At first, nothing seems to happen. No forks of white leap from the wizards' staves, no terrible gusts batter the dragon's wings. The rain lessens, if anything.

Onward comes the dragon. The boggy ground around us begins to steam from its ambient heat; pale yellow tongues flicker over us. A horse screams and rears, but its rider keeps control.

The headmaster yells a command and the wizards move their staves in an odd pattern. Now the thunder begins! Lightning shoots across the sky in front of the monster, twelve bolts left and twelve right, overlapping, and where they touch form balls of white fire. I can feel their heat also, greater than the dragon's, yet volatile, which could flare out or vanish at any moment without warning.

My dwarves around me cry out in fear, even the most elite. Some duck down, and perhaps that is the sensible thing to do, but for me, I cannot take my eyes off the spectacle.

The scarlet dragon tries to swerve. Or rather its rider does; chains are jerked and pulled. I glimpse the controller, bound with chains to the dragon itself between its wings. However, he or equally likely she, as the Twins are king and queen together, is powerless against momentum.

The dragon hits the net of lightning with a flash of white and explosion of red and yellow flames. The wizards' faces twist with anguish and concentration. Blood pours from their eyes, ears, noses. One slumps from his saddle and splashes down. They are all screaming, I think, but I cannot hear for sure under the roaring of monster and magic above.

The headmaster, himself strained and trembling, lowers his staff and the other wizards follow suit. The net of lightning vanishes with a low thrum and a smell like burning hair.

Blasted and broken, the dragon tumbles off its course. I track it with my eyes as it falls behind us and to the left. There is another explosion, one that shakes the ground like the impact of a great rock-fall, and Graveknife shivers hungrily. It senses more death and is glad.

A few moments later, the realization sinks in. The wizards have done it: one of the dragons is down!

"Drazakh Nachroktey!" I shout, raising my knife high. "Death to the dragon!"

"Drazakh Nachroktey!" my dwarves shout out. "Drazakh Nachroktey!"

The headmaster lets out a wild laugh. His eyes are bright with energy, as if lightning-infused themselves.

"Death to the dragon indeed!" he shouts. "Or to dragons, I should say, for I sense the second is coming for revenge! Let us have at it!"

Far off, I hear a terrible roar of grief and rage. Elation changes to fear in an instant. On the other side of the battlefield, the rain-clouds whirl, and through them plummets the second dragon, golden wings spread wide. It flies fast for us, claws open.

The headmaster jabbers out another order. The wizards struggle to raise their staves. A second one slumps off his saddle and falls to the ground, blood running from his eyes, joining the one already perished from the strain of the spell.

The green-eyed woman, Loume, speaks angrily. The headmaster rebuts, and there is a quick and angry exchange.

All the while, the yellow dragon is approaching fast.

"It's coming!" someone shouts. "Guildmaster, tell them to do something!"

"What's the argument?" I demand. "It's coming for us!"

Loume turns to me, defeat in her eyes. "I argued for a defensive gesture, for many of us are spent. Yet our gracious headmaster sees a double-victory in his grasp."

"We will slay it just as we did the last," he snaps. "There is nothing to worry about, my good dwarf."

Loume gives me a hard look. "I would get down, if I were you."

"Down!" I yell. "Everyone, into the mud! Get down!"

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My dwarves need no further encouragement. They throw themselves flat, all but me and Ithis.

"You too, captain!" I snap.

But he ignores me, attention transfixed by the beast soaring for us. It's close enough that we can see the chains binding its every scale, threaded through its fiery flesh. Some glint like metal while others flash like gems. What kind of runes are forged into them, I cannot fathom.

Its rider is standing between the wings, a great mane of hair flying behind her. This is the Runequeen, I am sure, though her face and body are utterly obscured by metal and studs of diamond. Her hands are occupied with chain reins, yet at her side is a half-moon axe of many colors.

"Down, Ithis!" I repeat.

He turns to me, and his jaw-visor makes it look as if he's smiling madly. "After you, Runeforger."

Cursing his foolishness, I crouch down, but find that just like him, I cannot yet look away.

Rarely has any dwarf borne witness to a contest such as this: beast of the air versus manipulators of the sky. The wizards seem so tall on their steeds from here, like towering trees, yet ones with frail trunks who sway in the wind, that may fall at any moment in this storm of their own making.

The headmaster shouts once more; lightning flashes in the sky, yet this time there are only ten crossing bolts to the last spell's twenty-four, and the pattern is irregular, every part squint. The few balls of fire that form are misshapen.

The yellow dragon roars a bright and boiling reply: a fountain of malicious flame. At its touch, the lightning wavers and vanishes. The headmaster yells out in anger. Loame speaks too, a new order, and the clouds suddenly gather into a fog around the dragon. The beats of its wings slow. A wind starts up from the ground, sweeping along, turning the water on the ground into upward rain. I feel light; I am being lifted up. Shouts of fear and dismay come from my dwarves.

"Stay down!" I shout, but my words are snatched up and lost to the wind.

The headmaster yells and raises his staff higher. White glows on its end. There is a flash that encompasses everything, and a wave of force that throws me down, and a bang that seems to continue on and on.

Now I am in a strange world of white and constant noise, an instant that seems to be continuing forever. I wonder: is this death? Graveknife feels colder than ever. Have I died, been slain in the cataclysm of two magicks meeting?

Vanerak spoke once or twice of what he believes death to be: not an end of feeling, but rather a continuation of it, an endless note of pain. This is not quite pain, though, just numbness.

Something warm is on my chest—my ruby is seeking to save me. Feeling returns, color too, though that color is gray. My fingers and toes tingle within my armor. The loudness in my ears diminishes to ringing, and then that fades too. I find myself on my back, staring up at the rain-drenched sky. Something heavy is lying across my legs. I sit up, muscles groaning in pain, and see that it is a horse.

I shove hard. Its bones break and it shifts, then I manage to extract myself. I stand, panting, and fall forward to lean on the dead animal. Flung down beside it is a wizard, maybe the headmaster, though I cannot tell for sure. The head is gone.

All around us my dwarves remain in the mud, many shaking in their armor. But the skies are clear of the dragon. Only rain falls from above, no fire.

"Stand up!" I command. "Get up, all of you! The dragon is gone! Gone!"

Slowly they struggle up from the ground, armor dripping brown water. Through their visors I see shock. The magic unleashed just now was every part as terrible as that wielded by the sorcerers below, perhaps moreso. Yes—this has been the most terrible display of force I have witnessed since the breath of the black dragon.

A few of the wizards stand, including Loume. There will be no more spells from them; their staves are burned and blackened, and they seem hardly able to breath. Their horses lie dead beside them, hearts stopped from the shock of the headmaster's final spell.

"What happened?" I ask. "The dragon—did you kill it?"

"I think so," says Loume. Her green eyes look dull. "I cannot be sure." She bows her head in despair. "It has exacted a heavy toll on us either way."

Two dragons, dead in the space of minutes. I can hardly believe it. Any other time, this single act would be a great cause for celebration. But not now. Victory is not yet here. Indeed it may never come for us, depending on how the next hours unfold.

"Guildmaster!" comes a shout. "They're coming back in! The enemy! They're charging!"

I look to the front. Like a wave of metal, the forces of the desert dwarves are rushing for us once more. Their speed and numbers both seem redoubled, and their cries are of vengeance.

"You should retreat," I tell the wizards. "You have saved us, and we are forever in your debt. In future, I hope to meet you again so that I may repay it. Now, though, you should leave the rest of the battle for us."

"There is still some magic left in me," says Loume, although I cannot help but doubt. "Our prince is not yet finished his bloodletting, I think. We will try and seek him out and assist him however we can."

"You do that." I bow. "Be careful, though, wizards. Do not die. I mean to repay this debt some day."

"Kill these chained ones," spits one of the younger wizards. "That will be repayment enough. Slay all of them."

"Guildmaster!" Brognir shouts. "What are your orders?"

I think for a few seconds. "The dragons are gone!" I say. "So we will form a sturdy line, four ranks deep and each runeknight close by the next. Send a runner for the reserves, and have them come too. They will be needed."

"Yes guildmaster!" he yells, and many others chorus the same.

The army moves according to my command, rushing to form a line, and now I see that not all have stood back up. Lightning and fire have fallen in many places, and dozens of mangled suits of armor lie still in the mud, the brave dwarves encased within scorched and dead.

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