The valleys for three miles around our hill are filled with human blood and choked with human corpses. I feel queasy looking at the red, but it's a good kind of queasiness, like the feeling you get after having ten too many beers. There's a happiness to it. We have taken our revenge for those we lost a hundred times over.

But our losses are great. Out of our army of five hundred, over one hundred have fallen, most to lightning. About the same number are injured, some seriously. Our guild fared better than most, but still worse than I feared. Ten of our sixty-two are dead, including Jerat, and thirteen are injured, including Guthah, whose spear-arm is broken badly and burned worse.

Someone approaches, then sits down next to me on the outcrop. I feel colder all of a sudden. My craft may be my greatest yet, but it is still scrap compared to that of a first degree.

"Congratulations on slaying the wizard," says Xomhyrk.

"It was you who slew him. If you hadn't done whatever you did, I'd be dead."

"But you killed the other one by yourself. For that you deserve a great deal of praise."

"Thank you."

Xomhyrk shakes his head a little. “But still we've lost so many. And now to bury our dead so high up... Doesn't seem right, does it?"

“I suppose not.”

“A dwarf's final resting place should be deep below. Preferably in the fires of the magma sea.”

“I can't say I've ever really thought about it. I'd prefer not to die, if possible.”

“Ah, you are young, to be able to say that.”

“What do you mean? Don't we all strive for immortality?”

“Is such a thing possible?”

“It is, if your amulet is well-forged enough.”

“They are amulets of unaging, not immortality. A well-place axe-blow will fell even a Runegod.”

“I suppose.”

He says nothing for a while. I sit still, hoping that he'll go away and let me be alone with my grief and my blood-drunkeness.

“Isn't the funeral starting soon?” I ask, when it becomes clear he isn't leaving.

“Not for a while. We have time to talk.”

“About what?” I turn to him and frown. “You seem interested in me.”

“I am.”

“Because I'm the traitor?”

“I heard that you were absolved of that crime.”

“Many don't accept the ruling. I'm surprised that you do.”

“I understand dragons better than most. They can be very persuasive. I've never fallen for one's words, but I was already fourth degree when I met my first.”

“I see. Then why are you interested in me?”

“Your runes.”

I shift away from him instinctively. “What about them?”

“They're unique.”

“They're like everyone else's.”

He chuckles. “Allabrast has many great runic libraries. They are so deep that, when entering one, as I've done on a few occasions, it's easy to believe that they're endless, and the runes they contain endless also. But I know better than that. I know that the only runes there are, are those the Runeforger created all those tens of thousands of years ago.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“I don't see what you're getting at.”

“Yes you do. Your runes are new ones. That script on your armor—“

“It was in one of the libraries. Deep at the bottom.”

“Ah, now you've proved it to me. You would not be allowed into the base levels of the libraries. Their guardians are strict about who gains access to those runes—very strict.”

I scowl. “It was just above those levels.”

“No. You created that script.”

“Impossible.”

“There's no use lying to me, Zathar. When we left Allabrast I was keeping careful watch of the Runeking's eyes. They were not staring at me and my guild, but at you.”

“If the Runeking was so interested in me, if he thought I had the power of runeforging, he wouldn't have let me leave the city.”

“He might have. Who can predict what a Runeking will do?”

“It's illogical.”

“Many dwarves are. Maybe he just trusts you, or trusts in fate, or some such force like that.”

“There's nothing new about my runes.”

“You're not a particularly trusting dwarf, are you?”

“Not of strangers, no.”

“That's fair enough. But I'll give you some advice. Not all scripts are created equal. The one on your armor seems, to me, to be one of the weaker ones. It suits your purposes well, yes, but the runes don't have as much potential for power as most. And the way they rhyme is somewhat restrictive.”

It takes a few seconds for what he's just said to sink in.

“You can read them?”

“I am seven centuries old. I've learned to recognize certain patterns, and though I can't be sure of every single rune, I can see the flow.”

“And you think it's not good enough?”

Despite my grief, my anger, my fear, and everything else in me, it seems there's still room in my heart for one more emotion: offense.

“I think you've got a lot of work ahead of you if you're ever to equal the first Runeforger.”

“Perhaps,” I say sharply.

He stands up. “I best see to my guild. But one last thing, Zathar: there's no use hiding your powers. They'll be known to all soon enough—not that I'm going to spread rumors, but others aren't so tight-lipped.”

“I see.”

“I'm sure you do.”

He makes to leave, then I shout after him:

“Wait, Xomhyrk! I want to know something.”

He turns back. “What is it?”

“How did you get up the hill so fast?”

“You mean in the battle?”

“Yes.”

“Take a good look at my armor. A good look.”

I stand up and walk a few steps closer to him. I examine the blue tungsten. Unlike him, I'm not good enough to read runes I've never seen before.

“I can't read the runes.”

“It's not in the runes. Look at the metal.”

I frown at it. It's well-made, very smooth, incredibly polished even after being battered by so many arrows and spears, with barely a scratch on it. Yet I don't see how that relates to him being able to fly from the top of one hill to halfway up another.

“I can't tell,” I say.

“Then you aren't ready to know. Keep thinking on it.”

He leaves. I scowl and sit back on the outcrop. First he insults my runes, and now he won't even give me a straight answer about his own forging! And after I all but admitted my powers to him.

I shake my head. Probably I ought to feel happy that such a powerful dwarf has taken an interest in me. And not only is he a powerful dwarf, but he's one who shares my goal, wants to help me see my oath through. I should accept his friendship. Or mentorship, since he's too far above me for me to truly be able to call him a friend. Friend implies some degree of equality.

I'm just in a bad mood. If grief can be called a bad mood. Jerat—I can't believe he's gone. And poor Guthah, so promising. I saw his wound. There's going to be permanent damage for sure.

The dead are lying in rows at the top of hill. I walk up to where ours are, my armor creaking. It feels heavy—it's dented and scorched, and slightly melted where the lightning struck. It's in bad need of repairs.

Jerat is first in line, as our most senior loss. His visor is mercifully closed. Faltast is sitting beside him. He's been there for a while. Strangely there are no tears on his cheeks.

I sit opposite him.

“He was your closest friend,” I say. “I can't imagine how you're feeling.”

He shrugs. “Not as bad as I expected, to be honest.”

I'm not sure how to respond to that.

“Of course I'm sad,” he says after a long minute of silence. He sighs. “But it was always going to end this way.”

“You might have been struck first.”

“Perhaps. But... No. This was his fate. Maybe his punishment.”

I frown. “His punishment?”

“For never sobering up.” Faltast shakes his head. “Doing things by instinct alone is a stupid idea, Zathar. What possessed him to make runes of lightning for a trip to the surface I'll never know.”

“None of us expected the humans to have power like that.”

“Even so, lightning is of the surface. Of above the surface. It's not something dwarves ought to wield. Just because runes exist for something doesn't mean they should be written.”

“I see. But aren't you being a little—“

“Harsh?”

“Yeah.”

“He was my friend. I have a right to criticize him. Even in death.”

“I'm sorry.”

He shakes his head. “There's no need to be sorry. Every runeknight dies in battle eventually. Those who don't weren't trying hard enough.”

“I don't think anyone can accuse those here of not trying.”

“You're right on that front. We're all trying our damnest to get killed out here.” He suddenly laughs. “Oh, shit. What have we got ourselves into, Zathar? Wharoth was right—this is a suicide quest.”

“Xomhyrk will pull us through.”

“Against the dragon? Its breath has the power of a thousand wizards.”

“It's not invulnerable,” I say stubbornly.

“No. But neither is it particularly vulnerable.” He looks down at his axe. It's dark with dried blood. “This thing kills humans well enough, but I can't help but feel that the dragon will barely notice, even if it does get through its hide.”

I grimace. “Enough cuts and we'll fell it, Faltast. And if we don't—we tried.”