“What the hell do we do?” the driver, Khatek, demands. “We can't clear it. It's too big.”

  I fear that he may be right, for the trolls' barricade stretches across the entire length of the tunnel, which is not so slim here, no part is shorter than twelve feet in height, and it is sloped, suggesting a great deal of thickness. It is appalling to imagine how many caravans must have been destroyed to make it, and how many runeknights might have been slain in their futile defense.

  “We have to clear it,” says Lopak. “We've got no choice. We're already halfway through the wastes. Turning back would only put us in more danger, and besides, the trolls probably expect us to turn back too.”

  “It's too big. It'll take a good part of a long-hour. Which we probably don't have. And by the end, we'll be exhausted. That's when they'll attack. They didn't attack when we were resting because they understood that we were ready for them. But after trying to clear this, we won't have the strength to fight.”

  “Surely these are different trolls,” I say. “They can't run faster than blindboars.”

  Lopak shakes his head. “This was planned. They probably have some system of communication, with mirrors or flags. Like I told you, they're smarter than your average troll by far.”

  “But how did they make it so fast?”

  “My guess..." His mind seems to wander for a second. The skull's empty sockets are drawing him in. He shakes his head, breaks the deceased's stare by turning to us. "My guess is that they made it a while ago, then dragged it out from a side tunnel somewhere ahead. They might even have wheeled it out and then lifted it off whatever platform it was mounted on. Moving something even this heavy wouldn't have been too much work for a gang of trolls.”

  "Either that or they've left it here a while, and no one's ever got past it," says Khatek. "The simpler method."

  "Maybe, maybe. But there's a few caravan routes around this area, and none of them are used often. A moveable barricade..." He scowls. "We don't have time to be discussing this. It doesn't matter how they made it. All that matters is how we're going to get through. Damn bastards!"

  I recall an old memory, of Dwatrall. But surely he would not plan such an attack. He had a sense of honor, was grateful to us beyond measure. No, these iron trolls have nothing to do with him. Surely not.

  “Get through? We have to turn back,” Khatek says stubbornly. “There's no other way.”

  Lopak rounds on him. “We cannot!” he snaps. “Too much gold is on the line. I won't lose our guild any more.”

  “This is our lives we're talking about, captain! And I'm not suggesting we dump the cargo.”

  “We were contracted to bring it in on time. We will lose gold if we are late. Worse, we will lose honor—our guild's honor. The name of the Gem Wheel Association is held in high regard and we cannot besmirch it.”

  “Captain, they will spring upon us when we are at our weakest.”

  “I know.” He glances at me. “But they aren't expecting us to have a second degree with us. How many caravans are guarded by second degrees, Khatek? Not many. And not ones with bare wooden carriages.”

  “Even a second degree can't kill an entire gang of trolls single-handedly.”

  “No. But with our strength as well as his, I think we can manage.” He turns to address the rest of the runeknights, gathered fearfully behind. “We can manage, I said! We will cut a way through this grimy barrier, and death take any troll who tries to stop us. Our armor is strong and our weapons are sharp. You! Climb up and be lookout. The rest, to work!”

  We attack the wall from the middle. Those with axes and swords hack at the lengths of wood, which are shoddily yet cunningly woven together, while those with spears and blunt weapons pull it apart. As a spear-wielder, I am in the latter group. My armor may be degraded, but the strength it lends me is still greater than that most of the other runeknights can exert. I pull at the structure almost in a frenzy, tossing splintered wood and bone left and right. The others stay clear.

  The deeper we get into the barricade, the grislier the work becomes. The trolls have lodged many bodies between the wood beams and pig bones, all torn apart in horrible fashion. Many are relatively fresh, and rotten fluid leaks from between their steel plates when we move them. The smell is horrendous. A few of the junior runeknights vomit.

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  But I am used to death and this work does not affect me so much. Digging through troll-scavengings is nothing compared to witnessing Pellas' death, or the inside-out burning of demonic possession, or the black dragon's malefic slaying of dozens at a time. And rotten corpses are less horrible to look upon than Fjalar's bloodless victims were.

  “I've killed iron trolls before,” I declare. “The captain is right. Death take any one of them who tries to stop us. We will add their iron to our cargo and arrive richer.”

  “It's our cargo,” one runeknight points out. “Not yours.”

  “Of course. But my point is that we can defeat them. And if you can't, I can.”

  The wound we're cutting into the barricade deepens and widens. The trolls' wall is coming apart faster than I expected. The runeknights here are talented, the best their small guild has within its ranks. Their weapons are sharp and their armor gives them strength that belies their degrees. A line of bare stone leading right out is opened, and we halt for a moment to let out a great cheer.

  It dies down and we get back to work. Hack and pull, hack and pull. The rhythm is akin to that of working the metal. For a moment, I forget about the trolls and lose myself in the deconstruction. It is a hard task, but after many long-hours cramped in the rear carriage, the opportunity to exert my muscles feels good.

  But it is taking its toll on the others. They do not have my endurance. Not only is their armor not quite so powerful, but none of them have ever forged so hard as I did down in Vanerak's realm when I pushed my body past its limits. No one has an amulet quite like mine either, I don't think—quite a few probably don't have any sort of amulet.

  The work begins to slow. I attempt to encourage the others, and Lopak does as well, but it has little effect. They are simply running out of stamina.

  “We need to rest,” wheezes Khatek. “The trolls want this, captain. They want us to panic and tire ourselves out. We'd do better to stop and recover.”

  Lopak's brows pull together in anger then, to my surprise, relax. “You're right. A quick rest would do us good. Everybody! Pull back and—”

  A high whine interrupts him. It is followed by a sound like a cleaver going through a slab of meat, then the two halves of the runeknight assigned as lookout fall from the barricade and thump onto the stone. Blood floods around them.

  “They're coming!” Volka screams from the back, at almost the same time.

  There is another whine, and a scream. A blood-coated disc skids and sparks over the stones from behind.

  “Volka!” Lopak shouts in horror.

  “It got Yulalf!” she screams.

  There is another whine—another disc flies from behind, a little higher. It slams into the barricade and buries itself in up to its midpoint. Thankfully, this one is unbloodied.

  “Zathar, take the back!” Lopak shouts. “You four, with him. The rest, we guard the blindboars!”

  “Come on!” I shout to the four he's just pointed to, and without looking back, I rush past the sleeping blindboars and dark carriages to where Volka crouches, spear and bright silver sword held ready.

  A horizontal line of metal appears from the blackness. It lengthens, and its whine becomes a dreadful scream. I shout a battlecry and aim Life-Ripper. At the last moment I twist it so the twin points are aligned vertically. The disc slams hard into the space between them. The sheer force is near as strong as one of Vanerak's hammer blows, and I'm sent staggering back, though manage to stay upright.

  I halt myself. The disc stays spinning in the grasp of my weapon, a blurred razor, fountaining yellow sparks over me. Its rotation slows, and I tilt Life-Ripper down to let it slide down onto the floor. The clang it makes is deafening. It is at least five feet across, wider than I am tall.

  “By hell!” a runeknight behind me gasps; whether in awe or fear I cannot tell. But there is no time to make a reply.

  From out the blackness a dozen trolls emerge. Their hides are angular plates of red and gray iron, and in their hands are not simple clubs and rocks, but crude swords, axes, and sixteen-foot pikes. Though, they seem to have expended their discs.

  “Stand up!” I yell at Volka. “You four behind, form up behind me! They expect us to form a line to defend. So, we will charge!”

  “Charge?” one says. “Charge?”

  “We're going to fight them anyway!” the one beside him yells. “Shut up and do as he says!”

  They obey. I sink my stance a little, readying to sprint, with Life-Ripper's single point held out and up. Volka readies herself to charge beside me.

  “Now!” I shout, and rush forward.

  A troll levels its pike at me. I knock it down savagely and parry the strike of a nearer one's great sword. I stab deep into its belly—its natural armor is as nothing against true metal. It roars in shock and tries to pull away. I step forward, force Life-Ripper deeply upward to its heart.

  I sense an axe swinging at my head, duck. I tear Life-Ripper out of my first victim. A river of blood accompanies the tungsten. Another pike jabs at me. I let it glance off a pauldron and raise Life-Ripper to catch the next axe blow.

  I've misjudged the angle. The axe slides down the length of the shaft and smashes my lead hand. It is too blunt to breach, but the force near wrenches my arm from its socket. I retreat back a step, avoiding another pike-jab as I do so.

  It feels unnatural to have to dodge. My armor is nearly a hindrance, making my movements awkward, heavy.

  Another pike lashes out, past me. One of the runeknights behind screams. Another shouts that one's name in a tone of despair. I have no time to turn and look; the lead troll, with the axe, is swinging at me again.

  I parry, drive the blow away with all my force. A sword cleaves down and I step back only just enough. Broken stone flies up from the floor.

  “Are you going to let me fight alone?” I scream. “Come forward, you cowards!”

  “Forward!” Volka screams. “Forward!”

  She steps under a troll's sword-sweep methodically, jabs her spear into its foot while slashing its belly with her sword. Her metal cannot get through the armor there. I stab deep, to help her.

  Out the corners of my eyes I see the other runeknights rush forward. They all but throw themselves at the trolls—yet prove no match for the beasts.

  I shout out in horror.

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