The iron blur glances against the tip of Life-Ripper, is knocked just a few inches off target, and instead of slicing through Lopak's neck, hits the top of his helm. The impact knocks him down but leaves only a silver streak in the metal, no real cut.

  “Beast!” I scream. Fury has wiped away my fatigue. “Die!”

  I leap over Lopak at the troll. It kicks at me and I stab its shin. Life-Ripper's points push in, yet only by a fraction of an inch, and the troll shows no sign of pain. The momentum of its leg is only slowed, and I'm forced back. It's succeeded at keeping me in its preferred range.

  This is no dumb beast. It knows how to fight.

  Its disc is already swinging back for me. There is no time to dodge, so I hold Life-Ripper vertically with hands wide. The disc hits the shaft with great force, throwing me down again.

  I expected it do so and quickly recover. But I am still some distance away, and the iron troll chief now takes the opportunity to prepare a truly devastating blow: it starts to whirl the disc over its head, faster and faster, then even faster, until it is as if a solid iron ring is hovering just below the cavern roof. The way the air screams is chilling, yet what I see on its iron-skinned chest, unobscured by its arms and illuminated cleanly by the caravan lights, chills me more.

  Runes have been carved directly into its armored skin. They are not the random, badly formed jags like marred the weapons of the other trolls, but make a simple poem and are powered by the glow of reagent.

  I look down its legs, and up at its arms, and see that thin runes have been carved into every part of its flesh. They praise solidity and natural strength, and all glow with power. This is why Life-Ripper cannot not penetrate so deep: it is stabbing not at mere raw iron sheeting, but at proper armor.

  I grit my teeth. I cannot get distracted, cannot lose concentration. I focus on where to aim: the hip joint. I ready to charge and the iron troll chief notices the change in my stance. It widens the loop and brings the disc screaming toward me with hideous speed. I cannot duck, so commit.

  The disc goes past my back and I feel a momentary thrill. Life-Ripper is about to reach, wound, maim. But I have not accounted for the chain. It wraps around me like an ambushing snake, throws me onto my side. It tightens and the disc slams into my head, stunning me. Colored lights dance around the scars in my vision. The troll chief leers over me. It's raising its foot high. I struggle at the chains, but they are wrapped too tightly. My arms are completely pinned.

  Its foot is directly over me now. My helm, badly weakened by Vanerak's strike, will not be able to stand the blow. The troll will crush my head into paste.

  A figure clad in bloody steel leaps over me, slashes. It's Lopak. He buries his axe into the troll's hip, in the same gap between armor plates I was aiming for. The troll chief yells out in shock as its muscles are wounded deep, then crashes backwards. I struggle hard at the chains while it's down, manage to loosen them. While I do this, Lopak hacks frantically at the troll's leg, trying to drive his axe blade as deep as possible.

  Yet both him and his armor have been weakened terribly. The troll guards the wound with one fist, and snatches hold of Lopak's axe arm with its other hand. He kicks desperately as it lifts him into the air.

  I yell out and finally manage to free myself from the chains. The troll chief yanks back the great iron disc and I dodge, fall over. When I get to my feet, I see that the troll has grabbed the disc by the edge, and is swinging it out, preparing to slash back in and cut Lopak, still kicking and screaming helplessly, into two.

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  “Never!” I shout.

  I charge and drive Life-Ripper's single point at the center of the troll's enruned chest. The true metal jabs right into the iron plates, stops. The resistance is stiff, as stiff as any decent dwarven breastplate would give. I push harder. The iron troll chief yells out in pain or fear, and suddenly dashes Lopak to the stone. There is a sound like metal crumpling, and no scream. I roar in despair and push forward harder.

  The troll chief grabs the disc with both hands and raises, aiming to bring it onto my head. The usual reaction would be to step back—so instead I push forward, moving my hands up Life-Ripper's haft as I do so. The troll chief swings down and the momentum helps drive Life-Ripper deeper into it, right into it.

  It has misjudged the sharpness of a true dwarven weapon. Life-Ripper penetrates its heart, and its strength vanishes. It slumps over me heavily, knocks me too my knees. Behind, I hear the disc rotate and spiral on the floor, like a plate set spinning by a child.

  Life-Ripper comes up against the inside of the troll's backplate, and with no momentum can go no further. I exert my muscles with eye-bulging force to push, hard, on the haft. The troll chief's body falls sideways with a thud like a dropped anvil. I stand up, plant my boot against the dead monster's chest and tear Life-Ripper out. Pungent red heart's blood leaps out in an arc and froths where it hits the stone.

  “Lopak!” I shout, and I rush to him. “Captain!”

  I kneel down beside him and shake his shoulder. He does not wake, and I notice that the blood from his wrist has become but a dribble.

  “No...” I whisper.

  I turn him over. His eyes are open, but they see nothing. The loss of blood and the terrible impact of being dashed against the stones has killed him.

  “Lopak!” Volka shouts. She limps out from beside the carriages. The other runeknight is hanging onto her shoulder, too weak to stand by himself. I look up at her.

  “He's dead,” I say. “I saved his life, then he saved mine, but then the troll got him. Ah, shit.”

  I stand and look over the bloody scene. The reality of what's just happened hits me: all but three of us are dead.

  Volka continues to limp this way, only stopping to stand right over Lopak's body.

  “No,” she whispers. “No.”

  “We have to get out of here,” I say. “Those I drove off might come back. Other beasts might scent the blood too. Amphidon scavengers, or even other trolls.”

  “I agree,” she says bitterly. She looks into my eyes. “But you don't have to say it so coldly.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Maybe we at least have time to put them into the carriages. They deserve proper funerals.”

  “We can do that.” I glance at the slain troll chieftain. “And we will put this body in too. We can dump some of the steel to make it fit.”

  Volka looks at me with shock. “Dump the cargo? After all we've fought for it?”

  I gesture at the slain troll. “Take a closer look. Don't you see what it's seared into its chest?”

  She looks, and freezes.

  “Runes. A troll is using runes. Not only that, but can you read them?”

  “Yes. It's a poem.”

  “A crude one, but a poem—”

  Now that we are out of the heat of battle, I can read them properly. Before I only skimmed over the lines, and did not understand a crucial aspect which is now only too clear to me: within the runes discussing hardness, resistance, and natural strength, are those that speak of flesh. The poem is designed not simply to improve the attributes of the armor, but those of the troll itself.

  With troll and armor being one, I suppose this makes sense. Yet from behind the runes I also sense some deeper magic. Something else going on here that I cannot quite fathom.

  “Runethane Ytith needs to see it,” I say. “The whole body, and maybe some of the weapons of the others too. We will be rewarded handsomely for the information.” I scowl. “If he cares more for justice than the last Runethane I met.”

  “She is considered fair,” says Volka.

  “She? Well, she better be.”

  I kneel down beside Lopak again and shut his sightless eyes. He was a brave dwarf, and a good leader, and saved my life more than once. I blink away stinging tears. I recall Yezakh, Braztak, Pellas, and Wharoth. Is it the fate of all those I meet to suffer and die bloodily?

  No—the iron trolls would have attacked the caravan regardless. My presence hasn't changed that. And if I had not been here to help the defense, Volka and the other survivor would be dead also, and there would be no honored internment for anyone either. They would have been devoured, or else packed into the barricade to strike terror into the trolls' next set of victims.

  “Zathar?”

  I shake my head and blink. “It's nothing,” I say quietly. “Let's get to work.”

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