I stare down the expanse of dark gravel toward my opponent. My visor is still up, for I want to take account of his equipment before we fight—especially his hammer.

Held in just one hand, it looks shorter than even a usual one-handed hammer. To make things odder, he carries no shield. I suppose he trusts his armor to protect him well enough, but in that case, why not carry a two-handed weapon? Does he keep a one-handed one for speed? But hammers are not particularly speedy weapons, and his armor seems to be entirely geared for defense also. From what I've read of his poems, there is nothing about quickness in them.

Well, no matter how he plans to defeat me, it doesn't matter. My light and deafening sound will render him totally helpless. Most battles between heavily armored runeknights last a long while, but this one should end in minutes. My ruby glows with heat. It's looking forward to my crushing him.

Runethane Halmak remains in the arena, a couple dozen paces away from the center. He will step in personally, I presume, if he judges things to be getting out of hand. Not that he'll be able to judge much—he will be rendered blind and deaf as well. But he cannot hold that against me. We are to use our best equipment, for nothing else would make a fair trial.

"Begin!" he yells.

Elder Brezakh begins to walk quickly toward me. I start to advance too, loosening the wrappings on my mace as I walk, but I do not pull them off just yet. I will wait until I'm nearly in range—then blind, deafen and strike in quick succession.

As we grow closer to each other, my heart rate rises quickly. With his visor down, he looks solid, more like a mobile statue than anything alive—like an impossibly hard block of metal, an unliving monument that cannot be knocked down.

But I will blind him—surely then he will be unable to fight.

Halfway there now. I pull down my visor. Blackness takes all, then I see the vaguest dull colors amidst fearful dark. Brezakh is a shadowy magenta shape, running toward me. The ground is shivering with his tread, distorting the faint image across the inside of my visor.

I pinch the cloth wrapping of my mace, pull hard. It comes away. Brezakh flinches, but only a fraction—he was expecting the light—he continues to charge. A few steps and we'll be in range. I slam my mace against my shield.

The dull colors turn vivid. I am upon a sea of red, attacking a figure of gloriously bright purple. The stands are green. It is as if I am in a cave of brightly colored chalk, a cave out of a strange dream.

Brezakh stumbles, puts one hand to his ear. I scream out, shivering the landscape around, and swing at his head. My mace hits the top of his helmet directly. Force shakes my grip on it, and I nearly let go, so strongly do I hit. The bronze bends.

He sweeps at my side with his hammer. The strike only glances, for I am already pulling back. I hit my mace on my shield again, and a new wave of color brightens the arena. Brezakh cries out, the front of his visor seeming to vibrate oddly. I laugh, slam my mace into his upper arm. The metal dents again. Bronze! The runeknights here put so much faith in it, but to me, it's always seemed a weak metal.

He swings, misses. I strike, hit, strike again, hit again. It is as if I am in the forge, battering a helpless piece of metal into form and submission. He cannot block my blows. He cannot see where they come from, cannot hear where I step.

I work his armor over. The magenta begins to turn turquoise as I rend the surface with my titanium flanges. Each time it seems like he's recovering, whenever his blows come close to reaching me, I ring my shield again. Waves of deafening color roll out. In the stands, the spectators cover their ears and cry out.

The creation of a craft like this shield, something so complex and powerful, is out of reach for all but the cleverest runeknights: those with deep knowledge of dozens upon dozens of scripts, to whom the most difficult runic calculations take no more than an hour's effort to solve—for they have practiced them for hundreds of years.

Xomhyrk was such a runeknight. Vanerak, Thanerzak, and Broderick too. Their knowledge of the First Runeforger's runes went far beyond mine, and far beyond Elder Brezakh and Runethane Halmak's too. The dwarves of the Red Anvil guild are simply good at forging. There is no genius to their works.

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But I have unparalleled freedom with what I can compose. This is the advantage of runeforging. This is how I created Heartseeker, Life-Ripper, and my ruby amulet currently burning hot against my chest. How I created this deafening shield. I am not yet one hundred—I don't think I'm yet fifty. Yet I can surpass runeknights who have been studying and forging for many, many centuries.

No one who sees this performance will be able to deny it any longer—I am the Second Runeforger: Zathar Runeforger, the Dragonslayer!

Brezakh rushes for me. He has guessed my position correctly, and swings for my legs. I step back, smash him in the helmet. He stumbles. I step away, smash at his leg. It impacts, but slows his stride less than I predicted. He swings again and guesses correctly where I stand.

His hammer impacts my side. The shock is immense—I feel my armor bend as I'm tossed sideways. I roll on the ground, and he's advancing again. His guesses are uncannily accurate. He swings down. I block with my shield. The colors brighten. He seems to shudder. I swing and hit hard, then roll up and step away.

His head turns to follow me. How? Something is strange here. I begin to worry. He should be blind and deaf. How can he tell where I am?

He steps forward, raising his hammer. I feel suddenly afraid of it. It is hideously heavy, despite how deftly he can wield it. Horribly heavy, and enruned to do great damage. I judge it to be nearly as powerful as Vanerak's poll-axe, or perhaps even equals it in terms of pure strength. If he gets a direct hit on me, my armor will surely shatter.

I side-step, left, left, right. He continues to advance, but now in the wrong direction. I step around him, slam my mace into his back.

The armor dents, turns slight turquoise. Brezakh winces slightly—but only slightly.

How many blows have I given him now? Two dozen? Three? That should be enough to turn most runeknights' plate to scrap, and the bones of the dwarf inside to splinters, yet Brezakh doesn't seem to be slowed at all. All the damage I've done is superficial. My mace, even though it's forged with true metal, cannot break his plates. It can dent them slightly, no more.

He turns. I swipe at his upper arm with all my strength. I hit squarely and feel his plate bend under my mace.

He counters immediately with his own strike. I block with my shield, but it catches the edge and goes past, hits my upper left arm. I cry out in pain as the tungsten bends inward, crushing my flesh and bruising my bone. I stagger away, and he follows, again predicting my movements almost exactly. I strike his hand and fail to loosen his grip at all.

The colors around his helmet shiver—he's saying something, or else screaming a warcry. He spins his hammer around his head, and then it's flying down at me. I block with my shield, but the force sends me to my knees. I leap sideways, step away hurriedly. He swipes at the air a few times, then stops, turns cautiously around.

Only after I strike does he know my position. Of course—he may not have sight or hearing, but he still has touch, and pain. He can tell where I am from the placement of my strikes. Such judgment is simple for him, for he has been fighting for centuries. His combat intuition is likely even better than mine—I simply rely on talent.

He's a fearsome opponent. I've underestimated him badly. Even with no sight and no sound, he has found a way to fight against me, and more importantly, his armor is superior to my weapon. I held back in the forging—ran from the dark runes, fearing them. This was a mistake.

A mistake that could cost me my life.

I can't lose this, though. My guild is depending on me. Most are defenseless, too. I have to fight for them. I cannot fail them—cannot fail those who trust me once again. My memories of Yezakh and Pellas weigh heavily on my heart.

I slam my mace against my shield once, twice, three times. Brezakh cries out in pain, advances toward the source of the sound. His angle is off, and I step around, strike violently. I hit, swing again, but he's already countering. I avoid his hammer-blow by a fraction of an inch, then he's shoulder-charging. He collides with the force of a rolling boulder.

I just manage to keep my balance, strike again. He barely seems to feel the blow. Then he strikes. I parry. He predicts the arc of my next swing and is able to block with his forearm, just under my mace's head. The colors intensify for an instant. He tries to grab, and I pull away—he predicts the movement and his hammer glances my thigh. The tungsten dents and dull pain blooms in my flesh. I fall backwards, roll, scramble away.

He stops still, waits. He's like a statue. I'm breathing hard—how many more times will I have to swing before I break his armor? I circle around again, beating on my shield as I do so. He shivers. I'm damaging his ears, I suppose, but that doesn't matter. It's very clear that he has no use for them right now.

I strike down onto his head. Color rings from it—it's as if his helmet is a bell. Yet the armor is thick, and his mind within remains unshattered. He spins with uncanny speed and smashes at me. I take the blow on my shield, but the force is so great that my hand is wrenched away, and I'm left wide open for his second blow—already coming back at me.

I step away, attempting to dodge, but he's predicted that. His hammer strikes me on my right shoulder. The tungsten cracks, bursts open with a flare of fiery power. Strength leaves my arm. He's not finished—he slams his hammer down at my feet. It catches the toe of my left boot, breaks it.

The spectators raise their hands and weapons, scream, shaking the colors around me. The red gravel seems to boil like heated blood.

I am losing!

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