Follow the Runethane, or retreat? Each dwarf has only seconds to make his decision. To be left alone in the middle between the two options will mean certain death. Nthazes steps down toward the Runethane, then hesitates. I clamber up one step back, then lean down to reach forward and grab him by the shoulder.

“We should retreat!” I plead. “Come on!”

“But he’s our Runethane!”

“He’s a fool! We can’t win—not now that our force is split. And maybe not even if we’re united.”

“Victory could be within reach!”

“You can’t believe that! Please, Nthazes, he’s a fool, we both know it. You agree that the killer isn’t the darkness. This whole expedition is a mistake. It’s suicide! Now come on!”

“We have a duty, Zathar! I have a duty!”

“He had a duty too, to protect us, and now he’s throwing it away! Look down there. Do you honestly think we can win this?”

A tide of nothingness is enveloping the Runethane, the commanders, the chamberlain, and those other elites with them. They battle violently, their mace-swings making bright flashes that scatter the darkness with each blow, yet each shadow that gets obliterated reforms colder and denser than before. The Runethane’s charge begins to slow, as if he’s trying to run against a river raging blackly up the steps.

“If we all band together—” Nthazes says desperately.

“But we won’t, we’re split already!”

Most of the dwarves have made up their mind, and they’re going with Belthur. They clamber up the stairs using both hands and feet. Some discard their packs for a faster escape.

A cloud of emptiness bypasses the Runethane and flows up toward us.

“We’re not going to win,” I plead. “We have to run, now. You’ve never been happy with him either, have you?”

He looks down at the Runethane, whose mace is like the last lamp amid thickening fog. My eyes are open and it’s not blinding me.

“He’s losing,” I say. “Come on!”

Reluctantly, Nthazes nods. “You’re right. Let’s flee.”

We turn and hurry to climb up the stairs. Each step is an effort, slowed by the weight of my pack dragging me backwards. It’s tempting to pull it off and throw it to the darkness, but who knows how long it’ll take us to exit the labyrinth?

The darkness is cold on our heels. The Runethane is already obscured.

“Charge!” comes a whisper. “Attack, you cowards! Attack!”

The word stings. Are we cowards? Am I? No.

A coward would have fled the fort the moment the first killings began. If I was a coward, I wouldn't have even put myself at risk on a single hunt. I'd have petitioned Cathez to allow me to leave with the next supply caravan after my injuries healed. No, I'm not a coward. Were I a coward, right now I would not be seeking to atone for my past crimes by catching the killer—I would be hiding in a cave somewhere, hoping beyond hope that no other dwarf would ever find me to bring me to justice.

The tide of darkness billows and expands. It’s nearly at us.

“Halt!” Nthazes shouts suddenly, and he stops to face it.

“What are you doing!”

“Fight it off!” he commands. “Form a line. Hamper it, at least!”

In horror I rush to grab him and drag him away, convinced he’s about to commit lone suicide, but several other runeknights join him to form a line. I can’t abandon my friend, so I join too. Maybe we can beat this part back if the rest is still concentrated on the Runethane, and secure our escape.

Galar and Fjalar are in the line too.

The roiling soundlessness rushes up to meet us and we swing at it. I sense the void draw back, then it draws forward once more, attempts to snake between the gaps in our line. I time my swings this time, only attacking when I guess the light is at its zenith, and this seems to be working—at least, I am not yet dead.

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“Come to me!” Belthur yells down at us. “Hurry!”

About half the line turns around and makes to rush back up. The darkness senses our weakness and redoubles its attack. Chill silence subsumes me; with a mighty blow I drive it away. Heat washes over me; Galar must be unleashing the power of his trident again. The darkness recoils and I’m able to retreat along with Nthazes. We reach the point where the steps become less steep, and sprint up them as quickly as we can.

“Out! Out! Out!” yells Belthur. “This way!”

We exit the chamber of darkness. It looks like all the surviving dwarves are out now, and there must be less than fifty of us. Belthur is frantically beckoning us to follow him right along the corridor.

“Wasn’t it left?” someone shouts in panic.

“No! Come on!”

We hurry after him, sprinting with all our might. My legs feel half-dead from running up the massive steps, and the cold is painful in my throat as I gulp down air through the grille of my helmet. The weight of my mace is deadening my arm—I’m not sure how many strikes I have left in me.

“Which path do we go down?” someone yells—it’s Fjalar, sprinting along just ahead of me, his mace a dull light through my shut eyelids.

“Just follow!” Belthur shouts back at him.

“But I think we came in through the one we just passed!”

Unnoticed to me before, there’s not just one exit to this place. There are a few, spread sparsely, and of course there’s no way for us to tell which was the one we left through. And if we go down the wrong one, who’s to say it won’t be a dead end, in the most literal sense?

“We should stop!” Fjalar shouts in panic. “We need to stop and go back!”

Belthur slows, then turns in fury. “Obey me!” he yells. “I’ve just saved your lives, do you think I’m going to let you die in the darkness now? I know which way we left!”

“I remember the shape of the etchings, we just missed the right way!” He looks at his brother, then looks across everyone else. “We need to go back if we’re not going to die! Look, the darkness is nearly there!”

A cloud of soundlessness is eating away at the corridor, extinguishing it steadily. It’s slowed down, so maybe the foe is still distracted by the Runethane—but it’ll still be at the exit Fjalar claims is the right one in less than a minute.

“Come on!” Fjalar shouts again. “Brother, are you coming, or do you want to die as well?”

Galar makes his decision; he follows his brother.

“Fools!” Belthur yells.

Nthazes glances at me. Which way to go? This time the choice is not so easy: if Fjalar and Galar are the killers, being alone with them would be suicide. If they’re working with the darkness somehow, then maybe they want to lead us to be devoured.

Yet both have been targeted by it just as we have. I make the split-second judgment that they are not working with the darkness and Fjalar genuinely thinks running back is our best chance for survival.

So is he right or wrong about the exit? Both twins have an excellent eye for detail, and are clever, cleverer than Belthur, whose superb equipment is nonetheless mundane. There’s also the chance that both are correct. Belthur might not have followed our route exactly, but taken different turns to arrive at the same destination.

The overriding fact though is this: I still suspect Fjalar or Galar, or both, to be behind the killings. An idea for the method is coming together in my mind. If the weapon is a certain shape, then Fjalar could have hidden it from us even after we stripped him to administer bandages.

Yet, could Belthur be the killer? What I considered a wild theory now seems more likely after this overt betrayal. Could all this have been a plot to destabilize the Runethane?

Several more dwarves split to follow Galar, who lets out another blast from his trident to slow the darkness’s advance. At that display, a dozen more join, giving apologetic glances to Belthur.

“We’ll go with the twins,” I say to Nthazes.

“Are you sure?”

“No. But we have to decide now.”

“I’m not sure about this.”

Galar ups the power on his trident another click, and the darkness recoils further. More dwarves split off from Belthur to walk past us.

“Fools!” Belthur fumes. “You’re walking to your deaths!”

“I think they might be right,” Lothan, standing beside him, says quietly.

“They are wrong. Come on!” He looks at me and Nthazes. “Are you two coming? If you suspect them, then—”

“I still suspect them,” I tell him. “So I’m sorry, Belthur, but we’re going after them.”

“Sky-addled fool! Nthazes?”

Nthazes looks toward the gradually approaching darkness, then back to Belthur. He shakes his head in apology.

“I trust Zathar. If he suspects the twins, I do as well. And that means we have to protect the others from them. Goodbye, Belthur. I hope you make it out.”

Belthur shakes his head in disbelief. “You too? Fine. Goodbye.”

He sprints off alongside Lothan and about a dozen others. All the rest of the survivors are hurrying after the twins. Nthazes and I rush to follow. They’ve nearly reached the exit out and once Galar passes through, the darkness will surely accelerate.

“I didn't get a chance to say,” I pant as we run, “that Jaemes wrote a reply to the letter. He has a theory about the twins.”

“Tell me.”

“They want revenge for being split. Their weapon connects to some storage in the fort.”

“Why go for ordinary dwarves then? And why kill like that at all?”

“Weapons forged of blood are deadly. Jaemes said this fact is hidden from most dwarves. They want to create something to make themselves powerful enough to slay the commanders.”

“...I’m not sure. Something doesn’t add up still. And how could they get the blood to some storage? And where could they hide so much?”

“I don’t know. Once we strike, we’ll interrogate them to find out.”

“So we’re going to strike then? We’re going to risk it?”

“Once we’re out, yes.”