I get to work immediately. First, to organize my dwarves. I shout at a junior runeknight, cowering in awe of the Runeking's voice, to get a message out—a meeting of the ten captains is to take place, and it is to take place now.

Less than an hour later, they are standing in the innermost chamber—all but Rtayor, still out fighting trolls. None make to sit down—they can see the urgency in my eyes. They can tell this meeting will be a quick one.

"The war has begun," I say simply. "Runeking Ulrike has ordered that four-fifths of our runeknights are to muster in Allabrast."

Shock flashes in their eyes, especially in Hayhek's. The fifth of our forces left here will barely be enough to defend the realm. The outer towns, Jaeltham included, will need to be evacuated to Brightdeep, and many of the farmsteads too.

"Captains Hayhek and Torok, you will be in charge of defense while we are gone. Hold the realm well. Have some of the outer tunnels blocked off—I leave the decision of which ones to your judgment. It'll be hard to ward off any kind of mass troll assault through too many places at once."

"Yes, my Runethane," Hayhek says solemnly.

"The other eight—you and your divisions will all be coming with me. You will also be given several minor guilds each to command. Grant them whatever degree of autonomy you think best."

"Yes, my Runethane," chorus the other seven captains, though it is Ithis' voice that stands out the most. He's the unofficial leader of them, second in command of the guild—though it is Hayhek who has a greater hand in the running of the realm as a whole.

"Get your dwarves ready immediately," I order. "Organize forging materials to take also. Prices will be high in Allabrast, very high, and I know some of you have weapons and armor still half-finished. And there will be repairs to consider also."

"How are we going to travel?" Lekudr asks. "I mean, is the Runeking providing caravans, or will we have to hire from the trading guilds?"

"He said nothing about giving us our own transports. So we'll have to pay the guilds. They'll have to make several trips. You sort that out for us."

"Yes, runeforger," he says, bowing.

"Doubtless other logistical issues will crop up. We will deal with them as they arise. There's no time to sit around planning. We must move. Now, do so!"

They chorus in the affirmative and rush off to work. I sit back in my seat, smiling grimly. They will perform their tasks with excellence, even under the direst of circumstances. They are all at least second degree, and loyal beyond measure. So are those they command.

When we first formed the Runic League, we cared only about growing the guild as fast as possible. I wanted as much money as I could get, as quickly as I could get it. But early in my reign, I decided to stop expanding the guild. It was becoming obvious that too many who entered were low in potential, hoping for a shortcut to strength through my runes.

Now we number five hundred, divided into ten divisions of fifty, and never even one runeknight more. If a member perishes—which is not a rare event, even in peacetime—a contest is held among those who wish to join. I preside over it myself, and judge the crafts by their runework.

Only the best enter. And once they do, they do not leave. They must swear absolute loyalty to me, and swear that they will only pass on what runic knowledge their rank permits them to. I will have no more thefts of my runes.

Time to get ready. I'm not in my armor. I need to get it on, and I need to get used to never taking it off. I took to wearing cloth and silk a few years into my reign, to quell rumors of paranoia, rumors that said I was afraid of my own guild. Now, though, paranoia is going to become a useful trait for survival. Allabrast is populated with a million, and it is impossible to keep track of every last dwarf, Eyes or no Eyes. There will be spies and assassins lurking in the shadows there. I'm certain of it.

I return to the forge and begin to pack by myself. Usually, I'd have servants perform this kind of menial activity. They'll see to my normal clothes and accessories—but I won't allow anyone to touch the kinds of materials I have stocked away in here. Not even Ithis and Hayhek.

Into the chests go ingots of true metal: iron, steel, titanium, and tungsten, mostly. Another twelve chests I stock with various reagents. I have plenty of all the eight major ones, and smaller stocks of minor ones also. All are of the purest refinement. Gems next, and then my best forging tools. Other things go in, too, even materials I have rarely used, or have not yet dared to touch.

I lock everything securely. I wrap my half-finished spear-blade tightly in cloth and lay it on top of the first chest. I do the same with the haft. Then, I turn to the armor stand and the steel plates hanging on it.

Its name is the War Armor, and its function is as simple as that name suggests. My echo-eyes and then Nightcutter taught me a valuable lesson about trying to be clever with equipment: it doesn't matter how strong something is if there's a weakness for your enemies to exploit. I am going to be fighting dwarves as clever and powerful as I am, and many of them. I want something simple and reliable to protect me from their blows.

But this is not to say the poem that covers every millimeter of it is not inspired. It tells of a great battle, of shielded dwarves against unshielded ones wielding weapons of every description. The movements of the battle are metaphors for fighting movements. A broken charge is the deflection of a sword from a plate. A sudden counter-attack is a quick strike delivered from the arms. A mass attack, a lunge. The final defeat of the enemy is a mighty hammer shattering upon my breastplate.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Defense and strength are the themes, and the entire thing glows with steady power. It is at least as strong as Elder Brezakh's suit of bronze was—though I worry that Vanerak's mask is still the superior craft, sometimes. As always, I'm using my runes to compensate for my comparative lack of skill at metallurgy.

I run a hand down the plates. I can't help it—this metal is more enticing than flesh ever could be, and I have enjoyed more than my fair share of hungry suitors over the past four decades. But even the most elegant lady's beauty cannot compare with the beauty of these runes. They have been wrought from a dozen different kinds of metal, and hundred if you count alloys. Each has been grafted with a different mixture of reagents, too.

A rune's metal should suit its meaning. That's how I've made my script of metal—my magnum opus of my abilities thus far. It would perhaps be more accurate termed as the scripts of metal, though. There is one for copper, iron, steel, and half a dozen more.

Each reflects the character of the substance it takes for its theme, and each has upwards of ten thousand runes to it. And, unlike most scripts, they can be combined. This was a nightmare to make work. My skin has been burned black and healed white what seems like a hundred times over. But I succeeded at my task, and now they are the most popular scripts in the realm by far, and have spread out of the realm, too—I even saw some runeknights in Ytith's city who had them, though only of the copper kind.

She will be pleased when I reveal my script of gold, I think, though it is not quite developed far enough yet.

A knock comes on the door. I nearly let them in, but choose caution.

"Wait," I command, and I swiftly move to lock the door.

"It is Ulanak."

"I am equipping myself, and will face you once ready. I cannot be too cautious."

There is a pause, and then a deep laugh. "I do not think hated Uthrarzak will have sent any assassins down here, so far away from the center of the fight to come."

"Surely, that is exactly what he would want us to think."

"I do not think so. He is not a subtle foe."

"But he is clever with tactics, from what I've heard."

"Yes. And you will hear more in Allabrast—" his voice changes back to that of his automaton's "—equip yourself quickly, Runethane Zathar. We must discuss logistics."

I obey. I change into some padded silks, and then carefully fit each plate of the War Armor to its respective place on my body. Each piece I put in place, I feel a little lighter, a little stronger, a little more powerful. Once I am done, I feel invincible, and my ruby hums with pleasure. It knows I can kill with impunity in this suit. Even weaponless, I could slay runeknights of third degree without so much difficulty, and perhaps even some of second degree.

Caution and patience, I remind myself. My foes are going to be as well-armored as I am, and perhaps better. I must restrain my urges. When I scent blood, I must think before I act. Discipline—hated Uthrarzak is famous for it. I must hone mine also.

All in all, the preparations take a little over two long-hours to complete. There were more logistical issues than I anticipated. Food was the most pressing, for both blindboars and dwarves. Then there was the issue of overcrowding on the roads to plan around, for Runethane Ilthik is moving his forces out too, and they number three times mine. Iron trolls are always ready to pounce on stranded travelers up there. His renewed campaigns against them have been continuing even since our battle with the darkness, to only a little effect. Everything had to be scheduled accurately, with little room for error.

Finally, though, we are ready. I order the army to form up on the main road outside the guildhall—in the second, greater forging district. I look over the gleaming ranks with pride.

"Too many," Hayhek whispers to me. "Four fifths is too many."

"You will protect the city. I trust you to do a good job of it."

"I will do my best. The trolls are growing in strength, though. This is a poor time to have a war."

"Is there ever a good time?"

"No. But this is worse than most."

I grimace. "To my mind, the sooner it's all over with, the better. This time is as good as any."

"Be careful what you hope for, guildmaster. Hated Uthrarzak outnumbers us. I hope it does not end too soon."

Ithis scowls, his red beard moving like slow flames. "Are you suggesting we might lose, captain?"

"I am saying not to get overconfident," Hayhek warns. "You too, guildmaster."

"I won't," I promise. "I've learned my lessons many times over. Patience is the key. I won't over-extend. Neither myself nor our forces."

But no matter how careful I am, I won't be able to protect everyone. How many will make it back alive, I wonder? Each one of these ten thousand suits of gleaming armor contains a dwarf, a dwarf with a life, a dream, a family too, perhaps. They gaze on me with loyalty, and my responsibility weighs down on me heavier than it ever has before.

Losing fifty of my guild to the sorcerers was a painful enough blow. I do not want to think about losing five hundred, or five thousand—and the latter number is certainly possible. A sick feeling takes hold in my belly. The battles I'm about to face will be the most deadly yet. The reality of what we're about to march into is beginning to sink in. These past two long-hours have rushed by like an only half-experienced dream, but now, at this moment, everything is becoming solid.

I step forward before my nervousness becomes too much to conceal, and raise my spear high—it is called Steelpierce, is of five-sevenths true metal, and has stabbed through many a foe, though never yet a dwarf.

"My army!" I shout. Before me is a loop of metal stood up on the ground, enruned to amplify my voice. "Draw your weapons! Show them to me!"

The street fills with the sound of metal as ten thousand weapons are drawn and brandished. Many dwarves yell out, and their voices sound like the roar of some great and terrible beast.

When the roaring dies, I nod.

"Good. Excellent. These are strong weapons. They will pierce armor well. That's their task; we go to fight other dwarves. They are not like us, though, as I'm sure you already know—they follow heartless Uthrarzak, and are nigh heartless themselves."

I thrust Steelpierce forward.

"Do not feel any regret when you slay them. They are going to do their best to slay us. And they are the invaders, the aggressors. Slaying them is right. It is our duty as subjects of Runeking Ulrike!"

They cheer. A memory flashes by, of one of Uthrarzak's terrified legionaries, trapped in the burning ruins below the black dragon's lair. He was not heartless. He was afraid, and had just fought against our common foe.

But this does not matter. His friends are coming to lay waste to our lands. We must stop them, and that's all there is to it.

"Come with me, my dwarves!" I bellow. "Slay with me! Win this war with me!"

The cheers become a roar, a roar louder by many times than the last. The city trembles with joyous wrath, and I tremble, too, in fear and anticipation both.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.