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—I 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—it has a large and complex steel lock, enruned—to 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—some 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—though 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.

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How much freedom am I to be allowed? Obviously very little when it comes to my moving around—but 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—I 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—it is worked with an image of a coiled fire-snake—and 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—barely 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—the 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—so 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—it 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.