The Blue Shaft is far too thin for every army to go through, and many Runethanes must take more indirect routes—transport by caravan-train to wide caves that lead out to sunlight, and then a long march under the burning sun. It seems that Runeking Ulrike wants to keep me close at hand, though, for my forces are some of the lucky ones who will be ascending directly.

This also means we will be some of the last to march, and so time again grinds to a halt. While the city rumbles with the tramp of iron and trembles with the weight of carriages running fast along magnetic rails, we are stuck, waiting and watching.

Training continues. We do mass drills, with as many dwarves as can fit on the roads, commanded by me. Steel blocks move in unison like metal ingots shifted by a giant's hand. Weapons gleam and power glows.

We can win this, I tell myself. Victory will be ours.

And then, finally, the letter comes: we are to make our way to the Blue Shaft. The enemy host will be upon us within the long-hour. It is nearly time to fight.

So, for the second time in my life I find myself part of a great host assembled on a thoroughfare of Allabrast, except I am not just an ordinary soldier, as I was under Xomhyrk, but in the same position he was back then. I look over my troops from a raised platform.

Ten thousand. It is a great number. They stretch down the stone-tiled path ten abreast, weapons drawn for display. Spearheads glint and swords and axes flash. Hammers and maces are held high. Shields cover heavy armor. Runes in many shades of silver, gold and copper are written over every surface. Their power is an aura which drives the commoners lining the street into a frenzy. Miners and merchants alike scream and clap and yell.

"New runes!"

"The Runeforger—that's him, up there!"

"Runethane Zathar!"

"The Runic League!"

"Dwarves from the depths, come to slay the desert beasts!"

I hold up a hand to signal silence, but this only makes them cheer louder. Well, then let them cheer. It's not as if I intended to make a speech anyway. Instead, I have a different signal planned—one rather more dramatic and powerful. Actions echo louder than words.

I step down from the platform, march ten paces forward, then turn back around to face it. By no means is it a flimsy contraption: its planks are thick, of surface wood fed by the hot sun, and it is heavy.

I draw Graveknife.

In this hour, I have decided, I will reveal my craft to all—more for the weapon's sake and my own rather than for those who witness it. I must show my metal that I trust it and will use it to its fullest potential.

"This is living wood," I whisper to the forearm-length dagger. "Although it has already been cut away from root and leaf and branch, it still carries life within it. Now, take that life!"

Slowly, so all I can see what I do clearly, I move Graveknife leftward and high. I adjust its angle so that its edge faces the wood. The black runes seem to darken and the sound of cheering dies away. All watch in silent awe.

I slash. A line of power strikes out, unseen yet felt in the hearts of all watching. A moment after, the wooden platform shatters. Dust and splinters rise then fall damply. What remains has no more trance of strength and structure at all. It looks as if an old tree has been dropped from a great height.

There are a few cheers from the more drunken commoners, but most stay silent. I sheathe Graveknife—it seems to catch on the leather for an instant before I can drive it in. I raise Steelpierce, turn and point forwards.

"March!" I command, and the stone tiles tremble under our boots.

We have been lined up for hours now upon the spiraling steel walkway that leads to the Shaft. Two armies are ascending this day—in front of us are the forces of Runethane Duthur. Most of his runeknights are equipped in steel or titanium, and do not look too dissimilar to those from other realms, but the seniors who are to stand nearby Ulrike himself are plated with gems in the same fashion as their leader.

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Step by step we walk. The doors of the Shaft are fully opened and bright light illuminates the center of the district. As each runeknight steps into it, he or she reaches up and is quickly pulled away. I wonder how many will return.

More waiting, more stepping. Time is passing at a steady rate, however, and it doesn't seem so long until we're nearly there. I can now catch glimpses of the chain itself winding up the inner corkscrew, its links blurring.

The final dwarf under Duthur's command vanishes. Now it's our turn. I step into the sunlight without hesitation, for I must make a good example for all of those watching. Above me the magnetically suspended chain is hissing in the air. I reach up, grab hold, and am pulled away. Cold air whistles through my visor.

This time, I feel no pain, even though on my first trip I remember a yanking on my arms like that from a troll, followed by a constantly increasing strain in my shoulders. Yet today—the proper term now—I feel none of that. My War Armor takes all the force. It endures and resists the immense power dragging me upward.

It is truly a masterpiece. It and Steelpierce both. Yet, although I trust them fully to bear me through this battle, there is a worry is working on me like a small thorn. At my hip, the power from my armor seems diminished. Just a touch, and I don't think anyone else will notice, yet it's there. And Steelpierce too seems somehow weaker, somewhat light in my hands.

Are these effects real? Is Graveknife eating away at their power, killing them? Or is it just my imagination, a symptom of the slight madness the runes of death are causing in me? I suppose I will find out soon enough, when battle comes.

As we ascend, the sunlight grows brighter. It's not so direct, and thus it must be morning or afternoon up there. If the latter, we might be in for a battle under the moonlight, which I suppose might make things a little less painful. Yet I don't suppose the fighting will finish very quickly. We will end up battling it out in the burning heat no matter when things start.

I try to imagine what's going to happen, but all predictions are useless. The plans of both sides will fall to pieces, as all battle-plans do, and then my dwarves will look to me for command. How will they fare? I've never led so many at once before. Ten thousand! How can any one dwarf hope to control such a force?

None can, of course, which is why I have captains, and guildmasters and their under-commanders too. Still, I will be expected to give some kind of direction. I hope it will prove the right one.

I can see blue, now. The sky! How long has it been since I saw the sky? Not since that cold day alongside Vanerak, when he led me back into the ground to be his prisoner forevermore—or at least until he was able to pick out every last one of my secrets from me.

What is he doing now, I wonder? Might he be on the other side? But I do not think that is very likely. He does not want to be bound by any authority. Even when under Thanerzak he enjoyed a degree of independence. He has vanished, to where no one knows, but I can guess that it is somewhere deep, where his forging will not be disturbed.

The azure circle above widens. The light through my visor starts stinging and I grit my teeth. My ruby seems to relish the pain, though Graveknife feels a little heavier, as if it's trying to pull itself away from the warm giver of life that is the sun.

And now, out! Sunlight flashes on my War Armor, and its runes are like searing lines. Around me, spreading out to all sides are phalanxes of silver, then I start descending before I can get a proper look. They've changed the working of the chain since I was last here—it extends up only a little before sinking back down, looping around a long arm of stone. At the end of the arm I let go, and hit the many-times trampled dirt running.

"March!" I call. "Follow me to our stations!"

I walk quickly, looking around. Most of the other forces are already in position, and it is as if we are boxed in by low walls of metal—the ground here is slightly depressed, so that I cannot see past them. And since Duthur's elites are organizing themselves in front of us, I can't see out either. We will not be the first to see the foes when they come.

But we will see them. The hour, the minute is approaching. Graveknife regains some of its grim enthusiasm and grows chill once more.

Once I am behind the center of the block that is Duthur's main force, I stop and turn to look at my dwarves. I'm ready to direct things if any of the guilds get confused and end up in the wrong position, but my captains are handling everything perfectly: Lekudr with patience, Ithis with fire, and the rest with something in between.

Of the eight, how many will need replacing after all is bled and done?

I shake my head. I should not be asking such grim questions. They are all in strong armor. They have a better chance of survival than anybody.

The drilling has paid off; positioning takes little time. My captains come up to me one by one and report that nothing has gone amiss. I thank them, then get back to staring at the back of Duthur's gem-clad second and third degrees. In the sunlight, their gem-armor is almost blinding.

To their direct left are Runethane Kalthan's forces, mostly in titanium. I cannot see the Runeking—is he here? Will he give some kind of a speech before the battle? And where are his strange automatons? I can't see any hints of gold anywhere.

Just as I am pondering this, rapid footsteps approach me from the left. I look, right hand falling to Graveknife's hilt. A lower degree is running for me, stumbling as if exhausted.

"What is it?" I demand when staggers to a halt. "You do not look like one of mine."

"I am under the command of Thanic Guard Borbam," he wheezes. "To our flank—humans have come. And they ask to see the Runeforger."

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