“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-cable 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—but 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—Hayhek, 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—except 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—I can understand only the world under the magma now—currently 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—I 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—he 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.
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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—whatever the demons be—are 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—this 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—they 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—there 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—Vanerak can take care of his opponent himself. To help him could increase his opinion of me, yes—but 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—Vanerak has dispatched his foe—and 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—death—disintegration of the foe—I 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.