Our two lines thunder toward one another, sand and dust flying around our boots. My dwarves yell, but hers do not—they are silent. We meet, head on, and the sound of metal screaming and crashing echoes around the stands.

Any concept of commanding my troops vanishes as Ytith swings at my head with a heavy bar of steel. I use my own bar to block, but already she's in too close. She stabs at me, and, unused to avoiding blows, I take a scrape on the side of my War Armor. I yell out and shove at her using the middle of my weapon, what would be the haft if it were Steelpierce. She takes the blow on her buckler, but my armor is powerful enough to shove her into the two runeknights behind her.

A chill of fear runs through me. I recognize these two—they are her generals, first-degrees both, probably whole-degrees. Hukaryat and Bthalek. One stabs at me with his own spear-model; I block. The other's blow gets through, and his long bar bends against my thigh-plate.

I shorten my grip on the bar and jab at him, manage to glance his helmet. The other one, titanium flashing amidst the swirling dust, jabs at my extended arms. I try to pull back, but he still hits my hand. There is a clang, and though I feel no pain from the blow, real fear is beginning to grow in me.

If this were a real battle against a rival Runethane, my War Armor would be battered already. Power would be leaking from it. Where are my allies? I flick my gaze left then right and see that those on my flanks are hard-pressed. One is being driven back under a hail of blows from a runeknight with a gold crest on his helmet. He falls to one knee and drops his weapon, shouting something, though I cannot make out the words. The runeknight with the crest raises his false weapon in triumph.

Runethane Ytith is charging at me again. I stab at her throat, but she blocks deftly. Again she is in her preferred range—too fast! She does not fight like a dwarf should, exchanging blows and trusting in the power of her armor. She dashes in and out. Perhaps this is a strategy to take advantage of the rules we've decided—then again, she seems well-used to the tricky way of fighting.

I grab her wrist with my left hand as she slashes at my belly. I try to go for her throat again, and she pulls back. Her burst of strength shocks me; I am thrown forward off balance, and her guards land another two blows on me.

How many is that? Five! I am half dead already. If this were a real battle, I'd be on the precipice of defeat. Shit! Where is my support?

"To the Runethane!" someone yells—Ithis, I think. "Get them!"

I am confused. Ithis was one of those on the flanks. They were not meant to press through, unless they managed to somehow utterly defeat those standing against them. Is Ithis just that good of a fighter?

But no. Out of the clashing steel and sparks and haze of dust of my desperate defense, I see two more captains advancing from the sides: Lekudr coming from the left at an even pace, and Rtayor rushing around to attempt a rear charge. Some of our enemies turn to meet them.

What is going on?

Something smashes into my ankle. I yell out in surprise—my opponent seems to be right behind me. He is—I glance and see the runeknight with the golden crest has come around the back. I leap away, in full retreat now, spinning my steel bar around and around to ward off the constant rhythm of attacks.

Another opponent appears from my left. A well-placed hit with my steel bar, right into his belly-plate, bowls him over.

The runeknights around me have fallen. That's the only explanation for my current predicament. They were some of my best, though. How could they have been taken out so quickly?

Then, in a sudden flash of insight, I understand what has happened, see Ytith's strategy for the battle.

She has planned it well. While I spread my strength out evenly along the line, she concentrated all hers in the center. She does not mind losing the flanks so long as she can take me down. And her flanks haven't even fallen, I don't think. I can see that many of her dwarves—marked out by their flowing copper runes and the relative lightness of their armor—remain in the fight. They have been conducting organized, disciplined retreats in order to draw my captains as far away from me as possible.

The battle has split into two. There is me, alone, facing off against Runethane Ytith and her strongest first-degrees. Behind them, the rest of my army is desperately trying to break through. Ithis fells two from the sheer force of his swings, yet even though we have the advantage in power there, I don't think they'll reach me in time.

With a scream of rage, I throw myself forward. Ytith is taken off-guard by my sudden change in tactics and I manage to land two heavy blows on her breastplate. Yet, as always, her two bodyguards step in to defend her. One strikes high and the other low. I cannot block both weapons; one slams into my pauldron. Now I can only take three more until I am knocked out of the battle, and my dwarves left leaderless.

I cannot allow this to happen, and yet it seems inevitable. I count six, seven first-degrees attacking me. I parry, stab, swing in fury, my War Armor lending deadly power to each blow. I knock down the runeknight with the golden crest and he drops his weapon, retreats away. But Ytith's two generals will not fall so easily.

I cannot seem to get a hit on either of them anymore. They are too good, their movements practiced and elegant. Though I have a natural talent for the spear, these two have many centuries of experience with it and seem to be predicting every blow I make.

One breaks through my guard and hits my head. I shout in panic and fall back. Then comes another hit, to my groin.

I can take just one more.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Let me!" Ytith yells, her voice sharp.

She dashes between her two guards, slashing at my hands. I batter her away with a flurry of short-range blows. She is furious, her false weapon denting and bending against my own battered bar. I attempt the same trick as before, letting go one hand and stepping in to grab, but she is ready for it. Her buckler is suddenly where her sword was.

It clangs against my gauntlet and my arm is thrown to the side—it is half a weapon, that thing. In the same moment, she stabs at my face. She is well in range and accurate. My only option is to jump back. I try to push off the sand with my front foot, yet she predicts the movement with frightening accuracy and kicks my ankle hard.

I fall. She slashes down and cleaves my thigh. Sparks fly and her steel bar bends. That was the tenth hit. I have fallen. I lie back in the gray sand, shocked, staring up at the bright crystal-lanterns that hang over the arena.

"No!" someone from my ranks yells.

I force myself to sit up and observe as my dwarves attack with renewed fury. But against Ytith and her ancient first-degrees, they stand little chance. Ithis soon falls, surrounded after a wild charge. He throws his weapon down with a furious curse.

The rest of my forces are picked off fairly quickly, after that. Lekudr is the last one to fall, to a heavy stab from one of the two generals. He sits down and bows his head, as if in despair.

It is over.

"I declare Runethane Ytith to be the winner," says Duthur, voice carrying over the drifting dust with unnatural loudness. "Congratulations."

His gem-clad dwarves clap, with little enthusiasm. Ytith's forces don't make any show of pride, just reform into a brightly reflective line at their original positions. We have taken down less than half of them.

My Runic League, we proud dwarves who have been fighting together for near half a century, have been defeated in a matter of less than half an hour. And as commander, the responsibility for this falls upon me.

I get to my feet, limbs heavy with reluctance.

"Stand up," I order, with as much composure as I can manage. "Line up. We have been defeated fairly. We must pay respect to our opponents."

Those sitting or kneeling stand, those who left the immediate battle when defeated start walking slowly back. I march to stand opposite Runethane Ytith, holding my battered weapon proudly upright, though I feel anything but proud. I have been thoroughly shamed this hour.

I wait for the rest of my forces to line up. Those of Ytith's side who fell come to join her ranks too.

My eyes meet hers. "Well done," I say, stiffly.

"A somewhat poor showing from you, Runeforger," she says coldly. "I had hoped for better."

"You were the stronger side. That is all I can say."

"The contest was not won through strength, Zathar. It was won through strategy."

I bow deeply. "You have beaten me personally on that front, honored Runethane. As commander, I see that I did not think carefully enough."

Her eyes narrow. "Did not think carefully about what?"

I'm not quite sure what she's trying to say.

"How you arranged your forces?" she asks. "How you ordered them to act during the battle? Is that what you mean by strategy?"

I am confused. "Yes," I say, cautiously. "Among other things."

"You more than anyone else ought to know that battles are not won in the fighting. They are won before."

"In the forge, yes. You are better equipped—"

"We are better equipped because of the rules you agreed to. You overlooked something vital when you agreed to my suggestions, Zathar. I said a hundred of my best against a hundred of yours."

I frown. "I felt it fair."

"We are an older realm, with older guilds. We have more first and second degrees than you. Most here are first—the distinction was less obvious than it otherwise would have been, perhaps, by the fact we are not carrying our own weapons. The only truly strong dwarves in your army are you, yourself, and perhaps that Ithis—though he be undisciplined."

Ithis clenches his fists in fury, but is sensible enough not to say anything.

"And on the topic of rules, you agreed very readily to my inclusion of shields as a category of armor. They can be weapons also. Soon, you may find Uthrarzak's shield-bearers to be rather active adversaries. Indeed, several of his Runethane-Captains wield very strange ones indeed."

She is correct. And I am learning a valuable lesson here. She knows far better than I of how battles are won and lost. My fights as Runethane have been skirmishes for the most part, against trolls and the like. Not proper battles.

And yet despite the fact that I know she is saying this for my own good, so that I and my dwarves might survive the fights to come, my ruby grows hotter every word she speaks. How dare she criticize me so openly in front of my guild? Am I not a fellow Runethane? An equal?

No. I grit my teeth and push down my anger. I am not equal to her, not by a long way. I may be able to use runes more freely, but that is the only advantage I have. Her metal is better, her guild stronger, and her strategies far deeper. She outclasses me almost totally.

Once, I thought all Runethane more or less equal in power. Slowly, I grew to suspect that some were stronger than others. At our meeting with the Runeking, I knew it. But this hour is the first time that I have truly felt, physically, that the difference between a younger Runethane and an ancient one can be wide as a gaping chasm.

Duthur and his elites, already gone from the stands, could probably defeat Ytith with about as much ease as she has just defeated me.

"Well, Runethane?" she asks. "Do you have a response, or are you going to stay silent?"

"I was merely reflecting on your words." I bow again. "I have learned a great deal this hour, honored Runethane. I thank you for teaching me. For teaching us."

She does not smile. "Be assured that you take the lesson to heart." She raises her voice to the volume of command. "About turn, then double file behind my lead. Turn!"

She turns and marches and her runeknights follow in perfect time; they do not seem tired in the least. I watch them trek across the arena in silence. The gates open, and they vanish back out into the city.

"I apologise," Ithis says, voice deep with regret—something he does not often express. "I became overconfident. I should not have challenged her. I just thought—"

"Think more carefully before you act in future," I warn. "You lost control in the fight today also."

"I am most sorry, honored Runethane."

"Good."

I wait for a moment, to see if anyone else speaks up. No one does. I think they are in shock. I don't think any of them really expected to see me, the great Second Runeforger, fall to dwarves who use the old runes, as some refer to them with distaste. Even if my opponent was another Runethane.

I decide that something more must be said. I step out of the formation and turn to address them. Most are somewhat slumped, even a few of the captains. They really have been shocked, I realize with alarm. I have never seen them like this before. I must choose my words carefully.

"There exists no armor cannot be broken!" I say, after a few moments' thought. "That goes for us as well as our opponents. Don't be so down-cast. Things will go wrong in the coming battles, too. It cannot be helped. All we can do is try not to repeat the same mistakes over and again. Do you understand?"

"Yes!" they chorus, with what sounds like false enthusiasm.

"We were defeated this hour, and yes, it is bitter. But less bitter than it would have been at the hands of Uthrarzak. We will all learn from this. You will recover your spirits. When you return to training and the forge, you will do so with renewed fury. Am I clear on this?"

"Yes!" they shout, and this time, the enthusiasm is more real.

"Let us return," I say. "Double file—and march with your heads and weapons held high, just as they were on the way in."

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