The starting section of the tunnel is no different to any other mine's. Gravel crunches beneath our feet. The walls bear the brutal scars of hundreds of pick-strokes, and the air tastes of old sour sweat, tinged with hints of despair. I grew up in a place like this, but it was never so quiet.

Apart from us, no one seems to be here: neither miners nor runeknights. Whereas the pit above was whirring with activity, this tunnel seems to be abandoned. I wonder why the rest of the pit hasn't been evacuated—I suppose if any trolls do emerge, everyone can retreat via the minecarts fast enough.

Still, shouldn't there at least have been some guard at the bottom?

The tunnel winds downward. I begin to grow uneasy. It's an exploratory one, I think, dug out to hunt out veins winding through the untapped stone below the main mine. Gradually it grows thinner, so that my War Armor scrapes against the sides.

Torches dug out from our supplies light our way. The flickering flames catch in the pick-grooves, but suddenly those grooves end, and a perfectly smooth section of tunnel begins. I halt everyone just before it.

"What in hell?" I mutter.

I've never seen anything like this, and certainly not in a mine. The walls are so smooth and circular that they barely look as if they're made from stone. I run a finger along the rock. It's smooth as skin, and is undulating in form, like the curves of a body.

"Looks like a throat," whispers Ithis. "But I think our boots will grip."

Briefly, I consider turning back. But what a way to start the war that would be—with a retreat! I am confident that we can defeat whatever is down there. I am a Runethane, and my dwarves standing behind are all powerful too.

"They will grip," I say. "To battle, my dwarves. Keep your wits about you."

The smooth tunnel proves slippery. Upon the boots of my War Armor is a poem about a division refusing to budge under an all-but-overwhelming attack, and so the soles manage to grip the stone, just. But as the tunnel steepens, I'm forced to use Steelpierce like a crutch. I don't go so far as to dig the point into the rock, but it's still an insult to the weapon, and I start to feel a bit ashamed.

Then, fairly quickly, the smooth tunnel opens into a natural cavern. I cough on the dark chalk dust. These are the caves of night. White dots glint around us.

"We might have gone the wrong way," Ithis suggests. "There's no fighting here. Nothing lives in this place."

I order some of the torch-bearers to walk out of the formation a little and try to illuminate the general shape of the cave. It's a dead end to the left, leaving only one way to walk: rightward and downward.

"March," I order.

Our boots grip the stone easier here, and in the steeper parts, there are stalactites and fused columns to grab hold of. We march for an hour, and then a bit further. I'm starting to think Ithis is right, that my cave-sense was mistaken and that we have gone down the wrong tunnel.

But the existence of the smooth portion still bothers me. Especially how it joined to the roughly mined part, with no border at all. It was almost as if the scars were sanded away, yet who would do such a thing? And who could have done such a thorough, beautiful job of it?

A mason, that's who. No miner could have worked stone like that, and no runeknight either. Only a mason—the class of dwarf who has been, slowly, almost imperceptibility, vanishing from every realm.

I recall the master mason of Vanerak, and the book he stole from me. What he said, about stone being no match for metal.

"Do you hear that?" Ithis whispers. "Up ahead, I heard a noise."

I halt the column and listen. With no runic ears—which I am starting to regret not bringing—it's hard to make it out, but he's right. I can hear muffled sounds, though cannot tell what exactly they are.

"This could be it," I say quietly. "We'll advance more slowly. Try not to make any noise."

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I regret the order as soon as I say it. It's foolish and futile—it is impossible to be silent while wearing plate armor, and sounds carry very far through stone tunnels. Then again, I suppose a bit of extra caution can never go amiss. This whole situation is beginning to disturb me a great deal.

The tunnel makes an abrupt left turn and widens into a cave about ten yards across. We advance down it, following the sounds, which are growing very slightly louder.

Ten minutes later, the firelight illuminates something very strange indeed. I pause our advance, then take one of my dwarves torches and take a few steps forward, peering closely.

Stretching from one side of the cave to another is what can only be described as a spiked carpet of rock. Thousands of needles of chalk jut out from the floor, all pointed directly upward. They are all the same height—about a foot. They've been trodden down through the center and slightly to the left. I step over to investigate the damage, and the sounds of clashing suddenly become clearer.

Curiosity turns to suspicion. This is no natural phenomenon. This is something very disturbing. I break off one of the spikes and examine it up close. Regular diamond-shapes are set into every part of it.

"This whole thing was carved," I say.

"By trolls?" says Ithis. "That seems impossible."

"They can carve crude runes, some of them. You're right that this seems beyond them, though."

The sounds beyond seem to grow louder.

"I think that's Odrick," I say. "In fact, I'm sure of it. I think he's been led into a trap. Come on! Spread the formation—we'll smash as much of the stalagmites as we can!"

I lead the charge, sweeping Steelpierce from left to right in great arcs, demolishing the spires before me. The runeknights behind smash those I miss, and their boots crush the fragments into sand.

Once out the muffling carpet, we come to another, similar barrier. This time, the needles hang from the ceiling. We smash them too, and they rain down. The nature of the sounds becomes clear—it's the clash of weapon on stone, and screams and bestial roars.

One more bend, and the fight comes into view. A runeknight in platinum-gilt titanium battles a troll encased in glittering diamond—much the same kind as the one Vanerak slew many years ago. Three other runeknights fight beside him, and three lie dead, too, their plate armor rent open by the beast's bloody claws.

The monster kicks one runeknight and plunges its claws down at his breastplate. The metal is badly scratched already, its runic power gone, and the diamond daggers go right through like the steel was nothing more than leather.

We are all charging already—I do not need to give any further orders. The troll looks up at us for a second, and in the moment of distraction Odrick slashes its left ankle with his sword. The diamond there shatters and is cloven in two. Crimson spurts out. The troll seems not to feel it, and slashes its claws in a horizontal arc. Odrick is thrown from his feet, sparks flashing from his armor. The others back away.

I leap through their line, thrusting Steelpierce before me. Like my armor, it is enruned with a metaphor of battle—but one focused on offense, centering around a saga of a great and violent charge. It becomes like a line of solid silver as I stab, its speed unstoppable.

Yet the troll's diamond-plated skin stops it all the same. I cry out in shock as my momentum halts—a few thin cracks form over the monster's chest, but no more. It glares down at me, and its eyes are bloodshot with rage. It is huge, I realize—nearly four times my height. It brings down a great hand, razored claws splayed.

There is no time to dodge. Can my War Armor take the blow? I am suddenly not so sure. The troll's claws, reflecting the torchlight, are like lines of glistening, red-dyed fire. I raise my forearm to block.

And they bounce away. The stone cracks under my feet from the force of the blow, yet I do not budge. My War Armor stands firm. The true steel remains undamaged.

"Die!" I scream, and I stab again. A few more cracks spread outward.

Now the rest of my runeknights join the fray, slashing and crushing and stabbing. The troll howls with anger. It tries to block, but there are too many weapons coming at it from too many angles. It retreats, stumbling away fast on its long legs.

But I will not let it escape. I spring out the formation and stab. Steelpierce is accurate as well as powerful, and its point digs into one of the cracks over the troll's chest. The true metal goes through into soft flesh. Blood pours out, running down the metal. The troll pulls away, turns to run. Even if it can't feel pain, it knows it has been wounded terribly.

Too terribly—it collapses face first. It groans. There are no gaps in its armor, every plate overlaps, yet now that it's lying still, I can stab up between the overlapping parts. Steelpierce goes in deep under its back ribs, which are grossly visible through the transparent diamond. Blood pools under the plates, and when I rip Steelpierce out, a red river gushes forth and runs around my feet.

The troll groans once more, then is silent. Behind me, my dwarves cheer, yet I do not feel that I can celebrate just yet.

"What happened here, Odrick?" I ask, still facing down the black tunnel. "That's who you are, right?"

"That's right," he wheezes. He sounds exhausted. "And you—who are you, who's saved us so?"

"I am Runethane Zathar." I turn to him. He's on one knee, panting. "Ithis, and you ten, form a line besides me, facing out."

They obey.

"What happened here, Odrick?" I ask again. "How did that thing get here? And why did you leave the mine undefended? And—what were those stone formations we passed?"

He swallows. His eyes move from one dead dwarf to another, and he shakes his head bitterly.

"We were led into a trap, Runethane," he says quietly. "But not by the troll. Indeed, I think it was led here just as we were."

"Explain," I order.

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