The tunnel I have been ordered to is deep, deep below the mountain. The walls are narrow and straight and the arch of the roof comes to a point at the top. It is shaped like no tunnel I have yet been in, and I find myself wondering how many hundreds of years ago it was constructed, and by whom. I believe I am only wondering this, however, to take the mind off the fact that the squad I’m with is only twenty dwarves strong.

Vanerak may want to protect me, but he still has a battle to win. Unimportant areas are given little defense.

I don’t know any of my comrades here either. Their armors are unfamiliar—many seem to be from the same lesser known guild, wearing shoulder-plates emblazoned with a troll’s head in orange—a lava troll. I wonder how many have faced one in combat before. Probably none. The quality of their armor, mostly steel and sporting rather amateurish runework, does not inspire confidence in their combat ability.

I hope that Broderick has also decided that this sector of the battlefield is not a vital one.

The back rank I am in, the spear rank, is positioned slightly offset from the ranks in front so we have gaps to aim through. I can see the tunnel continuing deep into the darkness past a few torches we affixed to the walls when we arrived here. Although the runes on the crescent above my visor do not make my vision any brighter, I can make out details in shades of black and gray easier. So far, there is little to report. Not even a bat stirs.

All I can do is stand and feel slightly ill. Vague whistles of air creep up from the depths into my ears, itching my burned one. Alternating cool and hot breezes make their way through the grille of my visor. I lick my dry lips. The air tastes of sweat and fungus.

“I wonder if the battle’s started up there,” a dwarf in front of me whispers. “I bet it has. Has to have.”

“Quiet!” snaps our commander, one of the only dwarves in decent armor. “No speculation, no rumors. It’s bad for your morale.”

The dwarf shuts up and we continue to wait. My legs begin to get sore—it’s funny how just standing still can be harder than marching sometimes. When there's no movement, there's no change in scenery to take your mind off the discomfort.

Finally though, after hours, a sound reaches us. It’s soft at first, nearly indistinguishable from the silence. Then it resolves itself into a multi-layered tapping like a dozen hammers striking the anvil in unison at a one two one two rhythm. It’s the unmistakable sound of armored boots on stone.

“They’re coming!” announces our commander. “Ready your weapons.”

The dwarves in the front three ranks draw out their swords, axes and hammers. Us in the back rank angle our spears horizontally. When the front lines clash we will stab through with deadly effect.

The marching grows louder, however I sense no fear in our ranks. The dwarves I stand with chased down a dragon, and moreover they just beat Broderick’s forces. Even if their armor is poor they do not lack courage.

I look down Heartseeker past the armored shoulders of my comrades and can make out the advancing enemy. I can see plate armor of steel and bronze, and hammers, axes, and spears of the same. No one too elite then, thankfully.

The sound of their march doubles in pace. Their armor flashes in the light of the wall-torches as they close with us. The individual features of their equipment become more distinct. I crane my neck forward, frowning.

The armor of the dwarf leading them is not plate, but a kind of of bulky suit composed of hundreds of overlapping scales, dull apart from bright rings of golden runework in the center of each. From their dullness I can tell that each scale is solid lead, but the tread of their wearer is as light as a feather. I tighten my grip on Heartseeker and narrow my eyes in hatred.

I know this dwarf.

“Halt!” he commands, and his formation obeys. He looks at us through thin eyeholes. “Surrender,” he calls. “There’s more of us here, than there are of you over there.”

“Never,” says our commander. “Lay down your weapons and turn back.”

The dwarf in lead armor raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. The scales on them are minute, very finely made. Tiny golden runes sparkle like curled glowworms.

“That might be difficult,” he tells us. “These are my weapons right here.”

“Go back,” our commander repeats.

“Advance,” the dwarf in lead armor commands his troops.

They do so, and he with them.

“Ready yourselves!” shouts our commander.

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There is a metallic sound as everyone shifts their bodies into fighting stance. Heartseeker gleams darkly, hungrily. It’s been too long since she’s tasted blood, and I am perfectly happy to feed her.

“Charge!” shouts the dwarf in lead armor, he who laughed as Danath threw me into the chasm, he who was there when Yezakh was killed.

I will slay him if I can. I am strong enough now. Then when I meet Danath again I will tell him exactly how his friend begged and screamed for mercy.

----------------------------------------

Vanerak has planned out the battle in meticulous detail. He has left nothing to chance. In his opinion all dwarves worth the metal they wear hold the same attitude. Forging is not about chance, it is about accuracy in measurement, and what is a battle but the forging of victory?

He and his main force of elites stand where the sounds of mining are heaviest. He knows that a wide tunnel strays close to the mountainside here, and if it was to be broken open at its thinnest point, the exit wound would lead onto the main road down into the city. It is the most logical place for a mass frontal assault.

His front line stands at a precisely measured distance away from where he predicts the enemy will exit. Just above that point, a little further up the road, is another force of elite dwarves led by Trazloth, guildmaster of the Troglodyte Slayers. Another small guild that has excelled itself in combat recently, and Vanerak has awarded them with their favorite position—up high ready to strike down.

Of course, this is not the only sector of the battlefield. His dwarves have detected the sounds of mining from no fewer than ten different areas around the mountain, and he predicts that some of the emergency tunnels out have been discovered too. In each possible breach location he has placed a force lying in wait. His dwarves will have the advantage of the higher ground at nearly all of them. Boulders and landslides have been rigged to fall upon the enemies in many locations also—they will not hurt any dwarf in good armor, but will provide a useful distraction.

His victory is all but guaranteed—Broderick will be the only real test, and Runethanes are not unbeatable. The rule of thumb is that ten first degrees can take on a Runethane, and Vanerak knows he is far better than your ordinary first degree.

He has faith in his armor and weapon. He will bring Broderick and his golden guard down. As for the silver legend, his tale ends today also.

All will be well. He feels no uncertainty. Today is a day for victory—his victory.

He hears a commotion behind him.

“Let me see him, please! I must see the general.”

Vanerak turns around and sees some of his dwarves holding back a haggard looking dwarf in sixth degree armor.

“Let me through. I have vital information!”

“Tell it to us,” says the elite grappling him backward. “We will relay it.”

“Vanerak must know first. The general must know!”

Vanerak turns and makes his way backward through the ranks. He twirls his halberd in his gauntleted hands. If this is an assassin, best to get the killing over with quickly.

The haggard dwarf’s eyes meet his—or at least meet the surface of his mask.

“General!” says the dwarf. “I have information you need to know immediately.”

Vanerak halts before him. He sees that the dwarf’s weapon has been confiscated. “Very well, runeknight. Tell me this information.”

“It’s for your ears only.”

“My elites can be trusted.”

“Only for your ears. This information...” he lowers his voice. “It could cause a panic.”

Vanerak tilts his head in curiosity. This dwarf’s runes are rather similar to Zathar’s. Not in their originality—they are very standard in shape—but they are abyssal salamander grafted with hytrigite. His interest is piqued.

“Very well, runeknight. Banrack, let go of him.”

“But, general—” says the old elite.

“I can look after myself if he is an assassin.”

“Very well,” Banrack says reluctantly, and lets go.

Vanerak leads the dwarf to a barren stretch of mountainside out of earshot.

“What is your name, runeknight?”

“My name is Hayhek, general.”

“Your armor is interesting. I suppose Zathar didn't make it up through the caves alone? Curious.”

“Yes,” says Hayhek.

“Is it about him you wish to talk?”

“It is.”

“Go ahead then.”

Hayhek tells his story. What he says about Zathar's interaction with the black dragon, and a certain key, is very interesting indeed.

“I see,” Vanerak says. “Most concerning.”

“He... He’s not a bad person. Like I said, his brother...” Hayhek’s voice is trembling.

“Yes, yes, mitigating factors.”

“Do you have any idea what the key is for? I mean, not that I expect you to tell me, but...”

As one of Thanerzak’s oldest comrades, Vanerak knows exactly what the key is for. He designed the dragon-cages' fire-inducing mechanism himself.

“You can go now, runeknight. Thank you for bringing this important news to me. You will be rewarded.”

“Please don’t treat him too harshly. His past... It’s dark. Tragic. He should be forgiven, at least in part.”

“You can go now, runeknight.”

Hayhek bows and hurries away. Vanerak stands there, deep in thought. His elites stare at him worriedly from the path.

What Zathar has committed is a crime deserving death. Yet his rune writing is too powerful a weapon to throw away. How can Vanerak execute him, and yet keep his power available for use?

How fascinating. What an interesting parallel to Thanerzak’s treatment of the dragons.

Trial and execution must wait, though. Vanerak frowns. His certainty has been suddenly shaken. Forces will have to be diverted, strong forces to intercept the dragon. It must be stopped—and yet Broderick must be stopped also, and thus Vanerak has to stay here.

He tightens his grip on his halberd. His certain plan is suddenly a gamble.