The Gray Caverns of Runeking Uthrarzak number more than a hundred. They are the center of power in his lands—lands which span from surface to magma over an area more than twice the size of Runeking Ulrike's holdings.

Each cavern is nearly the size of Allabrast itself, and they are called so for the dust that permeates each one. It is a substance not quite chalk, not quite fine sand, not quite smoke. No one knows, in fact, what it is. Breathing it in seems to do nothing. But its main effect is clear enough—the suspended grains drain all color. Up close, a dwarf can just about make out the hues of gem and metal. Seen from but a few yards distance, however, even the most gaudy armor is rendered in gray, white, and black.

It is a dour land, and the dwarves who dwell there have hearts of stone—or so say those loyal to Ulrike. But there can be no doubt that when it comes to Runeking Uthrarzak, the rumor holds true. He has a heart of granite, or perhaps no heart at all. His own legionaries say so, each and every one of them. It's widely believed that he has never smiled, and this may well be the case.

This hour he sits upon his throne in his grand hall. The walls are plain, the columns perfectly smooth. There are no carvings to illustrate his great victories here, as is the tradition to have in Ulrike's realms. Nor are there long runic inscriptions telling of foes slain and battles won, as is the tradition in other lands.

All is austere, for illustration invites distraction, and distraction leads to ill-discipline. And discipline, more than anything else, is what holds Uthrarzak's many realms and dwarves together.

The far doors open and the prisoner is marched in. While he is only a runeknight of a lower degree, he has still been stripped of his weapons and armor. Discipline and sensibility always come before pride, here.

His guards march him along past many more legion elites, who look upon him with curiosity. They have heard the rumors of the mad defector who threw his weapon down at the entrance to the center-most cavern and begged to see the Runeking personally. How he got so deep into the realm, none can say—Runeking Uthrarzak may have him executed for this embarrassment alone.

It's certain that someone will be executed for it.

The prisoner's skin and beard are gray in the dust. Usually, the sapping of all color has a depressive effect on those taken from Ulrike's realms, but not this dwarf. He seems, rather, to be invigorated by it. His eyes are bright, and directed upon the Runeking with awe.

For his part, the Runeking is uninterested. Many crazed dwarves have tried to seek an audience with him before, claiming some secret knowledge whose telling of will lead to promotion. It is always nothing. They are dragged away and punished before they come within ten miles of his throne-hall.

Yet the overmaster mason, standing in his strange robes only twenty yards from the Runeking himself, thinks there may be something different about this dwarf.

The prisoner can see Uthrarzak clearly now—and though they're visible in shades of dark and light only, the power forged into his armor and arrayed weapons is clear to see. The swords, spears, and axes gleam with sharpness, and the square plates that cover him are enruned finely, and carry a sense of impregnability about them. Colorless gems, like dark clear glass, are embedded at vital points.

He is magnificent! And he is fair, from what the prisoner has heard. Rule-breakers are punished no matter what accomplishments or abilities they hold. He may be heartless, but does the heart not lead many dwarves astray? Greed and pride are born of the heart, no? A Runeking should rule with his head alone.

The closer he comes, the greater the happiness that swells within the prisoner's breast. At last, a just dwarf!

During the last forty yards of the approach, however, the prisoner begins to feel a creeping fear. He is not afraid of the Runeking himself, but rather it's those who flank this final approach that scare him. Though their armor and weapons are of varying quality—all high, from third to first, yet not as high as might be expected—there is something odd about these dwarves that sets them apart.

It's their eyes, realizes the prisoner. Their gazes have the weight of many, many tens of thousands of long-hours behind them. Far more than even most Runethanes have. It's like they barely see him, like he's nothing but a variation on a memory to them, one seen a thousand times before.

The guards stop about ten yards away from the foot of the throne. They push down to make the prisoner kneel, but he's already bending his knees to do so.

"Honored Runeking!" he shouts out, almost weeping. "I throw myself down at your mercy, and beg that I may be allowed to tell what I know!"

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"Tell it, then," says Runeking Uthrarzak. His voice is low and grinding. "Tell us every last detail."

"Gladly, my Runeking!"

And the prisoner does so: starting from when he first met the Runeforger in Allabrast and trained under him. He tells of the insults he suffered, and the respect he eventually gained for the arrogant dwarf—a respect the prisoner would come to regret bitterly.

He goes on to tell of the ill-fated dragonhunt, of their battles with the humans and with the great ice-beast in the north. The advisors near to the Runeking raise their eyebrows at his account of the final battle against the black dragon. It differs somewhat from the official account, told by the vanished Runethane Broderick.

It is when he describes the events prior to the battle, however, that the prisoner puts the most vehemence into his voice.

He talks of how the Runeforger, Zathar, swore to protect him and the rest of the tenth degrees, and then abandoned the promise. He was thinking only of his own glorious redemption. As for how much others had to suffer for it—he cared not at all.

He moves on to talk of their capture by Runethane Vanerak, and the horrors they suffered in that realm. Imprisonment, love, then death most cruel. His one love, dead for Zathar's arrogance!

In Ulrike's realms, no one cared. Zathar's abilities put him above justice—he can do whatever he likes, and still others will follow him, and follow him obsessively. That was proven in the deep, when many abandoned even their own guilds to join him.

"A most interesting tale," says Runeking Uthrarzak in his grinding voice. "But what proof do you have that this runeforging is real, and not some mass-delusion?"

"I have made crafts that use his new runes myself. Runes of magma. They were taken from me, but I hope you examine them. They are all the proof you will need."

"How will I know they are not just runes of some other script, known only to Ulrike's scum?"

"You may compare it to every piece of armor you have taken from Ulrike's dwarves, honored Runeking. But you won't find its like."

"Scripts are uncovered often. Most have been lost. Do you have proof it is not one of those?"

"No, honored Runeking." The prisoner's heart is in his mouth, and his stomach is sick. "But I must beg you to believe me."

The Runeking folds his arms. "Mason—it was you who persuaded me to hear out this mad dwarf. What do you have to say?"

The overmaster mason looks at the prisoner thoughtfully. Then he speaks, in a voice so strangely familiar it makes the prisoner's heart nearly stop.

"This Zathar—how does he make his runes? Does he sing them into being? Or does he use some kind of artifact? Some tool?"

"I have never seen. But examine my crafts, please. You will see they are not enruned with old runes. Please!"

Runeking Uthrarzak sits back. He thinks. And he decides.

"The rumors have grown too numerous to ignore," he says. "Most of my advisors claim they are nonsense, but if ancient powers from many ages ago can awaken once more in the masons, then why not also in runeknights? I believe you, short-beard."

"Thank you!" screams the prisoner. Tears pour down his cheeks. "Thank you!"

"For the information you have brought us about this new tool of the enemy, you will be rewarded with your life. You may join the legions and become one of us."

"Thank you, glorious Runeking. Thank you! That is all I desire—a chance to take my revenge."

Runeking Uthrarzak looks at the prisoner curiously. In his eyes, he sees a fanaticism that usually takes a century or more to create. He is obsessed, this one, and will be loyal to the end.

"What is your name?" he asks.

"Guthah, glorious Runeking. My name is Guthah."

"Take this Guthah to that secret place," he orders the guards. "He is to be granted the gift, and shall join my elites."

"You must believe me!" the prisoner shouts. "Runeking, you must believe my tale!"

"Why should I believe the daughter of a traitor?" Runeking Ulrike says coldly. "Your father's betrayal led to the death of one of my strongest. For his own greed, a realm was thrown into ruin."

Braedle clutches the steel bars hard, as if to bend them—but bare flesh could never bend bars such as these, forged by a first-degree judge. She is being held in the deepest cells of Allabrast Civil Prison, where Zathar himself was once locked away.

"My father is dead, now. Dead! And the dwarf that killed him holds powers that could turn the tide of the war against you. You must believe me, Runeking!"

"Believe that a dwarf could sing, and turn stone to liquid?"

"Yes. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Yet this liquid was not magma."

"No. It was cold. He did not change the stone by heating it."

The Runeking shakes his head. "What you say is impossible."

"How can you say that, being a Runeking? Having turned stone into eyes!"

"That was through the power of runes. Not singing."

His eyes glaze over for a second, and his crown hums quietly.

"My Runeking, you must believe me," Braedle begs.

"I am not your Runeking," says Ulrike sternly. "Your Runeking is my foe, hated Uthrarzak."

"No longer. He has allied with the traitor that killed my father. Hardrick—though he isn't Hardrick anymore. The silver legend is dead. In his place is something worse."

"And that is another aspect of your story that makes no sense. How could one dwarf transform to become another?"

"There are dwarves to the south who alter their bodies with runes. And we do it ourselves by our amulets!"

"But to change into another one? And through this, gain the power to sing stone into shape?" He shakes his head. "I cannot trust you, traitor. Twice traitor."

"You don't have to trust me. You don't have to free me. But you must believe me!"

Something in her tone makes the Runeking waver. After all, if new runes can be created, then why shouldn't dwarves change their faces, and sing to shape stone? Trolls are even using runes during these strange hours.

"I will think on it," he says.

"You must do more than that, my Runeking. You must prepare. He has talked his way into Uthrarzak's circle of most trusted advisors. When he comes for you, this mason, as he calls himself, will come as well."

"As I said," says Ulrike, "I will think on it."

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