I pull back from him. He pulls away also. Perhaps surprised by my skill, he is now forced to reevaluate me as an opponent. Life-Ripper's thorny points damaged his back plates—I don't think he expected me to be able to strike such a blow.

  But I cannot afford to fool myself. Despite the battering the guardian gave his plate, and the wounds I've given it also, he is still far stronger than I am, and I have not escaped damage and injury either. In fact, I am damaged worse. I am bruised all over. My head is still fuzzy from the blows of Nazak's shield. My side is bleeding, between two ribs is a small and painful hole—even though these wounds are shallow, they still make it hurt to breath. Worse is the deep cut he just inflicted on my left upper arm. Blood is running from my breached plates.

  Wounds to my flesh can be ignored through strength of will. However, the power in my armor, power meant to be beyond that of magma, has diminished, and no amount of willpower can repair this. My strikes are not as quick and accurate as they were before, my momentum not as forceful. And the tungsten plates have simply become easier to cut through.

  How can I win? I think desperately. There must be some strategy I can find. He must have a weakness that I can exploit, somehow.

  But there seems to be none. His armor is strong, his weapon strong too. He is incredibly skilled—every attack I make, he blocks. Maybe I can catch his weapon, yes, but what then? I cannot seem to disarm him. He is too savvy.

  Vanerak charges. Maybe he senses my fear. He swings down a hammer-blow at my head. He's left himself open—he wouldn't make such a mistake. I pull back and let him hammer the empty air. He halts with precision and jabs forward. I shift to the side and try to sweep his feet.

  It should be an awkward blow to defend against. His weapon is outstretched, nowhere near in the right position to block. Yet block he does, angling back his pollaxe in an instant to halt Life-Ripper's momentum instantly. The clash rings like a bell. Such is the force that Life-Ripper flexes slightly.

  I step away, lunge and try again. High, low—both blocked. To the center, now to the left, feint right and left again—all blocked. His pollaxe seems to move according to its own will, as if it is not a weapon that he holds but a trained snake.

  This goes beyond skill. This is runic power.

  I have observed Vanerak's pollaxe many times. The runes are in a script unfamiliar to me, but I can make out certain rhythms, certain patterns, and guess at a few words. Its poem tells of breaking, and says that to do so, you must first know the weakness of what you are to break, and strike accordingly. On the hammer are runes that might mean crushing, on the axe those that likely are to do with cutting, and spiraling around the tip, runes that describe rushing forward. There seem to be no words relating to defense.

  He closes in and attacks. I shorten my grip on Life-Ripper and defend desperately. Each blow unbalances me further as I scramble to get away. He follows me, stepping in time with my movements. I see myself in his mirror-mask and the language of my body says that I am afraid, like a wounded prey-beast desperate to escape some terrible predator.

  If not his weapon, then how about the mirror-mask? Is that the secret? I cannot read the runes in it, for they are faint and small. It is something he always wears. What is its function? Not just to intimidate, surely.

  I stab. He blocks, and I push away from him, lengthening my grip on Life-Ripper and walking back as I do so. I stab again. The point of his weapon meets the point of mine in an unnatural movement. It is as if I am fighting my reflection—when I lash out, his weapon hits mine halfway to him and I cannot get through.

  Despair grips me. So this is what his mirror-mask is for—whatever attack is reflected in it, he blocks accordingly. Likely his gauntlets and mirror-mask are a set, since his weapon's poem seems to be for power alone. His gauntlets guide his movements in accordance with the reflection.

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  But I did manage to scratch his mirror-mask, before. Perhaps the power has been slightly degraded—I cannot lose hope. I try to overwhelm him with a flurry of light, fast blows, no two from the same angle. His arms twist, wrists rotate, and his pollaxe gets in the way of each and every one. His weapon is a dark blur.

  I cannot maintain this pace any longer. The wound on my arm is starting to bleed more heavily. I pull back. He immediately seizes the initiative and sweeps at me with the axe-side. I trip backwards, fall, roll. He strikes a glancing blow to my shoulder and I see a shower of sparks. I jab to ward him off as I get to my feet—he blocks it, continues forward, stabbing.

  I push the blow away with force. This stops him. He pulls back. I pull back too. And from behind his mirror-mask, I can hear that he is breathing heavily.

  Not all hope is lost. Not all of it! His battle against the strange and bloodless guardian was a long one, and intense. It—somehow I do not think there was a dwarf inside that armor, indeed maybe there was nothing at all—it had inexhaustible stamina. Vanerak could not afford to let up the pressure, and there were none of the natural lulls that come about in ordinary fights, when both opponents step back to catch their breath and reevaluate their respective battle plans.

  He is exhausted and battered. The guardian's stab, the one that took them both through the gates, pierced his breastplate slightly. The front and back of the core of his armor have been damaged, and the strength it lends him diminished just as mine has been diminished.

  He is not invulnerable. I have a chance. What is more—I have the ruby. It burns against my flesh, sending vital heat through me. My wounds hurt, to be sure, yet not as much as they should. The fatigue in my muscles does not slow my movements by much.

  I will wear him down. No matter the runes, beneath armor is a dwarf who moves it. The more stabs he has to parry, the more tired he will become. And Life-Ripper's thorns will rob the power of his pollaxe too.

  Strike, strike, and strike! One blow a second, at varying angles. I attack methodically, quickly but not too quickly. He blocks each one—yet he is on the defensive, even if it is a good defense. I will grind him down.

  He turns a block to a riposte and stabs out. I back away, stumble. He jabs again, this time at my eyes. I ward the strike off and try to scratch his mirror-mask, yet his pollaxe comes back too fast and knocks Life-Ripper off-target. He then hammer-strikes my unguarded left. My armor dents and blunt force shudders past my ribs into my innards. I cough, feel sick. I'm on the ground—roll to avoid his stab, jab up and am yet again blocked. He stabs at my foot. I scramble away, ward him off with two quick strikes, finally manage to get to my feet.

  I throw myself back into the attack without hesitation. He must be growing more tired. He must be! Life-Ripper is bashed away forcefully to the left, leaving me wide open. He stabs. I back away and he shoulder charges, throws me off balance. He swings his axe-head and I only just manage to block it. I attempt to shove him back, but his boots keep him stable.

  I disengage and he does not pursue. He is definitely breathing heavily. I charge again. My lunge brings pain through my ribs and arm, but this robs none of its force. He blocks. The easy movement betrays no exhaustion at all. I strike again from another angle. He blocks cleanly again.

  To tire him out is my goal. Yet his movements are not slowing by the slightest. He strikes Life-Ripper away and steps in to stab. I only just avoid, then he crushes his pollaxe down onto my right foot. There is a solid sound like hammer impacting anvil. Metal bends and I feel a sharp pain.

  This strategy is not working. He is too skilled, and with such a versatile weapon too. I'm not going to last long enough to tire him out. My armor is going to break long before I exhaust his stamina. And besides, maybe it is his gauntlets that are doing the blocking for him, and his defense is not tiring him at all. I should not make assumptions about the craft of a Runethane.

  Then what do I do? He pushes forward with a series of mighty downward axe-blows. Sparks fly from the haft of Life-Ripper as I ward the deadly blade away from my shoulders and head. Cutting power, pure runic force, slams into me even when he's out of range. My armor screeches. White stars whirl between us.

  I stab—blocked. All my efforts are hopeless. I cannot win this. How could I ever have hoped to defeat a Runethane? It was foolish of me. Perhaps the only option is to throw myself at his mercy—no, he will not trust a twice-traitor—and my ruby will not let me. It drives me to continue attacking him, no matter how useless my strikes are proving.

  A hammer-blow to the shoulder sends me flying. I tumble, crash against something solid. I look up at skulls outlined in dim, half-fogged red.

  He has pushed me right to the center of the dome. My back is to stone and I cannot run. He raises his pollaxe high as he advances. My skull, crushed, he plans to set by this great pile.

  He wants to end it here. Fear seizes me—I remember helpless Pellas, kind Wharoth, and drive it away. There is still hope. I pierced his plate when his blade was immobilized, scratched his mirror-mask before that.

  Just as he steps into range, I see how I can get through a third time.

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