Letters are exchanged. The bids go up. Three thousand golden wheels—that's as high as we can go. My worries about the forest fade. It looks as if we might not be going after all. Then, the final notice comes, written in golden ink. We've been accepted, have managed to squeak in at fourth place. The expedition is to begin immediately—the last major one, I am sure, before the battle against the darkness.

To my mind, the stakes are almost as high as they'll be on that final quest. If we cannot earn the gold we need, our equipment will not be powerful enough. We have to succeed here. Like all battles, that against the darkness will be decided in the forge—and how well our crafts come out will depend, in large part, as always, on gold.

One long-hour after our bid is accepted, we creep out into the silent stone forest. Though, it is not quite as silent as last time. The other guilds have already gone ahead of us, and I can hear the echoes of their tread as they march off in three different directions.

About a hundred of Rostok's Iron Shields are here, as are fifty of Huirah's Silvered Band. Then there are more than a hundred or fifty of the Red Anvil guild—or so I estimated when we gathered in the main square. In contrast to these rather large troops, I have brought only fifteen of the Runic League.

"Quietly does it," I whisper to them as we march down a thin trail, stepping carefully over frozen roots. "We do not want to wake anything."

They seem nervous; I can feel this in the air. Probably most are still questioning if coming in such a small group was really a sensible idea. But I am confident in my decision. In this dense stone forest, it would be easy to lose track of dwarves if there were too many of us. As for the threat of the other guilds and their grudges, I don't think anyone will be foolish enough to try anything. Maybe they'd wipe us out if they attack with full-force, yes—but with me in the fight, they would lose many.

I have slain first-degrees. No one wants to risk combat with me.

We continue, walking up and down gentle covered slopes, eyeing the shadows carefully. Everything is smooth and gray, and delicate, as if nothing has moved here for many thousands of years. Our tread disturbs this peace, and sometimes a gray leaf will fall down and shatter like a broken plate. I hope that if any of the heavy branches fall, our armor will be able to stand the blow.

We come to a rise and I call a halt for sustenance. After consuming my ration and taking a sip of water, I gaze around intently, trying to see through the trees to make out the general shape of the cavern. It's impossible—the stone trunks are simply too close-pressed together.

"Form up around me," I order. "I'm going to have a listen."

I take off my helmet. Despite the nearly complete lack of wind, the cavern air feels cold on my face. I open up my bag and withdraw my runic ears, fit them to their band, place it on my head. Sounds rush into my mind and I nearly stagger from the chaos of sensation—though each sound is more distinct than it was with my last pair of runic ears, it's still overwhelming.

I shut my eyes to better focus on the sound, take a few deep breaths. Slowly I start to make sense of the onrush of information. It's as if I can hear the entire cavern, every sound in it, and every one distorted and echoed a thousand times off and through the tens of thousands of trees. Unfortunately, it proves impossible to make out the general shape things, yet I can tell one thing for certain—but for us dwarves, there is nothing here.

Not an insect chitters. No birds warble; they are all stone. No trolls grunt and thunder, no dithyoks hiss. There's just the metallic tread of the other guilds and their whispered voices. This place is a catacomb. Maybe I should have taken more dwarves—to comb the place for anything of interest.

I pull the ears from my head. "Nothing," I say. "There's nothing here alive, anyway. Just dead trees."

"What exactly are we searching for, anyway?" one dwarf asks. "Forgive me, guildmaster, but things are easier to find if one knows what they're meant to look like."

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"Anything out of the ordinary. If there is anything—hah! Maybe this is just another plot of the elders to rob us—and others as well, this time."

"I am well-informed it was the Runethane himself who ordered it, guildmaster," says Ithis. "With respect, he must believe there's something worth searching out."

"Well, if nothing else, I'm sure a few dwarves in ages past have wandered in here and perished. There may be lost scripts. That might make up some of our losses. Is an unknown script worth three thousand golden wheels, Ithis?"

"Perhaps a lot more. And indeed, I think a lost script is exactly what the Runethane could be hoping for. Everything here is remarkably well preserved. Armor and weapons might be too. Those, and history."

"For those strange ones back in Allabrast who might have an interest."

"Yes. Maybe even the guardians of the lower libraries themselves."

I put my helmet back on and my ears away, and we continue down the opposite slope of this rise. Someone spies a half-shattered lump on the ground, and we inspect. It's the remains of some eagle-like bird, its texture marbled beautifully, though one of its wings has been completely shattered.

We put it in one of the bags we have for artifacts and continue through the trees. For a long while, trees are all there is. Seemingly endless amounts of them. How vast is this forest? Or maybe it just feels vast because getting around is so slow. The stone roots are thick and tangled, and the continually changing shadows cast by those with weapons of light mislead us. We trip often.

"Look!" someone whispers. "What's that?"

I look to where he points. There's a gap in the trees, a kind of clearing. We approach. It's small and contains nothing of interest but for the walls that enclose it. They are low and eroded, but it's clear what they are: the remains of a dwelling.

"Different stone," one dwarf remarks. "That's why it's fallen to pieces."

Ithis shakes his head. "I think not. Look around."

We do so. I see gravel strewn about, though there's very little broken stone elsewhere in the forest.

"Destroyed!" I say. "Gather up some of the larger pieces. Though I doubt we'll get much of a reward for it."

This place is indeed a catacomb, then. Whatever destroyed this dwelling, though, I am confident no longer exists. Most of the gravel is stuck to the floor. It has been here so long that the slight pressure from its weight alone has half-welded it.

Onward we go. The discovery of the broken building does not seem to have done much for my dwarves' nerves. Perhaps I ought to have taken Hayhek on this expedition, rather than leaving him to continue his work with the juniors. He's usually quite a calming influence.

"There's another one," Ithis points out.

We examine it. The remains of the walls are a little higher than that of the last dwelling. I walk in, look around from inside.

A strange feeling takes hold of me. I feel like I've been here before. Something about the shape of this room is familiar.

"Should we grab some more stones?" someone asks.

"Don't bother," I say. "But mark the location, Dunthid."

"Already have," he replies.

He's the most junior here, a seventh degree, chosen for his skills with navigation. He holds a sheaf of paper pinned to a flat board, upon which he is sketching a map as we walk.

"Let's go," I say. "There are probably more of these houses. There might be weapons lying around—rusted little enough we can read the runes."

I feel my stride begin to quicken slightly. I'm becoming nervous. I need to know what these places are, who demolished them. Dwarves from the ancient past, surely—yet that does not explain the strange feeling I got when I stood in the center of the second one.

"Another one," I say. I find myself angling Life-Ripper at it while I hurry forward.

This one is even more thoroughly torn down than the first one. The trees around it are twisted and oddly decayed, too. I inspect them under the harsh glow of Ithis' hammer, and see black grains embedded. This place was burned.

Cold sweat forms on me. There was a battle here, a conquest.

"Fascinating," says Ithis. "Though I can't imagine the Runethane will be able to profit very much off of this—then again, if he offers the mining rights, some script-searching guilds might purchase them for a good price. There might be stores of treasure hidden under the stones. Bring enough miners, and something interesting could be dug up."

"Indeed—but I'm sure the other guilds have found similar places. Whatever profit we gain, it's going to be shared. And it's certainly not going to reach three thousand golden wheels. We need to search harder, move in deeper."

The next two shattered dwellings offer no further clues. Then, past a squat tree with low branches, is one half-intact. The broken walls are nearly as high as I am. I walk in the empty doorway. Dust coats my boots. The strange feeling of familiarity comes over me once more.

I kneel down. There's a blank slab lying on the floor, a section of wall that fell intact. Without really thinking, I grasp its edge and turn it over. It cracks loudly, breaks into several pieces. I flinch back, then lean back in. I frown. Rough indentations adorn its surface, rather difficult to make out. Crowns? Then I realize I'm looking at the piece the wrong way up. I spin it around and my breath stops in my throat.

Upon the slab are carvings of four-legged creatures, their heads strangely horned.

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