Xomhyrk's dark blue armor radiates cold power and his spear Icemite the same. Its point gleams cyan. We can feel the chill even at the back of the army. My own aura of cold is overwhelmed. This armor is my greatest effort, but before his craft it's crude.

“My fellow dragonslayers, welcome. Welcome to the greatest quest any of you have ever undertaken. There can be no greater glory than that found in the killing of a dragon, and the black dragon is the greatest of all dragons yet seen either below the world or above it. To slay it will be an incredible feat. Even if you should strike only the merest blow against it, your name will ring throughout eternity. A single cut to its scales will graft your legend onto the skin of time.”

But how are we to kill it? That's the question on my mind, and probably the minds of everyone else also.

“Most of you—all of you, perhaps—are questioning if such a feat is even possible. The black dragon is massive, for one. Its wingspan is two hundred feet across at least. Its fire melted an entire two realms to slag, and now it has killed an entire kingdom and slain a Runeking. A Runeking! How can we, without even a Runethane among us, slay such a beast?

“But it is possible. I know this because my knowledge about dragons runs deep. I have spent my life learning about them, for a hunter must know his prey if he is not to become the hunted. Now I will share some of my knowledge: here are three facts about the foul beasts.

“The first: dragons are fire made flesh. They are at their most powerful when they have just consumed something, like a raging bonfire at its peak. The black dragon, when it destroyed the realms of Thanerzak and Broderick, was an inferno incarnate then.”

So surely it is even more powerful after consuming Runeking Halajatbast and his hoard?

“So surely now it is even more powerful, you are thinking. Yes and no. It'll have gained a great deal of power. But it's also expended a great deal, and also needs time to digest the new power.

“This brings me to fact the second: dragons create hoards of treasure. Enraged at its injuries, the black dragon blasted Runethane Thanerzak's realm out of spite, with no thought for building a hoard, but all dragons build them. They'll take anything shiny, but it's runic crafts they're really after. Over the centuries, they drain the power from them through their scales.

“The black dragon almost certainly, after blasting Runeking Halajatbast and his Runethanes, has ransacked the mountain to build a hoard. If he didn't melt the Runeking to vapor, maybe his armor and weapon will lie atop it.

“Do you all see where I am leading? The black dragon will have settled down on its hoard. And it'll be exhausted from the battle, and injured too, with great injuries across many yards of flesh. They'll take an accordingly great time to heal.

“Right now it's at its most vulnerable. Once it's digested its new hoard it'll have grown in power several times, but now, while it's weakened, we have a chance, small force though we are.”

I nod. Small force, though? There's a five hundred runeknights here at least, and many are powerful looking. But compared to the black dragon, with its two hundred yards or more wingspan, then yes, I suppose we are rather small.

“The third fact is simply this: dragons may be beasts of fire, but they are still beasts. They are mortal. They can be slain like anything else through the forceful application of runic metal.”

Xomhyrk passes the voice amplifier back. He clasps Icemite in both hands and raises it high above his head horizontally. A chill, a thrill, passes through the gathered army. It washes through my frozen armor. My heart pumps fast beneath the ruby lying against my chest.

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“Dragonslayers!” roars one of the tungsten-clad commanders. “Death to the dragon!”

“Death to the dragon!” roar Xomhyrk's guildsdwarves as one. “Death to the dragon!”

“Nachroktey-drazakh-ala!”

Our gathered army roars the same:

“Nachroktey-drazakh-ala! Nachroktey-drazakh-ala! Nachroktey-drazakh-ala!”

“Death to the dragon! Death to the dragon! Death to the dragon!”

The chant continues for a long while. Its fury does not fade. Each syllable is shouted as loudly as the last. I feel the words in my bones. Runes spin in my mind. I focus on Icemite. I think that these words of death we chant are written into the poems spiraling around it.

Our chant must be echoing all throughout Allabrast. I wonder if it's reaching the guildmaster in his forge. Maybe it'll change his mind.

Isn't it his duty to change his mind? To support us, to make sure we remain safe and alive? I can only hope. I'd feel safer if he were here to lead us, holding forward his shield that once ate the dragon's flame.

Xomhyrk spins Icemite back to vertical and stands it on the platform. His guildsdwarves cease chanting, and a few repeats later we cease also. He takes the voice-plate again.

“As maybe you have guessed,” he says, “there have been some changes in our plan. Nothing major. Our destination remains the same. It's only the route that I've had to alter.”

Didn't he just say now's our best chance? Yet it sounds like we're going to be taking a slower path.

“The New Dynamium Guild has refused us travel along its rails. They do not wish to risk the ire of Runeking Uthrarzak by bringing an army close to his domains, where the most convenient exit to the surface for us is.”

There are shouts of dismay and disbelief. Xomhyrk holds a palm out to calm them.

“They've offered us to take us to another exit to the surface, Hud Valley. Yet that valley, as many of you likely know, is swarming with river trolls. They've grown numerous and powerful in recent years. I don't want to take our chances with them.”

River trolls? I wonder exactly where this valley is, and if Dwatrall is there. Perhaps he's doing well for himself—but I don't think I'll have the opportunity to find out. I think I can guess what Xomhyrk is about to suggest.

“Instead we will go straight up the Blue Shaft, here, then make straight for the Mountain of Halajatbast. It's a long way, but up on the surface, distances are less. There's no need to wind through tunnels. We can cut straight up the land.”

Murmurs and mutters run through the army. I turn to Braztak.

“So long across the surface? Is that wise?”

“Wise? Not particularly, but it sounds like we don't have a choice.”

“You know my story about the river trolls. Maybe these ones are smart too. Maybe we can come to some sort of deal with them.”

“You'll have a hard time persuading Xomhyrk and his commanders of that. That was one of your less believable tales.”

“Yes, I accept that. Still... It's not like we'll be doing only night marches, is it?”

Xomhyrk speaks again: “I can hear apprehension from you. Yes, the surface is dangerous. Yes, the sun is hot and burns the skin, even through the clouds. And yes, we will have to march during the day—the time when the sun is in the sky in place of the moon.”

“We will catch sunblight!” someone shouts. “I'd rather risk the trolls!”

“Silence!” barks one of the senior commanders, a bulky first or second degree in dark tungsten. “On this quest, Xomhyrk's word is law! His commands will be obeyed, for the safety and success of all!”

“Thank you, Gollor,” says Xomhyrk. “If any of you are dissatisfied by my decision, you are free to find your own route to the dragon. However I will say this—dragonfire burns far hotter than the sun does. If sunblight scares you, then you don't have the courage in you to face the black dragon.”

That silences the muttering.

“This route does pose one major issue,” says Xomhyrk. “That of the humans of Tallreach. However, we will be bringing plenty of gold. That should buy them off.”

“And of the forces of Runeking Uthrarzak?” someone shouts.

“We will come to that problem when we reach the mountain. Now, all of you, it's time to leave. So let us begin. We march!”

Groups of tungsten-clad runeknights appear at the front and rear of the army. Standards are raised high, banners of woven metal displaying a dragon on its back with a three blue spears sticking from its heart.

“This way!” comes a shout. “March forward.”

We turn. The shiver of metal echoes through the main street. Our group is near the front of the formation now, rather than the back.

“This is it then,” I say. I grin beneath my skull-helm. “We're off!”

“Charge!” laughs Jerat. “It's time to show the surface dwarven steel!”

I glance at Braztak—in his eyes is the same thrill that I feel. It's time to deal death or be dealt it. No more thought is needed.