"It was to be expected," says Ithis. "At least we have our permission to return."

"Yes—but now it's clear to me that though he treats us fairly, he does not want to. He holds hatred for me. A deep grudge."

"But he cannot ignore your runes. He can't throw them away. And—I've had another thought. He is in some kind of contact with the Runeking. Which means he has to have told him that you're here, and about what you've done."

I shake my head. "I can see your logic, but that won't matter. I I've told you before that Runeking Ulrike, in all his wisdom, decided that my powers were no more than a curiosity, and not true runeforging."

"He'll have to recognize them now. Or, if not now, then after our defeat of the darkness."

We are marching through the tunnels of the fort toward the speck of light that announces the stairs to Brightdeep. Our loud tread shivers the air, yet many of my dwarves are equipped with runic ears, and so I bite back the reply that was on my tongue just then—I nearly said that we may never defeat the darkness.

"Yes," I say, a little louder than necessary. "He will, of course. Even the Runeking will recognize our runes. Who knows? Maybe, after our victory, we will be called to Allabrast to take an honored position at his side."

"Indeed!" says Ugyok, a rank behind me. "I think it more than likely."

"I also," says Rtayor.

"What about you, Hayhek?" Ithis asks. "How much honor and gold will Runeking Ulrike bestow us with, do you reckon?"

"I think we ought to focus on the task at hand. Forging is not accomplished through dreaming, but by one careful hammer-stroke after another."

"Well put," I say. "Did you hear that, my dwarves? One careful hammer-stroke after another. One quest after another. One bag of gold, one plate of metal, one rune after another. That's what we'll do on our return. Our task is to prepare. We are not to rush. And we are not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. No revenge! Focus on the task at hand—improvement of your status and equipment!"

A chorus of agreement echoes. I nod to myself, satisfied. Maybe I have trouble keeping my own impulses in check, but as much as possible, I'll won't allow my dwarves to imitate my mistakes. No revenge—I made that very clear in the short speech I gave before we began the march.

Before long, we come to the stairs. I start to ascend, and the echoes of four hundred armored boots follow. I'm still not entirely used to this feeling, the pressure of being a leader, and have to suppress the urge to turn my head to check that everyone's still following.

The glow from above brightens until it equals the brightness from my dwarves' half-covered maces. My ruby becomes warm. The strange desire for blood that I felt when I came up before returns. I grit my teeth, try to reject it. No one is waiting for us, I remind myself. No one!

We emerge, and I draw a sharp breath. I was wrong. We were being waited for.

The streets are lined with runeknights. Many are grouped by guild, I think, though some are not. I grip Life-Ripper tightly, yet after the initial shock fades, I realize that none have their weapons drawn. They are just staring. A few with malice, some with awe, some with admiration.

How did they find out? The rumor must have spread from the Red Anvil guild. Well, it doesn't matter. In fact, it's good. Time to show the realm who we are.

"Runic League!" I call behind me. "We will form up four abreast!"

"Yes, guildmaster!" Ithis shouts in reply. "Runeknights, form up!"

I march thirty feet down the road, then turn to watch my dwarves form ranks. They are, on the whole, a little inexpert at it. Those from Vanerak's realm, used to his cruel discipline, ready themselves quickly and step into their lines exactly, but those from Allabrast and elsewhere are not so used to such ordered movements, especially the junior ones. They are unfamiliar with organized battle.

But in the end, we look imposing enough—a great slab of gleaming metal, glowing with runic power and light.

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"Now, we march!" I bellow. "To the guildhall!"

"To the guildhall!"

I turn and step once, twice, repeat. My dwarves' tread follows accordingly, though not quite as sharply as I'd hoped. We will have to improve before we march down to face the darkness. A rabble will not defeat that foe.

Dwarves whisper to each other as we pass. I can't make out what they're saying, but the hushed tones are of fear and awe mostly. Only rarely do I sense hatred.

Until, that is, a line of bronze-armored runeknight crosses our path. Their plates are thick, heavy slabs, making them look almost immobile. They're not quite the same design as those of the Red Anvil guild. Upon their armor are various different scripts in copper, platinum, gold and neodyne. But it is their shields that stand out most: of iron, steel and tungsten, they are decorated not just with runes, but intricate embossings that serve to emphasize the lines of runic power.

I hold up my hand to signal a halt, and focus hard to hold my bloodlust back. I must be calm, I remind myself. It will not do to cause another bloodbath, and this time not even in an arena.

"Who dares challenge us?" I shout, as I level Life-Ripper at the one in their center.

He lifts his visor to reveal a squarish, ugly face and narrowed eyes. "Rostok of the Iron Shields. As you should recognize."

"Come to fight us, have you?"

"We are not permitted to."

"Is that so?" I laugh. "Then move out of our way."

"We will give our message first, Zathar so-called Runeforger."

"Go on."

"It is this: your crimes will not be forgotten. We will not forget them. You are not welcome here!"

I wait for him to continue, but it seems those words were all he had. I shake my head.

"Well?" he demands. "What is your reply?"

Is he trying to goad me? Or is he just trying to show off in some bizarre way? Trying to show that his guild is the more powerful? I shake my head.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Rostok demands. "Give us your reply!"

"Here," I say simply, and I motion to Ithis—a quick spiral around my weapon. He understands immediately, tears the obscuring cloth from his hammer. I shut my eyes—the blackness behind my eyelids turns red then white as the rest of my dwarves tear their own gauzes away.

Rostok and the nine seniors of his guild cry out in shock. I march forward, Life-Ripper held out horizontally before me. The tread of the Runic League rumbles. Nothing hits my weapon; our rivals have cleared out the way.

"Onward!" I cry. "To the guildhall, Runic League! To our guildhall!"

Many long-hours pass in a blur. The guildhall is repaired, cleaned, then decorated. The walls are carved with depictions of our deeds—the slaying of beasts in the caves, the fights against the darkness—and of course the duels. Better tables and chairs are commissioned. A deal is signed with a small company of ale importers, and the barrels never run dry.

Tunnels are extended into the stone, and from them branch forging-chambers. The clangs of runeknights at work never cease. We are forging, and forging well.

Money stops being an issue. With its ringleader slain, the conspiracy against us has been fully abandoned, and no new ones spring up. All have seen the consequences of opposing us.

The gold flows as if from a waterfall, to all the members, and especially to me. My quarter-cut gives me enough riches for a full set of mundane plates, then for diamonds, for highest-purity reagents, then for fair quantities of true metal. Yet I do not forge just yet.

I've spent too much time down there on my own, hiding away from the pressures of leadership. I won't hide any longer. This is not a time for forging, I decide, but for fighting, and more importantly, a time for fighting alongside my guild.

I lead them on many a job clearing caverns. Most turn out to be reasonably dull affairs—dithyoks are no threat to me anymore. A few are more memorable, including an encounter with the great spider-like monster Hayhek and Ithis faced. Life-Ripper breaks apart its legs. When it falls, my dwarves cheer greatly.

I get to know them as a guildmaster should, and am pleased. Before, I'd suspected that most had only joined for the power my runes promised. Yet now that they've fought together, bled together, they have become true comrades in arms.

The ranks swell. Initiates flock to us—what other guild can promise new runes? They must be trained, and on many occasions, I take on the job myself. I'm doing better than I did with the initiates of the Association of Steel, I think. No longer do I have to boast to them and beat them. They can feel my power—and my skill with weapons too. It is obvious to them.

Membership passes three hundred, four hundred. The hall is extended further. The walls become covered in carvings of our deeds. I order that the wooden tables be replaced by ones of polished crystal, and the torches with glass lanterns.

Things are not totally without trouble, of course. Several perish in the caves. Once in a while, a brawl will break out with members of a rival guild. And it seems my suspicions about the darkness were correct. It starts to attack with renewed dark intensity, and both us and the Guardians struggle to hold it back.

Perhaps Nthazes' absence is to blame. He is still working—on what, exactly? I deeply wish to know. The Runethane remains silent too. Whenever I go to ask for an audience, I am told that he is still busy on his latest craft.

And what of my crafts? I must begin work soon. I desire to work on them. Yet I also desire to stay up here, drinking, fighting, laughing, instructing. Can a runeknight not enjoy his life, on occasion? Can he not bask in the fruits of his battles and labor for a while?

For a while, yes. But not forever.

When the impetus to craft finally comes, it does from an unusual direction.

"I have a letter for you, honored guildmaster," says a runeknight, handing to me a folded piece of paper. "From below."

"From below?" I pause my inspection of the latest carvings and turn to look. "From Guildmaster Nthazes?"

"No, guildmaster," the runeknight says nervously. "Not from him."

"Then whom?"

"The human witch."

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