I back away from Brezakh, now raising his hammer up in triumph. Fear is rushing through me. I feel as if I am in one of my trances, the power spearing me, suddenly realizing that I'm in mortal danger.

I can see no way to beat him. Perhaps with Life-Ripper? It's lying on the gravel where Ithis left it for me. But my mace has more true metal in it by far. If it can't break Brezakh's plates, why would Life-Ripper be able to stab through them?

No. I'll keep to my original plan. His armor is being damaged, albeit very slowly. All I have to do is be more cautious. One strike, then immediately dodge and run. I am a runeknight; I am patient. The battlefield is no different to the forge.

I step around, smashing my mace against my shield as I do so. The sound no longer seems to affect him in the slightest—probably his eardrums are totally ruptured. It'll take good healing chains indeed, if he's ever to hear anything again. Runethane Halmak, still hovering close to the fight, has his hands covering his own ears.

I leap quickly, smash down onto Brezakh's helm. My mace bounces off, and I pull back with the momentum. Brezakh swipes, but I block easily. My ruby burns, urging me to hit again, but I step back, and continue to step back until I'm well out of range.

Brezakh stops still. He is patient too. Why waste energy chasing after me, when he knows I'll come to him?

Perhaps Life-Ripper really would be the superior weapon here. I glance over at it, nervous about making the wrong decision. It is designed to pierce through weak points. A long-range strike could be more effective.

But there are no weak points on Brezakh's armor. It truly is a masterpiece, in both shape and metallurgy. Every gap is covered, and every plate is about the same thickness also. It presents no thinner areas for an opponent to take advantage of. All the runeknights of the Red Anvil Guild make their armor in a similar style, but Brezakh's is the pinnacle of it.

Why am I doubting myself again? Why am I doubting my weapon? Am I scared? I have a plan—I must stick to it! I dash at him, strike, pull back. I have hit and he has not—this is what matters. I circle around, try again. Once more he cannot catch me. I charge across the blood-tinted gravel, retreat, charge, retreat, attack, over and over again.

My blows are quick and light. They do very little damage. Yet even very little damage, again and again, can become total destruction. Like even the slightest waterfall can carve out a deep lake, I am carving his armor apart slowly.

There is no need to panic, no need to tire myself out. I wait leisurely between strikes, catch my breath as I please. He is doing the same, but now that I'm concentrating on speed rather than power, he can't seem to catch me.

Again I leap, strike. This time he nearly hits me—I back off further than usual, wait a little longer than before. I need to be careful. Although my path to victory is clear, it's still uncertain. Two pieces of my armor have been broken. Any more, and I will lose a dangerous amount of speed and power.

The fight continues, and continues, interminably. How long have I been doing this? The spectators seem tired and bored. No longer do their colors shiver with cheering each time Brezakh nearly gets a hit in, not even when he slightly glances my armor. Only my guild seems focused on the fight. For everyone else, or at least everyone junior, their sense of time is boring them.

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And time is taking a toll on me too. I have charged forward and back so much now that I must have run the equivalent of miles. My skin is chafing and my muscles are aching badly, especially my thighs and right arm and shoulder. The bruises from where he's managed to hit are hurting too.

He remains how he was at the beginning of the fight—like an impregnable metal obelisk. But most places on his armor have been struck now, and it must be weakened. It must be! No matter how many layers of runes he's forged into it, surely it must be suffering by now.

After my next attack, he gets his best hit on me in a while—a solid strike to the side already damaged. I'm sent down, pain exploding in my ribs. I roll away quickly, anticipating a second hit, yet nothing comes. He thinks he can outlast me. That his infrequent hits will break me faster than my weaker, continuous ones will break him.

This is unlike any fight I've been in yet—my duels against Nazak and Vanerak were fast, brutal striking matches. But here, it is defense that holds stronger than offense.

I continue the attacks and retreats. My mace seems to be doing nothing. I've made it too weak. His armor—too thick. I feel myself growing impatient. Surely one brutal attack, a bloody rampage of a dozen swings in as many seconds can end this? I desire to throw myself into the combat, let my ruby guide my violence. Will that not result in victory?

My breathing is growing ragged. My eyelids are growing heavy, my throat dry. Even my belly is rumbling. How long has this fight lasted? Time does not exist down here—yet exhaustion does.

How hard can it be to end this battle, against a blind and deaf opponent? I grow angry with myself. I am wasting time. Two strikes a charge—I'll up the pace. And I'll aim for his hands. No matter how thick his plates are, the hands are always one of the most vital vulnerable parts.

I yell out, leap for him, and this time from the front. I smash his right hand, dent the fingers. He cries out silently, caught off guard by the new angle of attack. I batter down at his hand again, nearly knocking his fingers from the handle.

He stomps down, and his armored heel crushes down where my plate was broken. My toes crunch, their small bones breaking. I scream out, fall. He slams his hammer down. I block. The force of the blow, the wave of sheer runic power, makes chunks of gravel around me leap up into the air—in my echo-vision, they look like burning drops of blood.

I try to get up, but his hammer is coming down once again. I block again. The force wrenches my shoulder in its socket. Again he strikes. This time it's my elbow that hurts—something inside seems to shift.

His hammer-blows fall like boulders from a rockfall—unrelentingly. Now I'm the piece of metal on the anvil. And flesh does not make for a sturdy anvil. Even though I deflect each and every strike with my shield, my fingers, hand, arm, elbow and shoulder are beginning to hurt badly.

I hit up with my mace, but there's no power behind the strike. It deflects off his armor, dealing no damage at all.

He strikes again, again. My grip on my shield is beginning to slip. Worse, its clangs are growing more discordant, the colors it creates not quite as vivid and even as they were before.

If he breaks my shield, I am dead. Dead! I came into this contest so confident—but this is the power of a first-degree. Vanerak and his captains were exhausted when I faced them. That's how I was able to win.

But I cannot give up. I wait for the blow of his hammer to come once more, and in the moment it hits my shield, and his momentum is stopped, I slam my mace into his knuckles. He grunts, pauses. I bring one knee up, twist and kick at his ankles. He stumbles, moves as if to catch me, but I've already extracted myself. I back away, breathing heavily.

My shield is damaged. My armor is damaged. Yet he is not. My mace! It's failing me. But all I can do is try again—I charge.

He seems to guess where I'm coming from, perhaps by the vibrations in the ground. He swings at the same moment. The momentum of my mace carries forward—I cannot stop it, even though I see exactly where it is headed.

Hammer meets mace, and my mace shatters. The titanium is dashed into fragments which continue with the arc of the blow, bounce and scatter onto the gravel. Brezakh yells something, swings back. He sees me.

I retreat, and he pursues. And now that I have nothing to create echoes with, it is I who am going blind. I hurry to lift up my visor. His hammer is swinging for my face, and I block.

The sound is deafening. I cry out.

"Got you now, traitor!" he screams. "I can see you!"

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