Over the next few long-hours, I try to figure out why the final process failed so spectacularly. It had nothing to do with the runes of death, I don't think. They were completed and strong. They gave the strange gray flames their power, but were not the catalyst. No—it was the mixture of reagents that caused the blast. The salterite imbued into the metal should not have influenced the incandesite, yet somehow did.

I research in the mid-levels of the library. There, I find much written on the more advanced aspects of reagents. Much I know, yet I learn much also, especially about alchemical equations relating to the rarer minor reagents. Yelgrine in particular has some very strange reactions.

It seems that I must create my own welding-powder. After purchasing a new furnace, I start to experiment with several ideas, and this goes smoothly. Each one I make gets better results than the last, the plates of mundane metal welding together hotter and more securely. I begin to enjoy the process of creating—it is different from how I usually work.

I wonder if Galar, all those many, many years ago, found his own experiments so satisfying. I wonder if Fjalar did.

But, as often happens, my progress stalls. I cannot get the mix quite perfect. It makes a good enough weld with mundane metal, but true metal will demand perfection. The ratios need refinement, as does the heat. The temperature must be exact.

I get to filing another bar of titanium into powder. As I listen to the monotonous hum of the cylinder, I worry. How long do we have until the first battles begin? Not long, surely. Certainly not long by the reckoning of dwarves such as me, who take so much care over their crafts.

Someone knocks on the door of the forge. My heart jumps. Is this it? Has the war finally come in full force? Alarmed, I take up Steelpierce. My dwarves are not to disturb me unless we are under some kind of attack—so this is what it must be.

I reach for the door, pause. The knock comes again. Strangely, there is no note of panic to it, as might be expected. Indeed, it seems almost friendly.

Someone speaks from outside: "My guards assure me you are in there, Runethane Zathar. Are you in one of your trances?"

I recognize this voice. Still tense, I open the door; Runethane Ytith stands there in her light and gleaming armor, sword and buckler hanging from her hips.

"If I was in my trance," I say, "I would not have been able to answer you, Runethane."

"Well, indeed."

"What is your business? I assume it must be urgent, for you to have come to disturb me in my forge."

She smiles, mouth becoming like the curve of a knife, deadly and elegant.

"Can one not pay a friendly visit to a fellow Runethane?"

I fold my arms. "One can, I suppose."

"Your captain—the one with the helmet shaped like a beast's mouth—suggested our forces might have a friendly contest. He is eager, I think, to see how his dwarves stack up."

"Has he, now? He's gotten ahead of himself—I was to make those overtures."

"Your discipline has become lax, then."

I scowl. "Ithis has always been a force unto himself. But I respect him for it."

"Then you are happy with the suggestion?" She smiles wider. "I hope you are. My dwarves are eager to face-off against the Runeforger."

I have to think for a moment. Is accepting this friendly offer the correct thing to do? I haven't inspected the training recently. I don't know if my forces are up to standard. And by approaching Ytith directly, Ithis really has gone too far.

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Yet despite my misgivings, my blood is rising. A fight against forces from far off, even done in a somewhat friendly spirit, will be closer to a real battle than anything we can do on our own. And Ytith's smile is beginning to anger me. It's clear she thinks her runeknights are superior. Well, we will see about that.

"I accept," I say. "Our forces will do battle forthwith. Mock battle, of course."

"Of course."

"How many a side? And where shall it take place?"

"One hundred each of our best will fight. As for location, we have an arena near where we are billeted. We shall use that." Her eyes glint strangely. "Unless you have poor memories of it."

I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes. Is she trying to unbalance me? Her tone of voice is coldly mocking. Yes. To her, the battle has already started.

"It is the same arena where I had my trial, I presume? Very good. It is the site of one of my greatest victories, when the Eyes of our Runeking first noticed me. You choose poorly, if you believe in fate and omens."

"I believe only in the strength of arms." Her expression becomes rather vicious. "I will see you on the battlefield, Zathar Runeforger—the mock battlefield."

"I look forward to it, Runethane."

It is there, then, that we next meet: the great arena of darkly silver sand where I undertook my trial by forging. I remember it more vividly than nearly any other memory—my helmet crushed, then my pick victorious, though I was robbed of its victory—and finally the runes of destruction that blasted and burned my honorable opponent.

Vanerak attempted to have even that display disregarded. I remember him watching me from high up in the stands, and feel an echo of the terror I felt from his gaze. Back then, I could never have hoped to put a single trace of a scratch on his armor.

The Runeking saved me. This hour he must be watching closely as well—to see if his secret champion can fight as well as he hopes. There are no Eyes that I can see, but I am certain many are hidden away, watching from secret corners and cracks.

"Get your dwarves in formation," I order the captains. "Keep my plan in mind at all times, but be flexible. She will have some strategy of her own prepared. We must be able to respond to it."

My eight captains, each leading the strongest dwarves from their companies, obey. My army lines up across the sand, two ranks deep. I look from left to right. Their armor gleams, and their weapons reflect the crystal-made light brightly too—we are not using wooden models, but rather metal ones. Though un-enruned, they are still heavy, and would be plenty deadly wielded against dwarves of junior ranks. We can use them only because no runeknight here is less than third degree.

Not fifty yards distant, Runethane Ytith's forces line up too. Each runeknight moves quickly and in perfect time with his comrades. She has drilled them well. Their armor gleams brighter than our own does, and I scowl. We look clumsy and dull in comparison.

"Ready yourselves to march!" I call down the line.

The dwarf beside me raises a blue flag to signal my intentions. This time we are all in hearing range of each other, but in the great battles to come, we will use this system to relay my orders.

I look to the stands, where our neutral adjudicator is. It is not Gafleck, as I suggested in writing to Ytith when we were making the final plans—it is Duthur, second most powerful dwarf in the realm. His diamond armor is bright and brilliant. His own runeknights, in crystal armor also, are arrayed beside him.

I am not sure why he agreed to this. My impression of him was of a dwarf who cares very little about those he regards as beneath him. But maybe meeting me as tickled an interest in the new runes. He wants to see what they can do.

He raises a small, circular device. An amplifier for his voice, I realize, and masterfully crafted.

"Begin!" he orders. The words are deafening; the sand seems to shake.

"Forward!" I shout, and the dwarf beside me raises an orange flag, points it forward.

We march at a quick pace. My plan is simple: we will hit the enemy line as one coordinated mass. Those who defeat their adversaries are not to rush through and isolate themselves, but to stay put and help those next to them. It is not a fancy plan—I do not want a chaos of charging and counter-charging and feigned retreats. Our formation is to be sturdy and reliable. It will succeed through simplicity.

The crushed-pearl sand crunches and hisses under our boots. My War Armor is a steel aura of power around my body, amplifying every step and movement. The metal pole I carry feels light, as if my own strength may bend it.

Each dwarf may take ten strikes. Duthur and his runeknights will count, and I trust they will count fairly—he doesn't think much of either of us, and no bribe could ever sway someone as rich and powerful as he.

Twenty yards to go. Somewhat worryingly, Ytith has not made any move. She is simply waiting, patiently, for us to hit her. Is she so confident in her dwarves' ability to halt our momentum? Her dwarves show no signs of panic. They are perfectly still.

And then she nods, and the dwarf behind her raises a bright blue lantern.

They charge.

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