. My heart jumps. The guards tilt around to face it, extending their weapons out. It is massive, and has six legs, though this is hard to tell because they are roughly the same temperature as the magma.


    It looks up at us. I flinch¡ªit seems to be fixated on me. I hold my hands out in front of me, the only weapons I have. It stretches its head a little. Yes, it''s looking at me. I''m sure of this.


    Why? Then I notice¡ªI do not look quite like the other dwarves down here.


    My armor is shining slightly, and with the equivalent of a color. Over my tungsten is a very thin layer of heat, and it is the heat that is not that of the magma sea, but the heat of life increased a hundred times. I focus on the other runeknights, but they have no similar glow. Their armor is designed only to stop the heat penetrating through, so they are cut-out coldnesses. I am also a cut-out coldness, yet one also surrounded by a very thin layer of bright heat. It''s hard to detect, unless I concentrate¡ªbut that is only because I am unused to this heat-sense.


    The salamander below us noticed immediately. It is a creature of the magma.


    Is it enraged at the intrusion of this strange heat, of the arrogance of my runes? It turns and swims quickly away. I breath out in relief¡ªapparently not. I was just a curiosity to it, no more interesting than an oddly colored boar. Salamanders are animals. They do not feel offense, only hunger, and on occasion fear.


    But demons are no animals.


    Halax motions for us to swim on. My wonder at this new heat-sense has died in me, though, and I am afraid again.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 44: Formless Heat

    After only half an hour of swim-climbing through the molten stone, I am starting to get tired. Even with my runes enhancing my strength with their tale of cleaving through the magma, and my ruby warm against my chest reducing my fatigue, excited by the prospect of oncoming battle, this is still hard work. No one else is showing any signs of slowing, however. They are well used to this method of traveling.


    One of the guards on the right points downward and leftward. I look¡ªthere are spots of coolness down there. Halax holds up his hand to halt. He briefly considers, then points down with two fingers. Those spots are the shards we''re looking for. Apparently they are near impervious to heat as well as impact.


    We orient ourselves vertically down and dive. Our cables are nowhere near tight yet¡ªthey are longer than I thought. They are thin, too, and this makes me feel vulnerable. An enemy does not need to penetrate my armor to kill me, only sever the cable, which means that my life is not in my own hands, but the hands of whoever crafted the cable.


    The spots of coolness floating in the magma are almost unmoving. Magma''s tides are slow. As we approach, I focus on them and can make out their shapes more clearly. They''re larger than I thought, nearly the size of breastplates. Upon them are runes, but my heat-sense isn''t precise enough to make the shapes out clearly.


    A little closer, and I notice that one doesn''t have runes, but a picture. It seems to show a dwarf in a robe, surrounded by walls, but apart from that I can make out no more details.


    Once we''re beside them, Nazak motions to some of the guards. They grab hold of the larger shards. There''s smaller ones around it, and these are wrapped in a wire net, which is then tightened. Then all movement stops. Neither Halax nor Nazak make any motion to lead us away. They''re waiting¡ªfor the demons, of course. That''s what we''re here for. That''s the real prize: to show me the demons so I may make the runes Vanerak desires.


    How are we to fight them, though? Demons were described to me as formless heat. Only once they possess a dwarf do they have a physical body that can be pierced and slashed by metal. Is one of the guards going to have to sacrifice himself? Vanerak is not so wasteful with his runeknights though. If a dwarf was required as bait, we would have taken a miner with us.


    There''s nothing particularly special about the weapons everyone is carrying either, or at least not in shape. I should have read the runes on them, but can''t now, for the rune are the same temperature as the base metal.


    I focus on Hayhek. He seems calm¡ªhe was never calm on our journey with the trolls, I remember. Always seemed on the edge of panic, though he honored himself by overcoming his fear. I wonder how many demons he has faced so far¡ªhow many all these runeknights have faced.


    The wait continues. My nerves feel on the edge of shattering¡ªcould a demon not just possess one of the great salamanders here, swim up to the surface, and submerge the ends of our cables? If I was a demon, that''s what I would do. There are no guards set to protect the ends of our cables¡ªare Nazak and Halax that confident the demons won''t destroy them there?


    Finally, at the edge of my heat-sense, I see them. Two roiling balls of heat, like fires with flames that lick in every direction, cross-ways and inwards included. They are approaching from the opposite direction from which we came, and are doing so very quickly. The guards swim to reposition themselves before me in a shield formation with Nazak and Halax at the center. They aim their weapons¡ªspears, swords, halberds.


    The demons continue to rush at us. Their movements are totally straight, as if they are falling at us, and they seem to have no notion of strategy. They do not curve to take us from either side. I glance back¡ªthere is nothing coming from behind, and Nazak and Halax don''t seem to expect anything to either, or there would be guards behind me also.


    One of the demons gets in range of a spear-wielding guard, who stabs. The demon''s heat shivers, disrupted, and it adjusts its rush toward the speardwarf. The guard beside him slashes, quickly for having to cut through molten stone. His slash only barely disrupts the demon''s heat though, and it hits the speardwarf hard.


    Halax slashes with his own sword, and the demon''s heat diminishes somewhat. The second demon has now reached the formation, and two spear-wielding guards strike it. Yet it seems not to even notice.


    It''s broken through¡ªit''s right in front of me. Roaring flames, hotter heat than that of my armor, beat against me. I yell into my helmet and tear at the demon with my gauntlets. The flames shiver and die where I touch, but the demon doesn''t pull back, just continues to beat at me. I sense Nazak, Hayhek, and several others turn to attack it. Tungsten blades sweep through it, killing its heat. Nazak''s axe¡ªa different one to what usually hangs from his hip¡ªgoes through its core.


    For a moment the flames die away, but quickly they flare back up and lick at my face. I tear at the demon with my hands, pulling at it, trying to grasp the tongues of heat and crush them. Each time I make contact my skin feels like it burns. I''m drenched in sweat also. If this continues for much longer, I might drown in it.


    Nazak''s axe goes through the demon''s core a second time, and it vanishes. I shout in relief. The second one is gone too¡ªHalax must have dealt with it.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    I focus on him. He''s embracing another dwarf. I am confused for a single moment, for Halax does not seem the type to embrace others after a victory, before I sense that the dwarf he holds is rapidly rising in temperature.


    It is possessed! It grabs Halax''s wrists and forces them apart. Nazak slashes its shoulder, but his axe, momentum robbed by the molten rock it must go through, only barely penetrates the possessed dwarf''s armor.


    It hammers Halax hard with a knee-strike. Halax bends sideways and over, the breath knocked from him. There is a dent in his armor, first degree armor. That was a terrible blow. The possessed dwarf kicks hard and swims up, grasping for his air-cable. A speardwarf stabs at it, giving Halax a brief moment to dart up and out the way, jerking his cable out of reach behind him as he does so.


    The possessed dwarf swims at the speardwarf. Nazak strikes into its legs, and Hayhek and two others hit hard also, but it''s only barely slowed. It grasps the speardwarf''s air-cable and clutches tight. The speardwarf lays a stab into its wrist, a stab with the strength of mortal fear behind it, and the blade penetrates the gap between gauntlet and wrist-plate.


    The possessed dwarf lets go of the air-cable, but the damage is done: the cable is twisted and melted. The speardwarf panics and swims upward, as Halax and Nazak manage to slice the possessed dwarf apart¡ªyet the surface is too far. I watch in horror as the speardwarf''s movements slow just at the edge of my heat-sense. He clutches at his throat, then becomes still.


    ¡°No!¡± I shout.


    That was a terrible way for anyone to die, suffocating in hot blackness, your own armor your tomb.


    Nazak and Halax put their heads together for a moment to discuss, then both point back the way we came.


    <hr>


    An hour later and we are back upon the shore. I pull off my helmet and drink in the colors and shades of the underworld. To have normal vision returned is a blessing¡ªthe magma sea is not where dwarves are meant to be. Quickly Nazak orders us back to the door. He knocks a complex beat, and a few seconds later the door opens a crack. The guard behind confirms who we are, then opens the door just wide enough for us to come back through in single file.


    We go to the rear of the hall and only then does Nazak tell us that we can rest. Everyone but for him and Halax sinks down to their haunches, or sits fully on the floor. For a while, no one speaks.


    Eventually Nazak says, ¡°That could have gone worse. A lot worse. Be grateful only one had to die for you, traitor.¡±


    I nearly scowl, but stop myself. ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°Two at once is rather rare,¡± says Halax. ¡°Fortunately they were not the strongest we''ve faced, and the runeknight possessed was only a fourth degree.¡±


    ¡°A fourth degree,¡± Nazak spits. ¡°A hundred years of forging, gone in an instant.¡±


    ¡°He will be remembered as brave. I will donate to his family myself; I may have died if not for him, and then we would have lost three hundred years of forging.¡±


    ¡°I hope it was worth it. Well, traitor? Was it? And stand up to talk to us.¡±


    I stand. I''m not sure what he''s saying¡ªI''m too hot and exhausted to think straight. ¡°If the shards prove useful¡ª¡±


    ¡°This wasn''t about the shards,¡± he snaps. ¡°It was for your runes. Can you write some better ones, or not? Do we have to go back in?¡±


    ¡°I apologize for misunderstanding. Yes, I think I can create some runes for them.¡±


    Some hope seems to catch light in the eyes of the guards.


    ¡°But I need to know a few things first, about these demons.¡±


    ¡°What? If we know, we''ll answer. If we don''t know, then there''s no one who can.¡±


    ¡°Firstly, why did they not go straight for our breathing cables? If they concentrated their heat, surely they could have damaged them. And they could have done it up at the surface, because there were no guards there.¡±


    Halax answers: ¡°A dwarf would think to do that, of course. But until a demon enters the body and mind of a dwarf, it cannot think like that. In what way they think while in their natural forms, we cannot know. They are likely intelligent. But that intelligence does not work along the lines we understand.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Thank you, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    ¡°Anything else?¡± Nazak demands.


    ¡°Yes. Is anything known about their origin? How they are born, or made?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    "Do they ever possess the creatures of the magma sea?"


    "We are not sure."


    "How do they sustain themselves?"


    "We do not know."


    "As you can see," says Halax, "we know very little of their true nature. It could be a boon to capture one, or a dwarf while he is possessed, yet so far this has proven impossible."


    ¡°I see. I have a more personal question next: how have you designed your weapons to injure them while they have no form?¡±


    ¡°As beings of heat, terrible heat, they cannot abide cold,¡± Halax answers. ¡°Our weapons cool when they contact particularly fierce heat. You could not tell this because their original temperature is too cool to sense with the heat-masks. If you examine one, you should understand.¡±


    ¡°If I may,¡± Hayhek says.


    He stands up and hands me his axe in both hands. I bow low, then take it to read the runes.


    They are written in the script I forged, and tell of a blade beneath the magma. It is calm, undisturbed, a natural part of the sea. Yet when something too hot approaches, it acts as the wrong pole of a magnet and flares cold to balance the intrusion. It slashes with great speed to punish the breaking of the equilibrium.


    ¡°Most of our weapons are written in a similar way,¡± he says. ¡°Yet they are not so effective as they should be against something with no armor.¡±


    I hand it back to him. ¡°It is still a fine weapon.¡±


    ¡°But not fine enough. I have lost friends because it did not cut as well as it should. The magma congeals around it when it cools¡ªthe runic flow destabilizes a little and the cooling spreads out of it, slowing my strikes. It may be a decent enough weapon, but it is flawed.¡±


    ¡°We need something that cuts right to the demons'' hearts,¡± says another guard. ¡°We will be in your debt if you can devise a way.¡±


    ¡°We won''t be ashamed to imitate it,¡± Hayhek adds. ¡°We are not like Uthrarzak''s scum, don''t think we have become like them¡ªbut this is the greatest challenge dwarfkind has ever undertaken. We have no choice but to collaborate.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± says Nazak. ¡°You don''t, traitor.¡±


    ¡°I am glad to help in whatever way I can,¡± I say, ignoring the anger Nazak''s barb brings up. ¡°I''ll make a weapon. And I''ll help you slay these demons. We''ll win this.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Halax, nodding. ¡°We will, runeforger. For the Runethane, we will be victorious.¡±


    ¡°For the Runethane!¡± chorus the guards. ¡°For the Runethane!¡±


    I have no choice but to join their chant.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 45: Back in the Forge

    As soon as I return to my quarters, I ready a sheet of paper and begin to plan my weapon. My first problem¡ªwhat kind of weapon do I even make? From what I saw under the magma sea, slashing weapons are too slow. The weight and sticky friction of the magma impedes them, even those made and enruned to first degree standard.


    So, a stabbing weapon would be best. The obvious choice is a spear, like my first real weapon, Heartseeker¡ªstill languishing in our Allabrast guildhall. Yet I''m not sure about this. I have a feeling my poems are going to have to be complex, and a spearhead doesn''t give me much surface area for them. Vanerak will want as many new runes made as possible also.


    What runes, exactly? Upon my weapon, what kind of a poem will I write? A self-referential ode that depicts me cutting down hundreds of demons? They didn''t come in hundreds, though. I need to give them the respect they must be given, and tell of them in detail also, as much truthful detail as I can manage.


    And in the final stanza my poem must tell of one''s destruction. How are they destroyed? Hayhek told me through cold, yet my runes of magma cannot tell of cold. This is a major problem, the flaw in the other runeknights'' designs¡ªand I''m sure they realize this too.


    Maybe I could form the runic flows in such a way that they closely match those of another script, and I could write the poem in two halves, the second script being my one of cold. Yet I don''t really know how to change the runic flow of the runes I create¡ªnot those I create with conscious focus anyhow.


    I shut my eyes and try to remember how the demon looked¡ªhow it appeared to me in my heat sense. Flames licking out in every direction, and inside of it were flames also, going across the creature, around and inward too. It was a knot of changing, twisting loops and struts of heat.


    When I reached into it with my gauntlets, I hurt it. I disrupted it, and I didn''t need cold to accomplish this, just my own heat, the heat of life made greater than the immense yet unliving heat of the magma.


    My poem must speak of this disruption, of pulling apart the complexity inside of the demon. The shape of my weapon will enhance the disruption also. A simple stab or slash will not do. A cruel shape comes into my mind¡ªa shape for tearing flesh from both within and without.


    I sketch in quick, jagged strokes. My lips form a grimace. The shape of my weapon is one Vanerak and his commanders will almost certainly approve of.


    <hr>


    ¡°I would ask your advice on making a heat-mask of my own, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    ¡°You are wise to do so, runeforger. Too many runeknights let their pride overcome their good sense, and thus they try to re-invent my great creation on their own, while they would better dwarfkind further by instead developing on my advance.¡±


    ¡°I will not follow their example, honored runeknight Halax. I do not wish to waste our Runethane''s time and precious resources.¡±


    ¡°That is good to hear. Ask me whatever you wish to.¡±


    ¡°I would start with the basic shape. Why is it as it is? The many rods seem fragile to me.¡±


    ¡°Much like how your runic ears work, the gems absorb and understand the heat. They are the keys of the craft. But while the metal of your runic ears funnels sound, the gems of the heat-masks take it in directly, and so they are placed on extrusions so that the sense may be given better depth. The lines of runes on each rod also must be lengthy out of necessity, so there is that also to consider. And though the design is fragile, I admit, the better the sense of heat you have, the easier it is to prevent your foe coming into a range in which it might damage the rods.¡±


    ¡°I see. I will bear everything you say in mind.¡±


    ¡°That you must if you are to succeed.¡±


    ¡°Of course, honored runeknight Halax. My next question is, how does the information come through the eyes, and indeed why through the eyes? We usually feel heat on our skin. Why not have something that enhances that sense already?¡±


    ¡°A most acute question, runeforger. Some dwarves think that sight, hearing, feel, scent and taste are the only senses we have. They forget several others: one of which is our sense of heat and cold. Indeed, to enhance that would seem logical. Yet sight is the predominant sense, and I judged that it had the greatest potential to be adapted. You are welcome to try a different idea, of course, as many have, though none have succeeded as of yet.¡±


    ¡°As I said before, I wish to waste no precious materials through arrogance. I am happy to work with your ingenious method, honored runeknight.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°For your first attempt, that would indeed likely be best. If anyone has potential to improve the design upon further crafts, however, it is you, runeforger.¡±


    ¡°In future I will be happy to make such an attempt, for the betterment of all dwarfkind. Yet my understanding of the craft is as of yet still vague.¡±


    ¡°Then continue your questioning, young runeforger.¡±


    ¡°My next question is in regards to the particulars of runic flow. The calculations I have made on my preliminary designs suggest...¡±


    My question is complicated, and his answer even more so. I do not understand it fully. I inquire further, and he has no issue explaining the runic flow particulars in even more exacting, almost pedantic detail.


    He does not talk down to me in the slightest. And while many senior runeknights view the questions of their juniors as annoyances, he seems happy to explain. He is friendly to me¡ªand yet his stare is still unnerving, penetrating in a way that Vanerak''s is not. I cannot tell what Vanerak thinks because of his mask, yet even though Halax''s face is bare, I cannot read him at all either. And his grip on me during Pellas'' torture was unwavering.


    Once my questioning is done, he wishes me luck. I turn from the barred window and make my way to the forge storeroom. It''s as well-stocked as ever, which I am a little surprised at. I''d half expected Vanerak to reduce my allotment after my betrayal of him. Yet then again, why would he bother?


    No matter what I make, I will never be able to break the true metal of a Runethane. He knows this just as well as I do.


    I banish an image that comes to my mind¡ªof Pellas hanging dead and torn, and her shape distorted in his mirror-mask¡ªand get to work on the tungsten that will become my heat-mask.


    I lay out the tungsten sheet before me. That is all I have taken from the stores: a single point three millimeter thickness tungsten sheet, seven by thirty-eight centimeters. I could have taken some pre-formed rods as well, but why should I rely on the shaping ability of mere metalcrafters? I can do better. I can honor the metal as it deserves.


    I cut off five strips with my diamond saw. My hand does not tremor: all thoughts of outside the forge are beginning to fade, leaving only me and the metal.


    I cut the strips in half again, so that I now have ten. My first challenge is to reshape them into rods. How many strikes must I give each one until this task is done? The answer is thousands.


    I switch on the forge. Bright magma runs in it. I place in one strip. Quickly it glows to bright white. I withdraw it with my tongs and begin to tap it into shape. First I fold it lengthways, then I hammer away, each stroke calculated, yet also imbued with the violence tungsten expects and needs, until the strip is nearly but not quite the same thickness as before.


    Then, I repeat the process, folding, hammering until slightly thicker, again and again until the strip is not a strip but a bar oblong in cross-section. Now it is time to test if I have hammered it correctly. I begin to beat it along its short side, trying to turn the oblong into a rough square.


    There is a warped clang and a lessening of resistance¡ªthe bar comes apart in the middle, two layers not quite bonded separating in a sudden failure.


    I yell a curse. I thought I was better than this! I thought I''d improved! I turn from the fiery heat of the anvil and furnace and take some deep breaths. I failed plenty of times while making my new armor, didn''t I? Had I forgotten that during my lone confinement? I had¡ªI thought very little of forging then. To think of my armor was to think of Vanerak, and feel terrible fear.


    That fear comes again. I clench my hand around my hammer to try and drive it away. I''m in my world of metal right now. Vanerak may enter when he pleases, true, but I will not bring him into here out of my mind.


    I must make my apologies to the metal. I hammer it out back to the same thickness as the others, fold, beat it into the same thickness again, and repeat until I sense that the metal has forgiven my foolishness and weakness.


    No senior runeknight ever sold their failed crafts to a scrapper. Ruined metal can always be brought back into pristine condition, if one has the patience and will. No matter how much one botches it.


    I restart the process of shaping the rod. This time I hit harder, properly show the tungsten that I respect its strength. White sparks dash against my face. Some nearly get into my eyes¡ªbut dwarven eyelids blink fast and are thick. A few hairs in my beard are singed to charcoal¡ªbut my beard is that color anyway.


    Once the cross-section is oblong again, I move to the next stage. Only a few strokes later and I am cursing¡ªthe rod cracks down the middle. It is not so catastrophic a failure as my last one, but it is still unacceptable.


    Again I repeat the process. And again! At some point, or several times, I accept a skin of water, gulp it right down, then I am back in front of the furnace heating the rod to white once more.


    On my fifth attempt, I finally succeed in turning the rod''s sides even. Now for an even more delicate stage. For the first time in what must be at least a hundred long hours, I equip my runic ears.


    My sight fades and my hearing becomes a hundred times as acute. It is not like how equipping the heat-mask felt: that sense was relatively crude, the equivalent to being blurred or muffled. But in this blackness I hear detail upon detail layered upon detail.


    The rods of a heat-mask do not have to be round, yet for the design I have sketched, similar to Halax''s, I need mine to be. Tap by hard tap I go down the rod''s corners, turning its square cross-section into an octagonal one. Then I go down the edges again, until the cross-section has sixteen sides.


    I repeat, listening carefully to the chime the rod makes on each stroke. Sixteen sides, and now thirty-two. If I were to rely on my eyes for such a delicate task, they would see barely anything past the hot tungsten''s brightness, but my ears have no such issue. There is only minor disruption, from the air''s rippling. I flatten the edges perfectly.


    Could a heat-mask be used during forging too? One not created for submersion in magma, but to sense a wider range of temperatures? It is an intriguing thought, but I have too many other crafts to create to explore it now.


    Over the next several long-hours I turn the other nine tungsten strips into round rods. I fail many times¡ªnot a single rod is not broken at some point in the process, and I spend more time undoing my mistakes with a hundred times a hundred beats of the hammer than I do progressing my craft.


    Eventually, though, it is done, and now the time has come for an even more difficult and precarious task: welding them in perfect position to the main sheet.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 46: A Third Craft To Make

    The welding goes about as well as I feared¡ªvery poorly. At first I attempt to use precisely arranged rings of incandesite. They do not ignite evenly enough, even after I spend close to an hour prodding each individual grain into place. I then attempt to weld using a soldering rod, but it is not hot enough to heat the base of the tungsten rods all the way through.


    And after each failed trial, I must remake both rod and base strip. It is infuriating. If I was not under so much pressure, I would be cutting corners. Just how many long-hours have I spent on this thing? And I haven''t even gotten to carving the gems.


    Yet I am under pressure. I cannot anger Vanerak again. The mere thought makes my stomach roil. I see Helzar''s barbed spear enter Pellas.


    I shake my head. I cannot think of that. This is my world of metal. It is an escape from the terrors outside. Why should I be unhappy about spending time down here? And my patience is something I must perfect just as I perfect my crafts. Each failure is another tempering of it.


    The method that finally works is the most simple one: I heat both rod and strip to blazing white, and press the rod against the surface hard. The end¡ªcurved slightly for perfect contact¡ªbecomes one with the strip. One by one I place the other nine, telling position through sound rather than sight, and I make no mistake. A few more rounds of heating in the forge and they are fully bonded.


    I wipe sweat from my brow. The metal is done. Now for the gems.


    But before I leave my quarters for the forge on what is to be my first session cutting rubies, I am told by Nazak:


    ¡°A further dozen runeknights have attained seventh degree. More cable must be made, and our Runethane has expressed interest in if your runes can improve their performance.¡±


    The sudden mention of Vanerak unnerves me. I resist the urge to back away.


    ¡°Of course, honored runeknight Nazak,¡± I say calmly. ¡°If our Runethane desires this then I will naturally obey. Though, I have never yet made one before. Neither did I have enough time to examine the one I did breathe through in depth.¡±


    ¡°That''s no issue. Some originality may be useful to us.¡±


    ¡°All the same, I would be ashamed and upset if my cable was to fail another dwarf.¡±


    ¡°Would you now, traitor?¡± Nazak sneers. ¡°You have never cared before if your actions resulted in the deaths of others.¡±


    ¡°I have always felt guilt for my actions, honored runeknight. And it grew further each day¡ªand continues to do so.¡±


    He scowls. ¡°Just do as you''re told. Have you made healing chains before? The process is similarly industrial. You will be provided with pre-shaped metal. Enrune it to the best of your ability.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight Nazak.¡±


    My fear fades as we make our way down the corridors, a growing sense of annoyance replacing it. I was in the middle of my own craft! And, pre-shaped metal!


    So, the breathing-cables are treated like healing chains¡ªthe most prominent example of our taboo against making crafts for others being broken. The breaking was out of necessity¡ªthere is a great demand for them and not enough supply. But even though we are grateful for their existence, for their fixing of our ruined flesh after armor fails us, creating healing chains is still not a particularly honored job. A millennia ago¡ªa rough hundred and twenty thousand or so long-hours ago, by normal dwarven reckoning¡ªruneknights had to make their own. Most did not wish to sink the time and resources into creating them, however. Why create a craft to heal you when you could instead put that effort into armor to prevent injury in the first place?


    But the taboo softened over the centuries. Partly this was in response to losses suffered in battles with Uthrarzak''s forces, who, as I have seen for myself, honor collaboration, and had an abundance of the items. Their armies swelled while ours shrunk. Now, in Runeking Ulrike''s realms, the crafting of healing chains is a job most runeknights will at least consider if strapped enough for gold. A few even take to it wholeheartedly, making it their profession or their obsession. They are not even particularly despised for this.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    When I arrive in the forge, a coil of the long, thin cable and what must be several hundred sections of thin tungsten have already been prepared for me, neatly arrayed besides my anvil. I kneel down to examine them. They seem decent enough quality¡ªbut that is not good enough for me anymore. I can see plainly that my runes will not take well to their roughly molded surfaces.


    What is more¡ªthe length! There must be more than a hundred meters of cable here. I ask Nazak for the exact measurement.


    ¡°Two hundred,¡± he replies. ¡°These ones will not take the new runeknights so deep. They will be used for exploring the midway hill.¡±


    ¡°The midway hill?¡±


    ¡°A rise in the unmolten rock beneath the sea. It marks the quarter-way point of our efforts.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    I cannot help but wonder why it is called ''midway'' hill, then, but I do not want to prolong our conversation. I begin to unroll the coil. I want to get this job over with as soon as I can. It''s not as if I''m going to be using this craft.


    The tungsten wires that make up the cable are remarkably soft. I examine the shine of the metal carefully. Nickel and iron has been mixed in¡ªalmost a necessity for making tungsten into wire as fine as this. I look down one end of the wire too, and see that there are rings of hardened tungsten-cobalt alloy inside to maintain the cable''s hollow structure.


    I dread to think how much all this cost. Just the materials would have been expensive enough, plus the metalworkers'' fees would have been tenfold that price for a job so precise as this. Just how rich is Vanerak? How does he make his money? And how is so much metal imported, and from where?


    The thought of Vanerak nearly makes me imagine Pellas'' body again. I focus on the tungsten sections that I will have to bind to the cable. I can see the marks of a saw on their edges. Whichever metalworker made these did not have anything as capable as my single-gem diamond cutter.


    ¡°How long do I have for this craft?¡± I ask Nazak.


    ¡°Do not keep our Runethane waiting, traitor. But do not compose poorly either. A runeknight''s life is going to rely on this.¡±


    ¡°I wish to remake these sections. They are not fit for my runes.¡±


    ¡°If you were to spend too much time on that, our Runethane would be displeased.¡±


    I bow my head. ¡°Very well, honored runeknight Nazak.¡±


    ¡°The flotation section you will create to the best of your ability, however. It is too important to be composed of shoddy metalwork.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°But do it last. The poem should start from the lowest part of the cable. It is to preserve life¡ªit must start close to life.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight Nazak.¡±


    ¡°Get on with it then, traitor!¡±


    I have brought several sheets of paper down with me. On one are scribbled some draft ideas, but they are more or less unusable. The sheer scale of the project is far greater than I anticipated. If there is to be one stanza for each section of tungsten, then my poem will be the greatest epic I have ever created.


    My fists clench. And I am not even going to be the one to use this!


    I will create one for myself eventually. I calm my breathing, relax my hand. This is just a test for that one, an early trial.


    One stanza per section would be absurd. I try to remember the look of the cable I breathed through on my dive. The sections were not so thickly enruned. The lines crossed multiple sections, I remember glimpsing. This would have worked to bind the whole craft together.


    Yes, this cable is different to armor. Most armor is made piece by piece¡ªfor economic reasons more so than practical. It is cheaper to upgrade one piece at a time than a whole suit at once, which you would be forced to do if you made one poem for its entirety.


    This cable is one piece though. The different sections should be closely linked. I take inventory of exactly how many there are: four hundred and one. I take four sheafs of paper and divide each into a hundred sections, plus one on the last. Then I kneel before the anvil, rest my elbows on it, rest my chin in my palms. I think.


    I will not be overly ambitious. If my runes go wrong, I do not want some poor seventh degree to have to suffer their ill power. A simple poem, of drinking in life amid a sea of burning lifelessness will suffice. I also need to work in a secondary theme of quickness then calming, and of rhythm in time with a dwarf''s breathing, so that the air can be inhaled and expelled at the proper pace.


    So I plan out a tale of a dwarf buried deep in the essence of heat. Above him is life, yet he is unable to reach it. He has made a promise to stay in the heat. He is loyal to his orders. To live, he pulls the life through, and it miraculously makes its way through the heat unharmed, arriving at his lips gently, as if it has faced no trials.


    The cut-away points, where a line is cut in two by the end of a segment, pose a very tricky problem. The rune chosen must be one with strong runic flow, preferably one or two-way. Yet it must also fit the poem, not break the flow of the story. And I must rack my mind with this question four hundred and one times.


    After several short-hours, I am finished. My head is aching. I take a drink to clear my head and read through the poem once more. I groan. It is bloated¡ªrepetitive. The length I''ve been given is simply too long.


    I glance at Nazak. He has a smirk on his face. He is eager to see me fail. I will not ask him for advice.


    My power might save it. The awkward flow¡ªif I draw through enough of the power of the world''s blood, whatever force of genius is hidden within me will show. The runes will be perfect.


    No! I shake my head. I cannot lose control of my runes. Yet Vanerak will be able to tell if I do not create to the best of my ability. I swallow. I''m going to have to do this.


    I give the poem one final read, then shut my eyes and fall into my first runeforging trance since my confinement.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 47: Forced by Fear

    But at first, the trance does not come. I close my eyes and wait for the magma to flow around me, as always, but feel no warmth. I grasp the edge of the anvil hard in frustration, bruising my flesh on the cold solid metal, then let go, deciding that I should try to not be anchored here. I breath out slowly.


    Still nothing. Fear rises in me. Has it gone? Have my long-hours in the darkness distanced me from my powers so much that I am no longer able to reach them? Or worse, could Vanerak be tapping into them right now, and blocking me in some way?


    I shake my head violently. There''s no logic to that thought¡ªif he had access to the sphere I would already be dead.


    I focus. I imagine warmth surrounding me, growing to blazing heat. This time, my power responds. Brutal heat billows around me; sticky viscosity subsumes me. I am in the hottest furnace there is and yet do not burn. A second later I feel a pressure against my back¡ªthe presence of the sphere.


    It scares me, yet draws me also. I will myself to turn to see it and witness the clearest view yet I''ve had of it from outside¡ªthough it appears not as an image, nothing visual, but is instead a cut-out gap in the heat. In the gap is not cold, however, but power. Strange power, runic power of no runes I have ever read.


    I desire to move closer¡ªbut my fear prevents me. Fear and good sense too. This power has burned me half to death before. More than halfway. Nearly all the way.


    The runes, I must focus on the runes. I recall the first long lines of my poem¡ªnot my whole poem; I have neither the memory nor the stamina to improve it all at once.


    The first word is dwarf, dway, and I find that there is no way I can twist this rune to strengthen it. The power will not go through it, and I can tell that if I force it to, I will just bend the character into something weaker. I move along to the next rune and the next. These are well-made also.


    Frustration boils up. How can I improve this? I cannot quite put my finger on it, but this poem is weak. Uninspired. My heart was not in it¡ªanother dwarf is going to use this! What runeknight can put effort into a craft for another, unless it is an amulet of unaging for his lover?¡ªand I have never had the time for one of those.


    What if I make this craft for myself? I don''t want to use a craft not my own for my next trip into the magma. If I make the decision to put enough effort into this so that it changes in some dangerous way, some way too dangerous or strange for other dwarves to be able to use, maybe I can find the inspiration I need to strengthen it.


    But it is to be of pre-cut, pre-shaped metal. Such is not fit for me anymore.


    I could remake it after. But then what would become of this first craft? I''m certain that Vanerak would still make another dwarf use it, and I would be responsible for his or her suffering.


    Yet, if I don''t find some way to make this poem strong, Vanerak''s ire will again fall upon me. He won''t kill Guthah for it, but maybe he will torture him, a little, just to spur me on. Or maybe he''ll just do what he did when I made my runic ears: come down here personally to force more power from me, and burn me nine-tenths the way to death again.


    I can see no way out of my dilemma, and overthinking isn''t going to improve my concentration any, so I decide to just keep on going. Every dozen or so runes, there is an improvement to be made, and I draw a little power through myself. Sometimes the runic flow will be altered enough that I have to make a few rearrangements to the left and right¡ªyet overall, the changes are minor.


    Eventually I reach the end of my memorization and draw out from my trance. The power fizzles down easily and the magma vanishes quickly. I scribble down the altered poem on the opposite side of the first sheaf of paper, then I hold it up to the daycrystals above so I can see both overlaid on top of each other.


    They are more or less the same. I have altered only a dozen or so runes, and of these only a few of these are so different that they can be called new.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Cold fear grasps me. Vanerak will not be pleased when he sees this poem. He will be angry¡ªI can hear his voice already, criticizing my foolishness for lying to him¡ªhe will think I am hiding my power again¡ªI can see Guthah in chains¡ªPellas'' corpse laid out to taunt him¡ªI can see Helzar''s barbed spear¡ªit is bloody¡ª


    In a fit of terror I tear the paper in half, and half again, and then I tear the other sheets apart also. I crush the torn paper together, thrust it into the furnace, and switch on the flow of magma. The paper flashes into flames and curling dark ash.


    I stumble back and lean against the anvil. A blur of images of torture is rampaging through my mind''s eye.


    I cannot allow what I''m seeing to come to pass. I will make the whole poem in my trance. I will put enough power into it that my impulses take over. That''s the answer to my dilemma¡ªeither Guthah suffers or a seventh degree I do not know must suffer, so I choose the dwarf I do not know.


    I gather my materials¡ªplatinum and quizik. They are calmer than gold and incandesite, and might offset whatever horrors appear in my work. Violently I grind the quizik up, thinking all the while about what this saga is to be about. An idea soon comes: a dwarf trapped under the heat, on the verge of death, desperately sucking in life from above, on the verge of burning. Breathing is a battle for him. Just staying alive is a terrible effort.


    I construct the story in such a way that I must create new runes for it. Heat-devours-life, life-burned, life-crushed, flesh-scorched: runes that combine two words. Their runic flows will be restrictive, and so I cannot plan the poem in any detail. I must compose while in the midst of my trance, similar to how I wrote the poems on my cold skull-helm.


    Once the quizik is fine enough to use, I step back from the mortar and pestle on the anvil. I crack my knuckles and flex my fingers. I shut my eyes and wait for the heat to come.


    This time it pours over me eagerly. It consumes me. The sphere behind me feels close, and its power feels close also. Is this because of my violent intentions? Do they attract it somehow?


    Vanerak is waiting for the runes. I can''t waste time worrying about things I have no knowledge of. I decide on the first word¡ªdway, same as on my last attempt. Then I put a topic marker, then I will have a combined verb, suffer-from-heat. The dwarf is under pressure, terrible pressure. I create the rune while I focus on remembering pain, remembering sweat bursting on my skin, of the air in my mouth being too hot to draw down into my throat and lungs. Something harsh is being born¡ªI pull more power into it.


    The rune I make is twisted. I move onto the next few, and they come almost as I think them. Are my hands moving in the forge? Maybe. I reach another set of words I want to combine into one rune, and my power burns more brilliantly. I struggle to keep it under control. My focus on my poem fades a touch, yet still the runes are coming: my composition proceeds.


    The compound words restrict the runic flow, and I am forced to bend the lines in directions I did not originally mean to take. A skin of life comes to being around the dwarf. The magma pressures it, burning it away, and the dwarf must suck in more life to replenish it.


    Everything is described in exacting detail. It must be, if I''m to have enough runes to travel all the way up the cable. To repeat words is unsightly, and so I must rack the very recesses of my mind to find new adjectives. Many have little to do with heat¡ªso I combine them. Lambent becomes redly-lambent. Attenuated becomes attenuated-by-evaporation. Torrid becomes torrid-like-above-yellow-liquid-stone.


    The runes are unwieldy, terribly so. They are hard to fit into rhyming, alliterative, and runic-flow structure. I make them fit, though, through successive strokes of poetic genius. The worry that it may not entirely be my genius intrudes, but I force the thoughts away.


    Outside, I am fevered. I can feel this barely. Yet I can''t stop¡ªthe power is rushing through too hot and quick for me to shut it off easily. Grimly I continue the poem. The dwarf suffers terribly as successive waves of heat attempt to evaporate his life force. Each breath is a strain. He wishes to give up, to let the magma burn him into nothingness where there is no pain¡ªa rune for nachroktey emerges. The connotation I put into it is that something burned can feel nothing, is nothing.


    At last, the dwarf survives. He sucks in enough heat-lacking air that he is saved. With terrible effort, I shut the power away¡ªmy ruby turns frigid with power. The magma pulls away and I am bent double over the anvil, drenched in sweat.


    The poem is upon it, writ in gleaming cold platinum. It is too long to fit, so the first half of the runes lie on the floor beside it.


    I''ll have to reorder them. But the making of them is over.


    ¡°I am ready for a break,¡± I tell Nazak. ¡°I will return to my quarters.¡±


    Once there, I take a long draught of water then fall asleep immediately. When I wake I have a vague memory of my dreams, of being trapped in molten stone, but these memories soon fade.


    My body remains fevered. There is water in a flagon on my table, and I drink deeply. It does little to alleviate my fatigue. I will not enrune yet¡ªI will just make mistakes if I try.


    I attempt to memorize some runes from the books, yet my mind clouds over and I fall asleep in my chair.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 48: The Cable Completed

    It takes about a full long-hour for me to recover from my runeforging, but eventually I feel ready to tackle the rest of the craft.


    First, the metal rectangles must be bent and forged into cylinders. I hammer them directly around the cable, then equip my runic ears and tap each as many times as it takes until the metal rings true and even. Next I heat each to blazing white and tap the edges together to weld. After this, they must be evened out again slightly.


    The inferiority of this metal is obscenely obvious to me. It doesn''t ring clearly, and when I tap it, its response is weak. It doesn''t feel awake and alive. It feels inert.


    Could the secret to true metal just be this¡ªthat it must be worked over and over, and made alive that way? Yet this does not solve the riddle Braztak set me.


    Metal segments ready, it''s time to start the grafting. I''m glad I decided to use quizik: its stickiness will make it a lot easier to work with than incandesite on this craft.


    Once I reorder the poem''s scattered runes, I use a pair of tweezers to gently press each into the quizik dust. I hold each one up to the daycrystals in the ceiling, and brush off any excess dust with my finger. Then I bend it around the metal segment it''s to be grafted to. I arrange them in tight spirals, and making each curve of each spiral exactly even proves to be the greatest challenge of this stage. Many readjustments are needed.


    Onto the next stage: segment by segment I set the lines ablaze. Gray light illuminates the forge brightly. It looks a little different to the light I saw when using quizik in the fort, and also to that I saw on the occasions I used it in Allabrast; this quizik is a fair bit purer that what I could afford back then.


    It has taken me many sessions, but I have finally managed to arrange and graft the runes perfectly. The segments glow with power. Now they must be attached to the cable. I will use quizik to bind them¡ªI have to, for the runic power to penetrate the cable, which is what the runes are to act on.


    I measure out an exact quantity of quizik dust and brush it around one the end of the hollow cable. I push the first segment on, touch a white-hot solder to it. Half of it flares into heat, but I haven''t put on enough quizik¡ªthe whole thing should have glowed. I curse heavily and light it from the other side as well. It burns nearly to the mid-point, but not quite.


    I dash the hot solder onto the floor and curse foully. Now I''m going to have to pull this section off and remake it.


    ¡°Stop!¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°What?¡± I snap at him. ¡°I''ve ruined it. I need to start again. The metal is scarred and insulted.¡±


    ¡°It''ll make little difference. The metal of the cable will also be insulted if you pull that section off¡ªare you going to make us purchase another one?¡±


    ¡°Why not? You have the money.¡±


    ¡°Do not presume to tell us how to use our resources.¡±


    ¡°I apologize profusely, honored runeknight Nazak. Nevertheless¡ª¡±


    ¡°Drill a small hole in the segment and solder from within. That should light it.¡±


    ¡°But that would cause terrible damage!¡±


    ¡°It takes a team of expert metalworkers several dozen long-hours to create one of these cables. We can''t throw it away. Make the best of it.¡±


    ¡°That is the way lower degree runeknights think!¡± I protest. ¡°How can you approve?¡±


    ¡°This craft is for a lower degree runeknight. It will still be better than the rest of their armor. Continue!¡±


    His words are un-dwarvish. They make me sick¡ªthey insult everything a runeknight stands for. To ask a runeknight of fourth degree to make something of seventh degree quality! It is an outrage, and I cannot fathom why he asks me.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Carefully I drill a small hole in the segment. Each turn of the drill makes me feel a little more ill. Why ask me to injure this craft, after he''s mocked me so harshly before for the same?


    After my anger calms a little, I think of a possible reason why: perhaps supplies have become scarce. They cannot afford waste. Vanerak may be a Runethane, he may have given me more riches than I have ever dreamed of having, but his resources are not unlimited. They may even be desperately low. All his efforts down here are focused on retrieving the shards in the magma sea. He has no gold mines, I do not think, nor mines for any other precious metal.


    Runeking Ulrike is likely paying him for his efforts. But it is not enough. And with no clear results, the flow of gold sent his way will not increase. It may even diminish.


    I nearly laugh¡ªso I am not the only one under terrible pressure from above. Except Vanerak diverts this pressure onto his subordinates. He does not have to suffer under the magma sea himself.


    After the quizik lights, I create a small plug of tungsten and push it into the hole. I solder it shut, being careful not to damage the runes nearby it. Then I continue to the next segments, being careful this time to make sure the coating of quizik for each is thick and evenly spread.


    It takes me two sessions to complete. The whole cable has an aura of power about it now, albeit one far less strong than that of my armor. The inferiority of the metal detracts from the runes a great deal, especially at the breathing end where the binding of the segment is weakest. Vanerak will not be pleased at this, I fear.


    Could Nazak be plotting for me to feel his rage? Is that why he encouraged me to ruin this craft? Maybe there is no scarcity of resources after all.


    No. For all his cruelty, he still seems frustrated at the deaths of his runeknights. He would not encourage me to damage a craft for one unless he had good reason, and the only dwarf that can put such pressure on a first degree is a Runethane.


    At least for the flotation end I will be able to use properly treated tungsten. I sketch and calculate the dimensions of the shield-form I am to create, then get myself a tungsten ingot from the storage chamber. It''s fairly large, and I struggle to carry it to the furnace. It takes a long while to heat to the core¡ªbut I am sure it is heated to the core. I can well comprehend the light of tungsten now.


    I hammer it out with violent, bludgeoning strokes. The near-molten metal bends to my will, flattening out. Each stroke is carefully aimed, and as the hours pass, a circle slowly comes into being. I replace the large hammer with a smaller one. My strokes remain harsh, but they do not shape the metal so drastically.


    Once the tungsten is a near-perfect circle about three-quarters of a yard in diameter, I slice a long cut from its center to the edge. I wait for it to cool, then set it upright in the vise. I hammer to create an overlap, to turn the circle into a shallow cone. Then I place it into the furnace¡ªit only just fits¡ªand heat it to blinding white once more.


    I hammer to transform the shallow cone into a shallow bowl. It is long and difficult work. The metal where the overlap is, is twice as thick, and must be beaten flat in such a way that the structure is not disturbed. For very many short-hours the forge rings with the blows of this process. White sparks dance in my eyes, and when I equip my runic ears I hear them burning minute disruptions through the air.


    I make no errors. My disgust at how I was forced to use improperly worked metal for the rest of my craft drives me to do this part perfectly. This tungsten has been respected. It is strong¡ªI can feel this. There are no unevenesses, no rough edges left by a metalworker''s file. It is the work of a runeknight.


    Finally, I cut a small hole in the center for the air. Now for the poem. I let the trance take me, let the magma cover me, let the sphere emanate its power over me. It pulls up heat from the world''s blood and thrusts it through me. With it I compose a poem of life corrupted by poison being purified and drawn down to where it is needed.


    The life in it, of course, is the warmth of life. It takes a lot of clever use of metaphor to give it the meaning of air without actually using any words for air¡ªmy script only mentions air indirectly¡ªall through my last poem I never mentioned it directly. Like cold, air has nothing to do with magma. It does not fit.


    And the purification in this poem is rendered as the burning of toxins to inert ash.


    I push my power to its limits. When I emerge from my trance, I am red and sweating. My hands are shaking and my fingertips are bloody from where I''ve cut myself with the clippers. The blood is already dry, though. The trance took a while.


    After a long rest in my quarters, I graft the runes, then I attach the cable, also using quizik. I sense a disturbance over the top of the inverted shield, and wave my hand over it. The air is a little thinner. I don''t know if this is meant to happen, but in any case, my craft is done.


    I feel very little pride in it. It is sixth, or maybe fifth degree quality at best. The worst craft I''ve made for a while.


    ¡°Done,¡± I say to Nazak, bitterly.


    ¡°Good. Finally. I will have our Runethane called on.¡±


    ¡°He will be displeased by the metalwork.¡±


    ¡°He only cares for the runes.¡±


    ¡°They are not properly made¡ªbeing crafted onto such poor metal means he will have no clear way to copy them.¡±


    ¡°He will have clear enough a way! And then the expeditions can proceed with one more dwarf than would otherwise be able to come. That is his priority.¡±


    ¡°Very well, honored runeknight. We will see.¡±


    ¡°You will, traitor.¡±


    I sit down against the wall, feeling bitter hatred for him, and Vanerak, and every last member of that inner circle.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 49: Spear and Stone

    A guard leaves. An hour later he returns with Vanerak. The light of the daycrystals bends on his mirror-mask. I look up into it, and fear is clear to see on my warped and darkened face. Quickly I stand up and bow low.


    ¡°Greetings, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger,¡± he replies in his usual cold tone that belies nothing of what he is thinking or feeling.


    ¡°I have completed the craft I was set to make¡ªa cable for air,¡± I hurry to say. ¡°The poem is acceptable, but I must make apologies for the metalwork. I was given pre-cut, pre-prepared pieces, and ordered to forge with them without taking the time to honor them properly.¡±


    ¡°Yes. More runeknights are needed quickly for the expeditions. You will be given the time to make your own cable later, before you journey into the magma again.¡±


    For a moment I am shocked silent. I expected rage¡ªbut it seems that Nazak was telling the truth.


    ¡°I thank you most greatly, my Runethane! You are forgiving.¡±


    ¡°I will now examine the runes.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    I scramble to gather up the cable and hand it to him. He examines it segment by segment, starting with the breathing end. As always, I cannot tell if he is pleased or displeased. He stops on some segments and only briefly glances over others. He spends a long time on the flotation section¡ªI hope this is a good sign.


    ¡°You have managed well, considering the poor metal,¡± he eventually says.


    ¡°I thank you most greatly, my Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Though I do think that this poem can be pushed still further.¡±


    My heart sinks into my guts.


    ¡°This is not the time for that, however. Record the runes on paper with their meanings¡ªI would get an exact understanding of them this time. And later, do the same for your armor. We are confident everything was deciphered correctly, but I wish to make sure of this.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°After this your cable will be taken to be tested with the others. We will see how it fares against the heat, and how well it takes in air also. You may have to alter it¡ªmost runeknights have to alter their first cables.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°That is all. Continue work on your weapon¡ªthough I am to believe you have started on your heat-mask first.¡±


    ¡°That is correct, my Runethane.¡±


    My skin prickles with fear. Is he angry about this?


    ¡°Both are necessary crafts. Our vision under the magma should be improved also. Continue as you see fit.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane!¡±


    And with that, he leaves. A giddy rush of relief overwhelms me; my knees buckle and I crumple to a seated position. He was not angry. He did not chastise me in any way. I cannot help but smile. He was not angry with me!


    <hr>


    Ninth degree is not high enough¡ªit is little better than tenth. Eighth is not high enough either¡ªit is little better than ninth. Seventh is his goal. A seventh degree runeknight can take care of himself, and of others. He can fight beasts that would tear apart a tenth degree with ease. And he has a chance, a small chance, but a chance nonetheless, of doing real damage to a runeknight a few degrees above him. A seventh degree''s weapon could not pierce fourth degree plate, but if struck into the gaps, it may penetrate. There is a chance.


    Guthah brings the hammer down with accuracy. He used to think shaping steel was about force, but this was foolishness. Force alone can accomplish nothing. Accuracy is what is most needed. He witnessed this on the dragonhunt¡ªXomhyrk''s accuracy was what brought the beast low, in the end, striking into half-healed wounds. He could see that much, at least, from the smoke-filled crack he was blown into.


    The yellow-hot steel bends in accordance with his will. Blow after blow elongates it. He changes the angle of his strikes now, turning it into a wedge with an extrusion at the base which will become the cap where the long shaft, already forged, is to be joined.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    The shape of the craft sickens him. It is similar in form to his instructor''s spear, that black thing he wielded when he brought the dragon down upon his own city. It reminds him of his instructor''s arrogance also¡ªwith that weapon he leaped from tenth to fifth degree¡ªan impossible feat, for any ordinary dwarf.


    But Zathar is not an ordinary dwarf. He is one of those marked for greatness. Like Vanerak, he is blessed with an extraordinary capability for callousness and deceit. He will make a promise only to break it in the next instant if it means his own survival. How else could Pellas'' death be explained? And she is dead¡ªlost in the magma seas, so goes the story, but Guthah has heard rumors that Zathar has been punished, confined to his quarters.


    He attempted to outsmart a Runethane, knowing full well the consequences such an action would bring¡ªupon Guthah and Pellas, that is, as well as the two dragonslayers. Not on himself. He is taking maximum advantage of his immunity.


    The steel wedge becomes sharper, thinner. He lets it cool, then with a smaller hammer begins to sharpen the edge further. Back in Allabrast he would have ground the edge sharp, but now he knows that is no way to treat metal. He must respect the steel¡ªand it will respond to him in kind, and give him the power he needs to pierce.


    <hr>


    Over the six hundred or so long-hours that the plundering of the magma sea has been continuing for, Runethane Vanerak''s dwarves have retrieved many tens of thousands of shards. Of these, a few are the size of doors, inscribed in detail with twisted runes or grand pictorials. A hundred or so are the size of breastplates, and have full poems¡ªor what are probably poems, at least¡ªupon them, or else large parts of pictorials.


    These best finds are kept in Runethane Vanerak''s palace, in a gallery, for the Runethane himself and his elites to pore over.


    The vast majority of the shards recovered so far, however, have been fragments. These have only a few runes on them each, too few for any pattern to be deciphered from them, or lines from a picture that give no hint toward what the full representation is. Some are so small that they have only half a rune upon them, or a quarter.


    At first they were laid out inside the large, flat-floored cave the three masons have just entered. Soon they became so numerous that they coated the entire floor, and so the decision was made to stack them into piles according to type. The rough piles became sorted into tall iron cases, labeled according to category. Papers scribbled tightly with runes have been glued securely to every case in this maze of them that the three masons now enter.


    They are not meant to be here¡ªentry to the hall of shards is for runeknights only. But Runethane Vanerak believes that there is little knowledge to be gained here, and he has diverted his dwarfpower elsewhere, to the magma sea, or to the caverns above, still infested with venomous bats and all manner of salamanders. It is poorly guarded. A thrown rock¡ªsuch an obvious trick!¡ªwas all it took to divert the tenth degree guards'' attention long enough for the masons to slip past.


    They vanish into the maze of cases. The Master Mason has given them strict instructions on what to take: any shard that shows a dwarf. It is the actions of the dwarves on the shards that are the key to the mystery. The runeknights are blinded by the runes and do not see the truth in front of them.


    One of their number, a failed initiate, can read basic runes. He points out a promising case and the other two get to work. Diamond-tipped chisels can break locks as well as rocks; the iron comes apart. A rune sparks and cracks.


    The senior of the three pulls out one of the interior racks, very slowly. They do not want to make any more noise than necessary in this quiet cavern. From the rack he draws out a circular shard about as the size of his palm. Upon it is half a dwarf''s face, bearded mouth opened wide with tongue and teeth visible in detail.


    ¡°Excellent find,¡± whispers the middle-ranked mason. ¡°The Master will be well-pleased.¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡±


    The senior mason draws out several more shards. The middle one takes them carefully from him and places them into a fur-lined bag. Felt goes between the shards to prevent them clanking against each other.


    The senior mason closes the case quietly. They move on to another promising one. They break open, steal, close. They repeat this two more times until their bag is full to bursting.


    It is now time to leave. They sneak through the cases to one of the exits, guarded by two lower-ranking runeknights. The senior mason nods to the junior, who squeezes himself between two cases to make it to the next corridor. He leans against a lighter, newer case, while the senior mason draws out and clasps a perfectly round ball of stone.


    ¡°Now,¡± he whispers.


    The junior mason heaves, throwing all his weight against the case. It topples over with a crash that shatters the silence. The two runeknights shout in panic. One rushes to the trembling toppled case while the other stays put.


    The senior mason''s ball of rock hits the one still at the exit squarely in the forehead, denting his helmet with a dull clang. The runeknight topples over, stunned or dead. The three masons dash over his prostrate body and vanish into the tunnels. They know them well, can know the rocky path than just their eyes. So long working with rock has given them an uncannily accurate cave-sense.


    ¡°Arrogant fools,¡± croaks the white-bearded Master Mason, after the senior mason has finished recounting this tale. ¡°Stone cannot beat metal, they say. You see how they are wrong.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. We saw this when many of them perished from ravaging the ceiling also.¡±


    ¡°That crime was paid for in full, yes.¡±


    The Master Mason does not take his eyes off the first shard while they talk. He is fixed to it.


    ¡°Well?¡± says the junior mason eagerly. ¡°Is the secret knowledge revealed?¡±


    ¡°Rock does not reveal its secrets so fast. But I believe that my speculations are all but confirmed.¡±


    ¡°Tell us more, Master. Please.¡±


    ¡°I will tell you more when I have understood more.¡± He breaks his gaze from the shard to look up at them. ¡°Leave, now. Get back to your jobs.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane pushes us,¡± says the middle-ranking mason. ¡°He wishes us to damage the stone like common miners.¡±


    ¡°Take care that you do not, then.¡± The Master Mason scowls. He age-reddened eyes narrow. ¡°Have patience. Miners and masters of miners, they will all be shown sense in some hour.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 50: True Patience

    It is Halax who is set to watch me as I begin work on the rubies. As always, his stare is unnerving. He is examining every strike of my chisel, the angles of my sawing, how I sand, how I polish. He sees the diagram I have made of the shape my rubies must become, and is comparing its every line to the garnet I am now cutting for my practice.


    My first few attempts fail. I felt I had a small talent for gemcutting, before my confinement, but it seems to have atrophied in the darkness. The gems will not come into the shapes I need them to be. Am I missing out some crucial step of the process? I don''t think so¡ªGuthah, back then, said to chisel, cut, sand, and polish. These I am doing.


    What does he think of me, now his beloved is gone? He will have guessed the reason for her death¡ªhe will not have bought the lie that she perished in the magma sea. Tenth degrees are not sent to the magma sea, in any case.


    Cutting gems reminds me of him, of the fact that he is above me somewhere, probably hating me, certainly resenting my living while Pellas is dead.


    This is the reason my work goes poorly. I am distracted.


    After a long-hour, though, my distraction fades. Fear focuses me. Vanerak said he did not mind me working on the heat-mask instead of the weapon¡ªbut I could not tell the emotion behind his words. If there was impatience, it was hidden. There may well have been impatience. I cannot let myself lose focus¡ªfor Guthah''s sake. He may hate me, but I still have a duty to make sure he does not meet the same fate as Pellas.


    Or, as Vanerak promised me, an even worse fate.


    My eyes start to see more, judge the angles better. My fingers become more steady and my hand becomes as used to the saw and polishing cloth as it is to the hammer. My mistakes become less and less severe, until they become invisible. Maybe a better runeknight could feel an off-angle on my final two garnets, but they meet my standard, even when I test the shape of their sound using my runic ears. In the blackness, their music is clear.


    Two gems as perfect as I can tell in a row: now my practice is over and it is time to cut the rubies. I take one and hold it up to the daycrystals. The light that comes through is the color of blood. I smell blood too. The gem reminds me so strongly of the fights my ruby amulet has led me into that I am almost returned to the battlefield. I see Faltast''s blood spill from Gutspiercer''s buried point, down over his armor, and down into the snow.


    Vanerak will be displeased if I ruin a gem as precious as this ruby. I focus, place it in the vise, strike with my chisel. A tiny dot of red flies into the recesses of the forge. It''s smaller than I had aimed for. I knew ruby was a fair bit harder than garnet, but wasn''t quite prepared for how much.


    This turns out to make my task a little easier, for even if I misjudge a strike slightly, its effect is not as harsh as it would be on a softer stone. The ruby comes into rough shape. I ready my diamond blade and run it against the surface. It bites true toward the end of the stroke. I push lightly, draw back hard. Red dust creates a short-lived haze around the vise. I breath some in¡ªI have heard that the dust of rubies makes your blood more vital.


    I deepen my focus. There are only fifteen rubies in the storage chamber. If I ruin just four, I will have to beg for more, and Vanerak will judge my failure. I cannot let this happen. He might torture Guthah, might do anything. I draw the diamond saw back more slowly. I take account of each and every tooth as it bites the red.


    After several minutes, a tiny sliver of the gem falls away. It is less than a millimeter across. I touch my finger to the newly-cut facet, and nod. It is flat. I place the saw against its edge, angle carefully, and draw slowly, with just enough pressure. The teeth bite in. I draw back, even more slowly, in tenth-millimeter increments, near the limit of my vision.


    I put in a fraction too much strength and the facet is ruined. I yell a curse and only just restrain myself from dashing my saw against the floor.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°You are cutting too hastily,¡± Halax remarks. ¡°A tenth millimeter a minute is the fastest I would ever cut at. A tenth millimeter per short-hour is better.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane wants his runes,¡± I hiss through my teeth.


    ¡°The Runethane has more on his mind than simply your runes, Runeforger. He is fighting a war and running a realm, and he has his own crafts to work on also. He will accept your patience. When he cuts a gem, he spends an entire long-hour on each facet.¡±


    I am so angry at my failure that I nearly spit back a violent retort, then I recall his strength as he held me against the wall while Pellas was maimed then killed.


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight. You are correct that I was too hasty. I shall strive to have more patience on my next attempt.¡±


    He nods solemnly. ¡°That is good to hear. A true runeknight will spend as many hours as he has food and liquid to last for on his craft. The best will go beyond that, and craft even once they are beyond the brink of starving and thirsting. You have proved yourself to be one of these latter in your past forgings. You will be able to perfect the twelve gems you have set yourself. I am sure of this.¡±


    ¡°Your praise is most great, honored runeknight.¡±


    And despite myself, I do feel somewhat encouraged and uplifted by his words. These feelings mix with the deep fear and hatred in my gut.


    Whatever my emotions, his logic is sound. In the following session, I redouble the care I take when cutting the next ruby. It is excruciating at first; my fingers know they could move faster, yet I do not let them rush ahead. I restrain them. And, eventually, at some point in time that I do not notice, they stop attempting to speed the cutting. Time fades. What does it matter how much has elapsed, so long as the facet is flat?


    My concentration holds until the last facet is done, then snaps. I place my saw on the anvil and stagger back a few steps. I look up at Halax in panic:


    ¡°How long have I been here? How long?¡±


    ¡°On this gem? Or on this particular session?¡±


    ¡°The gem.¡±


    ¡°Including your breaks, approximately two long-hours.¡±


    ¡°Not so long.¡±


    ¡°Not so short, either. Your perspective has improved. You have become more worthy of your rank as a fourth degree runeknight. True patience is what will bring you to third degree and beyond.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    ¡°You are most welcome, Runeforger.¡±


    I only barely remember taking breaks. How long did they last? They seem to be but a few moments in my memory. For several hundred long-hours I lived in the fort against the deep darkness, yet I never truly understood their perception of time. I feel that I have just taken one step closer to an understanding¡ªand a step closer to understanding the most senior runeknights also.


    Time in the forge is not the same as time outside of it. How might the most accomplished dwarves perceive it? I was offended at Runeking Ulrike''s dismissal of my runes as unimportant¡ªbut my talk with him was but a minuscule gap in his great forging. It is a wonder he paid any attention to me at all.


    I listen to the ruby and its brief song is pure, though a little muffled by the saw-marks cleft into it. Now to sand, and I do this with as much care as I put into cutting its facets. To ruin the gem by over-roughening an edge would not be acceptable. Speed is irrelevant to this task, anyway. I am not striking with a hammer, where massive force born from acceleration is needed. Friction is what I am using, and it can be applied relatively slowly.


    Once this stage is complete, I equip my runic ears and listen to the gem once more. The muffling is nearly gone. Now to polish¡ªagain with slow care. I chime at intervals, and each time the sound of the tap is closer to perfection, yet has not quite reached it.


    How long until I stop? I do not know. Time vanishes from the forge. There is only the sound of faint scratching, and the occasional tap-chime that is not perfect.


    My patience is limitless¡ªbut the quality of my polishing cloth is not. It can only make the ruby so smooth.


    ¡°Honored runeknight Halax, is there no cloth with a finer grain? If there is, I must have it.¡±


    He shakes his head sadly. ¡°There is not, runeforger. The cloth you hold is of the same quality mine own is. And the ruby you hold has facets as smooth as those of the ones on my heat-mask.¡±


    ¡°That cannot be true.¡±


    ¡°It is, Runeforger. Though, the facets are less even, and the cut of the gem less complex. Still, in one aspect of the process you have equaled me, a first degree.¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Yet it could be smoother.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But I am not privy to the secret of how to accomplish that. Maybe even our Runethane does not know¡ªthough our Runeking does. It is said that he grew his crystal Eyes, and that they are thus flawless both inside and upon their surfaces.¡±


    ¡°I have heard that too.¡±


    ¡°Yet even he works eternally to improve. There is always imperfection in our crafts. If there ever ceases to be flaws, then we are Runegods.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight Halax.¡±


    ¡°You have spent nearly five long-hours on this single ruby, if you desire to know the time. You have eleven more rubies to shape now.¡±


    ¡°I will get started.¡±


    But first, I will have a break. My belly and throat cannot ignore the passage of time, even if my mind can, and my fingers are trembling.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 51: Runic Helix

    To enrune a gem, you must carve with precision that goes beyond ordinary skill. The runes to go on these twelve rubies, which I have spent nearly fifty long-hours perfecting, are to be even smaller than those on my amulet. I must scratch with ultimate care¡ªunless, that is, I surrender my will to the sphere, or whatever is in the sphere, and enrune in my trance.


    I do not know what it is that takes over when I am solely focused on keeping the power of the world''s blood from incinerating me. Something knowledgeable. Something skilled.


    The first Runeforger, perhaps? Trapped inside the sphere?


    I take up my engraving chisel¡ªits tip is minuscule¡ªand hold it before the first ruby. My poem is written out on sheets of paper on my anvil. It is complex, though has little creativity. There is a specific formula that must be used to turn your vision to heat, and if the runic flow is incorrect your eyes will boil from the inside as soon as you equip the craft. Several runeknights suffered that awful fate before it was decided that only the higher degrees should be allowed to construct them.


    And now my power will force me to deviate from the formula. I grit my teeth. I could lose my eyes from this craft. But Vanerak will see immediately if I have not pushed my power to its limits, and I will not be responsible for another dwarf''s torture and death.


    ¡°I am expecting to see fascinating things,¡± says Halax, from behind his barred window. ¡°I wish you the best luck.¡±


    I nod. The other guards are staring at me from behind their windows too. What are they thinking? Are those glimmers of hope I see in their eyes? They have lost too many to the demons¡ªthere are only five here watching me this session, instead of the usual ten.


    The magma heat comes around me as I shut my eyes. The feeling of the chisel in my palm fades away. I sense a presence behind me¡ªthe sphere. It is heavy, huge. Much bigger than a dwarf, I think now. I will have to tell Vanerak this¡ªthough the knowledge could lead to my death.


    With effort, I turn my thoughts away from Vanerak and the nature of my power, and concentrate on the poem I have memorized. It begins from the leftmost ruby, spirals down its tungsten rod, has another stanza on the metal plate, then moves up the next rod to the second ruby. It then spirals down again, forming a dual-helix with the stanza going up. This flow repeats for every rod and ruby, then to finish are a few more long lines around the edge of the plate in an inward spiral.


    The key to the runic flow is the crossing helix down the rods. Each place the lines cross, one rune is used in both. The amount of power these dual-use runes produce must equalize both lines'' power, or vision will not be converted correctly to heat-sense. The mathematics Halax researched to get this effect was advanced, and though he has explained it in great detail, I still feel that my understanding is a surface level one. I eventually managed to copy what he did when I composed my poem, but it me took nearly a dozen failed drafts.


    And now my power is going to change it all¡ªbut Guthah is more important than my vision. Hayhek also. It is for them I do this.


    I ready to pull the poem through myself. Power wells up from below; the sphere takes it and directs it at me, bathes me in it¡ªthis process is clear to me now that I have experienced it so many times. The heat around me increases, and I pull more power in until it is on the edge of unbearability.


    Only then do I take the first rune into me. It twists in the heat. Its runic flow alters. It was one of the weaker runes of my script, uil, meaning dim light, but the connotation I put into it now is of light suppressed under the heavy magma, with nowhere to go.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    I do not know if this decision I just made was my own. Certainly, I have no vision for how the poem can be improved. All I am aiming to do is make my runes stronger.


    The next rune comes, and the next. In the tale, trapped light becomes trapped heat which shifts and creates shapes. Down the rod the line flows, and the stanza around its base describes the pattern made. The next line spirals up the second rod.


    Its rhythm is strict. There is no room for improvisation¡ªyet my power is changing the flow. I am struggling to hold in the heat, my mind is consumed by fiery pain, yet even so on the edge of my awareness I can sense something going wrong. I reach the runes that are to go onto the second ruby, and I feel that they do not quite fit the facets. There is something irregular here. Some are being bent around the edges.


    I recall Wharoth''s amulet, with runes spiraling into it, and Xomhyrk''s spear had runes within it too. Am I trying to accomplish this? I do not know how.


    Down the rod the next line goes, telling of circles of light turning to heat. It crosses the line going the way up. The runic flow, I think, is going in directions that it should not. I try to calculate, lose grip on the heat and it burns me. A fever breaks on my body. My skin is going red. I am sure it is.


    I bring the heat back under control and continue to pull through the runes. They alter in ways I cannot quite grasp. New clusters of meaning are born, though I cannot quite tell what the meanings are.


    My poem is falling out of my control. This craft is going to burn my eyes out¡ªbut Vanerak must have his runes! I let my grip on the heat loosen a little. I will just have to trust my power; my runic ears turned out all right, did they not? They did not injure me. This heat mask will be the same. My eyes will be unharmed. Their scars will not expand to devour every last spark of light.


    Up, down, around and around my lines flow. A vague sense of their geometry is all I can see. My fingers are a blur in the forge as they twist the metal, I think. Surely they are bleeding profusely. Maybe I have abused them with the point of my chisel also.


    I am losing control. Within the sphere, the three shadows wave and shiver, as if the substance they are cast through ripples like a still pool disturbed.


    But I must continue. The heat tries to destroy me, but I do not let it. I keep it contained, and as I reach the final few lines, I force it to retreat. My mental strength reaches breaking point, but at the last rune I finally shut the power away completely. The sphere and magma vanish.


    I am standing over the anvil, and continue to do so for a few moments, then I collapse. A bucket of water is thrown over me. The burning of my skin barely lessens. I breath in, and it is like I am inhaling fire, then when I exhale I cough and spit blood onto the side of the anvil. It runs down, drying and turning black as it goes. The drops do not quite reach the stone floor.


    ¡°He requires healing chains,¡± says Halax.


    My leather overalls are cut away and cold chains wrapped around me. My vision is going dark red at the edges, and the scars in it seem to be growing, but as the chains'' cold penetrates through me, this slows and stops. My skin cools and the air I breath no longer tastes like fire.


    Halax approaches me. ¡°Are you seriously injured?¡± he asks.


    I shake my head. ¡°Just somewhat,¡± I manage to rasp.


    ¡°Your poem seems an interesting one. I do not know if our Runethane will allow you to equip the mask, once you''ve set in the rubies.¡±


    ¡°I will equip it!¡± I hiss, then cough blood. ¡°I won''t be responsible for another dwarf''s eyes boiling from the inside.¡±


    ¡°It will be a miner, most likely. Not a runeknight.¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t matter!¡±


    ¡°You do not think so?¡± He sounds a little surprised. ¡°In any case, it is not your decision to make, nor mine, but our Runethane''s. Now, are you well enough to set the rubies in?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I rasp. ¡°I''ll do it now.¡±


    ¡°Good. It may be undwarven of me, but I am impatient to see the final effect.¡±


    ¡°I will try not to disappoint.¡±


    I grasp the anvil with my sweat-glistening fingers and pull myself to my feet. I lean on the metal. Upon the mask the runes are grafted, and upon the rubies they are carved, deeply, into facet and edge. Very deeply.


    ¡°I will call down our Runethane,¡± says Halax. ¡°And I will have a miner brought here also.¡±


    ¡°Very well, honored runeknight Halax,¡± I rasp.


    I pick up one of the rubies. I must complete the craft before Vanerak gets here, or I will end up being responsible for the torture of yet another.


    I will equip this craft myself!

 Beyond the Magma Shore 52: Complicit

    If I do not attach the rubies correctly, my craft will be ruined and Vanerak will be enraged. If I do not attach them fast enough, when Vanerak arrives he will have me dragged from it as soon as I complete it, and another dwarf will be maimed in my stead.


    A small and exact circle must be melted into the center of the tip of the first rod. I hurry to grab a heating rod that can accomplish this¡ªI rattle through the contents of the drawer. One looks small enough, nearly a spike rather than a rod¡ªbut I don''t have time to measure it. I have no way of knowing how close Vanerak is. He could be in his forge¡ªwhich I suspect lies beyond the circular door on the way to this one. He could be in his palace, also not too far from here.


    I heat the spike to beyond white heat; I feel that it is glowing in a color invisible to dwarven eyes. Carefully I aim. My hand is trembling, and with it the tip trembles over the slight indentation at the top of the tungsten rod. I must melt with exact precision, for the runes on the metal are platinum grafted with incandesite. If I touch to the wrong place the reagent could catch light and blast apart.


    I tense my muscles in an attempt to stop the trembling, but it only increases. I try to relax totally, but this does nothing to stop the trembling either. I adjust the healing chains wrapped around my chest, and I try to press the ruby deeper into my skin, but I am not a troll. No amount of magic is going to bring me back to health in a matter of minutes.


    So I focus on the rhythm of my trembling. I try to understand it, predict it. The tip of the heating spike is moving back and forth like a pendulum, a slightly irregular one, but if I time it right¡ªI lance down¡ªI jab in the exact center. White blooms in the tungsten. I take up the gem¡ªI must time this as well¡ªit shivers back and forth like it is afraid to be dipped into the molten pool, like it is wriggling¡ªI push it in.


    It''s in correctly. I exhale slowly. Eleven more to go and no time to pause. Once more I heat the spike in the magma furnace from white to beyond white. I hover it over the next rod, strike. White blooms correctly. I take up the next ruby, read the runes to make sure it''s the right one¡ªthey are not what I planned to create¡ªand push it in. My timing is correct again.


    I reheat the spike again and again. Ruby after ruby I slot in. The task gets easier as my fever slowly abates. Vanerak does not seem to be coming as quickly as I feared. Perhaps he is deep in the magma seas. Perhaps a demon will find its way past his mirror-mask and devour him from within.


    Yet I have no such luck. I am only on the tenth ruby when the door to the forge opens and he walks in, his mirror-mask reflecting the forge darkly.


    I push in the ruby then turn to him.


    ¡°Greetings, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger. I am told that your craft is nearly complete, and that it is most unique.¡±


    ¡°It is nearly complete, yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°And is it indeed unique?¡±


    ¡°It may be. I have not had the time to read the poem yet.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean to say that your power has twisted what was on those¡±¡ªhe points to the papers with the original version of my poem on them¡ª¡°beyond recognition?¡±


    ¡°Indeed yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°He has created something most fascinating,¡± Halax says. He came down at some point during my gem-setting, and now steps to stand beside me. ¡°The runic flow should spiral inwards, but he has made it so that it spirals outwards also in a perfect balance of tension. I am most curious to see the effect that this will have.¡±


    ¡°If the runic flows are as you researched, then it should not work at all,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Or is the principal behind your calculations more flexible than you thought?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps so. We will see, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°We shall. Step forward, miner,¡± orders Vanerak.


    From behind him steps a young miner. His beard is short, only barely reaching the center of his chest, and it is dark gray with rock-dust. His pallor is nearly blue, as if he is so afraid that he can hardly breath. He is wearing a foilsuit.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°He will equip your craft,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°To test. Unless you have included runes of self-reference, there should be no problem with this.¡±


    ¡°No, my Runethane,¡± I say, feeling very sick. "There should be no problem."


    ¡°Good. Now finish your craft, and we will see how well it works.¡±


    Very carefully, I set in the final two rubies. As the setting of the last cools, a glow of power intensifies around the heat mask, especially from its unruned underside, the focus of the runic power. When the miner equips it, all that power will blast straight into his eyes, then past his eyes into his very mind.


    ¡°It is done, my Runethane,¡± I say.


    ¡°Good. Now, we shall see if your craft is usable or not. Though even if it is not, I see that you have remade and created several runes. That is a success in itself.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Take up your craft and press it over the miner''s eyes. If he feels no pain in them, and can see the shape of the magma in the forge, then your craft is safe to use.¡±


    My muscles are locked still. I look at the miner and he looks as if he is about to vomit. Can I really do this to another dwarf? Vanerak is asking me to burn his eyes out! When I made the air cable, I made the choice to sacrifice a dwarf I did not know instead of risking harm to Guthah. Can I do the same now, when the dwarf to suffer stands right in front of me?


    I pick up the heat-mask. It is warm with power. I look into it and read the runes. The poem tells of what it is supposed to: heat becomes light, light becomes heat, heat becomes shapes and solid forms, and all this is repeated in many different phrasings. The runic flow is tense, though, far too tense: it is akin to a river trying to go both backwards and forwards simultaneously.


    ¡°What are you waiting for, Zathar Runeforger?¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You know better than to test my patience.¡±


    I take two quick steps forward to the miner. He makes to back away, but Vanerak extends his arm and the miner stumbles into it like it''s an iron bar. He staggers a step forward, and I push the heat-mask over his eyes. Vanerak grabs him by the back of the head to stop him turning away.


    My stomach roils. I nearly gag. I am assisting in torture. An image of Pellas'' final moment flashes before me, except this time it is not from my perspective, of one being held, but is from the perspective of one of the guards restraining Pellas as Helzar jabs her spear into her guts.


    But the miner shows no signs of agony. He is tensed, but is saying nothing.


    ¡°Do you feel any pain in your eyes?¡± Vanerak asks after a dozen slow seconds.


    ¡°...no, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Can you sense the heat of the magma forge?¡±


    ¡°...I think so, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Elaborate. Can you or can you not see it?¡±


    ¡°...I ...I can, my Runethane. I can see... sense something.¡±


    ¡°Describe it to us.¡±


    ¡°A shape like a circle. It''s changing slightly, like it''s flowing.¡±


    ¡°And can you sense anything around this circle?¡±


    ¡°No, my Runethane. Everything is blackness, or... I can''t...¡±


    ¡°You cannot what, miner?¡±


    ¡°I cannot describe what it is I can''t sense, my Runethane. I apologize most profusely.¡±


    He is shaking in terror. Vanerak holds his head in place for a few more long seconds, then lets go. I withdraw the mask. The miner blinks a few times as vision returns to him.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± I ask. ¡°Can you see?¡±


    ¡°...yes,¡± he says. ¡°I think so.¡±


    He looks around strangely. There is an odd look on his face. He looks up at the daycrystals, and a look of alarm comes onto his face.


    ¡°What is it, miner?¡± asks Halax. ¡°Is something the matter?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the miner says quickly. ¡°Nothing at all, honored runeknight!¡±


    But I am sure there is something the matter with him. His vision has changed in some way. I see what is about to happen¡ªsometimes the boiling inside the eyes is slow rather than immediate. Vanerak will have me put the heat-mask on him again, and then I will be forced to watch as the miner starts to squirm, and then he will scream, and steam will flow out from the mask, foul steam, and¡ª


    I will not allow this to happen. I will test the heat-mask myself. If I am injured by it, there will be no need to injure the miner further. Before Vanerak or Halax can stop me, I quickly push it over my eyes and turn to the magma furnace.


    For a moment I see only dark tungsten, then warmth flows into my eyes and my vision vanishes. Heat-sense replaces it, much the same as when I equipped Halax''s heat-mask. The shape of the magma is clear to me while everything else is void. I walk forward, pace around the furnace.


    ¡°It works well for me also,¡± I say hurriedly. ¡°Though I am sorry to say it seems to have no hidden powers, honored runeknight Halax. Maybe the hope you placed in me was in vain.¡±


    ¡°Not at all,¡± he says. ¡°That your first heat-mask works at all is an impressive achievement on its own. And, we have new runes with which to further expand our forgings.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for the praise, honored runeknight.¡±


    I continue to pace around the forge, waiting for the pain to begin. I''ve had my mask on for about the same time as the miner did, now. Any moment now and the pain will start. I stop and focus on the ring of magma in the forge.


    ¡°What are you doing, Zathar Runeforger?¡± Vanerak asks coldly.


    ¡°I am testing their acuity, my Runethane. Everything is a little blurry, compared to when I sensed using honored runeknight Halax''s heat-mask.¡±


    ¡°How blurry?¡± asks Halax.


    ¡°Just a little, honored runeknight. I think this is usable, however.¡±


    Any moment now! Any moment now and the pain will come!


    ¡°I was wondering,¡± I say, ¡°if you have ever tried to forge with a heat-mask equipped?¡±


    ¡°I did, once. But I found that my vision is more than adequate.¡±


    ¡°I see, I see. Or rather, I sense.¡±


    I laugh nervously. Any moment now, and the pain must come!

 Beyond the Magma Shore 53: Death of a Spark

    The pain does not come. I stare into the magma furnace, and still there is nothing. I have been a fool. When I removed Halax''s heat-mask after my first expedition into the magma sea, it took me a short while to get used to returning to normal vision also. It was akin to my first step onto the surface, though less extreme.


    I sense that Vanerak is becoming impatient¡ªor do I? Is this just a delusion born of fear? Quickly I pull the mask off; nothing has gone wrong with my vision. I look over at Vanerak and Halax, and the miner, who is not looking at anything strangely anymore. He just looks like he wishes to bolt from here.


    ¡°It works adequately,¡± I say, lamely. ¡°I shall strive to improve upon my work on my next attempt, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Your next craft shall be your weapon,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°For that craft you will copy nothing. You will create and manipulate your runes in an original manner to cause maximum damage to the demons. I took a great risk in allowing your excursion beyond the shore. I would see that my risk pays off.¡±


    I bow low. ¡°Yes, my Runethane. It shall. You have my word.¡±


    My word is worth nothing, of course. I have proven that time and again. But it at least seems to be enough for him now, since his reply is simply:


    ¡°That is good.¡± He turns to Halax, daycrystals tracing arcs over his mirror-mask. ¡°See that he writes down the runes and their meaning on paper, thoroughly. And you will check the runic flow calculations yourself thrice over.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    With that, he turns and leaves. I shiver in relief. It is as if a cold rope tied around my guts loosens and vanishes. He was not enraged with me! And my heat-mask did not destroy my eyes. Despite its strange flow, it is simply a slightly inferior version of what Halax constructed. For once, my power has created something stable.


    On my walk back up to the forge, the feeling of relief fills me further, relaxes me. My body feels light and my heels as if they contain springs. I have been granted a reprieve.


    Yet when I reach the apex of this feeling, the very peak of my relief, a realization creeps into my heart like poison. I realize that something has changed within me. Something has broken. What is it? I grit my teeth. A new tension tightens within my guts. What is this that has come upon me? What has broken?


    Finally, when the lock is turned and I am let through the door into my quarters, understanding brightens. The thing that has broken is my hatred. Though it was once the dominating force within me, my hatred for Vanerak is now all but gone, all but extinguished by my fear of him. The spark of rebellion I felt when I first finished my confinement has cooled nearly to ash.


    This realization brings disgust and relief in equal measure.


    <hr>


    The ten runeknights swim-crawl through the congealed heat toward their goal, yet for once they are not aimed directly, for each time Runethane Vanerak''s forces have thrust straight ahead, or have only taken small detours, the demons have repelled them. Their advances have stalled. The demons seem to have learned to predict their paths.


    So Nazak has ordered this small force to attempt to circumvent the demons, and through the several hours they have been moving they have so far not been assailed. The only life they have seen are salamanders, swimming up near the surface, and small ones at that.


    Yet Hayhek is not convinced. In the end they will have to come to where the demons are¡ªthis is inevitable. There are too many of them. He is sure that within the city, they swarm, many dozens of them, perhaps even multiplying by the day. Or perhaps they are being forged by some ancient magma-dwelling Runeking, who will not stand for his secrets being uncovered.


    The mind is a muscle which uses stamina just like the rest. Speculation is only tiring. Best not to attempt it. Hayhek focuses his effort on pulling himself forward through the molten stone. It impedes him with its heaviness and heat. He imagines its many shades of orange and red, its glow of trapped and tortured light, though of course he cannot see it.


    Their leader, Ulruil, a third degree, stops his swimming and turns his head. He points with two fingers. His heat-mask allows him to see further than the more basic one Hayhek wears; just out of sight must be some shards, and big ones. Ulruil would not slow the advance for any piece smaller than a breastplate.


    The formation follows him. A minute later and Hayhek also sees the shards: three pieces cracked in such a way that it''s obvious they fit together. Upon them are hints of many runes, the strange runes that respond to no reagent.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Although their goal is to see how far they can advance along this route before the demons assail them, a find like this, of big shards inscribed with so many runes, cannot be ignored.


    The dwarves descend quickly. Hayhek''s armor creaks. The magma''s pressure is growing, and its heat too. The absorbing rubies on his armor are starting to struggle. He worries he may have to replace some, yet again, which is costing him a fortune, setting back his crafting.


    A sudden shock kills this worry: three spheres of twisting curves and loops and lines of heat appear at the side of his heat-sense. He turns to fight. No one swims over to be at his side¡ªno one else seems to have noticed them. He yells out, from instinct, but though his voice fills his helmet, it cannot penetrate the molten rock.


    He is decisive¡ªhe turns from the demons and aims straight for Ulruil. He pulls with his hands, kicks violently, pushes his muscles beyond their limits until he is gasping desperately, his cable unable to keep up with his need for air. Ulruil is not rushing, and Hayhek closes rapidly on him, yet the demons are quicker and close in on him in turn.


    Ulruil, sensing the change in pressure a few feet from Hayhek, spins and strikes. Hayhek twists out the way of the blow¡ªslowly, and the strike is slow also¡ªthen grabs his leader by the arm, pulls him in, clashes his helmet to his.


    ¡°Demons!¡± he screams. ¡°Look!¡±


    Ulruil sees. He yells in shock. They''ve crept up from behind, angled their advance so that the dwarves would not notice them¡ªthis has never happened before. He gestures violently at their twisted forms, and the runeknights not already alerted by Hayhek''s strange rush turn to fight.


    They are scattered though, not in proper formation. One demon latches to the runeknight farthest out. He is only sixth degree, and though he struggles and slashes desperately¡ªand painfully slowly¡ªthrough the magma, his cold-bringing strikes are having little effect. Hayhek does not get to watch the fight to its conclusion, however, because another one of the three demons is bearing right for him and Ulruil.


    It passes between two dwarves that try to strike at it. It is nearly at Hayhek now. He kicks violently at the molten rock while trying to pull forward with one hand, while also slashing out with his axe. He does not move forward fast enough nor strike hard enough. He only brushes one outer line. Ulruil manages more expertly, and his sword goes through the demon''s center, making it shiver and shrink.


    Another blow, from a dwarf behind, disrupts it further in a flash of cold. Hayhek pushes off hard on a denser flow of molten stone, which is revealed to his heat-sense by its slight difference in temperature, and he rips down with his axe. It hits at the same time as Ulruil''s second blow, and the demon unravels. Its spilled lines turn colder than the magma, then become the same temperature and vanish.


    Hayhek shouts in triumph¡ªthe dwarf opposite points. One of the other demons is here too. Hayhek yells in horror and tries to guard, but he can tell his strike will hit too late. The demon does not continue its straight path though. Instead it warps its form and its trajectory curves.


    It hits the shocked Ulruil head-on. Its twisting pattern flows into the third degree''s helmet through where the breathing cable attaches, through gaps too small even for air, and Ulruil convulses.


    He grasps at his helmet. He turns his sword inward, places it at the junction of his neck-plates, but the demon is already taking control, and it stalls the suicide blow.


    Hayhek pushes and kicks backward. Taking on a possessed third degree alone would be madness. They must attack it simultaneously, all nine of them. But a quick glance shows that they are nine no longer. Three forms float limp in the heat. Two, including the one the first demon reached, have run each other through with their weapons, while another''s air cable has been melted apart; his dead hands are outstretched toward the distant surface.


    So they must fight six against one. Yet there are no other third degrees here, and the only fourth degree is one of the dead. Hayhek is a fifth, another two are fifth also, then there are two sixths and a seventh.


    Against an ordinary third, they would have a chance. But against a possessed one, in its own realm, their chances are much diminished. And they cannot even communicate to form a strategy.


    The demon turns Ulruil''s body to pursue Hayhek. It slashes out. Hayhek blocks and nearly loses his axe. A wave of heat washes over his armor and he feels the clink of a ruby shifting in its loosened socket. Some of his runes must have imploded.


    He strikes back. The demon pushes forward so the axe only clips its shoulder. The demon reaches out and grasps at his upper arm. The runeknight behind stabs squarely through Ulruil''s overheating backplate, nearly the same heat as the magma now. It goes deep but has no effect on the demon''s movement of Ulruil''s body. Its fingers close around Hayhek''s arm-plate. He screams as his flesh scorches.


    The seventh degree runeknight swims for Ulruil''s air cable. He tries to saw at it, but his poor blade can only scratch it. Hayhek swaps his axe to his left hand and drags it up. It bites into Ulruil''s thumb, severs it, and the demon''s grip comes away. The runeknight behind strikes again, this time through Ulruil''s neck. The demon shows no sign it feels anything, and with speed that is shocking for a movement done through heavy molten stone, but slow enough that Hayhek can see exactly where the demon is aiming¡ªit grabs the runeknight''s cable where it joins her helmet. It squeezes hard. The tungsten takes on the equivalent of brightness and falls away, its broken part only barely distinguishable from the magma.


    Hayhek yells in rage and slashes upward into Ulruil''s armpit. His axe bites the molten metal and breaks through to the burning flesh beneath. Ulruil''s arm jerks violently as muscle turns to steam and exploding charcoal. He swims upward and away a few yards, and he gestures for the rest of the converging runeknights to do the same.


    The demon is weaponless. One of its hands is thumb-less, and its sword-arm is useless. Its armor is breached in several places and before long Ulruil''s body within will be burned to ash.


    The seventh degree dives past him. Hayhek yells for him to stop, though of course the shortbeard cannot hear. It is a useless sacrifice. He doubtless thinks he is buying time for the rest to escape, but the demon''s movements are already slowing. Yet there is enough strength left in Ulruil''s body to grasp the seventh degree in a burning, melting embrace. The seventh degree convulses as his armor buckles and heats.


    Hayhek is unable to watch. He and the three other survivors turn and flee as fast as their strength will pull them.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 54: Paper-Thin

    The four runeknights wade out from the shore. Molten rock runs down their armor to meld with the black fringe of the sea.


    The first to remove his helmet is the other fifth degree. He is Volot, named for the script, and he was born and raised in Runethane Thanerzak''s realm under the sunlight mirrors. He and Hayhek have never been friends. He is too volatile, his actions sometimes bordering on the berserk. But for once, Hayhek feels that his raving is justified:


    ¡°That fucking Nazak! That fucking idiot!¡± Volot sweeps his hand across the magma sea. A few semi-molten beads of glass fly off into it. ¡°Dead! They''re dead!¡±


    ¡°My brother,¡± one of the sixth degrees says in disbelief. He starts to cry. ¡°My brother.¡±


    Hayhek grips him by the shoulder. The movement makes him wince¡ªwithin his armor, his own shoulder is a burned, sticky mess.


    ¡°He died as a runeknight should,¡± he says quietly.


    ¡°You''re wrong, graybeard!¡± rages Volot. ¡°Runeknights shouldn''t die for nothing!¡±


    ¡°It wasn''t for nothing,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°We have found out another route that doesn''t work.¡±


    ¡°None of the routes work! The demons are everywhere!¡±


    ¡°It''s hopeless,¡± says the other sixth degree, a relatively young runeknight with a blonde beard specked with black burns. ¡°There''s just too many.¡±


    ¡°Numbers aren''t the problem,¡± spits Volot. ¡°Nazak''s the problem. The demons are smarter than him. He says they''re mindless. He''s the mindless one!¡±


    ¡°You should be careful about shouting that,¡± Hayhek whispers.


    ¡°I don''t care who hears it! Fuck, they''re all dead!¡± A look of utter hopelessness comes into his eyes, dulling them like glass suddenly clouded. His voice quietens. ¡°All dead, again.¡±


    ¡°If we get enough shards,¡± says the runeknight who just lost his brother, between sobs, ¡°if we go back, get those three¡ªthen maybe¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shards! They''re useless,¡± says Volot. ¡°Doesn''t matter how many we get. We can''t use their runes. Fuck, why are we even going for them in the first place? Don''t we have the traitor to make runes for us? Isn''t that why our Runethane''s keeping him alive?¡±


    ¡°Runeking Ulrike''s word is law,¡± says the blonde runeknight. ¡°He must have some plan in mind. What we learn here, maybe he can use to defeat Uthrarzak.¡±


    ¡°We''re not learning anything,¡± says Volot. ¡°We''re just dying for nothing.¡±


    ¡°We will have new weapons soon,¡± Hayhek says. ¡°Once the Runeforger extends his script again, we''ll be able to kill the demons more easily.¡±


    ¡°There''s no proof of that. Just faith. Faith in a traitor.¡±


    ¡°He''s the only hope we have.¡±


    ¡°Some hope!¡± sniffs the bereaved runeknight.


    ¡°Even if we can reforge our weapons, it''s still hopeless,¡± says Volot. ¡°There''s no strategy.¡±


    ¡°Commander Nazak is smart,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°He''s a first degree. He must have something in mind.¡±


    ¡°If he did, he''d tell us. He won''t, though¡ªhe has nothing.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane is pressuring him,¡± says the blonde runeknight vaguely. He seems a little addled by the heat. ¡°He doesn''t want us dead. But he has to look like he''s fighting hard. While the Runethane¡ª¡±


    He blinks, stops himself. A heavy silence falls over the four. None look at each other. Yet no one raises a word of disagreement or reproach either.


    ¡°Let''s get inside,¡± Hayhek suggests. ¡°It''s not safe, standing out here.¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The others nod, and then the four survivors make their way toward the gate, the square of shining metal set into the black of the cliffs.


    <hr>


    I chose to forge my heat-mask before my weapon not because I wanted to practice further with tungsten, nor because I wanted to develop my script further. It was simply because of fear and self-loathing. The shape I''ve decided on is one for stabbing, then tearing. I drew it and it made me sick. It reminded me of Pellas'' death.


    But if I am to keep Guthah safe, and help Hayhek, I must suppress what my heart feels.


    My weapon is to be a barbed trident. My sketch of its head, laid out on the desk, is wrong. It flies in the face of the principals of symmetry, order, neatness¡ªeverything a runeknight is taught to bring to perfection in his crafts. Instead, each prong, spike and needle is aligned with none other. And the poem I am to put on them will be similarly unstructured.


    Before thinking of the runes, however, I must make the craft itself, and forging such complex geometry is going to be difficult¡ªthat is an understatement. It could turn out to be the most difficult forging I have ever attempted.


    How am I to approach its construction? Until this moment I have assumed that I''ll be welding the various pieces together. If I accomplish this well enough, there will be no disruptions to the runic flow, nor will there be issues with the basic physical integrity of the weapon either. Yet my craft is to have too many thorns and spines. To weld each of them perfectly seems an impossible task. Even with steel it would be difficult, and I am of course going to have to use tungsten. Nothing else can resist heat well enough.


    There is another way. It''s a way I''ve considered a few times, briefly, then discarded as too difficult. Instead of creating a spear and welding various bits on to turn it into a trident, I could instead fold and twist a sheet of tungsten into the shape I need.


    Could this be done? I start to seriously consider this method. I trace the outline of a possible shape on a new piece of paper. I use my beard-razor to cut the shape out, then I attempt to twist it into a trident, curling it in on itself to make a tube, folding various parts to make thorns, curling two pieces that jut out into the mis-aligned prongs, then I fold out and curl some other spikes.


    It keeps unraveling and I feel like a fool, a child at play. This isn''t going to work. Besides, I will still need to weld it along the seams.


    But as I walk down to the forge¡ªescorted, of course, though my mind is too fixated on crafting to notice the guards much¡ªI find that the idea will not let go of me. It is so much more elegant that forging separate tubes and crudely welding them to each other. If I were to pull it off, it would be much stronger too. This craft needs to be just as strong as my armor; it needs to be able to resist the pressure and heat of the magma, for if it fails catastrophically in the midst of combat I''ll be just as dead as if my armor were to collapse.


    How to pull off the welds, though? They will need to be long, and accomplished perfectly, without the slightest irregularity. They won''t be simple circles, but long spirals, branching spirals. And welding has never been a particularly strong skill of mine. Only during the dragonhunt did I manage to finally get a knack for it, yet even so, I am not confident.


    Perhaps I should give up on the idea of a trident entirely, as a good idea, but one I do not have skill to pull off.


    No. That would be cowardly. My idea has too much potential for me to toss it away like that. Its form matches exactly with the kind of poem I need to make, with the kinds of runes I need to make to help Hayhek and the others fighting the demons. With the kinds of runes Vanerak desires.


    I need to find a way to make this craft work.


    As soon as I arrive in the forge, I find myself a tungsten ingot and get to work heating it. Even though my trident is to be a reasonably long, two-handed weapon, the ingot is not so large. The sheet I''m going to hammer it into must be thin if I''m going to be able to fold and twist it. Paper-thin.


    Tungsten is entirely the wrong metal for this sort of craft. It''s too heavy, brittle. Lead is what I want, or gold, something that can be warped even with bare hands then hardened with runes later. Doubt assails me once again: can I really pull this off? Can I really fold a sheet of tungsten so intricately as my design calls for using a hammer and tongs?


    I must try. The ingot glows white. I let it heat further. Its white light becomes blinding, and I judge that it is ready to work. I pull it from the furnace and take my hammer to it, violently. I beat it, extrude it until it is a foot in length and half a foot wide. The halo of heat around it sends sweat pouring down my face and arms. The white metal is thin now, but must become thinner. It must become almost like metallic paper.


    I reheat. Metalcrafters do not make tungsten sheets so thin. What use could there be for tungsten, already brittle, to be like paper? Ordinary runeknights would not try to use such a contradictory material¡ªyet I am a senior runeknight now, am I not? Vanerak judged my armor to be nearly second degree level. And senior runeknights have the skill requisite for more unconventional crafts, made of stranger materials.


    Senior runeknight! How many years have I lived? Thirty, or so? I''ve lost count¡ªeven so I know I''m young, younger than nearly every fourth degree out there. Am I really so arrogant as to call myself equal to a second degree? To pretend I have that level of skill?


    And how am I going to weld this sheet?


    I pull it from the magma furnace and flatten it out further. There are uneven patches, rises in thickness. I hammer them brutally. I am using the largest hammer I have, and each blow seems to shake the very forge. Some of the lower ranking guards, looking out through their barred windows, wince at each clang.


    Now is not the time for subtlety. That will come later. Right now I just have to make this metal flat.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 55: Flatten and Curl

    To turn the tungsten paper-thin is proving much more difficult than I anticipated. I have been hammering this sheet for two long-hours now and it is still not flat enough. It is uneven in both thickness and heat; parts of it are trencher-thick and dull yellow, others thinner¡ªthough not yet thin enough¡ªand blazing so ferociously I cannot look directly upon them.


    I fear I have made a mistake by deciding to curl my weapon into shape. Such an unorthodox forging technique really ought to be attempted only after many, many months spent studying, and practicing by creating something small at first, like a knife, or at most a spearhead.


    But Vanerak wants me to make a weapon to destroy demons, and my runes, the runes I think stand the best chance at breaking apart their lines of heat, will take best to the trident I have designed. Indeed, they would not work on a weapon less complex.


    And this technique, of twisting and folding, is the only way to create that trident.


    Thus I continue to beat the tungsten flat. A shiver runs up my arms each time I strike. White sparks fly up then float down. Each blow flattens the tungsten, but not by enough, and they raise metal ridges and ripples too.


    I try to even the waves out with one of my smaller hammers. Each strike creates further waves. I curse; I''m getting distracted. I need to get it flat! Only then can I worry about evening things out. I take up my largest hammer again, then strike harder, more violently, over and over and over. The sound is deafening and the sparks leave blinding trails in the air. The heat pouring from the white metal is beginning to sting my skin, roast it.


    Over a short-hour later, and some patches are thin enough. I continue, ruby blazing, mind focused, right arm rising and falling in a constant rhythm.


    More patches thin out over the next hour. This impedes me. The tungsten must be beaten hard or it will not respond to me, yes, but it has a limit also. If the paper-thin patches thin any further, they will break. I am driving the metal to its limit.


    I switch to a hammer one size down. Now I have to strike twice as hard to dent the thicker parts. My right arm is burning. My breathing is ragged, my mouth dry. My ruby is pushing me past the limits of my fatigue just as I am pushing the tungsten''s.


    My right arm begins to shake and I can no longer grip the hammer properly. I put it down rather than risk making an error, and tell Nazak that I would like to return to my quarters.


    As soon as I am back, I fall into bed and drop into a fitful sleep. I wake feeling as if I have not slept at all, and my arm still burns. I cannot shake the feeling that I am going the wrong way about this craft, that I should choose another method, but try as I might, I can see no other way.


    So I must continue. I return to the forge. The sheet has become just too wide to fit inside the furnace, so using all my strength I carefully bend it. It is so rigid as to be nearly unbendable, and I fear that this is a premonition of further difficulties to come.


    Once more I heat it to bright white, and over the next many hours, continue my work. The thicker parts even out, finally, and at last I sense that the first stage of the hammering is over. When I can no longer see the various ripples and ridges for the heat-shimmer, I know it is time to move on to the second stage.


    I equip my runic ears. My vision fades away. I hear everything in the forge¡ªthe low roar of the magma''s heat, the quiet keening of the beaten tungsten, the breathing of the guards and Nazak. Their exhalations seem labored, like they''re tense, anticipating something important, and anticipating it so much that their mental anguish is beginning to injure them physically. They need this craft. It is their hope.


    And as much as I hate most of them, Hayhek is one of these warriors¡ªif he still lives. For him and Guthah I must complete this task.


    I strike with a smaller hammer, gently, and wince. The metal''s discordance is extreme. I start work on fixing it, yet each tap only barely reduces it, and oftentimes actually increases it. A success in one place can cause a series of ripples elsewhere. And when I hear a relatively even note, it still sounds strained. The tungsten has truly come to its limit. I am almost torturing it.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Several short-hours later, the tungsten is relatively smooth. When I run my hand over it, I can barely feel the ripples, and when I strike a note on it, the sound is relatively harmonic.


    Relatively. Not perfectly. A few hundred long-hours ago, I would have judged this metal acceptable. Not anymore¡ªyet if I continue, something is going to break. The tungsten is too strained. I cannot risk hammering it further. I even worry that when I take my diamond saw to it, the sheets will curl and break asunder.


    It will be good enough. A fourth degree craft, not second or even third. That is all I can manage for now. I just have to hope that my new runes will be enough to allay Vanerak''s inevitable anger and disgust.


    I take up my glittering saw and slice, very slowly, according to my drawing. The design is complex, extremely complex, and I dare not mistake a single degree of an angle. I notice my hand is trembling¡ªI sleep in my quarters¡ªcome back to the forge and barely remember that I left it. Each slice I take is slow, so slow, but that sensation comes upon me again¡ªthe sensation that time no longer matters, no longer exists.


    This is a place of metal, and metal only barely knows time. It is still, not like us warm living creatures of flesh, or the roiling magma currents of the sea.


    The pattern forms. It is three dozen chaotic slashes, some sweeping, some only a few centimeters. I don''t think anyone but me could by looking tell that when curled and folded, this gashed sheet will become a weapon.


    I end the last cut. I feel somewhat fresh, invigorated¡ªI must have taken a rest in a recent hour, though I cannot remember exactly when or how long for.


    But my feeling of invigoration fades as I realize the enormity of the next task. Curling the whole sheet just a little so it could fit in the furnace was difficult enough. Now I must curl it into far tighter loops, and even crease some parts, and do this all with precision. Simply good enough will not be good enough for this stage. The edges must align exactly or the welds will fail.


    I start at what will become the bottom fifth of the main shaft. I test the flexibility a little. It is too stiff. My fingers ache from bending it just a few millimeters, and when I let go, it springs back to nearly its original flatness. I curse. Heating it could make it more pliable, but now that it''s cut into strange geometries, uneven cooling could distort it just enough to make it unusable.


    I find two pairs of iron pliers. Iron is much softer than tungsten¡ªthey will not scratch it by very much. With one in each hand, I try again. I meet with a little more success: after a few minutes, the metal is definitely curled.


    But there''s a slight illness in the pit of my stomach. I cannot see anything amiss, so I equip my runic ears. I bend it again. The tungsten is groaning. It''s beyond its limits, and I am starting to form a stress fracture¡ªa crack.


    I curse violently. How cracked is it? I chime the metal a couple times. It is only barely cracked. This is still disgraceful. Should I remake the whole sheet? That is what I did each time I failed with my armor. Yet outside the forge time is real, and vital, and many will die if I do not finish this weapon quickly. Perhaps one will be Hayhek.


    The cracks are only barely there. This is fine. I breath slowly to kill my panic. I can fix them totally. A touch of a heat stick will melt them back together. I take one up, hold it in the furnace. It glows to white. I touch it gently, side-on to the crack. I wait until its glow has been partly imparted into the tungsten, then pull it away.


    Once the tungsten is cooled, I chime. The sound is nearly perfectly melodious once more. I breathe a sigh of relief and get back to work. This time I go more slowly, try to get into the state of timelessness.


    But I cannot. My hands are too strained. With hammer-work, there is a rhythm to my exertions: aim, down, and a bounce back up in which my muscles loosen. They rest between each strike. But there is no such rhythm with this work. If I relax my movement, the metal springs back. I must exert constant force.


    My ruby can only barely keep up. If shaping tungsten with a hammer is boxing, then this is wrestling. It exhausts me. After less than a short-hour my arms are like water and I have to rest.


    I have only completed one curl, and it is not as precise as I need it to be.


    During my next session, I painstakingly and painfully manage the next two curls. I fix the first also. One third of the handle is now complete.


    The fourth twist of the haft includes a barb, onto which I plan to graft one of the demon-killing runes. A jutting piece groans as I attempt to twist and fold it into a thorn. I curse as I struggle to bend the tungsten to my will, to defeat it.


    Half an exhausting, sweaty hour later, the barb, triangular at its base, has come into shape.


    And its edges do not line up. My shouted curse echoes a hundred times around the forge. I have not calculated properly, or else my sawing was not precise enough¡ªone of the base edges is off by a full millimeter.


    And if one cut was off, that means many more are also.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 56: Half-Broken Barbs

    I slump over the anvil, defeated. This challenge has proven too much for me. I put in all the care I could muster, and still failed. I could remake the sheet, make it slightly more even, cut extra carefully¡ªeven though I cut as slowly and carefully as I could¡ªyet there would still be irregularities. I have reached the current limits of my metalworking ability. I am sure of this.


    Flattening and curling has not worked. I must think of a new technique, but what? I could give up on the barbs and odd angles, and make something more conventional¡ªforge a straight tube of tungsten, cut a hollow at the top fifth, then fit a curved tube in to form the two prongs. That would be strong. That would be serviceable, and more importantly, it would be within the scope of my abilities.


    But the runes I need to create would not fit to it. It would not be the demon-destroying weapon that the dwarves here need¡ªthat Hayhek needs¡ªthat Vanerak demands.


    I cannot risk disappointing my Runethane. My stomach clenches at the very thought. Yet I am trapped. Either I disappoint Vanerak by making a failure, or I disappoint him by making something too mundane to be effective.


    Or, could there perhaps be a third way?


    ¡°Honored runeknight Nazak,¡± I say, voice hoarse. ¡°Where is honored runeknight Halax? There is something I must discuss with him.¡±


    ¡°He is forging. He has asked not to be disturbed.¡±


    ¡°Then maybe you can answer my question.¡±


    ¡°I will if I can¡ªif it is not a foolish or insulting one.¡±


    ¡°If a weapon is misaligned, its metalwork poor and warped, but the poem and runes are also warped¡ªin just the right way¡ªcould it still be strong?¡±


    ¡°No. The runic flow would disintegrate. Such a craft would only be weak.¡±


    ¡°I see. Yet could certain runic scripts make such a craft a success?¡±


    ¡°None that I know of.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I see.¡±


    ¡°Your runes will be usable, I hope.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes. Of course.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane needs them to be. We need them to be.¡±


    ¡°They will work. I will make them work.¡±


    My runes are to be of discord. The heat of life will seek to break apart the lines of natural heat the demons are composed of and disrupt their very essence. Thus, the physical form of the weapon should be discordant also. That''s why I chose this design. So, why should it not be even more jagged and warped than I planned for? Edges that do not align can be forced to align through violence. My runes will make everything work¡ªI will let whatever takes control when my consciousness half-fades create a poem of perfected imperfection.


    I hold my hammer and pliers. The tungsten squeals and white sparks burst like blood-spray as I force the barb''s base edges to align with the haft. This dents both haft and barb, but this will not matter, I tell myself. The runes will pull through. My runes of discord will take to this brutalized metal as if it is their home.


    I continue the craft. I twist the tungsten further and the last part of the haft comes into shape. Now I have come to the two prongs. I groan through gritted teeth as I pull the metal where it needs to be. The left is misaligned¡ªI bend the tungsten. It cracks slightly¡ªI heat it to fix. My runes will enjoy this imperfection. I will alter my poem so a main rune of discord sits there.


    Now I must twist a dozen barbs. None are aligned well; the mistakes are adding up. Nevertheless I force the tungsten to go where I will it. Several more cracks appear. I do not weld these ones shut yet¡ªI will weld them when it comes time to weld all the other lines together. Why not? This sheet is full of slices. Why did I ever worry about a few more?This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    I laugh. Have I gone mad? I am breaking every rule of forging there is. So what? Am I not the Second Runeforger? I have the power to create my own rules, to make power of my own that no dwarf has ever yet used.


    But behind my laughter there is fear. Vanerak will be displeased. He will be angered that I have thrown away my patience. He will believe I am trying to sabotage his war-effort.


    Yet this is the only way!


    I finish the twisting, curling, and folding all while in this half-crazed state. To Nazak and the guards, it must appear as if I have finally broken, and broken my craft at the same time. It lies upon the anvil more warped than I ever envisioned. It looks like a failure¡ªbut this is only because the runes are not yet grafted. Neither are the joins welded yet. I will do this now, then quench¡ªand then will come the runes.


    It looks like a failure only because it is half-finished! No other reason! Lurching, stumbling, I make my way to the stores and grab a mortar and pestle, a nugget of incandesite, and a half-bar of sticky quizik. I weigh them carefully, to make sure the ratio is correct, slice off a weight of quizik I do not need, and get to grinding the two reagents together at the anvil.


    ¡°You are exhausted,¡± warns Nazak. ¡°You should rest.¡±


    ¡°I will rest here, then.¡±


    ¡°You should rest in your quarters.¡±


    ¡°I cannot,¡± I say.


    ¡°Why not? And I am ordering you!¡±


    ¡°If I stop now, my weapon will be ruined. Everything will be ruined.¡±


    ¡°It already is! You should rest, and rethink this. You should begin again. What has happened to your patience?¡±


    I know that it is folly to fight with him. But if I stop and rethink, I will give in. More dwarves will be sent to their deaths in folly as I try¡ªand maybe fail¡ªto redo this craft. If there is even the slightest chance that I can make this attempt work, I have to take it.


    ¡°My patience?¡± I say. ¡°What of our Runethane''s? You are being sent to die in the magma seas, without the runes he promises to you that I will make. I intend to keep that promise as soon as possible. I can''t rethink this. I can''t stop. There is a chance this will work¡ªbelieve in that chance! Believe in my runes. I will help you kill the demons. I will help save your lives!¡±


    Nazak rises, fury in his eyes. I flinch away, terrified I have committed a grievous error by talking back to him, and by indirectly criticizing our Runethane also. I open my mouth to apologize. Yet his eyes flick, for a moment, away from me, in the direction of the magma seas.


    ¡°Very well,¡± he spits. ¡°Take no rest. We will see if you can keep your promise.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, honored runeknight!¡±


    I get back to work. The bright incandesite falls to pieces at the slow grinding of my pestle, and mixes with the sticky grains of grayish blue quizik. Over the next hour the two become one, a waxy red sludge that glows vaguely with light and strongly with power.


    It is time to apply it. I use a stiff-haired brush to paint thin, even streaks along the lines of my warped and barbed trident. I do the top and sides first, then I stand the weapon up, lean it against the wall, and do the remaining lines. I am very near one of the guards'' windows. He stares at me.


    ¡°I will keep my promise,¡± I say. ¡°This will work! I promise it!¡±


    Maybe by promising I am dooming myself. I broke my promise to Guthah and Pellas. My promises mean nothing, never have. But what else can I say?


    Once the reagent has been applied, I turn the furnace up to its maximum heat. Then I prepare a bath of salamander''s blood. Hot incandesite and blood¡ªingredients for a violent explosion, were it not for the stabilizing quizik. That second humble reagent might be about to save my life.


    The stench of blood dizzies me. I nearly stumble into the trident, impale myself on it. Step by slow step I take it to the furnace. The roaring heat dizzies me further. I see the mouth of the black dragon for an instant, then I thrust in my craft.


    For a few moments there is no effect. Then the tungsten gradually reddens, then yellows. When it turns to white, the reagent catches light. The joining lines of the craft become like veins whose blood has been suddenly transmuted to fire. The craft twists, and screams¡ªwith scream that is not quite metallic. I lunge with my tongs, tear it out and plunge it into the salamander blood bath.


    Steam bursts from the long crucible. I cover my face with my hands and yell out in pain as it burns me. The guards nearby scream and throw themselves away from their windows. Blood-condensation soaks the walls then turns to droplets which run down.


    ¡°Did you even calculate the ratios?¡± Nazak shouts. ¡°You''ve destroyed it!¡±


    ¡°No!¡± I yell back. ¡°I have not!¡±


    I reach into the crucible and draw forth the hot trident. It is twisted like a corkscrew, its prongs are bent, some of its barbs are hooked so far they turn in on themselves¡ªbut the welds have held. The tungsten has survived the dreadful ordeal I forced it through.


    It is an ugly, scarred piece of metal. It is quivering as if the various sections are pushing against each other, trying to shiver each other apart. But it is a weapon. It is a craft that can be enruned, if the crafter knows the right runes, and now it is time to make those runes.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 57: Runes for Demon

    ¡°Are you not going to call on the Runethane?¡± I ask. ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°You must rest. You have exhausted yourself.¡±


    ¡°I can''t rest. The runes are ready in my mind. The meanings, the connotations. I can see the shapes already. I have to strike while the metal is hot.¡±


    ¡°Metal can be heated whenever you wish! I am responsible for your continued life, traitor. Do not forget that. Our Runethane will not forget that either. No harm is to come to you.¡±


    ¡°It won''t. Get the healing chains¡ªthe same ones you used last time. I''m going to push past my own limits. And get the Runethane! He will want to witness this. This craft is going to be¡ªgreat.¡±


    ¡°You will kill yourself. Rest!¡±


    ¡°The runes¡ª¡±


    ¡°They will wait. You can rest here, if you must. But you must rest!¡±


    His tone brooks no disagreement. ¡°Very well,¡± I say.


    I lie down on the hard stone floor right beside the anvil. My ruby is shivering; it wants me to stand back up, needs me to. I am in the midst of battle, it is saying.


    Yet I suppress it. Nazak is right. I need strength for this craft. All my strength. I shut my eyes and sleep takes me in its black embrace. I see no dreams, and when I open my eyes it is as if I simply blinked.


    ¡°How long have I slept for?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Barely an hour.¡±


    I get up¡ªthe will to forge is burning in me. My ruby is shaking with anticipation.


    ¡°I am ready. I must forge now. I must.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I have already called on our Runethane. Get your wire ready, and your reagent.¡±


    I do so¡ªgold and incandesite. I need the heat of life, and these are what will bring it. I take two spheres of hytrigite also, and while I wait for Vanerak to arrive, refine them. The process causes me no trouble at all. It is like the spheres respect me before I even bring down the hammer. They flatten out, ready to graft the power of discord to my warped weapon.


    Now all there is to do is wait. Some of my forging-madness fades, and I try to sleep once more, gain a little of my strength back, but worry prevents me. What will Vanerak''s reaction be when he first looks upon my weapon? Will he judge it a failure before I can justify myself to him, and order me to remake it¡ªwhile a broken Guthah watches on, perhaps?


    My reasoning falls apart. I went against the direct advice of a first degree and threw my patience down a bottomless void, because of some daft idea that if my poem is bad, it can fit to a bad craft! How stupid¡ªeven an initiate knows that a failed craft cannot be salvaged by good runework.


    I am the Second Runeforger, I remind myself. I can do what others cannot. This craft will be the exception to that rule¡ªand it is not so terrible. The metal held through the quenching, didn''t it? The tungsten was tortured, yet it could bear that torture. It is strong.


    He arrives. I stand, but he ignores me. His mirror-mask turns to my twisted trident. He stops still. He''s staring at it. He disapproves, I can tell. His anger is radiating out through his armor.


    ¡°An interesting craft, Zathar Runeforger,¡± he says coldly.


    ¡°It has to be that way, has to be!¡± I babble. ¡°The runes¡ªthey''re discordant¡ªthat''s how they''re going to work, how we''re going to kill the demons¡ªnot just runes for demons, but runes for¡ª¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°And that excuses the poor metalwork?¡± His words cut into my babbling like a blade.


    ¡°It looks poor, but it''s calculated¡ªthe twists, the warping, the dents¡ªit''s all for a reason¡ªtrust me, my runes¡ªall is for the discord¡ª¡±


    He holds up a palm. ¡°Show me, then.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± I say, and I bow low.


    I place my hands on the cool anvil. I shut my eyes. I am ready for this, ready to keep a promise for once. This is for Hayhek¡ªI am going to save his life again, and I am going to save Guthah''s also. I let go of the anvil and let the trance take me.


    Magma floods over my soul, burning yet painless. The arrival of the sphere sends a ripple through to shake me. I sense power below, and will it to come up. The sphere shines it through me. The heat intensifies; I begin my poem.


    Like when I made my skull-helm, I have almost no plan in mind, have made no draft. I improvise. I increase the power, make it painful right from now, from the start, and envisage the first rune.


    It means: demon, and into it I put everything I remember of them¡ªtheir terrible heat, their speed, their single-minded will to destroy us, their cruelty when they take one of us for their own, and most of all the naturalness of their power. They are the native beings of the magma sea. This I recognize and put into the rune.


    The shape I form is the culmination of my script of magma. It is the most complex by far¡ªthe other runeknights will have a miserable time shaping it. It is composed of three broken triangles overlaying each other, and within them are a dozen lines and semi-circular curves. I am sure my fingers have been cut already in its making.


    From this rune for demon, I create the first line, then the first stanza. I praise the demons'' power, their strength to rule over the fearsome depths of the magma, a realm where only salamanders and dragons dare to swim. In the next stanzas I write of their disdain for interlopers, the dway, dwarves, and how it is right they should try to destroy us.


    Up until the first barb on the haft, I am all praise. I discuss the purity of their nature using new runes than mean line-of-demon''s-heat, curve-of-demon''s-heat, fabric-of-demon''s-heat. These are derivatives of my first rune for demon, and even more complex. Their runic flow is equally complicated, going off in several different directions at different strengths, and seems highly affected by what runes they are next to¡ªalmost as if I have imparted some of the complexity of the demons'' essence itself into them.


    Then I reach that first malformed barb. Until now I have kept control of my power¡ªdespite how hot it rages through my soul, I have forged the new runes entirely with my own will. The runic flow I have calculated myself also, with a great deal of thought. The structure of the stanzas has been complex, but still, there has been structure, and thus I have been able to impose order on the lines.


    From now, though, I will write of the destruction of demons, and I create the first rune to that purpose: magma-disrupted. Into it I pour my memory of pulling through the magma, feeling the molten rock come apart and eddy around my fingers. I envisage distant eruptions, of deep fumes bubbling the rock and tearing it apart. The rune that results is an unexpectedly simple one, yet the angles are subtly off-kilter by strange fractions of degrees, just like my barbs.


    Thus it will fit the weapon. That is good. But the runic flow is non-calculable. I cannot make sense of it. It almost wants to flow outside of the poem, and seems to change as I focus on different lines of it.


    How can I use this? What rune can I put next? I was going to place the one for fabric-of-demon''s-heat, but that will not work. The runic power will not run properly into it.


    I must make something. I do not know what, but it must be something. The time has come for me to give up control¡ªI have always been so afraid of doing that, but my fear of Vanerak is a stronger fear.


    More power, more heat! I will the sphere to thrust more of the burning of the world''s blood through me, and it obliges. The magma becomes white-hot around me; now it is glowing beyond white. I try to hold myself together, keep conscious in the face of the impossible heat. No dwarf, nothing of flesh should be able to feel this. My very soul should be ash.


    I am on the edge of consciousness now. Runes rush through me, twisting themselves into shape. At first come the runes of discord, runes of magma distorted terribly, and then, to be grafted to the barbs and finally the three needle-points of my trident, runes of demons distorted.


    My poem ends. I will the magma to leave me. It does not. It continues to burn. The sphere is either merciless or simply uncontrolled¡ªit continues to roast my soul. In the far distance I sense something on my body: cool water or a blanket of chains. But this does nothing to take me from my trance.


    I am going to die! To die! The realization shakes me. I need to escape. Where is my ruby? Last time I was this deep, I reached for its power, groped for its unflinching desire to see me live to do battle. Where is it now? Where is its cold influence?


    I cannot see it nor sense it. Is it gone? No¡ªthere¡ªfaintly glowing cold. I reach for it, stretch myself for it¡ªgrasp it.


    The magma pulls away, yet the heat remains. The forge appears around me, but it''s shimmering, and overlaid with golden ripples. There is a rushing in my ears. I can scent charcoal and roasted meat.


    The roasting meat is me. I am on fire.


    I collapse.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 58: A Wrong-Feeling Power

    I awaken on my back with cold chains wrapped tight around me. They are nearly cutting into my flesh. My panic is such that my heart nearly stops; I have been imprisoned again¡ªmy craft was a failure¡ªVanerak is going to force me to watch Guthah be hurt and maimed, healed, then maimed again¡ªbut the color of the light here is familiar. I focus on its source: the wormlight glass globe.


    I am in my quarters. The chains are not binding me, but healing me, and they are thin and almost weightless. I breathe out. Vanerak is not so enraged, then. My craft must have been a success. I hope my suffering was proportional to the degree of that success: even the memory of the pain I suffered in the magma is pain in itself. Stinging tears form in the corners of my eyes. I was ablaze!


    Dreading to imagine the damage, I slowly lift up my arms to examine my burned skin.


    But the healing chains have done their work: there is a marbled, reddish tinge to my once enamel white flesh, yet I have seen worse. I grasp my beard and lift it up also. It does not crumble to ash in my fingers¡ªthough the stench of smoke is still strong from it.


    I have not suffered like those the black dragon burned suffered. I suppose that is a good thing, though maybe Vanerak''s runeknights will see differently.


    I go back to sleep. When I wake again, the cold of the chains has diminished a little. I feel like I could attempt some more movement, and gradually I sit myself up. I look around the room, but my twisted trident is nowhere to be seen. Vanerak must be examining it.


    Am I ready to face him? He will want a full account of my runeforging. As soon as I knock on my door to call the guards, the sand timer is set¡ªhe will be on his way.


    I grit my teeth and swing my legs off the bed. I stand, lurch and stumble to the door and hammer hard on it. Best get my interrogation over with. It will not do to test his patience.


    Almost immediately the door flies open. Halax is standing there, and for the first time his expression is readable¡ªshining with joy. His grin is splitting open his red-bearded face, and his eyes are nearly bulging. He stares right into mine as if he''s searching for something behind them.


    ¡°You have finally awoken, Runeforger!¡± Even his voice is overflowing with joy. It sounds unnatural.


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight,¡± I say.


    ¡°That is excellent news. I was beginning to worry that your healing sleep was going to be a permanent one, or at least one that lasted too long for even my own expert patience.¡±


    ¡°How long has it been?¡±


    ¡°For nearly twenty long-hours you have lain in your chains. Your flesh was cooled and your blood and heart slowed almost to a stop. Anything less, had the chains not been wrapped tightly enough, you would have starved and thirsted in your healing sleep.¡±


    ¡°Then I thank you and our Runethane most greatly.¡±


    ¡°I accept your gratitude most gracefully, and hope I have cause to give you some of my own soon.¡±


    ¡°You mean to say, you hope my trident works as it should.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. You are most sharp, Runeforger. I think it will work¡ªI have placed my hands near it, though our Runethane has not permitted me to touch it, and I felt the runic flow. It is most powerful and violent.¡±


    ¡°Where is it?¡± I ask, suddenly anxious. ¡°Please tell our Runethane that I must have it.¡±


    ¡°You will. You will have it, and you will decipher its runes for us. Even our Runethane has had trouble with them. They are truly unique.¡±


    ¡°I''ll decipher them for you. I''ll do it now.¡±


    ¡°You are most upset at being separated from your craft.¡±


    ¡°I am merely eager to be of help. I don''t presume to ask you to bring it to me, not at all.¡±


    ¡°But you wish us to, of course! That is very understandable.¡±


    Partly I wish to have it before me, yes, and partly I wish to never see its barbs again. However I do not speak this thought; just nod.


    ¡°I will relay the news of your awakening to our Runethane personally. He will be glad.¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Halax orders some of the guards to bring me a large meal and plenty of beer, then leaves to go to Vanerak. My breathing becomes quick and panicky. He will be here¡ªif my runes are poor¡ªthe consequences will be terrible¡ªbut when my meal comes a terrible hunger comes into my belly like a void, and my throat is suddenly parched. These physical needs overwhelm my mental anguish for the time being, thankfully.


    Once my meal and beer are finished, I sit down heavily on my bed. Life seems to flood from my belly into my flesh and skin, and the reddish marbling fades slightly¡ªthough I suspect it will never truly vanish.


    I am just beginning to doze off, the coolness of the healing chains pulling me back into my healing sleep, when the door opens abruptly. The noise startles me and I leap up. I see him there, mirror-mask reflecting my room, and I bow deep.


    ¡°Greetings, my Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Greetings, Zathar Runeforger. We have much to discuss. But first, here is what is yours.¡±


    From behind him emerge two guards. They are holding a large white cloth between them. It is partly torn up. Barbs stick through it.


    ¡°Your craft has not been touched,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You are its creator and thus you should be the first to touch it. You still have that right.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my Runethane! You are most merciful.¡±


    ¡°Take it,¡± he commands.


    I obey, hurry over and tear the cloth away to reveal my barbed trident¡ªand it repulses me.


    It radiates pain, wrongness, brutality. The dark reddish tungsten is the color of dead flesh. The golden runes gleam with power, but that gleam is disturbed and rippling, forming waves that clash, combine, and reflect each other unnaturally. This power reaches its apex at the three points. Concentrated to extremes there, it as if it has formed into diamonds of runic power that want to leap out and tear, annihilate, ravage. Lesser extremes of power bead on the tip of each barb also.


    Worse than all this, though: its basic form simply reminds me of the barbed spear Helzar used to tear Pellas open and wrench her blood and entrails out through her belly. The memory surges into my mind''s eye and I almost gag.


    Nonetheless, I must grasp this gross weapon. Vanerak is standing right here. I reach out and clasp my right hand around reddish haft.


    I gasp. The tungsten is painfully hot, the temperature of iron just before it breaks into red heat. An instant later and power shivers into my hand and up my arm. It is as if something has broken into my flesh and is pulling at it, from within, trying to tease the fibers of my muscles apart. I suppress the urge to dash the trident to the ground and grip tighter, scowling.


    My ruby shivers with its own power in response. At that, the feeling of warping wrongness through my flesh subsides as little. Still, I feel sick. This craft is not one that should be wielded for long periods of time¡ªit''s maybe similar in type to Gutspiercer.


    At least this craft creates in me no desire to go berserk, yet. Maybe this will change once I plunge into the magma sea to face the demons there for a second time.


    ¡°You will transcribe the meanings of its runes now,¡± Vanerak orders. ¡°And you will overlay this with the runic flow calculations also.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    I take the twisted trident to my desk and prop it against the wall. I get to work. The first half of the poem, the stanzas on the haft, I can remember smoothly and the work goes quickly and easily.


    Now I come to the first barb. I hear movement¡ªVanerak has taken several steps forward. He is all but looking over my shoulder. For the first time since making this craft I see my face clearly¡ªwhen he first came in, I was focused on the covered trident. The skin around my eyes and of my forehead is reddish and patterned faintly like it''s been splashed with watered-down blood.


    ¡°Pay no mind to me,¡± says Vanerak coldly.


    ¡°Of course, my Runethane.¡±


    I return to transcribing the poem. The rune for magma-distorted is difficult to write, and I scribble failed copies out three times before I get it right. The angles are too uneven, going against anything I''ve written before. As far as I know, the First Runeforger made no script similar to this.


    And then comes the rest of my poem. The lines split into three, run back down their prongs, rejoin, split apart again. Parts of it can be read crosswise. The runic flow goes everywhere and yet is battered back everywhere by contesting currents. My temples pound as I struggle to calculate it.


    ¡°You know this runic flow,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You have written it already, and it glows from the weapon at your side.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane,¡± I say.


    I clench my fist¡ªor rather it clenches involuntarily. I force my grip to relax. I reach out to the weapon''s upper part, lay my palm across the tungsten lightly. I feel the power and the runic flow becomes clearer to me. At the same time, my flesh crawls. The very metal and runes feel as if they are shifting in my grip, bulging into invisible barbs to prick my skin bloodlessly.


    But I bear it. I write the runes and describe the runic flow, turning the trident gently when I must, and in a matter of dozens of minutes am finished. Relieved, I pull my palm away from the trident, stand and bow to Vanerak, and give him the papers.


    ¡°Thank you, Zathar Runeforger.¡±


    ¡°You are most welcome, my Runethane. I am overwhelmingly humbled to be of service to you. Will you also take my trident back with you, for further examination?¡±


    ¡°You sound almost keen to be parted from it¡ªfrom the weapon you promise is to be our savior against the demons.¡±


    ¡°Never, my Runethane! I am honored to have created it. I merely wondered that¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are to keep hold of it here. Remember your spear-fighting while you recover. Train it lightly, then arduously over the next two long-hours.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°You are to show us what it is capable of under the magma seas. And if it proves worthy we will begin the mass-forging.¡±


    "The mass-forging, my Runethane?"


    "We will forge new weapons to battle against the demons, in preparation for a great assault."


    "I see, my Runethane."


    "Goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger. I can see that you are still fatigued, so I will hear an explanation of how you created these runes later. My own crafts beckon."


    "I hope you have the greatest success with them, my Runethane."


    "I believe that I shall."


    After that remark, he leaves with my papers and I slump back into my chair, trembling, my eyes averted from the twisted tungsten.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 59: Trident of the Magma Sea

    ¡°It is time now,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°I sense a certain degree of apprehension from you. But you have nothing to fear. I am at your side and will never fall to one of these so-called demons. You may ask Nazak if you are foolish enough to doubt my power. None have yet come close to touching me, and my weapon cleaves them like they are balls of string, rather than churning immaterial heat. You are protected.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane,¡± I say.


    Yet still I hesitate to lock my breathing-chain to my helm. The magma sea stretching before me frightens me with its vastness. In my arrogance, I am seeking to disturb it, to bring an invading heat into it. On my first dive I did not realize how easily it could reach out to extinguish that heat. Now I am experienced and remember the demons clearly. I know what they are, know their power. They frighten me nearly as much as Vanerak does¡ªbut only nearly.


    I secure my breathing-cable to the front of my helmet. It is not the one I made, however, after my two long-hours of recovery ended, I was given the chance to adjust it to fit, and I did a good job, for it fits very tightly. I pull in some breaths. Air comes fast and clean into my lungs. This is a better cable than the one I used on my last dive.


    This expedition is to be a bigger one than that time. Not only is Vanerak himself here, but four first degrees are too, including Nazak and Halax, as well as twenty-five other high ranking runeknights, each of whom are at least fourth degree¡ªHayhek, if he lives, is not present.


    We stand in a long line on the magma shore, readying to step into the semi-molten black. Clicks echo out over the roiling orange and vanish into the smoke as cables are attached and heat-masks equipped.


    Every runeknight here wears armor specially constructed for diving into the magma, and wields a weapon crafted to snap-cool the demons'' lines of heat¡ªexcept for Vanerak. He has instead wrapped a thin layer of foil tightly around his usual armor, leaving only his mirror-mask bare. This foil is enruned minutely with platinum grafted with hytrigite, and radiates smoothness, elegance, acceptance. His weapon is the same poll-axe he always carries. It must be powerful enough, I suppose, to break apart the demons with its sheer runic strength alone.


    He takes up his heat-mask. It is a grid of thin tungsten struts embedded with close to a hundred rubies. He has crafted it to fit over his mirror-mask, which he now does. There is a flash of power from the rubies as it clicks into place. Whatever power his mirror-mask holds has been imbued into his heat vision now, I am sure. It must be a frighteningly clever piece of rune-work.


    Quickly I equip my own heat-mask. My vision vanishes and is replaced by heat sense¡ªI can understand only the world under the magma now¡ªcurrently I stand on nothingness. Footsteps appear in the magma, deepen, as the runeknights begin to march behind Vanerak''s lead. I hurry to follow. Heat and pressure come around my legs, and the magma seems hotter and more crushing than it did on my first dive. It feels as if it''s actively attempting to destroy me.


    This sensation, of anger from the molten stone itself, abruptly intensifies when I submerge the head of my trident. The heat seems to shift around me. I focus my heat-sense on my trident and my suspicions are confirmed. The heat is eddying around its distorted glow with especial strength, trying to overwhelm and extinguish its power. My trident pays no mind. Its own power twists to turn the heat aside. When I push it forward, it slices through the molten stone easily.


    Vanerak turns his head back, then beckons me to come forward more¡ªI was last to enter the magma. I apologize profusely to him, before I remember than sound cannot travel through the stone.


    Is he enraged? Perhaps not¡ªhe turns away and continues to swim forward. I follow, making sure to keep in formation with the rest of the runeknights as we crawl-swim through the magma.


    My limbs start to tire a little, already. I''d forgotten how difficult this method of movement is. Every reach, pull and kick is an exertion. If the demons could think like we do, they might draw us in nearly to the sunken city, and bear down on us while we''re exhausted.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    The demons! I am going to battle them soon. My trident, ribbons of ordinary heat tearing themselves apart upon its warped barbs, seems eager to kill them. That is its purpose, after all.


    When will they come? And how many? Vanerak leads us deeper down and further ahead. The pressure of the magma grows stronger. My armor is creaking slightly as it struggles to resist the molten anger around it. My trident is angering the very sea, and I am convinced that any moment now, the sea''s guardians, manifestations, or rulers¡ªwhatever the demons be¡ªare going to spring upon us.


    Almost the very moment this thought passes through my mind, they do so. From in front of us appear five balls of rabid heat. The lines and curves that compose them are twisting and rotating faster than I remember, whirling around each other. The demons are enraged, and it is me who has enraged them¡ªthis I know because they are heading not for Vanerak, not for Halax or Nazak, not for the other first degrees, not for the other runeknights, but directly at me.


    At me! They are converging fast. I shout out in horror into my helmet, stop still and hold my trident out. Currents of magma twist around the barbs. Vanerak signals for the other runeknights to form up into a shield to protect me, and he becomes the center of that shield. Halax and Nazak flank him.


    If only one demon was coming, I think he wouldn''t have done this, and instead would have let me take it on. Five demons, though, is far too great a risk.


    The inside of my armor grows hotter as they approach. Through my heat-sense I watch an aura of heat form around them, creating a brighter texture within the relatively even temperature of the rest of the sea. Sweat prickles on my skin, stinging the still damaged parts of my flesh. I grip the trident''s haft more tightly.


    They are nearly on us, nearly within Vanerak''s reach¡ªthey leap away from each other, executing instantaneous right-angle turns. The runeknights start in confusion, turn to follow the demons'' paths. Two of the five demons turn again abruptly and strike into our formation, one at Nazak and the other at some second and third degrees. Two other demons strike back a second after this, both at Vanerak. He stabs one, and his poll-axe''s runic force unravels it from within.


    The other surges around his legs. Its heat suddenly intensifies. I don''t see what happens next, for the fifth demon dodges past Halax and charges me.


    It is larger than the ones we faced before. It radiates hot rage. It warps as it approaches, stretches its shivering lines toward my face. Salt drips into my eyes, making my heat-sense blur. I scream and jab as hard as I can.


    The effect is instant. The mass of lines extending at me vibrate, curl, snap and dissolve into the sea''s ambient heat. The main body of the demon pulls back as if panicked. I yell another war-cry and surge forward, stab again.


    The barbed points enter the demon and the beads of runic power on each point and spike, suck in, repel away, twist and stretch the lines of heat. The demon''s heart becomes a mass of turmoil. The inner lines snap, and the whole sphere comes apart, unraveling like a ball of string. I stop in shock¡ªthere is nothing before me now, nothing.


    My trident has utterly destroyed my foe in only two strikes.


    ¡°Yes!¡± I scream into my helmet. ¡°Yes! Yes!¡±


    Vanerak and Nazak have slain one demon each themselves, but there are still two more. Vanerak is battling the one twisting around his legs, stabbing downwards into it as it spirals to avoid. Another is trying to kill a group of second and third degrees.


    I kick off toward the latter¡ªVanerak can take care of his opponent himself. To help him could increase his opinion of me, yes¡ªbut I made this craft for Hayhek, and the other runeknights who have lost so many friends to the monsters.


    I will use it to save them. I will keep my promise!


    ¡°Out my way!¡± I shout at a third degree swimming in to help. Of course he cannot hear me, so I shove past and reach with my trident, striking a one-handed blow, twisting my body for maximum range.


    The barbs only just enter the demon, yet the effect is nearly as deadly as my earlier deep stabs. Two dozen lines and curves of heat fray and come apart. The demon recoils, and solid blows from a pair of second degrees break it apart fully.


    ¡°Yes!¡± I yell again.


    I raise my trident up in both hands. My flesh crawls, seems to twist, but I do not care. We have won a victory¡ªVanerak has dispatched his foe¡ªand now the other runeknights are copying my gesture, raising their own weapons high toward the surface.


    ¡°Onward!¡± I scream. ¡°Onward! Forwards!¡±


    I lower my trident to aim to the front, to where the sunken city lies. The other runeknights aim with their own weapons. Vanerak does not. He waits. Fear comes into me, suppressing my need for blood¡ªdeath¡ªdisintegration of the foe¡ªI am afraid of him, I remind myself. Guthah''s life and death are his to choose between. Do I presume to order his forces?


    Have I lost all sense?


    Then he gestures forward also. Fear forgotten, I scream with joy. A peculiar shiver runs through the magma. The other runeknights are roaring in approval too, and the molten rock is registering our victory cry and recoiling at it.


    We surge forward.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 60: Desire to Destroy

    Less than a short-hour later, four more demons appear, burning toward us through the ambient heat. They show no fear, no hesitation, are simply rushing for me as if magnetically compelled. Vanerak does not order the formation to shield me but instead beckons me forth to float at his side. I do so gladly, my desire to destroy overwhelming my hatred of him. In this moment I can barely even remember why I hate him¡ªwe are slaying the foe together, are we not?


    Both ruby and trident hum with joy as the demons converge. These four are rushing faster than the last five did, perhaps having no plan to turn. My assumption is correct: they make no move to trick us and quickly come into my range.


    I jab. My target blasts apart into inch-long fragments of lines. The lines fade away. Vanerak strikes through a second demon, Halax a third. The runic force on their true metal sends their targets reeling back half in tatters. I rip back my trident and annihilate the fourth demon just as it touches my helmet, then surge to kill the two retreating ones.


    They are defenseless against my weapon¡ªI succeed. After but two half-seconds their scattered fragments are fading into the heat.


    The feared monsters who murder dwarves from within, who burn and melt the bodies of their hosts, who have caused Vanerak''s runeknights such woe and terror¡ªthey are now simple target practice. Weaker than targets, even: wooden dummies do not burst apart at the merest touch.


    To defeat the demons so utterly brings overwhelming joy into my heart. Never before has my forging met with such success.


    ¡°Onward!¡± I scream again, jabbing my weapon forward. ¡°Onward, runeknights! Onward Runethane¡ªonward all of us!¡±


    Vanerak stabs his halberd forward also. He surges forth and we follow. My ruby is vibrating with delight, pulling every last shred of fatigue from my arms and legs as I force my way through the heavy molten stone. Did it really use to be so difficult, this swim-pulling? Now I''m barely exhausted. My arms and legs feel as light as if I am wearing nothing. My desire to destroy is overwhelming every physical sensation.


    I do not know how long it is before we meet the next demon¡ªmy death-lust has killed my time sense, just as it did when I chased down and slew the deserters from the dragonhunt.


    This time there is only one. It moves for us in a curve. I brandish my trident, readying to meet it. The curve of its motion becomes tighter and then it changes direction; it darts back through the magma. I scream in rage into my helmet¡ªcoward!


    This is strange, a calmer thought says: the demons have never run from us before. They attack even when outnumbered. They are not meant to have foresight, strategy, or any other kind of dwarven thinking. Until now they have been more physical force than animal.


    But I don''t care about such speculation. When we advance further we will find more of them to kill. This is certain. I will sate my trident. Its barbs will tear apart more demonic heat, rip and destroy more, more, and more. Twisted runic power gleams on its numerous points like drops of incandescent blood.


    Vanerak keeps us going forward. Some of the other dwarves tire, I sense. The movements of their limbs slow. I briefly wonder how far we''ve come. There is no way to tell, but it is possible that this is the farthest out Vanerak''s forces have ever gone. Many hundreds of shards lie below us, a veritable carpet of strange shattered coolness, and there are hints of structure below them, of cracked pillars and smashed struts. We must be fast closing in on the city and its wealth of runic knowledge, yet Vanerak is ignoring that knowledge totally. Our objective today is not retrieval; it is slaughter.


    Halax grabs Vanerak''s shoulder with his free hand, abruptly stopping him. Vanerak turns quickly then allows Halax to push his helmet against his.


    Vanerak pulls away after a few seconds and holds up his palm to motion for us to stop¡ªthough we already have. I clench my jaws hard in anger. What is the reason for this? I need no rest, no supplies. We cannot turn back. The destruction of demons is enough sustenance for me.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    We wait. I twist my trident to the left, right, impatiently. What are we doing here?


    Then they come. Halax did not stop Vanerak because of any worry about supplies¡ªhe can sense further than anyone else, and he noticed what is approaching.


    Even in the midst of my killing-lust the not-sight intimidates me. Over two dozen demons are sweeping at us in a wave of heat so intense that it is hard to distinguish one boiling sphere from another¡ªeach blurs into its neighbors. Several runeknights back away. The demons are still many yards distant, but their heat is preceding them, and I feel like I am starting to roast in my armor.


    This could be our end. When they hit us, they will overwhelm the fourth and third degree runeknights in seconds. After that, even Vanerak will have a difficult time stopping the dwarves they possess from hacking his breathing cable asunder.


    I ready my trident. This does not have to be our doom, not if my skills and runes hold. One stab, one kill¡ªso two dozen stabs is my goal. I will make those stabs! This will not be our doom. It will not! I will not allow it.


    The demons slow slightly. Does my trident intimidate them, perhaps? It seems foolish to believe one weapon could strike fear into such a force¡ªbut the last one ran, did it not?


    I stab in their direction. Heat shudders. I make broad slashing motions, curling the magma''s heat around my trident''s barbs. I imagine that I am hurting the very molten stone, ripping it apart to make it like water.


    And the demons react: they slow down. I laugh furiously. They are a wall of destroying heat, yet they are scared! They are afraid of me! Of me! Afraid of the power of my runes!


    It is time to slay. I kick forward and launch myself at them. A tight grip comes around my foot and I am halted. I look back in anger and see that it is Vanerak who has dared to grab me. His mirror-mask shows the outline of my armor''s heat vividly.


    An urge to strike directly into his mask takes hold. My ruby buzzes. I imagine shattering the mirrored tungsten, imagine the magma flashing the flesh of his face to steam in an instant. I envision his very skull being scorched to charcoal then collapsing in on itself. His body will burn and his compromised armor will melt into nothing. The desire to make this vision real is strong, very strong¡ªbut I stay my hand.


    My trident would do nothing to his armor. It is truly powerful, yes, but its only purpose is the death of demons. Any blow against metallic armor would fail and I am not so berserk that I cannot see the consequences striking him would have. I remember Guthah and bow.


    The demons slow further, nearly stopping. Vanerak motions for us to retreat. We do so still facing the demons, kicking our legs in front of us awkwardly. The demons slow even further, and then as one begin to move backwards. Before long they are out of the boundaries of my heat-sense. A few minutes later, we turn around to face the way we came and start swim-pulling in the usual fashion.


    My fatigue returns with force as my demon-killing urge fade. My arms become heavy and even my fingers hurt. I start to feel the heat again too; my raw skin itches with sweat. My throat dries. I need water, yet it will be hours before we return.


    Those hours pass slowly. Some of the fourth degrees lag, and Vanerak slows us at several points so they can catch back up.


    But like all journeys it eventually ends. Texture appears before us, of cooler shards of obsidian. Vanerak angles up and we follow him out onto the magma shore. Around my helmet comes void, and I hurry to unfix my heat-mask. A few long moments of blackness later and my vision returns. I unclip my breathing cable too, and take a long, foul draught of the toxic air.


    My trident''s barbs are gleaming brighter than before, the twisting lines of golden runes also. I hold the weapon away from me, suddenly afraid. It drove me half-crazed. It nearly made me strike Vanerak! Strike the Runethane!


    ¡°Face me, Zathar Runeforger,¡± Vanerak says.


    He has pulled his own heat-mask from his mirror-mask and is looking at me. I slowly turn to face him. His mirror-mask reflects my helmeted form darkly. In it, my trident looks even more warped.


    Did he sense my desire to kill him when he grabbed my ankle? Does he suspect that deep down I harbor some desire to rebel?


    ¡°I apologize for my insolence most profusely, honored Runethane," I say, voice trembling. "I should not have broken formation.¡±


    ¡°I accept your apology. Your deeds this long-hour have more than made up for any minor transgressions.¡±


    I breathe a sigh of relief. ¡°I am beyond grateful that you judge them so highly.¡±


    ¡°You are welcome.¡±


    Then he steps out of our line, turns to face it. ¡°Runeknights,¡± he says. ¡°I have little to say. You have seen for yourself the power we have gained. We will now use that power and end the threat of the demons forever. It is time for us to complete the task our Runeking has set for us¡ªwe are going to take the city. Its ancient secrets will be ours.¡±


    The runeknights cheer, scream, brandish their weapons and loose heat-masks. The noise echoes through the foul smoke behind and over the roiling sea. They do not care who hears it. The demons can no longer stand against us. In the face of my runes, they are nothing.


    ¡°The mass-forging will commence,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Rest now, then go to the forges. I do not need to tell you the nature of the weapons you are to craft.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 61: A Slew of Victories

    Stores of tungsten are made freely available to every runeknight of seventh degree and above. Platinum and gold wire have their prices slashed in half. Large quantities of incandesite are imported from Allabrast at high cost to be sold for cheap. Hytrigite is brought forth too, as well as every other sort of reagent, and gems flow into the realm like gravel rolling down a rockslide. Vanerak must be burning through his wealth at an incredible pace for so many resources to be brought in so quickly¡ªthe mass-forging commences barely a long-hour after the end of my second expedition.


    Vanerak decrees that every runeknight of seventh degree and up must forge a weapon utilizing my runes of magma distorted. At first most fail, though usually not in spectacular fashion. They just do not generate enough conflicting runic force to cause any real damage to the demons.


    Runic flow calculations are the bottleneck. The ones a user of my runes must perform are an order of magnitude harder than any a seventh degree would usually tackle, and even fourth and third degrees sometimes see their poems'' power fizzle out upon completion.


    Halax is the one who cracks the math. Through many long-hours of research and experimentation, he comes to a deep understanding of how the flows cross and then power or diminish each other, sees a pattern which he teaches to the other runeknights over a long series of mandatory lectures. It is a little frightening, the way he seems to be able to manipulate my runes more easily than I myself can.


    No one actually copies his poems, of course, but armed with his equations even the lower ranking runeknights start to see success.


    Metalwork proves not to be as harsh a challenge for the others as it was for me. Helzar knows well how to shape barbs and serrations so they will not weaken a craft''s overall structure. She is reluctant to share this knowledge, but at Vanerak''s order she does, teaching the runeknights her advanced welding techniques: the precise ratios of reagent she uses and the temperatures they must be burned at.


    Runeknights do not make weapons for each other¡ªVanerak will not see our taboos broken that totally. Yet he makes sure that knowledge is freely shared. If a runeknight''s weapon is judged to be particularly powerful, he or she must report to a first degree in detail about its making. The most noteworthy processes are etched into tablets, and these tablets are erected near the main forging-halls for all to see and draw inspiration from.


    As more powerful weapons are forged, each built on a foundation of knowledge gained in the forging of its predecessors, the expeditions move deeper into the seas. The demons'' counter-assaults disintegrate and Vanerak''s runeknights can plunder freely. Not just shards, but wide sections of wall and the heavy remnants of pillars are dragged back through the magma by teams of bound miners. The storage cave rapidly fills and more must be designated.


    All order in these stores is overwhelmed. It is rumored that less artifacts are making it in than recorded, that some might be disappearing. Spies¡ªwhose they are and from where no one says¡ªare blamed, but no one gives it too much thought. The discrepancies could just be due to scribal error anyway. And who cares for a few coins when treasure is flooding in by the short-hour?


    Perhaps Vanerak would have any thieves hunted down if he was not so busy in his forge. It is rumored that the blade he is working on will be able to kill ten demons with a single sweep¡ªif he is indeed making a weapon. Some whisper quietly that he has started work on a kingly crown.


    Such an accusation is traitorous. Nazak puts a stop to the rumor, though it never entirely goes away.


    So, a great deal has been happening. Yet I am part of none of it. My purpose has been fulfilled to an acceptable degree¡ªwe now have a way to battle the demons without taking unsustainable losses, and I am too precious to be risked further; Nazak tells me that I am forbidden to enter the magma sea.


    I am given a somewhat menial task to occupy myself¡ªcreating a new air-cable, an improved version of my first, and longer, with an appropriately lengthy poem to go on it too. I am assured that this one is to be for my personal use, though when I ask when I''ll be allowed to use it, be allowed to return to slaying demons, Nazak''s reply is a sharp negative.


    Yet despite this disappointment, my circumstances have improved somewhat. I may not be permitted to leave my cell, but for the first time since I was taken here others are permitted to talk with me more or less freely. No one has more knowledge of my runes than I do, after all. Runeknights from eighth degree to second come to ask me for clarifications about their meanings and advice on their usage.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    A change has come into their attitude toward me, a change I once believed could never happen. No longer am I the traitor. Instead I am the savior or, at the very least, a figure neutral in morality. I felt this change coming on slowly before the completion of my trident, but now that my runes are winning us victory after victory, the runeknights'' hatred of me seems to have melted away almost completely.


    Yes, many lost family and friends to the black dragon. Yes, they understand well that it was me who granted it such massive power. But that was in the past. Here and now in this moment my runes are saving lives.


    Many who come to ask after my runes end up asking me about the black dragon¡ªespecially those junior runeknights who never saw it for themselves, or were too young to remember properly. I tell them the full truth and resist the urge to justify my actions, instead leaving judgment up to the listener. Several pity me¡ªthey understand from my tale that black dragon was as cunning as it was powerful. What chance did a desperate tenth degree have against it?


    Of course, not all offer words of forgiveness. But even those who don''t forgive me at least grudgingly respect that in the end I did take a hand in destroying it, even if Xomhyrk¡ªand Vanerak, they believe to my disgust¡ªdid the greater part of the work.


    It is through these many talks with the other runeknights that I learn of the goings on in the caverns outside my cell, even if I cannot participate in them directly. Dozens of long-hours pass, then dozens more. My fear and hatred of Vanerak diminishes, though never quite vanishes, as the breaks between his questionings about my runes and runeforging grow longer¡ªit almost seems as if he''s losing interest in the subject. I dare to hope he has discovered that my power is indeed unique, and that there will never be any way for him to copy it.


    I begin to settle into this life. It is not entirely comfortable, yet I am content with one fact: for once I managed to keep a promise.


    ¡°It is good to see you again,¡± I say to Hayhek one hour.


    He has arrived after one of my forging sessions, as he often does, for drinks and talk. The guards do not care that he comes to meet me without applying for express permission¡ªhe has become a somewhat popular figure since it came out that it was he who first informed Vanerak of my treachery.


    ¡°Good to see you too,¡± Hayhek replies. ¡°May I have some beer?¡±


    ¡°Help yourself. It''s the best I''ve been given so far. Maybe someone thinks my runes will come out better if I write them under the influence.¡±


    Hayhek chuckles. ¡°Do they?¡±


    ¡°I''ve never tried. Perhaps next time.¡±


    ¡°I experimented once with quenching in beer, you know, when I was young.¡±


    ¡°How did it go?¡±


    ¡°Badly¡ªbut maybe someone more skilled¡ª¡±


    We laugh. He''s become a lot happier since the forging of my trident and our subsequent victories and looks it too; his slightly wrinkled skin has a ruddy glow to it.


    His appearance has changed in a more significant way too. He has forged new armor for himself: a harness of tungsten and ruby similar in style to his old suit, but far better executed. His weapon is impressive too, an axe that is a curling nest of barbs which hum slightly with distorted power. It''s a fair amount better than most fifth degrees'' weapons, partly in thanks to the extensive advice I gave him about my runes.


    ¡°You get much done these past seven long-hours?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Has it been that long?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡ªI came up here a couple times, but the guards told me you were asleep or forging.¡±


    ¡°I see. Well, I haven''t progressed much, I''m afraid. Still drawing out the threads.¡±


    ¡°You really think the tungsten comes out better that way?¡±


    ¡°I know it does.¡±


    ¡°Must be hard work, though.¡±


    ¡°Hard and very dull, but it''ll be worthwhile in the end. How about you? Bring in many more shards?¡±


    ¡°My team dredged up a section of wall not two short-hours ago,¡± he says proudly. ¡°It wasn''t the biggest, but it was decorated beautifully.¡±


    ¡°Which script?¡±


    ¡°No script, just pictures. Incredible ones though, some of the most detailed yet. If they weren''t black and solid you''d swear they were living flesh.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating,¡± I say without really meaning it.


    Rather than the art, pretty as it may be, I am far more interested in the oddly powerless runes. I am sure they are examples of the First Runeforger''s earliest work, which means that should we decipher them, I might discover a clue to my own powers¡ªor even knowledge about the sphere.


    Hayhek shrugs. ¡°Whatever pays. The masons seemed excited about it at least. There''s a rumor everything without runes is going to be moved to a separate cavern, one for general viewing.¡±


    ¡°Seems a lot of work for little gain.¡±


    ¡°Well, the masons are doing a fine job preparing the new caverns. They have to be kept happy.¡±


    ¡°I suppose. I wish Nazak would let me out to see some of these new caverns. My legs are getting weak.¡±


    ¡°Maybe eventually.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    We spend the next short-hour discussing his new project, a pair of boots that fan out like fins to increase his maneuverability. He asks for my advice at beating tungsten flat, and I ask how he plans to use my magma-runes to create a poem for agility. He quotes a few lines to me. He has developed some ingenious metaphors, and once again I am amazed, and more than a little frightened, at how my runes are being used in ways I never anticipated.


    Runeking Ulrike told me that the First Runeforger was slain by those who used his runes. Sometimes I worry that this will be my ultimate fate¡ªbut I do not think Hayhek will be my slayer. He is grateful to me: my runes have saved his comrades'' lives many times over. And he will never say this, but I think he has finally forgiven my leading his son astray.


    He has become my friend.


    We grow tired; he leaves. I sleep, wake, and return to the forge to work on my cable.


    Life continues in peace.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 62: Ancient Intruder

    It has been a hard session at the forge. I sit down on my bed. Sweat is pouring from my brow, down my face, and soaking into my beard. My hands are still shaking from my runeforging, though I did not push all my strength into it this time; I just needed a few new runes for some tricky stanzas at the top of my cable. The float-section I am to do next will be a harder job. Hopefully my skin won''t burn when I attempt it.


    All I want to do is sleep, but I force myself to clean up. I drag myself to the partitioned part of my cell, strip down, and scrub off the sweat from my body with ash-water. I examine my face in my shaving mirror and am appalled at the state of my beard¡ªit looks like a wild animal.


    I trim it with as much care as I would a piece of metal. Some runeknights are happy to let their beards run wild, and take pride in never letting a razor come within two feet of their face, but I am not one of them. Unkempt beards are for miners; I keep mine even.


    Mid-way through slicing apart a particularly ugly mat, I hear a click from the lock. I still my hand. I hear the door swing open softly. I clench my hand tighter around the handle of my razor. Usually the guards will announce who enters, unless it is a first degree or the Runethane himself, who announce themselves.


    I wait for a few seconds, then quickly pull on my robe. This is very strange¡ªwhoever just entered still does not speak. I remember what Nazak told me on my arrival to this realm: some here hate me more than they fear Vanerak. And hatred of me has not dimmed in everyone.


    If it is an assassin then I am likely dead already. Even a Runethane, even a Runeking, and perhaps even a Runegod, can do nothing when caught with his armor off and bare flesh exposed.


    My only chance is to rush and jab my razor through my would-be killer''s eye. I peek from behind the curtain. I need to judge the angle to strike at¡ªbut I am shocked to see that the dwarf who has entered is no runeknight.


    He wears no armor, only a plain linen robe dirtied with many shades of rock-dust. The weapon hanging from his belt is a hammer, though I do not think he is capable of fighting with it, for he is frail and old, ancient! He is stooped almost double, with rheumy eyes sunken deep into his wrinkled flesh, and his beard is a wispy white cloud. I judge that he is at the limit of an ordinary dwarven lifespan.


    He is vaguely familiar¡ªthen I remember. I saw this dwarf on my first arrival to Vanerak''s palace. He was working on a section of floor, or maybe wall. Back then he looked a little healthier¡ªthe long-hours that I have barely felt have taken their toll on his mortal flesh.


    I pull open the curtain and walk out.


    ¡°Greetings, master mason,¡± I say loudly. ¡°Do you have some reason for entering unannounced?¡±


    He smiles. He is not at all intimidated by the bright steel I''m still clutching. ¡°If I had no reason, Second Runeforger, I would not have come here.¡±


    ¡°Of course. But I asked why you didn''t announce yourself.¡±


    ¡°Did I not? Forgive me. My memory is crumbly¡ªI often forget my manners. May I sit down?¡±


    He may not be a runeknight, but to have been given permission to come and talk to me proves that his status is equal to a senior one. It would not do to offend him, so I gesture to my table.


    ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He sits. ¡°And would you be so kind as to sit opposite me? I have a few things I wish to discuss.¡±


    I put my razor on its shelf¡ªit would not do to intimidate someone so ancient and helpless¡ªand sit down opposite him.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°Give us some privacy,¡± he says loudly. ¡°Our conversation is not for just anyone to hear.¡±


    My door shuts.


    ¡°Would you like some beer?¡± I offer.


    ¡°No thank you,¡± he says. ¡°My liver is too old and weak for anything stronger than water.¡±


    ¡°I''m afraid I don''t have any water, master mason.¡±


    ¡°Never you mind that. I am here to talk, not to drink or eat.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Did our Runethane send you down?¡±


    ¡°No. I come on my own business.¡±


    ¡°I see. Though I didn''t know that those who aren''t runeknights were permitted to see me.¡±


    ¡°Rules are metal, not stone. They can be bent.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    It does not strike me as particularly strange that this ancient dwarf¡ªthough in truth he is far less ancient than most runeknights¡ªshould be allowed to bend the rules a little. Masons hold more influence here than they did in Allabrast or Thanerzak''s city, for Vanerak needs a vast amount of stonework carried out to make his realm habitable, and more than that, respected for its beauty.


    The masons have a number of jobs. First, every cave that dwarves are to reside in must be rigorously inspected. Some caves do not take well to construction, and badly planned work can result in devastating collapses. Senior masons go over every inch of rock, judging walls, ceiling and floor with eyes, hands, and ears. Every last stalactite and stalagmite is measured, each species of rock recorded.


    The construction work itself is, of course, carried out by masons too. They chisel out stone blocks to erect buildings in open spaces, and smooth out and beautify ragged miner-tunnels to extend lodgings into the walls. It is grueling work, I''ve been told, more difficult even than mining¡ªfor one errant stroke of the chisel could ruin untold hours of labor.


    And masons are expected to be artists also, nearly as much as runeknights are. The great mosaic of history laid out on the road to Vanerak''s palace was the work of this master mason, and all the lesser mosaics and etchings carved throughout the realm were conducted under his supervision. Each piece, I''ve been told, has been made better than the last, and all are greatly pleasing to look upon.


    Masons pour their skill into stone just as we runeknights pour ours into metal. For this they are somewhat respected¡ªonly a fool would equate them to rough-handed miners. And because of their vital work, even Vanerak must grudgingly make concessions to their desires. He cannot treat them as slaves like he does the miners.


    ¡°So, Second Runeforger,¡± says the master mason, ¡°I would hear what you have to say of your runes.¡±


    I frown ¡°Of my runes? I thought masons had no interest in runes.¡±


    ¡°Until now we have not been permitted to take an interest in them. Runes are of metal, a substance we are forbidden to have anything to do with.¡±


    ¡°My runes are also of metal, master mason.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but the runes we are dredging up are made of stone. It may be that the curious properties of the stone, whose near invulnerability is a mystery I have been tasked by our Runethane with solving, are a result of these runes¡ªand so I have decided to come and talk to you, who know more of runes than anyone else.¡±


    I laugh and shake my head. ¡°Compared to our Runethane, and even to his first degrees, my knowledge is nothing.¡±


    ¡°Your breadth of knowledge is lacking before their tens of thousands of long-hours of study, yes. But your depth is greater. You have seen runes at their creation¡ªmanipulated them at their creation.¡±


    ¡°The Runethane would never permit me to tell others of their creation. That knowledge is mine and his only.¡±


    The master mason laughs. It is a strong and harsh laugh, and does not quite sound as if it should come from such a frail-looking figure.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he says. ¡°You are loyal. You will not tell me your secrets in full.¡±


    ¡°I cannot tell you any of them,¡± I say.


    ¡°Naturally.¡± He suddenly leans forward. ¡°Yet I will ask anyway. And I will remind you that there are many masons, all throughout the realm, and we perhaps are aware of more than you runeknights realize.¡±


    I narrow my eyes. ¡°You are threatening me.¡±


    ¡°Never. I am merely illuminating the facts.¡±


    ¡°I am not a fool, master mason. I know a threat when I hear one.¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Believe my words to be what you will.¡±


    ¡°You know full well whose protection I am under.¡±


    ¡°Could he protect you from the cliff you reside in collapsing into the magma sea?¡±


    I rock back a little, shocked. He is threatening me openly! I stand up and look toward the door. I have half a mind to call on the guards¡ªbut remember that it is closed tightly. That does not matter so much. If I ran to the door and knocked hard they would open it. I could have this age-crazed master mason arrested. Vanerak would not take kindly to my being threatened¡ªif he believed me, that is.


    Whether Vanerak would believe me is immaterial, I realize with a chill. However hard I bang on the door, and however loudly I shout will make no difference, for my guards are almost certainly incapacitated.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 63: Murderers of Stone

    ¡°Sit down, Second Runeforger,¡± says the master mason. ¡°I do not plan to harm you, despite the intensity of my dislike for you runeknights and your runes. Throwing the realm into turmoil would benefit no one.¡±


    I sit down slowly, still scowling¡ªin part to hide my sudden anxiety.


    ¡°If you dislike runes so much, then why are you asking about them?¡±


    ¡°Like I said¡ªthey may be what is behind the black rock''s invulnerability.¡±


    ¡°If that was the only reason, you would have asked our Runethane to be allowed a meeting with me. But you are going behind his back¡ªrisking death. You are after more.¡±


    ¡°You are sharper than they say. But what exactly I am after, you do not need to know.¡±


    ¡°Very well. I suppose it does not matter to me.¡±


    ¡°No. It does not.¡±


    I get the feeling that he just lied to me, but can do nothing about it. He was not lying when he said that he could do me great harm; maybe his boast about being able to collapse this cliff into the sea is exaggeration, however he is right that Vanerak''s realm is swarming with masons. I''m sure a falling rock or collapsing floor can easily be arranged, if my answers do not satisfy him.


    ¡°So, what do you want to know? Let''s end this quickly.¡±


    ¡°It will take as long as it takes. Your guards will not complain if our conversation lasts a long time.¡±


    ¡°Are they dead?¡±


    ¡°Of course not. How could dead runeknights have let me in?¡±


    ¡°You forced your way in.¡±


    ¡°Let us return to the topic at hand, namely your runes. I will start with a simple question: how do you shape them?¡±


    I hesitate. If I tell him, and Vanerak later discovers that I have revealed my secrets, Guthah will be maimed. Vanerak will not care that I was under duress. But if I refuse to tell this strange old master mason¡ªI was a fool to consider him harmless for his age¡ªmaybe he will harm Guthah. Doubtless he knows who the dwarves who came down here with me are, for it was never a secret. And he will have heard about Pellas'' death and my subsequent isolation too.


    It seems I have no good options. I decide I must answer, but try to couch things in as vague terms as possible:


    ¡°I just see them, and pull them through me.¡±


    ¡°See them? On the anvil? And pull them through how?¡±


    ¡°Not on the anvil.¡± I remember that he knows nothing of my trances, nothing of forging even. Maybe he is not even aware of the concept of grafting. ¡°I see them in my mind and pull them through my soul, my center, whatever part of me leaves.¡±


    ¡°Leaves? What do you mean? Explain more clearly, runeforger. We have plenty of time for detail¡ªas I said before, your guards have kindly allotted me a long time to talk with you.¡±


    The power and aggression in his voice does not sound like it should come from such frailty. It frightens me a little.


    ¡°When I wish to create new runes, some part of me travels down to the magma sea. It''s from there that I draw the power.¡±


    ¡°The power of magma?¡± he sneers. ¡°The power of molten stone?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I always suspected so. You see the rune then, or imagine it, and pull that power into it¡ªthe power of molten stone is given meaning. Am I correct?¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°You do not sing the runes into being?¡±


    This question catches me off guard. ¡°Sing?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sing.¡±


    ¡°No. Miners sing as they work; runeknights do not.¡±


    The master mason''s wrinkled features twist into a scowl. ¡°Runeknights do not sing. Indeed¡ªit is below you to do such a thing. It''s what miners do, those lowly miners¡ªravagers of rock.¡±


    ¡°We are in agreement there.¡±


    ¡°Hah!¡± His scowl deepens. Then something catches his rheumy eyes; he suddenly turns his head. ¡°What is that?¡±


    He is looking at my bookshelf. ¡°They are books,¡± I say. ¡°Bound stacks of paper with many runes.¡±


    ¡°Paper? Not all of them. What is that one?¡±


    He stands up and strides over. I hurry to follow him, but despite the frailty of his body, he is too fast. Some inner anger compels him, and before I can reach to stop him, he grabs the stoneleaf book from my shelf. He holds it up, not seeming to feel its weight, and flicks through the pages slowly, almost caressing them with hands that are well-used to touching stone.


    ¡°Stoneleaf,¡± he says, his voice almost a sigh, as if he is reminiscing about some lost love. ¡°Stoneleaf!¡±


    ¡°I don''t know what''s in that book,¡± I say. ¡°I can''t read any of it.¡±


    The master mason shakes his head mournfully, then his scowl returns. ¡°Tell me, runeforger. How strong could armor of stoneleaf be, do you think? Imagine fabric like these pages, but twice as supple and four times as tough, wrapped around every part of a warrior. How strong would that be?¡±


    ¡°Very strong, master mason,¡± I say, though in truth I only say it to avoid his anger. I do not see how stone could ever defeat metal.


    ¡°You are wrong. It would not be strong at all.¡±


    His hand clutches around the hammer at his belt and he draws it. I back away.


    ¡°Put that down!¡± I say. ¡°If you were to kill me, Vanerak would know. He sees everything. He would destroy all you love.¡±


    ¡°All I love? All I love?¡±


    With each word, the master mason''s voice grows louder and higher, more hysteric. Crimson threads become vivid in his eyes. His limbs start to tremble.


    ¡°All I love is stone!¡± he spits, and he clutches the stoneleaf book to his chest. ¡°Stone! That is what I live for, runeforger. What would you know of that? You who destroy it to gain your metal!¡±


    ¡°It is the miners who destroy it,¡± I say. ¡°Runeknights create. We are closer to your kind.¡±


    ¡°They destroy because you order it. Those ravagers of stone were born from your greed and that alone. They hack it to pieces so you can fill your stores with metals.¡±


    ¡°There is no other way. We need the metal¡ªneed to forge, so we can protect. Put the hammer down, master mason! Calm down!¡±


    ¡°Protect? You protect nothing¡ªyou destroy, melt, beat. You are the same as the miners you despise so. And the higher you rise, the more alike to them you become!¡±


    He is insane. That is the only explanation I can think of for his words. His hammer-hand rises, as if preparing to strike of its own volition. I back away further. His eyes are fixed on me though, and he follows each of my steps with one of his own.


    ¡°Calm down,¡± I say. ¡°You must calm down. If Vanerak learns you are here¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then he will suspect we are colluding,¡± the master mason says. ¡°You wish to save your own skin. Ah, the courage of the runeknights!¡±


    I reach back far and grab my razor. I hold it in front of him. ¡°Get back!¡±


    ¡°Runeknights!¡± he spits. ¡°Murderers of stone!¡±


    He raises the hammer up further, tenses to strike. How long has it been since I fought with no armor? Will I be able to step in and stop his blow? Perhaps he will be too quick. His anger has burned away all traces of his frailty. His back has straightened, his eyes have become sharp. The bones supporting his frame have lost their weakness and exude stone-like strength through his flesh.


    Then, like water suddenly drained from a smashed vessel, all that strength vanishes. His back bends, his eyes dull like fog on glass, and his hand drops. He tightens his hold on the stoneleaf book, hugs it tightly to his chest, and his arm shivers at the effort.


    ¡°I will leave now,¡± he says, voice a strained rattle. ¡°You have given me the answer I need. I know your power now¡ªknow the runeknights'' power. And I have an extra gift on top of this.¡±


    I step forward, razor ready to cut. ¡°Give it back!¡± I shout. ¡°When Vanerak sees it is missing¡ª¡±


    ¡°You will tell him you know nothing about it. Your guards know nothing also. They will be too afraid to tell their commander how they slept on duty. Leave me be, runeforger. Harm me and we will fall upon you like a crush of boulders.¡±


    I tense myself, and stop my will to step forward and slice him down, resist the urge to spill his ruby-crimson blood across the floor.


    ¡°Get out then,¡± I say. ¡°And do not return. Vanerak will not let you get away with this a second time. He sees everything¡ªyou have been lucky, and you do not know what he is capable of.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know perfectly well. Goodbye, Second Runeforger. Our Runethane thinks you will be the one to bring about a new age¡ªhe is wrong. It is the masons who will do this. You will see, in time.¡±


    He turns and hobbles out the door, shuts it, then locks it. I collapse onto my bed, breathing heavily. About an hour later, four guards dash through, bleary-eyed and stumbling like drunks. They see I am well, and fear leaves their faces. The master mason was correct: they will not tell anyone what has happened, for terror of a dreadful punishment.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 64: Revelation

    In the hours that follow the master mason''s sudden and shocking intrusion, I am unable to concentrate on anything other than his words. I thought I had come into a period of peace, of forging without having to fear for my life; even Vanerak seemed to have forgotten about me, so deep is he in his forging. Yet outside the only two chambers I can be in, the world moves. Dwarves may be patient, but the world can be far less so.


    Masons bringing about a new age? How could that be? I hold some respect for them, yes, as all dwarves do, for their work is with what is all around us¡ªyet when it comes down to it, all they really do is make pretty decorations and build things. This latter is important, true, but not entirely necessary either. We could get by residing in natural caves if we had to. We could get by without decorations. And they have no magic, no runes with which to bring about some new age. Runes carved into stone are devoid of power. And as for the so-called invulnerable stone the master mason claims to be investigating, it is not so indestructible. The city we are delving through the magma into is a broken one, is it not?


    Broken stone. I recall what he said of miners. I grow angry. How dare he say we are no better than them? We create and they destroy. Yes, maybe they are necessary for our existence, but it is they who break the stone, not we, and through our art we protect all dwarves¡ªincluding masons and miners both!


    And what does it matter if the ore they dig out is pulverized and melted? This is not any insult to the stone. It is a blessing to it, for we make it pure and bring out a far stronger and more useful substance: metal, the basis of all our crafts.


    The master mason was speaking nonsense. His age has rotted his mind. Even if he hates us for our power, and the miners for their wanton breaking of stone, there is no way to equivalate us.


    Yet his words will not leave my mind. When I get to work in the forge, shaping metal and rune, they are at the back of my skull like a thorn, pricking my thoughts and distracting me. Tungsten square after tungsten square fails. Long, nearly complete threads break with sudden flashes of sparks. My realm of metal has been invaded. I cannot find peace in it.


    The higher we rise, the more alike to miners we become. These words in particular enrage me. I became a runeknight to escape the drudgery of breaking stone. Each craft I make, I rise higher above it. I have other reasons to craft too, of course¡ªno longer do I craft solely for my own gain, but to help others also. Yet my first reason remains too. I may not be ashamed of my past anymore¡ªI was once a miner, I accept that, and no longer do I hold any hatred for them¡ªbut that does not mean I would ever be willing to go back.


    But according to the master mason, the higher I rise, the further back I sink. If he is correct, all this time I have been striving to get away from the drudgery of mining, I have instead been growing closer to it.


    My strike on the tungsten fails¡ªa black crack erupts in the white glow. I scream a curse and toss my hammer to the floor.


    ¡°What is wrong with you?¡± Nazak snaps. ¡°Where is your patience? You hammer like an initiate.¡±


    I turn to him in a fury, then remember who he is and calm myself. ¡°I apologize, honored runeknight Nazak. My arm seems dull lately.¡±


    ¡°Be more careful. Do not insult our Runethane''s gifts.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight. Again, I apologize most profusely, to you and him also.¡±


    I pick my hammer up off the floor. I feel its weight in my hand. Masons use hammers too, to break the stone. Are they not closer to miners for that? We runeknights do not break things. Even if we fail a craft, its metal will be apologized to and reused.


    The higher a runeknight rises, the less they harm metal also. Our strikes become more accurate. We make the metal into shapes it is pleased with. We never harm it.


    And then, here in the forge, as I stare into the glowing tungsten, a revelation comes upon me. I recall Braztak''s riddle. What goes into the Runeking''s foundry but never out?Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    The answer is metal¡ªthis I have always known. Yet as to what is done to the metal, I have not yet been able to work out. I have considered dozens of ideas¡ªperhaps the metal is folded in on itself, perhaps it is compressed, perhaps it is transmuted into some other substance. Each idea I have rejected: ordinary dwarves can fold metal, compressed metal would weigh a great deal and require many runes to reduce that, and though true metal is beyond metal it still retains all base properties and thus cannot have been transmuted.


    It also must be a dangerous process, or else it would not be kept secret from those of lower degrees. Braztak told me I must work it out for myself, and Nazak said that learning it would only harm me, for the process is too dangerous.


    But what if it is kept from the vast majority of runeknights for another reason?


    What if that reason is shame?


    No. The master mason is a mason. He knows stone, not metal. Why would he know a secret that only the greatest runeknights can ever learn? Masons cannot even read runes, beyond a few of the simplest scripts!


    He has masons everywhere. He has walked through every cavern in Allabrast, perhaps, maybe every cavern in Thanerzak''s city also. He knows hidden cracks, hidden peepholes. Maybe he saw something. And maybe he is also older than he has any right to be, for a dwarf with no amulet of unaging. He works stone as well as any runeknight works runes. It could even be that the masons are not so devoid of magic as is commonly thought.


    No. It is impossible. He was simply insane with anger. He wanted to insult me, that''s all. Yet still I cannot dismiss his words; they remain embedded in the back of my skull. Miners are murderers of stone¡ªwhat if runeknights are murderers of metal? What if the reason that metal flows into the Runeking''s foundry and never out is that he mines it? Mines the metal!


    Junior runeknights could never be allowed to know this secret. If rumors were to spread¡ªall would collapse. If it became known that we were abusers of metal just as miners are abusers of stone¡ªthe consequences could be disastrous.


    This, then, could be the secret of true metal. This could be the terrible, shameful secret that only the most powerful runeknights can be allowed be know:


    We mine the metal itself.


    <hr>


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Nazak demands. ¡°You are to work on your cable.¡±


    ¡°My cable hasn''t been progressing. I''m going to work on something else.¡±


    ¡°You are not permitted to.¡±


    ¡°Why not? Through making this craft, I will improve my skill with tungsten. This will in turn improve the quality of my cable when I return to it.¡±


    ¡°I can tell the shape of what you are making. It is a knife. It is not to kill demons, but dwarves. You are a fool! Did you think I would not be able to tell?¡±


    ¡°It is not to kill demons, no. But neither is it to kill dwarves.¡±


    ¡°Then what is it for?¡± he demands.


    ¡°It is a mining tool, honored first degree.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°A mining tool. It is just an idea I had.¡±


    ¡°What kind of idea?¡± His eyes narrow. ¡°Are you trying to mock us?¡±


    Is my theory wrong? Did I misread the master mason''s words? Perhaps he really was just insane¡ªyet if the true metal is within my reach, I must try. Even if this method goes against everything a runeknight ought to be, I must try. How can I ever protect Guthah and Hayhek if I do not improve my crafts?


    ¡°I am just trying something out, honored runeknight Nazak. I''m not trying to cause offense to anyone.¡±


    ¡°Then cease making miners'' tools. They are not needed.¡±


    ¡°I believe they are¡ªthey will improve the power of my crafts. And that is what you all want, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°We need more runes.¡±


    ¡°Which I can only create for great crafts. And the greater the craft, the greater my inspiration for them.¡±


    ¡°A mining tool is not a great craft. You are mocking us.¡±


    ¡°It is to assist in the creation of great crafts. It is to uncover...¡± I hesitate. ¡°It is to uncover the truth, honored runeknight. The truth of metal.¡±


    He stands. He grips the bars hard and they squeal against his gauntlets. ¡°You mock us! You must stop!¡±


    His words may be words of anger, but his tone speaks of sudden shock. In this moment, I know I have hit upon the truth.


    ¡°I cannot stop,¡± I say. ¡°And you have no right to stop me. To stop another dwarf''s forging.¡±


    ¡°You will put down your tools!¡±


    ¡°And deny to our Runethane what could be my most powerful runes yet? To deny to you all those runes too? I thought I was here to bring about a new age for all dwarfkind. How can I do that if my very forging is shackled?¡±


    ¡°The runes for¡ªfor what you speak of are no different to the ones you already know. Cease this!¡±


    ¡°I refuse,¡± I say calmly. ¡°Our Runethane will punish me if I do as you order. He will punish you also. He will hurt what you love, if you restrict my runeforging.¡±


    ¡°This has nothing to do with runeforging.¡±


    ¡°It has everything to do with it. The greater my skill in the forge, the further my skill with runes grows. I am a runeknight, not a metalworker. I am an artist, not a manufacturer.¡±


    ¡°This is nonsense.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane believes otherwise, or else I would never have been allowed to forge down here.¡±


    ¡°Do not insinuate that you know our Runethane''s thoughts!¡±


    ¡°Then call him down here and we will ask for his thoughts! Well? Shall we? Your attempt to stop me will anger him. You know this!¡±


    Nazak''s grip on the bars tightens further. The metal bends. Cracks form and the right bar splits apart. The metal screams.


    ¡°All of you below second degree, out!¡± he shouts. ¡°Now!¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 65: Mining of Metal

    Three of the seven guards hurry out, looking confused. The four who remain stare at me oddly, as if they cannot quite believe that I am truly about to do this, that a dwarf so relatively young and inexperienced could have already hit upon the deepest secret.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say quietly to Nazak, but my concentration has already wandered away from him and back to my metal.


    I lay another hammer blow into the rod of white-bright tungsten¡ªsteel or titanium would do just as well, but I use what I am now most used to. It flattens, extends, and over the hours becomes a knife, though it is unlike most knives: I give it no point, and make its blade straight instead of curved. This tool is for scraping, not cutting.


    Metal on metal echoes and white sparks fly. My shaping fails twice¡ªI cannot allow any error. But my patience seems to have returned, for I feel no anger when I fail. As long as I apologize to the metal properly, no ill will come of my failure, and although that apologizing, that reworking, takes time, time is meaningless in this place of metal. Progress is measured not by hours, but by the flash of sparks and the anvil''s rings.


    After many, many strikes, the shape is complete. I gasp and stagger over to a waterskin the guards have left me¡ªwhen they left it, and if I asked for it or not, I do not know. After letting the coolness soothe my throat, I take another look at what I''ve made. The knife is an ugly shape, almost brutal in its functionality. Though it is not a pick, it reminds me of one. Its purpose is the same.


    The shape is still rough. I equip my runic ears and all light fades. I tap. The sound of the piece is brutal also. Its single note is not quite in tune, and even after many heatings and tappings, gentle nudgings to get each plane and edge exactly aligned, the note is still not in tune. It cuts into my ear at an uncomfortable angle, as if my murderous intentions are clear even at this mid-way stage of the craft.


    Maybe I should stop¡ªthis thought crosses my mind for a brief moment. Just because all senior runeknights are happy to treat noble metal as ore, does not mean I must. I already have a power that sets me ahead of others, do I not? The power of runeforging.


    This thought vanishes. My fellow dwarves are more important than metal. My crafts must improve.


    The runes are what will provide my knife''s real function. I do not know how most runeknights create their tools for the mining of true metal¡ªI have never seen such a tool, all must keep theirs secret, never show it, never speak of it. Each runeknight must make one using his own method.


    I have the power of runeforging. I will create a rune for truth and uncover the secret that way. First, I must choose my materials. For reagent I consider hytrigite, but its nobility will not take well to the ignobility of my craft''s purpose. Instead I shall use incandesite. It will burn away the untrue metal, the inferior stuff, to reveal what is hidden within. However, for the runes themselves I will use stable platinum, for I do not want to accidentally damage the true metal with the instability that gold or silver can sometimes impart¡ªif it is even possible true metal to be damaged, that is.


    Perhaps I will reforge this implement, once I know more about the substance.


    Now I plunge into the magma. The sphere propels the heat of the world''s blood through me and I create my poem. I use my runes of magma, since they are my most powerful creations, and write of burning and melting metal to extract what is needed. I utilize no metaphors, and my stanzas are simply structured. This choice in itself reflects truth: there is to be no complication¡ªonly melting and scraping, to result in revelation.


    Only one new rune is needed: that for truth. Into the word vi-seh I put my understanding of what truth is. It is a lack, I decide, a lack of fakery and falsehood. It is everything Xomhyrk was and Vanerak is not. It is the opposite of Runethane Yurok''s darkness and delusions, of Runethane Broderick''s cowardly attack at the city''s weakest. It is the final verdict of the Trial by Forging, and a rejection of how Vanerak attempted to corrupt that.


    It is the simple honesty of Guildmaster Wharoth.


    The symbol twists into being: a triangle, open at one side, with a single line inside it. This is the most simple rune I''ve made in my magma script yet, though that does not mean it will be easy to write. I can already tell that if each angle is not twisted perfectly the rune will not function at all.


    I do not allow the power to take over me fully, for I do not want to hurt the metal any more than necessary. The hidden element within me, or within the sphere, must not be allowed to raise its head to alter my intentions. When I leave the trance, I am drenched in sweat, but my body remains strong and unfevered.


    My hands have not touched the reagent and metal yet. I must twist the runes manually. Although it has been a long time since I did this, my fingers have lost none of their skill and precision. Weaving the wire into symbols, even such tiny symbols, gives me little difficulty. I only have to remake a few, and then the poem is nearly complete. Only the rune for truth remains.


    As I suspected when I made it, despite its simplicity in design it requires great precision to create. The first few times I twist and cut, no power at all comes from it, not even the merest hint. I try again, and again once more. Still there is something wrong.


    I equip my runic ears. They are more sensitive than my eyes. I will hear the shape and alter it into correctness.


    It is nearly too small to make out. I have no way to chime it either, for even the merest tap would bend it. Nevertheless, like a whisper heard from across a vast cave, I can hear it, just barely, and if I still my breathing and concentrate, I can make out far more detail in this whisper than I could visually. I use two metal rods to push, very gently, at its form, and after close to a hundred minor bendings and straightenings, the rune for truth is into shape and my poem is finished.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Now to graft. I push the grains of incandesite into exact place, lay a rune upon them, light. Red flashes. Rune by rune, power takes shape upon the tungsten blade.


    Nazak and the other senior runeknights watch in awe. Perhaps for them this process was much more difficult; perhaps it takes most runeknights many attempts, many long-hours in study of runes and composition of lines until they are able to create a craft that works.


    I graft the final vi-seh rune of truth and an aura of power envelops the metal. This aura is not visible, but instead felt as a burning sensation. I wince as I hold the craft up for examination.


    In many ways, it is contradictory. It speaks of noble truth, of finding the pure metal hidden in the mundane, yet this apparently noble purpose is in fact anything but. It is brutal. It is mining. Even the name, true metal, is a misnomer to my thinking. Ordinary metal is plenty powerful and useful. What could ever make it untrue? It is cruel to destroy it.


    The master mason feels exactly the same way about ore, doesn''t he? It is fitting that my craft should be contradictory. The very concept of a runeknight is contradictory. We say we are above destruction and value ourselves solely based on the beauty and power of what we create. Yet in order for that beauty to be born, we must destroy.


    The miners are our scapegoat for this. But when it comes to surpassing ordinary metal, what can be extracted from the stone with magic-less heat and force, miners cannot be used. The runeknight must do that himself.


    Thus, runeknights are miners. Thus, runeknights must hate miners, lest it be suspected that we are no better than they are.


    But I am getting ahead of myself. This is a fascinating and beautiful craft¡ªthough within the beauty is also grotesquerie¡ªyet it may not even work.


    I take a heavy block of tungsten from the stores, heft it onto the anvil, and place my blade upon it.


    The moment the enruned blade touches the metal, warm power hums in the air. The blade trembles; the tungsten seems to recoil. I get the sense that it is trying to compress itself to avoid the blade. I swallow. This is mining, what I am about to do. This pure hypocrisy, destruction disguised as nobility.


    I scrape the blade along the tungsten. Red-hot dust blooms and vanishes into nothing. The metal judged unworthy is gone, annihilated. I scrape the blade back the other way. More dust rises and vanishes. Heat turns to cold. I scrape once more. There is a flash of white, a tiniest spark.


    Could this be a sign of the true metal?


    There is no way of knowing but to dig deeper, mine further into the metal. I scrape again, pressing the blade in hard as I do so. The cloud of burning tungsten nearly scorches my face. More white flashes, in sparks and little trails.


    This has to be it! This has to be the true metal. But what exactly is it? And how could it have been so well hidden, never revealed to me before after thousands upon thousands of strikes upon the metal? And what power, exactly, does it truly hold?


    I scrape back the other way, applying even more pressure. Over the side of the dark metal a few grains drop and rattle onto the anvil. My mouth drops open in awe. I put down the knife and brush one of the grains into my palm, then hold it up to the light of the daycrystals for examination.


    It is unmistakably tungsten. I know that metal intimately and can tell this. But I can also tell that it exceeds tungsten. It is a little heavier than it should be, a little colder. I squeeze it between two fingertips and find that it is a little harder.


    I brush the grains into a small shallow crucible. I shake it a little and listen closely. Yes, this substance is tungsten, and at the same time more than tungsten. There is power to it, power akin to the power in reagent¡ªmagic. An almost living power.


    Heat appears, vanishes into cold. The metal is burning, dying, suffering murder. I delve deeper, scraping harder and more slowly, applying maximum pressure. More white sparks appear. More tiny grains roll off onto the anvil, and I sweep each and every one into the crucible.


    This is it! The truth of metal! I have found it, found the power I have been searching for!


    Scrape by scrape I whittle away the tungsten. There is only a thin layer left now, and my final strokes eviscerate it. One last grain of true metal flashes and rolls on the anvil. Feeling supremely satisfied, I brush it into the little crucible, which I now proudly hold up under the light to see exactly how much true metal I have acquired


    I tilt the crucible from side to side and watch the grains roll. There is maybe a gram and a half in it.


    Is that all? I bring the crucible close to my eye, but nothing has been caught in the corners. This is all there is: a gram and a half. Out of twenty kilograms of tungsten I have produced no more than a gram and a half of true tungsten.


    The waste astounds me. The magnitude of my crime against the metal drags down upon my heart. A low groan escapes my lips and I sink to the floor. Almost twenty thousand grams of noble, strong tungsten, that could have been forged into something fine and beautiful, has been murdered. I have murdered it. I have rent the metal into nothingness just as I used to rend rocks into dust alongside Hardrick.


    ¡°What are you groaning for?¡± Nazak says angrily. ¡°You have accomplished in a single long-hour what takes most dozens of long-hours to accomplish. Where is your pride?¡±


    ¡°Is this not a crime against metal?¡±


    ¡°It would be a crime against your fellow dwarves, whom you have sworn to help and protect, not to utilize such power.¡±


    ¡°What is it, even?¡±


    ¡°Metal beyond metal. Gems live¡ªmetal does also. Some metal lives more than other metal. You have separated the strong from the weak.¡±


    ¡°The weak could have been useful too.¡±


    ¡°No. It was holding back the strong. Just as stone holds back the strength of metal in it, until it is thrown into the smelter.¡±


    ¡°Ore cannot be made useful at all. Ordinary tungsten can.¡±


    ¡°Ore could be walls, or shelter, or ammunition for slings like those troglodytes wield. But it is more useful in death than in life. Same with mundane metal.¡±


    ¡°I cannot accept this. How can the Runethane accept this?¡±


    Nazak''s expression darkens. ¡°Halax taught me a word once: heresy. The meaning is to go against a great and good power. The sky-worshipping humans use their equivalents frequently.¡±


    ¡°What have humans got to do with this?¡± I shake my head. ¡°This is a dwarvish crime.¡±


    Nazak stands and jabs his finger through the broken bars at me. ¡°A crime?¡± he shouts. ¡°A crime? To call it a crime is heresy! You go against all that we stand for, traitor. Miner! So what if our power is gained through the death of metal? If it protects your fellow dwarves, where is the issue? Tell me!¡±


    I shake my head. I am unable to put my feelings into words. I cannot even sort them into thoughts.


    ¡°You cannot tell me. So be silent. Never accuse your fellows, and your Runethane, of committing some kind of crime in our pursuit of perfection. There is no crime here.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight Nazak,¡± I say quietly. ¡°I am sorry if I caused offense.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 66: Impenetrable Secrets

    As Nazak crawl-swims through the molten stone, he wishes that one of the demons would come upon them and so break the irritation of his own thoughts. Heavy heat crushes down on every inch of his armor, bringing sweat bubbling from his skin as if he is being boiled. Yet his memory of Zathar''s words is heavier, and the anger they bring forth hotter.


    To compare runeknights to miners! To claim that the pursuit of true metal is akin to mining! Does he not know what it is he was speaking of? He has uncovered the true metal, the substance that first degrees and Runethanes, those dwarves who play the greatest part in protecting innocents from the horrors of the caverns, gain such great power from.


    If not for the true metal, how many would have survived the flight from the black dragon? Vanerak won many victories on the descent to Allabrast, against trolls, salamanders, a horde of troglodytes and worse. If not for the true metal, he could not have won. All would have been slaughtered.


    Nazak lost his brothers on the descent to Allabrast. How many more families would have been rent apart if not for the true metal? It is possible that every survivor would have been killed in the caverns below, if not for the power in Vanerak and his first, second, and some third degrees'' crafts.


    For Zathar to gain access to this secret, and then spit on it!


    Nazak''s rage grows further. He would never criticize his Runethane openly, but deep down he now believes it has been a mistake to allow the traitor such freedom, and free use of resources. The traitor does not deserve them, and besides, they already have all the runes they need from him. They are defeating the demons, are they not?


    He should certainly not be allowed to create any more true metal¡ªhis skill has progressed greatly. He might even be able to make use of it. He should be locked up in isolation until a new script is needed. What is Runethane Vanerak thinking? Is he becoming greedy¡ªpursuing the creation of runes with no heed to what the consequences of Zathar''s further growth could be? Or is he just too deep into his forging to care about anything other than the metal he works for his rumored crown?


    Zathar''s runes have saved the campaign against the demons. But his latest outburst proves that he remains what he always was: a traitor, and no true runeknight.


    One of the second degrees points to the front-left. Nazak focuses his heat-sense in that direction and not-sees the spark of heat flying toward them. There seems to be just the one, which is a relief¡ªa hint that his plan to approach the city from this particular angle was a good one.


    With a quick hand-signal he tells his party¡ªone other first degree, five seconds, and eight thirds¡ªto keep going ahead. He himself ups his speed, pulling his way through the sticky, heavy, sweat-bringing magma with maximum exertion.


    Their demon-slaying blades and points may be effective, but if you miss that first strike the demons remain as dangerous as they ever were. Even since the adoption of Zathar''s distorting runes, many a runeknight has fallen to possession and been burned apart from the inside. Nazak is the strongest here and thus it is his responsibility to take on the danger. The demon keeps its course. It grows larger in his heat-sense, and a little hotter. Nazak readies his jagged axe. It is double-edged, so that it can cleave backward through the magma quickly, and it is hotter than the magma too, turning the molten rock thinner for even more striking-speed.


    The demon is nearly at him. It changes direction, darts to the right at a right-angle. But Nazak was expecting this; he lunges forward and slices without delay. His axe only clips the demon, yet even this shallow blow is enough. The demon''s form distorts, slows, and the second degree it was darting for stabs it through with his barbed spear. The demon''s lines of heat unravel and disintegrate.


    Nazak motions his runeknights onward with no delay. More demons may come. This one might have been a scout. They have to hurry, lest a swarm descend on them, like several past frontal-assaults have met with.


    Cold rubble thickens around them. The floor rises to meet them, of the same cold stone, and in some places the magma has congealed and frozen. They are in the outskirts of the city now. Nazak leads them onward, warily. The relative coolness of their surroundings reduces the effectiveness of their heat-masks somewhat. This will make a demon stand out more, but there could also be other things lurking here.


    They come to a clear area, devoid almost totally of the cold stone. Just a few minutes later, a series of smashed obelisks looms on their horizon. At first the size of the blocks is not apparent, but as they approach, Nazak realizes just how massive they are. He gets the impression that they must extend right up to the sea''s surface. The remnants of city walls, perhaps? Did this city use to stand like Thanerzak''s in the midst of a cavern?This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The great, cold stones appear almost natural in shape. Maybe they were once cavern walls, hardened somehow by the odd stone runes¡ªof which many are written on them, and also reliefs that might depict battles, though it is hard to make the details out using just heat-sense.


    No one has come this far before, Nazak realizes. He would have received a report about this place if they had. He signals for his dwarves to pull closer together and leads them through a crack between two of the great obelisks. As he passes through, he feels tiny, like a fungus mite crawling through the bricks of a shattered castle with no conception of where it is nor the function of the place it intrudes into.


    And now they have entered the city proper. A heatscape of towering rubble greets them. There are broken chambers, shattered houses, sections of spiral-stairs laid horizontally, parts of domes, holes that might have been windows¡ªall of the near-invulnerable stone.


    A thrill runs through Nazak. They are here! They have done it! This circuitous route has led them to the beginning of their victory. Somewhere in the heart of this will be a clue to the translation of the stone runes. There has to be¡ªhow could there not be? Many of the broken walls are thick with writing. Some of the writing is below pictures¡ªsurely meaning could be derived from these ones, not easily derived, but derived nonetheless.


    He leads his dwarves onward. They sight no demons just yet¡ªsome theorized that they would be living here, populating the city like ghosts, but that seems not to be the case. The rubble grows thicker and still none appear. Neither do any salamanders approach. A roof looms at them¡ªNazak motions for everyone to swim upwards. It would be problematic if their cables became tangled on something above.


    A few minutes on, and they meet a wall. It has a row of five doorways cut into it, with jags of broken floors leading out a few feet from each. Their cables prevent them from passing through, so instead he leads them up the wall. Above, a plane of blank cold comes into view. They are nearing the magma''s surface. Some of the walls and pillars pierce through it.


    The city is more intact than he expected. It had to be, though¡ªif parts of it did not rise above the magma, Halax would never have spotted it through the shifting fumes.


    He holds up a palm to stop his dwarves. They have come far enough. The fact that no demons have come to them yet is beginning to disturb him. He worries that in his excitement he has made an outright mistake.


    The demons'' tactics have grown more advanced of late. Could it be that they have come into a deadly trap?


    He motions down, for them to return the way they came, and the trap is sprung. From the five broken doorways pour five lines of demons, each following the path of its leader with mathematical precision. They are bearing directly for Nazak and his runeknights, and as they move they accelerate. A forefront of heat precedes them, a wave boiling up. It thins the magma around Nazak''s armor and he feels like he''s suddenly been plunged into water; he sinks abruptly. The sense of vertigo shocks him.


    Into his armor he yells a curse. He makes no signals with his hands¡ªthere are no orders he can give now. Everyone knows what they must do: fight.


    <hr>


    How much metal does it take to create a weapon? A few thousand grams or so. Sometimes a fair bit less. Armor weighs more, maybe up to twenty thousand grams, or far more if its crafter plans to utilize runes to reduce it while still keeping the benefits of its thickness.


    I imagine, for example, a longsword. It weighs but one thousand and five hundred grams. Yet if I were to craft it out of true metal, I would need a thousand grams of mundane metal for every single gram and a half of true; I would need a thousand times a thousand grams to have enough.


    A million grams! A tonne! The number astounds me. Most runeknights use less than that throughout their entire lives of crafting. Such an amount could equip an entire army of runeknights, and would cost a small fortune to acquire. That a tonne might be used on only one craft is nearly beyond belief. And of course, a runeknight does not make only one craft. A full suit of armor would take many tonnes to create.


    Does even Vanerak have access to such stores of metal? For his army he might, but for his sole personal use? Surely only a Runeking could command such resources. When Runeking Ulrike said I could not begin to imagine the materials he uses to forge with, he was talking about the true metal. And he was right that I could not imagine it. I still cannot.


    Lesser dwarves must work it into ordinary metal somehow. Yet, will it not lose its magic through this? Blended back into the mundane, surely it will lose all effectiveness.


    I need answers, but none are forthcoming:


    ¡°Will it not revert to being mundane if I blend it into ordinary tungsten, honored runeknight?¡±


    ¡°I cannot tell you,¡± says Halax.


    ¡°Can it be welded to mundane tungsten, honored runeknight?¡±


    ¡°I cannot tell you.¡±


    ¡°Should I instead use it to create runes from, honored runeknight?¡±


    ¡°I cannot tell you.¡±


    ¡°I have already uncovered the secret, honored runeknight. So why can you not tell me? Surely the Runethane would be pleased if I could forge my runes out of the true metal instead!¡±


    ¡°A runeknight must find his own way in this most noble task beyond even any other craft, or his works would not be his own. The true metal does not abide dishonesty within the forging, runeforger.¡±


    ¡°So I must work it out by myself, honored runeknight?


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°But that way I might waste our Runethane''s metal.¡±


    ¡°You cannot ruin true metal, if that is what you are worried about. Just try not to be so foolish as to let even a single, invisible grain of it slip through your palm to be lost in the furnace.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by saying I cannot ruin it, honored runeknight?¡±


    ¡°You have already made me say too much. Your questions are wily, runeforger. I will not reply to any further ones.¡±


    My subsequent questions are met with cold silence. What the true metal is, and how I am to use it, it seems I must discover for myself.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 67: A Demon Laughs

    As Nazak crawls from the sea, the magma falls from his hunched figure slowly, as if it does not want to let go, but desires to impede him further, to drain the last remnants of his strength and drag him back into the fiery depths. He nearly falls to this force; his will to fight fades for a second, then he roars a curse and his strength comes surging back. He breaks free in a cloud of molten, hissing droplets.


    He stumbles forward across the glassy black beach, his metal boots shattering the shards loudly. Runeknights follow in his trail, far less than he dived into the sea with. He fumbles at his heat-mask, trying to pull the blindness from his eyes with fatigue-aching fingers, but when he eventually manages and light comes around him, it is no relief. The orange radiance seems to burn him even through his scratched and dented armor. He tears out his three-quarters sealed breathing cable and sucks in deep fumes. Toxic as they are, they are a relief to his starved lungs.


    The other survivors stumble up the beach after him. He hears the crash of one collapsing, then heavy splashing as he writhes. Nazak turns and stumbles back to help him.


    ¡°Jadat!¡± he shouts hoarsely. He grips the second degree''s wrist and pulls him up, then pulls his air cable from his helmet. ¡°Jadat, are you injured?¡±


    Jadat sucks in a deep breath, then screams: ¡°I can feel it! Feel it!¡±


    ¡°Feel what? Where are you hurt?¡±


    ¡°I can feel it!¡±


    Another runeknight grabs Jadat under the arm to support him. Nazak looks up and down the struggling second degree''s armor, but can see no major damage, just scratches and shallow dents.


    ¡°He might be¡ª¡± begins the other runeknight helping to drag him, but Nazak cuts him off.


    ¡°We need to get inside!¡±


    A third degree dashes to the gate and knocks the correct rhythm fiercely. The door opens slightly¡ªshouts are exchanged¡ªit opens fully and the remnants of Nazak''s force hurry through. Several collapse outright onto the floor. Those whose discipline has not been so shattered help Nazak to strip off Jadat''s armor. This is a difficult task¡ªthe injured dwarf is still writhing, battering against them, trying to throw them off. His strength, for having pulled himself through the magma for such a long way, is remarkable.


    ¡°It burns!¡± he cries. ¡°I''m burning up!¡±


    ¡°Where are you hurt?¡± Nazak demands.


    ¡°Inside! Inside me it burns!¡±


    ¡°Someone get some damn healing chains!¡± Nazak shouts.


    ¡°He''s been taken!¡± another second degree says urgently. ¡°Commander, it''s too late!¡±


    Jadat gasps. ¡°No! I''m not taken. I can fight it! I''m fighting it!¡±


    Some of the dwarves who helped strip Jadat''s armor back off.


    ¡°Commander, get away from him!¡±


    ¡°Get some healing chains!¡±


    ¡°Here!¡±


    One of the third degrees has retrieved some. Nazak snatches them away and begins to wrap them around Jadat''s chest. Jadat yells out in agony. His eyes roll madly.


    ¡°It''s burning hotter! Stop!¡±


    ¡°Stay still!¡±


    Several of the others draw their weapons and form a circle around their commander and the convulsing, sweating Jadat. The door to the corridor flies open and a troop of runeknights hurry in, led by Helzar.


    ¡°What in hell''s happened?¡± she shouts.


    ¡°We went too far!¡± Nazak snaps. ¡°We lost two-thirds of everyone. Tell your runeknights to get more healing chains! Jadat''s dying!¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Jadat''s eyes stop rolling. They fix on Nazak, who sees instantly that Jadat has just lost the battle he''s been fighting this whole way back from the scene of their defeat. Whatever is now looking out at him is no dwarf. Jadat, if he still exists, has been buried deep.


    Four runeknights strike simultaneously; four weapons stab and slash downward. The demon inside twists its new body with such speed that every one of the four strikes instead brings sparks up from the stone floor. It contorts itself then springs up with hands outstretched; its fingers find their mark and clasp around a runeknight''s helmet. Heat boils in its palms, then its hands erupt into an inferno. The runeknight screams as his helmet melts around his head. The demon laughs as the inferno spreads from its hands to engulf the rest of its stolen body, turning it into a living torch.


    Nazak slashes quickly at the possessed Jadat''s legs. His axe does not strike fully through the burning flesh, on purpose, for in his fatigue-addled state Nazak believes there still could be a chance to save his subordinate.


    The demon spins Jadat''s body around and launches itself at Nazak. Nazak uses the haft of his axe to guard. The demon grabs it and uses Jadat''s lungs to scream. The flames wreathing his body flare hotter, to white and shades of blue.


    ¡°Fight it!¡± Nazak yells. ¡°Fight it!¡±


    ¡°There is nothing left to fight with!¡± the demon inside roars triumphantly. ¡°This dwarf, this Jadat, this defiler of our home is dead! Dead and gone!¡±


    ¡°Ignore its words! Fight, Jadat! Fight!¡±


    ¡°I said that the invader of our home is dead, foul dwarf!¡±


    ¡°Kill it, you fool!¡± Helzar yells.


    She charges with her spear held forward, its barbs glinting, ready to tear and kill. The demon releases its grip of Nazak''s weapon and spins to meet her and the others charging behind her. It ducks under her barbed blade and shoves her bodily. She flies back, glowing handprints set into her armor.


    Nazak screams a curse. This demon that has taken control of Jadat, one of his most loyal subordinates who marched with them all through their long chase across the surface, is a truly powerful one. Perhaps it is one of the five leaders of the force that attacked them¡ªNazak recalls that one was only struck lightly, then retreated away to let its followers overwhelm their reeling, disorientated force.


    One of Helzar''s runeknights stabs at the demon. It dodges and rushes forward to grab him around the neck. Oily flames burst and the runeknight screams and falls. Two spears enter the demon in the same moment, and its flames momentarily shiver and fade, revealing blackened flesh beneath. The demon forces itself forward along one spear and strikes at the wielder, carving burning lines in his helmet. That runeknight falls. The demon twists to escape the second spear in it, but the barbs hold and it cannot withdraw.


    Nazak charges. The haft of his axe is ruined, so he holds it near to the head. The demon writhes madly and tears itself free of both spears, roaring in pain as it does so. Nazak leaps and slashes at the demon, aiming to cleave into its ribs, but he misjudges the distance and misses. The demon sees the opportunity instantly and springs at him.


    They collide. The demon''s strength is greater and it brings Nazak to the ground. They roll. Nazak yells in agony at the pain. The demon''s flames are hotter than magma, far hotter. His runes start to melt.


    ¡°Foul dwarf!¡± yells the demon. ¡°Cruel dwarves! Invaders!¡±


    ¡°Murderer!¡± Nazak screams back. ¡°Let my runeknight go!¡±


    ¡°He is burned up, burned to nothing, as you all will be! Defilers and hypocrites! Now that I can see from within one of you, I understand why we have been given life for our task! Demons, you call us?¡±


    Three of Nazak''s runeknights hack into Jadat''s back. The demon''s ranting is cut off at the pain and dimming of its flames. Scorched bone becomes visible as white heat fades to red. But it still has strength¡ªit propels its stolen body upward and lashes violently at its assailants. Two block; two are thrown down screaming.


    Nazak dashes his axe into Jadat''s foot. The demon roars in agony and knees him in the face. Securing hinges snap with the force and Nazak''s helmet is cracked open.


    ¡°We are not demons!¡± roars the demon. ¡°You have no right to call us creatures of evil! We are angels¡ªa word I see you rarely dare utter! We have been tasked by our god to protect the city from you, and now I understand why! Your depravity knows no bounds!¡±


    Helzar and three of her runeknights are charging at the demon''s back. Nazak sees this.


    ¡°You are the depraved ones!¡± he shouts. If he can keep its attention for but a few seconds, its life will be over. ¡°You turn our comrades against us! Twist them and burn them from within!¡±


    The demon laughs. ¡°We kill, but we never kill our own. Foul dwarves! Liars who claim the slaughter of a dragon! I see your lies! I see your evil, dwarves! And I see your strategy!¡±


    It spins around and leaps up, over the jabbing barbed spears. It falls quickly and sinks its flaming fingers into the neck of a runeknight. Steam explodes out, and fragments of shattered tungsten fly.


    Helzar is quicker than the rest. She whips back her barbed spear then buries it into Jadat''s belly. The demon screams. Nazak slashes Jadat''s arm off as it reaches for him.


    ¡°Lying dwarves!" roars the demon through Jadat''s mouth. "You will never reach our secrets! You, who slay your own fellows and hide the crime! Who lie about slaying a dragon¡ªliars who kill true dragonslayers¡ªwho slaughter the noble then hide their shame¡ªwho¡ª¡±


    Helzar twists her spear and rips it out. Charcoal dusts billow from the gaping wound, and the demon''s flames fade. In its last moments, it laughs:


    ¡°Lying kinslayers! Such evil will never stand against our citadel! Victory will be ours!¡±


    Ash blows from its mouth, and then Jadat''s body collapses into gray powder.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 68: Bludgeons in the Blackness

    In my pursuit of the true metal, I have destroyed nearly all of my tungsten, and the shelves of my storeroom have become startlingly empty. The sight of the bare racks is almost dizzying; I had never imagined I would ever see them like this.


    Vanerak gave me resources I thought were unlimited. But that was a false assumption¡ªthere is no such thing as an unlimited resource. Metal and gems must be mined, and once it is dry, a mine does not replenish by magic.


    Neither will this storeroom. So, I must make the best use of the true tungsten I now have¡ªall thirty grams of it. It sits in my crucible, a pile of powder about half the size of my thumb.


    The first thing for me to do, I think, is melt it into a solid piece. One cannot forge with powder, after all.


    I pour the true metal into the most densely enruned crucible I can find. I inspect the emptied container under the light and notice that a couple grains remain. I pick them from the corners and place them with the others. Now I turn the furnace on, then up to its maximum setting. The magma river ripples and shivers with its own heat. Onto the ceramic slab goes the crucible, and I wait. Its platinum runes begin to glow bright white, yet the material within remains stubbornly gray. Patience is everything, so I wait further, and eventually the true tungsten becomes dull red.


    I wait further. No more change comes over the grains. I pull at my beard in frustration. The furnace is already as hot as it will get! After several more long minutes, the crucible''s runes start to shiver and warp, and the sides begin to glow yellow.


    I extract the crucible. Trickles of platinum are running down it. I have managed to destroy it, totally, and inside it the true tungsten has grown no brighter. I curse loudly.


    Extracting the true metal is easy enough, now that I know the method. But to work with it is another matter. My furnace is not hot enough, and yet how could that be? This is the most powerful furnace I have ever used!


    Halax is staring curiously at me. I don''t bother meeting his gaze. He has made it quite clear enough that I must work this out myself.


    The crucible, at least, is a problem I can easily solve. It may have been the best I was given¡ªbut what dwarf puts real effort into a craft that will be used by another? I will make my own crucible, and I will make it well enough to resist truly absurd heat.


    I put the true metal aside and get myself a small ingot of ordinary tungsten. I heat it and beat it out into a long strip. I let it cool, then cut exactly with my diamond saw. Now I have a square about the size of my palm. The rest of the strip will become the walls.


    Heat and hammer, heat and hammer. I fall into the usual rhythm of forging. The tungsten flattens out exactly as I desire¡ªthe process is nearly easy for me now. I equip my runic ears to even out the last imperfections, then I run my fingers across the cold heavy metal and feel its perfect flatness.


    Onto the base, just inside from the edges, I streak ground quizik reagent. I cut the strip into four squares, streak more quizik onto the appropriate places, and stick the squares to the base and together. I examine the five plates to make sure their positionings are exact, make a few adjustments, then I place the craft into the furnace and switch it to its lowest setting. I wait a while. I switch it up one setting; the dial clicks. I wait some more. It is vital that each plate heats exactly evenly.


    The tungsten gradually becomes red. All at once, the quizik flares brightly. The edges of the craft glow white; I turn the furnace down and let the whole piece cool back to an even red. Only then do I turn the furnace up to its previous setting. Then, again, I wait patiently. The tungsten absorbs more heat.


    I repeat the process of heating, waiting, heating, until the craft is one solid piece. I let it cool in the air as I sleep, then after I wake I put it on the anvil, equip my runic ears, and listen to the taps as I get the shape of the craft as close to geometrically perfect as my skill allows.


    When I take off my runic ears, a roofless cube of perfect proportions lies on the anvil before me. The sight is satisfying.


    Now to enrune. I need no new runes nor altered runes for the poem I have in mind, so for the first time in what feels like several years¡ªis several years, in fact¡ªI have no need to fall into my trance. For once I can avoid the deadly wrestling with the power of the world''s blood and simply make a poem.


    It is a simple one of five stanzas, one for each outside surface of the crucible. The first tells of a stone plunging toward the magma sea. As it approaches it heats up, then it touches the surface and is bathed in heat. These are the second and third stanzas. The fourth stanza tells of its sinking, of the substance around it growing hotter and hotter, until in the fifth stanza it comes to a rest against the very bottom of the ocean, yet the blazing heat cannot change it in any way.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    I use platinum to make the runes, and quizik to graft most of them, plus a little hytrigite for a few of the key ones. Flashes of pale white and blue light up the forge as if the daycrystals have decided to shine the colors of a surface storm through their facets. The scent of burning magic fills the air and I breath it in deeply.


    After the last rune is grafted, I hold the crucible up and find myself impressed. This is a craft I only spent a couple of long-hours on, and did not plan for, and nor did I exert my abilities by some great measure, either in runeforging or metalworking, yet despite the relative lack of effort it is well-made. Very well-made. To make a craft as neat in form and dense in runes would have taken me many long-hours of effort and half a dozen do-overs, if had attempted to make it on my first arrival to Vanerak''s realm.


    The ease with which I''ve made this proves to me my skill even more than creating my trident did.


    I return to my room in a good mood. I have accomplished a good craft, and what is more, I have accomplished it for myself, not for Vanerak, nor for any other dwarf. I crafted as a runeknight should craft.


    As I drink my beer and eat my meal, however, my mood slowly darkens. What good is a crucible without a furnace? I know nothing of magma-plumbing, nor any kind of engineering. I have no conception of how to increase the heat that pours from it. I do not know if it is even possible. I think it will take more heat than magma can provide to melt the true tungsten.


    Why not create true iron, then? Or true steel, if such a substance can exist? Or true titanium? But I don''t know what I''d make with those metals.


    I don''t even know what I''m going to make with my true tungsten either. I have a few vague ideas for an improved trident, and an improved helmet, but they are very vague indeed, just sketches of sketches within my mind.


    What does it matter? My mood turns black and I slump in my seat. I am never going to be allowed to leave my quarters anyway. What is the point of creating anything? A runeknight crafts to improve his strength, so that he can protect the weak more effectively¡ªor at least earn money more effectively¡ªeither way he crafts so he can fight.


    My existence down here is like that of some manufacturer-dwarf of Heldfast Hill. A so-called runeknight who makes armor and weapons for others. That''s all my runes are, aren''t they? Weapons for others.


    They have helped many. Saved many even, including Hayhek. But this still leaves a bitter taste. I am not a runeknight up here in this cell. What I said to Nazak was wrong: I am not an artist, but instead a manufacturer.


    But not a manufacturer of anything that requires true tungsten.


    <hr>


    Each of the five runeknights gathered in this dark corridor has good reason to despise his or her superiors. Vanerak''s cruelty and dispassion has bred the same in several of his second, third and fourth degrees. They take pleasure in making those they dislike suffer, knowing that in all runeknight society, but most especially here in Vanerak''s realm, might makes right.


    Buyath, sixth degree, has had his poems plagiarized. Hajan, seventh degree, and Ithis, fifth, are both beaten regularly. Kalas, sixth degree, has been denied resources for refusing a marriage proposal from a third degree she despises. Uyat, eighth degree, was forced to mine for a whole ten long-hours, and the taste of rock-dust still pollutes every bite of food she eats.


    Until now, they have not dared to act. They have been too scared to take revenge against the injustice of Vanerak''s senior runeknights, and the crimes they commit, condone, and ignore.


    But things are not as they were a few years ago, when the Second Runeforger was first brought down. Many of Vanerak''s best have perished in the seas. Their recent victories have been brought not by Vanerak himself, but by the Second Runeforger''s runes, and thus Vanerak cannot claim them as he did the victory of their escape from the black dragon. That escape itself was also something many of the junior runeknights only barely remember, or were not involved in.


    And now a new rumor abounds¡ªthat their Runethane took no part in the black dragon''s slaying, and in fact it was the Second Runeforger and his allies, murdered allies, who accomplished that great deed. Many runeknights heard the voice of the demon¡ªsome suspect it did not lie.


    These five plan to discover the truth. They have chosen their target carefully: one of the two surviving second degrees who went with Vanerak to hunt down the Second Runeforger. He is confident in his armor and often walks back alone from the caves whose clearing he has been tasked with¡ªother duties besides fighting demons remain to be done.


    ¡°Ready?¡± whispers Ithis. ¡°He comes!¡±


    The second degree, Goluhr, walks through the semi-darkness, oblivious to the five dwarves hidden in the alcove with weapons held ready.


    They will find out the truth. Who really killed the black dragon? And what crimes did Vanerak and his dwarves commit up on the surface that have not yet been told?


    The first bludgeon, from Ithis'' beaked warhammer, crafted especially for this occasion, staggers Goluhr. The second, from Hajan, collides with his visor. The seventh degree hammer shatters¡ªand a shard flies into Goluhr''s eye. He shouts at the pain.


    The third strike, from Kalas, hits the back of his head and he falls to his knees. Still, his armor is of second degree quality, and he is merely shocked rather than injured, apart from his eye. He retains presence of mind and reaches quickly for his axe.


    Uyat''s blow is weak, but it still manages to slow Goluhr enough to allow Ithis to strike another blow into the back of his helmet, right where it has been slightly dented. It dents further. Goluhr is dizzied. Kalas strikes in the same spot. Colors explode in Goluhr''s vision. Buyath lays in his own strikes, and the runic power of Goluhr''s armor is diminished enough that even his sixth degree weapon hurts badly.


    Goluhr is still second degree. He shakes off the pain in his skull, stands and punches at the nearest runeknight. It is Buyath, and his breastplate dents at the force. But he has taken the rib-cracking blow like a dwarf, and now he grabs Goluhr''s wrist tightly. More blows rain on Goluhr''s head. His tungsten helm cracks, and runes blast apart. He groans and slumps. He weakly wraps his hands around the back of his head. The five runeknights continue to rain down blows, breaking his armor piece by piece, destroying the runes by innumerable scratches and dents.


    Once it is naught but scrap, they strip it from him and drag him away down winding caves unknown to most, but carefully mapped by them.


    Caves too long and too deep for the captive''s screams to be heard from.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 69: Letter of Rebellion

    What burns hotter than magma? The answer, when it finally hits me, is obvious: reagent does, especially incandesite and hytrigite. It burns far hotter¡ªevery initiate knows this. When its magic is released to bind rune and metal together and imbue both with power, the heat reaches immeasurable levels¡ªyet only for a fraction of a fraction of a tiny fraction of a second.


    Is it possible to prolong this heat somehow? Make the incandesite burn a little cooler, for a lot longer? Perhaps by mixing with some other material¡ªbut what material?


    I have no idea. I will have to research, yet all my books are of runes, not about metalworking. Besides, I have no materials apart from my reagents and metals.


    It truly seems as if I have come to a dead end. I suppose I could request a book on furnaces from one of the runeknights, but those who talk to me are usually from the lower degrees. They are unlikely to have the knowledge I seek. And Halax will tell me nothing of the true metal.


    Yet, what I ask is not necessarily about the true metal, is it? It is just a question of furnaces and fuel. Of engineering.


    ¡°Honored runeknight Halax,¡± I say. ¡°This magma furnace is hot, but I must make it hotter.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡±


    ¡°It is so. I must make it five-fold hotter, at least.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Is your furnace much hotter than this one?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± he admits.


    ¡°Does it use magma to bring heat?¡±


    ¡°It does not.¡±


    "Then it must use reagent. That''s the only thing that burns hotter."


    "Nothing burns."


    This surprises me. "What do you mean? There is no fuel?"


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    ¡°None at all? How?¡±


    ¡°That is a secret I am not going to divulge, Zathar Runeforger. I do not tell all the secrets of my crafts.¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane¡ª¡±


    ¡°Our Runethane says we must help you, yes, but I believe he will respect my unwillingness to give over all my secrets to you.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I have the answer I seek. It was obvious, wasn''t it?¡±


    ¡°It should be, though execution might be more difficult than you predict.¡±


    Reagents was wrong. The answer, the obvious answer, is to use runes. If runes can triumph over magma when it comes to protecting from heat, why can it not triumph over magma in another way¡ªthe degree of heat generated? Many runeknights use flaming blades, usually to help them slay certain monsters whose wounds must be cauterized, such as trolls, or great amphibious beasts. I can forge something that will create a similar effect.


    I decide to use titanium. I have plenty of it, and I also do not need the melt-resistant property of tungsten, for my craft will not actually touch the metal I seek to forge, but will instead project heat.


    First, the design: I throw myself into my papers. I draw a dozen preliminary sketches, at first trying to imagine the actual shape of the thing, then as I refine my ideas, the exact positioning of the various heat-inductors. I calculate the kind of runic flow I will need¡ªthe runic flow, in concert with the device''s geometry, will determine exactly where the heat will be concentrated.


    The more I design and calculate, the more daunting the task becomes. It is no wonder more dwarves do not make their own furnaces from runes and metal¡ªnot only is this craft going to cost me a great amount of titanium, gold and platinum, and incandesite, but it is going to require me to push my technical skills very far also.


    Much easier to use coal, wood, or magma, which can get metal hot enough for nearly every purpose anyhow.


    As I lie on my bed after several hard short-hours of drafting poems, a strange thought comes upon me: how much would one of the dwarves of Heldfast Hill pay for such a device as this? A great deal, I would imagine. Probably anything to do with true metal goes for a great deal of gold and gems, in that particular miniature kingdom. The secret itself might even be sold to those with the money. Maybe even those with no knowledge of crafting purchase it, just so they can say they know.


    My thoughts turn dark. Once I finish creating this furnace, will its use be given over to other senior runeknights? The cable I made has been, after all, and my runes also¡ªmy runes most of all.


    The idea is vile, violating. This will be my craft! Mine! And yet, I could lose control over it. Vanerak will get his bloody, grubby hands on it, as he has done my runes, and hopes to do my power. All my crafts¡ªthey are his, bent for his purposes. Even if I say to myself that they are for Hayhek and the other suffering soldiers, they are soldiers of Vanerak, who sweat and die for him.


    A runeknight fights on his own terms!


    I am no runeknight¡ªI have come to this conclusion before. I am a manufacturer, a metal and runecrafter¡ªI have come to this conclusion before also. But this time I take the logic further: I am a crafter for Vanerak.


    All I do is forge my crafts and, ultimately, I forge them for Vanerak.


    This thought runs around and around in my mind like a looping river. My writing-stick slows. My mind slows. And when I finally return to the forge, to begin creating the runic furnace that will unlock so much power for me, my hammer beats slow and inaccurate.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    A malaise has taken me. This power of true metal I am seeking¡ªI am seeking it for Vanerak, the liar, the torturer.


    When will I ever be free of this place? I am in a pit with no exit and sides as smooth as black glass; I will never be free.


    <hr>


    Less than a long-hour after Goluhr''s disappearance, blood-signed letters begin to be found throughout Vanerak''s realm: in dark corridors, nailed to the sides of storage crates, slipped under the doors of various rooms and barracks, and even, most ingeniously, folded into small leather pouches and placed into ale mugs. This is not the work of just five¡ªthere are many more who help, more who have reason to hate Vanerak and his senior commanders.


    Each letter reads the same:


    Goluhr Honored Runeknight of Second Degree has declared to us, several friends of truth and nobility and justice in dealings with others that, as many suspect, the so-called demon hinted at the truth, and that the actual happenings upon the surface were not as you have been told by the liar Runethane Vanerak, but in fact occurred as follows:


    Liar Vanerak and nine of his runeknights, including his most senior commanders Nazak, Halax, and Helzar, did not slay the black dragon, as he falsely told us all. They entered the cavern when the black dragon was already near to its death, and thereupon undertook several vile actions.


    They slew near to a dozen injured members of the true dragon-slaying party, so their subsequent lies would not be contested. They then bound five unconscious members of the true dragon-slaying party, as tokens with which to threaten the Second Runeforger. They watched as the renowned Xomhyrk Dragonslayer rattled out his final breath, while they still held healing chains to spare. Only after these acts did they undertake the capture of the Second Runeforger.


    We will make clear that we do not deny that the traitor should have been captured! He committed a terrible crime against us all. We do not deny this, those who suffered from the black dragon''s savagery! Yet all true, noble runeknights should consider the liar Vanerak''s falsehoods to be a crime against us all also.


    And he continues to commit crimes against us! What are these runes we are seeking? Why have so many died for runes we cannot use? Even with the Second Runeforger''s runes, the demons are overwhelming us once more. Why are reinforcements not called from other realms? Are we truly doing the Runeking''s bidding? Is he even aware that we have the Second Runeforger with us? It is likely he is not aware; why?


    What is the nature of the so-called demons, who undertake but defensive actions, and not unjustly claim that is we who intrude on their territory? Does the liar Vanerak know? Why does he not divulge even the merest hints of truth?


    It is time for an end to the lies! And for an end to our ill-treatment. Runeknights are not miners, and yet several have been made to mine as punishment. And in what kind of realm are the poems of juniors copied by their seniors? In what kind of realm can guilds not be established freely, and broken from freely? Why are resources denied or given at whim regardless of purchasing power?


    In what kind of realm is the torture of the fellow subjects of our great Runeking Ulrike permitted, as has happened on several occasions? And what kind of a Runethane slaughters a guild to the last runeknight¡ªas our Runethane did, before he even entered the black dragon''s lair? This could well be the greatest crime of all, though sadly honored runeknight Goluhr was unable to elaborate much on this particular crime; it was the final one he admitted to.


    Enough is enough. You have read the truth, and now it is time to take action. Resist! Rebel! And most of all, convey this message to Runeking Ulrike! He, the ruler of the great and noble Allabrast city, and of more than seventy tributing realms, will not abide by the crimes being committed here.


    Runeking Ulrike, save us from tyranny! We beseech you; break from your forging and restore justice to this realm, be it only a minor part of your grand domains! Destroy the criminals!


    Runethane Vanerak is not worthy of the title. To all those who respect truth and what is right and noble: he must be deposed!


    Signed in blood by honored runeknight Goluhr. Examine the below fragment of armor if you doubt that it is indeed his blood. It emanates a power not attainable by lesser runeknights.


    ¡°The fragments are indeed from Goluhr''s armor,¡± Nazak spits. ¡°I recognize the runes well. A most vile crime has taken place, my Runethane, and the traitors make clear their intention to commit more.¡±


    ¡°It might be wise to take immediate action,¡± says Halax. ¡°Decisive action. Such a murder must not go unpunished.¡±


    ¡°The punishment must be harsh,¡± rasps Helzar. ¡°Harsh indeed.¡±


    They are sitting in one of Runethane Vanerak''s personal chambers. It has gone disused for a long time; dust has settled thickly on the table, disturbed only around the blood-signed letter. The Runethane himself is seated directly in front of that letter. None of his commanders can tell his expression through his mirror-mask: if he is focused on the words or not, if rage shows on his face, or something else.


    ¡°My Runethane, we must crush this at the root,¡± says Nazak. ¡°Such a crime¡ªthis is a threat to our realm. A far worse one than the demons pose.¡±


    ¡°Then take appropriate measures,¡± says Runethane Vanerak. ¡°I have tasked you three with running the affairs of my realm while I am busy with my craft, have I not?¡±


    ¡°You have, my Runethane, but this kind of threat, in my opinion, requires a direct response from you. You must show them personally what kind of a fate meets traitors.¡±


    ¡°Not a mere prison cell,¡± Helzar rasps. ¡°Our soft treatment of Zathar has dented us on the backswing.¡±


    ¡°You speak as if half the realm has turned against me,¡± Runethane Vanerak says slowly. ¡°This is a singular crime.¡±


    ¡°Goluhr was a second degree, and a fierce warrior,¡± says Nazak. ¡°You yourself, great Runethane, selected him for the surface expedition. To have killed him must have required great force.¡±


    ¡°That is not so. You put too much stake in degrees and numbers, Nazak. A strong fourth can defeat a second, if he takes the second unawares. Even enough tenths, if they had the courage and coordination, could bury one under the weight of their armored bodies¡ªand even an unruned blade, inserted through the visor, can be lethal. There is a reason that even the most powerful Runethanes do not wade into battle without a bodyguard.¡±


    ¡°While this is true, wise Runethane,¡± says Halax, ¡°the traitors do show evidence of considerable organization. They are very cunning also, having distributed the letters widely while remaining unseen. In my most humble opinion, it would not do to underestimate them.¡±


    ¡°And what has the effect of these letters been? Has open rebellion been declared? Have your forges been sabotaged?¡±


    ¡°It is only a matter of time, if we do not strike quickly!¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°Then strike. You are first degrees. You are experienced leaders also. I trust you to manage this.¡±


    "And if one of these letters should, despite our efforts, make its way to Runeking Ulrike?"


    "Allabrast is a long way from here. Even if one does, it will take a while. And it does not matter that we have Zathar; Runeking Ulrike will likely be pleased that we are keeping him safe."


    "And of our deception regarding the dragon?"


    "The letter contains only lies, as far as the wider world is concerned. If pressed, we will give our version of the truth. There is no one to dispute it but Zathar and two others, none of whom are willing to betray me. Do you understand?"


    The three look at each other. A hint of steel has come into their Runethane''s tone; he is clearly impatient to return to his forging, and they know not to argue with him further.


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane,¡± they chorus.


    ¡°Good.¡± He is silent for a few seconds, does not yet dismiss them. ¡°However, I will give one specific order regarding this matter. No runeknight, bar you three and your most trusted, is to be permitted near Zathar''s chamber or forge. If he was to read one of these letters, or hear of its contents, the distress could have a very deleterious effect on his runeforging. He must never be allowed even to know of its existence. Is this clear to you?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 70: Pressure Builds

    Melted, twisted, ruined titanium leans against the left wall of my forge. Broken runes glint, accusingly, under the light of the daycrystals. Solidified slag clings to the stone. A few cracked rubies lie within the wreckage, scorched and blistered by runaway heat.


    This mess is all I have to show for my long-hours of effort. Each of my half dozen attempts at the runic furnace has ended in catastrophic failure. Either the runic calculations are wrong, or the spars not precise enough, or the stanzas and their runes oddly low in quality.


    The failures do not surprise me. I have seen each coming. Even as I work now, on my seventh attempt, I know I am going to fail again, that my work is not good enough. My hands won''t move properly¡ªthey are lethargic, like salamanders that have been too far from magma for too long. My strikes are devoid of power and inaccurate.


    Inaccurate is wrong: I do not even have a clear vision of where to hit. It is not that my aim has grown worse, but that I do not know where I must aim. I plan out each craft carefully on paper, in great mathematical detail, but when it comes to executing them, my vision of what they should be is muddled and confused. The runic flows are clogged with minor errors. Even the rhyming and alliteration of my poems is suspect, when I read back over them.


    I weld the struts to the open loop. I go carefully, slowly, but I am not being slow enough. I feel myself making mistakes but cannot bring myself to correct them.


    Why should I? What is the point? This thought comes over and over again. What is the point? This craft is not for my use. It is for Vanerak''s use. My true metal, if I ever can forge with it, will become part of a weapon whose only purpose is to provide Vanerak more runes.


    There is no point! I continue to work only because I have nothing else to do. A kind of gray haze, like that of rock dust, has come over my sight. It has clogged my hearing. It has worked its way into my very blood, my very bones.


    Hayhek could help me. If he was to come to me in my quarters, I would be able to see that my crafts do mean something, that they have helped someone, someone who is not Vanerak. That would give my work a little meaning at least. Just a little¡ªyet no one has come for a while.


    No one has come for a very long while indeed, I realize one silent and lonely mealtime. I must have spent nearly ten long-hours on my futile attempts at building a runic furnace, and yet throughout all that time, not one runeknight has come up to talk to me. Not even Hayhek or one of the other lower degree regulars.


    Why is this? Have they been ordered not to see me? Why would Vanerak do that? He has allowed visits so far because he knows his soldiers must enrune their weapons and armor as best they can, if they are to eventually gain access to the city, and that ultimate goal has not changed.


    Has he decided to slowly torture me once more? Does he suspect that I am hiding something from him? I am not!


    Or could it be that there are no runeknights left? Perhaps Nazak led them on a great assault, from which no survivors returned. Indeed, I have not seen Nazak for a while, only Halax.


    That can''t be right¡ªI would know somehow if such a catastrophe had occurred. Sensed something. Or would I have¡ªno, I would not.


    I calm my breathing. There''s nothing I can do in any case. All I can do, all that is left for me to do, is to forge, uselessly, until I can no longer.


    <hr>


    The traitors, rebels, criminals¡ªwhatever name best suits them¡ªare proving elusive. No matter how hard Helzar and her most loyal try, they can find no one who is beyond a doubt behind the letters. A few they suspect are tried and punished on the basis of tenuous evidence, but this seems to do nothing to stop the letters appearing. Soon every dwarf in the realm has read it or had it read to them, even the masons and miners.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Nazak believes Helzar''s methods to be foolish and counterproductive. The best way to quell the rebellion, he decides, is to keep everyone so busy that they can think of nothing but forging. The coffers of the realm are emptied for the purchase of great quantities of tungsten and reagents. He announces that everyone is to reforge their weapons and armor in preparation for a final assault on the sunken city, which he believes Runethane Vanerak will eventually announce, once his own forging is complete.


    The number of letters appearing diminishes, but Nazak suspects this has little to do with his efforts, and in any case doesn''t matter. The message is out¡ªand those discontent enough to believe, believe it. The rebellion has not been vanquished, but simply made invisible, hidden deeply in the hearts and minds of those runeknights who feel unfairly treated.


    And who with any sense can blame them for feeling that way? Too many have perished, and worse than this, have perished for a cause that is too vague. They are not chasing after great treasure and riches, and nor are they hunting down monsters that pose any great threat¡ªthe letter tells the truth that the demons make only defensive actions. To many it must feel as if they are dying for nothing.


    Yes, Runethane Vanerak remains the great hero who led the survivors of the dragon down to Allabrast. No one will forget this. Yet that was then and this is now¡ªthe goodwill he earned is running out. They need another great victory, and soon, and it must be a victory with meaning: the runeknights must be shown that the runes of stone and ancient reliefs are going to improve their lives and forging or at least make them rich.


    As Hayhek forges, he worries. As his hammer beats upon the tungsten that will become a new pair of gauntlets¡ªthis is all he can afford to reforge, for despite the massive importations, the price of tungsten has not gone down by so much¡ªas his hammer beats he worries for his family. How long are they going to have to live like this, locked in a realm that is half a prison, and one on the edge of an unending and seemingly pointless war? How are they going to do without him once he finally falls? He has no doubt he will. He has been lucky so far¡ªhe has not been sent on any of the more dangerous incursions.


    But he has a bad feeling about Nazak''s talk of a final assault.


    Guthah forges also. As he works on a blade to destroy demons, he laments that it is not one to destroy dwarves instead. The letter has shaken him¡ªmany have asked him questions which he knows he must not answer.


    Zathar is the root of all his terror, all his suffering. If only, Guthah thinks, he had not followed the Runeforger up to the surface! If only he had not persuaded Pellas to do the same! They might still be in Allabrast now, drinking ale with the rest of the guild.


    He cannot undo his mistakes, yet if given the chance, maybe he can make sure Zathar never drags another innocent down to her death.


    Runethane Vanerak''s forge rings with the sound of hammer on metal also, and the echoes are strange, and the sparks strangely shaped. He forges with true gold¡ªand it is nearly into shape. The first runes are in place, forged expertly into the metal. The gems are cut. Yet there remains something missing¡ªsome great power he cannot quite grasp.


    Zathar''s power. It is the key to what he needs to make a crown worthy of a Runeking and yet he has been unable to extract it.


    As he works his metal-cold mind turns with thought. He goes through every word Zathar has said to him, every rune that young dwarf has written.


    Zathar''s power seems locked within himself, and available only to him. But Vanerak believes he has worked out the essential nature of it.


    Old power¡ªthat is what Zathar has. But perhaps new power can be created, if one is clever enough. Maybe the First Runeforger''s power was not inborn, as Zathar''s seems to be, but artificial¡ªcrafted.


    Crafted from what, though, and how?


    Vanerak''s cold mind continues to turn.


    <hr>


    I eat in small bites, listlessly, not tasting any part of my food nor my ale. The gray haze seems to have grown in intensity, so much so that I am no longer sure that it''s simply a product of my mind¡ªthe scars in my vision seem blacker, and my ruby no longer feels as hot against my skin.


    Every attempt at the runic forge falls to pieces in a clatter. It does not matter how accurately I try to aim, how hard I attempt to beat, how cleverly I try to compose stanzas; my forging fails each time.


    Why would it succeed? It is a craft for a dwarf who has wronged me greatly, beaten me down until I am no more than a miner-slave, digging out runes from no one knows where. And whoever heard of a miner-slave being able to craft anything?


    Something bumps against my lips as I drain the last dregs from my ale-mug. With lethargic fingers I pull it out and inspect it under the wormlight. I blink slowly. It is a pouch of brown leather almost the same color as the last drops of ale dotting it.


    It is folded and tied with a thin string; I untie and unfold it. A piece of paper, small and folded smaller, falls out. I unfold that.


    I read.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 71: The Haze Lifts

    I put the letter down. A tremble begins in my hands; it creeps up my arms. A feeling of weakness spreads into my chest¡ªmy ruby blazes¡ªmy stomach turns, my legs shake¡ªI sink back into the chair¡ªI must have stood up at some point while reading or re-reading, though I don''t remember when.


    My breathing quickens. My throat dries. I gag, and heave, and vomit onto the floor.


    I take deep breaths to calm myself but this only makes the nausea worse. I vomit again, just a few dregs this time, mostly saliva. The inside of my mouth becomes sour. I spit. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I take another deep and sour breath, another.


    And what kind of a Runethane slaughters a guild to the last runeknight¡ªas our Runethane did, before he even entered the black dragon''s lair? This could well be the greatest crime of all, though sadly honored runeknight Goluhr was unable to elaborate much on this particular crime; it was the final one he admitted to.


    There is nothing to suggest that the slaughtered guild was the Association of Steel. Nothing! No mention is made of its guildmaster, nor of how many members it had, nor why it was on its way to the dragon¡ªif the dwarves in question were on their way to assist in the battle or were simply scavengers out to loot remains. They might not even have been from Runeking Ulrike''s domains, but rather a company under the command of the hated Uthrarzak, or even a band of survivors from the realms beneath Runeking Halajatbast''s mountain.


    Guildmaster Wharoth risked his reputation, and his life, to save me from Allabrast''s prisons and the clutches of Vanerak. When everyone despised me, including most of my own guild, it was he who stepped out and believed in me, in my innocence, and my ability to change.


    So if he would go that far for me, how much farther would he go for half his guild, half his old friends and comrades? Very far indeed, no matter what they had said or done. Up to the surface, even, across the snow to a mountain inside of which a dragon slept.


    He swore that we were fools, and that any futile attempt at revenge would mean nothing. He would not risk the guild, he said, for such a quest. Yet he loved us. When his rage calmed, he might well have changed his mind and quested north to seek us. He would have hoped that the tribulations of the surface might have weakened our resolve, and that the right words would turn us back from certain death. Or maybe he would have tried to block us by force¡ªperhaps by means of a duel¡ªno, that does not sound like him. Perhaps he would have joined us on the quest, deciding that as guildmaster he could not sit in the safety of his hall while half his runeknights fought with everything they had to slay the black dragon.


    Yes, it is more likely than not that eventually he decided to leave Allabrast¡ªwith his best dwarves only¡ªor no, perhaps with the whole guild, desiring for us to never be split apart again.


    And if he did so, what might have happened if Vanerak came across him? The Mountain of Halajatbast is far to the north, so as they traveled their paths would have moved closer and closer to converging. It is possible both of them stopped at Heldfast Hill for supplies; the only friendly settlement between Uthrarzak''s realms and the mountain.


    Vanerak was rushing for me. I well know that he relishes spilling blood when the mood takes him, yet he would not have swerved from his goal without good reason. Was the reason he slaughtered that guild, then, that it was led by kind Guildmaster Wharoth? The runeknight who best knew my powers, and my protector.


    I shake my head and swallow a new urge to throw up. Maybe that guild attacked him first, or blocked him. But in that case there would have been no crime, and the captured second degree admitted that their attack was a crime. Maybe they were a group from Heldfast Hill. Yet those dwarves showed no desire to leave their safety.


    Try as I might, conjure up as many theories and reasons as I may, I cannot convince myself that the worst has not come to pass. The guild Vanerak and his runeknights slaughtered was the Association of Steel, on its way to assist our quest or dissuade us from it.


    Wharoth dead in the snow¡ªVanerak standing above him¡ªhalberd buried deep¡ªthe rest of the Association lying around, some in pieces¡ªtheir spilled blood slowly freezing, steam rising from it¡ªred images assail me. On the floor I gag and heave, but there is nothing left.


    It is my imagination, I try to tell myself. Just my imagination! There is no proof, not a single word of proof, that the guild slaughtered was the Association of Steel.


    At this thought, a new emotion rises in me: anger, partly at myself. What does it matter who Vanerak killed? It was crime, an evil crime. To slay fellow dwarves for no other reason than your own greed, and what of his other crime, the one first mentioned? He killed several dragonslayers upon his entrance to its lair to protect his lies. The real slayers of the dragon¡ªkilled so this thief could steal their glory! Likely it was not just those of Xomhyrk''s guild that he slew, not just Dragonslayers, but members of other guilds, including the Association of Steel. Anyone wounded in body but awake and with eyes open to have witnessed Xomhyrk''s final victory¡ªslain as they lay there by Vanerak''s cruel pollaxe.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    My ruby blazes like a drop of magma upon my chest. This cannot go unpunished! The death of noble runeknights by someone so cruel, for such a revolting reason¡ªwho could let such a crime go unpaid for?


    Who could let the torturers and murders of Pellas roam freely?


    They must die¡ªVanerak, Halax, Helzar, Nazak, and every other runeknight complicit in these evils. They must be slaughtered as they slaughtered so many good dwarves¡ªI must slaughter them! That is the purpose I must turn toward. A quest as vital as any dragon-hunt!


    I rise from the floor and, with halting and jerky steps, make my way to the partitioned part of my room. With cold water I wash the vomit from my beard. I look into my mirror and into my eyes ¡ªI see fire in them. My ruby is blazing in time with the beats of my heart. It yearns to see the blood of my enemies. I will give it that blood!


    The true metal is the key. If I can master it, I can pierce even a Runethane''s armor. I can strike through Vanerak''s mirror-mask, shatter it, pierce his skull and mind-flesh and put an end to him. Halax, torturer Helzar, Nazak as well¡ªI will cut their hearts from their chests!


    A knife. That is what I shall make. A dagger! I have enough true metal for this. I will forge a blade keener than any I have yet created. First degree armor will part like hide at its touch. Through the realm, I will stalk, and strike each of them down one by one. Why fight fair and open, when they did not? I will stab through their backs!


    I pick up my shaving razor and dash it to the floor. It breaks in a flash of sparks. I yell in rage and smash my fist against the mirror. It shatters. The shards reflect my face as they spin and fall and dash apart into dust upon the stone.


    It does not matter if I master the true metal. Forge with it or without it, I will remain powerless. My forging is watched¡ªI cannot make a dagger whose only purpose is clearly and obviously to pierce armor. And I cannot stalk around the realm. Such a thought is ridiculous. I would be caught within the hour, to face unspeakable consequences. All I would do is give Vanerak another excuse for cruelty.


    Powerless! I yell wordlessly and hammer against the wall. My fists bruise, redden, swell and hurt, but the stone does not budge.


    I am powerless to take revenge against Vanerak. I can do nothing to stop whatever further evils he plans to commit. I doubt I could manage to kill even one of his first degrees, let alone three.


    I must try¡ªbut what would be the point to suicide? If I try, I must succeed.


    There has to be a way, I tell myself. I cannot see it yet, but there must be a way. I must be patient: the quality Vanerak has taught me will be his downfall. I will bide my time and wait for the opportunity to strike.


    Yet how much time do I have? Vanerak has ceased his interrogations. He may have discovered something.


    So it comes down to the patience of the forge against the onward rush of outside forces. I must find a balance. But at least the first step is obvious to me: I must master the true metal.


    <hr>


    To the forge I go. The gray haze which has confounded my crafting these past long-hours has lifted totally from my vision and other senses; I see and move with purpose. Each step takes me closer to my objective, my destiny: a fateful battle against the hated Vanerak. He will pay for the lives he''s taken.


    I pull apart the wreckages of my six attempts at the runic furnace. As I tear girder from plate, I think on the critical errors that destroyed each one. The reasons, which were so murky to see before, are now clear as diamond. Mistaken runes, unaligned rods, poor welds¡ªhow could I make such basic errors? I will not do so again.


    My writing-stick flies across the paper, tracing lines at exact angles, sketching diagrams of gems cut into perfect geometries, scribbling calculations of runic flow that are without a doubt correct. All this is far from effortless, but my ruby, understanding the ultimate purpose of my actions, burns hot and I do not tire. I only require a few breaks for water, then within a long-hour I am done. This planning stage took less time than I expected, and so I check everything twice, and twice again, but see that I have made no errors.


    I measure and weigh new steel¡ªthe remains of the other attempts, already enruned, would have to be re-purified¡ªand ready to forge the new design. It will be similar to the others in basic shape: a wide ring of steel about a meter and a half in diameter, with curving rods sticking up from it, and at the end of each rod will be a gem with its point directed at the center of the circle.


    For the runework, I have taken inspiration from Galar''s trident of light. This is why the craft is circular: power loops around again and again, and heat steadily increases, just as how within Galar''s trident light increased. When the heat becomes so great that the steel comes nearly to the point of melting, a lever will click and the heat will pour up the rods and into the gems. From the gems it will be directed to a central point, and, hopefully, the true metal will melt.


    Whether it will melt or not is the only unknown to this craft. I simply do not know how much heat it will take to turn my grains of true tungsten to liquid. But I judge that since I managed to get it to red heat in the magma forge, my goal is surely not a completely unattainable one.


    But I am getting ahead of myself¡ªI must create the furnace first.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 72: Runic Furnace

    ¡°You are doing better than on your last attempts,¡± notes Halax.


    ¡°I am pleased that you have noticed, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°You seem more focused. More so than I have seen you be for some while.¡±


    ¡°To close in on the true metal brings about a similar degree of focus in all runeknights, surely. Or am I incorrect?¡±


    ¡°Some fear it; they shy away from using it. Or some become so taken by it that the rest of their crafting suffers.¡±


    ¡°I see. But not with me.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps not, Zathar Runeforger, though it did seem to me that something was clouding your mind until this latest attempt.¡±


    ¡°I was just tired, honored runeknight. And now I am not. That is all there is to it.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Second Runeforger.¡±


    Does he suspect something? I don''t think so¡ªit''s just his usual curiosity. I disposed of the letter totally¡ªtore it to fine shreds and mixed it into a meal. As for the fragment of armor that had been attached as proof, I dropped into the lava of my furnace to be swept into the tungsten pipes. Likely it is at the bottom of the magma sea by now. There is no way that anyone saw me do this, for I made sure to hide the movement completely with my body. And if someone had spotted my action, I would have been questioned soon after.


    My circle of steel is complete, and all but two of the heat-taking rods have been forged and bent into shape. I begin work on the next. The rough square of its cross-section turns circular, then curves exactly how I have sketched my design. Compared to working blazing white, yet still solid tungsten, soft yellow steel feels almost easy under the hammer.


    I let the rod cool, then check with sound and touch¡ªreheat and make a few adjustments. Once satisfied, I immediately I move onto the next. My ruby blazes¡ªI need no break.


    Once this final rod is complete, it is time to cut the diamonds. My earlier six attempts all utilized rubies, but this was an error. I was trying to absorb the heat, or sometimes create additional heat, but the looping power in the circle of steel will create enough¡ªso the purpose of my gems should be purely to focus it. Diamond will work better for this than ruby. It is also, quite simply, a more powerful material.


    I''ll turn another of Vanerak''s gifts against him: the claws of the diamond-skin troll are what I''ll use. They are flawless¡ªso far as my admittedly inexpert eyes can tell¡ªand long, already partly in the shape I need to channel and focus the heat.


    I take them from their shelf and lay them upon the anvil. I inspect each in turn, holding one after another up to the daycrystals. I draw out their exact shapes on paper, and sketch dotted lines where I will chisel then sand. I will have to be extremely careful; there will be no second chances with these gems.


    Hands trembling a little, I place the first diamond into the vise. I focus. My ruby burns¡ªVanerak''s own gifts will bloody him, I think to it. My hands cease their tremors. A sensation of cool stillness comes over me, and I strike hammer to hardened chisel¡ªmy diamond saw would not be able to cut its brethren, so I must use this more difficult method. There is sharp crack, high-pitched, and a sliver of diamond falls away. I step back and compare the cut I just made to the one I sketched. It is nearly the same. I have been careful enough. I will have to do a little more sanding¡ªbut I have not marred the gem.


    Another cut, and another. I spend many minutes angling each one. With the gray haze gone, I see where I must strike. My purpose is clear. Crack after crack sounds, and the diamonds come into rough shape.


    Now I must sand them into exact shape. A while ago¡ªquite a while ago, when I was making my heat-mask, I requested a tool for this from Nazak. It came late, but I have it now¡ªa spinning disc of bright chrome, rough, and enruned on the other side to increase its hardness tenfold. Nothing weaker could scratch a diamond.


    I grind each plane of the diamond. A thousand glittering rotations barely evens out a surface. It takes a thousand more, and then ten times that, before a facet is ready for polishing, and between the diamonds I have several hundred facets. My fingers ache. My eyes ache. My ears hurt from the keening. I breath diamond dust and cough, and even though it is supposed to have healthful properties, my lungs begin to sting.


    Many long-hours this takes me, and the finer polishing after with a different wheel takes even longer. Every aspect of every piece I forge takes many long-hours now. That is the meaning of patience; to abolish one''s sense of time, and realize that it is not the process, but the finished piece that the runeknight is judged on.


    Outside the forge, however, time still exists. I start to understand, from the few times I look up from my forging, that events in the underworld are moving faster and faster. Nazak returns, looking tired and battered. He has been fighting¡ªhe has lost dwarves. Those guarding me change frequently. Several once regular faces do not return. The quality of the armor of those guarding me drops too: I have been moved down on the list of priorities.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The war in the magma sea is taking a toll. Despite my runes, losses are growing again. I feel a pang of fear for Hayhek¡ªdoes he still live? Still no one comes to talk to me¡ªVanerak has surely disallowed it¡ªit hits me that maybe the contents of the letter is the reason. It was not addressed just to me, after all. Likely it was disseminated throughout the realm. Vanerak did not want anyone slipping me a copy or whispering its contents. He guessed correctly the effect it would have on me.


    I push my worries about the outside of the forge to the back of my mind and focus on the diamonds. Now that they are finished, they must be set into the rods'' sockets. The welding process is tricky and requires my full concentration. By the time I have completed this painstaking work, my mind has returned fully to the metal.


    Now for the runes. On this attempt as on all the others I have planned out the runic poem manually, for I cannot risk the runic flow being altered. I unspool long strands of platinum, measure, twist and fold, clip. Long lines of runes stretch themselves across the anvil. My poem is simple: an ode to heat, increasing as the magma sea churns. This is conveyed: that the totality of the great mass of the magma sea''s heat is far, far greater than what a simple little artificial river could create. The looping represents the endless amounts of the magma and its heat; then on each of the rods is a stanza detailing the up-swell of great eruptions.


    The stanzas on the diamonds are dissimilar. They tell of heat moving, not its creation. They speak of heat as something that affects what it touches and affects with purpose¡ªnot necessarily destruction.


    Runic flow is extremely important to this poem, even more so than it is to most¡ªmy craft is technical. Some of the alliterations and metaphors are slightly unnatural out of necessity. I could rework them and increase the total power of the poem, yet it is not power that I desire, but perfect focus. Everything must align exactly.


    I decide that a few key runes do not fit well enough, and go into my trance to alter them. Within the sphere''s directed heat, the meanings change slightly as well as the runic flow, and I end up having to rework several long lines.


    I read over again, and again, recheck my the runic flow calculations again, and again, and again, over half a long-hour¡ªand finally it is time to graft. I have no trouble here. Quizik, of which the mix mostly consists of, makes the runes easy to align. I heat a tungsten rod, tap gently. Gray-red flickers brightly and constantly until my work is done and the runic furnace stands completed before me.


    It is like a maw of metal, the troll''s claws its teeth. Its runes quiver with potential power. Its center emanates a sense of future burning.


    ¡°You''ve thrown away your earlier qualms, I see,¡± says Nazak, as I place my enruned crucible in the furnace''s center. ¡°You plan to work the true tungsten.¡±


    ¡°That I do.¡±


    ¡°Into what craft?¡±


    ¡°I have not yet decided, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°Armor would be desirable. The demons have been striking far more ferociously since we broke into their city proper. And there is a great amount of them.¡±


    ¡°I am glad to hear that we have broken into the sunken city, honored runeknight. I had not been told this.¡±


    ¡°It does not matter to you. Your duty is to forge¡ªyou have not made up fully for your crimes, traitor.¡±


    ¡°Of course not, honored runeknight.¡±


    ¡°You made a weapon to tear apart the demons, traitor. Yet not armor to resist them. Why not?¡±


    ¡°I felt that my current armor was strong enough. It did not occur to me to make a new suit.¡±


    ¡°It could be improved. One''s crafts can always be improved.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±


    He leans forward. ¡°Your runes of magma, and of demons, do not contain any vocabulary about throwing the demons away. Repelling them from my dwarves'' mouths and eyes.¡±


    ¡°That is because they are runes of magma, honored runeknight. To repel is not a property magma has. It heats and crushes. It is destructive, not evasive.¡±


    ¡°None of the normal scripts have such restrictions,¡± Nazak counters.


    ¡°My abilities are not totally the same as the First Runeforger''s. Or maybe they are, but are not yet fully developed.¡±


    ¡°Then why not create a new script?¡±


    There is something desperate in his tone. How many of his dwarves have burned within the sunken city?


    ¡°It is not so easy. You''ve seen me burn before, honored runeknight, when I push myself.¡±


    ¡°You survived. We have healing chains.¡±


    Healing chains, I think bitterly. Those that you refused to use on Xomhyrk and his brave Dragonslayers as you watched them die! And then you killed many yourself!


    ¡°It is not so simple,¡± I say. ¡°I would need to spend a long time reflecting on evasion. On air, perhaps, its currents and gusts. Then I would be able to put the meanings into new runes. But they would be a new script, and not suited to molten stone.¡±


    ¡°But you could try.¡±


    ¡°My crafts are my own, honored runeknight. I would ask that you respect this¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your runes are for us all!¡± he snaps. ¡°Why do you think our Runethane deigns to keep you alive, to give you such a wealth of his resources? For his realm! For his runeknights!¡±


    He is angry; anger rises in me also. What right do you have to speak of wishing to protect? You who have helped Vanerak with each and every one of his evils! Hypocrite!


    I keep my anger out of my voice. ¡°I cannot make what you ask, honored runeknight Nazak,¡± I say coolly. ¡°It is beyond my abilities. Could you not utilize the runes I''ve made already to repel the demons? Place thorns around your helmets?¡±


    ¡°It has been tried,¡± he says bitterly. ¡°It does not work. To harm something you must put purpose behind it. Armor is to guard and weapons are to harm. Nothing good ever comes of mixing their functions.¡±


    Nthazes gave a similar explanation when pressed on why the dwarves of the deep did not create armor of light. To focus your armor on giving you offensive power will inevitably reduce its defensive potential. Braztak was an extreme example of this¡ªthe incredible power his armor gave him could only come when his life was nearly at its end.


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight. That is as you say. I apologize for the foolish suggestion.¡±


    ¡°I should have known better than to ask,¡± he spits. ¡°Go back to your forging, traitor.¡±


    ¡°Yes, honored runeknight.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 73: A Decision is Made

    I step back from the maw of the runic furnace. I walk around it, examining each of the eight heat-conducting rods and their focusing diamonds. The troll claws are carved with poems of unemotional focus, yet within them glint memories of violence. This slight contradiction should work in my favor; it is tungsten I seek to melt, after all, and what is more¡ªtrue tungsten. It does not respect weakness. I must show it respect through the force I apply, and I am about to show it a great deal of respect indeed.


    A section of main circle of the furnace is offset. While out of place, no power will flow. When I click it into place¡ªcompleting a stanza that is both the beginning and end of the poem, and which directly references the impossibility of a break in an eternal loop¡ªthe runic power will flow.


    The cuts interlock jaggedly with teeth as minute as those of a saw-blade, and the steel here is an alloy with a slightly lower melting point than usual. It will expand as it heats, then form a slight weld to which I will have to apply a fair amount of force to break.


    It is a clever piece of work, though whatever adjustable mechanism Galar used must have been much cleverer. My ideas still do not approach his genius, nor that of his brother.


    Enough dawdling; enough reminiscing; enough self-praise. This craft has no meaning if it cannot melt the true tungsten.


    I take a breath, and press in the offset section.


    The runes glow with power invisible. Heat emanates from the circle of steel and a mask of sweat prickles on my face. The circle starts to redden, then turns to the color of flame, brightens. The platinum runes become etchings of light that hurt to look upon.


    The glow of heat spreads up the rods and the diamonds become like spearheads of fire. Around the crucible a corona of blue and violet flares, a sphere of transparent color. The color roars as if with the voice of a dragon, and the crucible shivers within. I am forced to step back¡ªthe heat is terrible¡ªit is like the heat of dragonflame.


    Dragonflame!


    I cry out and cover my eyes as the blue-violet becomes too intense to look upon. The air dries. My sweat starts to steam away. Some of the guards shout out in fear. Still the heat grows, but I cannot yet step in to break the runic loop. I seek to melt true tungsten¡ªI feel that this heat is not yet enough.


    ¡°Disable it!¡± someone shouts.


    There is a clatter of footsteps as the guards rush around the outside of the forge. I wait until they exit their corridor, a second longer, then I fix my runic ears around my head and snatch up a pair of tongs. I clasp them around the breaking-section of the circle, pull. The runic loop breaks. The heat begins to fade. I reach into the furnace''s center and take up the crucible, pull it toward me.


    The air around it is still roaring, as if on fire, so violent is the heat it has absorbed. It feels too heavy. I put it down upon the anvil. Steel bubbles. The guards approach.


    ¡°Back!¡± I warn them.


    They make no move to arrest me, but step back in awe. I pull the runic ears from my head. For a few moments I am both sightless and soundless, then light returns to the world of metal and I rock back in awe myself.


    Within the glowing crucible is a circle of shimmering white liquid, and in the shimmers I see strange shapes, hints of forms, of what this metal could be, what it desires to be.


    This is the true metal. This is the substance that Runeking Ulrike said I could never imagine. Now I have done better than imagine it¡ªnow it is upon my anvil, ready to be forged into a weapon to slaughter my cruelest foes.


    <hr>


    Upon Runethane Vanerak''s anvil is a crown. The true gold, not so hot yet flaring deep yellow all the same, brims with power, and the many layers of runes within and upon it declare their meanings in red light. The saga writ is one of domination; how it performs its function only Vanerak knows.


    Yet, it is not enough. This is not strong enough¡ªto place this upon his head would not be enough to make Runethane Vanerak into Runeking Vanerak. It is as powerful as Starcleaver would have been, once completed, so he has surpassed Thanerzak, yet Thanerzak was also but a Runethane.


    Perhaps he just hasn''t put enough time into it. Thanerzak worked a hundred years upon Starcleaver¡ªand spent true metal on half a dozen premature designs during the hundred years before that. Runethane Broderick''s maille took over a century to forge¡ªmany long-hours were spent on each millimeter-scale band of gold.


    And these were but the crafts of fellow Runethanes! How long did Runeking Ulrike spend creating his Crown of Eyes? Vanerak knows he grew the crystals himself; they were not cut or found, and the growing of each from the tiniest, perfectly formed seed of some concentrated and enruned reagent would have taken many years, and the Runeking has hundreds of them upon his head and all about his realm, all flawless.


    And what of Runeking Uthrarzak''s crafts? While it is true that their ancient foe is known more for his treatises and great abilities of command rather than any single craft, his armor and shield and spear are feared greatly. It is said that the last time he and Ulrike faced each other in battle, Ulrike''s own armor rusted from shame in the face of such power and beauty.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Perhaps it is simply too early for Vanerak to ascend to their ranks. The mighty scars that had been struck into the black dragon¡ªthey were the fruit of Runeking Halajatbast''s blade, proving that he was nearly the equal of a creature that laid waste to an entire realm with a single breath.


    The power of Runekings is near unfathomable. Yet Vanerak has his own unfathomable power, a power none have had for a hundred times a thousand years: the power of runeforging¡ªthough of course only indirectly, for now.


    A loud knock on the door to his forge shakes him from his thoughts. He gets the strange feeling that the knocking has been repeating many times over, a regular drumbeat that has lasted for a half hour¡ªa forging trance can be a powerful thing indeed.


    Vanerak sweeps a veil of salamander skin over his uncompleted crown. He walks over to the door and opens it.


    ¡°What is it, Nazak? You look alarmed.¡±


    ¡°I am, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Do we face more defeats?¡±


    ¡°No¡ªI have ordered a stop to all expeditions, for the time being. The demons come at us in too great numbers.¡±


    ¡°I see. Then what is it?¡±


    ¡°It is Zathar. He has the true metal, and he works with it.¡±


    ¡°This is good.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane, he refuses to obey my orders. I told him we need armor, and he begins to work on a weapon.¡±


    ¡°Offense is as important as defense. He has developed his abilities¡ªand with that, our own strength will grow. This is my plan. I had thought you understood it.¡±


    ¡°You told us before, my Runethane, that we may not need him for much longer. That you were on the verge of a great revelation.¡± Nazak glances past his Runethane to spy the veiled craft on the anvil, its shape not very well obscured. ¡°Have you come to this revelation yet?¡±


    ¡°I have not.¡±


    ¡°Zathar''s progress worries me. A weapon of true tungsten, even worked with his average ability, could prove deadly.¡±


    ¡°You worry needlessly. He will not risk rebellion. I maimed his very spirit. At first I doubted this, but now he obeys without question. He is broken.¡±


    ¡°With respect, my Runethane, you do not see him as often as I do. There remains a fire in him, one that grows stronger by the hour, though usually he hides it well. He ordered his guards to step away from his forging. He is a prisoner, yet orders guards!¡±


    ¡°You should not have allowed them to interfere.¡± Cold metal comes into Runethane Vanerak''s voice. ¡°His work is never to be interfered with. In his runes is power for all of us.¡±


    ¡°He will turn on us,¡± Nazak insists. ¡°I am sure of this.¡±


    ¡°And I am sure he will not. I maimed his spirit¡ªhe may have fire in him, but it is turned solely to our purposes, to make runes for us.¡±


    ¡°You know better than anyone that fire is not simple to control. Our Runethane Thanerzak sought to control dragonflame¡ªand he and his realm died for it. I do not want to die in whatever flames end up being born from Zathar''s runeforging.¡±


    ¡°It is not your place to criticize my oldest friend.¡±


    ¡°I apologize, my Runethane, most profusely. Nevertheless, I feel that I must make my misgivings clear. Zathar has rebellion in him.¡±


    Time, Vanerak thinks. There is never enough of it. A runeknight can stand over his anvil and pretend that time does not exist, forget entirely of the concept, yet outside of the forge it still moves, inevitably, like a boulder rolling down the slope of a mountain with unstoppable crushing force.


    Probably Nazak is right about Zathar¡ªthe young dwarf might indeed, despite all he has endured, remain stubborn and arrogant enough, perhaps, to think that the secret of true metal will give him a chance at revenge. To let him forge as he pleases may end up being just as disastrous as Thanerzak''s mistake.


    Time flows outside of this small realm also. Vanerak keeps some communication with Allabrast, and other realms too, and certain patterns are becoming apparent. As Runeking Ulrike forges, dreaming deeply of Godhood, Uthrarzak is preparing for war. There is no dwarf under the stone more patient than their old foe; he shows no interest in ascension. He desires to put an end to his mortal problems before he turns his forging to immortality.


    And then there are their closer foes. The news of the demons multiplying also disturbs Vanerak. Pulling on the tail of dragons is never a good idea, and the demons'' collective tail has been worse than pulled. So far, his runeknights'' attacks have been keeping the demons on the defensive, but there have been too many losses, and the pace of assaults cannot be kept up. A counter-blow could be building.


    Vanerak''s cold mind turns. It is time, perhaps, to cool the fires of the furnace, cease the tail-pulling, and strike all-in with a killing blow.


    No. There is no perhaps about it. The time has come¡ªVanerak understands this now. The forging trance falls from him like dust clearing. He sees that his craft has failed. He will attempt again when he has the knowledge he seeks, the deep knowledge that lies in the heart of the sunken city that surely has some link to the very first runes. There is no point in continuing to forge until this knowledge is his.


    ¡°How close is the reforging to its end?¡± he asks.


    Nazak senses the change that has come over his Runethane, sees the sudden focus in his eyes, and is momentarily startled, but steadies himself. ¡°Our resources are nearly spent,¡± he answers after a second''s thought. ¡°Tungsten has become all but unaffordable.¡±


    ¡°Then each runeknight is to complete the craft he or she is working on and start no other. It is time to strike a final blow. I will lead the assault myself.¡±


    Nazak bows deep. ¡°Yes, my Runethane. I am beyond pleased to hear this decision.¡± He finishes his bow. ¡°But what of Zathar? I recommend¡ªif I may be allowed to speak freely¡ª¡±


    ¡°You may.¡±


    ¡°Then I recommend that he be imprisoned or confined to his quarters. If we do not need his runes right now, there is no value in having him continue to forge.¡±


    Vanerak considers slowly. ¡°Yet, if we confine him to his chambers, we cannot guarantee that his guards, who must be lower in degrees, will not let him free¡ªrebellion still simmers.¡±


    ¡°Then chain him to a wall, with chain unbreakable by all but the strongest weapons.¡±


    ¡°I would need to forge those chains. And stone walls can be easily broken even if the chains they are linked to cannot. No, we cannot confine him physically. We will instead confine him within his own mind.¡±


    ¡°My Runethane, I am afraid I do not quite follow.¡±


    ¡°Let him think all is well. He will continue to forge his weapon. He will be oblivious in his forging trance. And if he has delusions of wreaking revenge with it, so be it¡ªlet him dream, and while he dreams be docile.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane,¡± Nazak says, disappointment heavy in his voice. ¡°I see your logic.¡±


    ¡°But I do heed your warnings, Nazak. I also do not wish to make the same mistake as my dear friend. Upon our victorious return, I will decide Zathar''s fate in the light of the knowledge we uncover.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane. Maybe I am too forward in giving this opinion, but¡ªI hope you decide it to be a swift and bloody one.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 74: The Shaping of True Metal

    The weapon I begin to forge is a trident. This is my deception¡ªlet all who see it think it to be a simple improvement on my last weapon, whose purpose is also solely to tear apart the demons. The saga I plan to inscribe on it will have a double-meaning, and instead of three points it will have four, three at the front and one at the reverse¡ªostensibly to pierce the armor of those possessed, but truly to pierce the armor of Vanerak.


    Already I have completed its basic shape. Now it is time for the next stage, the hardest stage¡ªthe creation of the true tungsten points.


    I examine my tiny disc of true tungsten. I envision how I will shape it, and see that I have enough for just one point, or maybe a little more. I decide to make it the fourth point, the back-spike. If I destroy the remainder of my tungsten stores, I should gain enough true metal for the front three points.


    I lift every remaining tungsten ingot off my shelves and pile them beside the anvil. I divide the pile into three, ready my mining-blade, and get to work. Hot red smoke billows into the air with each stroke. It stings my eyes¡ªor maybe my tears fall because I know that this is mining.


    White sparks appear, fade to reveal grains of the true metal. They rattle onto the anvil and I sweep them into the crucible.


    A mere hour later and a third of the tungsten is gone. In its place, one gram of the true tungsten. Feeling vaguely sick, I equip my runic ears and place the crucible into the runic furnace. I force the offset section into place. The air shivers and roars with sound and heat equal to that of a dragon. I grit my teeth and count thirty seconds, slightly less than last time, then force the offset part back out the circle. Heat fades and I withdraw the crucible.


    I unequip my runic ears and peer in at the shimmering white pool¡ªthough far smaller than the smallest coin, it is immeasurably more precious. There are twisting shapes on its blinding surface, things that are almost weapons, pieces of armor, jewelry¡ªyet not quite. The metal desires to be made into these things, yet it cannot become them on its own.


    It will have to wait a little longer. I spend another two hours mining the remaining tungsten for two more grams of true metal. Once it is done, and two more true tungsten discs set upon the anvil, I take a step back. A colossal sense of emptiness comes upon me. At the foot of the anvil there had been, only a few hours ago, dark metal piled high, noble and useful and quite precious metal¡ªnow there is only bare floor. Three grams of true tungsten are all that remains, sitting there upon the anvil besides the gram and a half more from my first mining.


    Such terrible waste! Nearly my own body-weight in metal has been annihilated for a mere four and a half grams. I blink tears from my eyes. The master mason is right to despise us; he and his fellows who respect stone are right to look down upon those who break it into dust. I have heard that the masons have secret rituals of respect for the fragments they chip away with their chisels; runeknights and miners show no such respect to what they waste.


    But there was truth in Nazak''s words too: without the power of true metal, there would be far fewer dwarves alive. How could dragons ever be slain without it? Or hordes of trolls, and great armies of humans? It seems that the destruction and disrespect of stone and metal is a cruel necessity.


    Now to shape the discs into points. I measure again the flat tips on the trident''s flame where they are to be welded¡ªeach is exactly a millimeter wide. I compare them with the true tungsten, and decide that I must make the points thinner and sharper.


    I use my ordinary furnace to heat the ends of the trident, and spend the next short-hour reshaping them so that the flat sections are only three quarters of a millimeter in diameter.


    Now it is time for the real challenge. I heat one of the three smaller pieces of true tungsten in runic furnace, for a few seconds. It becomes blindingly white, but not molten. I place the tiny circle onto the anvil, holding it on its side in a pair of tongs so small they could be called tweezers. I plan to fold the disc in half, half again, until it is in a rough cone.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    I strike. It does not change shape at all. I strike again, and still no change. I strike again, with all my might. A great clang rings through the forge; pain shoots through my ears, followed by a high keening sound. I inspect and see that still the metal has not bent. I examine the hammer, and there are three deep scars scored into it.


    Perhaps this hammer is too small. For such a precise job, I chose one of the smallest, but this was clearly a mistake. I take up one of the biggest ones, with a head bigger than both my fists. I lay the tweezers down and balance the disc in their clasp. I raise the hammer high in both my hands, higher, and swing down with great speed and all the power of my body.


    It impacts the edge of the tiny white disc. A visible shiver runs up its handle and into my arms. A deafening clang sounds; its warped note replaces all other sound for a moment.


    A single spark of white flies amongst many of orange. It traces a strange geometric path in the air before blinking from existence. I drop the hammer and peer to inspect the disc, terrified that I have damaged it, maybe snapped it in half, but no¡ªit has simply bent by the smallest amount. I inspect the hammer, and see that it is scored just like the last, though even deeper, and the mark is glowing.


    Runeking Ulrike implied that he did not use ordinary tools for his extraordinary materials, and now it is clear to me from experience that ordinary metal indeed cannot work true metal, not unaltered. Well, this is no real obstacle to me, though it will take up some time. Once I would have been annoyed at this¡ªbut now I am patient, and see the meaningless of worrying about time while in the forge.


    I use steel for this next craft. I shape a rectangular head the size of my fist, and a hollow handle. It molds easily, even the cylinder made to fit my palm. Once such efforts gave me terrible trouble¡ªno longer. This is not to say I accomplish it quickly. Quite the opposite: every stroke is carefully wrought, and evening out the various planes takes many short hours. Even the tiniest bumps I must make flat, until the whole piece of metal rings with sweet and even notes. When I weld haft and head together, I place each grain of quizik individually.


    I do not feel the passage of time. Guards change, Nazak replaces Halax, and I barely notice.


    I weld, and now it is time to enrune. My runes of magma tell a tale of crushing weight distorting the hot metal that comes beneath it, and of how if magma is cooled in the right way, it can become as hard as gemstones. Even the true metal¡ªin its unruned state, at least¡ªwill be unable to scar this craft, I hope. Conversely, I also hope the true metal when worked will take on no interference from the runic power. That is the reason some runeknights are hesitant to use hammers hardened by runes: for fear that the message of the poem on it will be imparted onto metal whose sole purpose should be cutting or defense.


    Partly this could be superstition. I suspect not, however I also suspect that the relative quality of crafts plays a role in the effect. While this hammer is certainly well and patiently made, a craft of true metal will surpass its quality beyond measure.


    Now that I have proper tool, I heat the true tungsten disc back to blinding white and attempt my shaping again. My hammer is simple to lift, but when I hold it over the metal, it grows heavy, desiring to fall down with great force to crush and shape whatever lies beneath. My muscles tense and ache with the effort of keeping it raised as I plan the angle of the strike.


    When I finally bring it down, the speed is great. The platinum runes gleam redly as they fall, leaving blurred streaks of light in my vision. The hammer impacts, and a clang sounds, yet it is duller than the last times.


    The hammer bounces up, and I see clearly that the disc is bent, a little more. I inspect the underside of the hammer and see a small scratch.


    Even with an enruned tool, the true metal will be hard and slow to work. Once this would have annoyed me, but again, now I feel above such emotions. Time does not matter; only the finished craft does.


    Hammer, clang, bounce, and down again. I strike the disc of metal a hundred times until it is bent in half. A further hundred times, and it is in half again. Now and then a spark trances a pattern in the air, a pattern with purpose, as if the spark is alive.


    And are they not alive, truly? Until now my crafts had always lacked something, that power that emanates from the weapons and armor of the greatest runeknights. My metal was not alive. Even if I thought of it having emotions as I heated and hammered, of desiring respect and feeling grievous offense when I worked it improperly, this was all metaphor.


    With the true metal I have surpassed metaphor. The clangs are voice, the movement conscious. It does not live in the way a dwarf lives, nor in the way a brute beast lives, nor even in the way a slowly spreading lichen lives, yet, all the same, it has life to it.


    Heat, hammer, heat. A thrill runs through me. This is true power. My ruby blazes¡ªit knows what purpose I will turn this metal to.


    I will pierce that mirror-mask!

 Beyond the Magma Shore 75: The Beginning of an End

    All through the caverns of Vanerak''s realm, his runeknights end their final forgings. Metal cools to gray. Reagent flashes into bright colors; runic power is brought shivering forth. Hammers are hung on their hooks and leather smocks are folded and packed away. Dark armors of tungsten plate are adjusted to fit. Newly gleaming weapons are swung and stabbed, their affixed thorns rending the air. Furnaces are left to cool, and dim, and grow cold.


    Hayhek kisses his wife, kisses his daughters, wipes the tears from his eyes. He hands over his last purse of gold to them and puts on his ruby-dotted helm. He marches from their home and out along the dark tracks leading to the Runethane''s palace.


    The cavern air blows hot, but he feels cold, empty, lonely. As he treads the path of history, over the grand mosaics of battles long past, he wonders just how many widows and orphans were left behind in the wake of the Runekings'' great wars and tries not to think about what surely happened to them after their protectors were slain.


    A glint of blue catches his eye. He kneels to look at the figure of Zathar, the traitor, the Second Runeforger. He wishes he''d had a chance to speak with him one last time, to put some closure to their friendship¡ªfor friends is what they have become, despite Hayhek''s swearing that they could never grow close.


    How will he fare, in his cell, when he realizes that all have perished? Hayhek has no doubt none will make it back alive from this senseless invasion. He obeys the Runethane only from a lingering sense of duty, and fear of what might happen to his family if he was to refuse the call.


    ¡°The traitor, ay?¡± someone whispers.


    Hayhek turns and sees a runeknight he only barely knows, wearing tungsten of about fifth degree quality. His visor, of almost tooth-like interlocking triangles, is down.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°I was there, that day.¡±


    ¡°So was I. But how much of that tale is true, and how much falsehood?¡±


    ¡°It is all true. I was there¡ªwith him.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course. I recognize you, Hayhek. But they say you are also his friend.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn''t go so far.¡±


    ¡°No, of course not, of course. But...¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    The runeknight with the tooth-like visor looks back. Two senior runeknights are approaching. ¡°Never mind,¡± he says. ¡°We''ll see how things turn out, in the magma. But he has more friends than he realizes.¡±


    ¡°Let''s get a move on,¡± Hayhek says nervously.


    ¡°Of course, of course.¡±


    They advance through the great gates and into the entrance hall. It is not as crowded as it was on their last visit here, a while back now, when Runethane Vanerak first removed his mask and ordered their advance beyond the magma shore. There had been cheering back then, much brandishing of weapons and imagining of victory. Now the atmosphere is like that of a catacomb.


    Hayhek had dawdled in saying goodbye to his family, had worried a little that he would be late, but this doesn''t seem to be the case. He ends up standing right near the front.


    The Runethane''s carven stone throne sits empty and dusty. He recalls the moment the Runethane lifted his mirror-mask, showing the brutish, red-lipped, cold-eyed face beneath, and his stomach twitches with revulsion. To think that one dwarf should carry the fates of so many in his hand. To have the power to lead them to their deaths, to leave so many behind bereft. And he can enforce his commands with terrible cruelty. Hayhek glances sideways at the runeknight with the tooth-like visor. Through two slits in his helm, that dwarf''s eyes, fixed directly upon the throne, look as cold as Vanerak''s.


    After a half-hour there is a commotion at the back of the hall. It could only be one thing¡ªone dwarf¡ªand Hayhek hurries sideways with the flow of the crowd as it parts.


    Runethane Vanerak walks down the parted sea of tungsten armor followed closely by his three remaining first degrees¡ªcommanding Nazak, inscrutable Halax, and cruel Helzar. He is wrapped in a suit of tungsten foil, enruned minutely, but Hayhek has seen the Runethane''s foilsuit on past occasions, and his eyes are drawn to something else: bare stone¡ªthe rear third of the hall is bare. Runeknights used to crowd even the first part of the corridor out, but now they do not fill even the whole of the hall! How many remain? Perhaps only five hundred or so. Certainly less than a thousand.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    And towards the back the armor is poor in quality. They are seventh degrees in name only: Runethane Vanerak used to be feared as an examiner, when there was a great surplus of candidates, but these dwarves are not worthy of their rank. Hayhek sees this and feels not anger, as some dwarves feel about the loosening of standards, but a pang of sadness. Some of the faces look young, too young, nearly as young as Yezakh was when he strode into a fight he was not ready for.


    Runethane Vanerak and his three elites ascend the steps and turn to face the gathered runeknights. Slowly the Runethane lifts his mirror-mask, revealing once again his face. It has not changed. No emotion shows in his cold eyes or on his blood-hued lips.


    ¡°I have little to say to you,¡± he says. ¡°You know why I have gathered you. It is time to make a final assault upon the foul demons and give meaning to the great losses we have suffered. I will lead you. I have no new weapon, but the old shall suffice, as it has before.¡±


    No one applauds his words.


    ¡°Perhaps you have little confidence in this assault. Yet it is our duty to obey Runeking Ulrike to the last and retrieve the secret knowledge he has sent us to gather. That the demons try to prevent our entrance to the innermost parts of the city is proof that therein lies what we seek.¡±


    Still no applause, no reaction. Runethane Vanerak lifts his pollaxe high.


    ¡°Follow me, my runeknights, on our final expedition beyond the magma shore, for a better fate or worse.¡±


    Commander Nazak lifts his axe high; he glares at the gathered dwarves, and perhaps it is Hayhek''s imagination, but are his eyes glinting in a watery way?


    Halax and Helzar raise their weapons also. One by one the gathered runeknights follow suit, knowing that to refuse to do so would be tantamount to treason. Some raise their blades quicker than others, however, and the runeknight with the tooth-like visor is one of the last to.


    Perhaps this does not have to be the end, Hayhek dares to think.


    <hr>


    Clang and ting and ring: my hammer plays music upon the true metal. The melodies are complex¡ªbroken, since the geometry is not yet perfectly shaped¡ªyet I can tell that there is music to be uncovered, real music, not single notes or mere undulating tones.


    What the tune will be, I cannot tell. This final shaping is truly difficult work.


    Although the basic shape of the needle-point is complete, it must be perfected. Thus I have equipped my runic ears and am battering away at the more minute bumps and ripples with my new hammer. I use only a small part of the edge, and lift it only slightly, for accuracy, but the power is not quite enough. The true tungsten does not want to cooperate with such puny strikes.


    Most strikes, in fact, do not change the shape of the metal at all. At first one in five had an effect, but now, after a thousand strokes, only one in ten does. Either my arm is growing weak or the true tungsten is growing angry. I heat it once more to soften, yet this brings little improvement.


    I curse. I need to hit it harder. The annoyance I feel from it may not be mere metaphor¡ªand if it cracks apart, how long and hard will I need to reforge before its anger eases?


    I raise my hand higher for the next stroke, bring it down harder, and the true metal''s music, the music I''ve been uncovering so carefully, turns discordant. Damn! I curse louder. I misjudged the angle. I have to be more careful. I lift, strike again. A loud note sounds out. The metal warps and my mistake is mostly undone. I strike again, err slightly again.


    Bastard!


    Practice¡ªthat''s all I need. Patient practice. Time does not exist¡ªhere. But outside it does, and something has changed. Nazak! I know well the shape of his armor and the tones it makes as he moves. I can hear and know Halax''s armor also, and Helzar''s; none of them are here.


    I remove my runic ears, look up to confirm, and notice that there are no senior runeknights at all amongst the guards. In fact, not one looks stronger than eighth degree. Their armor is steel or iron, not tungsten, and their eyes are those of dwarves who have seen only skirmishes.


    When I look directly at the one in the first degree alcove, he flinches back.


    ¡°Where is Nazak, or Halax?¡± I ask. ¡°Where has everyone gone?¡±


    The eighth degree runeknight looks left and right, as if unsure whether he''s allowed to answer me.


    ¡°Answer me!¡± I demand. ¡°I am a prisoner¡ªbut I am also precious to the Runethane. Tell me where they have gone!¡±


    ¡°You can''t escape!¡± says the steel and iron clad runeknight. ¡°You are unequipped!¡±


    ¡°I have no desire to escape. Just tell me where they are.¡±


    ¡°That information is¡ª¡±


    ¡°They have gone on some final assault, haven''t they? That''s the only reason I can imagine. Unless the demons have assaulted here.¡±


    ¡°The former,¡± another runeknight says quietly. ¡°Honored Second Runeforger,¡± she adds.


    ¡°You can''t escape!¡± repeats the first runeknight, glaring at the second. ¡°You are unarmed. We are not.¡±


    ¡°If you harm my flesh the Runethane will burn you alive,¡± I say. ¡°But again, I have no desire to escape. Tell me, when did they leave?¡±


    ¡°Not an hour ago,¡± says the second runeknight.


    ¡°I see. Thank you.¡±


    I stare at the uncompleted spike with slowly dawning fear. A final assault. A final assault! Every runeknight above eighth degree has dived into the magma and is swimming directly for the sunken city.


    ¡°And our Runethane?¡± I ask. ¡°Has he gone also?¡±


    ¡°He has.¡±


    Shit! Then it really is the final assault. Vanerak would leave his forging for nothing less. Absolute victory or absolute defeat: these are the only two things that will come from this, and either will be disastrous.


    Defeat: if the runeknights are destroyed, there will be nothing to prevent the demons and their possessed victims from tearing apart this defenseless realm.


    Victory: as terrible for me as defeat. I am sure that Vanerak has puzzled out something about runeforging, something deep. This is why he has stopped interrogating me. If the heart of the city contains some further clue, as it may well, he will have no further use for me. Upon his return he will slay me.


    For me, both possibilities lead to the same result, death. What if, however, there is a third?


    I dare to imagine a Vanerak in battered and rent armor crawling from the magma. He looks up. Upon the black sands I stand over him, my tines of true metal reflecting in his hateful mirror-mask. I stab.


    But my trident remains uncompleted.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 76: Time Intruding

    The runeknights follow Runethane Vanerak down the winding tunnels of the black cliff and into the low hall of pillars that is the final cave of safety. Yet even with every runeknight seventh degree and over spilling out into it, the hall no longer feels as crowded as it once did.


    Hayhek sees that there are no longer enough runeknights left for this battle, and sees also that most of the others feel the same way. No one gives voice to this thought, of course. The only sounds are the dull clank of tungsten boots and the muted puff of heavy breathing. But they don''t need to. The slight slowness, the slight reluctance in their march tells all: no one believes they can win this.


    Apart from the only dwarf whose opinion matters.


    The solid gates are opened without ceremony and the army marches through them. The fumes hit Hayhek like a gust of acid. He chokes. He can hear a rumbling in the far distance, louder than usual, the sound of some distant eruption. The very magma is roaring a challenge at them. Hayhek swallows. He remembers a moment from the distant past, remembers a certain young dwarf urging them to step away from the impossible odds, to live another day, to fight to protect their family another day.


    Various second and third degrees shout commands and lead their squads to pre-arranged destinations. Hayhek falls into formation silently. Black, slightly molten sand crunches and squelches. He grips his heat-mask and coil of breathing cable nervously. He did not make these, some runeknight perhaps now dead did. Will they fail him?


    The remaining squads march into position. Once the army is finally arrayed, its ranks darkly gleaming in the hot glow, Runethane Vanerak steps out.


    ¡°We shall go no roundabout route!¡± he shouts, to make himself heard over the magma''s roaring. ¡°We will swim forward to attack directly! The demons will bring their main strength to bear on us, but our strength will prove the greater! You may be attacked by the runeknight beside you; do not hesitate to kill! To do so is no crime, but a mercy! Be ready, my runeknights! The demons think they can master us, but they have never faced our entire might before! And they have only rarely faced my own! Forward!¡±


    The roaring of the magma takes something of the power of his authority away. Some say that the demons are the anger of the magma made manifest. If this is the case, the army is doomed, for who can hope to win against such a terrible natural force?


    Runethane Vanerak, perhaps sensing his army''s apprehension, lifts his mirror-mask.


    ¡°You are feeling fear!¡± he shouts. ¡°Do not be so weak! Look upon my face! Do you see fear there? I tell you all that I faced down the black dragon, twice, and the demons'' heat is nothing compared to its power and flame!¡±


    Once he faced it down, certainly. But twice? Zathar never wanted to discuss the final battle against the black dragon. Hayhek had thought it was just too fearful a memory for him, yet maybe there was a different reason, that being he was reluctant to tell lies, as he would have had to in front of the guards.


    Was the letter correct, at least in part? Hayhek does not want to believe that it was, not in this hour, when loyalty and trust are paramount. Yet his suspicions suddenly crystallize: he sees that the letter told the truth.


    Runethane Vanerak pulls down his mirror-mask. The line of runeknights reflected in it does not seem so long. He takes his breathing tube and pushes it under the mask, then he fixes on his heat-mask, a web of chain and ruby.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Masks and cables!¡± roars Commander Nazak. ¡°Make sure they are secured properly!¡±


    Hayhek obeys. Air vanishes, floods back. Light vanishes, heat appears, a flat sea before them and not-darkness around them. Sand crunches. Hayhek steps forward himself, ten times, and heat envelops him, bright yet not with light.


    Down into the magma the runeknights march, to go beyond the shore one final time.


    <hr>


    I treat the spike of true tungsten not as metal, but as a gem. I cannot go by feel, for I do not have the many long-hours of practice needed for me to work it by intuition alone. Instead I must calculate: the angle, the force, the direction, which part of the hammer to contact with. I must be cautious in every aspect, and more than this, I must be patient. Time exists, but I must ignore its existence and focus fully on my craft.


    Strike by very careful strike, discord is cleaned from harmony. The tune of the spike becomes apparent. It is a sharp song, one promising violence, with notes that leap out like the strikes of weapons from a shield-wall. A few more heavy, yet supremely accurate strokes, and the tune becomes almost flawless. The only imperfections are those too minor for me to be able to tell what causes them.


    I judge the spike to be complete. I take off my runic ears and look up at the guards.


    ¡°How much time has passed since I last spoke?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Perhaps a short-hour.¡±


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    A whole short-hour! The next three spikes, perhaps, may not take quite so long each¡ªunless I make a horrible error and crack one into pieces. How long will it take the army to reach the city? I''ve heard it takes just over a short-hour to swim-crawl-pull the whole way. In tight formation it might take a little longer, especially if they are harassed on the way.


    How long might the battle last? Sometime a battle can take a whole long-hour, if it is a fight of attrition where two evenly-matched sides grind against each other, sparks and blood flying, or else if it is spread out into many skirmishes throughout hundreds of close tunnels where only two may fight at a time.


    Yet sometimes battles are over in seconds. One force overwhelms the other, breaks its courage and sends it fleeing. Which will this battle be? Will the demons beat themselves upon a wall of rending blades? Or will the wall collapse in an instant, its blocks turning against themselves, shattering each other?


    I have no way to tell, but it does not matter, does not change what I have to do: complete the weapon.


    With my smallest tongs I pick up one of the three smaller discs. I place it into the crucible, place the crucible into the furnace. The blue sphere of heat ripples the air. The disc turns white and quickly I pull it out, sit it side-on within the tongs'' clasp. I turn off the furnace, lift my hammer high, bring it down hard. A violent clang stings my ears. There is only a certain amount of precision needed for this stage: I hammer hard, hammer fast, trying to fold the metal in two.


    It takes me a hundred times a hundred strikes. By the end, I am panting heavily and my arm is aching badly. My ruby burns, yet it is not burning strong enough. The pain is intense¡ªmy muscles will not last. They have already been pushed beyond their natural endurance.


    I shut my eyes. I recall the moment Vanerak walked around the corpse of the black dragon as Xomhyrk lay dead. I remember the moment he ordered Pellas to be tortured and killed. I think of Guthah, his love snatched away. I think of Hayhek, now snatched away from those he loves to die in a futile battle¡ªif he has not perished already.


    Some of the ache in my arm fades. I raise my hammer high again, and bring it down with the strength of hate.


    Again and again, a hundred times a hundred, and again, repeating. The anvil trembles. Strange sparks fly, tracing outlines. A distorted symphony sounds. Smash, breathe, smash. I ignore the pain, which is growing again, and focus fully on the hate.


    Time vanishes. The disc folds a third time, a fourth, a fifth, and then once more. I heat it soft, hammer each of its sides with very slightly diminished power from the tip up, closing the gaps between the folds. Back to white I heat it. I hammer around it again, slowly turning it, a hundred times. Now it is an uneven cone.


    ¡°How long?¡± I gasp.


    ¡°About another short-hour has passed,¡± says a runeknight. She sounds tired. ¡°Do you require water, Second Runeforger?¡±


    ¡°I do, please.¡±


    I equip my runic ears and get back to hammering. My mouth feels a little less dry¡ªI''ve been given something to drink, but did not notice it. Here there is nothing but the metal and its symphony, still discordant.


    And once this spike is complete, I still have two more to finish, and after that, the enruning. Despair comes over me.


    I do not have enough time!

 Beyond the Magma Shore 77: Disasters

    The army swim-pulls itself through the molten stone. The passage of such a tight formation twists and tears at the magma, creating a roil of currents that impede the runeknights'' passage. For Hayhek, trapped inside his hot metal wrappings, the familiar journey is drawn out and torturous like it has never been before. His muscles are already starting to ache, yet he reckons that it has only been a short-hour or so since they waded in.


    The heavy heat crushes him as he pulls himself through it. He wonders if the more senior runeknights only barely feel its pressure. Perhaps their skin remains cool and sweat does not bother them. Certainly none of this bothers their Runethane; he has forgotten how it feels to be weak, or perhaps he never knew.


    Reach, pull, reach, pull; the army forges forward. The magma grows hotter the closer they come to the sunken city, whose first scattered ruins now show as cut-out voids below. This is unusual, for in Hayhak''s experience the magma should be a little cooler here.


    Halax holds up a hand. The army halts. A second later, a blazing sphere appears in the extreme range of Hayhek''s vision. One demon¡ªthe first of many, or just a scout? No more appear following it, and its trajectory is already starting to curve. It comes close. Runethane Vanerak slashes at it with his pollaxe. A ripple travels through the magma and strikes the demon a glancing blow. A few lines of heat come apart and fade, but the demon survives the blow and curves away, vanishes in the distance.


    They know we''re coming now, thinks Hayhek. Will they sally out to meet us, or engage us within their broken walls?


    Runethane Vanerak restarts the swim-march. The ruins below thicken. Bricks turn to blocks, stumps heighten to jagged pillars. Archways appear, and sections of wall, then chambers broken like eggshells. All are carved with runes or pictures or both, and the grandest images Hayhek can make out clearly.


    It has always seemed strange to him that none of the dwarves depicted in the city wear armor.


    No more spheres of heat come at them. This is unnerving¡ªwhenever Hayhek has intruded this far before, they have always met resistance, stiff resistance. He grows more worried. The enemy, instead of dashing at them with a flurry of blows, has raised its hammer back to swing with all the more might.


    Further into the city the army swim-crawls. A series of massive obelisks appear at the front of Hayhek''s heat-sight and his heart misses three beats. He had heard the reports and rumors about this broken inner wall, yet their scale is totally beyond anything he imagined. They are equal in size to the greatest stalagmites of Hazhakmar cavern, yet stalagmites are natural¡ªthese are too smooth on their non-broken edges; they were built, they were a kind of walls.


    And then they were shattered and flung down. By what terrible force, Hayhek does not dare to imagine.


    The runeknights cross through the broken obelisks like a swarm of anchovies between the gates of a submerged castle. Beyond, the ruins take on new dimensions of scale and complexity. Spires protrude and domes bulge, many nearly intact. Most have doorways and windows in them, from which at any moment could pour forth swarms of demons. Hayhek touches his axe, attached by chain to his hip, and feels little reassurance.


    It is all very well to slash one demon. That is easy enough for even a seventh degree to do. Yet what hope is there when two or three or more converge on you? Armor is poor protection against them. The most powerful demons slide through the runic power like water flowing through a sieve.


    Runethane Vanerak comes to a high dome and leads the army over the top of it. It is cracked, and Hayhek not-sees right through into the room within, yet no demons lurk in ambush. Where are they? His hands begin to itch. If there is to be a battle, get it over with! When you are in the fight, there is no time to spare worrying. All your focus is on your next strike.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Past the dome, the runeknights circle around a wide spire. Carved into the expertly cut cold stone are images of dwarves dancing in long, flowing robes, and indecipherable runes run under each band of figures. Did these ancient dwarves leave no stone undecorated? Their masons must have been rich indeed, thinks Hayhek. What is more, there is not a pickaxe to be seen anywhere¡ªthough he supposes lovers of beautiful stonework would likely not wish to engrave such things.


    The army tilts upward. Perhaps Runethane Vanerak wants to poke his head out and get a proper look at where the city''s center is, get his bearings. Hayhek dearly wishes to know where they are also.


    But the Runethane stops just short of the surface, tilts, then continues to move forward. Up here the heat-view is bizarre: above is void with cylinders jutting down from it like geometrically perfect stalactites, which then fade away below at the extreme of Hayhek''s heat-vision. Around the backs of the cylinders is nothing, no demons, and no floating shards of stone either. A warm, clawed shape comes into range of heat-sight for a moment before quickly dashing away. That is all.


    Where are the demons?


    The strange view, of void and void-pillars, continues for some time. It is monotonous but for one detail: Hayhek thinks he sees gridded webs like cages far below, and hooks too. They are faint however, being nearly the same heat as the magma, very faint, and he dismisses them as fear-induced illusions.


    A wall of not-blackness appears to the front. It might be the face of a great spire or tower, for it is slightly convex, yet if so, what dwarves could construct something so great? How many tens of thousands of masons and miners would have been required? The scale is beyond description. It is like a cliff-face.


    Leading into it are long, arched tubes¡ªtunnels or corridors¡ªso comparatively small as to be like worm-holes. Only one even attempts to match the scale of its setting: it is wide enough for twenty dwarves to stride in abreast.


    Runethane Vanerak dives down toward it. His army follows. They close in. Hayhek grits his teeth. Surely now, he thinks. Surely the battle is now!


    An instant later his wish is granted. Heat pours from the entranceway. It comes at them like a wave of brightness and vividness¡ªthough it is neither, just heat¡ªand the magma turns thin and turbulent. Hayhek yells as he is swept downward toward the hundreds of roiling, spinning spheres now flooding out to meet them.


    He unchains his axe¡ªcuts. The battle has begun.


    <hr>


    My hammer tings and the spike''s music is completed. The melody is of sharp violence; the harmony promises the flowing of blood. I gasp and lay my hammer down, sink to my knees then slump back. My arm is shaking. My muscles are like frayed cables of lead, heavy and useless.


    ¡°You should rest,¡± one of the eighth degrees says nervously. ¡°If you injure yourself, the Runethane will hold us responsible.¡±


    ¡°No time to rest,¡± I gasp. I stand up. ¡°Two more to go. Halfway. No time, no fatigue. No time! It doesn''t exist!¡±


    The eighth degrees look at each other nervously. I must sound like a mad-dwarf, possessed or worse¡ªI don''t care.


    ¡°You don''t exist either!¡± I hiss. ¡°There is the forge! The furnace! The metal! Get me more water!¡±


    I heat the next disc, place it on the anvil, clasped in the tongs and on its side as usual. I lift the hammer, strike once, twice, a hundred times, a thousand. My arm is too exhausted for me to put force into my blows, so I let the runes work for me. The true tungsten does not seem to mind. It bends in half as I wish it to, then half again, and then again.


    ¡°Halfway there,¡± I say. ¡°Though that''s not true. I know it''s not. The later stages take longer.¡±


    Now I''m talking to myself. Or maybe I''m not. I''m not sure what my mouth is doing, if I''m tight-lipped or letting my thoughts spill out into the roasting air. It does not matter¡ªthe clang of hammer on true tungsten drowns them out anyway.


    I reheat the metal and adjust. I lift my hammer, bring it down, up, down. How many times have I made this motion so far? I shake my head violently. This is not the time to be losing focus. I need to give the true metal the respect it demands, or¡ª


    A sudden scream of rage and pain rings through the forge. Shards blast into my face, chest and arms. Pain comes, sharp. I fall back, yelling in shock. White sparks dance where the true tungsten was, a wild dance, yet somehow sad. They fade and vanish. The scream lingers for a moment longer, then it fades also.


    ¡°No!¡± I scream. ¡°No! No! No!¡±


    Not even dust remains of the true tungsten disc. It has been totally obliterated.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 78: Battle Under the Magma

    I stare at the empty space on the anvil where, a few seconds ago, sat the true tungsten. The metal is destroyed, dead, and I am its killer. First I destroyed a kilogram of good, useful metal to gain its essence, and then I wasted even that. I am worse than a miner. At least miners only smash rock to powder; they cannot annihilate metal as I have done, twice over. I have done far worse than they ever did.


    I look at the last remaining coin of true tungsten. Should I even attempt to shape it? The right, noble thing to do would be to ignore it, never touch it until I am far more able with hammer and heat. My current skill is not worthy of this caliber of material.


    Yet Vanerak is on his way or else the demons are. I cannot afford to wallow in despair. I must mourn the metal later. Right now, I need a weapon. I force my grief away and focus my thoughts on my options¡ªcould I make a spear? One point for the demons, one point for dwarves?


    My poem I''ve drafted for a trident, though, and it would take far too much time to rewrite it. So I have no choice but to attempt to shape the last disc of true tungsten. I can make a bident, a weapon-catcher. I will not have to change my poem, nor my craft, by too much.


    Hands trembling, I grasp the last disc in my tongs. Into the crucible I place it, then the crucible into the runic furnace. I shunt the offset part into place and blue heat blooms in the steel''s center. The disc is a white dot at the sphere''s midpoint¡ªit almost looks like hytrigite, white life in a blue shell.


    I take the crucible out, the disc out the crucible. Furnace off, disc in place. I raise my hammer, calculate cautiously. My hands are still shaking. I put the hammer down. I cannot afford to be off by even a millimeter. Each strike must be perfectly angled, have the perfect amount of force. And I must make thousands of these perfect strikes. I doubt myself¡ªhow could anyone but a Runethane or Runeking perform such a feat?


    It seems impossible. Yet if I am to fight a Runethane on equal terms I must be as skilled in the forge as he is. Every runeknight knows that more important than the fight itself is the forging beforehand. My weapon must be as powerful as his mirror-mask and pollaxe.


    Can it be done? The only answer is to hammer. So hammer! I accept a sip of water from an awed-looking eighth degree, raise my hammer, breathe, slam it down. A harsh note reverberates. Again! Another note, just as harsh. The disc folds slightly and the shadows cast by its intense glow change a little. Once more! Twice! A third time!


    A note rings every few seconds. This pace is too slow. I must increase it yet lose no accuracy. Faster! Down, bounce, up. The anvil shudders with the force. It might shake itself apart, for surely untrue metal cannot stand the impact of the true. I pause. I am distracting myself. I must focus completely.


    Strike, up, strike. A hundred times, a thousand. The disc is bent in half. I heat it, tilt it, hammer again, and again, continuously, a strike every second.


    Time vanishes. The forge vanishes. There are only the notes, one a second, becoming gradually more solid as the metal thickens with each fold. Pain vanishes, thirst vanishes. I am not aware of the eighth degrees. I forget even what purpose is driving me to forge so frantically. I am absolutely focused and absolutely patient.


    <hr>


    A blazing sphere rushes at Hayhek''s face. He slashes and Zathar''s runes do their work¡ªthe demon''s lines of heat snap, complexity turns to chaos then fades into the ambiance of the magma. Another demon comes¡ªHayhek cuts it apart too, yelling into his helmet the whole time.


    He thrashes with his legs, trying to regain some control of his downward-plummeting movement, trying to get closer to a group of runeknights to his left, but it is useless. The magma has become too liquid. It is thinner than water and run through with bubbles of superheated gases that batter his armor like a rain of something solid.


    A violent tug on his face nearly breaks his neck. He is suddenly facing directly upwards. His breathing cable has become entangled with two others.


    ¡°Shit!¡± he yells into his helmet. He attempts to swim up, but a rush of bubbles hits him from below and he plummets further. ¡°Shit!¡± Another demon rushes at him, gets right close to him. Loops of heat extend toward the gaps in his armor.


    ¡°Die! Die!¡± He slashes frantically. The loops fall apart. ¡°Die!¡± he screams, and cuts right through the demon. It comes apart violently. Heat whips at him.


    More replace it. A seemingly endless stream is pouring out from the grand entranceway below and into the runeknights'' formation¡ªif it can be called a formation. The sudden rush of heat and liquidity has thrown the ranks to chaos. The largest bands of runeknights are of four or five. Many are on their own, and some of those are no longer being swarmed by the demons but are glowing hot and swimming up toward the breathing cables.


    It is a complete disaster, complete disarray. In battles below the magma, never let anyone be above you. Hayhek grabs onto his own breathing cable and pulls himself up to the knot. He starts to untangle it with one hand, while slashing wildly at the demons with the other. They are getting thicker. The heat is pushing his runes as far as they will go¡ªit is getting too hot to breathe easily.


    A squad of five runeknights led by first degree Helzar breaks out of the thickest melee below and thrashes upward toward the possessed. She sticks one with a spear. It spins down, slashing wildly, and is stabbed through the throat by one of her lieutenants. The possessed highest up, in a fit of rage, grips a cable at random. A runeknight nearby Hayhek clutches at his face and begins to thrash. A second later that possessed is impaled too.


    Hayhek manages to untwist his cable. He takes one deep breath, allows himself just one moment of respite, then focuses down at the main melee beneath. That is where nearly all of the highest ranking runeknights are. It is where he should head too. As fifth degree, he is also one of the higher ranking runeknights.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Someone grasps his shoulder. He slashes wildly, assuming it to be one of the possessed. The dwarf blocks with his own weapon. No heat floods into his armor¡ªthis dwarf is not possessed. Hayhek focuses on the dwarf''s visor. He can make out a triangular pattern.


    The runeknight pulls him close so the front of his helmet touches the side of Hayhek''s.


    ¡°We''re retreating!¡± he says. He sounds as if he is shouting from far away. ¡°We''re going back!¡±


    ¡°Who gave the order?¡±


    ¡°Fuck the orders! Do you want to live or do you want to die?¡±


    ¡°The Runethane will kill us!¡±


    ¡°He is surrounded! He can''t win! We can''t win!¡±


    Hayhek''s heat-vision gives him a view of below even while he faces front. It does not seems to him as if the Runethane is being overwhelmed. Each strike of his pollaxe cuts through three or four demons, and Nazak and Halax beside him as nearly as deadly. Blow by blow, they are cutting their way toward the entrance.


    He can see above simultaneously: Helzar and her squad are stabbing possessed with ruthless efficiency, protecting the breathing cables.


    ¡°We can win!¡± Hayhek yells.


    ¡°You think that! Others don''t! Pay more attention, runeforger''s friend! Look above! See!¡±


    Hayhek focuses his attention further up from Helzar. Like a cloud of bats runeknights are rising from the battle, crawl-swimming with all their might to get away. The suddenness of the demons'' assault has broken them¡ªand before the demons themselves even reached them!


    ¡°Fools!¡± Hayhek shouts. ¡°They''ll be massacred!¡±


    ¡°The demons don''t care about those retreating! They aren''t chasing, can''t you see? We''re the fools!¡±


    ¡°When the Runethane gets them¡ªHelzar and her¡ª¡±


    ¡°They won''t, Hayhek! Once we''re back to the realm, we''re taking our families and leaving it! We''re going back to Allabrast! Vanerak has broken many of the Runeking''s codes¡ªwe have a perfect right to!¡±


    ¡°We''ll be caught!¡±


    ¡°Never! How will they catch us, even if they do survive? Come on, Hayhek! We can be free of this place! And we''ll free the runeforger too!¡±


    Hayhek clenches his jaw. He focuses down, then up. Can they really do this? Really escape? He wishes it were so. He does not want his daughters, hell-bent on becoming runeknights themselves against his wishes, to be thrown like rags into the furnace-glow of Vanerak''s ambitions.


    A runeknight struggles up past him, then another. A possessed, glowing with patches of heat, is giving chase. Hayhek cuts its arm and leg. The tooth-visored runeknight finishes it off, then presses his helmet against Hayhek''s once more.


    ¡°Well? Are you coming or not?¡±


    Hayhek focuses below again. There are more demons than dwarves now¡ªhe can barely see Vanerak¡ªand they continue to flood from the entranceway. He focuses up and make a rough count. Over two hundred runeknights are scattering away.


    He makes his decision. There is only one right choice: to protect his family, and he cannot do that if he is dead.


    ¡°Let''s get away!¡± he yells. ¡°Out and up!¡±


    <hr>


    To others, when they watch him fight, Vanerak''s pollaxe seems to move almost automatically. A place it needs to be appears, and then it is parrying or striking as the moment calls for. It has a life of its own, many whisper. Can you not feel the force from it? It is a true weapon of a Runethane.


    Vanerak sees the movement of the demons and strikes. A wave of force, perfectly angled to pass through as many of them as possible, does so. They fall apart. He kicks and his great strength pushes him into the entranceway. More demons rush and are annihilated. The sheer force of his true metal weapon is more than enough to destroy them, no runes of discord required.


    Kick by kick and cut by cut he advances further. The tunnel curves upward. The demons redouble their fury. Heat claws at him from behind. His foilsuit repels them for vital seconds in which he spins and slams down his weapon''s hammer-side. Force stuns them, then the axe-side disintegrates them. He spins back and continues his slashing advance. Lines appear in the stonework. His true metal weapon can cut what ordinary metal and magma cannot even scratch.


    Forward is the only way. The cages and spiked traps Halax pointed out to him hinted that his instinct was right, and that the center was where they must head. This mass assault proves it further. The demons do not want him to advance. Their secret knowledge, whatever it is, lies ahead.


    Strike by strike he continues to push through. The demons give up on attacking him directly and flow over his head. He slashes, but they are too quick and he cannot destroy all of them. No matter; Halax and Nazak will kill them.


    He slows his advance, stops. Halax and Nazak: where are they? He cannot sense them. He focuses backwards. They are right on his periphery, retreating. Conducting a fighting retreat, but retreating all the same.


    Has the battle behind soured? He and his elites should have stemmed the tide of demons for the rest of the army. Are too many making it out?


    Further up the corridor, still a little way away, is a staircase. On the walls flanking it¡ªVanerak''s heat mask allows him to make this out in great detail¡ªare engravings of a procession of dwarves in armor thick with runes. Legible runes. They are kneeling, armored heads bowed low. Their spears and swords are enruned also.


    They are runeknights, the first runeknights. Who might the first runeknights have bowed to? The answer is obvious. Vanerak thrusts forward. His focus is fixed on the staircase; he ignores the demons rushing over him. At the top is a sudden blankness. The staircase continues into open air, it seems, and out of the magma there will be the answers he seeks, the final confirmation of his theory of the creation of runes.


    But he has overextended. He focuses behind again. Halax and Nazak are out of range of his heat-vision. He must go back, sort out whatever is going on behind. He may be Runethane, but even Runethanes need to breathe. His cable, true metal though it is, is not invulnerable.


    <hr>


    Patience and focus take me through the thousands of perfect beats, and finally, though I know not how long it has taken me, I finish.


    I make the last adjustment on the third spike. I tap to confirm, and the tune rings clearly. I tap each again, just to make sure. Their violent harmonies are almost pure and a deep sense of relief comes through me.


    Upon the anvil are three spikes of true metal, solid beyond solid, heat-resistant beyond the hottest depths of magma, sharp enough to pierce whatever I thrust them at. What is more, they brim with life, with the feeling I have been searching for ever since the end of the trial. It thrums from them, and once enruned, will thrum louder.


    I stand here for a while, just running my fingers over them, caressing them. I whisper that I am sorry for the loss of their sibling. They do not seem to hear nor care. I do feel some emotion from them, though: desire. They want to be enruned. To be given purpose.


    ¡°Once you are welded,¡± I whisper. ¡°Once you are welded!¡±


    Now to alter the frame of the trident¡ª


    The door shivers. I turn in alarm. It shakes again, and once more, twice more. It is being drummed upon. The beats increase in frequency. Someone is trying to get in.


    Time did not pass for me here yet it did outside. Fear clutches at my heart. I have been too slow. There was never any doubt about that, I suppose. Forging cannot be rushed. I was a fool to ever think I had a chance at winning this race.


    ¡°Form a barrier!¡± yells one of the eighth degrees. ¡°Protect the runeforger!¡±


    The victor has been decided. And whoever it is, it seems they want something to do with me, for good or ill. Likely ill.


    I grasp my forging hammer tightly.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 79: Red Revenge

    The eighth degrees hurry to form a defensive line between me and the door.


    ¡°It might be the Runethane!¡±


    ¡°Why hasn''t he got the key then?¡±


    ¡°It''s the demons!¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡±


    They angle their weapons. The tungsten door shakes a few more times, then the shaking stops. Have our assailents given up? Somehow I doubt it.


    The door shivers again, more forcefully. A second later it shivers again. One second later, again.


    ¡°It''s the demons!¡± one of the runeknights shouts.


    ¡°Silence!¡±


    The door shakes a few more times. I can do nothing¡ªI have no armor, no weapon. I am clasping my forging hammer only for comfort; it will be of little use in a battle. The door shakes again.


    And I hear something faint: voices too muffled by the tungsten to make out.


    ¡°We need to rush them,¡± says one eighth degree. ¡°Open it up and shock them.¡±


    Some agree, others argue. Their babbling cuts off the voices behind the door.


    ¡°Quiet!¡± I snap. ¡°They''re saying something out there. Quiet so I can hear!¡±


    ¡°Silence, prisoner!¡± an eighth degree snaps.


    ¡°You shut up!¡± the one next to him says. ¡°He''s a second degree, prisoner or not!¡±


    ¡°I heard he was fourth!¡±


    ¡°Quiet, all of you!¡± shouts yet another. ¡°Let him get his ears on and listen. Maybe they are trying to talk.¡±


    ¡°Demon''s lies.¡±


    ¡°Just shut it!¡± I yell, and finally silence falls, but for the clanging on the door. ¡°Good. Now stay quiet.¡±


    I take up my runic ears and equip them. Darkness expands from the edges of my vision and eye-scars, and sound blooms. Mostly it is metallic scratching; the eighth degrees are fidgeting, their badly-forged plates scraping against one other. I warn them to still their movements, then walk toward the door and focus.


    Each clang annihilates all other sound, but between them I hear shouts made into whispers by the thickness of the tungsten. I quiet my own breathing and listen close.


    ¡°You''ll never get through. We need to pick the lock.¡±


    ¡°It was made by the Runethane himself. We''ll never pick it.¡±


    ¡°So was the door! We''ll never knock it down either.¡±


    ¡°Ay, maybe you''re right." There is the clink of something heavy being laid down. "But we can get through the rock around it if we''re clever enough. Find a mason¡ªwe''ll figure out where it''s weakest. And round up some miners too.¡±


    ¡°We don''t have time to find a mason¡ªthey don''t come down here.¡±


    ¡°Zathar wants out too, and there''s just eighth degrees in there. Maybe he can hear us. We can persuade him.¡±


    ¡°We might not be able to persuade his guards, though.¡±


    Who are they? They talk of persuading me, but not the guards¡ªimplying they are on my side, and against Vanerak. They aren''t masons either. Friendly runeknights, then. Maybe Hayhek?


    What happened in the magma? Did they flee from Vanerak, abandon him to the demons? It seems a likely scenario. Could these perhaps be demons, then? A shiver runs through me. Yet, no, I don''t think so. Demons would not think to trick us by talking in such a manner. They would simply melt through the metal and charge in.


    ¡°It''s dwarves out there,¡± I say quietly. ¡°Not demons. They''re here to help us, I think.¡±


    ¡°They''re probably possessed!¡±


    ¡°We have no proof of that,¡± says another eighth degree.


    ¡°I''m going to open the door,¡± I announce.


    ¡°Stop!¡± says one of the eighth degrees, reaching for me.


    I am too quick for him. I turn the lock-lever then yank the door inward. Outside I hear the shapes of runeknights, the strongest ones fifth degree by the smoothness of their armor. They ready their weapons; behind I hear my guards raise their own.


    ¡°Weapons down!¡± yells a guard.


    ¡°You put yours down!¡± Hayhek yells back¡ªI recognize clearly the hoarseness of his voice. ¡°We''re stronger than you are! We don''t want to kill you, but we will if we have to!¡±


    ¡°We have the runeforger!¡± the guard declares. "Stay away!"


    I hear the shape of him reaching for me and dash forward. His weapon whines as it cuts at my leg, then Hayhek barrels past, slashing down with his axe. There''s a crunch of metal and bone and a scream, then the clatter of the eighth degree''s weapon falling down.


    ¡°Idiot!¡± Hayhek snaps. ¡°Drop your weapons, all of you. Every one of you!¡±


    I hear more clatters.


    ¡°Right,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°There''s no time to explain, Zathar, I''m sorry. We need to get out of here.¡±


    The chaos of clanking armor and weaponry has made everything a blur, so I remove my runic ears. Vision returns. I see a dozen runeknights with beads of redly-glowing rock still clinging to their armor. Those with their visors up look haggard and exhausted, and all are breathing heavily, as if they have been running or swimming for a long time, and as fast as they were able to.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°What happened?¡± I ask Hayhek.


    ¡°There''s no time, Zathar. We have to run. Helzar might be on her way¡ªthe Runethane also.¡±


    ¡°Did you lose the battle?¡±


    ¡°We don''t have time to explain,¡± says another fifth degree, whose visor is shaped like salamander''s teeth. He is wielding a heavy-looking warhammer. ¡°We''re going to grab our loved ones and run. We''re heading to Allabrast. We want you to come with us¡ªyou''ve been punished enough. We''ve all been punished enough by living here¡ªunder Vanerak. We''re leaving.¡±


    ¡°Leaving now?¡± I close my eyes, open them again. The runeknights are still there. It appears that I am not dreaming. ¡°Right now?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± says the tooth-visored runeknight. ¡°Now, runeforger!¡±


    I cannot quite believe it; this is all too sudden. Is my time in Vanerak''s realm really going to end in this way? Being broken out then running for it?


    My ruby burns; it does not want to accept this. I have been promising it violence and blood, and it does not want me to break this promise. It is loathe to abide such cowardice.


    ¡°Leave,¡± I say slowly. ¡°I will think about it.¡±


    ¡°What is there to think about?¡± Hayhek says, aghast. ¡°It''s idiotic to stay! To fight a battle you can''t win!¡±


    ¡°Fight, yes. That''s what I was going to do: fight Vanerak. Kill him.¡±


    Some of the eighth degrees gasp.


    ¡°That''s insane!¡± says the tooth-visored runeknight.


    ¡°It''s not.¡±


    ¡°He''s the Runethane! A Runethane!¡±


    ¡°That is his title, yes.¡±


    ¡°Hayhek, persuade him!¡±


    Hayhek comes a step closer to me. ¡°You can''t defeat a Runethane, Zathar,¡± he says softly. ¡°Not one-on-one, and certainly not with his first degrees beside him. Come on. Come with us. Fleeing is the best option here. You persuaded me out of certain death one time. I''m going to do the same now.¡±


    ¡°It''s not certain,¡± I say. ¡°Death, that is. I have the true metal.¡±


    ¡°True metal? What are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°I can defeat him,¡± I say, not quite believing that I am saying it. ¡°I have to.¡±


    ¡°You can''t!¡± says the tooth-visored runeknight. ¡°True metal or mundane!¡±


    I ignore him and look Hayhek in the eyes. ¡°It is my duty to fight. I ran away before, Hayhek, yes. Ran away from a lot of things. But when I heard that the black dragon had reappeared, and that Xomhyrk was going to slay it, or die in the attempt, I decided not to run away. That I would never run away. I decided that I had to do what I had to do.¡± My ruby is burning hot on my chest. ¡°I decided that I had to fight.¡±


    ¡°You can hunt him down another time,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°You haven''t even finished your weapon.¡±


    ¡°I am nearly finished. Once it is complete, I''ll have the power I need.¡±


    ¡°He might not even be alive. It might be demons that come after you. Who knows what they might attempt if they possess a Runethane?¡±


    ¡°He''s too strong for them.¡±


    ¡°The demons are strong too.¡±


    ¡°I''ll be helping you as well,¡± I say. ¡°Whoever returns, demon or dwarf, they''ll come after you. You know this: that''s why you''re fleeing so fast. They''ll come after you and your family.¡±


    ¡°My family has nothing to do with you.¡±


    ¡°No, no. I''m sorry. But all the same, is it not better for me to stay behind here? Delay your pursuers, whoever they may be?¡±


    ¡°Delay them for half a minute or less!¡± says the tooth-visored runeknight. ¡°Second Runeforger, you cannot throw away your power like this!¡±


    ¡°I''m not throwing anything away. I''m using it to destroy an evil.¡±


    ¡°Zathar, come with us,¡± Hayhek pleads. ¡°Vanerak is too strong. Far too strong.¡±


    ¡°I won''t face him head on,¡± I say. Red-dyed hallucinations overlay themselves upon my vision, of Vanerak crawling from the magma shore, armor gashed and runes broken. ¡°I won''t fight fair.¡±


    ¡°You''re insane,¡± says the tooth-visored runeknight. ¡°Completely insane.¡±


    Am I? My ruby burns. It says no, I''m not insane¡ªthat I have a fight to win, an enemy to slaughter. To slaughter!


    I take a deep breath, try to calm myself. Who is speaking right now? Me, or the gem? It''s the gem, I realize with sudden fear. I need to get it off! I snatch at it with my hand, grip it, pull¡ªbut my clenched fist stops mid-air as if dashed against wall. I pull again and meet the same resistance.


    ¡°What''s wrong?¡± asks Hayhek. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing!¡± I hiss. ¡°My¡ª¡± I try to say ruby, but my tongue rolls itself up. ¡°It''s¡ª¡± I choke as my tongue tries to curl backwards into my throat. ¡°Nothing!¡± I say.


    ¡°Something''s wrong,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°Ithis, grab his arms.¡±


    The tooth-visored runeknight lunges at me. I dash my forging hammer onto his helm. The impact makes a loud clang and he falls back, stunned.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I say. ¡°I''ve made my decision, Hayhek! I''m not a slave, not anymore! My decisions are mine to make! I will forge and fight, not run!¡±


    ¡°I''ve heard tales,¡± he says quietly, ¡°that sometimes it''s the weapon that wields the dwarf, and not the other way around. You''re still grasping your ruby amulet.¡±


    ¡°It gives me power,¡± I say. ¡°It''s saved my life twice. I will not remove it.¡±


    ¡°You can''t remove it,¡± says Ithis. ¡°You''re possessed. Not by a demon¡ªby something else¡ªbut possessed all the same.¡±


    ¡°My decisions are mine,¡± I repeat. ¡°I am going to complete my weapon, and then I am going to kill the Runethane and his first degrees. They slaughtered my guild. I know they did.¡±


    ¡°He never said which guild they slaughtered,¡± says Ithis. ¡°Could have been anyone.¡±


    ¡°How are you so damn sure?¡±


    ¡°I wrote the damn letter. It was me breaking his fingers one by one to get him to tell. Though by that point,¡± he spits viciously. ¡°there wasn''t much left to break.¡±


    I narrow my eyes. ¡°And you left nothing out of the letter?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Not a single detail?¡±


    ¡°He said there were a couple hundred of them, and that their guildmaster was only about second degree. That is all.¡±


    Rage flares in me and my ruby both. ¡°Then that was the Association!¡± I shout. ¡°My decision is final! The Runethane is going to die, today!¡±


    ¡°You''re going to die!¡± says Ithis. ¡°Fool! Who do you think we did this all for? You! We don''t need Vanerak to lead us into a new age. If the new age will come from new runes, then the leader we want is you! And now you''re going to kill yourself!¡±


    ¡°I don''t care about any new age, torturer,¡± I spit. ¡°All I care about is murdering the dwarf who murdered my guild. Revenge¡ªthat''s what I''m set on. Red revenge!¡± I stride up right close to him. ¡°Don''t get in my way!¡±


    Ithis makes to say something, but Hayhek grabs his shoulder and pulls him back.


    ¡°You can''t change his mind,¡± he says quietly. ¡°No one''s ever managed to change Zathar''s mind, I don''t think. And maybe he''s right that he can delay Vanerak.¡±


    ¡°He''s possessed,¡± says Ithis. ¡°It''s not him that''s speaking. It''s that amulet.¡±


    ¡°An amulet that I created,¡± I say. ¡°It holds me to my promises.¡±


    ¡°You just tried to tear it off of yourself.¡±


    ¡°My resolve weakened for an instant, yes. It''s strong again.¡±


    ¡°Let''s go, Ithis,¡± says Hayhek. ¡°We''re running out of time. I need to get my family. You need to get yours.¡±


    Ithis shakes his head. ¡°What a waste. What a fucking waste.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, Zathar,¡± says Hayhek.


    ¡°Goodbye, for now. I will see you again soon.¡±


    He turns away sadly. The guards traipse past me to follow him, one clutching his bleeding wrist¡ªseems they don''t much fancy facing an army of demons, if Vanerak has lost. They have their own families, lovers and friends to think about.


    ¡°Hayhek! A word of advice,¡± I say, as some of the red fades from my vision, the ruby having won its battle.


    Hayhek stops and turns. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°I might lose, you know. If I do, Vanerak¡ªand Helzar especially¡ªwill come after you. They''ll catch up if they know the route.¡±


    ¡°Not if we have a head-start.¡±


    ¡°A few always travel faster than many. If I were you, I''d mislead them. Go somewhere they don''t expect. Not Allabrast. Not up¡ªdown.¡±


    ¡°There''s nowhere further down than here.¡±


    ¡°There is one place: the Fort Against the Deep Darkness. He won''t search there. No one would search there.¡±


    ¡°I don''t know where that is. And from what you''ve told me of it, it doesn''t sound especially welcoming.¡±


    ¡°They''ll welcome any friend of mine. Ask a caravaner¡ªthey know where everything is, though they might not take you.¡±


    ¡°I''ll think about it.¡±


    ¡°Don''t just think about it. Go there! I''ll meet you there, Hayhek¡ªIthis too. I''ll meet you both there.¡±


    ¡°We''ll see. I hope we do meet again, Zathar, just so you know. Genuinely.¡±


    ¡°We will. Or maybe we won''t¡ªI won''t make any promises I can''t keep. Goodbye, Hayhek.¡±


    ¡°Goodbye.¡±


    He turns back and follows the rest of the runeknights down the twisting corridor. I shut the door, lock it, and turn back to the three needles of true metal on the anvil.


    Nothing has changed. For me there is only the forge, and then¡ªmy ruby burns hot again¡ªto red revenge!

 Beyond the Magma Shore 80: A Craft Given Life

    First to change the frame of my weapon. I take up the trident and examine the prongs carefully. How to cut? How to bend? What kind of bident, exactly, do I want to make?


    There are two main kinds of bident: dwarf-catchers and weapon-catchers. The first has its prongs spread wide apart to catch the body of an opponent and pin him down, immobilize him. The second has its prongs set closer together to catch the enemy''s weapon. The wielder then twists to disarm¡ªor sometimes break, if it is a wrist he has caught.


    The second is more popular than the first, since a dwarf-catcher requires allies to be used effectively. I have none¡ªso I will make a weapon catcher.


    Yet it cannot be just for catching weapons. It still, ostensibly, needs to be for killing demons. If Vanerak is hale and healthy, armor unbroken, when he emerges from the magma sea to meet my judgment, I will still need him to believe we are allies. Almost friends, maybe.


    My rage may have grown, my desire for his blood increased by so much that my throat feels dry as chalk, but this does not mean I have lost control. I will not charge him head on. I am still waiting for my moment. I have patience¡ªno matter how great my rage, I will not forget my patience.


    Or have I? Running away¡ªthat would have been a more patient choice, no? But there is patience and there is cowardice. Deep down I know that Vanerak would still hunt me. And after he gains the knowledge in the sunken city, whatever it is, he will grow in power, while right now he is at his weakest. Right now, he has no army and no allies but for his few closest. Fighting the demons will have exhausted him. The moment to strike is now. To run would not just have been cowardly, but foolish.


    My ruby burns. I laugh, shake my head. I could not turn back even if I wanted to. Braztak, just before we entered the mountain, suggested that if one''s crafts seem to control you, it is really the you from back in the forge keeping you on the correct path. Keeping you from cowardice. I should thank my ruby for doing this¡ª


    ¡°Stop dallying!¡± I hiss under my breath. ¡°Forge!¡±


    I use my diamond-saw to sever the middle prong of the trident. The look of the weapon makes me feel sick, all of a sudden. But I will remedy its injury, make it instead an alteration. I turn on my magma furnace to maximum heat and insert the bident''s head. When it is glowing to just the right degree of white, I remove it and begin the hammering.


    The prongs must be brought together first. I do this with hard strikes¡ªthough calculated ones. Excess metal juts out, which I sever, cutting carefully so there will be an even join. I hammer some more, with softer strikes to align the two sides of the scar. Everything I do with great slowness. This is almost natural to me now¡ªI am in no hurry. If Vanerak comes¡ªthat does not matter.


    Once the prongs have been brought together at the base, and no hint remains that there was once a third one, it is time to bend them. If I were making a careful, even, normal craft, this process would take me a long time. However, for the theme of chaos, of disrupting the insides of the demons, the prongs are already twisted in strange ways. So I do not have to be so exact with my angles, and I finish fairly quickly.


    I stand the craft upright. I examine the head and am not quite satisfied. It still needs a more even degree of curvature for the grafting of the runes. With my runic ears on, I correct tap by tap. Its symphony can hardly be called such¡ªthe rampant twists, like horns grown wrong, disrupt the sound, and I end up relying more on touch than hearing.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Nevertheless, eventually there comes a point where I am satisfied. I put my tools down and listen out the corridor.


    The only thing outside is silence. However much time has passed, it has not been enough for Vanerak to return, nor for the demons to invade.


    I banish the distracting thoughts. My frame still isn''t quite complete¡ªI still need to affix the thorns before I weld the true tungsten. I prepared a great many while making the ordinary tungsten''s framework, and I bring them out now. Each is an angled spike, and very sharp.


    Originally I was going to angle them outwards. But now that I have made a weapon-catcher, it seems more fitting to angle them inwards. When a weapon comes into their grasp, the thorns will scratch and bite at its runes, disrupting the careful layout of the poem and its runic flow.


    I grin with teeth bared. This idea matches the double meaning of my own poem perfectly also.


    Welding used to be an aspect of forging I was not so skilled at, but now I have no concerns. Helzar was forced to teach everyone her technique for creating and fixing barbs, and I asked many questions about it to the runeknights who came up to talk to me. Two parts quizik, one part incandesite, and half a part glasolite is the formula. I have it ready in a sealed container¡ªthis was another part of my preparation work¡ªand I touch it to the base of each thorns. Once they have all been dabbed with the exact amount, according to their size, I heat the bident''s head to white heat, though just a touch cooler than usual. Get glasolite too hot and it turns to extremely toxic vapor.


    I lay the thorns out more or less at random. This is the way the others found most effective¡ªit matches with the demon-killing poems'' theme of discord. As each touches the bright metal, it suddenly glows bright as well. The reagent hisses like a coiled snake, ready to bite.


    Now for the real thorns, the points of true metal. I examine the points of the bident against the true metal spikes once more, a triple check, and find the dimensions to my satisfaction.


    I turn on both my runic furnace and my magma furnace. First I heat the bident, then lay it on the anvil, blunt points out. I let them cool slightly, to yellow, then I dot a tiny bit of quizik on one point.


    I place the crucible holding the first small spike into the runic furnace''s blue glow. White burns black shadows across the forge; I heat the true tungsten almost to melting. Quickly I take out the crucible and shake it until the spike is on its side with the base pointing outward. I shake it a little more, until the spike is protruding out the cup.


    Very gradually I bring it toward the quizik-touched bident. This is an awkward way of manipulating it, but if I try to grasp it directly with the tongs, I risk melting them. Slowly I move the needle almost to touching. I must get the angle perfect. My heart is beating hard¡ªI do not know if this is the right way to bond true metal to ordinary. I do not even know that you can do so¡ªmight all the living power vanish, rather than being imbued into the weapon as a whole?


    I have no one to teach me. Maybe Wharoth would have been kind enough to help, once I figured out the main part of the secret. That''s the sort of thing he might have done. But he is dead now. His bloody body, unburied, lies frozen on the snow far, far above.


    I touch the true metal to the bident. The quizik flashes silver¡ªdevastatingly silver. All color vanishes from the forge so that for a moment it as if everything, the floor, the furnaces, and even the daycrystals are bright metal. I do not wince¡ªkeep the true metal in contact.


    Slowly the silver fades. I put the crucible down, step close and kneel to inspect. A smile comes across my face, a rabid one. I have succeeded. I can feel life from the bident, from each tip of the thorns, and especially from this tip here before my eye. It wants to stab.


    Even un-enruned, incomplete, this weapon is powerful. Not powerful enough, yet. I heat the bident again, press on some quizik, weld the next spike. The weapon shivers with more power, more life. I reverse it, heat the other end, and weld the final spike.


    It is as if my weapon knows it is complete. I can nearly hear its voice, whispers desiring blood, on the last touch, as silver light covers all. Shadows dance like liquid darkness, angular, sharply-pointed things.


    I pick the weapon up and raise it above my head. I yell in triumph. I have done it! I laugh madly. I have done it! I have forged the true metal!


    Panting, I lower it back onto the anvil. It clinks. I am not done yet, I remind myself. Next is the poem, the trance, and if I burn, there is no one here to throw healing chains and water over me.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 81: Double-Ended Poem

    My fingers are shivering in anticipation of this final task. Upon the anvil lies my weapon, coils of golden wire, a cup of incandesite and a small, paper-thin sheaf of hytrigite. Next to these are drafts for my poem, with some large sections completely dashed out and others re-written.


    The ending¡ªI am not sure what it will be. I will have to trust in my trance for its creation, even trust in whatever resides in the sphere. I must go as deep into my power as I dare and find inspiration there. Yes, it is dangerous to give up control¡ªyet I have no choice. Control is a luxury, not a necessity. A cursed weapon will kill Vanerak just as dead as something completely under my power.


    Beside me is a bucket of water, and I''ve found some healing chains also, up in an alcove behind the guards'' seats. Hopefully I will not burn so hot that I cannot apply them to myself. I try not to remember how painful it felt to have flames dancing on my skin.


    I step back. It is time to begin. Vanerak could be back at any second. It has been a long time already¡ªhe might already be close to the magma shore, if he is not dead, or in the sunken city deep in study of runes that will somehow render my power obsolete.


    I shut my eyes and wait for the trance to take hold. It does suddenly, comes in a blazing rush of heat that envelops me from all sides. I gasp, then my body vanishes. A heavy presence looms behind: the sphere.


    I waste no time in willing the power forth. It responds immediately, sending ripples through the magma as it pours upward over the sphere. I brace; a moment later the sphere blasts it through me. I struggle to wrestle with it, master it. Somewhere my ruby is burning cold.


    With all my effort I manage to turn the raging torrent into a mere beam of blistering heat piercing through my heart. Now, power mastered¡ªto a degree¡ªI can work.


    I concentrate on remembering the poem. The first line comes to me, telling of demons and dwarves at war. Its beginning two runes need no alteration: there are as powerful as they can be in this script. The rest of the line, though, doesn''t quite fit with the runic flow as it will likely be at the twin end stanzas. This poem is a saga, a narrative, and start and end must be well-linked.


    Rune by rune I re-compose. The flow of power becomes faster and more direct. A line changes here, bends there, and connotations change. While first I''d envisioned something more ordered, with battle-lines opposing one another, instead a melee forms, of dwarves slashing wildly and brutally yet being overcome at every turn. Many are possessed and kill their own kind. More demons join the fight, then more dwarves to face them.


    The magma, for this is of course where the battle takes place, bubbles and roils. I had not intended for the battlefield to become this way, yet it does, it must. Within it the melee degenerates further into a killing frenzy, dwarf against possessed against demon, and in the chaos it is starting to become difficult to tell friend from foe.


    Molten metal mixes with the molten stone to form rivers within currents, that froth with blood-steam.


    All this is just the saga''s prelude. Now for the core of what I am to say¡ªthe grand slaughter. The violence increases further. Heat and darkness and sound and force become as one, and as they do so, the terminology I choose becomes less concrete, becomes metaphor.


    Who kills whom? When a dwarf''s weapon pierces order to create chaos, what does it pierce: dwarf, or demon? Possessed or friend? To read from the context of the prelude stanzas, one would assume that dwarf is killing demon¡ªyet this is not set forth in concrete terms. It is left up to interpretation.


    Order creates chaos. Chaos churns further chaos. What exactly does this mean? The runes do not speak in specifics. When a point pierces the heart, what is the heart? The inner sphere of a demon, or the key stanza of a poem? I liken demons to poems themselves; I say they are arranged lines of power just as stanzas of a poem are arranged lines of power. When the lines are destroyed, is a demon being destroyed, or the weapon and armor of a dwarf?


    The runic flow''s increasing complexity is beginning to trouble me. I need to reign it in or else expand it and re-bind it in some clever way. With only a little hesitation, I loosen my hold on the power.


    The sudden influx of heat knocks me off balance. My sense of the magma around me tilts and quakes. I struggle to regain control, wrestle it, compress it. Somewhere, far away, my flesh is starting to grow hot. My ruby turns cold. I ignore these distant sensations; I must trust that I will survive. I''ve done this before¡ªsurvived each time.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I must push further! I reach the stanza that will wrap around the final section of haft before the bifurcation. How to end it? This is the moment in which inspiration must come.


    Originally I had envisioned a triple-ending, of demon killing dwarf on the left, dwarf killing demon on the right, and dwarf killing possessed on the central. How can I alter this to work on only two tines? But now that I am in the depths of the trance, this original idea seems half-done anyway, unfocused. The killing of dwarves cannot be so obvious.


    I struggle to think amidst the rush of boiling power. How can the battle end? With death, naturally, but whose? Demons'' on one, dwarfs'' on another? No, no! I must maintain the deception that this poem is only for the killing of the demons and its haft-spike a mere afterthought toward dealing with the possessed.


    I cannot think of a solution. I release my grip on the power a touch further.


    As if it is a bar of metal suddenly heated to white that I''m grasping, my grip releases completely. Somewhere, far away, my body cries out in pain. I guess that flames are leaping on me. So I must finish now.


    How to end? How to end this saga of violence and chaos? A dwarf strikes¡ªor is it a demon? The strike is a lance of force piercing the heat¡ªor is it heat itself? When it hits, the ordered lines of the demon¡ªor the order of runic flow¡ªor the life of a dwarf, a careful balance of blood and flesh and bone and the thought that gives these materials purpose¡ªthe order is sundered and mixed into the boiling stone and blood and metal.


    Chaos turns to order, says one tine. The blow that breaks apart a creature causing disruption, breaks open the way for peace.


    Order turns to chaos, says the other. There can be no peace, and order itself is a meaningless concept. There are only various patterns that shift.


    The two end-stanzas agree on one thing, one sub-theme, however: change. Chaos to order, or order to chaos, or chaos to more chaos: there is change inherent in whatever process the deadly blow enacts.


    In the end violence is done and the battle comes to an end. And just as the battle in the saga comes to an end, my battle here does also. I feel some pride at this: I am done, I have finished, and my power did not gain control over me. I mastered the rabidly thrashing tide of world''s blood-heat and poured it into my poem. My will triumphed, this time. Now all I have to do is release the flow and exit my trance.


    I will the power to die away. It increases. I attempt to thrust it back in the direction of the sphere, and it refuses to change course. I try to squeeze it, force its width smaller, like I did when I first entered the trance, but my strength is no longer enough.


    My celebration of victory was premature. If I had a mouth I would shout in terror. White heat starts to overwhelm me. My soul¡ªor whatever part of me is down here¡ªhas started to burn, and the pain is like nothing else.


    It cannot end this way! My ruby is refusing the heat, condensing cold around it. I reach yet cannot grasp. It is too far away. I have to swim up, but if I direct even the merest part of my efforts away from wrestling the power, instant incineration will follow. I am in the position of someone grasping a ledge that is just below the top of a cliff. Safety is within a half-yard''s reach, yet I cannot cling with just one hand. The moment I try to reach up, I will fall to my death.


    There must be some way out! But I cannot find it. All I can do is grip, grasp around the power to stop it from increasing further. How long can I grip for, though? How long will the sinews of my soul last?


    I start to feel my grip loosen.


    <hr>


    The net of chains, runes of hope and life glistening, sails through the heat-shimmering air of the forge, cooling and stilling it as it passes. Gently as a silken blanket, it lands upon the dark-bearded dwarf before the anvil. At its touch the flames dancing over his skin turn to steam and smoke, vanish in the air. A second later water from a wide bucket turns to drops like diamonds, flying. They soak the dwarf and cool his reddened skin. His eyes open then roll up, dark blue to red-run white.


    To his knees he falls, then he slumps back, hits the floor with a thud.


    ¡°Let me slay him, Runethane!¡± says Nazak.


    ¡°That would be a waste,¡± says Halax.


    ¡°I also think we should kill him,¡± rasps Helzar.


    Vanerak remains silent as he watches Zathar''s twitching body. There is life left in the young dwarf still, a little. His fists clench¡ªand he gasps, sucks in life. His breaths become even.


    ¡°He cheats death again,¡± says Nazak. ¡°He won''t cheat my axe to his neck, though. We must kill him.¡±


    ¡°A waste,¡± Halax repeats. ¡°His ruby fascinates me. I would learn more.¡±


    ¡°He will not teach us.¡±


    ¡°He has taught us plenty.¡±


    ¡°You''re outnumbered, Halax,¡± Helzar rasps. ¡°Two to one we should kill him.¡±


    ¡°It is our Runethane who will decide, not us.¡±


    ¡°Runethane Vanerak, let us make a decision now,¡± says Nazak. ¡°There is no time. We must not let the demons regain their strength.¡±


    Vanerak kneels down beside Zathar''s prostrate figure. He grasps him roughly by the shoulder, shakes him hard. The young dwarf''s eyes flicker.


    ¡°Wake up, Zathar,¡± Vanerak commands.


    He does not wake up.


    ¡°We should kill him,¡± Helzar rasps again. She is looking at Zathar''s weapon with sudden alarm. ¡°He has grown in power. He''s a threat.¡±


    ¡°Or an asset,¡± says Halax. ¡°And we are too few in number to be choosy.¡±


    ¡°Wake up, Zathar,¡± Vanerak repeats, and shakes him harder.


    Still Zathar does not stir. Vanerak raises his hand and brings it down hard to the side of Zathar''s face. Zathar shouts in pain and shock¡ªand his eyes open.


    ¡°You have awoken,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°This is good. I must make a decision, and I would hear what you have to say for yourself before I make it.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 82: Not In Chains

    I open my eyes to a nightmare. Above me is my own reflection, warped and darkened. Faint runes overlay it, though I know not what they mean. Beside Vanerak, surrounding me, are Nazak, Helzar, and Halax. The first two wear expressions of hate¡ªthough perhaps also a touch of fear¡ªHalax is inscrutable.


    ¡°You have awoken,¡± Vanerak says. ¡°This is good. I must make a decision, and I would hear what you have to say for yourself before I make it.¡±


    ¡°A decision?¡± I croak, weakly.


    ¡°Yes. An important one.¡±


    ¡°I stayed,¡± I croak. ¡°The others have run. I could have left, yet I stayed.¡± I want to laugh: I was saved, yet now I am returned to hell, voluntarily. ¡°I stayed!¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Nazak demands. ¡°What are you plotting, traitor?¡±


    ¡°Plotting? Nothing, honored runeknight. Nothing like that. I just wanted to finish my weapon. That is all. I am a runeknight and I wanted to forge.¡±


    ¡°You might have completed it another time.¡±


    ¡°It would not have been as good. This was the moment to enrune.¡±


    ¡°I did not realize your power worked on such strict timings.¡±


    ¡°Silence, Nazak,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Though I was also not aware that you had to enrune at specific timings, Zathar Runeforger. Is this something you kept from me?¡±


    ¡°Not at all, my Ruthane,¡± I say. ¡°Not at all! It''s not to do with my power.¡±


    Slowly I push myself up from the floor. Every square inch of my skin feels raw, like it''s been blanched in boiling water. Yet my ruby is emanating waves of coolness, driving the pain away. I am recovering quickly.


    ¡°Then explain,¡± Vanerak demands.


    I speak fast. ¡°My guards¡ªwho have fled¡ªtold me you were in the sunken city,¡± I say. ¡°And I immediately felt a great sense of fear for my fellow runeknights.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± says Nazak, sneering.


    ¡°Yes! My Runethane, honored runeknights, it seemed shameful that I was not there. You were all¡ªincluding some of my dear friends¡ªlocked in deadly battle, and yet I was locked in here doing nothing. Wasting away. What is the point in creating runes if no one is alive to use them? Thus I wished to finish this weapon and through its power persuade my guards that I could be of use in battle immediately.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± says Vanerak. ¡°You should have known that they would not permit you to leave. You are not so foolish.¡±


    ¡°They were only eighth degrees. Weak-minded¡ªas their fleeing surely demonstrates.¡±


    ¡°I do not believe him,¡± Nazak says to Vanerak. ¡°He has never been this sentimental before.¡±


    ¡°Not to you, honored runeknight," I say. "I try not to show such weakness to you. But I do have room for care in my heart for a few friends, just as you do for your own loyal dwarves.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Vanerak says coldly. ¡°However, did those who came here not tell you that the battle was lost?¡±


    ¡°They said they didn''t know whether it was lost or won, only that you, or else an army of demons, was chasing them, and that we had to leave quickly.¡±


    ¡°Quickly to where?¡± rasps Helzar.


    ¡°To Allabrast. They seek to persuade Runeking Ulrike that you mistreated them.¡±


    To tell some over-complex lie would draw suspicion I cannot afford. I hope dearly that Hayhek has taken my advice.


    ¡°You betray them a second time,¡± she rasps, and an ugly sneer comes across her thin face. ¡°The betrayers betrayed¡ªhow poetic. They will be punished most brutally.¡±


    ¡°In time,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°Zathar Runeforger is our concern for now.¡±


    I get the feeling he does not quite believe my given reason for staying. His ear for lies is too acute¡ªI will feed him a half-truth too. I grasp the anvil and pull myself upright.


    ¡°My Runethane, there is another reason also.¡±


    ¡°Then tell it quickly.¡±


    ¡°It is this: I also wish to know more of the nature of my powers. They are truly, I understand now, the future of all dwarfkind. I must know more of them. The knowledge held in the sunken city surely relates to them¡ªwhat else could explain the Runeking''s sudden interest in this forsaken place, so soon after he learned of me?¡±


    ¡°A most astute observation,¡± says Halax. ¡°Some of the images we saw there do indeed hint at the origins of our noble caste of runeknights.¡±


    ¡°That is excellent news to me! I hope dearly to see them.¡±


    ¡°I do not trust his weapon,¡± Nazak says. ¡°My Runethane, it is designed for use against dwarves, not demons. It is a weapon-catcher. Demons have no weapons.¡±


    ¡°The possessed do!¡± I say. ¡°It is designed also to defeat them. Hence the thornless rear-spike.¡±


    ¡°Perfect for piercing armor, though the heat of the possessed degrades their armor quickly anyway."


    ¡°I would read the poem before passing judgment,¡± says Halax.


    ¡°Gladly do!¡±


    I reach for my bident. Nazak lays the blade of his axe across my arm and I feel its sharpness hunger to bite.


    ¡°My Runethane?¡± he says.


    ¡°Allow him,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°With no armor he is no threat to us. Certainly he is not to me.¡±


    ¡°Thank you greatly, my Runethane!¡± I say. ¡°Please read and know that I mean no harm to any dwarf. It speaks only of the slaying of demons.¡±


    ¡°Hold it above your head,¡± says Halax. His emerald eyes are wide and bright. ¡°Turn it slowly so we may read it from base to points.¡±


    Nazak draws his axe away reluctantly. I thank him, then take hold of the bident and raise it above my head. The eyes of the three first degrees swivel as one to the base. Gradually I spin it lengthways so they may read the lines spiraling up toward the tines. Their eyes inch along, taking in every rune. I cannot tell where Vanerak looks, but am sure that he is reading too, his eyes fixed on the runes, fascinated.


    Trapped and interrogated under the threat of death. This situation is distant from my imaginings of Vanerak crawling from the magma with his armor half-broken and mortal flesh within exhausted. Yet, as unbelievable as it is to witness, it seems my dreams were not total delusions.


    His foilsuit is scratched in several places. His voice is not quite so cold and sharp as I remember. His movements seem a touch more sluggish¡ªthey were always so confident, calculated, like he knew exactly where each step would land, and once they did land¡ªutter stillness. Now I can tell the rhythm of his breathing.


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    As for the other three, they have suffered obvious damage. Nazak''s armor is dented in several places, and several runes are scarred and part-melted. Some of Helzar''s plates are nearly cut through. Halax''s harness has suffered the least, yet his face is covered with a sheen of sweat and he is blinking more than usual. He is tired.


    It is he who speaks first: ¡°A most impressive poem. The final stanzas especially interest me. Utter chaos¡ªthat is their theme, if I am not mistaken. To plunge whatever they enter into true disarray.¡±


    ¡°That is correct, honored runeknight. I believe it will be most potent against the demons.¡±


    ¡°I do not trust it,¡± Nazak says bluntly. "Helzar?"


    ¡°I do not appreciate the shameless copying of my techniques,¡± she rasps.


    ¡°That is not entirely fair,¡± says Halax. ¡°We use his runes, do we not?¡±


    ¡°Because he is our prisoner.¡±


    ¡°Be silent, all of you,¡± says Vanerak.


    Silence falls.


    ¡°I must think,¡± he says. ¡°Place your weapon back down on the anvil, Zathar.¡±


    I do so. Vanerak steps forward and leans down to stare at the bident. I imagine that from behind his mirror-mask his eyes are raking it back and forth, trying to unravel some suspicion¡ªmy old fear returns. It was foolish of me to believe he could be tricked. He knows far more of composition than I do. My most subtle efforts, to him, are crude.


    ¡°Turn it over,¡± he orders, and I do so.


    He continues to rake it with his unseen gaze. My blanched skin begins to itch and sting as new sweat beads. He orders me to turn it over again, and again. I obey. He spends a long time between turns. He is scrutinizing every last rune, every line and stanza, unraveling my double-meanings. All is laid bare under his gaze. Everything.


    ¡°We will deliberate,¡± he says. ¡°Stay still beside the anvil, Zathar Runeforger. Do not move a single step or your life is forfeit.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane!¡± My voice comes out in a gasp. ¡°Of course!¡±


    He leads his three first degrees out of the forge to the first turning of the corridor. He speaks, yet I cannot make out what he is saying.


    <hr>


    ¡°I trust you understood precisely his poem,¡± Vanerak asks.


    ¡°Yes,¡± says Halax. ¡°It contained a most clever double-meaning within its coils. It is a venomous serpent of a craft. He has become more subtle.¡±


    ¡°Then this is all the proof we need!¡± says Nazak. ¡°He plans to slay us. We must kill him now.¡±


    ¡°Then why did you not point this out?¡± Vanerak asks Halax, ignoring Nazak.


    ¡°I did not wish to cause any kind of commotion that would put the runeforger''s life at risk,¡± Halax says, with a pointed glance at Nazak. ¡°He may have panicked at seeing his intentions so easily unmasked.¡±


    ¡°Then you still think we should leave him be,¡± Nazak spits. ¡°Halax, you are blinded by him!¡±


    ¡°If you accuse me of this, then you also accuse our Runethane of the same.¡±


    ¡°I do nothing of the sort!¡±


    ¡°What have you to say, Helzar?¡± Vanerak asks.


    ¡°I am not so subtle with rune-work as the others,¡± she admits. ¡°The terminology was vague yet powerful. I thought it to be a flexible poem. It would play havoc on any weapon caught in its barbs.¡±


    ¡°Disable his opponent''s weapon then flip his own around for the killing blow, with that reverse-spike,¡± says Nazak. ¡°Or else wield it like a stave and stab down to spear the feet, to have the opponent fully at his mercy.¡±


    ¡°It could be used in such ways¡ªor less subtle ones. Those barbs when jabbed into flesh would cause immense agony.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± says Vanerak, ¡°a most impressive work of art. The greatest he has yet created, and not only through of his utilization of the true metal. It is a well-made poem upon well-forged metal.¡±


    There is a brief silence. Vanerak does not often give such praise.


    ¡°All the more reason to end him here,¡± says Nazak. ¡°We have spoken of this before, my Runethane, and you indicated agreement.¡±


    ¡°You misremember,¡± Vanerak says sharply. ¡°I said that once certain things had been confirmed about his runeforging, he would no longer be needed.¡±


    ¡°I apologize, my Runethane. Yet¡ª¡±


    ¡°If he is needed, we cannot leave him here,¡± says Halax. ¡°We cannot afford to leave him with guards whose loyalty may also be called into question.¡±


    ¡°They will not betray us!¡± Nazak snaps. ¡°They are my second and third degrees and many have just given their lives! Do not lump them in with those who fled!¡±


    ¡°We will also need them if the demons have recovered quicker than anticipated.¡±


    ¡°So you propose we bring the traitor with us,¡± Helzar rasps. ¡°In chains, I presume.¡±


    ¡°He will find it rather hard to swim while chained.¡±


    ¡°There will be no need to chain him,¡± says Vanerak. ¡°He knows he cannot run from us.¡±


    ¡°So he will fight,¡± says Nazak. ¡°He will stab us in the back while the demons distract.¡±


    ¡°We will not allow him to. You will not allow him to, Nazak. Keep watch on him. Signal me if he turns¡ªI will make the call on how badly you may wound him.¡±


    "You really mean to go through with this, my Runethane?"


    "You know better than to ask me such questions."


    Nazak grits his teeth. A tortured expression comes across his face¡ªfrustration knots his features tight. His soldiers'' betrayal has cut him to the heart, and now his Runethane will not punish this traitor, the original and most foul of them! But he masters his heart. He relaxes the muscles of his face and a smooth coldness comes over his visage.


    "I apologize." Nazak bows deep. ¡°If it be your decision, I of course obey."


    "You will."


    "And you are most generous in giving me the duty of watching over him, my Runethane. I am honored by your trust. And you can be sure I will not harm him apart from by your direct command.¡±


    ¡°It is a most wise decision, my Runethane,¡± says Halax. "Though, I would request to hear your reasoning in full. The second and third degrees should be given no reason to doubt you."


    ¡°Tell them that this is my reasoning: there is a possibility that we will need Zathar to decipher the knowledge within the city. If that is the case, he must be kept alive and we cannot leave him undefended in his forge. We need maximum strength for this final rebound of ours. And his strength too will prove an asset. He will fight to prove his loyalty, and his bident is powerful. His armor too is adequate for his own protection, as has been proven in the past. We are, for now, to treat him as one of our own.¡±


    "I will relay these words," says Nazak.


    "Good." Vanerak now stares at each in turn, turning his head so they know exactly when they are the object of his gaze. ¡°I will hear any suggestions, opinions or objections now before we gather the force and leave in haste,¡± he says.


    The three are silent.


    ¡°You have nothing more you wish to say, Commander Nazak?¡±


    ¡°Nothing, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°That is well. His protection is your responsibility. You have done an admirable job in keeping him alive thus far, despite your hatred for him. The ability to reign in one''s emotions is of paramount importance for a runeknight.¡±


    ¡°I will continue to keep my inner desires, inner, my Runethane. You have my word. I have never broken it.¡±


    ¡°That you have not. Helzar, you and your dwarves will be responsible for slaying any possessed. Halax, as always you shall be my eyes.¡±


    ¡°Yes, my Runethane,¡± the two chorus.


    ¡°As for those who fled¡ªwe will deal with them after our victory. The leaders of the rout and any they hold dear will be made examples of.¡±


    Vanerak issues a few further orders to the first degrees, then dismisses them. They leave up the corridor. He turns back to Zathar.


    A traitor to the last, it seems, not that it will matter. The young dwarf''s confidence in his weapon is sorely misplaced. A first degree he may be, in forging skill if not yet in title, but he knows nothing of the further degrees and how pitifully low he sits at the bottom of them. He is a fraction degree and no more.


    He will not rise any higher, never rise to half or even quarter. Vanerak will end that rise, for he is confident that within the city will be the final confirmation of his theories. The hooks and cages below, the seeming infinitude of the so-called demons, the amulet of Fjalar, the sphere, the way Zathar pulls his power through himself, the source in the magma sea¡ªcompiled, these secret knowledges and hints add up to a conclusion of truly great power.


    Zathar will be rendered obsolete. A new age will dawn on dwarfkind, of new runes that are not mere copies of the old¡ªof Vanerak''s runes. Runes that will challenge even the Runegods.


    These runes, the traitor will not live to see.


    <hr>


    Vanerak dismisses his first degrees and turns back toward me. He advances slowly¡ªyet not so slowly. His movements are uncharacteristically hurried. Is this a good sign, or does it signal my imminent death? I tense. My heart is beating too fast, making me feel faint.


    I can see my reflection now, expanding in the center of his mirror-mask. He passes through the door and now my reflection occupies the whole of his mask. His gaze is fixed on me. It pins me like a spear through the heart.


    ¡°My Runethane,¡± I say. ¡°I await your most wise decision.¡±


    ¡°I have made it,¡± he says. ¡°You are to equip yourself and join us on one final expedition. The demons are greatly weakened. We will break through them and gain the knowledge we both desire.¡±


    ¡°Equip myself?¡±


    ¡°You will not be in chains¡ªyou will fight with us. Your weapon elevates you to the status of first degree, the title which I will grant you formally after our victory. You will be an asset in the fight against the demons.¡±


    I can hardly believe it. I will fight with him? In my armor, and with this weapon? I stare in shock. Has he really not seen through my runes?


    No. He has, I''m sure. But he simply cannot afford to leave me here. He wants to keep me in his sight at all times.


    And that suits me just fine. My ruby burns. I fall to one knee, and say:


    ¡°I am most deeply honored, my Runethane. I am overjoyed that I will be allowed to fight alongside you. Maybe I have betrayed your trust in the past, but I will never do so again. You have my word¡ªyou will not regret this decision.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he says, his voice cold as the surface snow under which Wharoth''s bloodied body surely lies. ¡°I will not.¡±

 Beyond the Magma Shore 83: A Name for Revenge

    Before the glow of the magma shore, fifteen runeknights and their Runethane stand. The light reflects darkly on their armor, darker in the scars and dents. The first battle was a fierce one¡ªyet nearly a victory. If only Vanerak''s lieutenants had not given futile chase; if only they had not relented their pressure on the demons.


    He will discipline them later. The midst of battle is no time to injure morale, and the battle has not ended. This is a time for inspiration.


    A few words are needed. For the second time in less than half a long-hour he steps out in front of his soldiers and lifts his mirror-mask.


    <hr>


    For the first time, I see his face. It is not disfigured, not badly scarred, but all the same disgusts me; revulsion crawls in the pit of my stomach.


    His lips are the color of blood, his teeth like rows of blunt axeheads. His eyes are a little widely spaced, and so cold blue they are almost gray. His slate beard hangs heavy and dead-seeming, and his flesh from which it grows looks dead also, like chalk-dusted leather.


    He looks without question the part of a murderer. It is easy to imagine cold and cruel commands issuing forth from those raw-flesh lips. Those cold eyes did not blink, I''m sure, when he ordered Pellas'' guts to be torn out through her armor.


    Now that I have seen his face, I can imagine him having no other. It suits him just that well.


    ¡°My dwarves,¡± he intones. Even with no metallic ring from his mirror-mask, his voice remains like cold steel. ¡°The demons were on the brink of defeat when the lesser runeknights broke. They remain on the brink of defeat now. We slaughtered many hundreds of them, and we did so in the center of their stronghold. They threw all their might against us, and now but a few remain. Think: if hordes of them were still being held in reserve, they would have chased us down by now, but instead the survivors hang back to lick their wounds.


    ¡°We remain but a few also, yes, yet you are my strongest, my elite. It will be no difficult task for us to break the demons'' ranks then break into their secret places. Not with me leading you¡ªand not with the runeforger here also.¡±


    He points at me. I flinch in surprise¡ªI was not expecting this.


    ¡°With his runes he has created a weapon of first degree quality. It is too valuable an asset to be left on the shore for this coming fight. Do not believe this means I trust him entirely. He is still the traitor and must be watched with suspicion. Yet he does mean to fight. He did not run, at least. If he fights well enough, perhaps I will even be so kind as to give him a further degree of freedom.¡±


    I bow low. ¡°I thank you greatly for this opportunity, my Runethane. I will not squander it.¡±


    ¡°You are welcome,¡± he replies curtly. His eyes remain cold.


    Of course, I do not believe this promise for even a second. Vanerak turns back to the rest of the runeknights:


    ¡°You have little to fear and everything to hope for. We are on the brink of a great discovery. I make no exaggeration when I say that what we find may change dwarfdom forever. Within the demons'' stronghold lies the origins of our noble caste, and of our runic magicks also. Within are answers, which are far rarer and more precious than metal or gems. You enter those upper chambers with me, and you enter into legend.¡±


    He slams down his mirror-mask and raises his pollaxe high above his head. A cheer erupts, deafening for coming from so few. Nazak leads it¡ªhe is almost screaming. Helzar is loud too, a terrible hissing screech issuing from her helmet. Halax starts to chant, giving shape to the yelling:


    ¡°Legend! Legend! Legend!¡±


    ¡°Ueala! Ueala! Ueala!¡±


    I chant too, throw all my breath into the words. I compete with Nazak, try to sound louder even than he. I must convince the other dwarves to trust me. They must not doubt. They must let their guard down in the heat of battle, take their eyes off me for vital moments, for if I am to commit the slaughter I plan, I must kill one by one.


    Not all here participated in the murder of the Association, true. But if Vanerak had ordered them so, each would have helped without question. Their loyalty to him is guilt by association.


    Vanerak lowers his pollaxe and the chant ceases instantly. He turns, applies his heat-mask and breathing tube, and wades into the magma. Nazak yells the order for everyone else to do the same, and we obey. Light vanishes and is replaced with that not-view of heat: light that is not light spreads out before me, void that is not black extends above. This is not the heat-mask I made, but a slightly better one¡ªI feel uncomfortable equipping it.


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    My breathing tube is also not my own make, and looks rather thin. I secure it after a second''s hesitation. My breath is cut off momentarily then sweeter air fills my mouth. Both crafts seem to be working fine.


    Slick crunching steps sound, cold bootprints open in the light, and I follow the rest of the runeknights in.


    I feel a slight crush and heating, then both forces are repelled. We begin to swim-crawl through the magma. I watch my hands and observe the familiar halo of not-color, of life-heat. It enraged the demons greatly, made me a target on my first dive, and also proved something of a weapon against them. I observe the other runeknights and see that about a quarter have copied the concept. Wrappings of similar not-color envelop them too.


    Maybe I should feel flattered, but my heart has no room for such an emotion. One half holds hate, the other fear. That is all.


    My arms begin to ache a little. We are swimming quite close to the surface, where the magma is a little thinner and harder to grip and pull on. This is for safety, I suppose: the shorter our cables, the less the risk. And the less pressure on the armor too. Some of the second degrees'' harnesses are quite badly damaged, and some even bear the marks of hurried welds, as if their wearers were in the middle of desperate repairs when the order came to form up on the shore.


    I can take them! I can kill them! My ruby heats further. Vigor surges through my muscles and I no longer feel any ache. Only a few hours and we will be in battle. My bident is ready. It is still unnamed, deserves a good one, but none I have thought of so far have been fitting.


    When the slaughter comes, that is when I will know what to call it.


    <hr>


    As Nazak proceeds through the magma with the remnants of the army, a sadness takes hold of him. Less than ten short-hours ago he swam out with hundreds under his command. Now he swims out with a dozen.


    Why did they flee? He fought hard for them, fought hard with them, leading from the front. He thought they trusted him! Respected and liked him. He respected them too, liked them also¡ªloved them, even. Yes, he loved them as he did his own brothers, who burned to death all those thousands of long-hours ago in the black dragon''s fire.


    And they repaid him through betrayal. Worse, they betrayed him for the loathsome Zathar, the traitor whose hands are dyed in blood and ashes.


    It is not his fault, Nazak tells himself. The Runethane simply pushed them all too hard. He knows he should not criticize their leader, yet a Runethane with such strength as Vanerak simply cannot enter into the feelings of lower degrees.


    If only Nazak had found some way to make him understand the impossibility of what he was asking them to do, again, and again, and again.


    Well, it is too late for such regrets. After the victory, after they rebuild, maybe he will have new dwarves to lead and protect and win the trust of. For the time being, duty is all that''s left to him¡ªduty to kill the demons, and to kill the traitor the moment he betrays them, inevitably, for a second time.


    At the base of Halax''s field of not-view, the familiar shapes of broken walls and jagged points of pillars make themselves clear. Unlike Nazak, his thoughts are not of his fellows, nor of the fight ahead, but of the distant past. The pictures engraved upon the blocks and bricks and slabs below tell of a realm like none other.


    They tell of a realm with no runeknights. Indeed, it seems to be a realm with no soldiers of any kind. No armor is depicted, no weapons either. Everyone is dressed in fabrics, so well-carved they seem to blow in solid stone winds. And the carvings sing too, with voices almost audible. The runes describe what they are singing, Halax is sure, for generally when a picture is accompanied by runes, it is a picture of dwarves with mouths open.


    Perhaps the runes do not even describe words, but rather tones and rhythms. Maybe this was a time before words, though that seems a little unlikely.


    The truth will be uncovered soon. Halax glimpsed runes barely legible in that final corridor. He hopes to be able to use them to translate the unreadable ones.


    So much to learn! So much to study! And if Runethane Vanerak has truly figured out the secret of Zathar''s runeforging, even more possibilities will open up. This new age, Halax thinks joyously, will be one of unparalleled excitement.


    The black pillars reach higher, up into the vision of Helzar. She is focused on Zathar and her hands itch. He who took her voice will suffer. All the suffering she has inflicted on others, which she believes to her very heart-strings to be but a tenth of what she suffers each time she speaks¡ªall that pain will be but a hundredth of what she will inflict on Zathar. He will watch as every one of his traitor friends is torn on her barbs. Nazak will not kill him¡ªHelzar will not allow this. Zathar must suffer as no dwarf has ever yet.


    <hr>


    After nearly a full short-hour of swimming, broken pillars and hollowed towers stab up blackly from below. We have entered the city proper. Every wall is decorated with pictures. They are blurs to me, yet even so I can tell they are the most expert carvings I have ever passed by. Whoever the builders of this city were, their masons surpassed ours to an incredible degree. The old master mason¡ªwherever he is¡ªwould weep to see them. Maybe he already has, before those that have been dragged out the magma into our caverns.


    The towers reach steadily higher. Still we see no demons and Vanerak increases our pace. He seems uncharacteristically eager.


    Something odd appears in my heat-vision. I frown and adjust my heat-mask, thinking it has detached from my visor somehow, but no. The strangeness remains: all the not-light ahead of us is cut off totally. Before is a wall of void and Vanerak is swimming directly for it.


    My eyes widen. Horizontal rods of heat appear in the cold, extend lengthily. Corridors! And as we get closer, curvature becomes apparent. We are heading toward a vast tower, a cylinder that could encompass one of the pillars in Allabrast many times over.


    Vanerak dives suddenly. We follow, moving almost vertically down after him. A wide gap¡ªwide for us, though not compared with the tower¡ªcomes into view below. Heat extends far into it.


    A wave of heat hits us, warming me even through my armor. Blazing spheres appear in the tower entrance and flood out fast. I shout in terror¡ªthere are many of them, a hundred, a true horde.


    The demons are here. The final battle is upon us, and it appears that Vanerak exaggerated their losses. Like sparks from a mass of semi-molten metal suddenly dashed to the floor, they swarm upwards to engulf us.


    I aim my bident¡ªand in the same instant name it: Life-Ripper.


    Its thorns will pierce dwarf and demon both to rend them from within. And if it should catch a weapon, it will tear apart the living power of runes and metal also.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 84: The Gates to Knowledge

    The demons do not charge us straight away, but instead fan out to surround us like the stars of the surface fan out across the dome of the night-sky. Not a single angle of escape is left to us. It seems they regret letting so many hundreds of dwarves slip from their grasp after the first assault.


    Vanerak dives faster. Nazak urges us to follow. I double the frequency of my kicking and clutching, and not even the ruby can drive away all the fatigue this causes. My muscles burn like the magma and I gasp for breath hard.


    More sparks of heat shine in the grand entrance to the tower. Vanerak makes a complex hand movement, and our formation becomes like a spearhead, with me in its center, Vanerak its extended tip with Halax right behind him, and Nazak behind him. Helzar takes the rear. We accelerate, and the demons around us close their net. A hundred spheres of twisting heat streak toward us from a hundred angles.


    Our force contains no one but elites, however, and discipline is maintained. No one turns. We continue to speed toward the entrance¡ªas speedily as one can move through sticky, molten stone.


    The demons are going to win the race. Vanerak turns and pulls up close to Nazak, who subsequently makes some hand signals and charges back. Most of the second degree runeknights follow him. One grabs me by the upper arm and forces me around. It seems that I am to fight alongside Nazak, then. Perhaps Vanerak, already back to swimming fast for the tower, has assigned me to be his responsibility.


    The demons grow closer, a hundred stars all falling toward me. Life-Ripper shivers in my grasp, raring to be let loose. The other dwarves spread out a little around me; Nazak comes beside me with axe ready. I can sense the shape of the demons clearly now, sense the hundreds of looping lines that make them up. Each travels at exactly the same pace; half then slow and fall a few yards behind the others.


    They will hit us in two successive waves, fifty apiece. I change my grip on Life-Ripper to a one-handed one. I will thrust with its maximum range and use my free hand and its coruscating halo of life-heat to ward off any demons that attempt to possess me.


    Thrust! I lash out, gauntlet imparting extra speed. Life-Ripper''s twin spines plunge deep into a demon, which dies instantly, bursting apart from within. I slash back, and Life-Ripper enters another, tears it apart too. Nazak slashes a demon that appears before my face. Raging heat dissipates into ambient heat. The other runeknights stab and slash with their own weapons. A dozen demons are slain in half that many seconds¡ªstill there are many more.


    I sense a dwarf beside me convulse violently. His hands are grasping at his face, then in the next moment he is slashing at the air-cable of the runeknight next to him. I stab with Life-Ripper''s reverse-spike up into his helm.


    Heat bursts out like unreal flames from the wound. Two more demons converge on my helmet and Nazak does not slash at them. I curse him¡ªthough maybe he just did not see¡ªbut Life-Ripper is in position anyway. I kill one then draw back through the other as it sends raging heat into my helm. The heat vanishes.


    I get a further respite: the demons are drawing back. I yell in triumph, for we have destroyed half their number for the cost of only one of our own. My runes are indomitable.


    ¡°Come on!¡± I scream into my helm. ¡°Come back and die!¡±


    They seem to hear me. They change their formation, become a blazing spearhead set before us. They pull back, ready themselves to thrust. Nazak makes another complicated hand-movement and the runeknights change formation around me again, making a small circle, a buckler to face the oncoming blow.


    Behind us, Vanerak and the other half of the force have made it into the tower.


    The fifty demons rush. We six stab and slash forward as one. Eddies ripple around our blades and the demons dash themselves apart on them. Ten or so make it through, and we tear at them with gauntlet and parry with weapons. I kill one as it envelops the head of the runeknight beside me¡ªbut I make sure that Life-Ripper''s thorns badly scratch the runes on his visor, and half-break his heat-mask.


    Only three demons left now, hovering between us and the tower entrance. They dash for it. I stab out and Life-Ripper''s thorns catch. I drag back and sever the lines of heat. The demon manages to retreat a dozen more yards before it comes apart completely, coils of heat unraveling like an animal''s guts.


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    Forward, Nazak signals to us with a slash of his axe. We swim ahead, rushing for the great dark tower''s comparatively tiny mouth. My heart is beating wildly and a thrill is coursing through my blood. The true metal is proving its worth many times over. The demons fell apart at just mere touches, and what is more, it pierced through the armor of a second degree nearly with ease. It was a thin part of his armor, yes, and was being burned up from the opposite side too; despite this, that was still the most deadly blow I have ever struck.


    I focus on the two runeknights beside me. We are at the rear of the formation. Could I strike now, remove two more? No¡ªthe nature of heat-sense is that you sense in all directions at once. Nazak has his eyes, so to speak, on me at all times.


    Into the tower''s maw we go. The fleeing demons are still rushing before us. Past them, at the very edge of my vision, I sense Vanerak, Helzar, Halax, and two other runeknights. We pass one dead dwarf, his armor melted from within and rent with ragged holes likely from Helzar''s barbed spear, but that''s all the losses they have taken.


    The demons stall; Helzar and one more have turned to face them. The demons charge them and are torn to pieces. That''s all of them: a hundred destroyed in under ten minutes. I cannot quite believe the power of my own runes.


    Yet this is not entirely good news for me. Is our battle then over? I grow nervous. I was going to use the chaos to strike, but is the chaos ended? Are we going to waltz into the city''s most secret chamber with no more opposition?


    Vanerak and the others are not advancing completely unimpeded. Heat flashes in front of them at regular, short intervals. They are still fighting. As we close in, I see that they are being assailed by a stream of demons charging one by one quickly and relentlessly.


    Slash or stab, Vanerak ends each one as soon as it comes into range. Occasionally one will dart over his head and try to possess one of the dwarves behind¡ªspears take care of them.


    The demons'' efforts are hopeless. I curse. I need some more terrible threat, some distraction. Will resistance stiffen the further we go? The corridor begins to angle upward and turn to submerged stairs. This does not slow Vanerak down. He seems unstoppable.


    Up the stairs, though, I see something that may be of use: the magma cuts off into void, and it is not the void of solid stone, but rather seems to be of air. Whoever goes through and removes his helm will not be able to see what happens under the magma. I can kill one or two, maybe¡ªor is this still too great a risk? Will questions be asked if those who were behind me do not reappear?


    We approach the break in the magma more closely. Vanerak steps right before it. He slashes down one demon, then tears off his heat-mask. He vanishes upward. Halax follows suit, then a few of the seconds degrees, then Helzar.


    Nazak turns and motions me forward. I grit my teeth and obey. It seems that he also saw the risk this blind-spot poses and isn''t going to let me take advantage of it. He stands close behind with his axe at the ready, and I can sense the true metal in its edge. My armor will not stand a blow from it.


    Reluctantly I advance. I step up onto a solid stair, up another, and the weight and heat of the magma vanishes from my head and shoulders. Void surrounds me. I hurry to undo the clasps of my heat-mask and pull it off. I remove my breathing-cable too, leave it with the rest on one of the wide steps.


    I look up. Before me the situation is the same as it was in the magma, though now outlined in color and light instead. Vanerak slashes in time with each step, rending apart the mirages of heat that sail down toward us. The rest of the dwarves step in time with him.


    We are advancing steadily. I follow, Nazak still close behind me. The stairs bend to the left then begin to corkscrew up. Armored clatters echo loudly.


    Our rate of advance increases as the number of demons decreases. We''ve won, surely. Even if they are saving their strength for some final push, we will tear it apart with ease. The power of a Runethane is proving too much¡ªnow the demons'' attacks cease entirely. The pace of our march increases to nearly a run. Vanerak is eager. Cold despair fills me and my ruby''s blood-lust abates. The battle seems to be over.


    But our journey is not. We circle higher and higher up the steps. The scale of the corridor is immense, almost as if it was not made for dwarves. The kneeling figures on the walls are carved to look twice life-size. I notice that here they are runeknights in armor, and that the runes on them are different to those in the rest of the city. A few shapes seem familiar.


    These runes have power, I realize. There is a pattern to them I recognize from studying the books Vanerak gave me. Certain angles are common to them. These runes were created by the runeforger¡ªthe First Runeforger.


    Each of the figures is kneeling. And who might the first runeknights be kneeling before?


    I feel a shiver on my skin. Above us, at the termination of these spiral stairs, is surely the answer to many mysteries. That is why Vanerak strides so keenly.


    The stairs narrow and steepen. The spiral becomes tighter. The runeknights engraved on the wall have their visors tilted up, and are gazing forward with expressions of awe and gratitude so well-carved that behind my fear I begin to feel awe myself.


    The spiraling lessens. There is one more turn, a right angle one, and the stairs suddenly widen to fifty feet across. At their top is a gate of stone.


    Before those gates stands a dwarf in armor like frozen silver flames.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 85: Opportunity for Revenge

    Vanerak holds up his hand to halt us. The dwarf in armor like frozen silver fire makes no move and says nothing. He is too far away for me to make out the runes on his plate, yet they are strong. His armor radiates power¡ªpower I recognize as being that of true metal.


    My grip on Life-Ripper tightens. I estimate this foe, if he is indeed our foe, to be at least as strong as a Runethane.


    ¡°Form a double-line,¡± Vanerak orders.


    We step into formation. Halax and Helzar flank Vanerak. Nazak stands behind him at the center of the second line; I am beside Nazak.


    ¡°Advance slowly,¡± Vanerak orders.


    We do so. Our armored footsteps echo softer than usual off the black stone carvings on the walls. Light is provided by heavy crystal chandeliers hanging over the stairs in two rows, and their glow is bright white even after a hundred thousand years. They are not daycrystals, nor any other kind of crystal I have seen before. They are perfect clear globes.


    The dwarf in silver still makes no move, still does not speak. Could he be a statue? Or dead?


    No. He reaches out with his right gauntlet. It glitters in colors I have seen from no metal, colors I have never seen from anything. He opens his palm. A mirage of heat bursts from it and soars toward Vanerak, who cuts. The mirage vanishes. The dust on the stairs parts from the force of the true tungsten pollaxe.


    ¡°Stop there,¡± says the dwarf. ¡°Cease your advance.¡±


    ¡°Do not cease!¡± Vanerak orders us.


    We do not even slow. The dwarf unleashes another mirage¡ªa demon, he is unleashing demons¡ªwhich Vanerak cuts down as easily as he''s cut down all the rest.


    ¡°Cease your advance, interlopers!¡± orders the dwarf. His voice is like the peal of many high bells. ¡°You are not to pass through this gate! You are not to gain entry here! I am the guardian of this place and you will not gain entry!¡±


    ¡°We go where we like,¡± Vanerak says coldly. ¡°You will not stop us. Step out of our way or I will slay you.¡±


    ¡°You will not gain entry!¡± repeats the guardian in his voice like bells. ¡°By divine order, leave this place!¡±


    He raises his right hand high. The light of the crystal chandeliers reflects on a long, snaking cable leading from his wrist to the left wall. The cable glitters in strange colors, then when the glitter reaches the guardian''s gauntlet it explodes into bright color.


    A mirage envelops the guardian, a heat shimmer so violent it is as if he is inside a storm of rippling, flexing lenses. He snaps open his palm. Demons arc into the air and plummet down toward us.


    ¡°Ready your weapons!¡± Nazak yells, needlessly. We have already raised them.


    I aim Life-Ripper. It is much harder to find a target in the open air than in the magma, for as heat-mirages the demons are half invisible. I stab and think I catch one. Heat showers me. The dwarf on my right is caught by two and falls, writhing. I could sweep the demons from him, save him, yet I have not come to help murderers.


    No one saved my guildmates. I wait a second; fire bursts from his visor. I ram Life-Ripper''s reverse-spike into his breastplate with all my strength of both arms.


    There is resistance, then the metal gives and the true metal pierces through. I rip it out and blood runs and drips off, spatters on the second degree''s tungsten plate.


    Quickly I look up. A demon is raging for me, clawing at my face with its heat. I break it apart. Through the vanishing mirage I see the fight raging around me. Flashes of light reflected from weapons are warped through the mirage-like demons. A runeknight bursts into flames and Helzar spears him through the heart. Nazak yells in rage and cuts down two demons in two blows.


    Vanerak and Halax are running up the stairs. The last of the demons is slain and Nazak orders us to follow. We run.


    My ruby burns. This is my chance! If this fight goes badly for Vanerak, I can finish him off then flee. Perhaps the dwarf in silver, if it survives the duel, will thank me¡ªor if it sends more demons after me, I am confident that I can beat them. Perhaps over-confident.


    It''s a gamble. Everything about this is. Attacking your allies in the middle of a desperate, uncertain battle¡ªmy actions verge on insane. I am taking a terrible risk. But my decision is made. Fear and doubt have vanished entirely. All I want is bloody revenge.


    The guardian unleashes another wave of demons. They flood down the steps in a tide of shimmering heat. Vanerak slashes a path through their center. The demons at the sides sweep around to envelop us from behind. I turn and rush down a few steps, stab, stab, rending two apart. Another soars at me. I slash Life-Ripper through it then lose my footing and tumble, crash down the black stone. My armor protects me from any damage and I hurry to get back up.


    I am behind everyone. I watch as their weapons flash in the bright light, slash apart the demons. Vanerak roars. They charge up. The guardian raises his right gauntlet once more but this time it does not glitter. There are no more demons to summon. Nazak yells a warcry, and his dwarves yell it too:


    ¡°Dway nachroktey! Dway nachroktey!¡±


    ¡°Death to the dwarf! Death to the dwarf!¡±


    The guardian draws a blade of bright red-violet; in the same movement he sweeps it out. Flames glitter along its edge and a line of cutting force is hurled at us. It shrieks like something alive and rage-filled.


    Vanerak meets it with his own strike. Sparks fly from the axe-side of his pollaxe. The line bends around, shatters. The force of its shattering knocks several dwarves from their feet. I rush to the nearest.


    He reaches up, as if expecting me to pull him to his feet.


    ¡°Murderer!¡± I spit, and drive Life-Ripper''s reverse-spike through his left eye hole. He dies instantly; his hand falls down.


    ¡°The traitor!¡± yells one of the runeknights nearby Nazak. ¡°He''s¡ª¡±


    ¡°Possessed!¡± I scream back. ¡°He was possessed!¡±


    Nazak turns to me. I think he does not believe my excuse. He raises his axe and buckler.


    In the same moment, the guardian unleashes another line of force. Vanerak is thrown from his feet¡ªa Runethane, thrown down! The guardian unleashes another. It cuts into Helzar''s armor, throws her over too. Halax ducks. It continues down the steps and slashes the second degrees deep, bringing forth sparks and multiple screams of rent metal and pain. It hits Nazak also, stumbles him.


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    I charge to meet him. He yells in rage and lifts his axe high.


    ¡°Murderer!¡± I scream. ¡°Murderer!¡±


    He leaps down the stairs, swinging his axe to cleave my head. Life-Ripper catches it between its tines. The shock of impact is brutal, nearly jolts my weapon from my hands. Sparks spiral out in patterns.


    I twist. Nazak falls rather than lose his weapon and rolls down the steps, using the momentum to rip it free. I charge after him, strike with Life-Ripper''s thorns. He parries deftly with his buckler. I scrape my thorns along it, drawing deep scratches.


    ¡°Traitor scum!¡± he screams. He batters Life-Ripper out the way, stands, lunges into range with his axe. I can''t let that true metal blade touch me¡ªso I throw myself at him shoulder-first. His axe only glances slightly before I impact him with full force. It is like impacting a wall, yet my armor gives me the force of a raging river of molten stone. We fall together, tumble heavily down the stairs.


    He grabs hold of me as we roll. I knee him with all my might, and it has no effect. He elbows me and I feel my armor dent; his plate is better than mine. Life-Ripper is what gives me my chance. I have to get back, make distance.


    Our tumble slows. He maintains his grip on me and punches with his shield. Sparks fly from my helm and my vision blurs for an instant. Our tumble stops, and he is astride me. He swings his axe down. I block it with my forearm. It rends partway through my armor, and one of its thorns stings. The pain feels very distant. I let go of Life-Ripper and grab the haft of his axe tight. He grunts and slams me in the face with the edge of his shield again. The impact is hard, but not enough to break my focus. I grab the haft of his axe with my other hand, and twist, wrench it from his grasp and fling it back down the stairs.


    I reach for my own weapon. He slams me in the head again, and the impact makes everything hazy for a moment. He batters again and my helm dents. Everything rings and the pain makes me nauseous.


    But I can still think. I angle my feet against one of the steps, and push with all my might, twisting my body at the same time. The sudden surge of movement takes him off-guard. We tumble for a second time, and this time I manage to kick him away before he can get a grasp on me. I halt my fall with desperate flailing, rush up a few steps to grab Life-Ripper.


    I glance at the battle with the guardian. Vanerak and Halax are engaging him in close-melee, but they are too far away for me to see who is winning. Helzar and a two second degrees are running up to support. The two other remaining second degrees are charging down at me.


    I turn back. Nazak is hurrying to retrieve his axe. He is quite far down. I rush the two second degrees.


    ¡°He''s possessed, you fools!" I yell. "Possessed!¡±


    One of them slows, hesitates. The other sees through my lie and stabs with a thorned spear. I parry with Life-Ripper and stab at his faceplate. He flinches back. I batter his gauntlets, drag the thorns over them. One thorn catches and I pull him off balance. He misses his footing on the steps and falls. I stab with Life-Ripper''s reverse spike and impale the back of his left thigh an inch. He screams in pain.


    I stab again, half an inch through the back of his shoulder. His comrade, an axe-wielder, charges for me. I parry and side-step, let him trip over his fellow. But he manages to regain his balance. Nazak joins him.


    ¡°Traitorous scum!¡± Nazak hisses. ¡°Traitor to the last!¡±


    ¡°Murderer!¡± I shout. ¡°You slaughtered my guild. Killed my friends, my guildmaster. This is revenge!¡±


    ¡°Harborers of a traitor!¡± he yells back. ¡°They deserved death! You were never to be forgiven!¡±


    The third runeknight tries to get to his feet. I am too quick for him, and too accurate as well. Life-Ripper''s point penetrates the right side of his helm. I feel the impact of bone, and though his helm is too well-made of me to get right through, it is still a brutal wound. He falls.


    ¡°Die!¡± Nazak screams.


    He slashes at me. The second degree does too. Their blows are quick blurs, but this is my preferred range, and I am above them too. I step back and parry, knocking both weapons aside with one blow. I stab at the second degree twice in quick succession, drive him back.


    To fight with a spear again, against a dwarf in armor! I have not done so since those days before the dragonhunt: instructing Guthah and Pellas, training with Braztak, Jerat, Mulkath, Faltast. I recall happier times in the guildhall, drinking and talking, and then wandering around town from pub to pub.


    My ruby fills me with furious vigor. I rake Life-Ripper''s thorns across the second degree''s armor, then spin the weapon around. Nazak tries to close in, and I ward him off with a solid strike that pierces through the center of his buckler. He cries out¡ªI''ve cut his hand.


    The second degree steps to the side, then charges. I feint at his face, stab into his foot. His charge is halted and he falls. I end him with a stab to the back of the neck right at the point two armor-plates overlap. Blood fountains.


    Nazak screams in rage and runs up at me. I drive down. He parries with his buckler, then ducks low and hooks his axe around the back of my foot. I let him pull me down and use the momentum to drive Life-Ripper into his gut-plate.


    It impacts hard but does not penetrate. I stab again, at his eye, and he parries with his bloodied buckler. I free my foot, kick him away. He manages to balance on the steps and swings at me with an overhead blow. I bat it away, flip Life-Ripper around. He tries to sidestep my next attack, but I follow him with the twin-tips and strike another hard blow into his gut-plate.


    Life-Ripper shivers in my hands as one of its points sticks into a key rune, which cracks apart. There is a red flash. Power unravels and the tungsten dulls. Nazak curses and strikes away Life-Ripper with his buckler. He charges, cleaving at my side. The blow is too fast¡ªI see that I can''t dodge.


    I move sideways to lessen its impact as much as I can. There is a crack and a burst of white sparks. I feel metal against my side and thorns pierce my skin. I yell in pain. He draws his axe back. I smash my helm into his. He reels away. I reverse Life-Ripper and stab. He tries to block with his buckler, but I am just a touch to fast.


    Life-Ripper punches through his damaged gut-plate. He gasps in shock. I spin Life-Ripper, sweep his ankle and he falls down a dozen steps before coming to a heavy, clattering halt.


    I let him stagger to his feet. He is clutching at his belly. No blood is dripping out. Since I stabbed diagonal-down, it will mostly be pooling inside him.


    ¡°Traitor!¡± he gasps.


    ¡°You massacred a guild of fellow runeknights of Allabrast.¡±


    ¡°Helpers of a traitor.¡±


    ¡°They abided by a judgment decided by Runeking Ulrike.¡±


    ¡°My brothers¡ªburned because of you!¡±


    I flinch. ¡°I am sorry to hear that. My brother was killed too. All I did¡ªwas to get him back, you know.¡±


    ¡°Nothing can bring back the dead.¡±


    ¡°I didn''t believe that he was dead, then. The black dragon lied to me.¡±


    ¡°You were a fool to believe.¡±


    ¡°I know. I have known for a long time. But I''ve done my penance for that particular foolishness. The black dragon is dead. I took my revenge. Just as I am doing now.¡±


    I spin Life-Ripper back around and stab with its double-tines. Nazak blocks, blocks again. I increase the pace of my strikes, lashing out three, four times a second. My side is burning but my ruby forces me to ignore the pain.


    My attacks start to get through. His armor screeches. He cries out in despair. His movements are weakening. He is tiring, the life running out of him.


    My thorns scratch apart the last power of his runes. His armor becomes too heavy for him and he sinks down. I spin Life-Ripper back around, stab with its single-point. He blocks feebly. I stab again, hit his shoulder. His axe-hand sinks. I feint at his face. He covers with his shield, and I sink Life-Ripper into his thigh. He groans. Arterial blood spurts from the wound.


    I hear a violent clang from behind and glance back. The fight against the guardian is continuing. Several runeknights are lying on the steps. No one is coming here¡ªto turn away from such a deadly opponent could mean instant death.


    I hear a scraping sound and turn back to Nazak, who has managed to struggle to his feet. He drops his shield and moves his axe to that hand. He raises it.


    He was brave, I suppose. He led from the front. Wasn''t afraid to put his neck out alongside those lower in degree. When he held me as Pellas was tortured, his grip wavered slightly.


    But in the end, he still chose to follow the orders of Vanerak.


    I let him make one last feeble slash at me, then stab to kill. Life-Ripper''s true metal point pierces through his throat and out the back of his neck. He remains standing for an instant, then leans backward. Life-Ripper''s point slides out with a metallic scrape. He falls and hits the black steps with a crash. His arms splay out behind him as he slides down a few feet.


    His axe remains in his hand.


    I watch him for a few moments, not quite able to believe what I''ve done, that I''ve just slain a runeknight of the first degree, but he remains absolutely still.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 86: Brutal Revenge, Bloody Battle

    I turn away from Nazak''s body. He may be dead¡ªthe others are not. I hurry up the steps toward the melee, a deafening storm of flashing red, violet and dark silver. Whoever this guardian is, he is equal in power to Vanerak. More than an equal, for Vanerak has four allies left to him and the guardian is fighting them to a standstill alone.


    Each step I take, my head thrums and pain darts in my side¡ªthe metal is torn there, is cutting into my skin. But worse than the damage to my body is the damage to the runes. Many are scratched, and some of the feeling of inexorable, burning power my armor carries has faded. A few of Life-Ripper''s thorns are bent as well.


    I aim it as I close in, pointing the twin-tines toward Vanerak. The guardian, perhaps because he spots me through the whirling of blades, increases the pace of his desperate slashing. His blade slams into the helmet of the last remaining second degree. A crack is audible over the clang of metal and the runeknight''s head is twisted ninety degrees; temple slams against shoulder. He falls.


    Helzar takes his place. She stabs. Her barbed spear scratches the guardian''s breastplate. Vanerak hits him with the hammer-side of his pollaxe. A clang shivers through the air¡ªit sounds strangely hollow.


    The blow staggers the guardian. I curse and force myself to move faster. Halax strikes a quick blow with sword and hits the guardian''s neck cleanly. Sparks fly. The guardian seems not to care, slashes at his eyes to force him away, blocks Vanerak''s next attack, cuts into the shaft of Helzar''s spear. It''s knocked down and she''s left open.


    Halax quickly moves to guard her, but the guardian, silver-flame armor rippling, is faster. He whips the point of his sword up and jabs Helzar hard in the chest. A visible ring of power expands from the blow and she is sent flying several feet back. She rolls down, slides, tries to find a grip.


    She is heading right toward me and I will not give her the honor of a duel.


    I bite down my yell of joyous rage, stab Life-Ripper''s single-point at her in silence. Her armor, weakened by several deep gashes, provides only slight resistance and the true metal pierces deep into her right lung through her breastplate.


    She gasps and gurgles, tries to slash at me with her spear. I stomp hard on her gauntlet with the weight of a river of molten stone. Something snaps. She hisses, grabs at me with her free hand.


    But she can do nothing. She is completely at my mercy, just as Pellas was at hers. Helzar showed no mercy then; I will show none now.


    Down I stab into her gutplate, down again, and again, and again, and again. Blood sprays from the holes in her armor. I scream¡ªin anger, despair or joy I do not know. Twenty times I stab, forty. I turn her armor into redly bubbling scraps.


    I stop. Her breath is rattling in her lungs. Less than fifty yards away, Vanerak are Halax continuing to fight the guardian. If they see me, they cannot afford to pay me any attention.


    ¡°Still alive?¡± I sneer at Helzar.


    She does not or cannot answer.


    ¡°I don''t enjoy torture,¡± I say. ¡°I will give you a quick death¡ªthough not a painless one.¡±


    I spin Life-Ripper around and drive its thorny spines up into her belly, up further, tearing everything as I go, right into her lungs and to her heart. She tries to scream through her burned throat, emits a high-pitched hiss. I twist and the sound stops.


    Gore erupts as I wrench Life-Ripper from the gaping wound-canyon of her belly. It sprays onto my boots. The stench is of copper and rot.


    A foul end for a foul torturer.


    A cracking sound and a sudden quake pulls my attention away. I look back to the melee and see that an overhead strike from Vanerak has broken the black stone floor at the top of the steps.


    Maybe he hoped to knock the guardian off balance. At that he did not succeed¡ªmaybe he just missed¡ªthe guardian''s red-violet blade sweeps for him. Halax deflects it. As he does so, Vanerak stabs with the spike of his pollaxe.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    I watch in horror as it pierces deep into the guardian''s belly. It is, without mistake, a mortal wound. The guardian pulls away, slashing to guard another flurry of Halax''s blindingly fast strikes. Vanerak follows, stabs again, this time into its thigh.


    It does not lose its footing. It is not even unbalanced by the blow. Blood ought to be spraying from the cut artery, or at least dripping, but there is nothing. No blood is running from the belly-wound either.


    Vanerak lifts his pollaxe for another hammer-side swing. The guardian slips sideways then back. Halax follows, but, perhaps due to exhaustion, he has miscalculated. He has put himself between Vanerak and the guardian and for a moment the duel is one against one, and the guardian outmatches him. Violet blurs overwhelm his silver ones. A strike hits the top right of his damaged breastplate. It cuts cleanly and deeply and blood sprays. He tumbles down the steps, splashing blood on them.


    I jab at him but he is out of reach. I make to follow, but another crack whips my attention away. Vanerak has struck with the hammer-side again, yet this time he was not aiming at, or even near the guardian.


    He has struck the doors. The light of the chandeliers outlines a web of cracks in the dark stone. The guardian shouts like the gong of a bell and dashes toward him. Vanerak is readying to swing again, to batter down the barrier between us and the secrets beyond, secrets that the guardian cannot allow us to find. For a moment it looks as if the guardian will reach him before he swings, and catch him while he is open, but Vanerak is feinting. He stabs. His pollaxe''s spike hits the guardian''s sword at its hilt, and the blade flies from his grasp.


    Only a few dozen steps are between me and Vanerak. I try to charge¡ªslip on Helzar''s gore. I scramble up, charge again. Vanerak is attacking the guardian relentlessly with the hammer-side and axe-side of his weapon, using powerful, looping blows that would leave him hopelessly open to any armed foe, yet which the disarmed guardian cannot parry.


    The guardian''s silver-flame armor gives him speed like flowing mercury. He dodges many of the blows. Those few that do impact, however, dent his armor badly. And each dent slows him. More and more blows begin to make contact.


    I am in range. I stab at Vanerak''s boots¡ªwith unerring accuracy his axe-blade brushes my stab away. I lose my footing and fall on my face. He ignores me and continues to press the guardian, who is still retreating toward his fallen sword, which lies by the wall a good twenty yards to the left.


    I stand up. ¡°Murderer!¡± I yell, hoping to distract Vanerak.


    He ignores me. I charge, aiming Life-Ripper''s single-point at his back. He doesn''t see me and I hit him solidly. The impact of my charge is stopped in an instant and the shock throws me down unceremoniously onto my rear. A spark flies¡ªone single spark.


    Dawning horror sickens me. This is the armor of a Runethane, armor of true metal, maybe entirely true metal, and I could not get through it a single millimeter. The spark that flew was from the foilsuit wrapping, not the real armor beneath.


    The guardian has nearly reached his sword. I watch, dumbly, not daring to interfere, as Vanerak continues his looping blows. When the guardian reaches down, Vanerak will use that moment to remove his head. I crawl back. I can hardly bear to watch.


    But the guardian is no fool. The moment after he steps back over his blade he suddenly leaps forward. With great speed, Vanerak brings his pollaxe horizontally between them to ward off the grapple. The guardian grabs the haft and grips tight.


    This is my chance! I shake off my fear. I leap two, three long strides and stab Vanerak''s mirror-mask with Life-Rippers thorned prongs. The curvature deflects it, yet the thorns still scratch. There is a glassy screech.


    Vanerak lifts his knee up to his chest and kicks out with all his might into the guardian''s stomach. The guardian''s grasp breaks and he falls back. Life-Ripper is already stabbing again, this time at Vanerak''s thigh.


    And once more he blocks, unerringly. His axe-blade throws Life-Ripper''s points away. I''m left open. He steps forward, stabbing. I tilt my body sideways to make the blow a glancing one, but it still pierces by half an inch. True metal cuts into my flesh, sticks between two ribs, nearly through them. I cry out in pain. I stab again, and he brushes Life-Ripper away once more as he pulls his pollaxe back.


    Yet my attack was not a complete failure. Vanerak''s attention, for one moment, has been taken. The guardian slashes into the back of his head and down the back of his armor. Metal screeches and I sense runic power snapping.


    Vanerak yells, spins and smashes the guardian''s shoulder with the hammer-side. The guardian falls to one knee, yet is now already recovering, rising up. Vanerak backs away, turns, dashes up the steps. He is fast¡ªI have never seen him move this fast before¡ªagainst no other opponent has he ever needed to.


    The guardian gives chase. He sees Vanerak''s objective: the stone gate. Vanerak raises his pollaxe over his head as he reaches the final few steps, with hammer-side forward. He makes to strike.


    ¡°No!¡± I yell, trying to warn the guardian, but he cannot take the risk that this blow is a true one at what he protects, rather than another feint. He stabs.


    Vanerak spins and redirects his blow at the guardian. Yet he did not quite account for the guardian''s speed, or maybe his own movements have been slowed from the damage to the runes of his armor. The blade sinks half an inch into his breastplate. The guardian pushes forward, trying to wedge the blade in further, and drives him hard into the gates.


    Which crumble around the impact.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 87: Light Reveals Knowledge

    Chunks of black stone crash down the steps. One hits me right where Nazak tore my armor. The impact is like the blow of a battering ram and sends me flying. I slam into the stairs and sparks fly as I slide down, breathless and stunned, far too fast for my hands to be able to find a grip, no matter how desperately I try to halt myself.


    The grind of friction eventually slows me. Another piece of stone smashes the step my head rests on, mere inches away from breaking my skull, then the thudding and crumbling moves past me, down the stairs, quieting as it goes. It leaves no dust or splinters in its wake.


    I groan in pain and struggle to my feet, using Life-Ripper like an invalid might a cane. I quickly mutter an apology for insulting it, blink hard to clear the confusion from my mind, and aim it at the dark gap through which Vanerak and the guardian have vanished.


    Through the gate! I must get through the gate. Vanerak''s armor is damaged, and his flesh may even be injured, but I do not think he will be defeated so easily. A clash of metal on metal echoes out the darkness and I know he has not.


    Forward I hurry, taking the steps two at a time, widening my strides as far as my armor will allow. I pass a splash of Halax''s blood, then take a few more steps over rubble and I am through into the space beyond.


    I emerge from the gatehouse into a vast dome. A circular wall is on my left, but the curvature is so shallow as to be almost imperceptible. Shafts of light pour in from high windows arranged in a starburst of dashes leading from a smooth circle¡ªitself fifty feet at least in diameter¡ªat the dome''s center. Each window is many feet long.


    However, they illuminate no secret knowledge. Most of their light fades into the heavy fumes filling the chamber. Vanerak and the guardian''s clashes are outlined sharply in flashes of sparks alone, and the movements between each strike are hard to make out.


    It appears that Vanerak has the upper hand. For every one step the guardian forces him back, he manages to advance two forward, and despite the guardian''s furious movements, many of Vanerak''s pollaxe-blows are finding contact with the silver-flame armor. Not just sparks, but the broken tips of silver-flames are arcing into the fume-thick air, and the movement of the flames slows, and their shine dulls.


    I skirt around the duel, trying to position myself behind Vanerak. My first strike into his back did nothing, but now his armor there has been cleaved. I have a chance to get through and, if my aim is true, end this battle in an instant.


    He sees me though, and sidesteps, turns himself so I remain reflected in his mirror-mask. I try to get around again, and again he positions himself so I cannot get to his blind-spot. All the while, he does not relent his pressure on the guardian, whose movements have slowed to an obvious degree.


    He is too experienced a fighter for this strategy to work. So I simply rush him, stabbing with Life-Ripper''s twin points at his face, attempting to scratch his mirror-mask further. Again and again I stab, and each strike he blocks. He does not move his pollaxe particularly fast, yet it somehow always finds its way between his armor and my points. He continues to force the guardian backward at the same time.


    It is terrifying to have to fight a dwarf so skilled, but my rage drives me to ignore the odds; I cannot run. I must avenge Pellas, avenge Wharoth, avenge my guild and every other innocent he has destroyed. I scream as I attack, scream continuously. Twice a second my tines rake at his mask, his body, his limbs, and yet still I cannot get through.


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


    I hold a weapon-catcher. So, catch! I leave my guard open for a second to tempt him. He ignores me and hammer-strikes the guardian in the wrist, sending the silent dwarf''s weapon spinning away for a second time. The guardian, defenseless, backs off quickly. Vanerak sees his opportunity, stabs at the left side of his hip. The true metal point enters and the guardian stumbles.


    The moment it enters, I side-step. Vanerak makes to pull out but is too slow. I stab him in the back. Both points stick at either side of the scar down his plate, and runic power twists and breaks like metal bent too far. Vanerak stumbles forward, his pollaxe digging further into the guardian''s hip. I pull back, spin Life-Ripper around, make to strike again yet suddenly Vanerak is sweeping back around with an axe-blow. I succeed in catching the haft of his pollaxe, but with not enough force, and the axe-head strikes me in the arm. My armor crumples and parts. A line of pain is carved into skin and muscle. I scream out and pull back, Life-Ripper scratching bright metal curls from the haft of Vanerak''s pollaxe.


    The guardian reaches up to grab Vanerak. Vanerak stabs down through his shoulder. No blood sprays, but the guardian''s arm falls limp¡ªand I see that his left leg has gone completely still too. I grit my teeth and stab at Vanerak''s head. He ducks and my blow only glances. He slashes at me again, with only one-hand, near the base of his weapon for maximum range. I step away. His strike loops up, around. His free hand joins the other, still near the base, and he slams the axe-head into the face of the guardian with maximum force.


    The guardian''s visor splits. The axe-head goes right through. Multi-hued light erupts, a kaleidoscope spectrum, blazing beams in all the colors of every gemstone there is. They cut through the fumes, illuminating the dome-hall beyond, and they illuminate also what the guardian was guarding, the knowledge he was tasked with keeping hidden.


    In his death, the secret he kept is revealed:


    At the center of the dome is a statue a hundred feet high, standing on a base another third that height. All is rendered in black stone. The base is carved to look like stacked bones and skulls¡ªthin human skulls, squatter dwarf ones, great troll ones, and there are skulls whose type I do not know also.


    Upon these bones stands a dwarf. He is clad in plate armor carved with tens of thousands of runes, runes with power. Up his body my gaze travels, until it stops at his grim face, and for a moment my heart stops as well, because I recognize this dwarf.


    His face is one I have seen many times over. It is the face of my brother¡ªbut it is also my face¡ªand it is also the face of Hardrick¡ªand it is also none of our faces. It is as if this face has been casting a shadow onto ours, a shadow that has lurked in the recesses and transformed our features to be reminiscent of his.


    To transform some part of each of us into the First Runeforger.


    Crystalline colors, darkened by its black material, dance across it. A glint of translucent gold travels up his shoulder, drawing my gaze up his raised arm to his hand. It is clasping a perfectly smooth sphere.


    Vanerak twists his weapon. The light fades and swirling fumes obscure the statue once more, leaving only the vaguest outline. I look down from it to the lifeless body of the guardian. Vanerak plants one boot on his chest and pulls to extract his pollaxe from the helmet, which tilts up slightly, then clanks down hollowly as the pollaxe comes free. No blood drips from it.


    He turns to me.


    ¡°You have decided to betray me, Zathar Runeforger,¡± he says. ¡°In the end, you are still a traitor.¡±


    His attention terrifies me. My body wants to run. My muscles tense to turn me around and propel me away. But I resist the urge and instead level Life-Ripper at his mirror-mask. I quell the shaking in my arms. I am ready to fight. I am ready to kill.


    ¡°I may give you another opportunity to serve, if you kneel and beg for it.¡±


    I laugh, mirthlessly, in his face. ¡°Never! You do not need me. The moment I kneel, you will behead me¡ªyou tried to pierce my heart but a few minutes ago.¡±


    He does not reply, just takes a sudden step forward, another, two more. I strike¡ªhe blocks. He strikes, I ward the blow away, dodge back to get out of his range. He moves in time with my step, copying the movement, and stabs at my heart. I twist out the way, shorten my grip on Life-Ripper. He stabs again and I catch his weapon between the two tines. I twist, and a screech sounds.


    He wrenches his pollaxe back, pulling me off balance. My instinct tells me he will stab, and I throw myself out the way, twisting Life-Ripper away also. He turns his stab into a cut and I spin Life-Ripper to block. Tungsten clashes on tungsten loudly.


    Our duel has begun.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 88: Runeforger Versus Runethane

    I pull back from him. He pulls away also. Perhaps surprised by my skill, he is now forced to reevaluate me as an opponent. Life-Ripper''s thorny points damaged his back plates¡ªI don''t think he expected me to be able to strike such a blow.


    But I cannot afford to fool myself. Despite the battering the guardian gave his plate, and the wounds I''ve given it also, he is still far stronger than I am, and I have not escaped damage and injury either. In fact, I am damaged worse. I am bruised all over. My head is still fuzzy from the blows of Nazak''s shield. My side is bleeding, between two ribs is a small and painful hole¡ªeven though these wounds are shallow, they still make it hurt to breath. Worse is the deep cut he just inflicted on my left upper arm. Blood is running from my breached plates.


    Wounds to my flesh can be ignored through strength of will. However, the power in my armor, power meant to be beyond that of magma, has diminished, and no amount of willpower can repair this. My strikes are not as quick and accurate as they were before, my momentum not as forceful. And the tungsten plates have simply become easier to cut through.


    How can I win? I think desperately. There must be some strategy I can find. He must have a weakness that I can exploit, somehow.


    But there seems to be none. His armor is strong, his weapon strong too. He is incredibly skilled¡ªevery attack I make, he blocks. Maybe I can catch his weapon, yes, but what then? I cannot seem to disarm him. He is too savvy.


    Vanerak charges. Maybe he senses my fear. He swings down a hammer-blow at my head. He''s left himself open¡ªhe wouldn''t make such a mistake. I pull back and let him hammer the empty air. He halts with precision and jabs forward. I shift to the side and try to sweep his feet.


    It should be an awkward blow to defend against. His weapon is outstretched, nowhere near in the right position to block. Yet block he does, angling back his pollaxe in an instant to halt Life-Ripper''s momentum instantly. The clash rings like a bell. Such is the force that Life-Ripper flexes slightly.


    I step away, lunge and try again. High, low¡ªboth blocked. To the center, now to the left, feint right and left again¡ªall blocked. His pollaxe seems to move according to its own will, as if it is not a weapon that he holds but a trained snake.


    This goes beyond skill. This is runic power.


    I have observed Vanerak''s pollaxe many times. The runes are in a script unfamiliar to me, but I can make out certain rhythms, certain patterns, and guess at a few words. Its poem tells of breaking, and says that to do so, you must first know the weakness of what you are to break, and strike accordingly. On the hammer are runes that might mean crushing, on the axe those that likely are to do with cutting, and spiraling around the tip, runes that describe rushing forward. There seem to be no words relating to defense.


    He closes in and attacks. I shorten my grip on Life-Ripper and defend desperately. Each blow unbalances me further as I scramble to get away. He follows me, stepping in time with my movements. I see myself in his mirror-mask and the language of my body says that I am afraid, like a wounded prey-beast desperate to escape some terrible predator.


    If not his weapon, then how about the mirror-mask? Is that the secret? I cannot read the runes in it, for they are faint and small. It is something he always wears. What is its function? Not just to intimidate, surely.


    I stab. He blocks, and I push away from him, lengthening my grip on Life-Ripper and walking back as I do so. I stab again. The point of his weapon meets the point of mine in an unnatural movement. It is as if I am fighting my reflection¡ªwhen I lash out, his weapon hits mine halfway to him and I cannot get through.


    Despair grips me. So this is what his mirror-mask is for¡ªwhatever attack is reflected in it, he blocks accordingly. Likely his gauntlets and mirror-mask are a set, since his weapon''s poem seems to be for power alone. His gauntlets guide his movements in accordance with the reflection.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    But I did manage to scratch his mirror-mask, before. Perhaps the power has been slightly degraded¡ªI cannot lose hope. I try to overwhelm him with a flurry of light, fast blows, no two from the same angle. His arms twist, wrists rotate, and his pollaxe gets in the way of each and every one. His weapon is a dark blur.


    I cannot maintain this pace any longer. The wound on my arm is starting to bleed more heavily. I pull back. He immediately seizes the initiative and sweeps at me with the axe-side. I trip backwards, fall, roll. He strikes a glancing blow to my shoulder and I see a shower of sparks. I jab to ward him off as I get to my feet¡ªhe blocks it, continues forward, stabbing.


    I push the blow away with force. This stops him. He pulls back. I pull back too. And from behind his mirror-mask, I can hear that he is breathing heavily.


    Not all hope is lost. Not all of it! His battle against the strange and bloodless guardian was a long one, and intense. It¡ªsomehow I do not think there was a dwarf inside that armor, indeed maybe there was nothing at all¡ªit had inexhaustible stamina. Vanerak could not afford to let up the pressure, and there were none of the natural lulls that come about in ordinary fights, when both opponents step back to catch their breath and reevaluate their respective battle plans.


    He is exhausted and battered. The guardian''s stab, the one that took them both through the gates, pierced his breastplate slightly. The front and back of the core of his armor have been damaged, and the strength it lends him diminished just as mine has been diminished.


    He is not invulnerable. I have a chance. What is more¡ªI have the ruby. It burns against my flesh, sending vital heat through me. My wounds hurt, to be sure, yet not as much as they should. The fatigue in my muscles does not slow my movements by much.


    I will wear him down. No matter the runes, beneath armor is a dwarf who moves it. The more stabs he has to parry, the more tired he will become. And Life-Ripper''s thorns will rob the power of his pollaxe too.


    Strike, strike, and strike! One blow a second, at varying angles. I attack methodically, quickly but not too quickly. He blocks each one¡ªyet he is on the defensive, even if it is a good defense. I will grind him down.


    He turns a block to a riposte and stabs out. I back away, stumble. He jabs again, this time at my eyes. I ward the strike off and try to scratch his mirror-mask, yet his pollaxe comes back too fast and knocks Life-Ripper off-target. He then hammer-strikes my unguarded left. My armor dents and blunt force shudders past my ribs into my innards. I cough, feel sick. I''m on the ground¡ªroll to avoid his stab, jab up and am yet again blocked. He stabs at my foot. I scramble away, ward him off with two quick strikes, finally manage to get to my feet.


    I throw myself back into the attack without hesitation. He must be growing more tired. He must be! Life-Ripper is bashed away forcefully to the left, leaving me wide open. He stabs. I back away and he shoulder charges, throws me off balance. He swings his axe-head and I only just manage to block it. I attempt to shove him back, but his boots keep him stable.


    I disengage and he does not pursue. He is definitely breathing heavily. I charge again. My lunge brings pain through my ribs and arm, but this robs none of its force. He blocks. The easy movement betrays no exhaustion at all. I strike again from another angle. He blocks cleanly again.


    To tire him out is my goal. Yet his movements are not slowing by the slightest. He strikes Life-Ripper away and steps in to stab. I only just avoid, then he crushes his pollaxe down onto my right foot. There is a solid sound like hammer impacting anvil. Metal bends and I feel a sharp pain.


    This strategy is not working. He is too skilled, and with such a versatile weapon too. I''m not going to last long enough to tire him out. My armor is going to break long before I exhaust his stamina. And besides, maybe it is his gauntlets that are doing the blocking for him, and his defense is not tiring him at all. I should not make assumptions about the craft of a Runethane.


    Then what do I do? He pushes forward with a series of mighty downward axe-blows. Sparks fly from the haft of Life-Ripper as I ward the deadly blade away from my shoulders and head. Cutting power, pure runic force, slams into me even when he''s out of range. My armor screeches. White stars whirl between us.


    I stab¡ªblocked. All my efforts are hopeless. I cannot win this. How could I ever have hoped to defeat a Runethane? It was foolish of me. Perhaps the only option is to throw myself at his mercy¡ªno, he will not trust a twice-traitor¡ªand my ruby will not let me. It drives me to continue attacking him, no matter how useless my strikes are proving.


    A hammer-blow to the shoulder sends me flying. I tumble, crash against something solid. I look up at skulls outlined in dim, half-fogged red.


    He has pushed me right to the center of the dome. My back is to stone and I cannot run. He raises his pollaxe high as he advances. My skull, crushed, he plans to set by this great pile.


    He wants to end it here. Fear seizes me¡ªI remember helpless Pellas, kind Wharoth, and drive it away. There is still hope. I pierced his plate when his blade was immobilized, scratched his mirror-mask before that.


    Just as he steps into range, I see how I can get through a third time.

 Beyond the Magma Shore 89: Infliction of Wounds

    I stab with Life-Ripper''s single point, yet do not aim at any place I''ve aimed before.


    When fighting like a dwarf, you aim to destroy your opponent''s armor first. A spear, however, is not so useful for this. It is an exception. When you fight with a spear, or any kind of short stabbing blade, you aim to get through the gaps in your enemy''s armor. No matter how well-made a runeknight''s protection is, there will always be joints, spaces protected only by chain or thinner plates.


    Vanerak''s armor has very few of these. His plates overlap cleverly, so that even when he extends his body to stab or swing, the gaps stay covered. Yet there are weaknesses¡ªone is the gap between thumb and forefinger on his lead hand. There are interlocking plates there, but I judge that they are thin to allow him flexibility, otherwise it would be impossible for him to manipulate and block with his pollaxe so deftly.


    I aim, not at any part of his body, but at his weapon. He moves to block¡ªthat does not matter¡ªI am aiming to contact his weapon anyway. Life-Ripper hits the head with a loud clash. White stars flash as my true tungsten grinds against his, down his. I am thrusting the single-point along the haft of his weapon. It is a guide to my true target.


    He twists his pollaxe to riposte, yet my momentum is too great¡ªI increase it by pushing off from the pedestal of skulls behind.


    My point contacts the center of one of the thin plates. It hits at a slight angle, draws a thin trail of tiny sparks across to where one plate overlaps another. There, the side-momentum halts. All the force is once again pushing forward, and the point pierces through the plate, continues to pierce, deep into his hand.


    He yells in pain, pulls away, throws his hand back. Two and a half inches of Life-Ripper''s tapering point are coated in blood. More drips from Vanerak''s gauntlet, splashes on the floor. I pull Life-Ripper back, stab at his mirror-mask. With one hand disabled, he is not fast enough, and I hit directly¡ªyet cannot pierce, or even dent.


    I overbalance and come in too close. His pollaxe is low and he yanks it back, hooking the back of my knee. I fall. He hammers down. Even one-handed, the blow is fierce and dents my breastplate. He makes to stab at my neck. I catch the pollaxe in Life-Ripper''s twin points and push it away, manage to roll up to my feet.


    I try to disarm him, but he predicts the effort and extracts his weapon with violence. He steps back. He grasps the haft with his bloody right hand, and I see that the movement is painful for him.


    He shouts and charges. It is obvious where he aims to strike: my left side where Nazak cut through and he crumpled further. I stab at his weapon, aiming to stab into his left hand, yet I''ve misjudged the sheer amount of force in his blow. All his anger at me, who was but a slave to him, now being able to break his armor, he pours into this one hammer blow. My ribs crack.


    My ruby burns and the pain vanishes in a burst of blood-lust thrill. I push forward, holding Life-Ripper vertically. I press right up against him. His pollaxe is caught between us.


    ¡°Murderer!¡± I scream, and I plunge Life-Ripper''s single point down, scrape it down his left shinguard until it catches in where two plates overlap on his foot. The true metal point goes right through, stopping only at the floor.


    He yells in pain, shoves me away with all his might. He brings up his pollaxe, and with three-quarters power strikes with the axe-blade¡ª


    I am lying on the floor a few paces from him. An incredible pain has filled my skull. It might be emanating from my right cheek, yet its sheer intensity makes this hard to pinpoint. It is a solid pain and completely overwhelming in its solidity. There is no bone or flesh within my helm¡ªthese have been transformed to agony. I gasp and the agony explodes like fuel bursting into flame. My vision vanishes once more.


    When it returns, Vanerak has advanced another step. He swings down one-handed. I roll. Vanerak''s blow smashes the floor. I keep rolling, retch into my helm when I stop. Wet vomit coats my beard, which is already wet¡ªdripping with blood.


    My right cheek is cold. That''s where is axe went through, cleaved right through the metal and through flesh and into bone, deep. Some teeth are out of place. Blood is streaming even from my tongue. If Vanerak''s blow had been fully two-handed, his blade would have torn my jaw off.


    I hold Life-Ripper up to guard. It is flexing in my vision, and feels strangely light, impotent. The vast room is tilting around me. Vanerak steps in to strike¡ªand slips on his own blood, crashes to one knee.


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    I stab but my stab is feeble. He knocks it away, strikes with violence. I fall back to avoid. Cutting force gashes my armor at my belly and I crash down. The back of my helm knocks against the floor and pain rings through right to my eyeballs. All goes black again.


    Blood chokes me. I cough it out, struggle desperately up. Vanerak has stood up also. He swings. I block the line of force, stagger back three or five steps.


    He limps forward, swings again. The cutting force is not so strong. I ward it off with Life-Ripper. The white sparks blind me. The screech of metal deafens me. I retch again, and bile burns in my cut mouth. I stab, weakly, but am far out of range.


    My ruby is burning furiously, yet its strength is not enough. It cannot overwhelm the injury Vanerak has dealt me. My balance is destroyed, my strength drained. I can no longer fight.


    But neither can he. He limps forward too slowly. Life-Ripper''s power of distortion is concentrated in the twin-points, yet the single-point contains the message too: beginning and end are linked. My stab through his foot has torn his flesh apart, and I''ve torn apart the inside of his hand as well.


    I pace back further, rock back, fall down. I heave, stand back up, retreat further. He limps onward, yet despite my pain-drunken stumbling, he cannot catch up. I widen the distance between us to ten steps, then twenty, now thirty. I look to the wall and see the vague squarish shape of the gatehouse. I turn and stagger at it, widening my steps as much as I can. I reach it, glance back again and see that Vanerak is now more than fifty steps away, though still limping onward.


    Down the steps I hurry. My injuries burn pain through my flesh and bone and innards. Not only my head, but my left side, cut and crushed, is aflame too. The hole in my ribs at the right stabs with pain each time my right foot impacts stone. My right foot itself hurts too¡ªbruised, it''s swelling up against the metal. My left arm is weak and painful too.


    Someone groans. One of the second degrees is clutching his head, where I stabbed it. The wound wasn''t fatal. Worse¡ªat the far side of the stairs Halax is sitting up, and staring at me. He has removed his helm and upper plates, and has managed to wrap healing chains tightly to his flesh. His face is pale from blood loss, but his eyes are sharp as they follow me, and all the more terrifying for being filled not with malice, but curiosity.


    Neither pursue. They are too badly injured. I reach the end of this wide staircase where it turns to become the thin spiral one. I look back. Vanerak has emerged from the broken gate. He is standing still. Scarlet blood is running from right gauntlet and left boot.


    We stare at each other. His eyes lock with mine¡ªI can feel his gaze even if his mirror-mask reveals nothing.


    Our duel has ended in a draw. A draw! We equaled each other in skill and craft. I equaled a Runethane! I fought him to a standstill, injured him, and yet all the same feel nothing but bitterness. I swore to take revenge, and have not been able to take it. He lives, and he lives to learn the secrets of the First Runeforger.


    I turn away. I can do nothing else. I must run, heal, forge, and hope one day to face him again.


    <hr>


    Down the spiral stairs I stumble, one hand against the wall to balance myself. My breath fails me several times and I have to stop and dry heave. I remove my helm, try to scrape some of the vomit from my blood-matted beard.


    Can I hear scraping steps behind me, or is this just my frightened imagination? I hurry down, down, down toward the heat. Bright magma blinds me and I shade my eyes.


    The blow to my head addled my wits. My armor is cut apart in several places. How am I going to swim through the magma sea in it? I will be burned terribly.


    Glinting silver coils lie on the stairs. I kneel down and pick them up. Breathing-cables, and not just mine. We left them down here when we emerged, ready to be picked back up when it was time to leave.


    I will tie them around my armor like bandages. They are at least as resistant to heat as my armor is, and should hold back the burning tide, at least for a while. I hope my runes hold too. Probably I will not be able to make it all the way back to the magma shore. I will have to find some alternative escape.


    The tying proves a difficult process. My hands are weak and shaking. The metal cables are hard to knot, and my first attempts do not satisfy me. If even one thread is loose, the magma will have free reign to destroy my flesh.


    Eventually I manage to seal my arm and chest wounds. Next I must wind it around my face, yet before I do that I must equip a heat-mask. I choose the one I came wearing. I listen closely, to make sure the scraping from earlier truly was my imagination, then secure it. Blackness falls around me, apart from the circle of heat at my feet.


    I blindly wrap more cable around my head to cover the breach in my helm. I use a lot of cable, and my head becomes heavy, and my heat-vision one-quarter obscured. I tie it off, and throw the rest of the heat masks and breathing cables into the magma to hinder Vanerak and Halax.


    Now I must dive. I must leave this place, leave my promise of revenge behind, and return to the magma shore. Still, even then, I will not be free of Vanerak. Part of me remains a prisoner to him, part of my mind remains trapped by him.


    This will remain the case until I return to slay him, or else he comes to slay me.


    That time will not come for a long while yet. When it does, he will be more powerful even than now. But I will be stronger too. I know the secret of true metal and I will use it. I have peered into the past, and know what lies inside the sphere. I will find a way to use that knowledge too, to improve my runes further. Make new scripts of great power.


    When we meet again, there will be no draw. I will have my vengeance. I will kill him!


    I will!

 Beyond the Magma Shore, Epilogue: Dreams of Runes

    Vanerak limps down the black stairs toward Halax, breathing hard all the while, nearly panting. He sits down beside him heavily.


    Halax is slightly surprised. This feels almost brotherly, like something a more usual runeknight would do. It might be that his Runethane has fully shaken off his forging trance. Zathar has shaken it from him, brought him back into the mortal world, to dwell on concerns of mortal flesh.


    ¡°I am glad to see that you have survived, my Runethane.¡±


    Vanerak catches his rattling breath, then says, ¡°I have erred most grievously, Halax.¡±


    ¡°We have won. The so-called demons are no more. And I assume that you have thrown down that guardian, put in place to stop mortals seeking the secrets of the first runeknights, now ours to peruse at leisure.¡±


    ¡°Not at leisure. The Runegod that created the guardian will know it has been destroyed. It will come to investigate.¡±


    ¡°Eventually.¡±


    ¡°You are falling to wishful thinking, Halax. Like I did, in believing Zathar could not rise to equal me.¡±


    ¡°He is not your equal. The guardian was a fierce foe. It tried us severely. I only just secured my healing chains in time¡ªand remain too weak to even move.¡±


    ¡°I did not factor in the power of his ruby. His small use of true metal stole my attention. I thought that because he was just a fraction-degree, he posed no threat. I did not look at what that ruby contains. Did not puzzle over it enough.¡±


    ¡°Contains, my Runethane?¡±


    ¡°It contains an imprint of the First Runeforger, a shadow cast by him. Just as Zathar himself does. A glimpse at that statue has connected many things.¡±


    ¡°Statue, my Runethane?¡±


    ¡°At the center of the dome beyond the gate stands a statue of the First Runeforger. His face has a similar cast to Zathar''s about it.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°In his hand he clutches a sphere.¡±


    ¡°The sphere you say gives Zathar his power?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, though¡ªmaybe not. In any case, the sphere Zathar sees does not give him power. It redirects the power of molten stone through his soul, which he then gives shape. The exact process I do not yet understand. The runes above may offer some clues. And I see now that I must explain all of what Zathar told me to you. Your mind is sharp. You will be able to help bring to fruition my ambitions.¡±


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    ¡°Your ambition to runeforge, yes. I see now how we can do it.¡±


    Vanerak is silent for several long moments.


    ¡°You are surprised, my Runethane.¡±


    ¡°Yes. And intrigued also, to see if your conclusions are the same as mine.¡±


    ¡°The guardian and the chains below provided the insight."


    "They provided me with insights also. Go on."


    "A rune contains meaning made real by power. When Zathar runeforges, he pours into a symbol the vast power of molten stone beneath us, via the sphere, as you have just implied. A truly immense amount of power.¡±


    ¡°I believe you are correct.¡±


    ¡°But there are other powers besides that of molten stone. The so-called demons were also power given form. The cages and hooks in this part of the city were to trap salamanders. The guardian drew out their souls, infused them with heat and purpose, and let them loose as half-living beings. Or rather, I should say the Runegod, whose weapon the guardian was, did this.¡±


    ¡°We will disassemble its gauntlet and investigate to see if this is truly the case. But I also had similar thoughts.¡±


    ¡°The soul of a salamander is not so complex. However, the soul of a dwarf¡ªthat could perhaps hold truly immense power inside its inner arrangements, tucked and hidden and folded subtly away, enough power to imbue a symbol and create a rune.¡±


    ¡°Power transformed to meaning. Meaning altered into another meaning. Yes, your conclusion is the same as mine. Similar has been done before¡ªZathar told me of a dwarf called Fjalar, who took the blood of others and imbued it into his spirit to strengthen himself. Soul came via blood, in his runes.¡±


    "You must tell me more of this dwarf and his craft, my Runethane. It sounds intriguing."


    "That I will. My knowledge will be yours."


    ¡°Power through blood," Halax muses. "Perhaps that is how a dwarven soul can be used to create a rune."


    "We will see. I think it will not be so simple, however."


    "You are probably correct. And I predict that this kind of rune would not be like the runes of the First or Second Runeforgers. It would be different¡ªI cannot quite predict in what manner. Less powerful yet more complex and subtle. First, though, is the problem of transferring the power.¡±


    ¡°The statue may teach us how. It will offer some clues, at least. The First Runeforger transformed everything, brought about an age of metal to replace that of stone. His deeds will have been recorded above in detail. In enough detail that this place had to be guarded.¡±


    Halax nods. ¡°The Runegods fear the world being changed for a second time.¡±


    ¡°That they do. But it has always been my ambition to rise above them, as you well know.¡±


    ¡°That will be accomplished with our new power. New runes. A new kind of rune.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± Vanerak, through his mirror-mask, gazes up at the bright chandeliers as he speaks. ¡°A rune with a living soul for its ever-burning fuel. The humans talk of heaven, of living in endless peace after death. I know that after death is only constant pain, a drawn-out tone of a scream¡ªhow much better would it be to instead continue as eternal meaning after receiving one''s final wound?¡±


    ¡°Do you think Zathar deserves such an honor?¡±


    ¡°I do not care about what he deserves or does not deserve. Only about the power he can give me. He already has given me much. And when we next meet, he will give me more.¡±


    Silence falls. The two dwarves sit there on the black stone under the white lights, dreaming of forging a new world.


    BEYOND THE MAGMA SHORE


    END


    ZATHAR''S JOURNEY CONTINUES IN


    RETURN TO DARKNESS

 Return to Darkness 1: On the Edge of Starvation

    The crushing heat refuses to relinquish its hold on me. Enraged at my transgressions, it is clinging to my tungsten as I attempt to claw my way up onto the unseen ledge. My body is almost burning, my runes having reached their point of failure; the heat of the magma is inundating my skin.


    I scream, grasp up into the blackness. The magma pulls me down and burning heat envelops me entirely. I scream again, kick up, grab, and exert the very last of my energy and might to pull.


    The clinging magma comes away with an angry hissing and I manage to force my body fully onto the ledge. I crawl on forearms and knees away from the heat, then tear the heat-mask from my face. The coils of tungsten wire come away also, and stinging fumes bathe my cheek-wound. I whimper in pain. My head spins, yet I do not allow myself to lie there.


    I sit up, and for a few minutes look out across the magma sea from my sanctuary. I spotted this place an hour ago¡ªwhen the heat was starting to become too much to bear, I surfaced and peeked through the heat-mask, and found this long, thin line of offset stone. Over the churning molten sea, the half-sunken city and the great tower in which my enemies remain are only just visible through the shifting smoke.


    I groan in pain. I judged our duel to be a draw, yet it might still prove to be a victory for Vanerak if I cannot seal my face-wound. Blood is dripping from the gash continuously, my life draining out drop by drop.


    I have no healing chains. Therefore, only one option remains to me. In lieu of bandages, there is another way to close wounds. I strip off my upper armor plates. Dried blood on my ribs comes away, and fresh blood pours. It is sharply painful, yet nothing compared to the pain that is about to follow.


    There are broken stones, long-dried gobbets of magma, scattered around. I pick one longish one up, crawl to the edge, and lower its end into the heat. It begins to glow red. I draw it out, and the air around it is shimmering.


    Waiting will only prolong my anguish. I touch it to my cut cheek, drag it along. Pain flashes through my face. All goes black. I wake up moments later, and scream. My flesh is seared, feels as if it is on fire. Then I begin to laugh: have I not felt this pain before? In my runeforging trances, I burned. This pain is no worse than that.


    I use the heated stone to weld the cut in my side shut too, and then the hole where Vanerak pierced through my ribs. I laugh harder at the pain, roar at it. The scars that will be left will be terrible ones, and the pain in them will never truly vanish, just as the dark lines cut into my vision will never vanish. The duel against Vanerak will remain a part of me.


    And likewise my wounds to his hand and foot will remain part of him. The power of new runes and true metal pierced him. His flesh will never truly heal. He will remember my strike every time he clutches the forging-hammer.


    For a few minutes I permit myself to rest. Only a few minutes¡ªthe sand-timer of mortality is running out quickly. I have no food and no water, and my every moment from now on must be spent searching for them. I force myself to stand up and re-equip the rest of my armor plates. I pick up Life-Ripper and begin to make my way along the ledge.


    It is a crinkle in the rock, very long, running almost entirely along this cliff to the east side of the city, starting low above the magma and fading back into the stone halfway to the great cavern ceiling. Dark holes and arches, carved or formed in ages past by who knows what process or hand, mar the sides. I enter into one tall enough that I don''t have to stoop and retreat from the heat.


    Now to hunt. A beast, perhaps a salamander, will provide blood and meat, if I can find one. There is no guarantee of this. There is little life in these dry caves, so it is unlikely that any usual-sized salamanders will have wandered down in search of prey. And as for the great salamanders that live in the magma sea, what they eat is unknown, and at any rate I do not think I could defeat one in my current state.


    Moving up to some wetter cavern will give me a good chance of meeting something I can hunt. Through the blackness I trudge. The stone is smooth, almost slippery. My armor feels heavy around me, impedes me¡ªits power has been degraded substantially. Should I meet even a regular salamander, there is no guarantee I will survive the fight. I may have to gamble all on a single stab with Life-Ripper.


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    I walk with one hand brushing the wall. After a while, I feel the floor beginning to slope down, and sense heat ahead. I turn back and place my hand against the opposite wall. It curves around at a fork in the path. I head up that way. It becomes thin, scrapes against and squeezes my armor until I have no choice but to turn back.


    If sight will not help me, I will rely on sound. I remove my helmet to listen closely to the shiftings of the wind, and also feel them on my sweaty skin. Instinct tells me to move back a little, and on the right I find an opening. Along it I go until my boot clangs into a high step. I listen upwards and fancy that I hear the trickle of water.


    The climb proves a long one, made difficult by the erosion that has been wrought on these stairs. That is a good sign, though¡ªerosion is usually wrought by water. There may be some underground stream nearby.


    These hopes are dashed soon after I mount the top of the stairs. After one left turn I see the source of the splashing: a font of lava, bubbling up in a small pool and streaming away down a steep cave. I would curse, if my throat was not so dry. Instead I just walk around it, spying for any promising tunnels, or anything to eat or get moisture from.


    There is only stone. This cave does not even contain mold, let alone bracket fungi. No boar certainly, and no salamanders nor bats to hunt them. So far, the only footsteps I''ve heard have been my own¡ªthe bloody scent of my wounds is attracting nothing.


    I walk up a tunnel whose air seems a little less dry than the others. I continue to walk up it for a long time. How long have I been wandering these caves? A few short-hours, at least. And before that was the journey to the city, the fighting, and the journey away from it. I need to rest.


    But every moment with no supplies is a moment I must be searching for them. I continue to trudge upward. Sometimes I think I hear the patter of feet, or a distant hissing, yet further listening reveals only silence. My armor begins to grow very heavy. My eyelids do as well. I must sleep. I can no longer avoid this reality, and slump against the wall with Life-Ripper held out in both hands.


    Perhaps, like that moment so many years ago, I will wake with something edible clawing at me.


    Yet this does not happen. I wake to no bats or salamanders, just silent blackness. I groan and stand up. My muscles protest and my wounds throb. The inside of my head feels fuzzy, and my first few unbalanced steps make me nauseous, make me halt for a moment. I recover, keep on going. Up and up I spiral, throat drying further with each step, and my belly is beginning to rumble and ache.


    I wandered through the underworld once before, for many years too. For ten years! I survived then, did I not, in this timeless place? But I was uninjured and there was food. When I scrape my cupped palms along the walls now, they bring no insects or fungi for me to devour. There is nothing but dust, and not much of that either.


    My craving for a salamander''s hot flesh starts to become unbearable. Will one not come for me?


    Perhaps my scent is not strong enough. Do I do it? To cut myself, drain my strength further, seems foolish. Yet if nothing comes for me I will die within the long-hour.


    I remove the armor from my right arm and draw Life-Ripper''s thorns across my forearm. The touch is light, yet the pain is like the barbs are being driven half an inch deep and twisted right around. The meat of my arm seems to curl around them, squeeze itself dry. Blood runs out, more than I''d anticipated, and splashes on the ground.


    I hold my arm against my chest and let it run down my armor, coat it. After a while, the blood congeals and my cuts begin to scab over, this process accelerated by the dryness of the air. I breath deep through my nose yet can smell nothing coppery. Salamanders, and other predators, have a better sense for blood than dwarves, though.


    I have to hope. I move on, slowly, hoping desperately that something will pick up on my trail. Yet I hear nothing. Nothing is coming. My legs begin to lose strength, until I sink down not out of mere exhaustion but out of debilitating weakness. My vitality is spent.


    Can Vanerak really have won? After that terrible battle, and before then, my struggles in the forge¡ªare they going to be rendered pointless from simple hunger and thirst? I suppose that is the reality of life. No matter the strength of your armor, beneath it is mortal flesh. My amulet burns, despite its great power cannot provide me with sustenance. Runes can be no substitute for water and bread.


    And then, on the edge of blackness, I hear it. Snuffling breaths and clicking talons are coming up through the tunnel toward me. I stand, though must lean against the wall, and hold Life-Ripper up, though it is almost too heavy, and shaking.


    Bright eyes see me. Yet they are not the narrowed, reptilian eyes of a salamander. The beast that approaches stands on two legs, and its gray skin gleams with a fiery sheen. It is a troll¡ªa lava troll.

 Return to Darkness 2: Sense of Freedom

    The troll stalks forward unhurriedly. Why should it rush to kill me? I am dying already. All it has to do is wait. If it is intelligent, that is what it will do, just stand there and watch me starve. Fortunately for me, however, it seems not to be quite that intelligent¡ªno matter how much it wants to hold back, its primitive instinct for violence propels it toward me. It may be patient, but it is not that patient.


    I put on my helmet¡ªmy wound flares with pain for a second as metal touches it¡ªand level Life-Ripper at the troll''s bulging gut. I worry about which will prove the stronger: dwarven runes or the trollish capacity for healing, which in lava trolls is increased a hundred-fold. I killed some before in only fifth degree equipment, yes, but I had allies then, and was in the peak of physical health.


    My ruby, sensing oncoming battle, blazes hotter. It brings out the remaining vitality in me¡ªbut that is not much. I can still barely stand, and Life-Ripper''s twin points are quivering.


    The troll, perhaps sensing weakness, quickens its pace. Its eyes light up with greed. Its figure has a lean, hungry look, and I wonder for a moment just how long it has been down here in these tunnels searching for food. Maybe it was cast out by its tribe, is an exile. I hope so, for killing even just this one is going to be no simple task.


    Maybe it will prove an impossible task.


    Twenty yards away and it charges. Its heavy footsteps send shudders through the dark stone. In the blackness, it is the only thing I can see, a gray-orange glow in the dark, rushing for me. The only things in the underworld, right now, are me and it. I focus entirely and jab at its belly. Life-Ripper sinks deep.


    It bellows in shock and pain yet does not slow. Life-Ripper''s twin points sink to their maximum depth and I am pushed backward. I cannot keep my balance, fall. The troll''s arms, extended, are as long as Life-Ripper and it grabs me by the helm with one hand and squeezes. The heat of its palm goes right through my armor. My runes are of life-heat to keep out the natural, and no creature has more life-heat than a lava troll.


    I twist Life-Ripper. The troll bellows louder. It has never experienced pain before, I think. The sensation confuses it. I feel the metal of my helm begin to bend. The troll hammers me in the chest with its other hand, and the impact bruises my wounds. I scream out in pain, rip Life-Ripper out. Yellow-orange blood pours from the wound, steaming. The troll lets go, and its own scream of pain is almost a squeal.


    Yet the blood is already beginning to dry to form a protective barrier, within which the flesh will quickly re-knit itself. I stab out at the troll''s wrist. Life-Ripper''s barbs catch on its skin and tear. The troll yells and throws its hand away as if burning water just touched it. Skin comes off on the barbs as Life-Ripper half-flays its wrist. More orange blood pours from cut veins.


    It takes another step back. Shit! I cannot allow it to run. I am breathing hard, and the thrill of combat is not dimming the pain and exhaustion like it usually does. I charge for it, lash out at its ankles. Life-Ripper glances the floor, brings up sparks. The troll takes another step back, another. It raises its arm, hesitates. I raise Life-Ripper to meet the blow, but it never comes. The troll wheels around.


    I charge! It takes a loping stride and my stab at its calf falls well-short. It is escaping me.


    I aim, throw. Life-Ripper sails through the darkness, a bolt of metal visible only by the light reflected from its target, which it nearly misses. Only one prong goes through the troll''s neck rather than both.


    Hot blood jets out. The troll screams and thunders away faster. I run after it, trip after a few steps. I attempt to stand, but my legs give out. It is still running, Life-Ripper through its neck wobbling with each heavy step, thorns tearing at flesh. The troll grabs it, pulls, and a massive gout of blood splashes across the wall, turning the black stone bright.


    The troll falters and falls to one knee. I limp, one hand on the wall, down toward it. It clasps both its hands to the tear in its neck, and blood pours through its fingers. The flow is slowing but not stopping. It groans and whimpers.


    I designed Life-Ripper to tear apart the vitality of whatever it pierces. The twisting lines of the demons, the complex flows of runic energy, and whatever force gives the lava trolls their great regeneration¡ªit treats these all the same, breaks them asunder like a blade through a knot. The troll''s wounds are not scabbing over as quickly as they should.


    It bellows, a sound of such agony that I almost feel sorry for it. Life-Ripper is within reach now, and I pick it up. I raise it, aim at the back of the troll''s neck. It senses me, turns, flailing its arms. But it is now weaker even than me, and Life-Ripper gets to it first, piercing through the other side of its neck and the great artery there. Blood sprays out to coat the left side of the wall, and the troll slumps backward, dead, arms flailing limply onto the stone.


    I take no risks and stab deep into its heart, several times. It does not even twitch. I go to my knees and remove my helm. The sight and scent of meat, foul troll though it may be, is overwhelming. My hunger and thirst compel me to scoop up a handful of the sticky, warm, bright blood and cram it into my mouth.


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    I do not taste it. Likely it is disgusting, but my body won''t allow my tongue to register this, won''t allow me to stop. Handful after handful I scoop in, and my belly gradually fills. Blood is not enough¡ªI use Life-Ripper to tear the flesh of its arms and thighs to shreds, then I devour the shreds raw. They seem to squirm as they go down my throat, and convulse when they reach the bile of my stomach.


    My belly starts to cramp. I clutch at it, sit back. I have eaten too quickly. I take deep, shuddering breaths. Already, though, my vitality is beginning to return. As I sit here, smeared with troll blood and with its meat squirming in my belly, strength is flowing back into my muscles ounce by ounce.


    Troll meat is said to be inedible. Perhaps, though, that is simply because no dwarf has ever been desperate enough to try it. But even if it is toxic to some degree, it will at least stave off starvation for a while. I shut my eyes, concentrate on the sensation in my belly and, when satisfied that the squirming has become less intense, allow myself to sleep.


    <hr>


    When I wake up, I feel alive. My body is overflowing with strength, and further supping of the troll''s blood brings me more. My mind is cleared also.


    I use Life-Ripper to sever the troll''s leg. This takes much stabbing and tearing, and blood is running down the tunnel in a river by the time it comes free. I drag it down the now slippery tunnel to the lava font and spend several hours butchering it with a sharp stone. I cut around its ankle and pull the skin more or less intact from its foot, though I do have to sever the toes. I use a length of sinew, dried next to the magma, to tie the bottom tightly. I then sear the inside with gobbets of magma, and to complete the primitive waterskin. use another length of sinew to tie off the top in such a fashion that I can open and close it.


    I fill it with blood. Then, I cook many scraps of flesh. They cook slowly, but they do cook, and I wrap them in another large flap of skin, which I dry and tie with more sinew.


    It is heavy. Yet I''m strong enough to carry it easily, up past the rest of the troll, and further on into wetter, more hospitable tunnels. Eventually I find fungi, and eat the types I recognize as edible. My troll-blood runs out quicker than I expected, but now I can lick the walls for moisture. After two long-hours or so, I manage to find a stream. I splash the cool water on my face, cleaning away the mask of blood, sweat and grime that''s dried onto my features. I refill my waterskin. The water becomes greasy and sour, yet it replenishes my strength all the same.


    I finish my troll-meat and find other sources to replace it. I spear several bats and a small salamander. They would go down better cooked, but I am away from the magma now and do not have that luxury. Meat itself, after so many day-equivalents of fungus, is luxury enough that I cannot complain.


    I start to feel almost healthy, and my wounds stop aching so much. How long will I wander here for? I do not much care. In fact, I would not mind wandering these caverns forever. The sense of freedom is sublime. For so long I was trapped in my cell, and my forge which was also a cell, so now to be able to walk the tunnels as I please makes me happy beyond measure.


    I find a cavern, wide and with a river flowing down its center, that is almost paradise. Lush fungi gives soft light throughout, and eyeless white fish dart in the water. I spear them and give myself the luxury of only eating the best flesh, and throwing the rest to the bats, for there are so many of the fish, and Life-Ripper is fast.


    In a small hollow in the wall I make myself a kind of home, with hanging creepers for a door and a bed made from fungi that is similar in shape and feel to the grass of the surface that lies far, far above. When I sleep, I do so almost in warmth.


    Yet as the long-hours pass, my sleeps grow less and less peaceful. In my dreams I see the great statue under whose gaze I dueled Vanerak, and its shadowy eyes stare at me. Its face, alike to my own, is sneering.


    The face of the First Runeforger.


    Who was he? Why do I have his powers? That sphere he held¡ªis it the one I see in my trance? And what connection does he have to my brother and Hardrick? The black dragon said my brother''s craft intrigued it so much that it spared him. It lied that it spared him, yet the craft must still have had some unique aspect to it, or the dragon would not have remembered its maker clearly enough to identify me as being a relation. And Hardrick, the silver legend who rose to second degree with unheard of speed, he has power too¡ªperhaps the power of runeforging, same as I do.


    He''s still alive, I presume, still at Runethane Broderick''s side and, by chain of command, following the orders of the hateful Runeking Uthrarzak.


    Here, in this small paradise, time does not seem to flow. Yet outside it does. My friend Hayhek and student Guthah are on their way to the fort against the darkness¡ªwhich I suppose is now more properly called Runethane Halmak''s realm. Maybe they have already arrived.


    I worry especially for Guthah. The loss of Pellas will have devastated him. Likely he hates me, and I can''t blame him for it. I slew her killer¡ªperhaps that will give him some relief, if I''m able to tell him. As for Hayhek, and the dwarves who came to free me, I feel that I owe something to them too. That Ithis¡ªI didn''t particularly like the look of him. But his letter rekindled the flame of hate in my heart, and I owe him for that. It broke the chains Vanerak had wrapped around my heart and mind.


    I must leave this place and find them. I must help them as best I can¡ªfor the fort is a dangerous place: that sorcerer of darkness, who was neither dwarf nor human, nor troll nor elf, remains below. Runethane Halmak is greedy, from what I remember. He might seek to go down again. Even if he does not, there are ferocious beasts to contend with, dithyoks and whippers, and the threat of Runeking Uthrarzak looming over all.


    And, of course, I must keep Vanerak at the forefront of my mind. Now that he has the knowledge of the First Runeforger available to him, he will grow in strength, and I must grow to match him. Outmatch him.


    So with a heavy sigh I leave my hollow and continue my journey. I go through the wider caverns, hoping to meet other dwarves¡ªin my ten years after the dragon I took only slim tunnels, and avoided all signs of others. I was fleeing then, but now I am no coward.


    Before long I strike lucky, and come across an even, straight, and flat-floored tunnel that can only be a caravan route. I walk along it for many long-hours, feeding on fungus and fungus mites, and drinking from the tiny rivulets that run down the long, shallow, wheel-carved trenches.


    A rumble approaches. I dare to hope, raise Life-Ripper in a salute and, perhaps out of curiosity, or more likely scenting the profit that can be gained from accepting a passenger of high degree, the caravan, a six-carted train pulled by five blindboars, slows to a halt beside me.

 Return to Darkness 3: Gold and Infamy

    The driver, a runeknight of about sixth degree, does not step down from his perch, but instead stays seated, staring at me with suspicion and just a touch of greed.


    ¡°Hello there!¡± I say. I attempt a tone of friendly cheer, but it''s been so long since I''ve used my voice that the words come out awkwardly.


    The driver''s look of suspicion intensifies. ¡°Good hour, traveler.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for stopping, friend.¡±


    ¡°What brings a fellow runeknight to this empty road? And one with such a fine weapon?¡±


    ¡°Various battles,¡± I answer.


    ¡°I suppose I should''ve been able to tell that from the state of your armor.¡±


    ¡°Yours is also scarred.¡±


    He grimaces. ¡°That it is.¡±


    ¡°Trolls?¡±


    ¡°Trolls, and bir bats, and copper crabs. Your battles?¡±


    ¡°Demons of the magma sea.¡±


    Before the driver can make a reply to that, the door of the lead cart opens. A contraption of wooden steps rattles out and a dozen runeknights descend, weapons at the ready. A few more emerge from the other carriages. They are all in steel armor as battered as their driver''s, and their leader looks to be only fourth degree at best, yet their weapons glint with sharpness and I do not doubt they could pierce my broken armor. I do not wish to fight them, so I hold Life-Ripper vertically and make no move to back away as they surround me.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± demands the fourth degree. His armor is of a style I don''t recognize, flared at the shoulders, and his helm is crested with red-dyed hair. ¡°Why do you hold us up?¡±


    ¡°He''s not holding us up, Lopak,¡± says the driver. ¡°I stopped because he looks rich.¡±


    Lopak looks me up and down. ¡°What degree are you?¡±


    ¡°Second,¡± I say, which is more or less correct.


    The caravaners look at each other.


    ¡°And what brings you here, second degree? So far from civilized places, and indeed from anywhere worth going.¡±


    ¡°I fought a battle. It ended in a draw. I retreated into the wilderness to recover my strength.¡±


    ¡°What battle? Against whom?¡±


    ¡°Demons of the magma, he told me,¡± says the driver.


    ¡°Is that so?¡± Lopak sounds incredulous. Behind his helm I imagine that one eyebrow is raised.


    ¡°It is so,¡± I say. ¡°Do you know of Runethane Vanerak''s realm?¡±


    ¡°I have heard of Runethane Vanerak but know little about his realm. And I know less about demons.¡±


    ¡°They''re just stories,¡± one of the other runeknights says. ¡°He''s lying. He looks like an outlaw. Some criminal.¡±


    ¡°I''m no criminal. I have friends in Allabrast and other places too. Indeed, the Runeking himself knows my name.¡±


    ¡°Does he now?¡± says Lopak, obviously not believing me. ¡°And what might that name be?¡±


    In my desperation to ingratiate myself with them, I realize I''ve made rather a bold claim. A foolish one, even¡ªit really has been too long since I used my voice. Or maybe I''ve just let my guard down because these dwarves are of lower degree than me.


    They stare at me, waiting for my answer. I feel that I have no choice to double-down on my claim, and tell the truth.


    ¡°I am Zathar.¡±


    The effect is immediate. As one the runeknights step back and level their spears at me.


    ¡°Remove your helm!¡± Lopak demands.


    I do so. The cold damp of the air stings my cheek-scar.


    ¡°Is that him, Volka? You are from Allabrast. Did you attend the trial?¡±


    ¡°I did and it is him,¡± says a lady runeknight of about fifth degree. ¡°It''s him for sure. Though he wasn''t so badly scarred then.¡±


    ¡°The traitor!¡± spits someone else.


    ¡°I will remind you,¡± I say calmly, ¡°that I was found innocent, and my false conviction, recognized as a result of bribery, was overturned by order of Runeking Ulrike himself.¡±


    ¡°They do say that,¡± says Volka.


    ¡°If it was untrue, I would have been executed.¡±


    ¡°That is, I suppose, also true,¡± says Lopak. ¡°But you were not a second degree then.¡±


    ¡°No. I have improved my forging by much since my trial.¡±


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    ¡°In the realm of Runethane Vanerak?¡±


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    ¡°Which you have fled from, after some great battle with demons.¡±


    ¡°That is more or less the case, yes.¡±


    ¡°So you are a deserter,¡± says the runeknight who called me traitor.


    ¡°We were routed. Most fled¡ªthey lost faith in the Runethane. He pushed them too far.¡±


    ¡°And what happened to the Runethane?¡± asks Lopak.


    ¡°He is alive, I think. Though I do not know if he can be called a Runethane¡ªeveryone abandoned him.¡± I cannot keep the venom from my voice. ¡°Every last member of his guild who was not slain by the demons.¡±


    ¡°Yet you claimed this battle was a draw.¡±


    ¡°We slew the demons and their champion too. So, I suppose maybe that part was a victory. But I can''t bring myself to judge the loss of so many dwarves, and the crisis of loyalty of an entire realm, as a victory.¡±


    Lopak nods slowly. ¡°If what you say is true, you are right. There is no point in winning the battle if your cargo is lost, or your wheels broken.¡±


    ¡°That is not quite how I would have put it, but yes.¡±


    ¡°I might be willing to take you on, if you are not seeking to go too far out of the way.¡±


    Behind his visor, his eyes are bright with something. I can''t quite tell what. Some of the runeknights look at each other in alarm, as if they can''t quite believe their leader''s recklessness, but they say nothing yet.


    ¡°I am looking to go to Runethane Halmak''s realm. Do you know of it?¡±


    Lopak frowns. ¡°The fort against the darkness?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I''m afraid we''re headed in the opposite direction.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Though, many caravans do get contracted for exports from that realm¡ªmostly rare reagents and beasts for the arenas. So if you stick with us to our next stop, you may find a train headed there.¡±


    I nod sharply. ¡°I am in no hurry. Time has little meaning in that place.¡±


    Lopak looks a little confused at this remark, but only for a moment. ¡°Then the terms are settled,¡± he says. ¡°We will take you to the realm of Runethane Ytith to where our cargo is bound. The city of Jade and Copper is a rich hub and you''ll find a caravan headed down to the darkness without much difficulty. Now, we need to decide the payment. The journey will take twenty and a half long-hours. How much would you say is a fair price for that?¡±


    Gold. I spent so long in Vanerak''s realm, being given free reign to use all the materials I wanted, in however great amounts my crafts required, that I forgot coin''s vast importance to all aspects of a runeknight''s life.


    ¡°I am afraid,¡± I say somewhat hesitantly, ¡°That my pockets are empty.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Lopak says, tone suddenly cold. ¡°That is a shame. For all of us.¡±


    The other runeknights are already glancing back toward the caravan doors. The driver is readying his reins.


    ¡°But I can work!¡± I say. ¡°Your armor is battered. These roads are not safe, are they? Or maybe this one is¡ªyet you''ll be going to more wild places. Runethane Ytith''s realm is quite far up, isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°We have many guards already,¡± says Lopak. ¡°There are more inside. And we calculated tightly how much supplies to take.¡±


    ¡°But how many guards wield a weapon like mine?¡±


    That gives him pause. I pressure in:


    ¡°I slew a lava troll with this weapon. Its name is Life-Ripper. The troll''s wounds did not heal after I inflicted them, and it screamed from pain. Lava trolls do not scream from pain, not unless they touch water, yet my runes broke this rule. Look upon them, Lopak.¡± I extend my arm and hold Life-Ripper out closer to him. ¡°Maybe you cannot read my script, but surely you can feel the power.¡±


    The metal draws him in, then he pulls back. I catch a glimpse of his eyes through his slitted steel visor and they are wide.


    ¡°It is a powerful weapon,¡± he admits. ¡°Your armor, though¡ª¡±


    ¡°It has been broken, yes, and a great deal of its power I put in for resistance against heat. But it still affords me some protection. As much as your junior guards'' armor does them, certainly.¡±


    He nods again. The other runeknights glance at each other, and the driver''s reins have gone limp in his hands.


    ¡°Very well,¡± Lopak says after a few more seconds'' pause. ¡°It would be foolish to turn down the help of a second degree. You will ride with us, but you will earn your keep. The next time we face battle, I expect you, as the most senior of us, to lead the defense. If you run or hang back, we will abandon you.¡±


    ¡°I accept those terms,¡± I say solemnly.


    ¡°Lopak, is this really a good idea?¡± says the lady runeknight, Volka. Her spear is shorter than the others'', and she has one hand on the hilt of a sword¡ªthe sheath of which is slit in the Allabrast fashion.


    ¡°It would be foolish to turn down such strength.¡±


    ¡°He is still the traitor. He might turn on us¡ªhe just turned his back on his Runethane.¡±


    Some of the other runeknights nod.


    ¡°Runethane Vanerak,¡± I say slowly, ¡°upset with the slow progress of a tunnel, beheaded a miner.¡± A few of the runeknights rock back slightly. ¡°He then ordered their overseer to strip off his armor and take up the slain dwarf''s pick.¡±


    At this, some eyes widen, though other runeknights drop their spearpoints to aim at my chest. Not everyone is accepting my tale.


    ¡°I could tell you of more atrocities. He had many hundreds of miners worked until they bled sweat and collapsed dead. His senior runeknights beat the juniors with impunity, stole from them even, and he turned a blind eye. These were not a few incidents. They were commonplace. So commonplace that one of his second degrees found himself abducted, tortured, and forced to confess to several more crimes.¡±


    ¡°Rebellion?¡± Lopak says.


    ¡°Yes. Maybe you think this act was foul. But Vanerak''s crimes were fouler. You may have heard that he had a hand in slaying the black dragon, at the mountain of Runeking Halajatbast. This is a lie¡ªhe let the true slayers die while he held chains of healing. I witnessed this myself. Worse even than that, he massacred a rival guild on his way there.¡±


    ¡°Why should we believe you?¡± says one of the runeknights with his spear aimed at my heart. ¡°You admit you are a traitor and a deserter. Why not a liar too?¡±


    ¡°Just as I have no gold on me, I have no proof either,¡± I say bitterly. ¡°Yet if you doubt my tale, go to his realm for yourself sometime and see that it is abandoned. Or head down to the fort against the darkness with me, and ask the rest of the dwarves who deserted him. They had very good reason to. Rather, to stay with him would have been a crime of treachery. No dwarf as cruel as him should hold any power.¡±


    ¡°Your real battle was against Runethane Vanerak, wasn''t it?¡± Lopak says quietly. ¡°It was he who broke your armor and cleaved your face nearly in two.¡±


    ¡°I will not deny it,¡± I say with steel in my voice. ¡°I have no regrets. He made himself my enemy. He had my guildmate tortured and murdered in front of me while I was held helpless. Though, I took my revenge on her torturer, and on one of those who held me. Both first degrees. As for him, he walked away with scars just as deep as this one here.¡±


    I tap my cloven cheek. Volka draws her sword and steps back, levels her spear at my throat. ¡°We should run, Lopak.¡±


    Lopak seems frozen.


    ¡°You are headed into danger,¡± I say. ¡°Your trip hasn''t gone quite as planned, has it? There aren''t any more guards in your carriages.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he admits.


    ¡°You can''t turn down my help. To do so could condemn you all.¡±


    ¡°He''s the traitor,¡± someone says. ¡°The traitor!¡±


    ¡°He was found innocent!¡± Lopak snaps. ¡°Do you go against the word of our Runeking? And I''ve heard unsavory rumors about Runethane Vanerak in several drinking halls. His tale has a ring of truth about it.¡±


    ¡°When you face your next battle,¡± I say, ¡°if you face it without me, you will feel nothing but regret. But if you face it with me as your guard, I will win it for you¡ªor else sacrifice myself so that you may run to live another day.¡±


    Lopak nods. ¡°I will hold you to those words, Zathar,¡± he says quietly. ¡°I do not appreciate cowards.¡±


    ¡°You will soon understand that I am not one of those.¡±