The enemy Runethane backs away, afraid. He spins his flail before him in wide arcs to guard himself, clutching his dagger to his side where I struck. Blood is running down his hip and leg, leaving a scarlet path in the mud.

Thunder shakes the world. I snatch out with my left hand and grab the flail's chain. Its head wraps around my arm, and I let it. I'm a close-range fighter now and step in gladly. He stabs upward at my ribs, but I predict the blow easily and cut his wrist. Chain and sinew both part. He screams in pain and anger.

"Like a troll!" I yell. "You're no better than a troll!"

"Die!" he screams, and slashes wildly again.

Yet the blow does not have much strength behind it. I block with Graveknife's edge, cutting into his hand. His eyes go wide as dark blood sprays out.

His healing is not working as it should. What use are runes that affect flesh when the flesh is not only rent and torn, bleeding and broken, but dying from within? Just as runes have little power over rusty metal, so too it seems runic chains cannot exert their full power on flesh riven with death. Graveknife's power is a cruel foe for these dwarves.

I press the attack, stabbing and slashing. My enemy drops his flail and wields his diamond knife in uninjured his right hand. He's skilled, and blocks many of my attacks, yet the wound in his side is taking a toll. He winces each step, blood continuing to trickle out.

His dwarves charge for me but the Runic League wards them away. I grin viciously—there is no escape for my enemy. I leap and drive my boot onto his foot. He slips and falls, clutching at his ankle. Power shimmers around it as the broken bone heals, yet he does not pull his limb back in time, and I kneel to slash deep into the meat of his calf.

He cries out and strikes fast at my eyes. I retreat, unwilling to overextend. He flails and struggles to stand in the slippery mud. The ground here is half a swamp in this slight dip in the battlefield.

The moment he regains his footing, I charge again, driving Graveknife toward his heart. He sees there is no chance for him but offense, and aims at my own heart, yet he seems unused to fighting armored opponents. Such a strike might work if my breastplate was damaged, but it is barely scratched. His diamond knife glances away at the same moment Graveknife plunges between his ribs.

All life and fury in his eyes go dull, and he falls down with a splash, arms splayed wide. I raise Graveknife and cry out:

"I am Zathar, Runeforger and Dragonslayer! Flee from here, savages!"

The desert dwarves cry out in horror. A couple redouble their attempts on me; I slay one in a few strokes and blind the other, whose throat Brognir subsequently opens with his bronze sword. The rest flee at the sight of their fallen leader. I stoop momentarily to pick up the dead Runethane's knife for a trophy, and charge.

"Nachroktey!" I scream. "Nachroktey!"

"Nachroktey!" replies the Runic League.

We plunge onward through the mud and water. It reaches past our shins and slows us. I curse—how dare it get between us and our foes? There are many of them out there through the rain. I can just make out the shapes of another line readying to charge. Readying for their own slaughter.

"My Runethane!" someone is shouting over the sound of the wind. "Runethane!"

I slow and turn my head, irritated. "What?"

It's Captain Brognir, his armor dented and blade chipped in a couple places. He jogs to a halt beside me.

"I fear that we are extending ourselves too far," he says. "We might find ourselves surrounded on three sides, and stuck in the mud to boot."

"All that means is there will be more of them to—"

I stop my words and with great effort quell the burning of the ruby in my breast. I breath deep the wet air, and try to feel the coolness of the water running inside my helmet.

"Thank you, captain," I gasp. "I nearly lost myself. You are right, of course. Our duty is to plug the gap in the lines."

"Let's give the order to fall back to them, then."

"Yes. Runic League and all of Brightdeep!" I call out. "We are to return to our positions in orderly fashion." Appropriate signal flags are raised, half white half blue. "Follow Captains—"

"Above us!" someone screams. "Dragon!"

Through the clouds a scarlet beast is bursting, flames hot in its mouth. A gout of heat roars toward us.

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"Throw yourselves down!" I yell. "Into the mud, now!"

Without stopping to see if I'm obeyed, I fling myself down bodily. Brown water forces itself through my visor and I splutter on it. A second later, I feel a terrible heat on my back, a dry and malicious heat I'd hoped never to feel again: the heat of dragonflame, greed for destruction made manifest.

There is a hissing sound, then the heat diminishes. Someone screams; the scream fades away fast. Expecting an attack, I pull myself out. Dust clouds around me from the breaking of the flash-dried mud.

"Where's Captain Haljar?" someone shouts. "He was here beside me!"

"The dragon took him!" says a junior runeknight. "It passed over me..."

Through smoke and steam I see the enemy advancing, charging. "Retreat!" I shout. "We're caught in the open here! Retreat! Go!"

White signal flags, many burning, are raised and flutter in the wind. My dwarves turn and begin to run. I toss the slain Runethane's diamond-dagger into the dirt, fearing that it's brought me bad luck, then I turn and start running myself. The power of my War Armor drives me fast, but when I reach the slowest of my dwarves, I slow too. A Runethane does not abandon his troops unless absolutely necessary.

"Kill them!" our foes are screaming from behind. "Kill them all!"

They're getting closer. We can't escape. "Turn!" I order. "Form a line, quickly!"

Those nearest me obey, but the rest are out of earshot, including those designated as signalers. I spit onto the ground, which is already turning back into bog from the relentless rain. Graveknife trembles, hungry for death. The second fight of the battle is about to begin.

Or, perhaps not. Heavy splashing of a different rhythm from dwarven boots draws my attention. I turn and relief floods me. The human wizards are here, trotting quickly over the ruined ground, their horses' legs vaguely reddish from splashed blood.

I count: nineteen. Five already have fallen, then.

"Thank you!" I call to them. "Thank you! Though this is not quite the center."

"We may go there when it suits us, Runeforger," says the woman wizard with green eyes, slowing and stopping her steed. "Before then, we have a question to ask."

"But before then, foes to slay," says their elderly headmaster. He jabbers something in human, and two brown-bearded wizards ride forward past him. "Watch this, Runeforger!"

Our foes are charging onward, fearless of the humans. I predict that this is about to prove their downfall. The two wizards called forth raise their staves and power gathers. In a flash, fingers of lightning dart forth, ripping the air with a noise like the blares of a hundred twisted trumpets. A dozen desert dwarves fall, smoking, and only half get back up. The headmaster orders another blast. More enemies fall, nearly twenty.

The attackers halt the charge, though they don't turn around just yet.

"Impressive," I say. "If only there were more of you masters of magic."

A different wizard jabbers something, and the woman wizard speaks with urgency:

"The red dragon is circling up high, breathing deep to regain its power. My student feels this in the clouds. With your permission, we can spring a deadly trap for it and its brother on their return. What do you say?"

"I am not your commander, humans. You can do as you see fit."

"Excellent!" cackles the headmaster. Despite his age, the cold and rain does not seem to bother him at all. "You see, Loume? He wishes to see what we are capable of. Like all dwarves of his station, power draws him."

Fire flashes somewhere in the distance. Graveknife trembles, as if it senses the burning death of many, even so far off.

"It is a perilous spell," Loume says to me. Wind whips at her tied hair. "Even if cast correctly, the destruction will be tremendous. Dwarves on your side will die for certain."

I nod. "I see."

"Perhaps many dwarves."

"More will die to fire, should the dragons continue their free reign."

The loss of Haljar is beginning to numb me. He was one of the first, fought with us against the sorcerers, and in many more battles too, forging and fighting hard to attain his position, then was snatched away so easily.

"The ire of your Runeking may be—"

"He will understand," I snap. "So what if a few die so that the better part of our strength can be preserved? All commanders weigh those sacrifices. Cast your spell, wizards! Bring down the dragons. This one, then the other too!"

Loume nods once. "Very well."

She says something to the headmaster, there is a brief back-and-forth between them, then the headmaster shouts to the rest of the wizards. They lead their horses to form a circle.

"Should I order my troops to run?" I ask.

"Most of them should back away," says Loume. "Preferably as far as possible. Keep your best close, however. Nothing immediately above us should be harmed, and, well, they will be good bait, crammed together."

I do not want to use any of my dwarves as bait, least of all my Runic League, but she speaks sense. I give commands: Captain Lekudr and four other captains will lead the reserves away from here, while Captains Ithis and Brognir are to stay close with me and the Runic League.

Signals go up, runners are dispatched, and the main part of my force breaks away, marching slowly through the mud. Meanwhile, the wizards continue their preparations. A calm is upon us, a lull before greater clashes of fire and wind, armor and weapon. The enemy here has met with bloody failure and is forced to regroup—glancing across the lines either side, Duthur and Kalthan also seem to have won their first fights, judging by the number of chain-wrapped bodies lying in the mud before their dwarves.

Though, I worry about the rest of the army. The enemy can't have been bested everywhere. They are likely running rampant in at least a few places. And despite the rain diminishing the dragons' heat, and the orders to spread out, fire has surely taken a heavy toll.

"We are ready," Loume tells me. The wizards now stand in an odd pattern, still mounted. "Are your forces all gathered yet?"

"Yes," I say.

The main part of my force is now hardly visible for the rain. As for the Runic League, they are pressed in tight around the circle of horses alongside the most powerful guildmasters and their best dwarves too.

"Good," snaps the headmaster. "About time! The red dragon has replenished some of its flames and is coming back down. Its belly is full of heat, nearly to bursting!" He suddenly laughs. "And we will burst it!"

"Should we duck down?" I ask.

But he doesn't answer. He raises his staff high, and the other wizards copy him. Their elongated, sparse-bearded or bare faces are rigid with concentration.

Nearby clouds part. Sunlight illuminates a red shape swooping for us, flames and claws both reaching down.

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