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—that 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—the 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—that 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.
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Vanerak sits within his newest and deepest chamber. It is deathly hot—he 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.
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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—he has been angry often lately, an alien and unpleasant sensation—and 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—ten fourth degrees, two third, one second and one first—Steward 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 perfect 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—Helzar 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.
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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—these 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.”