We take another short rest. I lie down but find that I cannot sleep. My ruby is burning hot, and my right hand, clasped around Gutspiercer, is shaking. I can't stay still. My armor keeps trying to pull my legs in and make me stand up.

I decide that if I'm going to be awake, I ought to do something useful with my time. I've been neglecting the tenth degrees for too long. I walk down the line to see if any are awake.

To my surprise, Pellas is. I kneel down beside her.

“Evening, instructor,” she says in a pained voice.

“How are your ribs?”

“They hurt. Everything hurts.”

“Are the chains on correctly?”

“Yes. But they hurt. They're cold.”

“Healing chains always feel that way.”

“Instructor, we are going to die.”

“If we die, we die doing what we vowed to do.”

“That's no comfort.”

“Why not? We are runeknights. It is our job to face danger. Did you not know that, when you chose to follow your father?”

“I did.”

“Then you should have no problem with dying.”

She flinches, tries to press herself back into the stone. She wants to get away from me.

“You've changed,” she says quietly. “You never talked about death before.”

“I talked about it many times.”

“Not about your own.”

“I'm sure I did.”

“Instructor, your armor has done something to you.”

I laugh. “Because my helm appears like a skull, you think it's leading me to my death? Runes don't work like that.”

“Don't they? Everyone says you change the longer you spend at the forge. Do the runes have nothing to do with that?”

“You don't know what you're talking about.” I scowl. “What does a tenth degree know of runes? Get some rest, Pellas. Sleep. You will be in combat soon.”

“In this wreck of a suit?” She sounds terrified. “I will go into battle in this?”

“What else?”

“The injured are to fight as well?”

“Obviously. Otherwise why would you be here?”

I stand and walk off, shaking my head. We will all do battle. There is nothing wrong with her sword, at least. It should sting the dragon at least a little.

I go to the other tenth degrees, but they're all asleep. I go back to my place in line and lie down again.

Was I too harsh with her? My skull-helm must have been a terrible sight, looming over her, cold pouring from it. I must have looked like a specter of death. I sigh. I was too harsh with her. I should have been a little more careful with my words, shouldn't have lost my temper. Her words about my runes hit a little too close to the truth.

But what does it matter? As long as she survives long enough to get to the dragon, who cares how she feels?

Xomhyrk orders us to get up. We spend another hour or so walking through the pillared hall, then I can hear its end. There is another great doorway in the wall. Through it, it sounds to my runic ears, there is a great space. My heart starts to beat faster. Could we finally be here, at the dragon's lair?

Unfortunately not. It's just another cavern, though a very oddly shaped one. Its roof is very high, and natural, not held up by pillars. Its floor is formed like a series of terraces. Each terrace is covered with rubble, the upper ones more than the lower ones.

“We are now below the center of the mountain,” Xomhyrk announces. “This is Stepping Cave, where many of the richest dwarves lived. The lower terraces were for their servants. Once we pass the upper terraces, there should be stairways leading to halls which the dragon has no doubt melted out to make its lair.”

He leads us across to the lowest terrace. The stone wall is smeared black. We turn left. I imagine there's some kind of ramp leading up this direction, and I hope we find it quickly, because this cavern is the hardest yet on our lungs. The soot is thick and choking, and it gets worse as we march and kick up more and more. It hangs in the air. Whatever ventilation this place had must be almost totally melted shut.

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Finally we reach the turn. We walk up a steep slope. At the top of it Xomhyrk turns right—and suddenly stumbles. It looks like he's tripped on something.

“Halt!” he shouts, and we obey.

He kneels down and brushes soot from his find. His lantern's light reflects off steel. It's another body. He pulls up the visor, and this time there's a face to see. Its features are twisted in agony, and there's deep red vertical lines on it, from where flame has gone through the visor.

“This dwarf was a part of Runeking Uthrarzak's forces,” he announces. “I recognize the standardized armor. Be on the lookout for more, and remember—you will not attack unless they attack us first.”

It's not long before we do come across more. I am shocked: each dwarf wears nearly identical armor. In fact, in shape each suit is exactly the same. Only the poems differ, and even then they are they are in the same scripts and deal with the same theme, of strength and courage in numbers.

I'd heard that Runeking Uthrarzak controlled how his runeknights were allowed to craft, but I never imagined his control went this far.

Onward and upward we wind along the terraces. Once we're at the middle layers, the soot is thinner, yet the rubble has started to slow us down a great deal. Xomhyrk orders us to loosen our formation so we can more easily clamber over the smashed walls and crunch through the remains of tiled roofs. For me, with only one hand free, and boots not designed for such uneven terrain, the journey is especially hard, and I start to drift toward the back of the army.

There's sudden movement to my left. I spin and leap at it. Someone rushes out at me, yelling. I raise Gutspiercer to strike—one of the Dragonslayers leaps at me from the side, shoves me and I sprawl. The dwarf crashes into him. The Dragonslayer wrestles him to the ground. Two more runeknights jump in to help hold our surprise attacker down.

Except I don't think he's an attacker:

“Water!” he rasps. His face and beard are black with soot. “Beer! Wine!”

“Who are you!” shouts the Dragonslayer.

“Drink!” he repeats, as if he didn't hear the question. “Drink! For the love of the Runeking, give me something to drink!”

I pull my beerskin from my pack—I feel the need to make up for nearly killing him; I do not want to anger Xomhyrk.

“Oh, thank you!” he cries as I place it in his blackened hands. His accent is strange, the vowels lengthened and almost musical. “Thank you, comrade!” He gulps it down, splutters and coughs a fair bit up, then takes another gulp. “Ah!” he says. “And chilled too. Thank you, my comrade, thank you! May the Runeking favor you!”

“You're welcome,” I say, as he hands me back my beerskin.

More of our army gathers around. The dwarf looks up and around at them. A confused look comes over his face.

“You aren't legionaries,” he says. “Are you from below? Come for revenge on your attacker?”

“We are not of Runeking Halajatbast, no,” says the Dragonslayer.

“Then from where?”

“We are warriors of Runeking Ulrike!” one runeknight shouts, stepping forward from the gathered crowd.

He draws his blade and holds it high. Its yellow runes glow fiercely. It's Warak, the guildmaster who was so vehemently against allying with Uthrarzak's dwarves.

A look of pure terror comes across the dwarf's face.

“Stop!” Gollor yells, hurrying in from ahead. “Put that away, Warak!”

He keeps the blade raised. “No. I will not kill him, but neither will I sheath my blade in his presence.”

“Fine.”

Gollor kneels down in front of our terrified captive. “We are not here to harm you,” he says.

“Why, then?” the dwarf asks.

“The same reason you are here. To slay the dragon. And we do not act on the orders of Runeking Ulrike. We are an independent force.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You will not come to harm while you are among us.”

He glances up at Warak's blade. “Really?”

“Yes. In fact, we could do with your help.”

“Help? With what?”

“Getting to the dragon.”

The strange dwarf's eyes widen. “To the dragon?” he says. “Toward it?”

“Of course. We are dragonslayers.”

“It killed ten thousand of us!”

“Is that how many of you there were?”

The dwarf shuts his mouth tight.

“Well?”

“You know I cannot give information to the enemy.”

“We are not your enemy.”

“You are from Allabrast. You are of Ulrike.”

“Not all of us.”

It's not Gollor who speaks this time, but Xomhyrk. Icemite glows bright with the light of his lantern. Our captive looks up at him in awe.

“My name is Xomhyrk Dragonslayer. I am not from Allabrast, but further south and further deep, from the realm of Runethane Ikthoryst sworn to Runeking Kylst.”

“I see.”

“We need a guide upward.”

The dwarf shakes his head. “I cannot.”

“What's your name, legionary?”

“Davath of the seventh degree.”

“And your rank and legion?”

“Third ranker in the fifth legion of Runethane Athrar—though he is dead now.”

“Killed by the black dragon?”

“Yes.”

“And is it not your duty to seek revenge?”

Davath's shoulders sag. “You know our ways well. Yes, my duty is to seek revenge on my commander's killer. But it is impossible. The dragon is too strong. You should turn back.”

“We will not.”

I feel my right hand come close to Gutspiercer's shaft. This dwarf is a deserter just like Faltast.

“Then go,” Davath says. “But leave me in peace to find my own way out of here.”

“With no water? No food? We cannot spare any to someone who refuses to help us.”

Davath shrugs. “Either way is death.”

“Death in ignominy,” I say. “Or death with glory.”

Xomhyrk gives me a cold look. “If you are to die, that is. But it is not us who will die, but the dragon.”

“Ten thousand of us perished and the dragon is barely scratched. You are strong, Xomhyrk, maybe even as strong as my commander was, but there were two more as great as he who faced the dragon. Now all are dead.”

“They were not as experienced with dragons as I am. And were their weapons crafted for the task?”

“Runethane Broderick was an acclaimed dragonslayer.”

My eyes widen. Runethane Broderick is dead?

“Not as acclaimed as me,” says Xomhyrk.

“I will not go up. I refuse.”

Warak aims his sword at Davath's neck. “You will do as Xomhyrk says or I will take your head.”

“Back!” Xomhyrk snaps, and Warak flinches away.

“We will not kill you for refusing to join us. But neither will we give you any supplies. So, how about this deal? If you lead us to the dragon, I will give you enough supplies that you might, with luck, be able to make it out of the mountain alive.”

Davath looks deep into Xomhyrk's eyes, as if trying to work out if he's lying or not. He glances again at Warak's yellow-runed blade.

“And no one will slay me on the way?” he asks.

“If they do, I will slay them in turn.”

Davath stares at Xomhyrk a little while longer, then he nods.

“Very well. I'll lead you up the way I took.”