I ride at the head of our winding train of caravans, standing upon the roof, gripping the railings lightly lest my gauntlets crush them. In front of me the dim tunnel stretches out, concealing horrors, perhaps, around every bend—who can know? The driver of the six blindboar is equipped in heavy armor, where usually those of his trade dress in light chain. These hours, there is danger in any journey, no matter how many runeknights you're traveling with.

Runethane Ilthik, I've heard, has stationed himself in the center of his train, sitting in a box of enruned titanium with blades whirring at the wheels. He is strong, but he is taking no chances.

But I will take mine—with assassins, trolls, or whatever else might try and prevent us from reaching Allabrast. I must prove to everyone just what kind of a Runethane I am. I must show them that I am a ruler who trusts in his own armor and weapons and isn't afraid to meet the pikes of Uthrarzak's legions head-on. The Second Runeforger does not sit in his forge and scribble out magic for others to use, as some believe—he fights.

We've been traveling for nearly two dozen long-hours now, and the journey is proving unpleasant. It is dark. The entire tunnel is rumbling, constantly. The smell of pig and pigshit permeates everything. The whole carriage shudders every few minutes, too. The passage of so many caravans all at once has cracked the stone in places. I hope the wheels are holding up.

A crash is more likely to cause our first casualties than a troll ambush, I think. We've already passed the remains of a few—splintered wood off to the side. All this rapid movement is going to come with a cost. It's already incurred a steep financial one, for me at least. The caravaner guilds know just how rich a Runethane is, and made sure to price their transports accordingly.

I grimace. Apart from the financial pain, and on top of my worry and guilt about leaving my city behind with so few forces to defend it, I'm beginning to have doubts about our Runeking's strategy. Questions weigh on my mind, and I can think of no answers to them.

Why are we focusing all our forces in Allabrast, when Uthrarzak could attack into any of the border realms wherever he pleases? Shouldn't we be gathering there, or at least in some closer central location? Has our Runeking written off the border realms as a lost cause already? And once we do march into battle, what will our tactics against Uthrarzak's massed pikes and shields be?

Speculation at this stage is pointless, though. We will learn of the full strategy at the grand council. In the meantime, I must focus only on what I can control.

After a few more minutes staring out into the tunnel, whose walls are not blurring past quite fast enough, I descend into the caravan. It is long, and packed with twenty of my most elite dwarves, including captains Rtayor and Lekudr. They sit on benches at either side of the chamber. Between them are several barrels of ale.

They stand up and bow to me. I wave them back into their seats.

"Back to your drink, my dwarves. Keep yourselves awake."

They laugh. I grab myself a mug balanced on top of one of the barrels—plain wood, not crystal or porcelain like I've grown used to—and pour some out. It is poor quality, not anywhere near bitter enough. I grimace.

"Not good enough for you?" asks Captain Rtayor. He laughs. "We've run out of the good stuff."

"That will do wonders for morale, I'm sure."

Rtayor, back when we first founded the guild, tended to stay in the back ranks, so to speak. He worked hard, and was plenty strong, but never stood out to. Ugyok was always the more active one.

Ugyok's death to the time sorcerer sent Rtayor reeling into the forge as soon as the funeral finished. He emerged more than a hundred long-hours later, just before Nthazes and his Guardians said their goodbyes to the realm. Now he also wears true-metal, of tungsten. And he has become a master at using my runes. Sometimes, I think he uses them even better than I do.

"Morale is doing well enough," he says.

"In the Runic League, of course. But what about the rest of the guilds?"

"It's not been so bad. I've only heard of a few instances of bad behavior, and their own guildmasters dealt with those incidents swiftly."

"What kind of incidents?"

"Drunken brawls—what else?"

"Brawls!" I shake my head. "We're going to be fighting for our lives before long, and some idiots have already started."

"They're pent-up," says Captain Lekudr. He speaks slowly, like he's always done since the spell. "They need to release their urge to fight."

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Before the battle in the deepest city, Lekudr was young, fanatical, somewhat arrogant, and brimming with latent talent. Forging came naturally to him. Fighting, too. He would do anything to impress me, stride into any danger.

With no amulet for defense, the sorcerer's spell rendered him ancient. For many long-hours, he was on the brink of death, the weakened muscles of his chest barely able to sustain his breathing. He had become nearly blind and deaf. Even after he recovered enough to stand, there was no way for him to craft any equipment to mitigate his weakness. He could barely lift a hammer.

Or so we all thought. Displaying a strength of will that impressed even me, he relocated himself to the nearest forge and began work on an amulet of unaging.

It had to be perfect. He could not let his trembling hands ruin his work—although they did, time and again. But after each failure, I provided him with a new gem. I was not going to let such talent go to waste. And eventually, he proved to me that my faith was not misplaced. He succeeded at his task and succeeded further than most runeknights ever do. His amulet is the most powerful I've seen, apart from my ruby.

Emblazoned with my runes of magma, it keeps his blood flowing fast and strong.

Still, he remains an elder. His beard is long and white, and he does not have so much endurance. Yet he has gained an equal amount to what he sacrificed. His developing skill with metal bloomed fully, and his caution and wisdom also. In only a few thousand long-hours, he joined the ranks of the senior members of the guild. Now he is a first-degree, and wears true metal just like Rtayor, Ithis, Hayhek and a select few others.

"They will be able to release their urges soon," I say. "Discipline needs to be kept strict. I won't have the dwarves of my realm embarrassing themselves in front of the Runeking—or the other Runethanes."

"I agree," says Lekudr. "I think we should implement a training regime."

"And where in stone are they to train?" laughs Rtayor, slightly drunk.

"In the caravans. When the battles come, they won't be out somewhere open, will they? They'll be in tunnels, everyone pressed together close."

"That's true," I say. "Though I do worry about injuries, and fatigue."

"We can break up the empty barrels for mock weapons."

I stroke my beard. "I suppose we could trial the idea. And—we must think up a formal training regimen for when we get to Allabrast. Most of our army has never fought dwarves. And they've never fought in rank, either."

"Mightn't the Runeking have something in mind about that?" says Rtayor.

"I doubt it. You know he prefers that we think for ourselves. And he won't want to overstep his authority with us."

Us referrring the Runethanes, that is. I know some are very powerful indeed. Who are Runekings usually usurped by, after all?

"We do need to train," says Lekudr. "And we need to think of tactics. And strategy, too." He frowns. "I do wonder why we are going to Allabrast in the first place. I assumed, when it all began, that we would be sent to the border realms. Why the center, though? I know it's not my place to question our Runeking, but—"

I hold up a hand to cut him off. "It isn't, no. I don't know why, either, but he must have something in mind. Maybe he's planning a single, decisive charge."

"But our Runeking has always liked more indirect tactics, no? That is why swords became so popular. They wreaked havoc among the long pikes when dwarves could drop right into our foe's formations. "

"I've read the histories too, captain. But times are different now. Who knows what new strategies our enemy has planned? We'll find out when we get into the battle, and no sooner. Or, at least, I will learn something of how we will fight at the grand council."

Lekudr nods. "I apologize, my Runethane. Questions about battle have been occupying my mind a great deal."

"You have never fought against other dwarves either, have you?" I ask. Then I look over the other eighteen gathered elites. "And how about all of you?"

A few raise their hands. I frown. Killing a fellow runeknight is not an easy thing to do, for some. A fraction of dwarves feel remorse for it, even if the one they slayed was an enemy hell-bent on their destruction.

I've never really struggled with such a feeling. I don't want my army to, either. They must become used to the idea of killing.

"We really do need a training regimen, then," I say. "I'll plan one with Ithis." I laugh darkly. "He's one who knows well about killing."

Some of the elites exchange looks.

"Afraid, are you?" I say. "If you're going to be scared, make it being scared of dying, not killing. The dwarves we face are barely worthy of the name, you know. They all craft the same. No imagination. Might as well be troglodytes, or trolls."

"They do make their own daggers," says Lekudr. "Our traditions are not entirely dead there."

"That hardly counts," I say. "In any case, we need to start training immediately. Hated Uthrarzak makes his forces drill more than he makes them forge. And we can't forge here—so we might as well train."

"Yes, runeforger," says Lekudr. "That is most wise."

I drink a little more, and the discussion moves to more peaceful topics: metal and money. Then I return to the roof. I look back along the line of carriages. There are hundreds, divided into trains of six or seven, pulled by straining, grunting white blindboar.

A force of ten thousand. That's what I'm looking at. Ten thousand dwarves, all mine to command.

Running a city of more than one hundred thousand was a task that took a great deal of education. I had to learn a library's worth of knowledge, about economics, geology, construction, law, even agriculture. I had to learn what crops to favor, where to expand the tunnels, how best to apply justice.

I won't have the luxury of time to learn to command this force. I have studied already, of course—even requesting books of strategy from fellow Runethanes. But study is one thing, and violence, of dwarf pressed against dwarf in the darkest tunnels, sharp metal singing through the air—that is quite another.

How many are we going to lose? That is the question that occupies my mind most often. How many of my dwarves will never return to Brightdeep again?

We pass an opening. A rush of cold air blasts from it, chilling my exposed face. I shiver, and another question worms its way into my mind.

I swallow. Despite the beer I just drank, my throat feels dry. I do not like to think about this question very often. To speculate on the answer is to invite terrible dread.

The question is:

Can we really win this war at all?

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