I'm one of the last to return to the hall. It's already nearly full, and there's only a few hill dwarves to be seen. Yet even so I can't help but suspect that our army's numbers have diminished. There's quite a few exits to the realms below in Heldfast Hill. How many have taken them? A few dozen? With our numbers as they are, even just a few dozen is a hard loss.

We wait another half hour. A few more dwarves filter in, but that's all. Yes, we've definitely lost a few dozen.

Xomhyrk gives no sign that he cares about this, and stands to speak:

“My fellow dragon hunters, I hope you're recovered and repaired. Shortly we will leave. We have no time to waste. Each hour we spend here is another hour that the black dragon spends healing its wounds and absorbing runic power from its hoard.

“There's a few less of you than arrived to the hill, I've noticed. Maybe some of you are concerned about this. I am not. If they hadn't run away here, they would have run away when we faced the dragon. It doesn't make a difference. I have no need for cowards.”

His last words are icy cold. Is he warning us? I think so: his eyes sweep across the hall, daring us to voice any opposition.

“We who remain will continue. It's their loss. Their names will not appear in the history books or be engraved into the tablets of honor. And Runeking Uthrarzak will not take kindly to interlopers. He has little tolerance for traitors, even for those who betray his enemies.

“Now, I must tell you all a little of the final stretch of our journey, from here to the Mountain of Halajatbast. It's cold, as you've already had a taste of, but it's also not so far as you might expect. There's no more hills either. And though the snow will deepen, under it is earth and rock, not ice. There's no crevasses—hidden canyons of ice—like you find in the far north beyond the mountain.

“The hill dwarves warn me that the wild creatures may pose an issue. The dragon has disturbed the weather here. It's become too warm for them to sleep like they usually do, and they're angry and hungry. Bears will be our chief concern. Maybe many of you haven't faced bears. Cave bears don't venture so far deep as Allabrast.

“They range in size from the size of a large human to the size of a large troll. The largest are white, though that kind is rare here. Most common in these parts are the brown ones. They have no flaming breath like salamanders do, but they are as strong as trolls and their fur is passable armor. And they're much faster than we are.

“Stay in the column. Do not wander out or you will very likely be attacked. Stragglers will almost certainly be attacked. If a bear does assail you, do not flee, but fight back as fiercely as you can. If you prove that you're no easy meal, they'll likely retreat. They feel pain just like us. They aren't trolls.”

Gutspiercer is shivering slightly. It's keen to find out what bear blood tastes like.

“Good luck, my army. Soon we will meet the black dragon.”

I grin.

“Let us go now.”

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

“Let us embark,” says Guildmaster Wharoth solemnly.

He watches as the members of the Association walk one by one onto the carriages. The New Dynamium Guild has proven willing to transport them for a large sum of gold. Runeking Uthrarzak's border-spies won't care about a mere hundred dwarves from a second-rate guild moving close.

Voltost walks up the step onto the front carriage. He nods to his guildmaster. Wharoth looks down the line of carriages and sees that everyone else has already embarked. He gazes around Allabrast station and across the gleaming pillars of the Fireflea district, and wonders if he'll ever see all this again. He decides he ought not to care. His home is wherever his guild is.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

He walks up into the oak and metal box and shuts the doors. Less than a minute later there's a shudder and a jerk. The carriage is moving. Wharoth faces the senior guildmembers. They look back at him nervously.

“I know some of you think we're making the wrong decision. But I'll tell you again: we're not here to fight the dragon. We're on our way to protect our guildmates.”

“To protect Zathar,” one says.

“Not just him!” Wharoth snaps. “All of them. Zathar won't be persuaded anyway. Keep the others in mind if you still can't forgive him.”

The carriage turns, swinging them all to one side, then they're pressed downward for an instant. Now they're leaning back. The carriage is going upwards. It'll still be many days until they reach the surface, but now they're well and truly on the way.

“There's no return until we reach them,” says Wharoth. “No return until we've done our duty to our guildmates.”

As for how they'll carry out that duty, he still has no clear plan.

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

The gates to Heldfast Hill swing shut behind us. I hear sound of a mechanism grinding then thudding and they're locked. Warm halls, fresh foaming beer, hot food, the comfort of furnace and anvil—these are now things of the past. We will not see them again until after we've faced the dragon. Many here will never see them again.

Onward we march. The wind picks up, throwing snow in our faces. The landscape becomes a white blur. Are the dark shapes in it low trees and boulders, or are they bears?

Bears! Surely I'm not scared of them. A bear is nothing compared to an abyssal salamander, or a dithyok with blades for arms. Gutspiercer will enjoy sinking its tooth into some.

Yet I worry about the tenth degrees. A bear could take one of them. Their armor isn't good enough to resist crushing jaws, and they're not skilled enough fighters yet to keep calm when faced with a foe far bigger and stronger than themselves.

“Stay only an arm's-length from each other at all times,” I remind them. “If you spot anything, shout out. And if you're attacked stay calm. Ward whatever it is off with your weapon.”

They nod, then bow their heads back down in the wind.

“Keep your heads up!” I order. “Or how else are you going to see your foes coming?”

Reluctantly they raise their heads.

“Better,” I say. “Don't worry. I'm here. And Gutspiercer is eager to taste blood.”

I don't know if these are particularly encouraging words, but they're the best I have.

The march continues over the hours. As Xomhyrk promised, there's no hills to wind around or climb up. Our path is straight. I try to stare through the blur of snow. My visor gives me some clarity, opening up a kind of tunnel where I can see the snowflakes as individual specks and not an indistinct fog, yet there's nothing at the end of it but more white. We aren't yet in seeing-range of the mountain.

We're getting closer though. My armor is pulling me forward. My boots slide easily across the ground.

I've made a couple alterations to their structure. Instead of having a switch inside that I need to click on and off, instead I've made it so that the runes are always exerting their full power. Friction, when I need it, is provided by spiked attachments I've welded to the toes. I use it to pull me forward, then I slide until my momentum runs out, then I dig in and push with the spikes on the other foot. This way, I glide across the ground.

It's not quite so effortless a process as I first envisioned. My boots may offer no friction, but the ground offers plenty. The snow is not even, and the rocks underneath it less so. Yet it's still less effort than marching, even if it does look a little silly.

Dwarves should march, I can imagine some runeknights saying. But learning from Xomhyrk about all the strange dwarvish cultures existing and thriving across the underworld has opened my mind somewhat. Who cares about what others think is the best way to do things? We should all forge our own way.

The white around us turns to gray, then to black. Xomhyrk keeps the march going. We've just rested plenty. We don't need more. We need to make the most of our energy. I take a sip from my beerskin and gobble down some rations.

“Eat something, all of you,” I order the tenth degrees. “Keep your strength up. We won't be stopping for a while.”

I'm glad to see them obey. They seem to be handling this march better than they did the last—having whole armor probably helps quite a bit. And worrying about bears is probably taking their minds off the much greater worry that lies at the end of our quest.

The black turns to dull orange, then to white again. Daytime once more, and still we don't stop. This is monotonous, truly so. I'd be glad of a bear attack.

Yet three more nights pass and three more days, and there's still no sign of any life, nor of any sign that we're getting closer to the mountain. There's nothing but snow, cold, and wind. Sometimes, when the latter dies down, I affix my runic ears and try to listen for animals, or other dwarves, or the dragon, or anything, but only hear the grumbling of others farther down the column.

“...he even know where we're going?”

“No. The mountain isn't even...”

“Maybe the dragon...

“This is hopeless...”

I tense. That last voice was a familiar one—I think it's one of the Association. I take Gutspiercer into my hands. Is one of us about to prove himself a coward? Who? The voice was too faint for me to be sure. Faltast? Surely not. Yet, maybe. Perhaps Jerat's death affected him more than he's letting on. Or perhaps it was Mulkath, who I still don't entirely trust.

I listen closely for the voice again, but don't hear it. Maybe it was my imagination.