“We tell no lie,” says Voltost. “He is not with us.”

“You lie,” repeats Vanerak. “You have ordered him to pull his visor down.”

“We have not,” says Wharoth. “I will prove it: those of you with your visors down, put them up!”

He hears the scraping of metal as his order is obeyed.

“See?”

Vanerak turns his head from left to right. “Call those with black beards forward.”

“Very well. Those with black beards, step forward to the second rank!”

There is shuffling as this order is obeyed too. Vanerak looks from left to right once more.

“It seems that he is indeed not with you.”

“Yes,” says Wharoth. “Now, if you do not mind, we are on our way to the dragon—”

“So where is Zathar?”

“Dead,” says Wharoth without a moment's hesitation. It's the first excuse that comes into his mind.

Vanerak sees through it immediately:

“You lie. There is no bitterness in your tone.”

“Why should there be?” says Voltost. “He betrayed us. It's his fault the black dragon roams free.”

“Wharoth, at least, put a great deal of effort into saving him. He loves him as a son.”

“What would you know of love?” says Wharoth.

“I know what grief sounds like. I will ask again: where is Zathar?”

“He remained in Allabrast. He gave up on his oath.”

“We both know Zathar would never do that.”

“He was injured. He's recovering inside Heldfast Hill.”

“Another lie. He would drag himself to the dragon even if both his legs were severed.”

“He's unconscious there.”

“Lies followed by lies.”

“He is!”

“If you were now telling the truth, your tone of voice would have changed at least a little. This is your last chance, guildmaster. If you do not tell me where he is, I and my runeknights, all of whom, by the way, are at least second degree, will kill your dwarves one by one. Where is Zathar?”

Wharoth flinches. Vanerak has always sounded cold, but this coldness is different. It's the cold of cutting steel. There's anger behind it. His veneer of collectedness has gone. He will stop at nothing to get Zathar—nothing! And he is more than capable of following through his threat. He's telling the truth about his runeknights too—their armors and weapons are masterpieces.

“Do I need to give you a time limit?” says Vanerak. “Tell me now.”

Vanerak needs Zathar alive. That's the only silver lining to this catastrophe. Even if he captures him, maybe one day Wharoth can get him back.

“He's further ahead of us,” Wharoth says. “He joined with an army lead by a first degree called Xomhyrk. I didn't trust Xomhyrk, so I kept the rest of the guild back, but then I changed my mind. Those who went to slay the dragon need our help and protection. So here we are.”

“I see. Thank you. We will catch up to this Xomhyrk shortly.”

“Zathar will not go with you quietly.”

“No. But he will go with me. Now, my Reconquerors, kill them all.”

The nine tungsten-clad runeknights throw themselves at the Association of Steel. They were waiting for this order, coiled like springs. The screech of metal on metal erupts and cries of pain follow almost immediately.

Wharoth has no time to shout a battle-cry—Vanerak is slashing at his face, the axe-side of his weapon a dark silver blur. Wharoth raises his shield and there's a loud crash. He's forced backward a single step. Automatically he swings with his axe for the counter-blow. Vanerak leans back and it only glances, leaving no mark.

There's a lot of screaming now. Wharoth knows his guild is no match for nine first and second degrees. He feels sick, but he can't help them, can't spare even a single glance back.

Vanerak stabs this time. Wharoth turns the blow on his shield, more expertly than Vanerak perhaps anticipated. For a single moment the runethane is off balance, then Wharoth hits him solidly on the side of his chest.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

His axe bounces off with a clink, leaving a single thin scratch, which is only visible because of the angle at which the dawn light is catching it. Vanerak widens his grip on his weapon and shoves Wharoth back using the handle. Wharoth slips on blood and now he's the one off balance. Vanerak smashes at him with the hammer-side of his weapon. It crashes onto Wharoth's shield and throws him down. Another blow comes, another. Each feels like it has the strength of a troll-chieftain behind it. Wharoth's shield rings with each slam. The sound grows more discordant. The metal is being terribly warped and damaged.

This is the power of a Runethane. Wharoth knows he must do something, strike at a joint, a gap. He needs to finish this quickly. His armor and shield are not going to last. He yells and pushes up, and in the same moment swings at Vanerak's knee.

Vanerak sweeps the blow away. The block is not only incredibly fast, but also accurate. His axe-blade collides with Wharoth's and a shiver of force shakes the air. Both blades cut into each other, but Vanerak's cuts deeper.

Wharoth yells again and throws himself forward up off the ground. He puts his shoulder behind his shield and slams into Vanerak, who's shunted back.

This could be another opportunity. He swings down at Vanerak's mirror-mask.

Vanerak blocks with perfect accuracy once more—beyond perfect. He jams the spear-point of his weapon underneath the head of Wharoth's axe where it connects to the haft. The point goes in slightly. The blow's momentum is stopped completely, then Vanerak twists his pollaxe back and left to try and rip Wharoth's weapon from his grasp.

Wharoth feels the attempt—an experienced runeknight feels his opponent's blows rather than sees them—and moves forward while pushing up to try and free his axe. Vanerak knees him in the side of the leg.

The power in the blow is immense, like that of a warhammer. Wharoth is sent stumbling sideways. He falls over. Vanerak bears down on him immediately, aims to stab through his neck. Wharoth gets his shield in the way just in time.

Like the sting of some monstrous insect, the spike pierces right through. It stops at the top of Wharoth's breastplate, scrapes across it in a bright flash of sparks. Wharoth hacks blindly and feels his axe contact metal then bounce off. By the feel of it the blow did not cause much damage.

But that was a strong blow, borne of desperation. Wherever it struck, it should have cut, at least a little, damaged at least a few runes. There is something to Vanerak's armor that Wharoth has never experienced before in combat.

It is forged with metal's true secret, that secret that Wharoth has barely scratched the surface of. He may have the knowledge, yes, but he does not have the vast amounts of money and materials required to take full use of it, whereas Vanerak has gone from strength to strength this past decade and a half. He has channeled his reputation to amass a fortune, and with it, he has become able to take the stride past first degree, and leap the gap in power from runeknight to runethane.

Yet Wharoth must defeat him somehow. He hacks again. This time his axe hits nothing; Vanerak must already be stepping away. He tears the point of his weapon out Wharoth's shield.

Wharoth rolls up. He's now standing side-on from where the front of the line was, and for the first time can see the battlefield.

Many dozens lie dead, their armor rent through cleanly. There is more blood than snow—it forms a shallow lake around the corpses. The morning sun is reflected in it as a bright crimson orb.

Those still alive fight desperately. Eight groups surround eight runeknights—one of Vanerak's has fallen, his helm cloven in two. But the groups trying to down the others are diminishing dwarf by dwarf.

Wharoth spins and raises his shield on instinct. Vanerak's hammer-blow sends him stumbling back. Pain shoots through his arm—the force penetrated right through his armor. Vanerak flips to the axe-side and swings.

He's out of range, but Wharoth recalls how he sent lines of cutting force at the dragon, all that time ago, on the first dragonhunt where they fought side-by-side. He raises his shield to take the blow.

The line of power slices through the battered steel right down the middle. It cuts into his knuckles through his gauntlet also. The two halves of his shield fall to either side. Wharoth bellows in pain. Blood pours from his hand and splashes onto the ground to mingle with that of his guild.

“No!” he yells, in utter despair.

Is this where it ends? Is there where everything ends, his guild, his life's work, and his life also? It's happened too fast. Less than a day ago they were drinking together, happy and filled with new confidence, but now guild and guildmaster both have been utterly overwhelmed. The clashing behind is dying down already. He backs away and risks a glance back at the same time—only one group of his dwarves remains alive, led by Voltost.

The thickly-armored dwarf yells in rage, shoves his opponent away, smashes him with his heavy shield, swings his axe at his head—a sword flashes through his wrist. The wielder, a dwarf in an open-face helm with a red beard, spins the blade around then cuts through Voltost's neck.

Blood spraying from his throat, he falls dead.

“No!” Wharoth yells again.

He turns back to Vanerak in fury.

“Many call Zathar a traitor, but the only traitor here is you! We are both subjects of the same Runeking! And you do this!”

“I am a subject of no one,” Vanerak replies. “Whoever controls Zathar has the power to control every dwarf in the underworld.”

“He's a fourth degree, and barely thirty!”

“He is just a short-beard, are you trying to say? You see the dwarf—you do not see the power.”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I've gone to such lengths to protect him? Protect him from you!”

“You protect him because you are blinded by love. But where has that led you? Your love has seen your guild destroyed. You set out to protect, but instead you have killed them all.”

“No!” Wharoth howls. “No!”

“Yes. See what your love brings? Zathar doesn't need love—he needs control. He needs discipline, not freedom. That his how his powers will be brought forth into the light.”

“You will kill him!”

“No. I will preserve him.”

“I won't let you touch him!”

Wharoth raises his axe and charges headlong. He feints left, strikes right.

Vanerak blocks right. The axe-side of his weapon severs the haft of Wharoth's. The axe-head, runes flashing in the morning light, flies off into the snow. Vanerak slams the hammer-side of his weapon into Wharoth's right ribs.

The armor there crumples. Wharoth falls to his knees then onto his side. He coughs blood. The coughs bring terrible pain—he can feel bone splinters in his lungs.

Vanerak plunges his spear-point into Wharoth's heart. The guildmaster gasps once in shock. An icy feeling spreads through his body. It's the cold of death, of eternal oblivion.

The life in his eyes fades. Vanerak tears out his weapon. Blood drips. He makes a sweeping gesture with his left hand, and says:

“Make sure every last one is dead.”

His runeknights look around, then at each other.

"I think they are," Halax says. "None ran, at least."

Vanerak looks back and forth across the snow. Strangely, Halax seems to be correct. None have run.

"Interesting," he says.

END OF ACT THREE