The granite slope is a struggle to walk up. Dust has settled on it over the long years, the thousands of long-hours, that the quarry has lain abandoned. It's a layer between our boots and the stone. For every two steps forward we slide one back. At least, most of the others slide one back. The gripping runes on the soles of my boots give me an advantage here.

I'm not the only one with gripping runes on my boots, though. The dwarf in platinum scales must have similar, for his pace is equaling mine.

He looks at me with disgust.

“What?” I snap.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Must be something.”

“It's nothing.”

“Don't approve of my weapon?”

“That's right. That's it. No. I don't.”

I point to the top of the slope, where the iron trolls watch us from. I can almost make out the patterns of their scales. “It's going to go right through them. You just watch.”

“I won't have time to watch. I'll be slicing them.”

“How many you planning to kill then?”

“One or two.”

I laugh. “That all?”

“Yes.” He scowls at me. “You've never fought one, have you.”

“Not an iron troll, no. Lava trolls.”

“That so?” He sounds doubtful.

“It is so.”

“Attack you in the mines, did they?” one of the runeknights behind shouts. “From behind? Like they attacked your mother?”

I spin around. My war-pick is high. “Watch your mouth,” I say coldly. “I don't think this pick would have much trouble getting through that cheap tin you've got on.”

The dwarf brandishes his golden sword. “Watch your mouth,” he says. “You threatening murder?”

“No. I was making an observation about your metalworking.”

“Damn miner. You shouldn't be here.”

“Well, I am. And ahead of you, I might add. What runes did you graft to those clogs of yours? Write a poem about snails, did you?”

I laugh at my own joke. No one else does. I turn back to the front. My back feels very exposed, all of a sudden.

I didn't start anything though. Scumbags. They think they're better than me, do they? I up the pace, stride past the dwarf in platinum. I don't give him the honor of my attention—I focus firmly on the hulking monsters at the top of the slope, not fifty yards distant now.

I can smell their stench, a mixture of feces and rust. I think back to the river trolls, and wonder how intelligent this lot are. Maybe more than I suspect. Should I slow down, wait for the others to catch up, so we can meet them united?

No. My guild is watching. Guthah, an initiate, was the first in his group to step forward. I've been the last to charge too many times up until now.

I look back. “Get a move on, you lot. The less time we give them to prepare, the better.”

“Imbecile,” says the dwarf in platinum. “They've had dozens of long-hours to prepare.”

He's got a point there. I stop for a moment, trying to think of a clever reply—my nervousness is gone, replaced by a burning desire to prove to the jumped up arseholes behind me that I'm no miner, that I'm a runeknight and one better than them.

I sense something rushing through the air. I turn back to the front, raise my pick to block, expecting a charging troll, but it's a boulder. I throw myself to the side, but even so it clips me and sends me spinning and tumbling down the slope. Grey and black, stone and darkness, turn over and over. The stands in the distance and their lamps have become a bright wheel. The scrape of stone is deafening, and the vibrations of my armor on the rough granite are going through my whole body.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

I slam my war-pick into the stone to stop myself. My momentum almost rips it from my grasp; I struggle to keep hold of the handle even with my rune-enhanced grip.

Cursing, and red-faced in embarrassment—my first strike with my pick was against a rock!—I pull myself to my feet. I half expect to see my fellow examinees looking down at me and laughing.

They're doing no such thing. This is a battle. The examination has started. Stones are raining down, some nearly as large as I am.

A gray shadow fills my vision. I leap to dodge. It flies past me, the wind from its passage nearly enough to make me lose my footing again. Smaller ones, shards, are battering my armor the next moment. I forward push through the gravel rain.

A stone rolls at my feet and I jump to avoid. Another tears toward my head and I duck. One hits my shoulder and I feel the metal dent. Dull pain throbs in my flesh. I don't let it affect me—I continue to advance.

My war-pick is trying to pull me forward faster. I resist the pull. A dozen yards ahead of me, half a boulder crashes into one of the runeknights. As both he and the boulder spin past me, and I see that the jagged part of the stone is covered in blood, and that his armor is broken and splintered. He's screaming.

Maybe he'll survive, if he's given healing chains in time. Or maybe he won't.

Shit! This is life and death, isn't it? I got cocky, pulling ahead of the others, letting my emotions get hold of me. This is a battle, not a competition. I'm in armor, wielding a weapon, facing down monsters who want to kill me.

Not since I battled Fjalar have I been in such a situation: an honest-to-rock, out and out fight.

I climb further. More rocks fly at me—the trolls seem to have endless ammunition. I dodge most, but sometimes I've got to take a lesser blow in order to avoid getting smashed by a boulder nearly as big as I am. My beautifully polished armor is now dented and coated with dust. It seems to be getting heavier, or maybe I'm just getting exhausted.

I've nearly reached the other dwarves now, who have nearly mounted the top of the slope. Past them, looming over them, the hulking iron trolls are clear to see. They look much like the stone trolls I'm used to wrangling for the arenas, with the same overly long arms and hideous hairless faces, except each's skin is covered by a thick carapace, their famed natural armor, overlapping flakes of rust cemented with spit.

They're retreating, though. They don't fancy their chances with us. One of the runeknights lets out a roar and we surge up the remainder of the slope to do battle. The hulking trolls stumble away in panic. I mount the ridge, war-pick raised high.

And am suddenly dropping down; like a bad dream, the ground is suddenly not there. Seven feet later and I hit the bottom of the trench the trolls have carved out for us.

“They've tricked us!” someone cries out.

“Tricked by trolls!” another yells.

I feel like a fool. Just a few minutes ago I was wondering if we were underestimating the monsters. Well, we have. Their retreat was no retreat, but a feint, a military tactic. Now we're at the bottom of a dark crack in the rock with the trolls are leering at us from above.

The darkness is near absolute. I ought to have brought my runic ears, but I was expecting to fight somewhere brightly lit where the examiners could pay attention to my every move.

Yet I don't need light to know what's about to happen now.

I side-step. A boulder smashes where I was just standing. The ground shakes, nearly throwing me over. More thuds follow to my left and right. The trolls are trying to bury us alive. Dwarves scream as their armor is broken—metal sparks provide brief illumination.

I glance a troll's foot just in reach. I swing up and my war-pick goes right through the ankle. The troll roars in surprise and lifts its foot up and back in its retreat, dragging me up. My breastplate scrapes across the rock, then I'm out. I twist and wrench the weapon out the iron-scaled flesh. Blood pours, a blacker stain in the darkness.

There's a foot coming down at my head. I don't see it—my fighting instincts are just telling me it's there. I roll out the way, feel a shudder from the side as my prediction comes true, then I continue to roll up to my feet. A fist, heavy with rusted iron and as big as my head, is thrown at me. I duck and strike upward, feel my weapon stab through the troll's arm.

It doesn't care, strikes again with its other fist. I duck again, tearing my weapon out. The stench of blood makes my heart beat faster, makes my body feel light. I swing at the troll's legs. Again, my pick pierces its iron scales with ease. Again, it doesn't seem to care.

Trolls don't feel pain. In order to bring one down, you have to get your weapon into its head, chest, or belly, and you have to do this many times, especially with iron trolls. Though they might not have the regeneration of their lava-dwelling cousins, they're still tougher than the ordinary stone variety.

Another troll lunges forward. It wields a slab of stone as thick and long as one of its legs. It swings at my chest.

Shit! I don't have time dodge. All I can do is brace, then lean into the blow, trusting my armor can resist the violence. It does; the stone shatters on my titanium breastplate. Yet the impact is still fierce; I'm sent stumbling back, breath knocked from me. I ready a counter but am forced to duck a stone the size of my head. The shadowed figure that threw it closes in.

I count quickly: three trolls are on me. I need to beat a retreat and find some way to take them on one at a time.

A fourth lumbers toward me, throws two stones at once. I'm forced to take the hit from the lesser on my pauldron. The force staggers me.

Where's everyone else? Are they still trapped? I glance back.

To my surprise, most have managed to climb out. I imagine they clambered up the boulders the trolls tried to crush us with. I shouldn't be too surprised: everyone here is at least as skilled as I am.

Yet they're not joining the fight. They've stopped still, watching. Some have even retreated a few paces back downslope.

My eyes meet the dwarf in platinum's. My mouth curls in disgust. I see what's happening here. They're not going to help me, are they?