The darkness, injured yet healing fast, chases us, injured and exhausted, through the streets of dusty stone. The grid of corridors feels endless in its monotony. Each turn is the same, bringing us to the same set of plain buildings adorned with the same strange etchings. I guess that maybe the etchings on each building are different—but we don’t have time to halt and check them. My runic ears are damaged also, making everything appear to twist and turn in time with the sound of our footsteps.

Where is the exit to this awful place? It’ll be at the outer edge, surely, but how far away that is we cannot know, and how far around the edge we’ll have to travel is also unknowable.

“We need rest,” a limping dwarf cries. “My leg is killing me, Fjalar! We need to rest!”

“Rest and we’re dead!”

“We need it! We’re in agony here, aren’t you?”

“I am, but we must bear the pain; we have no choice!”

“We’ll move faster once we’re rested,” Nthazes shouts. “And the darkness has been weakened. The uninjured ones can form a defense while the others convalesce.”

“Yes,” says one of the worst limping dwarves. “That’s a good idea. I need to strip my leg down—I can feel I’m bleeding down there.”

“Where the hell are we going to be able to form a defense?” Fjalar snaps. “Maybe once we’re in the tunnel with only one front to worry about. That’s the only option.”

“No,” Nthazes says. “We can break into one of the buildings here.”

“It’ll trap us in! Are you crazy?”

“We can’t go on like this. It’s going to catch up with us sooner or later anyway, and when it does, it’s best that we’re in a defensible position.”

“I refuse. It’s madness.”

“Fine!” I tell him. “Stay out here on your own! The rest of you, if you want to live, follow me and Nthazes.”

I lead by example; I stop, turn to the first stone door I see, and shoulder-charge it. There’s a cracking sound, but I don’t quite get through. I batter against it with my mace, and rock chips fly. This makes me slightly queasy: it feels like mining. Is this going to be the poetic end to my life? Start with mining, end with mining?

I break through—the doors open inwards. I’m glad, for I’d expected them to break apart. This will impede the darkness. I charge into the center of the room, mace aglow, and detect that’s its empty but for a thick carpet of dust.

“In, in!” I yell.

One by one the dwarves hurry through the doors. Fjalar comes last; I recoil from him as he enters, on instinct.

“What’s your problem?” he snaps.

“Just get in!” I shout at him. “I need to shut the doors.”

I push them tightly closed. There’s a gap in them, a sliver of broken rock down the center join. I beckon Nthazes over.

“We’ll guard this first. Then when we change...”

He nods. “I understand. This is it.”

We stand a few feet away from it with maces high. As expected, a few minutes later, we feel a terrible coldness come through the crack in the high doorway. We swing at the air just in front of it, and the coldness retreats. A minute later it comes again, and we beat it away again.

It’s weakened for sure, yet this is no relief. It is us dwarves who have come the worse off in this battle by far. We are defeated. Even if my apprehending of Fjalar is successful, and we somehow make it out, there are too few left to defend the fort. We’ll just have to hope that the darkness won’t try a major incursion before some kind of reinforcements have been brought in from up above.

I look back at the group. The injured, and some of the uninjured but terrified, huddle in the middle of the blank room, as if afraid that the darkness will start creeping in through the walls—which it might, I suppose. About half are turned toward the door, and half to a staircase at the back of the room leading up to who knows what.

Stolen novel; please report.

Those who are relatively uninjured, and have either conquered their fear or are ignoring it, stand around the huddle with maces at the ready.

Fjalar is one of these. Unlike the others, he’s hopping from foot to foot, switching his mace from a right-hand grip to a left-hand grip. He’s restless, clearly failing to suppress his fear. Likely he’s in shock at his brother’s death as well.

“What are you looking at?” he says to me. “Keep your eyes on the darkness. Please,” he adds.

“Just making sure everyone’s all right.”

“We aren’t, obviously. Shit, how many are dead now? More than a hundred. How many are here now? I count thirty. Thirty! Belthur is probably dead too—”

“He might not be,” I interrupt. “We were the ones who took the wrong passage. He might even be out of this place by now.”

“In which case he won’t wait for us at the lift. He’ll ride it back up and leave us trapped.”

“We’ll just have to hope he’ll wait.”

“You know what sort of a dwarf he is—a traitor. He’ll leave us to die for sure.”

“We’re all traitors,” one of the injured hisses through gritted teeth. “We never should’ve abandoned the Runethane. Death is what we deserve!”

“Shut up,” Fjalar tells him. “My brother and I only ran because we saw that all of you were doing the same, on Belthur’s recommendation. Less than half strength, we never could have beaten that monster down there. It’s Belthur’s fault we lost.”

“That doesn’t matter,” says the dwarf. “We still could have died heroes. Instead we’re going to die cowards.”

“We’re going to live,” Nthazes says firmly. “The only coward was the Runethane.”

“How can you insult him so?” the dwarf says, aghast. “He took the lead here himself!”

“He’s a coward. He couldn’t face the truth about the killer.”

“What truth?” a heavy-set dwarf in the center of the huddle says. It’s Hirthik, from the kitchens—I hadn’t even realized he was with us. “No one knows the truth. And now that we’ve come down here for ourselves, I can believe the darkness can do anything.”

“It wasn’t the darkness,” I say, then I nod to Nthazes.

“Melkor, Notok, can you take over the guard for a bit?” he asks, addressing two of the uninjured dwarves.

"What's going on, Nthazes?" one of them asks nervously.

"There's some things that need to be cleared up. Once they are, we'll take over from you."

"All right."

The two dwarves come forth, and we leave the door and go to stand in front of Fjalar. Our maces are held ready to strike.

“What’s this?” Fjalar says suspiciously. His eyes narrow behind his visor—an instinctual reaction, since like all of us his eyes are closed.

“You’re the killer,” I say.

A ripple of shock runs through the group. Those who weren’t looking at us before are now. All freeze in the tension. Fjalar plays dumb.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he says.

“You’re the killer,” I repeat. “You murdered Mathek for his blood, and then another five dwarves after. Or was it six—you’ve killed so many I can’t even remember. And two more less than half an hour ago.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not being absurd.”

“I barely even knew those dwarves. Why would I kill them?”

“For their blood.”

“What the hell would I want with that? Don’t be absurd, Zathar. We’re in the very bowels of the underworld, assailed by death, and now you want to start some stupid fight? Throw away our lives which my brother has just given his for? Stop this idiocy now and I might forgive you.”

“I’m not looking to start a fight. I want you to admit your crimes and give up your weapon.”

“If you think I’m going to hand over my mace when—”

“Not your mace,” I say calmly. “The other weapon. The hidden one.”

“I don’t have any weapon,” he says angrily. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Stop playing the fool. You do have a weapon. You just used it to kill two dwarves.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demands.

“You were at the front back there. You were the nearest to your brother, your armor is ruined by the blast, yet you are still alive. Why is that?”

“Because my armor is forged well! Why does any dwarf survive something that should kill him?”

“Your armor didn't protect you from the dithyok up in the caverns. It was cut through. You were cut through, with a dozen wounds that should’ve killed you. And yet you survived.”

“They were shallower than they looked, Zathar. My armor protected me well enough. Are you trying to insult my crafts?”

“It didn't protect you nearly well enough. You should’ve died from your wounds, but you lived—through taking the life of the dwarf lying beside you.”

“Absurd.” Fjalar shakes his head, and looks back at the group, all listening intently. “Do any of you believe this, really?”

“It... It does sound a little far-fetched,” Hirthik admits.

“A little? You mean totally. I’m not the killer.”

“You are!” I say. “And I will lay out exactly how you—”

“Belthur is the killer!” Fjalar snaps. “Can’t you see that? Can’t any of you see that? Isn’t it obvious?”