A dozen runeknights rush through the leaning stalks to me. Two grab me under the armpits for support, and though I don't really need it, I'm too tired to push them away.

"Are you injured?" the one on my left asks.

"I'm fine."

"Are you not burned? Not at all?"

"Just a little. It got in through my visor."

"Not into your eyes, though?"

"Not my eyes, no."

"What do we do?" asks the one on my left.

There's silence for a few moments, then I realize he's asking me.

"Who's the most senior among you?" I say.

"You are."

"There's no other second degrees?"

"Not apart from you, no. Our Guildmaster—he was a second also."

"I thought he was a first."

"Just a second. He was a second."

One of the others escorting me swallows tears. "Oh, shit. Look at him."

Someone has pulled up his visor and I shut my eyes. Horror takes hold of me—hundreds of years of crafting, hundreds of years perfecting the skill of creation, all undone in an instant. And undone in such gruesome fashion.

"We should have stuck to hunting salamanders. I told him that," says the dwarf on my right arm. "We all told him that. He didn't listen."

"Do we keep going up?" says yet another runeknight. "Zathar Runeforger, should we go back?"

I force myself to look at Oludek's melted visage. His eyes are streaks pouring from black sockets. It's one of the worse deaths I've seen, and it takes effort not to vomit.

"What would your guildmaster have wanted?" I ask, forcing myself to maintain my gaze.

"To go up," someone says firmly.

"And if we meet another one of these things?" says the runeknight grasping my left arm.

"We can kill it!" says the one on the right. "We know we can, now. Our blades can pierce it."

"It's Zathar's choice. Oludek believed him. He told me, before—rumors are smoke, and where there's smoke there's fire. Now we've seen that fire. It's written on this tungsten!"

I nearly stop them. Advancing onward, when more of these beasts could be lurking within any fungal grove we pass, is foolish. Yet, I think of Hayhek and Guthah, and imagine how they might be facing the same horrors we've just battled or worse yet. I cannot turn back. I did not turn back from the black dragon, nor from Vanerak, and I won't turn from this quest either.

"We continue up," I declare.

We ascend the next ladder. Brown dust crumbles in my grip, but the wall itself is rugged, cracked by deep growths, and this provides us with the extra handholds we need. It doesn't take so much time for us to emerge into the next layer and its deep forest. Between the trunks streams of pungent, yellowish water run. I make my way to a drier rise, and the others crowd around me.

"What are your orders?" says the runeknight who was gripping my right arm before.

Orders? They're asking for orders? Have I ever given orders before? In every battle I've fought in, I've been but a soldier. On the dragonhunt, Xomhyrk commanded me. Under the magma it was Vanerak or Nazak. Before then, Runethane Yurok. I can only think of one time—with Hayhek and Yezakh, after we fled Broderick's forces. Three can barely even be called a squad, though. And I remember acutely how that turned out, in the end.

"First of all, what's your name?" I ask.

"Rtayor. I'm a fourth degree."

His gilded steel armor does exude about that level of strength, yet there's something lacking about him. I recall my examination for fourth degree, and the grim determination my fellow takers had. In this one's eyes, there's fear.

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"Your guild—you hunted salamanders?"

"That was the main kind of job we took on, yes. Mostly in the caverns above Allabrast. Quite a lot of them live there. The heat from the foundry-palace attracts them."

"You're not used to this kind of place, then. This forest."

"No." He shrugs. "But it was Oludek's orders that we should come down here."

"Why? For runes?"

"Mostly because Allabrast is crowded and expensive. It can be hard to stay afloat."

"Right, right."

I look around at the remaining forty or so runeknights. They're trying not to show it, but despite a hundred years of forging and fighting, they're scared of the dark and damp, and of death unseen. They're out of place here, like salamanders themselves, ones suddenly thrust into a deep river to be torn apart by amphidons.

This is the time to say something inspiring, to give some rousing speech and pour courage back into their hearts. Yet, despite all my poetic abilities, nothing comes.

"Let's stay close to the walls," I order. "That way there's less angles to be attacked from. Lantern bearers, you march on the outside, so we have better illumination past the stalks. I'll lead—Rtayor, you be the rearguard."

"Yes, honored runeknight!" they shout in unison. I flinch. There's a weight on me far heavier than any armor, now.

To their credit, they move quickly, if not efficiently—they stumble over fibrous roots and slip in pools like I never remember the dwarves of the deep doing. But before long they've arranged themselves into a long formation, with senior runeknights and those holding lamps on the outside, and weaker ones clinging close to the cavern wall. I frown at those ones' armor. Was Oludek really telling the truth when he said most were at least fifth degree? They are disciplined, yes, and brave, but I can't help but feel that some can be no more than seventh or eighth.

"Do you want a lantern too, Zathar?" asks the dwarf behind me.

"No thank you. Are you a fourth degree as well?"

"That's right."

"Your name?"

"Ugyot, honored runeknight."

"I would like to know how strong we really are. Is it really true that most are at least fifth degree?"

He hesitates.

"Well?" I demand.

"About half are fourth or fifth. The rest are mostly sixth, or seventh. There's a few eighths too. Junior members."

"Your guildmaster exaggerated a little, then."

He shrugs his titanium-plated shoulders. "Well, what can you do? We need the glory, and the funds. The other two exaggerated as well, I'm sure of it."

"There's no helping it now. You're all brave enough for fifth degree, at least."

"Thank you, honored runeknight."

I turn around. "Let's move!" I say loudly, though I do not shout. "Don't talk, and step softly. Keep pace with me."

Heart thudding worse than when I fought the whipper, I lead them through the muck. My shadow shifts left and right before me in time with the swinging of Ugyot's lantern. Worried they won't keep up with my pace, for it seems that I'm more used to uneven footing than they are, I slow down a little. I sense the column slow down behind to match my speed exactly.

Why are they following me so blindly? So faithfully? Who puts their faith in a traitor? I recall that on the dragonhunt, though we were ultimately all under Xomhyrk's command, the Association's tenth degrees were my responsibility. I promised I'd protect them, and then I failed utterly. Can't these dwarves sense that I'll fail them as well?

I scowl behind my visor. Such thoughts serve no purpose. I focus on the journey ahead, on the shadows around me and the distant sounds carried on the damp breezes, and imagine that I hear bone swords clattering, needle-like feet skittering, and high buzzing. There are also hints of screams, and of metal clinking. But everything is so faint without runic ears. I can't tell if the sounds are real or not.

We reach the next set of climbing spikes without incident, mostly—halfway there, a swarm of biting beetles tries to set upon us, but we manage to crush enough of them into reddish paste that their fellows leave off.

I look up. These bars aren't so rusty as the last set, and seem oddly familiar. Some have been bent into loops, and where some are missing, ropes have been strung. New ropes—dwarves have been here since I last was.

This climb leads to the topmost cavern. It was up here we went before our battle with the white jelly. And just like that time, from the empty blackness above, I can hear battle. It's nothing like the cacophony the carnage back then made. But neither is it quiet.

"I think the others are fighting," I warn everyone. "Be on your guard."

As I begin to climb up the wall, I curse myself. That was a stupid thing to say. Everyone already is on their guard. By saying what I did, have I implied they weren't being careful? I glance down, and sense they are still afraid. They're moving with a hint of reluctance.

"It's just dithyoks, I'm sure. They make for an honest fight—either your armor is strong enough to turn their swords or it's not. Maybe just bzathletics, even. I've seen tenth degrees beat those."

No one replies. Have I offended them? They've been down here for some length of time and have likely faced dithyoks before. Maybe they've seen friends killed by the four-armed monstrosities, and now I've told them that was surely fine, because it was an honest fight.

I shake my head. I'm overthinking things. More likely they're simply too tired to make any reply—actually, didn't I order them not to talk, before?

I'll be in battle soon, I remind myself. I won't have any time to worry about others, then. I'll be too occupied with wielding Life-Ripper.

The rungs continue into the ceiling. For a few minutes, I'm climbing through a tight passage, managing Life-Ripper awkwardly so as not to scrape it against the walls. Then the tunnel opens out and I emerge into a small, bare cave. I remember the shape of it well.

And the sounds, clearer now, are familiar too: the impacts of bone blades on metal armor, and of metal on bone-plated skin. I hurry to the cave's opening to look out on the scene:

The cavern, a half-shattered plate of stone coated in a lush carpet of low fungi and tuberous growths like orange spikes, plays host this hour to a battle. At the far end, a horde of dithyoks, bzathletics, and myriad other many-limbed beasts is assaulting a semi-circle of dwarves in dark armor. They protect a camp of makeshift huts, lit in flickering yellow by high torches. Screams are ringing out from the battle-line, and the pain-hisses too. The ground seethes with violence.

Two sets of lights are converging on the battle, the dwarves' lanterns all that's visible. The closer one I recognize as Rothok's guild by the bronze glinting, though I estimate that they've lost about a third of their number. Huirah's, nearly at the battle, seems to have lost about a third as well. Whippers? Or are their losses just from falls and drownings?

I turn to Salamander Coats emerging behind me.

"We head down and form a wedge!" I order. "Then we advance. There's no white jelly, it's dwarves, and if we don't help, they'll be slaughtered. Come on!"

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