That Zathar! That dwarf is nothing but a curse, thinks Runethane Halmak as he watches the hatch rise. It is opening a path to treasures beyond imagination, and this glorious moment would have come regardless, had Zathar not arrived in the realm. And then it would not be he who'd won victory, but the Red Anvil guild. Brezakh would still be alive. The Runeking would be singing their praises.

Brezakh would still be alive.

They would have had enough power even without his runes! They had the resources to make the weapons. It was only a matter of time.

But things can still be set back to their proper place. The riches within will make Runethane Halmak one of the greatest dwarves in all the realms. He will make his weapons and armor out of pure true metal. He will be a whole degree, and from then, he will be able to start on the next path, to refine metal even further, to reach heights of greatness few of even Runethane rank ever reach.

Zathar will not be allowed to interfere with this. He will not be! The Red Anvil guild, who Halmak has raised like his own children, will be the ones to rise. The memories of the fallen will be honored. Brezakh's memory will be honored.

Brightdeep will be a shining gem, an example to all other realms of what dwarves can build. And it will be ruled by Halmak, and Halmak alone!

That Halmak. That up-abover has proved to be nothing but a curse, thinks Nthazes, as he watches the hatch rise. To him, it looks like a great stone jaw slowly opening. The jaws of a dragon, maybe, ready to release devastation.

The darkness has been defeated. Is that not enough? Their ancient duty has been fulfilled. The blight from below is now gone. Whatever it shrouded can be nothing good. Whatever is down there is not for dwarves. It should be buried totally, and forgotten by all.

No one can be allowed to repeat the mistake those first deep dwarves did. They delved too deep, and look where it got them. Runethane Yurok delved too deep, and look where it got him. It is only thanks to Zathar that the situation has been salvaged.

If he had not come during Fjalar's attacks, who would have stopped that dwarf's greed? If he had not returned for this last assault, would they have had the strength to defeat the darkness on their own?

It's possible they would have. Certainly, things like Nightcutter can be created using the old runes. Galar's craft was proof of that, as were those of the dragon hunter Xomhyrk, who Zathar praised so highly. Yet to take light from others and put it all into a single, concentrated blade—only Zathar would have come up with such a risky idea, and then been able to execute it so well.

Galar's trident, for all its brilliance, ended up killing its maker.

Runethane Halmak, instead of recognizing this, is now trying to toss away all Zathar, Nthazes and their respective guilds have accomplished. He has been blinded by simple greed. Like the vast majority of the up-abovers, he cares only for gold and status.

So what if his crafts were not rated the best? We are all runeknights together, Nthazes thinks. Our duty is to fight for dwarfkind. Our crafts are for others, not for ourselves. It seems the other way around, but it's not—our power is not meant to be used selfishly. We are meant to be protectors. Not just the deep dwarves should see this, but all runeknights.

We are protectors, not treasure-hunters!

The Red Anvil elder lifts the hatch past vertical, and lets go. It falls open with a thud that shakes the sound-image of the pit and sends ripples through the dead mound of flesh and broken bone that was the sorcerer.

Within—a wide staircase.

"Advance!" orders Runethane Halmak. "Descend!"

I watch, stomach a knot of sick worry, as the hatch thuds onto the stone with a sound that shakes the whole pit. The slain sorcerer seems to quiver. On instinct, my hands spin Nightcutter to aim it directly at the corpse. But there is no more movement from it.

"Advance!" shouts the Runethane. "Descend!"

He leads as promised, stepping down into the opened hatch without hesitation. His elders pause for a moment before they follow him. After them, the rest of the Red Anvil guild begin to march, and none too quickly.

I turn to Nthazes. "Are you really going down?" I ask quietly.

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"Of course. He is, despite anything I may think of him, still the Runethane. I do not plan to turn my back on another one."

"That is very noble of you."

"And what about you, Zathar? Will you really go down?"

I hold my tongue for a moment. The Red Anvil guild are almost all through the hatch. I wait for the last one to disappear, then whisper:

"I would rather, if I am honest, slam the hatch shut and pile stones high on top of it."

"He is strong enough to push it back open."

I nod to Alae. "Then I would also have the daughter of Jaemes fill this pit with deep water. Even he would not be able to fight past the pressure, and if he did somehow succeed in opening it, he'd be washed right back down."

Alae looks a little alarmed.

"Careful," warns Nthazes. "There are many with fine runic ears here."

"True, true. I wonder if they'll really go down, ay?"

I turn around and look up at the remaining dwarves. They stand in groups scattered around the steps, and there seem to be a good deal fewer than there were before the hatch was opened. About half have snuck away. And it's not as if the whole force made it into the pit, either. Many ran or were slain in the city. All in all, only about two hundred remain to delve below.

"How loyal are you?" I shout up to them. "Well? Will you follow your Runethane down to death?"

A few yell out angrily that they of course would, but most stay silent. I notice a few more near the top of the pit creep out. I sneer at them.

"Well, I am loyal, too, no matter what others may say. I am no traitor. I won't turn my back on my orders, on my duty. I think our Runethane is taking a stupid risk—but I'll still follow him. Besides," I laugh. "There may actually be something worth finding down there."

Nthazes nods to his surviving Guardians, and they gather around him. "Let's go," he says. "See you soon, Zathar."

"Of course, Nthazes. Very soon. And we'll both be holding armfuls of treasure."

He shrugs. "I will take none. We are not here for treasure. We are only here to protect those up above."

I feel a little ashamed. "You are a better runeknight than I am, my friend."

"Nonsense." I sense him smile. "We fight together as equals. Always."

With that remark, he turns and descends, his Guardians following close behind. The sound of their slow tread is like that of a funeral march.

Will he meet his doom down there? I hope not—yet I can't shake the feeling that something awful is waiting for us. I clench my fists. I do not want to be in the rearguard! We should fight together!

Bitterly, I turn back to the rest of the guilds. "Well?" I ask. "Are you going to follow? Huirah—what about you?"

The silver-clad first-degree frowns. "I suppose we must. Come on."

His guild follows him down. Most of the rest go in turn, their reluctance made obvious by the slowness of their steps.

"Cowards," I say, under my breath.

"I cannot really blame anyone who ran," says Hayhek. "Can you? Really?"

"For my part, I can't," says Ithis. "Did we not do the same under Vanerak?"

"But we are not doing this for the Runethane," I say. "We're doing this for those above, as Nthazes rightly says. Treasure is secondary—if there is any."

"Lead the way then, Runeforger," says Ithis.

I nod once. "Form up," I order. "Double-file."

My dwarves quickly do so. I grimace at our fallen, lying above us on the steps. We will set them in their resting places later. Then I turn back to look at the opening, and march in.

A strange feeling envelopes me as I enter. There's magic here, though it's not that of darkness. It's something else, I feel, something much stranger. As we descend the steep, awkward stairs, the feeling intensifies. It distracts and confuses me. How long have we been walking, now? Have we gone down a few steps, or a hundred? I feel like I do in the forge, when I'm totally lost in my work, unable to tell if I've struck the fiery metal a hundred times or a thousand.

"Alae?" I ask. "Are you there? Come forward."

She squeezes past to walk beside me. I look-listen her up and down. Her face is drawn and her movements seem slowed, as if the weight of her light garments is dragging on her limbs, almost too much to bear. Her breathing is quite ragged, too. The only strength she has, she's put into her hand—her wand is seized in a death-grip.

"Your spell took a lot of power out of you, didn't it?"

"Some," she strains to say. "Not as much as I expected it to. I have strength left."

"You don't sound as if you have much."

"It's this place that's putting pressure on me. It comes from that."

She points to the chain of spheres, which runs along the edge of the staircase.

"My eyes are shut, but I can still sense where it is.," she says. "There's power in it. A great amount of power."

I nod. "I can tell, too. Is it the power of the shadow? Do you think its ultimate origin lies down here? I feel that the magic here is different, though, somehow. But you're the expert."

"It's not darkness, no—I can't quite tell what."

"Stay here beside me. You know more of magic than anyone else. If there is some nasty trap waiting at the bottom, you'll have to disarm it."

"I don't know if I can."

"You must try."

"I will, of course—but this doesn't feel like a trap."

"No?" I ask.

"There's no malice to it. It's just an enchantment. And like the Runethane said, the sorcerer will have been the strongest defense. Why put more in?"

"To make extra sure."

"Yes, but any traps or further guards will not be comparable to the thing we just killed."

"I hope not. But get your spells ready in any case."

Her knuckles crack as she tightens her grip on her wand further. "They always are."

We continue down. I can hear many whispers ahead of us, but all blend together in the narrowness of the corridor, so that I can't make out any individual words, just a general sense of unease. Everyone can feel the strange magic around us. We are afraid of it, what it might be doing to us. It seems we've been walking for days at some points, and just seconds at others. I focus on the sounds behind to try and tell the length we've been going down, but I can't detect the entrance. Everything is confused.

Then—I hear gasps as the guilds ahead emerge into some wider tunnel or cavern. A little further, and I can hear that there is a great cave beyond, crowded with many stalagmites and stalactites. I hear high-pitched, bestial screeches, too—what are they? How can such a place be inhabited? I ready Nightcutter to strike. I am now absolutely sure that something nasty is waiting for us. Down this forgotten hole, there is something lurking. I can sense it.

Some indeterminate length of time later, we emerge into the cave beyond.

Like all the rest before us, we gasp also.

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