The first few minutes of the descent are like the first moments of a charge. Fear and thrill mix and make me giddy. Nightcutter feels light in my gauntlets, like I could strike out at any angle, kill in any which way I please.

But when our chanting dies down and silence returns, a new mood descends upon us. It is not quite fear, for they trust that Nightcutter, angled down as it now is, could easily slash apart any weakened black thrusting up from below. Rather, it is a low unease, worries suppressed right down, but with the potential to transform into terror should a great enough shock be suffered.

No one speaks. My dwarves look at their dimmed weapons nervously, as if only just now beginning to realize what Nightcutter is doing. They're entirely reliant on me to defend them.

To them, of course, this disadvantage has been weighed and calculated as part of my master-crafted plan to win us a great victory. But I know better. For all my outward-facing confidence, for all Runeking Ulrike's praise, I truly wish I had not made Nightcutter this way. I wish I could have controlled my powers, wrangled the sphere and subdued it to my will. Then I'd be marching alongside Nthazes and the Runethane as a comrade, not skirting around the back as a powerful, yet shunned and untrusted outside ally.

I stare up at the Shaft to distract myself, watching how the circle of light above gets smaller and smaller as the chains and gears whir on. At first the shrinking seems gradual, then it begins to speed up as my sense of time starts to fade. The light turns to a dot, and then all seems frozen, a river abruptly turned to a glacier, or like a stream of magma stilled to stone. Time is gone. There is only light above, and darkness below.

The whirring of the gears slows. For a moment I'm alarmed, then there's a gently crunch as the platform comes to a rest against the base of the Shaft.

"Disembark," I order.

We march off. Ugyok is last to do so, pulling the lever to set the platform on its journey back up, before quickly hurrying off as the gears begin to spin again.

Old and unpleasant memories return as I look down the tunnel. The ancient pickaxe gashes seem as familiar as the scars on my own skin, like the trauma from my last battle down here has been cut deep into my mind. Last time I was here, I was fleeing for my life as fast as I could run. Will this battle end the same way?

"It won't," I say quietly. "It cannot."

"What was that, guildmaster?" says a dwarf.

I turn to him and glare into his eyes. "It won't end the way our last battle did. There will be no fleeing. This time, we are led by Nthazes, not Yurok. We will fight to the last for him and his Guardians. Do you understand, everyone?"

They look at each other, alarmed.

"We are not to fear death. We are to fight it. Am I clear?"

"Yes, guildmaster!"

"Good. Then let's march. Come on. Ithis and Hayhek, take the rear, some way distant so Nightcutter doesn't rob so much of your light. The darkness shouldn't be able to come from that angle, but who knows what tricks the sorcerer might have prepared for us?"

"Yes, guildmaster!" Ithis bellows.

"Understood," says Hayhek.

They go to the back while I start the march onward. The glow, not too distant, emanating from the troop in front of us gives me some relief. We won't be fighting just yet. Not until we reach the city, at least, and maybe not even until we reach the central labyrinth. Reassured, I shut my eyes and angle Nightcutter in front of me.

We walk, and we walk. The tunnel shivers with the tread of hundreds. Not for many, many years have so many dwarves marched along this tunnel. Maybe not since the tunnel was constructed, all those hundreds of ages ago, in a time that no living dwarf remembers.

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"Guildmaster!" someone whispers. "Can you see?"

"What?"

I angle Nightcutter up, blink open my eyes and see that there is something odd up ahead. A pulsing like of a dark heart, glow to dull, glow to dull, again and again.

"Ready your weapons!" I bark. "There's something strange over there."

I slow the advance, shut my eyes again. Now that it's been pointed out, I can hear the shape of the pulsing heart. It seems to be attached to the wall. I direct Nightcutter at it, but the light has no effect.

What could it be? Some trap? Then why did the others before not trigger it?

As I approach, it's shape becomes more apparent. It's a weapon—a mace with six flanges, its haft slightly bent. I grin widely. The sudden urge to laugh bubbles up in me, and then I do laugh.

"My weapon!" I cry out. "My old mace!"

Its placement is odd, though. I dropped it in the battle with Fjalar, so why is it all the way over here? Did the darkness drag it back in some fashion? If so, why is it so neatly propped up against the wall?

Frowning, I stop before it, and hear that balanced on top of it is a folded piece of paper. I angle Nightcutter away and pick it up. I open it, then read:

Zathar,

I am afraid that I have been rude to you of late. In truth, your decision to develop runes of darkness worried and saddened me. I sensed a change in you when we met again, a kind of wounding worse than that I sensed even at our first meeting. I worried that this wound had changed you, warped you like the old Runethane's wounds warped him.

Even now, I cannot quite trust that your decision was the right one. But you have always been this way, haven't you? Finding your weapon here at the base of the Shaft reminded me—you are an outsider, a dwarf not of the light, but of the great cities above, where evil and good mingle in the public houses, in the guilds, in the marching armies.

You did our realm a great favor by your presence. I choose to trust that you will do another one for us this hour.

Let us fight, and let us win!

Nthazes

The sense of relief that rushes through me is so strong I nearly fall to my knees. He does not hate me after all. He thinks I made the wrong decision—after this I should confide him in properly that it wasn't quite mine to make—but he believes in my good intentions. At heart, he thinks I am a force for good. That I will help him save his realm.

I pick up the letter and hold it high.

"Nthazes says that we shall win!" I proclaim. "He trusts in us to do our duty. When you next set eyes on my old weapon here, the darkness will be no more."

The cheer that follows is greater than I was expecting—I suppose they can tell I'm properly happy to read Nthazes' words. We continue the advance with a bit more spring in our step, and I find that I'm hardly afraid of the darkness at all anymore. Let it come! We'll destroy it together, the dwarves of the deep and the Runic League, side by side!

We march, and we march, and we continue to march. My legs do not tire in the slightest. I move with light, easy precision. The runic power in my leg-plates and boots is flowing strong.

"Zathar!" Alae begs, after some hours pass. "I do not mean to burden you, but could we not slow down a touch? Or rest?"

I glance back—despite the height of her ungainly frame, I'd half forgotten her presence. Pain lines her face, and her wand is limp in her fingers.

Feeling a little guilty, I hold up my hand and call for a halt. Her light is going to be potent fuel for Nightcutter—it would not do if she collapsed. And I know Jaemes always wanted to go down here and see the mysteries for himself. The least I can do is make sure his daughter can take in the sights properly.

"We will take a quick rest," I say to the force. "Eat and drink in moderation, however. We don't know how long we'll be down here."

Alae sits down opposite me. Her pack is small, and she takes only a single sip of water and a tiny corner of a jerky-square.

"You ought to eat a bit more," I tell her. "If you run out, you can have some of mine."

"Your ale would do my body no favors."

"You never know. Isn't alcohol a kind of magic in itself?" I laugh. "Maybe it would strengthen your spell."

"It wouldn't. My magic demands absolute concentration, just like yours."

"Some dwarves prefer to forge drunk, you know."

"Do they have more burns than the average?"

"I am serious," I tell her. "Sometimes it's good to loosen up and enjoy your work."

"All the same, I will pass."

"Your loss."

I finish off my jerky and take another sip of ale. I look at her wrinkled face, then down at the thin piece of wood held loosely in her fingers, which are themselves about as thin as the wand. It's hard to imagine her being able to inflict harm on anything, let alone the deep darkness.

"Do I really look that awful?" she asks, clearly noticing my concern. "I feel as if I'm on the verge of collapse, it's true. You can tell?"

I shrug. "I'm sure you'll pull through. Your father suffered worse during his imprisonment."

"He told me he slept through most of that."

"Sleep while you walk, then. But before we restart, I must ask you something."

"You are going to ask what I know about the beasts carved into the city walls, and of their magic."

"Yes," I say. "How did you know?"

"What else would you have wanted my opinion on, dwarf? I am only surprised you did not ask earlier. And I am a little annoyed that your Runethane never wished to ask either. Nor the Guardians."

I lean in. "So you do know something?"

"A little. And I can conjecture."

"Then conjecture away."

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