We run. There's no more need for caution. We're in the heat of battle. I halt some way along, listen to the wall. There's a slight weakening ahead. I sprint to it, smash it with my fist. The carvings of sorcerers tremble.

"Here, Hayhek!" I shout. "Smash here!"

He steps back, readies his mace behind his head, and swings with all his might. Runic power roars and the wall shudders. He swings again, and cracks form. Once more, and stones ping off his armor. I ready Nightcutter to strike.

Hayhek smashes at the stone once more, and the wall caves in. Dark rock tumbles down the steep steps—one impacts a fallen dwarf with a sound like a half-muffled bell. The body shifts slightly, its first movement in many, many years.

There's dozens of the fallen here, all strewn up the stepped pit in a long, ragged line from deepest point to entrance. Most are turned away from the darkness, hands outstretched as if trying to pull themselves up in a final, straining effort to get away. Others are simply crumpled over, as if the darkness took them before they even realized the danger.

I used to eat and drink alongside these dwarves, once. I used to talk with them, forge next to them. They never accepted me fully, but I was their ally. I put my life on the line to help them, and they did the same for me, many times over, both on the hunts above and down here.

This battle is not just about protecting still alive. It is for these long dead dwarves too, and for the many generations who dwelled and died in the fort before them. It is for vengeance.

"Pack in behind me!" I order. "Raise your weapons!"

My dwarves obey. I focus my hearing down into the center of the room, the base of the pit. It's swathed in silence. Around the edges I see-hear more armored corpses, these ones in more ornate armor. The power has long gone from their maces, but I can tell the skill that went into making them, and also can now tell that they are not just formed from mundane metal.

The black silence swirls, obscuring them once more. That was Cathez and Hraroth, I'm sure of it, and the chamberlain also. Runethane Yurok must be deeper in—perhaps at the feet of the sorcerer itself.

"Charge," someone is yelling quietly. "Charge down the stairs."

It's Nthazes—his gray halo appears at the entrance to the pit. He beats violently as he steps, in an unpredictable rhythm. The darkness curls in behind him and the other Guardians batter it away. They take another step down, as one.

This is the moment. We've reached the enemy and now I must do as ordered: disrupt the monster's magic. But where is the orb? I can't see anything amidst the silence, can't hear what's there at all.

Then all I have to do is cut the shrouds away. I step forward and slash mightily, putting the full weight of my body and all the speed and precision of my arms into the attack. Nightcutter's beam—though I have my eyes shut, I can hear how it changes the shape of the air—it parts the black shroud like a sword does cloth and, for a single moment, I can hear the shape of the monster.

Four legged, scaled, and with a hideous, bestial snout, it is raising one hand above its head. And in that hand is clutched the orb of darkness. It is larger than the water-orb was, yet the sorcerer seems not to feel its weight at all, as if it was no more than some hollow ball of paper.

The darkness closes back around the gap. But now I know where it is. I stab. A path opens in the silence, and I hear the shape of the orb clearly—it is geometrically perfect—yet my strike missed by inches. From this distance, it's too hard to aim.

"Advance!" I cry out. "We must get closer!"

Down one step I go, then another. My dwarves follow close behind. They do not falter, do not hesitate with even a single one of their movements. They have put their faith in me, their guildmaster, the Second Runeforger, and know that to betray that faith will bring death for all of us.

The stairs in front vanish as if a cave-in from below suddens dragged them away. It's the silent darkness, redirected toward us. I slash, and it dissipates. I see the sorcerer's hideous face turned to me, then the darkness returns. I yell, slash again, aiming to blind our enemy's eyes.

What need does a beast of the dark have for eyes, though? Its next attack is a spear that arcs up then down with unerring accuracy. I stab through it, and numbness washes through me as the remnants flow into my armor. A long, lingering second later, they thankfully vanish.

"Charge," Nthazes yells quietly again. "Faster, all of you. Faster."

He's made it only a few more steps down. The main power of the sorcerer is still directed at him—he's the greater threat. The magic branches out, curves into the deep dwarves behind him. Two vanish. A second later the void around them is beaten away, but one of the dwarves is lying still and dead.

"Down!" I scream. "Closer still! We need to get closer!"

I begin to leap down the stairs—clambering is too slow. Nightcutter hums angrily as some of its power fades. My dwarves can't quite keep up. Their armor doesn't give them the speed and precision my own grants me.

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The sorcerer notices this and takes advantage. A wall of nothing circles around and cuts me off from them. Nightcutter's light fades. I turn back, cutting desperately, yet cannot get through. My heart seems to stop as I realize the terrible danger I am in. Cold silence is flooding toward me.

Ithis leaps through the wall, swinging wildly with his hammer. The rest follow, weapons blazing white like they're fresh from the forge. The wall disintegrates. I slash around, and the veil of silence flooding at me is torn apart.

And it seems Nthazes has taken advantage of the sorcerer's distraction. He's down another dozen steps and is still pressing forward. Some way behind him, Runethane Halmak has made it in through the entrance as well. The Sunhammer is proving worthy of its name, burning away the silent ropes assailing him from either side as soon as they appear.

I fix my ears on the sorcerer. I can hear its whole form now, albeit faintly. At its feet, as predicted, lies Runethane Yurok, his runic ears bent and massive, twenty-seven flanged mace lying dark and cold just out of reach of his outstretched right hand.

He might nearly have killed it—but now is not the time to think on such things. Now is not the time to think at all.

I ready my blow, stab. Nightcutter's light, a beam of solidity in the rippling faintness, hits the orb directly in the center. The sorcerer opens its mouth and its scream of rage reaches me. It sounds like a wounded troll, angry not at any pain, but rather at outrage at the diminishing of its power.

The whole darkness falters. I stab again, and it diminishes further. Nthazes makes it down another few steps. The thin clouds of silence assailing Runethane Halmak fall back entirely, and he starts to charge fast, roaring.

Can it be possible? We're winning! We seem to be winning! The Runeking's plan is working! This will not be, as I feared, a repeat of the dragon hunt. In the first moments of that battle, dozens fell. But this foe is not proving so terrible.

Again! I stab again, but this time the sorcerer predicts my movement. It pulls the orb down and my light goes too high. It roars, and the roar becomes silent as it directs a massive arm of shadow toward me. I scream and slash, but am too late. Silence subsumes me. I cut, over and over, trying to break out from its grasp, but my body is losing all feeling.

Then it vanishes, ripped away. I did not do this—Nthazes has saved me. He is on the final step, bringing Sight-Bringer down at the sorcerer's head.

The sorcerer steps back and he misses. He overbalances, falls at its feet. The monster roars in triumph and tightens its grasp on the orb. The darkness of the pit retracts. The sorcerer is pulling it all in, every last shred of shadow.

Nthazes stands up—and is suddenly gone. Where he and the monster stood is now a sphere of nothing, a complete absence that goes far beyond emptiness. I cannot imagine anything ever existed where it is—where it isn't. There is nothing before us, no time, no stone or air, nor whatever substance or medium stone and air usually resides in.

Did Nthazes truly exist? Did the darkness? They seem to recede from my very memory.

"No!" yells a Guardian—Melkor, I think. "Fight, all of you! Fight! Fight for our guildmaster!"

The Guardians raise their maces high. They swing them down, beating on the void to no avail, and the desperation in their movements snaps me from my trance. I raise Nightcutter high.

"Pack in, Runic League! To me!"

I hear them obey, yet Nightcutter's power seems diminished—have some of my dwarves fallen?

Runethane Halmak and the elders raise their own maces high and join in the Guardians' efforts. But the weapons of light cannot penetrate. Melkor tries to dive into it, but is forced to retreat. He stumbles, falls back, light dying in his weapon like it's a torch splashed with water. He collapses and lies still.

"No!" I scream. "Nthazes!"

I make to charge. I need more light if I'm to be able to help him.

"Stop!" bellows the Runethane. "Stay away, Zathar! Do not take our light!"

Who does he think he is? Anger burns within my breast. Who is he to say I cannot save my friend? I am to shatter the orb, that is my duty, and cannot do it without getting closer! Where is the Runeking's servant, to put him in his place? Where is Elanak?

"Now, witch!" Hayhek shouts. "If not now, then when?"

Golden light flashes above. Clouds of rain begin to swirl, lit from within. I force myself to halt the charge.

I have faith Nthazes will survive. I do not need to be reckless for him. I will gather my power, ready my blade. A river of golden light flows around my feet. Nightcutter shivers—the river goes black and chill.

"I can't hold, Zathar!" Alae screams. "Strike now!"

Not yet. I can't strike yet. Nightcutter doesn't have the power. A moment more—the bright clouds begin to fade—the river starts to dry.

And now I cut, a mighty slash that peels one layer of the sphere of black away. Absence becomes slight presence, dark becomes dim, silence becomes quiet. The other dwarves' weapons tear the rest of the magic apart, and the scene within is revealed.

Nthazes is on his knees, right beside the body of Runethane Yurok. The sorcerer has grasped his mace with its left hand, while the right holds the orb high above, blasting a steady stream of nothingness onto him. He remains alive, though, resisting, trying to free his weapon even as the cold ravages his strength.

"Kill it, Nthazes!" I yell.

I stab at the orb. Nightcutter's power impales it and the stream of silence fades. Nthazes screams out and pushes up. He wrenches Sight-Bringer back. The surviving Guardians pile in, hammering at the sorcerer. It pulls the orb up out of their reach, but it isn't out of reach of Nightcutter. I stab again, and sound rushes out from the battle. I hear every cry of rage, every thudding impact of metal on flesh. Runethane Halmak makes it in and cracks the monster's back knee. It stumbles, roaring in anger.

A hand grabs my shoulder at the moment I'm about to dive down to join them.

"Wait, Zathar!" Hayhek pleads. "Control yourself! Please!"

I do so, just. I know that I can't steal their light at this vital moment, no matter how painful the fight is to watch from a distance.

The sorcerer flails wildly. Dark leaps and jumps from the orb like a striking snake. A Guardian falls, then an elder. The Runethane narrowly staves off a blow, which flows around to an adjacent deep dwarf, felling him. I stab with Nightcutter but miss each time. The constant movement of the melee makes it impossible to aim properly.

"Runic League, charge!" I order. "Get away from me! Help Nthazes!"

Led by Hayhek and Ithis, they leap down the steps past me to join the fight.

Then, a moment before they get there, a wild blow from Hirthik smashes the monster's shoulder and, as if drawn down by fate, the monster's right hand sinks. The orb comes into range.

Runethane Halmak swings for it, but Nthazes is faster. Sight-Bringer hits and the orb shatters. Glassy shards, shivering from the light of runes, all darkness burned from them, leave trails of power behind as they fly through the air.

The sorcerer screams like a stuck boar. Its power has gone. It is defenseless. The fight is over! I laugh and leap, hungry for blood, all thoughts turned to red, all restraint gone. I join the melee at the bottom of the pit and become part of the mass of mad dwarves who are beat, beat, beating upon the sorcerer's unarmored flesh.

The smell of blood is very sweet.

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