The troll stalks forward unhurriedly. Why should it rush to kill me? I am dying already. All it has to do is wait. If it is intelligent, that is what it will do, just stand there and watch me starve. Fortunately for me, however, it seems not to be quite that intelligent—no matter how much it wants to hold back, its primitive instinct for violence propels it toward me. It may be patient, but it is not that patient.

  I put on my helmet—my wound flares with pain for a second as metal touches it—and level Life-Ripper at the troll's bulging gut. I worry about which will prove the stronger: dwarven runes or the trollish capacity for healing, which in lava trolls is increased a hundred-fold. I killed some before in only fifth degree equipment, yes, but I had allies then, and was in the peak of physical health.

  My ruby, sensing oncoming battle, blazes hotter. It brings out the remaining vitality in me—but that is not much. I can still barely stand, and Life-Ripper's twin points are quivering.

  The troll, perhaps sensing weakness, quickens its pace. Its eyes light up with greed. Its figure has a lean, hungry look, and I wonder for a moment just how long it has been down here in these tunnels searching for food. Maybe it was cast out by its tribe, is an exile. I hope so, for killing even just this one is going to be no simple task.

  Maybe it will prove an impossible task.

  Twenty yards away and it charges. Its heavy footsteps send shudders through the dark stone. In the blackness, it is the only thing I can see, a gray-orange glow in the dark, rushing for me. The only things in the underworld, right now, are me and it. I focus entirely and jab at its belly. Life-Ripper sinks deep.

  It bellows in shock and pain yet does not slow. Life-Ripper's twin points sink to their maximum depth and I am pushed backward. I cannot keep my balance, fall. The troll's arms, extended, are as long as Life-Ripper and it grabs me by the helm with one hand and squeezes. The heat of its palm goes right through my armor. My runes are of life-heat to keep out the natural, and no creature has more life-heat than a lava troll.

  I twist Life-Ripper. The troll bellows louder. It has never experienced pain before, I think. The sensation confuses it. I feel the metal of my helm begin to bend. The troll hammers me in the chest with its other hand, and the impact bruises my wounds. I scream out in pain, rip Life-Ripper out. Yellow-orange blood pours from the wound, steaming. The troll lets go, and its own scream of pain is almost a squeal.

  Yet the blood is already beginning to dry to form a protective barrier, within which the flesh will quickly re-knit itself. I stab out at the troll's wrist. Life-Ripper's barbs catch on its skin and tear. The troll yells and throws its hand away as if burning water just touched it. Skin comes off on the barbs as Life-Ripper half-flays its wrist. More orange blood pours from cut veins.

  It takes another step back. Shit! I cannot allow it to run. I am breathing hard, and the thrill of combat is not dimming the pain and exhaustion like it usually does. I charge for it, lash out at its ankles. Life-Ripper glances the floor, brings up sparks. The troll takes another step back, another. It raises its arm, hesitates. I raise Life-Ripper to meet the blow, but it never comes. The troll wheels around.

  I charge! It takes a loping stride and my stab at its calf falls well-short. It is escaping me.

  I aim, throw. Life-Ripper sails through the darkness, a bolt of metal visible only by the light reflected from its target, which it nearly misses. Only one prong goes through the troll's neck rather than both.

  Hot blood jets out. The troll screams and thunders away faster. I run after it, trip after a few steps. I attempt to stand, but my legs give out. It is still running, Life-Ripper through its neck wobbling with each heavy step, thorns tearing at flesh. The troll grabs it, pulls, and a massive gout of blood splashes across the wall, turning the black stone bright.

  The troll falters and falls to one knee. I limp, one hand on the wall, down toward it. It clasps both its hands to the tear in its neck, and blood pours through its fingers. The flow is slowing but not stopping. It groans and whimpers.

  I designed Life-Ripper to tear apart the vitality of whatever it pierces. The twisting lines of the demons, the complex flows of runic energy, and whatever force gives the lava trolls their great regeneration—it treats these all the same, breaks them asunder like a blade through a knot. The troll's wounds are not scabbing over as quickly as they should.

  It bellows, a sound of such agony that I almost feel sorry for it. Life-Ripper is within reach now, and I pick it up. I raise it, aim at the back of the troll's neck. It senses me, turns, flailing its arms. But it is now weaker even than me, and Life-Ripper gets to it first, piercing through the other side of its neck and the great artery there. Blood sprays out to coat the left side of the wall, and the troll slumps backward, dead, arms flailing limply onto the stone.

  I take no risks and stab deep into its heart, several times. It does not even twitch. I go to my knees and remove my helm. The sight and scent of meat, foul troll though it may be, is overwhelming. My hunger and thirst compel me to scoop up a handful of the sticky, warm, bright blood and cram it into my mouth.

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  I do not taste it. Likely it is disgusting, but my body won't allow my tongue to register this, won't allow me to stop. Handful after handful I scoop in, and my belly gradually fills. Blood is not enough—I use Life-Ripper to tear the flesh of its arms and thighs to shreds, then I devour the shreds raw. They seem to squirm as they go down my throat, and convulse when they reach the bile of my stomach.

  My belly starts to cramp. I clutch at it, sit back. I have eaten too quickly. I take deep, shuddering breaths. Already, though, my vitality is beginning to return. As I sit here, smeared with troll blood and with its meat squirming in my belly, strength is flowing back into my muscles ounce by ounce.

  Troll meat is said to be inedible. Perhaps, though, that is simply because no dwarf has ever been desperate enough to try it. But even if it is toxic to some degree, it will at least stave off starvation for a while. I shut my eyes, concentrate on the sensation in my belly and, when satisfied that the squirming has become less intense, allow myself to sleep.

  When I wake up, I feel alive. My body is overflowing with strength, and further supping of the troll's blood brings me more. My mind is cleared also.

  I use Life-Ripper to sever the troll's leg. This takes much stabbing and tearing, and blood is running down the tunnel in a river by the time it comes free. I drag it down the now slippery tunnel to the lava font and spend several hours butchering it with a sharp stone. I cut around its ankle and pull the skin more or less intact from its foot, though I do have to sever the toes. I use a length of sinew, dried next to the magma, to tie the bottom tightly. I then sear the inside with gobbets of magma, and to complete the primitive waterskin. use another length of sinew to tie off the top in such a fashion that I can open and close it.

  I fill it with blood. Then, I cook many scraps of flesh. They cook slowly, but they do cook, and I wrap them in another large flap of skin, which I dry and tie with more sinew.

  It is heavy. Yet I'm strong enough to carry it easily, up past the rest of the troll, and further on into wetter, more hospitable tunnels. Eventually I find fungi, and eat the types I recognize as edible. My troll-blood runs out quicker than I expected, but now I can lick the walls for moisture. After two long-hours or so, I manage to find a stream. I splash the cool water on my face, cleaning away the mask of blood, sweat and grime that's dried onto my features. I refill my waterskin. The water becomes greasy and sour, yet it replenishes my strength all the same.

  I finish my troll-meat and find other sources to replace it. I spear several bats and a small salamander. They would go down better cooked, but I am away from the magma now and do not have that luxury. Meat itself, after so many day-equivalents of fungus, is luxury enough that I cannot complain.

  I start to feel almost healthy, and my wounds stop aching so much. How long will I wander here for? I do not much care. In fact, I would not mind wandering these caverns forever. The sense of freedom is sublime. For so long I was trapped in my cell, and my forge which was also a cell, so now to be able to walk the tunnels as I please makes me happy beyond measure.

  I find a cavern, wide and with a river flowing down its center, that is almost paradise. Lush fungi gives soft light throughout, and eyeless white fish dart in the water. I spear them and give myself the luxury of only eating the best flesh, and throwing the rest to the bats, for there are so many of the fish, and Life-Ripper is fast.

  In a small hollow in the wall I make myself a kind of home, with hanging creepers for a door and a bed made from fungi that is similar in shape and feel to the grass of the surface that lies far, far above. When I sleep, I do so almost in warmth.

  Yet as the long-hours pass, my sleeps grow less and less peaceful. In my dreams I see the great statue under whose gaze I dueled Vanerak, and its shadowy eyes stare at me. Its face, alike to my own, is sneering.

  The face of the First Runeforger.

  Who was he? Why do I have his powers? That sphere he held—is it the one I see in my trance? And what connection does he have to my brother and Hardrick? The black dragon said my brother's craft intrigued it so much that it spared him. It lied that it spared him, yet the craft must still have had some unique aspect to it, or the dragon would not have remembered its maker clearly enough to identify me as being a relation. And Hardrick, the silver legend who rose to second degree with unheard of speed, he has power too—perhaps the power of runeforging, same as I do.

  He's still alive, I presume, still at Runethane Broderick's side and, by chain of command, following the orders of the hateful Runeking Uthrarzak.

  Here, in this small paradise, time does not seem to flow. Yet outside it does. My friend Hayhek and student Guthah are on their way to the fort against the darkness—which I suppose is now more properly called Runethane Halmak's realm. Maybe they have already arrived.

  I worry especially for Guthah. The loss of Pellas will have devastated him. Likely he hates me, and I can't blame him for it. I slew her killer—perhaps that will give him some relief, if I'm able to tell him. As for Hayhek, and the dwarves who came to free me, I feel that I owe something to them too. That Ithis—I didn't particularly like the look of him. But his letter rekindled the flame of hate in my heart, and I owe him for that. It broke the chains Vanerak had wrapped around my heart and mind.

  I must leave this place and find them. I must help them as best I can—for the fort is a dangerous place: that sorcerer of darkness, who was neither dwarf nor human, nor troll nor elf, remains below. Runethane Halmak is greedy, from what I remember. He might seek to go down again. Even if he does not, there are ferocious beasts to contend with, dithyoks and whippers, and the threat of Runeking Uthrarzak looming over all.

  And, of course, I must keep Vanerak at the forefront of my mind. Now that he has the knowledge of the First Runeforger available to him, he will grow in strength, and I must grow to match him. Outmatch him.

  So with a heavy sigh I leave my hollow and continue my journey. I go through the wider caverns, hoping to meet other dwarves—in my ten years after the dragon I took only slim tunnels, and avoided all signs of others. I was fleeing then, but now I am no coward.

  Before long I strike lucky, and come across an even, straight, and flat-floored tunnel that can only be a caravan route. I walk along it for many long-hours, feeding on fungus and fungus mites, and drinking from the tiny rivulets that run down the long, shallow, wheel-carved trenches.

  A rumble approaches. I dare to hope, raise Life-Ripper in a salute and, perhaps out of curiosity, or more likely scenting the profit that can be gained from accepting a passenger of high degree, the caravan, a six-carted train pulled by five blindboars, slows to a halt beside me.

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