The enemy crashes into our line like a hammer upon an anvil. Blood and sparks fly. Graveknife cuts in and out, taking a life with each short, sharp stroke. Crimson drenches my War Armor and splashes through my visor, tasting of warm metal. The enemy is rabid, though, and no matter how many fall to my knife, yet more come.

Their eyes are not those of dwarves, but of beasts. The fury of vengeance burns strong in them, strong as dragonflame itself.

Still, we resist. These troops are not elites like those commanded by Runethane Bleeding-Edge were. His attempt at a decapitating blow failed. Now those sent to us are but chaff, thrown to wear down our armor and blunt our blades before the better runeknights are sent.

Corpses begin to pile up. They become a wall over which the enemy clambers. Some, especially crazed, jump from the top into the midst of our four-rank strong line and are cut to pieces. Despite the terrible losses, they still do not falter. Gradually the armor of my dwarves is becoming scratched. Our limbs tire. A few fall, borne down under the weight of too many lesser enemies.

Where are the reserves? Where is Captain Lekudr?

"For the Runeforger!" comes a cry from behind.

I look back and see them, thousands strong, marching slowly over the boggy ground—despite the death of so many wizards, the rain is continuing. Their armor shines and their vigor is fresh.

"Stand firm!" I order. Signal flags rise and flap in the wild wind. "We are nearly relieved!"

Despite their closeness, it feels like an age before the reserves finally reach us. When they do, though, they fight with great brutality, trampling over the wall of corpses and driving the seemingly endless horde away quickly. After this sudden slaughter, I order a halt. I will not make the mistake of over-extending again.

"You took your time," I tell Lekudr when I find him.

"It is hard to march through this mud," he counters.

We are standing ankle-deep in reddish sludge. "Truly," I say.

"We saw the dragons fall, some way from here. I don't know what happened to their riders. If those truly were the Twin Runekings, I reckon there's a good chance they survived."

"Indeed." I look across the front. Our foes are lined up but a few hundred yards away. There is continuous movement within their ranks; I guess that they are rotating reserves in. But as for how long it will take before they're ready to charge again, I'm not sure.

"Have you heard anything of the rest of the battle?" I ask. "Has there been news or any commands from the Runeking?

"We've heard nothing from the automatons, but rumors sweep through the ranks left and right. The front lines have held, I gather, and the back too, but the flanks are pressed badly. Like you predicted, some of the enemy was hiding in the trees and hillocks around here. Within the hillocks, some say. Runethane Holbrik has been slain, and Runethane Roinlam too, as well as six or seven others."

"Six or seven?"

Such a number seems unbelievable.

"Yes." Lekudr shakes his head sadly. "We are going to lose a lot of our best today. But I'm more worried about the junior runeknights, if I'm honest. They've borne the brunt of things. The dragons have killed thousands, especially in the center. The emergency supplies are burned. Around the Shaft there's nothing but ash left, and the mechanism might have stopped too."

I curse bitterly.

"But there is some good news. The humans have been proving their strength many times over, riding around and harassing the enemy's flanks and rear. A complete rampage, it's said."

"Let's hope it continues."

"Yes."

A series of shouts goes up from the enemy's ranks. Weapons flash in the cloud-dimmed sunlight and the rumble of many heavy feet shivers through the wind. Many lines of metal are advancing, and these dwarves glow with more power than the last lot by far.

"Ready yourselves!" I command. "Ithis and Brognir, to me!"

My runeknights get into rigid formation. Despite the constant rain, our armor remains coated with blood, and our weapons are as if forged from red steel. Ithis and Brognir come to stand either side of me. It seems that the main part of the enemy's power is concentrated in the middle, targeted right here. They know who I am now—I have declared it enough times. And the head of the Second Runeforger would be a great prize indeed.

How long before I fall? I wonder this idly. Strangely enough, the thought of my own death does not seem to scare me.

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They charge, screaming. They meet out lines and Graveknife lashes out. A foe falls, wailing in pain. An axe crashes onto my head, stunning me. I slash and scarlet sprays out. Ithis' hammer falls, caving in my striker's head. Brognir severs the arm of another foe, and then the other arm. The world becomes a chaos of metal and red. I shout and curse as I attack, adding my own small part to the symphony of battle.

"Kill them all!"

"Kill them all!"

"Kill them all!"

The cries from our side and those from the enemy's are the same.

After a while, our foes retreat and the symphony of clashing weapons and screams quietens, though does not vanish. It is continuing in the distance from other parts of the battle. Everywhere dwarves are fighting and dying, spilling their lives onto the surface soil.

All light fades as dusk comes and passes. Darkness covers all; the moon's silver beams evidently cannot penetrate the thick clouds, from which the rain does not stop. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the enemy charges for their most violent attack yet.

The symphony picks up again, louder than before, twice as loud. Dozens are cut down a minute, from our side and the enemy's. Reserves move in and out. Juniors take the place of exhausted seniors, and lucky strikes kill randomly.

Each side enjoys its own strengths and suffers its own weaknesses: together, they about even out. Unused to fighting against armored foes, the desert dwarves have trouble finding our weak-points, yet their troll-like strength cleaves our plates well enough that it matters little either way. For us, stabbing weapons and attacks do little, but cleaving, cutting and crushing are terribly effective. Chain-links are mangled, limbs and heads hewn away.

And of all the weapons wielded by our side—in all parts of the battle—Graveknife is surely one of the most deadly. Songs of terror will be sung about me in the sandstone caves, should any desert dwarves remain at the end of this to return to them. Healing requires life, strong life to remain in the broken flesh, and my cuts take that away.

Dawn breaks, furnace-like light playing over the sea of blood we stand in. Our foes draw back again, and my runeknights sink to their knees, exhausted. We have been fighting more or less constantly throughout the whole night, and as our reserves have thinned, each dwarf has had to stand in the front ranks for longer at a time. So many have fallen. The groans of the injured are horribly loud.

My stomach rumbles. My throat is dry and tight. I reach for my food satchel and my waterskin, and find they have been cut away. Cursing, I kneel down, raise my visor, and with cupped hands drink deep of the muddy, bloody water we stand in.

"Runethane Zathar! A messenger!" shouts one of my dwarves.

Groaning, I stand back up. One of the automatons has come. Her golden armor-body is scratched and dented, and the Eye of her scepter is slightly cracked.

"Runethane!" she shouts in her own voice. "Your forces are to march westward to assist Runethanes Duthur and Kalthan!"

I gesture to the foes not two hundred yards from us, whose wounds are lightly steaming as they heal. "What about them?" I demand. "They'll attack us if we turn sideways."

"Runethanes Ytith, Calamat and Xulut are on their way. Once they arrive here, you will move immediately."

"We are exhausted. We need rest!"

"You may take a few minutes. But the situation to the west is dire. I need not tell you how severe a blow it will be should Runethanes Duthur and Kalthan fall."

"Why us, though? Why not send Runethane Ytith? She is stronger than we are!"

"That may have been the case before today, but her troops have suffered worse than yours. Now, give your captains their orders, Runethane! There are to be no delays!"

I bow. "Very well," I say, bitterly. "I obey."

Before too long, the forces to relieve us arrive, and as the automaton said, they look truly battered. Most are limping; those with polearms lean on them. I see broken armor plates and smashed shields. Some hold their weapons uncomfortably, as if they're not their own, but picked up from the enemy or perhaps even from a dead ally.

Among them I spot Ytith. Her sword is bared and it drips blood. Although she walks strong and upright, one of her two bodyguards is limping, and the other is dented in the helmet.

The seven captains and I organize the backward maneuvering. It goes smoother than I expected; there is no petty arguing between guilds and realms, no shoving or fighting—no one has the vigor to waste. Then, once we're arrayed behind the new front-line of this section of the battlefield, I have a rough count taken of our strength.

More than a thousand have perished. Close to two thousand more are injured, one quarter of these badly enough that they can no longer fight. I have those sent back to the center where they might be able to descend back into Allabrast, though to be honest I have little hope of this. At least they can rest and be wrapped in healing chains.

Thus, it is just eight and a half thousand runeknights that I lead across the ruin of the battlefield to our next fight. We cross piles of bodies and burned scars. Things have shifted many times, and there is no semblance left of the neat blocks that were drawn on the battle-maps. Corpses tell stories of charges and counter-charges, flanking strikes, and desperate last stands from both sides. In the distance, such stories are being repeated. The roaring of battle-cries and the clashing of weapons is loud all around us, though I cannot see well. The rain is lessening, but in its place a fog has come, as if the spent clouds are sinking down like a shroud.

Although my army follows me, I am following the golden automaton. She is taking us some way away. I ask her to where, but she does not tell. I try addressing the Runeking directly, but he will not take over her speech. Likely he is fighting for himself, and is thus unable to give very many commands. Each army must fend for itself.

Then we see it: the fight we're to charge into, on top of and around a large hillock, looms from the fog. Dwarves in gem and silver duel berserkers in chains of dark iron. Limbs are scattered here and there, and many hundreds of weapons stick from the soft earth. Red trickles around my feet as a thousand rivers from a thousand corpses flow and join to make a moat around the battle.

Truly this is carnage that surpasses even the fighting we suffered through the night. The sound is deafening. And there is little semblance of organization, of lines and groups. It seems to be every dwarf for himself. We will bring some organization, I decide. We will steel ourselves to form a wedge and drive through into the heart of the battle.

Suddenly a break in the clouds lets in a lance of sunlight. For a moment, the top of the hill is illuminated. At the center of the melee there an axe rises and falls, once, twice, and again and again. Half-moon in shape, it is the color of a rainbow-diamond. Its power is blinding and strikes fear into my heart.

It is the weapon of the Runequeen of the desert dwarves. She survived the fall, and now she is here, and I am to fight her.

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