We all turn to look at who spoke. Behind Hayhek and Ithis stand the remaining Guardians, just three of them. It's the foremost one who just refused Nthazes' order. He lifts his visor and squints past his large nose.

"We refuse," Hirthik repeats. "We will not disband. Never!"

"There is nothing more to fight for," says Nthazes. "It's over, Hirthik—over."

"Zathar is right, though. There will always be more battles. There are dragons, demons, trolls—maybe worse. We can defend against them. We can be Guardians against them."

"I am too tired, all of you." His voice quietens. Even with my runic ears, it is hard to hear. "I am sorry, but I am too tired."

"Then rest," I tell him. "Rest for a little while. And when you awaken, we will celebrate our victory alongside those who gave their lives for it. We'll build a pyre for them, and toast them as they return to ash. We'll anoint their weapons and armor with the most expensive wines, and they will go to their final rest as the most honored runeknights there ever were."

"And then," adds another of the Guardians, "we will return to our forges and create new weapons, new armor. We will learn to use new runes—the runes of the Second Runeforger. And with them, we will continue our work to defend dwarfkind."

"How does that sound?" I whisper. "Well? Nthazes, my friend, my brother—how does that sound?"

After a long silence, he opens his mouth once more:

"I will sleep on it," he whispers.

He falls silent, apart from his breathing, which, though almost too faint to hear, remains steady in its rhythm.

Hirthik and the second Guardian carry him away, while the third carries Sight-Bringer. As for the Runic League and our fallen and injured, I give quick orders, for the sorcerer's tower is groaning around us, straining mightily under its own weight. Dust is drifting from the ceiling.

Those who are aged, but not quite dead, I order pulled from their armor. Lekudr, despite his low rank and lack of amulet, is among them—perhaps because of his youth. It's a single happy surprise amid the grim scene of so many perished. Of the seventy dwarves who came down with me, only seventeen remain alive. Fifty-three are dead, down here and on the steps of the pit. A grievous loss, and among them is one of the founding members, scarred Ugyok. He was close to the time-blast and his amulet not quite well-forged enough.

I order that his weapon be picked up, and the weapons of all the other dead too—Runic League, Guardians, and Red Anvil alike. There are too few of us to carry their bodies and armor, and cracks are beginning to climb up the tower underneath the brown withered vines.

As for Alae's remains, I pull her tarnished necklace from her skeleton and clasp the chain firmly. It's crude, but was made with heart, I feel. Upon the locket, some human letters have been scratched. I think the first ones might read:

From your father...

Blinking more tears from my eyes, I return to watching over my dwarves.

"It's time to leave," I declare a few minutes later—my time sense has returned. The cracks are about to reach the top of the tower, and I feel certain it will collapse once that happens. "We will retreat in good order. Do not feel shame that we leave the dead behind. As Nthazes said, if the battle is a victorious one, its cavern is as good a resting place as any. Far better than most tombs, in fact. March!"

We make our steady way back through the city. Its other buildings are also beginning to shiver and crack. Just as we reach the gate, there is a terrible crash, and a rumbling. I look back and see a cloud of dust boiling up to the cavern ceiling. It hits it, spreads across. The sorcerer's tower has fallen.

Its rubble will be the shroud of too many.

Now we walk into the forest. Its color is fading, and its birds and animals are squealing in panic. They flee from our approach, heading toward the tunnel at the far end, or else scattering into the outer petrified reaches.

I feel a little sorry for them. They should meet their ends under the surface sun, not the dying light of the unnatural globes above.

Half an hour later, the exit comes into view, and just in time. A branch falls from a nearby tree and shatters with a sound like a dozen bowls smashing at once. I order the march quickened. The air is beginning to grow hot, too. The magic of preservation, it seems, has been keeping the magma surrounding this place from melting it. Now its ancient stone will be reclaimed.

I stand beside the tunnel entrance and wave my dwarves through. I do not want to leave anyone behind. Then, before I step in, I take one last look out over the forest, shining Nightcutter's paltry beam over it—the light in the fire-globes has almost gone. This is this land's final nightfall.

"Goodbye," I say to the fallen. "You fought well. I will remember you. Your deeds will be carved into the wall of the guildhall where the stone is hardest."

I lift my visor to wipe yet more tears away.

"Goodbye."

When we finally make it back to Brightdeep, the streets are deserted. No one dared leave their homes while the battle below was raging, and most probably assume it's now been lost. Silence covers everything, a silence nearly as profound as that the darkness brought.

A realm without its Runethane is defenseless. Every dwarf knows this. Those who haven't yet fled cower, deathly afraid that we have lost, and that some terrible force is about to rage up through their streets and slay them in their beds.

I halt the march in the central plaza. There's only ten of us—the rest are taking the injured, and the weapons of the dead, back to the guildhall. I step up onto the lip of the fountain and point Nightcutter up high. Though weakened, its beam is still bright enough to be seem from the very ends of the streets that lead out, and from the Runethane's castle, too.

"Hear me!" I cry. "Hear me, dwarves of Brightdeep! We have been victorious! Hazhulam! Hazhulam!"

"Hazhulam!" Ithis shouts, and he leads a chant.

"Victory!"

"Victory!"

"Hazhulam!"

One by one, doors begin to open. Dwarves of every profession emerge, pointing and whispering to each other. Rough miners, pretty shopkeepers, hard-faced wives and delicate-fingered jewelers all stare at us. The whispers grow in volume, and become disbelieving cries.

"We won?"

"But I thought the Runethane was lost?"

"They said he'd gone down, never to return!"

"We've won?"

"Then where is the Runethane? And where is the guildmaster of the Guardians? Where's Nthazes?"

"Could it be...?"

"Are these the only survivors? Zathar—is he to be Runethane now?"

I hold up my free hand. "Silence!" I shout. "Silence, dwarves, and hear me speak."

Quiet falls, almost instantly.

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"Many fled at the final quenching," I begin, "but not I, and neither did Nthazes, and neither did your Runethane. We fought the last sorcerer together. It was a monster from the deepest past who commanded not simple darkness, but time itself. It was a brutal battle. Most were lost, including Runethane Halmak."

Gasps of horror break the silence.

"I will be honest," I say solemnly. "I did not agree with his decision to open the final door. I thought he had become too greedy. And that was the truth—he admitted it himself, just before the end. He told us that he was not fit to be Runethane. He gave up the title."

I beat my gauntlet against my breastplate. Both are a corrupted, blotchy white, yet their bell-clang still rings out loud.

"In the end, though, perhaps he made the right decision. We have destroyed the evil down there and destroyed it completely. He was not a perfect Runethane. But in the end, he proved himself more worthy of the title than many others who bear it. His final craft, the Sunhammer, I have ordered carried back. It will rest in his tomb in place of his body."

Some of the dwarves are weeping. He built their homes, built their lives. To them, he was a great dwarf.

As for me, I am torn as to what to think. My rage from earlier has calmed, but only by so much.

His reasonable nature, which I so respected at first, crumbled utterly toward the end. I'm not quite sure what broke him, now—was it truly the Runeking's favoring of me, or was it my killing of Brezakh? Which factor weighed more heavily?

I will never know. But the dwarves of his city will want to remember him as a hero, and I will let them do so. At least, at the very end, he atoned as well as any dwarf could after bringing about such tragedy—he atoned through death.

That is worth a good deal, to my mind.

"As for Nthazes," I continue, "I have better news. He is injured but alive, and I feel certain that he will recover fully from his wounds. The next Runethane of Brightdeep and the realm will be him, not me. He deserves the title far more than I do. Maybe I can forge runes—but his heart burns pure."

The hours pass, short and long. With Nthazes too weak to move, I am left as the strongest in the realm. I change into my magma armor and take up Life-Ripper once again, and get to getting things done.

I make my home not the guildhall, but the throne-room. No one objects.

First, to gather the cowards to abandoned us. It takes a while—and some have fled too far already. I order those we catch to kneel at the base of the steps to the throne, and then I scream at them until my throat is raw and voice gone. I make them promise never to run from a battle again, even if defeat is certain. Eventually, they will give their lives in atonement for their desertion. They swear this in blood—I force them to cut open their own fingers and sign their names in crimson on a great roll of paper, which I have varnished and hung high over the castle gates.

After this, I write a long letter to Runeking Ulrike, explaining every last detail of the battles against both sorcerers. I tell him my suspicions of what happened to his emissary, but also ask that he forgive Runethane Halmak the crime, in light of his final courage.

Things in the realm gradually return to normal. Shops reopen, caravans resume their trading, miners their mining, farmers their farming. I order that the fountain in the plaza be stopped and the water drained. Work begins there on a grand funeral pyre.

I have a long rack constricted in front of it by the city's best metalworkers. The weapons of those who perished in the deepest place are set there. They illuminate the plaza like torches whose fuel burns purest white.

I visit Nthazes regularly. His strength is returning—very slowly, but surely. Hirthik feeds him well, and I get him the best beer to drink.

The hour of the funeral arrives. I stand in front of the shining weapons of light. Behind me, the pyre smells intensely of oil.

I give a long speech. It's more or less the same as the one I gave when I returned, but I add more detail, and end it by listing all the fallen of the Runic League. Nthazes, finally able to stand on his own, gives a shorter speech, and lists the names of the Guardians' fallen.

They are just the Guardians, now, no longer against darkness, but being reforged to fight against other threats. And their ranks are expanding rapidly.

Finally, a surviving member of the Red Anvil guild speaks. He is only a fifth degree, one of the deserters that ran past us on our way to the deepest city's center. He says that they have won honor and suffered shame in equal measure, and will work hard to restore their guild's reputation in the name of Runethane Halmak.

Nthazes lights the fire. It roars. Its heat pushes us away. Kegs of beer and wine are opened, and the entire realm downs drink after drink. Tears are shed, jokes and stories yelled over each other—miners brawl with masons and metalworkers.

But I take only water. I stand sober watch over the fallen as their bodies crumble to ash and their weapons glow red from the fierce heat. The hours pass, and the yelling and the laughter gives way to groaning and retching, and quiet weeping, yet still I stand, staring into the smoke and flames.

Silence falls. Of the pyre, only a mound of ash and bone remains. Booze-sickened dwarves emerge from their homes after many hours' rest to begin the clean-up.

"Zathar?" Hayhek says quietly. "You ought to eat something. You look ill."

"I will, in a little while."

"Not too long. It wouldn't do for you to collapse. You must keep your strength up—you're the strongest runeknight in the realm, now."

"You sound like my mother, Hayhek—not that I remember her, of course."

"Someone has to look out for your health."

"Still, I will wait a bit more. I'm sure you have work to do back in the guildhall—see to it."

"Very well, guildmaster. Please, though—do not be too long."

Some more time passes—I can't tell how long anymore. Dwarves walk cautiously around me, careful not to disturb my vigil. I ignore them. Soon, I'll have to tell them to begin sifting through the ashes for bone to inter. But I can't quite bring myself to give that order.

Too many have died! Too many! I shake my head.

Then, a quiet falls over the plaza. Talking turns to whispering. Unease fills my heart. Through the silence, I can hear heavy, metallic footsteps approaching. They seem oddly familiar. I turn.

My eyes widen. It is Elanak, and the Eye of her scepter is unbroken.

"Greetings, Zathar," she says, but her voice does not sound quite the same—but neither is it the Runeking's voice. "My name is Ulanak. Our Runeking received your letter, and has sent me down here to give you your reward."

"Ulanak?" I say, confused. Her armor looks exactly the same as Elanak's did. "Ulanak? Not Elanak?"

"Others of our guild have gone down to search for her. She will be repaired back in Allabrast."

"Repaired?"

My mind is whirling like a broken-off caravan wheel. Hayhek was right—I've been standing here too long. I am in the midst of some mad dream.

"Runeking Ulrike's power has reached heights only a very select few reach," Ulanak says. "All will be revealed in the oncoming war. You will learn in due time. Now, though, it is time for your reward."

I shake my head. The city sways around me. "Thank you. But I need none. Saving the realm has been reward enough in itself."

"That most is noble of you. But the realm needs a Runethane. And it has been decided that you are to take the title, Runethane Zathar."

Her words are like freezing water splashed over me. I am shaken from my stupor. Sound and vision come back into focus.

"Did you not hear me, Runethane Zathar?"

The city stops swaying.

"No," I say, forcefully. "No. I refuse it. Nthazes should be Runethane, not I. He is the greatest runeknight down here. Runeking Ulrike judged Sight-Bringer himself, and judged it to be better than my Nightcutter. Nthazes must be Runethane. I am not deserving of the title."

"But it has already been decided." Her reply comes without hesitation, as if she's been expecting my refusal. "Nthazes, though a very powerful first-degree, and a whole-degree where his weapon is concerned, is not fit for the role."

"You take that back!" I snap. "He's the most noble dwarf I've ever met."

"Too noble." Her voice has become deep. Runeking Ulrike is speaking now. "Per your letter, he has sworn not to fight other dwarves. In more peaceful times, I would be glad to make such a dwarf into one of my Runethanes. But war is coming, a terrible war. The final stanza in my long, long battle with Uthrarzak. My Runethanes must be fell-bladed, and armored in hate for our foe. Nthazes is not such a dwarf—he will be brought into the Thanic Guard, and his guild given tasks suited for them—but he will not be Runethane."

I shake my head again. "No, my Runeking. I can't take this title. I'm not worthy of it. I haven't even taken the examination for first—nor second."

"Your battles in these past long-hours have been examination enough. I judge you worthy, and my judgments are absolute."

Ulanak steps back. She raises the Eye-scepter high. With her free hand, she clasps my shoulder and forces me to turn around and look upon the gathering crowds. I find myself unable to resist her strength.

From her mouth, Runeking Ulrike's voice booms:

"Hear me, dwarves of Brightdeep! From this hour forth, Zathar is your Runethane. He will rule you through peace and war, triumph and despair. You will obey his every command, for he is the strongest and wisest of you!"

The whole city stares. In the distance, I spot Hayhek. No doubt he just left his duties to come check on me again. His eyes are wide.

"He is Zathar Runeforger and Dragonslayer!" continues Runeking Ulrike. "Once-traitor and redeemed through battle—he will rule you well! Now, bow, and swear to obey!"

His words shake the air. Every dwarf in the city falls to one knee and bows low. I remain in shock, unable to say a word.

"Say the following, dwarves and runeknights!" orders the Runeking. "Say it loud: Runethane Zathar, we are at your service! Say it!"

As one, they cry out:

"Runethane Zathar, we are at your service!"

Again and again, they repeat the words:

"Runethane Zathar, we are at your service!"

"Runethane Zathar, we are at your service!"

Their voices fall out of rhythm, and the chant blurs together in thousand-voiced roar, so that I can only make out the first part of the it, repeating over and over, rising and falling in clarity and volume like the tides of the magma sea, yet it's always deafening:

"Runethane Zathar!" they chant. "Runethane Zathar! Runethane Zathar!"

And then, perhaps from a member of my guild, or maybe from the Runeking, or maybe from somewhere in my own mind, these words come:

"Runethane Zathar the Second Runeforger, Dragonslayer and Once-Traitor! Forge well and fight better!"

And then the chant continues on and on, seemingly without end, until its words are branded hot and clear into my ears and mind both.

"Runethane Zathar!"

"Runethane Zathar!"

"Runethane Zathar!"

RETURN TO DARKNESS

END

Zathar has won a great victory, though one made possible only through terrible sacrifice.

But the next battle will be the most devastating yet, and whether it will end in victory for Ulrike or defeat, none can yet say.

Soon will come a war, a terrible war:

THE LAST WAR OF RUNEKINGS

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