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—we 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—I 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—they 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—onward 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—my 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—coward!

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—though 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—he 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—each 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—so 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—but 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—but 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—we 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.”