Below, the black dragon is asleep once more. Yet it's plain to see that this is not a particularly deep sleep. There can be no more question of sneaking up on it, decides Runethane Broderick. He must put into action a new plan. A more complex one.

The original one.

He sits back against the black wall and scowls. His torn golden chainmail digs into his flesh. If only those damn fools had listened to him. They were old runethanes, very strong, and very experienced, they reminded him many times over, in the ways of underground combat. A dragon, to their minds, was just like any other kind of foe. It would break on the spear-walls. It might destroy many first, but each time it did, it would grow a little more tired, and eventually it would break upon one like a hurled egg.

They were to be the focal point of this plan—and Runethane Broderick too, of course, so he could be placated with a little bit of the glory. They were to goud it on, enrage it, send it crashing against the surrounding forces, while steel rained from above to further weaken it.

Well, Runethane Broderick won't have to deal with them and their fool ideas anymore. They lie dead underneath the dragon's absurdly large left hand. White is glowing through the scales there as it drinks in power from their runes. Scattered around is more than half the rest of the force—five thousand corpses. Less than that, since many can hardly be called corpses. They're just ash and re-solidified puddles of steel glowing dimly red.

It took all of five minutes for the black dragon to tear apart the other two runethanes. It took less than two minutes to send the rest of the force fleeing back into the tunnels. The dragon's fire melted through shields and made spears wilt. Its claws had sharpness beyond metal. The simple force of its wings and tail were enough to splatter weaker runeknights against the walls.

Runethane Broderick winces as he adjusts his posture. He gave the dragon his best, slashed it down the face with his axes. They carved deep—deep enough to mortally wound an ordinary dragon, which he has done before—but the black dragon is simply too vast in scale.

Trickery. That's what you have to use to defeat a truly great dragon. That's what Thanerzak did. As much as Broderick loathed that dwarf, he did know how to use his head.

When he faced the emperor of the cavern, he first lured it into the chasm by throwing its riches down into the water. Desperate to save its hoard, the dragon dived down, and Thanerzak leapt after it, sliced its wing-joints with mighty strokes of his axe, and let the water do most of the rest.

And then he didn't kill it! That was his foolishness. You cannot turn a dragon's power to your own ends—Broderick realizes this now, realized it fifteen years ago. He has no plans to set dragon-forges into his current forging hall.

“Father,” someone is saying. “Father!”

He looks left. “What is it, Braedle?”

“I've done what you asked.”

“What I asked?” He blinks a few times as his thoughts re-order themselves.

“Accounting the rest of the forces.”

“How many do we have, then?”

“Less than four thousand.”

He frowns. “You told me we had at least five.”

“I said I estimated at least five thousand. But it seems many more perished in the tunnels. Many are melted and inaccessible. And it's possible that more have fled downward. So all we have now is three thousand and eight hundred.”

Broderick scratches his head. “I see.”

“We should retreat.”

“I thought you would say that.”

“Father, it is suicide to stay here.”

Broderick sighs. “That may be so. But this is revenge for our people. If we come back to them without the dragon's head, many will say it would've been better for us not to come back at all.”

“Even so—”

“There's no 'even so' about it. Either we come back with the dragon's head, or maybe a good hundred yards of black skin, or we don't come back at all.”

“I don't see how we can defeat it with less than four thousand.”

“Numbers aren't the problem here. The problem is strategy.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“We made an examination of the roof before. Your idea won't work.”

“Before. Before all that thrashing and roaring.” He looks up. “The ceiling is weakened further now.”

“The troops won't agree to mining. They won't want their final hours to be spent banging on rocks. Besides, we haven't got the equipment.”

“There are abandoned forges above here they can use to make picks. Metal can be re-purposed from their dead comrades.”

“There will be rebellion.”

“Then I will kill the rebels. We are going through with this plan, Braedle. I know you hate to be the bearer of bad news, but please relay my orders to the troops. Once you sort out the details, of course.”

“Of course, I will be the one sorting out the details. As always. While you do what, exactly?”

“While I think about where best to mine." He stands up, groaning at the pain from his scarred back. "Time to head up, I think.”

He makes to head back into the tunnel. Braedle blocks his path.

“There's another problem you need to deal with. The one you keep avoiding.”

“What problem?”

“Don't play dumb! The one you've been ignoring for the past fifteen years! Since before then!”

“Hardrick?”

“Yes.”

“He's always been a little crazy. I'm not sure why you're so much more worried about him now.”

“He's gotten worse.”

“How?”

“Keeps muttering to himself.”

“He's always done that.”

“Yes, but now he doesn't seem to care when people are listening. And it's what he's muttering about that I'm most concerned about.”

“What, then?”

“That there's someone here he needs to kill.”

“Oh?” Broderick cocks his head. “Who?”

“I don't know. He doesn't say any names. But I can only imagine that it's you.”

“Me? Why in hell would he do that? I've given him everything and he knows it. He admires me. Even made his teeth gold to look more like me.”

“That's just flattery. Everyone but you can see that. Stop being so blind, father. He's a threat. He needs to be eliminated.”

“I'm not having one of my best warriors eliminated before the final battle.”

“I think you should. He means to depose you.”

“Rubbish.”

“He does! That's why he's been creeping his way to the top—"

“He's been making his way to the top because that's a dwarf's natural desire. Your mother never could understand that—"

“My human blood has nothing to do with this. If you don't do something about him you're going to rue it.”

“Oh, I don't have time for this. Tell you what, once we kill the dragon, I'll have a proper talk with him, and see what his problem is. Get to the bottom of this once and for all.”

“You are not taking this seriously.”

“I have a dragon on my mind at the moment. I don't have time for other concerns. If you're so worried about him, then just make sure he's on the other side of the battle from me, all right?”

“I will do that.”

“And don't try to kill him either.”

“I won't.”

“Swear to me! However you feel about him, he is one of my greatest warriors. He is not called a legend for nothing.”

“I swear.”

“Swear on what?”

Braedle scowls. “On my mother's grave. Happy?”

“Yes. Now let's get going.”

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

The elemental's massive feet plunge down. Xomhyrk makes no effort to roll away. He lets his armor take the blow. The thud shakes the earth so much that even fifty yards distant I stumble. Xomhyrk grunts, but his armor resists the blow fully. The elemental raises one foot again, this time above Xomhyrk's head. Again he doesn't roll, but this time neither does he take the blow—he stabs up with Icemite.

It pierces deep into the monster's sole. It trumpets. He's hurt it. It rears up to try and get the weapon out, and Xomhyrk lets it do so. Glittering red crystals fall like snow as Icemite's point rips out its flesh.

So there is a mortal component to this thing after all. Maybe my earlier guess was mistaken.

“What are you all doing?” roars one of the Dragonslayers at the other side. Maybe Gollor. “Everyone! Charge!”

I leap forward without hesitation, sure that just so long as I get the angle right, Gutspiercer can pierce right into the monster's flesh. Alongside me is Braztak, holding his axe high and to the left to chop. The monster turns to face us and sweeps with its tusks. I slide and duck. Braztak lets it hit him, rolls with the blow so it doesn't knock him off his feet. His armor brightens—it seems to glow with captured moonlight for a second. He swings into the creature's leg and red crystals spray out. He swings back then makes an identical cut on the other side.

I drive Gutspiercer into one of the open wounds. It digs deep and shivers. The beast kicks me but icy foot slides on icy titanium and I'm barely knocked back.

More dwarves are around us now, hacking and slashing and stabbing at its legs. Most blows don't get through the icy white fur, but a few manage, and those wounds are opened further. The beast sweeps back and forth with its tusks. Dwarves are knocked down. It rears up and crushes someone. Its trunk wraps around another and it tosses them high into the air.

“Strike harder!” Braztak yells.

He throws himself in the way of a kick. The force dents his armor, and it flashes bright again. His next axe-blow cleaves through the monster's knee. I follow up, sink Gutspiercer into it. The beast falls forward. A tusk hits me and throws me onto my back.

“Go for the head!” yells Xomhyrk.

The army rushes to obey, shoving at each other in a fury to destroy. I struggle to my feet then slide and elbow my way through the screaming mass of armor and brandished weapons to the front of the crowd. The monster's trunk whips out at me. I see it coming, duck under it, then bury Gutspiercer into the monster's mouth. A spear follows my strike, then axe-blows rain onto the monster's skull. There is cracking like that of a sheet of ice shaking apart. Its skull is broken. Xomhyrk delivers the final blow, plunging Icemite deep into its cranium.

The beast—elemental or mammoth, I'm not sure anymore—shudders then is still. Dwarves continue to hack away at it in their bloodlust, me included, scraping white-furred skin away from red frozen flesh.

“Halt!” orders Xomhyrk. “Halt and see to the wounded!”

I strike into the beast with Gutspiercer a few more times, and then my weapon stops shivering. I pull it out, confused, trying to remember what Xomhyrk just said.

“The wounded, Zathar!” shouts Braztak.

Wounded dwarves. Shit, my tenth degrees! I remember them now, remember that I pledged to protect them, and instead ran out and abandoned them.

My bloodlust fades. Fear and heavy disappointment replace it.

I lost control again, didn't I?