“Guildmaster!” someone shouts. “Guildmaster!”

Wharoth turns. A sixth degree is running through the formation toward him, waving his hands in a panic.

“What is it?”

The sixth degree slows down and stumbles along behind Wharoth, panting.

“I saw something in the distance.”

“Saw what?”

“A dwarf. Something glinted—far off. I'm sure it was a dwarf though.”

“How far off?”

“Nearly a mile I think.”

“You saw a dwarf a mile off at night?” Voltost says skeptically.

“I have good eyes. Everyone says so.”

“Did you see what the dwarf looked like?”

“No. My eyes aren't quite that good.”

“Well, one dwarf is nothing to worry about. Get back in line. Thank you for the message.”

“The metal looked like tungsten. I could tell that much.

“Tungsten?” Wharoth frowns. “I see. But anyway, get back in line. Probably another crazed dwarf hunting the dragon—except alone. Nothing to worry about.”

“Very well.”

“Tungsten...” Wharoth whispers once the sixth degree has left.

“You don't think...?” says Voltost.

“No, no. How could he be here? How could he know where to come? No, that's impossible.”

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

“No Zathar?” says Vanerak.

“He probably just had his visor down.”

“Yes. That is most likely. Though it does make our job a little more difficult.” He raises his hand to call a halt; his dwarves obey.

“Face me,” he says.

They do so. He looks across at them, and at their boots as well. They're starting to deteriorate quite badly, with jagged parts where metal has broken off, and many of the runes have begun to warp. Still, they'll hold up for a while longer yet. Not in the fight though. Vanerak respects Wharoth's combat ability enough that he'll have his dwarves wear proper boots to meet him.

“Now, we need a plan,” he says. “Our objective is to take Zathar alive.”

His runeknights wait for his orders.

“I have a plan in mind. But as our realm grows in size and strength, I will need commanders who are capable of thinking for themselves. I wish to hear what you have to say.”

His runeknights look at each other nervously.

“A willingness to step forward first is also a desirable trait for a commander.”

“Then I will step forward!” says Nazak, stepping forward. He pushes up his mirrored visor to reveal bright eyes and a curly beard. “I believe our strategy should be a simple one.”

“Elaborate.”

“We take them with surprise from behind. Pierce through and in the chaos eliminate Wharoth. His guild will scatter, then we can chase them down one by one. We are faster than they are.”

Vanerak waits a minute or so before he replies, to see if Nazak will waver, or go back on what he just said. The dwarf begins to go pale, but doesn't speak.

“Careful consideration is also a desirable trait for a commander,” Vanerak finally says.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“You believe there to be an issue with my plan?” Nazak's voice is wavering slightly.

“You fail to look past our immediate objective. Do you remember what I want with Zathar?”

“Of course. His runes.”

“He must work for us. Even if he is to be our slave, we still need his cooperation—he is the key to everything. Killing his entire guild in front of him would not be conducive to our ultimate goal.”

“I see. Well, we do not need to kill everyone. Just Wharoth.”

“Again, you rely too much on brute force.”

“We need to reason with him,” says Halax, stepping forward. “Persuade him—threaten him, I suppose.”

Nazak scowls. “I hadn't finished.”

“Silence,” says Vanerak. “I will hear Halax's suggestion.”

“I apologize.”

Vanerak ignores the apology. “How do you propose we go about threatening him?” he asks Halax.

“First we circle around to await their arrival from the front. When we meet, we order Wharoth to hand Zathar over. When he refuses, we subdue him and his senior dwarves without killing them. Zathar sees that if he does not obey, they will die. He doesn't want Wharoth to die, so he obeys. We walk away with him.”

“Good. I approve.”

“Thank you.”

“But even you fail to see far ahead enough. Wharoth will eventually seek to take Zathar back.”

“I see!” says Nazak. “Then, some of us must return in secret to eliminate the guild.”

“Yes.”

“I get there in the end, my Runethane!”

“Indeed.”

“So, is our plan decided then?” asks one of the other runeknights. Her voice is raspy—inhalation of smoke from dragon's flames. She is one of those who hates Zathar the most.

“It is,” says Vanerak.

"What will we do on the off chance Zathar is not with them?" Halax asks. "Will we take some as hostages?"

Vanerak considers for a few seconds. "No," he says. "We won't be able to carry them quickly enough. If Zathar is not with them, we will just kill them all."

"Very good," says the dwarfess with the raspy voice. "They deserve it."

“It is more likely that he is with them, however,” Vanerak says. "Now follow me in single file."

He wheels suddenly and pushes off hard. His boots squeal in protest. They are nearly at breaking point, but he pushes them further. Flecks of snow blur past his mirror-mask.

In his mind mighty visions appear. Castles wrought of gold and platinum twist themselves into shape. Weapons that can sever mountains leap from the forge. Humans, trolls, and even elves bow before dwarfkind—which is led by Vanerak, a figure like one from myth who all follow, and follow eagerly.

He will be a Runegod! A Runegod! And not only a Runegod, but the greatest there has yet been. Within Zathar lies the power to accomplish that, eventually. First he will forge a crown, challenge Runeking Ulrike, take his realm, tear it apart, and rebuild it into something no dwarf has ever dreamed of.

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

They appear suddenly, running in from the left at incredible speed, speeds no dwarf could manage unless he had some very powerful boots on indeed. Their armor is tungsten, turned to dull orange fire in the burgeoning dawn.

“Halt!” Wharoth shouts to his guild. “Halt, all of you!”

The army grinds to a confused, stumbling halt at the same time the ten figures stop and turn.

“Oh, shit!” says Wharoth.

Their leader is faceless—his helmet is a mirror-mask showing white below and pale blue above. Only one dwarf wears a helm like that: Runethane Vanerak.

How is he here? How could he know? But it's only logical, isn't it? Vanerak heard Zathar swear to kill the black dragon just as clearly as every other spectator did. So as soon as he heard the rumor that the black dragon had smashed the Mountain of Halajatbast, he forged some boots of speed and started to run.

“What do we do?” says Voltost. “Do we fight?”

“We may have no choice.”

“Vanerak is a runethane now.”

“I know. But numbers have to count for something, don't they? Maybe we can surround them and pull them down.”

“I don't know about that.”

“Then what do you propose we bloody do?”

“Trick them somehow. Send them the wrong way.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

“Better think quickly! They're changing their boots.”

The ten figures, including Vanerak, are kneeling down and pulling different boots from their supply packs. It almost looks silly, yet makes perfect sense. Boots created in a hurry are unlikely to be good for both fighting and running, and they're likely worn down and in bad need of repairs. Nothing to fight in.

“If we charge now, maybe we can take them!” someone shouts.

“Silence!” snaps Wharoth. “We're too far away.”

Vanerak is already standing back up. He turns and strides along in front of the other nine dwarves until he's at the center of the line. By the time he's in position, the rest have finished re-equipping themselves too.

“Weapons up!” orders Wharoth, though everyone already has theirs drawn.

Vanerak and his dwarves begin to walk forward slowly. They're in absolutely no hurry. Their quarry is within their grasp—so they think.

How will he react when he finds out Zathar isn't here? Somehow Wharoth doesn't think he'll be very pleased.

“What are we going to tell him?” Voltost asks.

“We can't tell him the truth, or he'll just take off north and beat us to him. We need to send him the wrong way somehow.”

“But how?”

“Shit, I don't know. Let me think!”

But no ideas come. All that occupies Wharoth's mind right now is Vanerak. The mirror-mask, that symbol of terror, hiding who-knows-what cruel features, is getting closer. Wharoth can see his guild reflected in it, and between the vast sky above and the white expanse below, their silvery line looks very small.

Vanerak advances closer still. Wharoth can see himself right in the center. His axe gleams. Can it cut through Vanerak's tungsten? And will his shield, crafted to resist fire, offer any protection from Vanerak's triple-weapon, the pollaxe resting upon his right shoulder?

Vanerak stops a few paces in front. Wharoth's fearful face is reflected clearly in the mirror-mask. If he can see the fear, surely Vanerak can too.

Before a fight you must not show weakness. Wharoth grits his teeth, steels himself.

“Hand over Zathar,” says Vanerak.

His voice, as always, is calm and cold.

“He is not here,” Wharoth replies.

“We both know that is a lie.”