I have never been to the Hall of the Golden Heart before, though I have heard of it. Buried deep under the main tunnels of Allabrast, the only way to reach it is to journey through a series of winding passages leading from the Stadium of the Mind—the grand lecture hall where I first laid eyes on Xomhyrk Dragonslayer.

That multicolored, many-faceted mountain of granite is as brilliant as I remember it. The massive crystal lamps arranged around its base are just as bright, too. Truly this hall is a wonder, yet I know my destination this hour is rumored to overshadow its splendor many times over.

Runeknights in gold, who move oddly, as if their limbs are operated by strings, guide me through. A door is opened to a small meeting chamber, and then a hatch in the floor slides away smoothly. Dark stairs extend down. The runeknights gesture for me to enter, and I do so with only moment's hesitation.

The passage is cold and winding, and very narrow. My shoulders scrape against the stone walls. None of the odd runeknights have followed me.

They are automatons for sure, early types or else put together in a hurry, and disturb me. How does the Runeking control them? Does he at all, and if not, does that mean a kind of mind can be created with runes and metal?

Minds can be created like that, I remember. A Runegod made the construct that, in turn, created the demons of the magma sea.

The tunnel turns and becomes even narrower. I now have to squeeze through sideways. Anyone in bulkier armor would have real trouble here, would have to scratch deep grooves into the walls. Maybe the Runethanes who came earlier have already, but I can't see anything in the blackness. I'd expected there to be guards to guide me down, and neglected to bring my runic ears.

I feel as if I'm going down a deep spiral, and then there are a series of steps. They are steep, and the ceiling is low and uneven. I smack my head against it several times. After the stairs is another long, winding path. It loops around at several points, forming confusing crossroads. My cavern sense gets me through, just.

No one knows the exact location of the Hall of the Golden Heart. It is rumored to lie beneath the foundry-palace, yet who can say? I cannot tell how far I have traveled, nor in which direction.

Then, just as my legs are beginning to suffer the first aches of fatigue, I hear the echoes of voices. I press forward faster. For another long while, there is nothing. The voices were distant echoes. Yet, all the same, I'm given hope that the end does, at least, exist, and I haven't been led into some trap.

I realize that if the masons were somehow to have gained access to this passage, they could be about to do some very nasty things indeed. Though then again, I wouldn't underestimate some of the more powerful Runethanes. There's a good reason the stoneworkers won't attack directly.

After another series of sharp turns, the tunnel is filled with light. I see a crack, and past it is red and gold. I breath a sigh of relief and press through. Beyond is a surprisingly small and simple antechamber. It's circular, with half-pillars carved into the stone walls, which are plain gray. The doors are what caught my eye—they are of gold and ruby, and decorated with a geometric filigree.

I grasp an ornate handle with my left hand. Steelpierce is ready in the other. I open the door, step through, and am all but struck dumb and blind by beauty.

The hall is shaped roughly like a tear, though with both ends rounded. There are no pillars to hold up the roof; instead, ribs of gold arc across the dome of its ceiling. They are enruned, and I can tell, as I walk in, that they are not gilded steel but of pure gold. I have never seen so much of the precious metal in one place. I did not think so much had ever been mined. Heavy daycrystal lamps hang from the central spine.

But the walls between the golden ribs are even more splendorous. They are covered with rubies, each as clean and flawless as that of my amulet, and shaped into many different cuts. No two are the same: some are starbursts, some crosses, some like artfully warped circles. The gemcutters who shaped were experts indeed. They gleam vivid scarlet in the light.

And, strangely, there seems to be no story or image marked on the walls. When a Runethane—or higher—commissions something like this built, it is always made to tell of his great deeds, or perhaps those of his comrades or ancestors. Yet this place seems to have been made for beauty itself, alone.

Along the center of the vast hall is a single long table. I walk down the steps to the floor of mirror-polished silver. The table looks small compared to the room holding it, but it is not. There are more than a hundred places set, for every Runethane and Thanic Guardsdwarf present in the city.

Many of these places are already occupied. I walk past, glancing at the plaque set at each space, looking for my name. A curious feeling comes into my heart as I feel the gazes of my fellows upon me. A kind of light, almost sick feeling.

Intimidation, that's this feeling. I haven't felt intimidated by another dwarf in a very long time, and didn't recognize it. I am intimidated. Every warrior here is clad in plates of true metal, enruned with a level of expertise that rivals or surpasses my own. Their weapons exude auras of power. I walk past a two-handed axe leaning against the table. Its crescent-blade is black, and bloodlust seems to leap at me from it. I stumble over my own boots.

"Drunk already?" asks its owner, without any hint of friendliness. "This is a war meeting, not a party."

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Runethane Lapek is this one's name. He's the Runethane whose troops gave us trouble at the station. His gray eyes are filled with disdain, and his mouth is curled into a sneer. There is a red scar, perfectly circular, at the left of his forehead. I've heard a pike went right through his head once, and that he has never smiled nor felt any kind of joy since.

I give him a nervous smile. "I just took a step back to admire your work, honored Runethane."

The sneer does not leave his face. "Indeed."

"We're all on the same side here," the Runethane sitting opposite him says coldly. "Sit down, Zathar, and forgive Lapek his taunts. His mind does not sit right within his skull."

The speaker is Runethane Ytith—I recognize her voice immediately. Her cold beauty makes me flinch more than Lapek's axe did, but I quickly gather myself.

"Greetings, lady Runethane. I apologize for not seeing you earlier."

"Sit down, Zathar," she repeats. "You place is here, can you not see?"

I look at the empty spot besides Runethane Lapek. A small metal plaque sits there, and indeed, my name is upon it. I frown, confused. I am nearly at the head of the table, not two spaces away from where the Runeking himself will sit.

I am not even a whole-degree. I have only been able to muster a mere ten thousand soldiers. And yet I am placed here, closer to the Runeking by far than dwarves centuries older than me and who have mastered true metal completely.

I sit down, feeling suddenly and inexplicably panicked. Lapek glares sideways at me.

"Our Runeking values you highly, it seems. I hope his judgment is not misguided."

Open insults! This dwarf views me as an inferior. My fists clench—I am a Runethane, how dare he speak to me in this way—yet I must calm myself. He is a veteran of eight hundred years, and has battled hated Uthrarzak's forces many times. To brawl with him would be beyond stupid. And to trade insults with him would be stupid as well. As Ytith has just said, we are all on the same side.

"I hope so too," I say calmly. "Rest assured that I will do everything in my power to prove myself worthy of any favor he sees fit to bestow upon me."

Ytith snorts. "Well spoken, Zathar. But you don't need to be so polite with him. He is your equal in rank."

"In rank," says Lapek. "In craft, we will see."

"You shall," I say, and I put some strength into my words.

"That's more like it," says Ytith. She turns to look down at the entrance. "Ah—others finally grace us with their presence. Good. You are poor company, Lapek. Hopefully the wine will arrive soon, so that I may pour it into the hole in your skull and so cheer you up."

"I will take no wine, decadent."

It is clear that there is little love lost between these two, and their crafts reflect this. Lapek's armor is heavy steel and titanium, and enruned in platinum for strength and toughness alone. It is simple, solid, and his axe is the same. It is made for pure cleaving power, to sever weapon-haft and limb alike.

Ytith's armor is of copper and gold. The plates are thin, and below them is fine chainmail. The runes are in a script I can only barely read, and the poems are esoteric, their meanings hidden. I cannot tell what they are enchanted to do. I know that she carries a thin sword and small buckler into battle, though both are hidden from my view now by the table.

Solid against subtle. Plain brutality against calculated attack. All down the table, dwarves' weapons and armors reflect their own ways of thinking. Yet we must present a united front against the pikes of Uthrarzak, or we will fall.

This is to be a meeting of strategy. I think the Runeking is going to have a difficult time in getting us to agree on one. And it's not as if he can order us to do whatever he wills like pawns. I know that some here rival him in power and age.

A few like this are approaching us, I see. Several Runethanes in gleaming armor reach the table, and begin to work their way up. Three sit down at spaces below us, but two continue.

The first is dark-bearded Runethane Duthur, in his plates of pure clear diamond. He is thickly muscled beneath them. He walks straight past me to sit at the right-hand side of the Runeking's chair. The second, who sits down opposite him, wear a suit of mercury that flows around him as he moves—Runethane Kalthan, the third most powerful dwarf in the kingdom.

I find myself shrinking away. Duthur's eyes meet mine for a second, but he says nothing. I can't see any runes on his armor. They are carved too small for eyes of flesh to see.

"Greetings," says Ytith.

He looks at her and shakes his head. "You have yet to live up to your father's skill."

She smiles. "And you have yet to live up to Ulrike's."

"You should address him by his title."

"Please," says Runethane Kalthan. He sounds weary. "Let us leave the rivalries behind."

"Yes, let's!" someone behind me booms enthusiastically. A gold plated hand is clapped hard on my shoulder. I see a curled brown beard. "We ought not to embarrass ourselves before our juniors!"

It is Runethane Gaflek—where did he sneak up from? He sits down between me and Duthur, all smiles. He's draped in a cloak of gold that I haven't seen before. It glows with power, yet Duthur's diamond armor is still clearly the superior craft.

"Good hour," I say politely.

"It is, especially with the Runeforger here. Seems that the Runeking has finally taken some notice of you, ay?"

"I suppose so."

"It's about time. Your runes are really quite good, you know, though I haven't used them much myself—aside from a few experiments. I hope we get some more runeforgers around. Then old Uthrarzak would have no chance, ay?"

"He has no chance anyway," Lapek spits. "We're going to finish him off once and for all, this time."

"One can hope," says Duthur. "But it will be a hard and bloody job."

"No doubt," says Gaflek. "But blood is what we are best at, no?"

"Indeed," says Ytith. "We will make rivers of it."

Kalthan grimaces. His helmet, just like the rest of his armor, is composed of flowing mercury and changes shape in time with the movements of his mouth. "Let us just hope the better part of the blood is theirs, not ours," he says.

A silence falls, after this. No one seems to have much to say to each other, though down at the far end of the table, where the Thanic Guardsdwarves sit, there is a bit more conversation. None of the proper Runethanes know each other very well. They spend their lives in their own realms, with their own guilds and runeknights. Probably most have never set eyes on one another, unless they're neighbors.

More enter. The hall gradually fills up. A Runethane in flared and bladed titanium armor, with two curved swords at his belt, sits between Ytith and Kalthan. He gives me a nod of acknowledgment, exchanges greetings with the others, then is silent.

And then silence falls over the whole table. The Thanic Guardsdwarves stop talking too. Everyone is here now, I notice. How long is the Runeking going to keep us waiting for? When will he arrive?

I expect it won't be for a while yet—but as soon as that thought enters my mind, a door opens at the tapering end of the hall, close to us.

Through it walks the Runeking, and for the first time I see him equipped for battle.

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