A week and a half after the battle with the humans and the subsequent fire and roaring from the north, two hundred and fifty of us march out of the hills of Tallreach into the tundra. Out of the four hundred who survived the battle, more than a hundred fled when they heard the dragon, and another fifty have perished from injuries.

Before us stretches a land of half snow, half frozen dirt. The snows haven't yet begun falling in earnest, I'm told, so the snow is not quite the pristine white I'd expected. Nevertheless I take a moment to stoop down and take a handful from the ground.

The cold of my gauntlet freezes the flakes into one mass. I wish I was barehanded so I could feel them properly, feel how they melt against my bare skin, but I've no time to take my gauntlets off now.

Xomhyrk's had us marching double-time since the dragon's roar. I think he's worried that Uthrarzak's dwarves have already defeated it. I share his worry. Gutspiercer aches to be buried in dragonflesh.

My body is aching also, in a more mundane way. My ruby amulet succeeded in saving my life—I can no longer imagine taking it off, now—but its power wasn't enough to protect me from every injury. I have heavy bruises that haven't yet healed, and many new scars, especially over my chest.

A web of red is drawn across the skin under my beard. The lightning has left its mark. Maybe it'll fade with time, or maybe it won't, and will become a permanent blemish like the black line in my vision.

My bodily injuries aren't my main concern though. My armor's are. Every step weighs heavily. The wind no longer flows over the metal so smoothly. The crystals that form whenever I place my palm against something quickly melt, and worst of all there's a slight fog over my vision. In short, it needs repairing.

There's not a runeknight with us whose armor isn't scarred or broken in some way. Mostly the damage is just dents from innumerable arrow and spear impacts, but a few have had their plates' poems completely killed by lightning strike. Those need to be completely re-enruned.

Pellas' suit of armor is one of the worst damaged. She carries half the pieces in a sack thrown over her shoulder. Without runes of strength to help her, she looks terribly strained.

“Are you sure you don't want me to carry anything?” I say, for about the tenth time.

“I can shoulder my own burdens.”

“I used to think that as well, and it got me on the side of a dragon.”

“Even so, I'm fine.”

“It's still a long way until Heldfast Hill.”

“I'll make it.”

“Yes, but when you do, are you really going to be in any shape to forge?”

“I'll be fine.”

“I don't think you will. Let me carry it for a few hours—if you collapse you'll slow us down.”

She slows, then stops. She sighs.

“Oh, fine. If it's just a few hours.”

I'm a little surprised that she's given in—must be even more exhausted than she looks. I take the sack from her and she looks relieved.

It feels rather too heavy. I think she's made the plates too thick, probably in the mistaken belief that the physical mass will make up for the lack of defensive runes.

“It's too damn cold,” she says. “It'd be bad enough in armor. In just clothes I feel like my skin's going to freeze solid.”

“Better cold than fire.”

“I'll almost be happy to see the dragon.”

“Hah! You'll regret having said that when you meet it. Though I'm glad of your enthusiasm.”

“Yes. I feel everyone else's has waned a little.”

We walk in silence for a few more minutes. Then she asks:

“How far is it, exactly, to Heldfast Hill?”

“Xomhyrk said a week.”

“He said that more than a long-hour ago. How long now?”

“A few days then, maybe. Only he knows for sure.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“I wish some of those bears he talked about would show up. I could use their furs.”

“It's only going to get colder from now on. Best toughen up.”

“I know, I know.”

Despite Xomhyrk's eagerness to get to the dragon, he accepts that we need to make repairs, so right now we're on a detour to the north east. Our plan is to visit a small, fiercely independent realm buried underneath one of the only rises in the tundra before the Mountain of Halajatbast. This is Heldfast Hill. Xomhyrk went there a very long time ago, apparently, and just so long as the dragon didn't blast it on its flight up, we ought to be able to buy metal and hire out forges there.

The gray sky darkens to black. I return Pellas' sack of armor. White flakes of snow freeze onto the face of my helmet and I'm too tired to brush them away. I walk on blindly, until my fear overcomes my exhaustion, and I affix my runic ears.

I can hear the shape of the landscape etched in the currents of the wind. It's flat and almost featureless, and I realize that this is the place my poems mention, the plain of ice, frozen forever and which will remain frozen forever. Or is it just similar? I'm too tired to wonder too hard.

I hear low voices in front and from behind.

“...doesn't know where we're going...”

“...we should've left with the...”

“...just wants the riches. The mountain. He'll leave us for...”

“...don't want to fight whatever could make...”

“Me neither.”

I don't think they're from our guild. It's still bad news though. Our army is even smaller than it appears to be. Probably once we reach Heldfast Hill, quite a few dwarves are going to vanish into the underworld. They'd rather take their chances with Runeking Uthrarzak—although Heldfast Hill isn't technically part of his lands, the dwarves there must be on good terms with him to still be alive. There'll be plenty of tunnels leading down to less immediate danger.

A glow comes over the sky. For a moment I'm startled, and I raise Gutspiercer, but the glow is from the east, not the north, and comes with little heat. Just the dawn. I lower my weapon. A groan leaves my lips—even the slow movement of lifting and lowering Gutspiercer is a strain.

We continue to trudge north-east. Snow and gravel crunch underneath my boots. I spot a few clusters of short, pale green mushrooms. This land isn't quite like the one in my poems then. There's a little life here.

More walking. The sun, just a pale light obscured by the clouds, curves over our heads and then it's sinking below the lands once more. Blackness falls.

I put my runic ears back on. I listen to the shape of the wind blowing around me and hear the sound-shadows of the dwarves of our army. They seem more spread out than before. Some must be lagging behind.

Are those lagging the tenth degrees? It's more than likely. And they're meant to be my responsibility, are they not? Yes, a responsibility I took upon myself.

I turn and trudge down the line. Will some look at me and think I'm retreating? No, their heads are bowed. They're too exhausted to worry about others.

Where are my tenth degrees? I see Pellas trudging along at a steady pace. Briefly I consider offering to help with her load again. Maybe later—I need to check on everyone else first. I continue down, and see Katak. His back is bent. That heavy hammer, its shaft crooked now, isn't doing him any favors.

“Stay strong,” I tell him. “You'll face worse journeys than this in future.”

He nods and straightens his stance a little.

I give similar encouragement to the next tenth degree I pass, and the next, and the following four as well. To my surprise, my words have an effect on all of them. Back in training, they listened to me only reluctantly. But now they've had a taste of the kind of danger I went through to reach my level of skill and experience, it seems they're a bit more willing to listen.

Where's Guthah, though? I haven't seen him yet, and I'm nearly at the end of the line. I hurry along. The wind whistles in my runic ears, making it hard to balance. I slip and fall a couple times. Then I reach the end of the line and he's still nowhere to be heard.

Shit! I'm running now. I saw him yesterday, I'm sure of it. Has he fallen? Has the strain of his injury gotten too much, even for him? He's tough, but his blood is still that of jewelers, who are skilled yet soft.

Is he lying dead in the snow? Surely not. No, he can't be. Can't be! I stop and listen carefully. Once the sound of my heavy breathing subsides—it's a tortured sound, but fear for my student means I'm barely feeling the strain it signals—I detect an imprint in the snow only a few dozen yards ahead.

I hurry toward it. Now I'm standing over it, and can hear the shape of a spear, and that of a dwarf lying by it.

“Guthah!” I shout. “Wake up!”

To my relief, he stirs.

“Zathar?”

“Stand up!”

“I can't. I can't do this.”

“Stand up! You're a runeknight! Stand up!”

“I can't.”

I kneel down and grasp him by the wrist. I struggle to pull him up. His body is limp. He's either refusing to move or genuinely unable to.

“You'll die here now if you don't stand!” I shout. “Stand up, Guthah! I don't want to lose another friend.”

He gasps, and with a furious effort, strains to stand. It takes nearly a minute until he's back on his feet, and then for a few minutes more I daren't let go lest he fall back over.

Eventually his breath steadies. I pick up his spear for him. “Take it.”

He does so.

“You can stand after all.”

“Zathar, I don't think I'm going to last much longer.”

“You will. We're nearly at our destination.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A few more days march and we'll be there.”

“A few more days of this?” He sounds like he's on the verge of tears, or maybe gone past them.

“Maybe we'll take a rest, maybe we won't. Either way, you have to continue. Your legs aren't injured, are they?”

“No. I'm just exhausted. My wrist... It won't move properly, instructor.”

“That's to be expected.”

“I think this is permanent.”

“It might be.”

“I won't be able to fight properly.”

“Yes you will. Do you think fighting is about moving your body?”

He has no reply to that.

“Well?”

“Fighting is about having better weapons, better armor.”

“Exactly. Your runes are more important. Stop worrying so much. Some runeknights lose limbs and continue to fight.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Come on, Guthah. You shouldn't lag behind everyone. There's bears out here, remember?”

“I still don't think I can do this.”

I grip his shoulders. “You must! We must! Who else is going to destroy the dragon?”

“No one. Only us.”

“And do you really believe that?”

“I don't know anymore.”

“You do believe it. You must! We came on this quest because we're going to destroy the dragon. You're better than this, Guthah. Stronger than this. Now come on!”