“You know what I am?”

The fuzzy-faced Trudels tilted. “Do I?”

Earon sighed and slumped his shoulders.

“Oh,” Trudels nodded, puffing his brows and tapping his nose.

“Rune crafting?” Earon’s brows sharpened to a point.

“Oh yes, rune crafting. What of it?”

“You mentioned I have a rune crafting class…”

“You do, don't you?” Trudels shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this is all terribly confusing. Perhaps I’ve spent too long away from civilization.” He sighed.

“No, sorry. I should explain.” Earon said, clearing his throat. “I have an ability for rune crafting, but I’m new to all this.”

Trudels angled his head as he studied Earon, “at your age?”

“It’s complicated.”

Earon went on to explain his situation. He hesitated at points, not sure if he should reveal all, especially considering the interest the spiral mages had taken in him. But not only had this man saved his life, but he was also a human surviving in the Scarworld, and furthermore, he knew about rune crafting – and potentially Warlocks.

Trudels just nodded along, his brows rising in surprise as Earon explained his sudden change of class and when he was done, invited him in for tea.

The huge hallways and rooms beyond the door were all marked in the same magical runes, lit by wall-mounted torches that seemed magically powered, despite their mundane appearance and their light dissipated into the darkness of the impossibly high ceilings above.

Marveling at the structure around him, Earon figured it could house an entire city if needed.

But where they went was very different. A quaint and cozy cottage sat completely out of place, surrounded by the sharp-edged rock with a river of magma snaking past it. With a thatched roof and walls of stone and clay, it looked as if it could be nestled between farms in the Rye.

Inside was equally humble, with simple timber furniture, crowded coat racks, and an assortment of herbs and hanging, cured meats in the kitchen.

“Sit, sit,” Trudels directed toward a table at the center, then disappeared into the adjoining kitchen.

Earon’s fingers danced across his thighs as he waited, scanning the ordinary-looking room.

“Oh, here we go,” Trudels said on return, juggling two teacups on saucers, a pot, and even a tray with a loaf-like cake, butter, and cutlery.

“Do you need a hand,” Earon rose from his chair.

“Sit down,” Trudels shook his head.

Swaying from side to side as he placed items down - the pot slid to the side with his movements, then back again, the tray tipped to one edge, and swiveled around again. Within a moment they had been laid across the table, with Earon wondering how it was possible nothing had been broken.

“Do help yourself. It’s not every day I get guests.”

A little hesitant at first, Earon relented and grabbed the cake. He was starving by now, and the first sweet bite tasted like heaven.

“Have it all if you wish, I’ve plenty more,” Trudels urged on with a high-cheeked grin.

Earon nodded and was barely able to break long enough for a word to escape as more cake was shoveled into his mouth. It was a far cry from raw bat meat.

“I’m trying to get,” gulp, “to the surface.”

“Ah, of course you are. Not many wish to stay down here.”

Earon nodded.

“But you would also like to learn more about yourself?”

Pausing, Earon eyed the old man before nodding again.

“You’re more fortuitous than you know, stumbling upon this place. If you’re willing to stay a while, there is much you could learn.”

“But I mu- “

“I understand your concern for your friends. But it has been many days since you arrived down here. If they were in the middle of a battle, what chance is there that they still wait around up there?”

Earon swallowed the last chunk of cake. “What if they need me?”

“Are they not competent on their own?”

He was right. The others were usually protecting him, not the other way around. Even if they were in some kind of trouble, the likelihood that Earon could help was low.

“What are you, anyway?” Earon asked.

“Oh me? Like I said, a Golem Master. I think I should explain exactly why I can help since you don’t seem to understand much. You know that there are many casting classes, but did you know that certain classes come from the same schools of thought? For example, the shamans you battled with used ritual magic, and so do sorcerers and cardinals, as well as others. Mages control the elements, whilst clerics and priests call miracles from their gods. There are many more forms that mana takes when creating magic. One of these is what we do, rune crafting. The most common kind you’ll find is the enchanter. You’ll find one calling just about every great city home, along with a mountain of gold tall enough to reach the heavens by their side. They create magical items at great cost and are protected like priceless assets by kings and lords. But there are others, such as you and me. Once upon a time, I was an animator, and over time, worked my way towards the specialty class Golem Master. All that took some two hundred years for me to achieve. Now, Instead of using runes to empower items, weapons, and armor with magic, I use them to bring those very items to life.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

“Kind of like a necromancy?”

“Most don’t like to be compared to them. But there is a similarity, however, they do not craft runes like we do. Rather, their magic has a dark bond with the dead, and because of that, it can animate them. However, this also means that their magic has no effect on anything besides the dead.”

Earon nodded slowly.

“You, my boy, seem a little different. I can sense your magic, though. You are without any doubt, a rune crafter, but I’ve not heard of a warlock before. Well, I’ve heard the theories of course, but I hadn’t expected, this.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you’re believed to be a witch or rather a witch with dangling fruit. You see, a witch is a master of curses and polymorphic magic. They can change theirs and the shapes of others, or curse someone to a life of bad luck. It is a very different use of mana than what we do.”

“And, you’re sure I don’t do those things?”

“Well, I ought to be. But,” Trudels added with a wave of his hand. “You’ve already stated you have the rune crafting ability, and that certainly isn’t something a witch can do, I should know, I’ve dated a couple.” Trudels reddened. “Well, at least not how we use them. Technically, witches do craft runes when using their polymorphic magic, to hold in place the power they impart. However, it is quite limited in scope, and not considered a true rune crafting class. Anyway," Trudels shook his head. "That's enough of that, there’s another interesting point you’ve made. Rune crafting, body transmutation," his brows bounced. "That’s not something I’ve ever heard of, not in my three hundred or so years. If simple logic reigns supreme, I would assume you can infuse your own body with runes. Which in a way, is somewhat similar to a witch’s ability to polymorph.

“You think I can change my shape?”

Trudels laughed. “No, boy. But that wand and shield on your chest, it is a rune. And you can survive spells because of it. I’m not exactly sure how you managed to use a rune on yourself, without actually knowing how to craft it, but that is a mystery for another day. What I do know is that it is a rune, and if you learn how to craft more, you can likely enhance your body further.”

“And you can show me?”

Trudels brushed his beard. “I can show you how I craft runes and introduce you to my library. But whether or not that helps you learn to craft your own, is yet to be seen.”

*****

Cloaked black figures on horseback charged through the forest amidst a cacophony of howls. A horned beastman dove out from the tree line, wildly swinging an axe, but compared to the swift response that came hurling back, it seemed slow and uncoordinated - cut down before it even realized how outmatched it was.

The figures did not slow.

Homes burned and crops withered, whilst corpses littered the road as the riders stormed through.

Survivors begged, but they could not take refugees.

They cut down any beasts or monsters that they saw and continued.

This was a scene they had grown accustomed to over the previous days. Forts and walled cities with garrisons and armies that had barred themselves in, leaving the peasantry to fend for themselves. But it couldn’t continue.

The writing was on the wall, and lords were already sending out as many soldiers as they could spare, and emptying their coffers to hire anyone who would listen. They knew that once the people began to starve, being behind the walls would be more dangerous than being beyond them.

The riders knew this and thankfully for them, the road was their home.

“Ahead,” a gruff man called, pointing out a wooden palisade.

It still stood; the Rye Gate. A simple palisade that connected the feet of the Wise Men, with the rolling hills below. It stood for centuries, but its purpose had been to police brigands, not defend against hordes of monsters.

One of the riders, a woman, placed a hand over her chest and nodded.

Slowing to a trot, the four riders shrouded in black approached.

“Not a step further,” Shouted a man from somewhere above.

“We’re human, requesting entry into the Rye.”

“Pull down ye cowls. There are beasts in them woods who carry themselves like men, and we ain't 'bout to take any risks.”

The riders nodded to one another and revealed their faces.

“They're human!” The man called out.

“The gate!” Another beckoned and within moments levers were engaged, and the doors opened.

The scene was pitiful – weary and wounded men and women huddled around small fires and burnt-out cabins. They had seen battle here, and from the looks of it, only barely survived.

“Doubt they can survive much more of this,” one of the riders commented, glancing around the camp.

A scruffy, thin-faced man with a mustache approached. The man beside him looked even more disheveled.

“Travelers, welcome,” he hailed with a stiff expression. “If ye adventurers, then we have many contracts, but little coin I’m afraid.”

“Sorry,” came a sober reply from the leader. “We are only passing through. You should seek aid from your lord.”

As the riders passed, the man’s eyes lingered on the woman. “Alyssia, is that really you?”

The woman turned, her long black hair tied back behind her head, and despite her days on the road and lack of cosmetics, looked as stunning as she ever had. Thick, pointed brows, a sharp jaw, and lively brown eyes animated her face and gave an air of both determination and tenderness.

“Captain Rindle, it’s been a while.”

“So, you did make it.”

“You doubted me?”

Rindle shook his head. “I’ve always known. If anyone from the Rye was ever going to, it would be you.” His frown cracked and a tear trickled down his face. “It’s just good another person from the Rye is alive. Pity I couldn’t have been a better teacher.”

“You did your best,” Alyssia replied, her head turning back toward the direction of Ryewood.

“There’s probably not a lot of reason for you to go back.” Rindle cast his head down. “Ralli’s gone, led a caravan of refugees to Ome. We had no hope of keeping them all safe, it was the only option. And Earon.” He paused.

“And?” Alyssia’s brow raised.

“Maggie passed away a couple of months ago.” Rindle shook his head. “She was due for it, but he didn’t take so well to it. Never been the same since you left, if I’m honest.”

“I see.”

“Left and took to the road as an adventurer. We all kind of figured he was looking for you.”

“As farmer?”

“Can’t explain it, don’t understand any of it myself, to be honest. But his class changed, became a warlock or something.”

“Interesting.” Alyssia nodded.

“Nothing but burnt-out homes and the dead in Ryewood now.”

“If he returns, Earon that is, do not tell him I was here, okay?”

Rindle nodded curiously.

“I’m not sure we’ll ever get a chance to see each other again. If he already believes me dead, perhaps it is best it stays that way.” Alyssia continued; the sorrow reflected in her eyes betraying her stoic expression.

“I’m not sure I agree, but I shall do as you ask.” Rindle nodded, another tear escaping down his cheeks.

"You don't have to understand, Rindle." Alyssia's stern glare was all Rindle needed for reassurance. "I'm sorry, old friend. I would stay and talk, but we have much to do." Alyssia whipped her reins and tapped her feet against her steed's sides and the riders were off.