I sit at the rear of the ore caravan. My shaking has calmed somewhat, though I still look down in disbelief occasionally at the dried blood on my spearhead. Whelt and Hayhek are sitting beside me, but they haven’t said much, apart from asking if I feel okay occasionally.

I don’t know if I feel okay or not. Goes without saying, but I’ve never killed anyone before. I didn't even kill Hardrick, though I’m pretty sure he had it in him to kill me.

In the middle of the caravan sits Jalat with most of the Troglodyte Slayers, separating us and Kazhek at the front who's with a couple friends and Polt’s body. He’s staring at me.

His eyes are just dots from afar, but I can see the hatred in them as clearly as I could when he was charging for me.

“I don’t really know,” I say to Whelt quietly, “How the arenas work. Can he challenge me?”

“He can. You don’t have to accept.”

“Polt attacked me. I just defended myself.”

“I know. Most of us saw, when we were coming over to see why the machine stopped. It was self defense, so there’s no legal problem. You won’t get dragged in front of a court, no way.”

“This kind of thing isn’t so rare,” Hayhek says. “Don’t worry about it.”

“And don’t feel guilty either,” Whelt says sternly. “Runeknights are soldiers half the time. Best you get your first-kill jitters out now than break down on the battlefield.”

“I don’t feel guilty. Not really. Just... Kazhek’s stronger than me.”

“Stay close to the guildhall and he won’t risk anything. Wharoth likes you, and he’s no slouch when it comes to protecting people he cares about. And I’m not going to let him get at you either.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

Under Kazehk’s stare though, it’s hard to feel safe. The first opportunity he gets, he’ll take. I tighten my grip on my broken spear. Somehow I don’t think there’s any rust in his armor.

The hours pass. The light from the mirrors above the city brightens as we draw closer, then turns orange and dim as dusk falls.

The lead blindboar driving the caravan lets out a piercing scream, a wail of primal anguish that echoes through the stalagmites, sending everyone’s hands to their ears, then we’re sent tumbling as the driver slams on the brakes. Everyone, feud momentarily forgotten, rushes to the front with weapons drawn to see what’s happened.

The lead boar is on the ground, kicking and screaming, blood pouring from its front right foot. The collar and drive-rods linking it to the caravan are bent and broken.

“Get down there!” the driver shouts as he emerges from the front cabin. “Wrap its leg in something, and drive off any bats!”

We hurry down the ladders and set up a perimeter. The boss and the driver, helped by some of the Troglodyte Slayers, wrap the gigantic beast’s foot in a length of cloth. There’s a shard of black glass about as long as my arm stuck in it.

Once the beast’s calmed, they disconnect the bent and broken rods from its back and guide it, limping, to a small clearing off the road. I’m close enough to hear the driver and boss discussing what to do next.

“It needs to be put down,” the driver says. “That foot’s a mess. The obsidian—hell knows how it got there—is jammed right in.”

“You have any idea how much those things cost? Fixing the sorter is already going to take a big chunk out our profits. We lose that boar, we’ll be lucky if we break even.”

“Even if there was a chance we could save its foot, we’d need the damn best vet in the city. And hell only knows what kind of beasts all that blood is going to bring up.”

“We can bring a vet out here.”

“And leave the caravan just sitting? If Broderick’s scouts catch wind—”

“Two boars are enough to pull the caravan. Slow, but fast enough. Some of the runeknights can stay here to guard the injured boar until we can get a vet out.”

“All right. If you think there’s a chance it’ll live.”

“It better live.”

“Should we pick some to stay? Or let them choose among themselves?”

“Let’s separate them out. The Troglodyte Slayers can go back to the city with us, the other three can stay with the boar.”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. Keep them from each other's throats.”

Stolen novel; please report.

They call me, Whelt, and Hayhek forward. We’re not so far from the city, so it’s only going to be one night we stay with the boar. They assure us that the worst that’ll come are bats, though because of the possibility of greater risk, we’ll get double pay for the hours we spend out here, provided the boar survives.

So we stand around the injured boar, now lying on its side, and watch the caravan rumble slowly down the road away from us. Kazhek’s eyes and mine remain locked. When he finally disappears into the darkness, I breathe a sigh of relief and sit down.

“Glad to see the back of him?” Whelt asks. “Let’s just hope whatever comes after us isn’t worse.”

“Think anything will?” asks Hayhet.

“Maybe. There’s a lot of blood spilled.”

We choose the order of the watch. I go first, since I’m inexperienced, and they expect that if anything comes it will be in the later stages of the night. I stand at the head of the boar, which is crying as it sleeps, tears running from its small eyes through its coarse white bristles. I feel sorry for it, and thankful too.

I walk to the road. A low wall of crushed stone, from the stalagmites that a thousand years ago stood where the road now runs, marks the boundary between thread of civilization and dark wilderness. I look up, and can just about see the tips of the stalactites in the faint moonlight shining from the city mirrors. They hang there like reflections of the spires all around me.

I turn back, make my way to the sleeping boar, pace around it, return to the road, always looking up for any sign of bats. I've taken my helmet off for better visibility, so hopefully I won’t be taken by surprise.

And, in the only luck I’ve had so far on this job, I see no worse creature than a gecko about the size of my hand.

I wake Hayhek when it’s time to finish—he has a wristwatch he’s letting us use—and go to sleep. It is not a particularly restful sleep, for my armor is uncomfortable, the ground cold, and I am tormented by the voice of Kazhek in my dreams. He swears to kill me, over and over again.

I’m not dreaming, I suddenly realize. Kazhek is here.

Not right over me yet, thankfully. I’m lying near to the boar and he’s only just creeping over the stones at the edge of the road. Whelt is asleep next to me in the same position he took when I started my watch, and Hayhek is facing the stalagmites, standing with his head bowed, shoulders rising and falling in the slow rhythm of elderly men's sleep.

Even clad in his bronze, Kazhek makes no sound as he tiptoes forward, warhammer at the ready. I’m not sure what alerted me to the danger—some sixth sense, perhaps. I feel hot, and my mouth is dry. Subconscious fear must have pulled me from my dream.

“Whelt,” I whisper, trying not to move my lips. “Whelt, wake up. Kazhek’s here.”

No movement.

“Wake up!" I hiss. "Wake up!”

He shifts a little.

“Wake up!”

He turns over, away from me, mumbling. Kazhek accelerates, and his shadow covers me, like that of a grim reaper wielding hammer rather than scythe—either would get the job he’s here for done.

I reach for my broken spear—

A black shadow swoops from above. It's not so huge, not even half as big as the blindboar, but it's fast, oh so fast, and the air its wings bring down is hot. Its tail wraps around Kazhek's face before he has a chance to react. He drops his warhammer and tries in vain to pry the black iron from his face. Whelt scrambles up, shouting incoherently. Hayhek yells a warcry and draws his weapon. The boar screams.

I flee in terror.

A massive hand, dripping with and stinking of fresh blood, grabs me and throws me down, flips me onto my front. The dragon pins me with its claws on my chest. It’s holding me with just a fraction of its strength, but already the steel struts of my armor are groaning.

Its angular reptilian head looms over me. Its cruel green eyes bore into mine. Furnace-light glows from behind its blade-like teeth.

“I told you I’d be keeping an eye on you, dwarf,” the dragon whispers. “Now tell me, are you a runeknight yet?”

I can’t see what it’s done to the other three, if they're struggling or dead; my vision is taken up entirely by its midnight black body and wings.

"Are you a runeknight yet, dwarf? I would like my key sooner rather than later."

"What have you done to the others?" I whisper. "What have you done to them?"

“I think it ought to be rather obvious, even to a dwarf, that I’m asking the questions tonight.”

“What have you done to them?”

“They're friends of yours, are they?”

“What have you done to them?” The stink of fresh blood is overpowering. “Please!”

It speaks softly and very slowly: "One I have with my tail, the other two are under my back feet. Unharmed," it adds, then smiles. "As of yet. Now, back to the topic at hand. Are you a runeknight yet? Compared to the armor of the others, yours is somewhat lacking.”

“Not yet,” I say.

The dragon narrows its eyes. “I see. And why not? How, exactly, are you planning on joining the Runethane’s military as an initiate?”

“I’m working my way up to it. I need time, these things take time, that’s what everyone is telling me.”

“Time? How much time, exactly? I’m in rather a hurry.”

"I don't know. A while. Maybe a long time."

"Give me a number, dwarf."

“A year, at least. I need to save up money to make armor, and a new weapon. Then I’ll be able to take the exam.”

“A year to stop being an initiate.” The dragon nods. “I see. And then how long, exactly, until you’re able to get me my key?”

“I don’t know. I’ll need better gear, better and better. Another few years—”

“A few years!” hisses the dragon. The flames behind its teeth flare to white. “A few years? You think I can wait a few years? I’ve been living ten years in the cavern, and now you want me to wait more?”

“It can’t be helped! Please,” I beg, as quietly as I can. “Just a few years! Three! Then you’ll have your key, I promise.”

The dragon crushes down my armor further; its claws screech on it. I feel one of the steel struts across my chest snap. It brings its jaws down to right beside my ear, and its black scales are burning hot.

“You have six months,” it whispers, and its green eyes flash. “Six months to get my key for me. If I don’t have it by then, I'll burn your guild and everyone you know to ashes. Six months!”

It releases me and lifts off into the darkness of the high ceiling, wings beating down a furnace-like gale. Then it’s gone, leaving in its wake four terrified dwarves and one eviscerated boar, heart torn out through its belly and lying on the stone in a pool of blood.