The first part of the plan has gone like clockwork. Broderick’s occupying forces were even worse prepared than Vanerak anticipated—most were in their forges, not expecting an attack to come for a week at least, and in any case were expecting it to be an obvious frontal assault.

However the second battle is not likely to be such an easy victory. Broderick's army has formed a ring around the dark mountain's peak. Every road, path and section of shallow slope is guarded by grim-faced dwarves with their weapons raised—axes and hammers at the front with the spears of the back ranks jutting outward between them.

They look formidable, the scouts report. And the formation is more flexible than it looks also. The ring of defense is small so Broderick’s forces will find it easy to redeploy to where the battle is hottest. Marching uphill over rough terrain, Vanerak’s forces won’t find it so easy to move where they wish.

A couple hours after the army musters, Wharoth receives a letter with his orders: he is to stand in the front ranks of the assault next to Vanerak and the elites. He reads the letter again, very closely, and his brows draw together in confusion and worry. He does not quite believe the words, and hurries to the arena.

Vanerak sits in the very center. The glow of dawn from the mirrors above lights his tungsten armor and mask the color of raw meat cut from the bone. He looks up from his maps. Gravel and bone shards crunch under Wharoth’s boots as he strides forwards quickly.

“I would ask permission to speak with him,” Wharoth tells the two elites who come to halt his advance.

“He is busy.”

“It is important. Very important.”

“He is busy.”

“Let him through,” Vanerak calls. “Only a third degree of a minor guild he may be, but he and I share some memories now.”

The elites bow and step aside. Wharoth marches up to Vanerak carefully then bows deeply.

“What do you wish to discuss, Guildmaster Wharoth?”

“I wish to ask a question about my orders.”

“You wish to question my orders?” He sounds coldly amused.

“Not question them. Ask a question about them.”

“To me those sentences sound very much the same. However, I wish for there to be no confusion. Ask away.”

Vanerak’s piercing stare is all the more unnerving for being unseeable.

“I am to stand with you in the main thrust of the attack. Is that truly correct?”

“Not the main thrust of the attack—the only thrust of the attack. Broderick has split his forces around the peak, so it follows that a singular powerful assault is best. All our force against one position.”

“A powerful assault with me at the head?”

“You are not so confident in your abilities, I see.” There is definite mirth in his voice. “Yet I said before that I have reassessed you. And I did so again after our fight against the black dragon.”

“I am not used to fighting soldiers.”

“You proved your worth once more only a few hours ago. You know this.” He pauses; Wharoth wonders if he smiles. “Ah, but I see what really brings you here.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

“Fine, I admit it: I wish to stay with my guild.”

“I said I reassessed you, guildmaster. I have made no such reassessment of your guild—they are passable in combat at best. Your fame at hacking off the dragon’s hand will bring better recruits in short time, no doubt, but for now it is best that your Association of Steel is placed in the rearguard.”

Wharoth feels his blood grow hot, yet he knows picking an argument would solve nothing. Vanerak is not the sort of dwarf you argue with. No first degree runeknight is, but especially not Vanerak.

“Very well,” Wharoth says. “I shall see you in a few hours.”

“You shall. Let our luck hold.”

Wharoth spends the morning with his guild, listening to them laugh and cheer with only small hints of bitterness in their voices—the victory in the street was medicine to them, and Wharoth is happy beyond words to see them beginning to heal. A few times, like when Gerthel tells a particularly amusing joke, or when two of the bigger dwarves put their bodily functions to comedic effect in a crude play, he forgets that their number is half of what it was.

He looks at the ground and sighs. New recruits will come, provided he survives the battle. There is no doubt about that—wounding a dragon is a legendary feat however much the rival guilds may try to diminish it. And the new recruits will be quality ones too.

But the Association of Steel will never feel like it used to. Like it did before the black dragon came.

A tin horn blares. To the guild Wharoth says: goodbye, see you after we kill these bastards, stay safe for I do not want to lose any more of you, and other words to that effect. They cheer him as he makes his way to the main road and head of the column. Sunlight glints darkly off tungsten.

“You are to be right here,” Vanerak instructs. “At my right hand.”

Wharoth stops dead in shock. He is dumbfounded. To be at the front is one thing, but to be ordered to stand beside such an ancient and powerful dwarf is quite another.

“It’s an honor,” is all the reply he can manage..

“It is indeed. Guard me with your shield, guildmaster, but do not forget to guard yourself also. And swing out plenty with that interesting axe of yours.”

Ah. So this is what it’s about, Wharoth understands: Zathar’s strange rune. Vanerak wishes to see it in further action.

The rest of the army forms up behind: dozens of glittering ranks in a column right the way down the mountain road. Vanerak raises his halberd, and another blast of the horn rings out loud and long.

The dwarves move in lockstep up the mountain. Stones shiver and rattle down the slopes, mostly bits of gravel but a few larger ones smash apart on road in front of them. Wharoth winces as a head-sized one smashes at Vanerak’s feet.

The high-pitched blare of an enemy horn sounds from the very top of the mountain. The reconquest force is still some distance from the top—will the enemy sally out now and use the long path to build up momentum for a devastating charge?

No. It’s something uglier. Dastardly—not that Wharoth expects anything better from this lot. Rocks fly down at the column propelled by arms enhanced by armor of strength and accuracy. He raises his shield and it is battered violently. The sound of smashing fills the air.

“Ignore it,” Vanerak orders. “Rocks are nothing to our armor.”

The elites shout as one in agreement.

But Wharoth is not so sure. They may not get through the armor, certainly—it would take a very large or very runed bolt from a ranged weapon to kill a dwarf in armor—yet the rocks are sure to degrade their metal and mentally fatigue the army on its already strenuous march.

When they come to a low pass a few hundred feet before the main stairs up to the castle, the bombardment suddenly intensifies: it becomes nearly a solid mass of gray blurs that arc non-stop over the gleaming ranks at the top of the stairs and hit down with speed. Wharoth raises his shield over his face. It shudders and vibrates as the rocks shatter on it. He has heard of a weather up on the surface called hail, where chunks of ice fall from clouds very high up. If it’s anything like this, he wonders how humans and elves can stand it. He can no longer hear any sound but cracks and rumbling. He can barely see in front of him. All he can do is bear the blows and march forward.

A voice nearly cuts through the brutal and unending racket. Vanerak is shouting something, he thinks.

Then the tide of runeknights hits them.