Vanerak meets me above the boiling pool of magma that is to be our Runethane’s final resting place, at the rim of the shallow crater down which molten rock flows in a river from a seemingly unending parade of bucket-bearers. As always, his face is hidden by the dark mirror of his helmet. In it I see my face and Wharoth’s too—my guildmaster will stay with me for this meeting, he promised, and once again I am overwhelmed by his kindness.

“Good evening,” says Vanerak. “You are alive, it seems. How?”

I stick to only the most basic facts: “I fell into the river at the bottom of the chasm. Then I made my way back up.”

“A rather short story.”

“I... I was told you were busy.”

“That is not incorrect. Of course, I shall have the details later.”

“Of course.”

“As it stands: interesting. Most dwarves who fall into the chasm, or are pushed, inevitably end up dead. Those with bad armor from the fall, those with decent armor from the beasts.”

“I see. I suppose I was lucky.”

He tilts his head. “No, there’s something more to it than that. That armor you made—plain steel, yet the runes were grafted with hytrigite. A most difficult reagent to work with.”

“It was. I managed, though.”

“And the runes themselves are most intriguing too.”

Something about the tone of his voice makes me shiver. Ten minutes ago I was feeling relief almost to the point of elation. Now I am afraid once more.

“You know,” he continues, “I have never seen their like before.”

“No?”

“Would you mind telling me what they read?”

“All of them?”

“That would take too much time. Just read me that line there, on your upper arm.”

“Uthrat yzatha ioltk borthuk ioltk hyulath ioltk hurthzayat,” I read.

“A poem reflecting on the power of a falling hammer, so that some of its crushing force might be bestowed upon your own blows. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I think it works well.”

“I do not doubt that. Yet your rune ioltk, the crux of the poem, is curved rightways at the top instead of leftways.”

I inspect it. The bent line is only a very minor detail, yet even a small mistake can have a major effect on a rune’s power.

“Maybe I misremembered it.”

“Yes. Perhaps. Though if that is the case, it’s curious that it still works so well, no? I can sense the harmony of the poem, young dwarf. It works too well.”

“I see.” I sense his gaze intensify and resist the urge to step back. “Is there some... problem with that?”

“Oh no. The opposite. An opportunity, I think. You wanted to join the castle guards at one point, did you not?”

“I did, yes.”

“You must be at least fifth degree for that honored position, so you were turned away, but I see now that your armor more than qualifies you. For the position, and for a new rank.”

“What do you mean?” I say nervously.

“I mean that you are now far above tenth degree. Of course, some formalities must be observed for your ascension to fifth, however in the midst of the war I cannot spare soldiers to drag up salamanders from the depths, nor to fight you directly.”

“Wait!” Wharoth says. “He is to ascend to fifth? From tenth?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Why shouldn’t he, guildmaster? His armor is good enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, but... It’s very fast. Faster than anyone I remember.”

Vanerak shrugs. “It happens occasionally. Usually only to sons and daughters of Runethanes, et cetera, but it happens. Do you have a problem with it, young Zathar?”

“I... I mean... I would be very happy, of course. Very honored. But are you saying that I am to have no exam?”

“That would be inappropriate. No, your exam is to be the coming battle. At least, that is the excuse we will make. Coming up through the caverns and slaying that abyssal salamander—rarely have I seen so many abyssal runes—was exam enough. I will put you in the back lines, to keep you out of harm’s way. It would be a shame to lose such an interesting dwarf in the chaos. Then after all is over and we have won, you will be declared fifth degree, and you will join the ranks of me and my tungsten elites. How does that sound to you, young Zathar?”

I look to Wharoth. His expression is grave—he knows the only reason I wished to join the castle guard was to betray our Runethane by stealing his key. How Vanerak will react when he learns that is too fearful to imagine. And what he wants from me is perhaps something to fear also.

Yet of course I cannot refuse the offer of such a venerable dwarf.

“I am very grateful,” I tell Vanerak. “I will be glad to join you in the castle, once the war is won.”

“Excellent. Now, you two can go and join the rest of your guild and wait for the funeral. I think the magma will be ready by morning.”

He turns back to the bubbling pool, making it clear we are dismissed. Wharoth leads me back to the road.

“Guildmaster?” I say nervously.

“He is very generous with you, as I suspected. That may prove to be good, or it may prove to be very bad indeed.”

“I see.”

That seems to be all he has for me; he says no more for a while. His visor is up and I can see his face: he will not meet my eyes not matter how much I try to meet them, and his jaw is clenched tight. What thoughts and emotions swirl behind his furrowed brow I cannot say. Is he afraid for me? Or has his anger at my crime flared up again after hearing how Vanerak plans to reward me? How conflicted he must be, to feel the need to help me while suppressing the hate that surely boils beneath the surface.

“Should I go to our guildmates with you, or..?”

“I think it would be best if you stay away from them,” he says in a pained voice. “It isn’t right that they should laugh and praise you not knowing what you’ve done.”

“Of course.”

“In the morning you may join us at the funeral. Our guild is to have an honored position near to the front, in light of my efforts against the dragon.”

“Will we talk again then?”

“Not then. Later, some time before the battle. I...” He finally meets my eyes. They are full of sorrow. “You must understand that although I forgive you, and have made up my mind to help you, I cannot take the strain of spending much time with you. Not until your punishment has been decided and justice served in whatever form it may take.”

His words cut deep. My voice nearly breaks: “I can understand that. I know what it’s like to lose people you love.”

“Yes, you do. That is part of the reason I forgave you.” We come to a fork in the path, where a small trail leads off away from the main road. He halts. “Let’s separate here. I’m sure you have a lot to think about.”

“Just one more thing,” I say. “Please.”

“What is it?”

“Vanerak scares me. Even if my punishment isn’t fatal, what he wants with me afterwards... He let an abyssal salamander loose on a bunch of initiates. When he talks, he sounds cold. What does he want with me in the castle, guildmaster? What does he want me to do for him? Just write runes? Or something else?”

“I don’t know. He is not a good dwarf, even though he is on our side. He’s done a lot of cruel things in his time, if the stories are to be believed.”

“Like what?”

“The usual. Murder. Torture. All for his Runethane, or so he claims.” He shakes his head. “Many whisper that loyalty was just an excuse.”

“I should be scared, then.”

“Yes.”

“What should I do?”

“Whatever you think best. And after your punishment is served, I will help you if I can. So might other members of our guild too. Don’t make the same mistake twice, Zathar. There are dwarves you can trust. That will help you. Don’t keep everything to yourself.”

“I won’t. Never again.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Goodbye then, guildmaster. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

“Goodbye, Zathar.”

He leaves me at the fork while he takes the main path. I trek down the side path for a short while until my legs grow tired, then sit down on a flat stone. I breath the air deeply: it smells fresh, of dry stone, of the breeze that whistles through the stalagmites, of the open sky far above.

Wharoth said I must have a lot to think about, but my mind is far to exhausted for anything as demanding as thought. I lean back.

A few more deep breaths, and I fall asleep upon the mountainside under the moonlight.

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

The black dragon shuffles through the tunnels. Every step is a struggle against pain and exhaustion. Its fights have taken too much blood. The furnace of its innermost flesh is gray in parts, ashes.

Brought to the edge of mortality by mere dwarves!

It snarls as it remembers the pain of the dwarven axe, that dwarven spear. Its mighty arm, severed by a dwarf! Half its vision destroyed, by a dwarf! An insult. A humiliation. Perhaps it should throw itself into the river and drown its flames in shame.

Yet, no. It shall not do that, for as long as fire runs through its veins it has a chance for revenge. A most terrible and magnificent revenge. As long as even one ember remains burning within its chest, and the diamond key stays strung through its tail, its revenge is inevitable.

Onward it shuffles toward the scent of its brethren.