I am stationed in the rearmost carriage, the place usually attacked second when an ambush is sprung, just after the blindboars are stopped. It is cramped, filled nearly completely with great wooden boxes of steel ingots, each bolted to the floor and secured tightly with thick ropes. I sit at the back, with my knees against my chest and rough wood against my spine, staring out into the near-total blackness through an eye-slit. The monotony is broken only by the occasional foul whiff and squelch whenever a blindboar relieves its massive guts and the carriage wheels power through the muck.

  There are just two of us in here. Volka tells me that there used to be four guards perched on the roof of this carriage, and an extra one in here so they could take turns watching, but two troll attacks have halved the runeknights' numbers. The wheels of two carriages were smashed in the latest attack too, and Captain Lopak—for that is how the commanders of caravan trains are styled within his guild—had no choice but to abandon them and most of the cargo they carried.

  Their bad luck has become my fortune. There's no chance they'd have taken me on had they been any less desperate. I'm too dangerous. As a second degree—though maybe not recognized officially as such—they know I could kill any one of them I choose to. Probably a few, before their blades got through my weakened armor.

  What was I thinking, telling the truth about how I ended up here? Did Vanerak's seeing through my lies so easily, perhaps, convince me on some level that it is futile to hide the truth?

  I ought to have been more careful. But in any case, my honesty seems to have paid off. The caravaners share their food with me, and though the portions are meager, they provide a lot more vitality than raw fungus and mites did. And, for the first time in many a long-hour, I have beer to drink. It calms my nerves more than I remember.

  Yet no one gets roaring drunk. The alcohol is to dull the horrors of their journey so far. They do not speak much at mealtimes—each sits quietly with his or her own memories. Many take the opportunity to remove their armor and re-tighten healing chains, some of which cover scars as bad as my own.

  Captain Lopak offers me the use of some chains, but I refuse. My wounds have healed enough that such low grade crafts will have little effect, and it is common knowledge that wrapping healing-chains around healthy flesh can lead to sores, bleeding rashes, or even malignancies as the body's natural healing instinct is warped past its boundaries.

  The dwarves below the southern deserts—at least one southern desert, at any rate— solved this problem, or so Xomhyrk once said. Runethane Ytith's realm lies south and upward. I wonder if I will see any desert dwarves there.

  Late one mealtime, as we sip beer in the dim light of a small light laid between us, I ask Captain Lopak:

  “No,” he replies. “The dwarves sworn to the Dry Runekings do not frequent the city of Jade and Copper. I have seen them a few times, though, on farther journeys.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “And they really don't wear armor?”

  “No. Many think their chains, which they wrap around themselves thickly, are armor, but this is wrong—the chains give them offensive power only. Speed and strength far beyond what we have.”

  “The chains don't heal at all?”

  “They do, apparently, but simply as a side effect of the strength they lend. It's not their main function. The scripts they use don't have the right runes for healing chains like ours.”

  “No words for healing at all?”

  “None that have been discovered. Even if some were, I doubt they'd utilize them. They don't care for defense at all. They're very strange. Some of the strangest runeknights I ever met.”

  The wind whistles past our hollow. It sounds eerie, as if screams are carried on it, screams of metal tearing, and screams of dwaves being crushed underfoot or torn armored limb from limb. I suppress a shiver.

  “Speaking of scripts,” Lopak says, “I have never learned the one you utilize.”

  I think carefully about my next words.

  “I would have been surprised if you had,” I say slowly. “It's not a common one.”

  “What is it called? I like to read books of runes on my journeys. Most of the others prefer to entertain themselves, but I'm looking to become a third once I can buy some better metal.”

  “Called?” I stroke my beard. “It doesn't have much of a proper name. We just called it the Magma Script. That's the theme its runes take on.”

  “Of magma?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was it found?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  He frowns suspiciously—odd for a runeknight to make such extensive use of a script without knowing anything of its origin, he is probably thinking. Does he suspect I'm lying?

  “You wouldn't believe me,” I say, “if I told you.”

  “Tablets buried in the magma, I would guess. I can believe that some would swim down to search for such things. It's not an impossible feat. I've been to realms near the seas where runeknights must dive for their next degree.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Dive?”

  “An enruned piece of tungsten is thrown into the molten stone, and the examinee must retrieve it. A fair few are never seen again. But we are getting off topic. Was your script found beneath the ocean?”

  “Not quite,” I say.

  I ought to kick myself! Why didn't I just say yes, and end this awkward conversation? But for some reason I can't bring myself to lie to him blatantly.

  “Then what?”

  “Like I said, I'm not sure.”

  “And then you said I wouldn't believe you if you told me. Which rather implies you have the ability to tell me, and that you do know its origins.”

  I lower my beer mug. It's loosened my lips a bit too much, and perhaps my wits too. Lopak is sharp—of course he is, he's a fourth degree. His smooth brown beard, porcelain-clean skin, and piercing eyes belie his age, but he is probably about two centuries old. A century and a decade at the youngest. And much of his years have been spent deep in the study of runes, and in their manipulation also. The poems on his armor are dense, complex, yet each line fits together smoothly and with absolutely no error, not even the slightest awkward rhyme.

  “I see that you've been granted your rank for a good reason,” I say, very quietly.

  Most of the others not on guard duty—out of earshot at either end of the hollow—have gone back to the carriages to sleep, so besides me, only Volka and Lopak remain. The former, leaning against the rust and sandstone striped wall a dozen yards away, has started to stare curiously.

  “There was,” Lopak says, “or so I heard from the most senior guild members, some speculation as to why Runethane Vanerak was sent so far down. Some thought it was because of his rumored brutality. Others said the Runeking had learned of something vastly important hidden down there. I am thinking that maybe a bit of both rumors were true.”

  “You might be correct.”

  “So, what was it these demons were guarding? A great trove of runic knowledge?”

  His eyes have lit up like they did when we first met just a few long-hours ago, with a light I now recognize as the gilded tint of greed.

  “That's one way you could put it.”

  Volka stands up and walks quickly toward us. Her short spear is clutched in her right hand, while her left is touching the hilt of her sword.

  “He's hiding something from us.”

  “Yes. But that's no reason to aim a weapon at him. Lower your spear, Volka!”

  She lowers her aim from my neck to my gut. “I don't feel safe, shut in that box with him. He's too still.”

  “Still?” I say. “What do you mean?”

  “Like a fucking stone.”

  “It's just patience. Why would I move if I don't have to?”

  “And why won't you tell my captain what you're hiding?”

  “Because you wouldn't believe me.”

  “That's a poor excuse.” Volka grips the hilt of her sword tightly. Her green eyes are fixed onto me. “We saved you from the wilderness. You owe us your life, so tell us the truth!”

  “Calm yourself!” Lopak snaps. “This is a second degree you're speaking to. You'd be able to tell his power if you had my age.”

  “I am only one degree below you, captain. I can feel his power just as sharply as you can. But his rank doesn't give him the right to lie to us right after we saved his life. And I am not afraid to fight if I must. His armor is weakened.”

  “Lower the damn spear, Volka! Now, and that's an order!”

  She narrows her eyes at him and lowers the point to the ground. Her left hand remains on her sword hilt, however.

  “Believe me, I want to know just as badly as you do. But if he doesn't want to speak, he has no obligation to.”

  I shake my head. “She has a right to ask me questions,” I say. “I swore to protect you and I want you to trust me. But really, if I tell you the truth of these runes, you won't believe me.”

  “You might be surprised," says Lopak. "I've heard many outlandish stories I never believed at first, until I traveled to the realms they sprung from. Often the true tale, undiluted through passage from tavern to tavern, was stranger than the legends. Us caravaners are more open minded than most.. But again,” he adds hurriedly, “You outrank us and have no obligation to tell us anything.”

  Maybe I don't. But I bite my lip. I think I have made a decision. Though it seems foolish to spread this knowledge, for it has brought me terrible danger, torture, and even the death of my friends, Volka is right—how long might I have wandered for, my armor rusting away and my body deteriorating from lack of proper food, if they hadn't taken on the risk of trusting me? Who knows what might have caught my scent in the tunnels? One lava troll was danger enough. What if there had been two? Or an abyssal salamander? Death could have been but a few long-hours away, especially in the wider tunnels I was searching through.

  They have a right to know the truth. So I swig down the rest of my beer, and tell it:

  “All right. The truth is that I created these runes. This script is my own. It's Zathar's script of magma. That's its name.”

  The two stare at me for several long moments.

  “That's a lie,” says Volka. “Tell us the real truth.”

  “I just did.”

  “Really?” Lopak says softly. His eyes are narrowed. “Is that really the truth?”

  “You don't believe me. I said you wouldn't.”

  “We don't because it's a lie,” says Volka. “Why are you lying to us? Why did you really betray your Runethane?”

  “I told no lies then either. I rebelled because he is cruel. It is no exaggeration to say that he is evil—he is worse than the black dragon was, for it was a beast and Vanerak is a dwarf. He murdered my guildmaster in cold blood.”

  “Revenge is as good a reason for rebellion as any,” says Lopak. “I would fight a Runethane to avenge my guildmaster also.”

  “Then you are a true runeknight.”

  “But is the reason Runethane Vanerak killed him, that he wanted you to himself?”

  “That, and because he enjoys simple cruelty.” An image of Pellas' mutilated body flashes into my mind. “He hides his feelings well behind his mirror-mask,” I spit. “And though I think it's true that most of them have atrophied over the years, his sense of joy blazes strong when he gets to spill blood and listen to screams.”

  “In that case, he would have killed you if you didn't have something he needed. And he gave you a great deal of gold, didn't he? Or you would not have been able to forge what you wield.”

  “You know of true metal, I see. And you're right. He needed my runes.”

  “This is absurd,” says Volka. “Captain, he's mad.”

  Lopak shakes his head. “It fits together too well. When it got out that the Runeking himself had been the one to grant Zathar a reprieve, there were a lot of questions asked between the more senior runeknights. Not just in Allabrast, either—your name is known throughout many realms, Zathar.”

  I cannot help but feel a little uncomfortable hearing this.

  “The questions died down soon, of course. More recent and important news took the attention. But for a short while, a great many were wondering about the reason for Runeking Ulrike's decision. For his brief burst of interest in what lies outside his foundry-palace. And now I know it.” He chuckles. “Precious knowledge indeed. But useless, since no one will believe it who hasn't seen this armor.”

  Volka shakes her head. The gilding around her eye-holes catches the light of the crystal lamp set between us, flashes. “I don't believe it.”

  “Well, I do,” says Lopak. “And I am captain and you are not.”

  I bow my head low. “I thank you for your trust. And I would respectfully request that you don't tell anyone, captain.”

  “I won't, honored runeknight. Like you just said, no one would believe me anyway.”

  Will Zathar and the caravaners reach their destination safely? Find out now on PATREON

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