"A great battle has been fought, and a great victory attained!" Runethane Halmak cries out, at the climax of his speech. "But more than this, we have gained friends and allies who, after fleeing from most terrible oppression, have chosen to reside in our promised realm of freedom and wealth! I say again: welcome, new citizens of our proud city of Brightdeep! Everyone, runeknights, masons, metalworkers, jewelers, farmers, and all alike, raise your cups and drink to them!"

I shout with joy and raise my flagon high. Hayhek knocks his own against mine hard, and several of the Salamander Coats do in turn. Most of my beer sloshes out, but I don't care. There's plenty flowing this hour. I swig what remains down, then shove my way a few bodies through the crowd to pour myself some more.

The journey back to Brightdeep was an uneventful one, though it was quite strenuous and very time-consuming. Even some of the runeknights were not strong enough to climb down the sets of rusted climbing spikes and wonky rungs, let alone the children, the elderly—elderly commoners, that is—and the many wounded or ill. Groups had to be sent down to bring up lengths of rope and sections of timber to construct pulleys. Supplies had to be brought up, especially water, since nothing in the Mushroom Farm is fit to drink untreated.

After many journeys up and down, and a violent skirmish with lurking bzathletics that came through cracks in the walls, we finally managed to bring everyone to Brightdeep.

Runethane Halmak himself greeted us on our return and asked to hear the refugees' tale. Hayhek and Ithis told him all: of losing their way, being beset by lava trolls, having to cross a great, unmapped chasm the same length and twice the depth of that in Hazhakmar, becoming lost in black warrens whose walls were slicing glass—these were the only first incidents of this great saga. It moved him greatly, and right after hearing it, he ordered this great feast held.

Its purpose is threefold: to celebrate of our victory, to mourn the dead—now set into scaffolds of firewood within the drained fountain—and, most importantly, to welcome the coming of nearly a thousand new citizens into Brightdeep.

"Drink! Drink!"

"Eat!"

"Look at her, over there!"

"Drink!"

"Drink!"

"Careful there!"

Shouts of merriment ring in my ears as I throw down flagon after flagon. All is free to consume this hour. I shout myself, to be heard over the racket, to Hayhek, Ithis, and Polkud. My movements dull, and my voice grows still louder. Things fade into view, then out: the pyres roar, families weep—dithyok blades and heads are held up for display, children scream and cheer—runeknights throng around, congratulating me, and commoners doing the same—many ladies too, dressed in their finest and with long hair braided and dyed to look like bands of gold.

The food is magnificent also—in appearance, at least. I can't really tell how it tastes: it's just something to go with the alcohol. My head begins to feel light, and I stagger down an alley, unleash at the wall. The stones here have been so well polished that I can see my reflection in them. I look at the mad smile on my face. It's a strange sight—how long has it been since I saw myself smile? I had a mirror in Vanerak's realm, but the only expression I ever saw on it was anguish.

After completing the drunken ordeal of re-equipping my lower plates, I stagger out into the main street and nearly crash into a strange figure with a wild, fanged mouth. He becomes two, semi-transparent figures. I blink and he becomes one again.

"Ithis?"

"Watch it there, Zathar Runeforger," he says. "You shouldn't let your guard down so easily."

"My guard's up just fine," I slur. "Think you can harm me?"

"Oh, not on my own, never. Just be careful."

He's holding his warhammer. Something about the head, a hint of black blood around the base of the spikes, sobers me up a touch.

"Haven't talked to you all evening," I say. "Where have you been?"

"We've talked plenty. It was hard to get through to you though, past all the laughing."

"Being happy isn't a crime."

"Not at all, not at all."

I spread my arms wide and stagger forward, grasp at him. He steps to avoid.

"You ought to lighten up, Ithis! Enjoy the free drinks. Why, by your speech, I don't think you've had even a drop. Have you lifted that visor at all this evening?"

He lifts it. His reddish beard is wild and streaked with black ash, and his gaze is piercing. He lowers it again. "Like I said, I don't think it's wise to let one's guard down."

"Worried someone's going to stick you? With everyone around, so?"

I gesture widely, and realize that the street, tilting back and forth like it's floating on water, is empty. And where is this street, anyway? It's not the main one.

"I'm not so worried about myself, Zathar Runeforger. More about you."

"Thanks for your concern. But I can fight on my own."

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"Not always. You think you're invincible, that your powers are a kind of armor in and of themselves—they are not."

I scowl. "They give me enough strength."

"A runeknight should never be alone. He must have comrades beside him. Armor is no defense against a needle-dagger, or a poisoned flagon, or a sudden rockfall triggered by a wire two or more pairs of eyes might have been able to spot."

"Well, quite."

He smiles. "And it is quite difficult to earn money on your own as well, isn't it? You were complaining."

"Yes!" I laugh, though somewhat bitterly. "You have no idea, friend."

"I do have some idea. Perhaps rather more of an idea than you do."

"Well, indeed. Yes, that's probably right. Vanerak's gifts were not priced in gold."

"Indeed they were not. But things are more honest here in Brightdeep. Ah, to be in civilization! Away from the lava trolls, and the constant thirst. Damn those masons!"

Hayhek told me that the masons, who vanished from the realm first, took most of what food and drink there was. They seemed to know all the hidden stashes.

"By honest, you mean everything runs on gold."

"Gold runs, would be a more apt way of putting it." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "But this is no place to talk. Come, Zathar Runeforger. Let's get back to the party. Let's find some water to cool your head with. We have things to discuss."

I let him guide me along the wobbling road. The city isn't quite as noisy as it was before; the party seems to be dying down. We turn a corner and the scent of ashes hits me hard. It remind me of my skin burning, and the memory of that pain sobers me further.

Ithis raises a hand high. "Come here!" he cries. "Friends of Zathar, gather!"

About two dozen runeknights come toward us from beside the crumbled pyres. I recognize Hayhek—he's urging a young lady runeknight to get away, though she follows. Ugyok and Rtayor are coming too, along with ten others of the Salamander Coats. The rest are all in tungsten that glows with runes of my own design.

"Enjoying yourself a bit too much, Zathar?" says Ugyok. His helmet is off, revealing a face furrowed by two dozen deep scars.

"Never."

Hayhek looks quizzically at Ithis. "He can't sign anything in this state."

"We're not signing anything this hour. Just talking."

"About what?" I ask. "And where's that water I was promised?"

"Here, honored runeknight," says a junior runeknight, and she hands me a waterskin.

I drink it in one gulp.

"Should have splashed his face," says Hayhek. "Wake up, Zathar."

"I'm awake. What for, though, you still need to tell me."

"You mentioned money troubles."

"I might have done."

"You're copperless."

"Not quite."

"As good as," says Ithis. "We think we have the solution. One that's going to benefit not only you, but a great many other dwarves as well."

He sounds a little too enthusiastic.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this," I say. "Another ill-advised delve? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"Nothing of the sort," he laughs. "It doesn't involve any fighting at all—not physical fighting, at least."

"I'm sorry, Ithis, but I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." My head is beginning to pound. "Hayhek?"

"I'll say it straight—we want you to establish a guild."

A guild? A guild of runeknights? His words shock me more than any splash of chilled water could. They want me to establish a guild?

I shake my head. "No. I have a guild. The Association of Steel."

A solemn quiet falls, like a shadow of sound has come over us—the silent specter of death.

"They're gone, Zathar," Hayhek says gently.

"Guthah lives."

"He wants nothing to do with this, nor with you."

"There's one other—Ulat. He might live."

"Alone on the frozen surface, with no supplies? You killed him too."

"I still live."

"As the last one. And not as a designated successor, either."

"A what?"

"To become guildmaster, usually one has to be a designated successor," says Ithis. "A great deal of blood can be shed otherwise."

"If a guildmaster falls in battle, duels over who becomes the next one are not uncommon," says Hayhek. "The Runeking's succession laws reduce that risk, somewhat."

"Who is going to duel me for the guild?" I ask. "You say I'm the only survivor. Can I not—"

The crowd of dwarves seems to spin. I feel myself stagger, and someone steadies me. What I am I saying? Am I actually considering this? Am I saying that I deserve to take the place of Wharoth?

I've surpassed him in strength, yes. I stood against Vanerak while Wharoth was slain. But does that alone give me the right to lead? What would he think of me taking his title? Not very highly, I imagine. Especially if he were to learn how I failed Guthah, Pellas, and the other tenth degrees. He would never have betrayed them like I did.

"No!" I shout out. "I don't have the right."

"Then begin your own," says Ithis.

"Stop pushing him," says Hayhek. "He can come to his own decision, in time."

"Why are you so keen to join some guild under me, Hayhek?" I ask. "Your son followed me—to that bridge. And now you will follow me as well? Why?"

He grimaces. "For gold, Zathar. For necessity. We are not equipped for life down here. Our armor is made for magma, not darkness and dank gloom. We need funds just as much as you do."

"Gold, eh? It always boils down to gold."

"Yes," says Rtayor. His face, darkened and reddened by old burns, shows sorrow. "We came down here for gold too. We've found little more than death, so far. But perhaps now—"

"And you think that because I killed one whipper—and it nearly killed me, I can tell you—you think that makes me a leader?"

"You led us just fine. In fact, I would say you led us well."

"Those I've led before ended up dead. I failed them."

"Then learn from your mistakes," says Ithis. "Behind all the greatest crafts lie untold wrecks. You can do better, this time."

I look from his eyes to Hayhek's—he really wants me to lead him? After all that happened between us? He, at least, should know better. Why is he asking me to do this? What is truly behind these dwarves' sudden request?

My runes, of course. It has to be. These dwarves want power. They're greedy for it. And yet, what I see in their eyes is not the same as what I say in Oludek's. It's not greed I sense from them, but desperation. They are begging me for help. Begging me!

Is wealth, in gold or whatever other form, really so precious? But of course it is. Down in the river caves, after Dwatrall's folk retrieved the armor from dead runeknights for us to melt down for no cost but time and sweat, I leapt the gap straight from tenth to fifth. He told me: the deciding factor is not skill, but materials.

Without materials, you cannot make your crafts. Without crafts, you cannot fight, and we must be able to fight. War is creeping through the tunnels toward even this peaceful place, and from below, the darkness could roil up at any time.

"I won't be of any help," I say stubbornly. "You're making the wrong decision, choosing me."

"Perhaps so," says Ithis. "Yet I think not. You are unique, Zathar Runeforger. Whatever your flaws, you have a great power. We would like to be closer to that power. Not for our greed, but for our protection, and the protection of those we hold dear. And, indeed, the protection of our new home."

"My power won't make gold. I can't even make any for myself, let alone for two dozen of you."

"Just because it has made you none so far, doesn't mean it can't. I tell you that it can, just so long as we are clever about it."

Clever about it? Pain is bursting behind my eyes. I'm in no state to be clever about anything. My stomach begins to twist, and I feel sick. Acid is rising in my throat. Black maelstroms are swirling in the center of my eyes.

"Get a bucket..." someone says, and then everything goes dark and quiet.

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