“Pull me up!” I croak. My voice is gone. “Someone, pull me up!”
Someone is walking toward me, the tread of his armored boots sending shivers through my hands. I crane my neck to see who it is, and my fear is confirmed. It’s Fjalar.
“Someone else!” I croak. “Nthazes, someone, help!”
Fjalar reaches down at me. Titanium-clad arms wrap around his chest and he’s wrestled back. It’s Nthazes. The two dwarves roll. The lift twists and rocks unsteadily. The coldness is reaching up my ankles now.
“Help!” I croak, choking on the dryness in my throat. “Someone pull me up!”
Hands wrap around my right wrist and I’m yanked up and over onto the platform. Every fiber of my body screams at me to lie there and rest, but I know that would be suicide. I force myself to stand and take stock of the situation.
Most of the others are standing clear of me, Fjalar and Nthazes, and the dwarf who helped me. They sense a fight brewing. I’m certainly ready to fight, though I have no weapon. I raise my fists and Nthazes and Fjalar get to their feet. Nthazes comes to stand beside me.
“You damn monster!” he yells at Fjalar. “You tried to kill him!”
“I’m trying to get us away from the darkness! You’ve killed us all!”
“Five seconds would’ve made no difference. It’s faster than the lift anyway. Look below!”
We all look down and see that the darkness is drawing closer. A dwarf at the opposite side to us shouts out in panic:
“My feet!”
The platform is unbalanced, too many dwarves are at one side, and so it is lilting and the darkness is already spilling through the mesh at the edge. The one who just yelled falls to his knees. The rest crowd toward the center, and the platform sways the other way, sinking at our side.
Feud momentarily ignored, we stumble to the center—stumble is all Nthazes and I can do, for our legs are half-crippled. Fjalar strides with confidence. The dwarf who fell at the other side manages to stand up and join us at the center also, spared for now.
“This has to be over,” someone cries. “How can this not be over?”
It’s nearly over. There’s barely a dozen dwarves here. It won’t take the darkness long to destroy us, if it so chooses.
“It’s not over!” says Nthazes. “We have to accept that, and continue the battle to the end. Ready your maces!”
With grim determination everyone raises their maces—though of course I do not, since mine now lies at the bottom of the Shaft. They turn the weapons so that the bright heads are angled downward like killing spears toward a fallen foe. Yet our foe is anything but fallen; it is coming up strong to destroy us.
Snaking lines of soundlessness spill over the edges of the platform. They come for us, extending and widening like billowing smoke. Nthazes leaps out of our huddle and strikes first, blasting the darkness away and, like the points of a brilliant star, the other dwarves follow his lead and leap out at every angle, striking and beating downward.
This leaves me alone in the center. I turn to examine the central panel, covered in buttons and switches. I can read the runes, yet dare not touch anything. Most of the controls remain dusty and rusted—only those absolutely necessary for operation were restored, and there seems to be nothing functional that could accelerate our ascent.
I look down. Its edges beaten away, the darkness now looks to rise up through the center. It’s already creeping around the soles of my boots. I stumble away toward Nthazes.
“The middle!” I croak. “The middle, Nthazes. Behind you all!”
He turns and without hesitation beats down where the darkness is spilling up and around the control panel. It dies away and sinks down, though this is no retreat. A few seconds later a tall shadow of it reforms on one side of the platform. It hears to me like a hole in the wall, wider at the top, in the shape of a hammer poised to fall.
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The dwarves see it and, instinctively, try to pull away. The platform leans accordingly. Nthazes falls back and begins to slide, I grab his hands and pull him up, the grip of my boots again saving me.
“Attack it!” Fjalar screams. “We can’t run here, don’t you understand? Attack, attack, attack!”
The dwarves charge and I am caught up in the rush despite my lack of weapon. Someone thrusts his mace into my back and shoves me toward the rising blackness—I glance back and it is Fjalar. I duck, try to drop and roll back out of the charge the very moment the darkness rushes down. With terrible strength Fjalar kicks me and I stumble toward it, then his bright mace is coming toward my head.
I guard with my arms and the force of the blow is like that of a dithyok’s blade-arms. I’m thrown to the mesh. Blackness and soundlessness subsumes us all; I blink open my eyes to see if the glow of Fjalar’s mace is coming at me again, and it is.
He’s trying to kill me in the chaos. I won’t let him. He may be healed in body where I am beyond fatigued, and he may have a weapon where I have none, but the only dwarves he’s killed are those he ambushed. They did not have a chance to defend themselves, yet I have won duels against fierce opponents and fought in great battles.
I twist my body sideways out of the strike and at the same moment violently sweep his ankle. He falls to the floor as I force myself to my feet. The darkness is chilling me, and with no weapon I have no way to ward it off. Fjalar pauses his swing as the coldness intensifies, letting the darkness do his work for him, but the mace of another dwarf disintegrates the column of void draining me.
Fjalar raises his mace again. I stumble back, putting some distance between us. The darkness is thrashing and coming apart under the blows of so many maces, and especially at the strikes of Nthazes. He’s leading the attack, fighting with strength I did not know he had—perhaps he never knew he had it either.
It’s not beaten away yet though, and Fjalar is not going to let this chance go to waste. He leaps and brings his mace down in a murderous vertical strike. I step in and block with my forearms, but my fatigue makes my movement too slow and I don’t step in far enough. The bar impacts my helmet hard.
Like a bell my runic ears ring. The noise is cacophonic, annihilating my hearing sense of everything around me so that I have to open my eyes. This doesn’t help much—the brightness of Fjalar’s mace is obliterating most of my field of view.
I roll back, hit against the platform’s low guardrails. I stagger up as Fjalar swings down again, barely dodge his blow. It smashes against the top rail, bending it. He sweeps around and catches me in the midriff. The flange is sharp enough to dent the plate where it covers my left floating rib. I feel bone snap and gasp in pain.
“Nthazes!” I shout. “Nthazes, help me!”
The other dwarves are just a blur of shadows and flashing brightness. The darkness is relentless, giving no one time to consider anything but their own survival. It senses me and Fjalar also; a tendril of its void rushes at us.
I leap at Fjalar—it’s my only chance at survival. He swings to smash the darkness around us, then releases his right hand from gripping his mace, jabs at me with his palm. Light glints off something needle-thin at his wrist.
I lean my body back, avoiding death by an inch. I retreat toward the knot of dwarves battling the main force of the darkness, and trip over one of the fallen.
“Nthazes!” I shout again. “He’s going for me! He’s got the weapon! Help me!”
He can’t hear me. My hand comes against the haft of a fallen mace and I swing wildly at Fjalar, who’s striking down with his own mace again. The two heads of brilliant metal collide in a shower of white sparks. I crawl back to my feet, jab at his face and succeed in bashing one of his runic ears askew. He swears and strikes.
I duck—again I’m not fast enough. My helmet rings like a bell. He’s lunging with his right hand once more—I grab his wrist with my own right hand and drive my mace down into his foot with all the strength I can muster. He shouts and tries to do the same to me, but I manage to pull my foot out the way, then I knee him in the groin.
He tries to retreat, but I’m still gripping his wrist. I daren’t let it go and give him free use of his needle. It’s clear to see in the supernatural brightness, a white line burning itself into my eyes with each flash.
“Nthazes!” I scream. “All of you! Look! Look!”
No one is looking. I sense a coldness above my head. I thrust up with the mace and Fjalar does the same; on the down-blow he strikes for the top of my head once more. This shows his inexperience: he's relying on the same attack over and over. I predict it and shift out the way, and bring my own mace heavy onto his right shoulder.
He yells in shock as his pauldron caves. I shorten my grip and strike his elbow, bending the titanium. He yells in pain and kicks my ankle. It’s not such a strong blow but, with my legs on the verge of collapse already, my stance buckles and I fall.
He doesn’t take advantage of my own weight though, and instead of ending the fight by throwing himself onto me point-first, retreats and readies another blow from his mace.
Then at that moment the coldness around us vanishes. Like water drained from a tub, the darkness whirlpools down the Shaft, leaving us be. Blinding light, with nothing to balance it, illuminates all.