As soon as the sun rises the next morning, we crawl from the covered snow hollows we made to sleep in—that's how we've been sleeping every night, three to a hole for warmth, and in armor—and 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—I 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—we 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—all 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—I can't have been sleeping for more than half an hour—I 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—a 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—should 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—I 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—it 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.