The dwarves of Allabrast, as Jaemes told me, and as one of the caravaners confirmed while Nthazes and I were loading our belongings, measure time not in days or weeks, or even years, but in long-hours, one long-hour being equivalent to three days as I know them.

Our first long-hour of traveling is dull. The caravan moves along a straight road, which slopes only very gently upward, and there is nothing of interest to see: just rough dark gray stone. The burly loaders do nothing but play their game and sleep, and eventually I go to sleep also. Creatures know well to stay clear of the caravan-ways, so I’ve heard, since stopping a fully laden dwarven caravan at full speed is difficult business for even the bigger beasts out there.

I wake up when my body senses the movement of the caravan slowing. Vaguely nervous, I peer over the guard-rail to see why, but we’ve just come to a rest station, a cut-out space in the side of the tunnel for our carriages to pull into. Nthazes and I follow the loaders down once everything’s stopped.

“The loaders’ll get the meal ready,” Feltram tells us. “Afraid the food’s not great, but there you have it. We’ll buy some better up in Jaelstam, and some beer for you and the loaders too.”

“That's good to hear,” says Nthazes. “As long as the drivers don't get drunk as well.”

“Oh, never fear. Caravaners don’t drink on the job. We're professionals.”

“Where will we eat?” I ask. “In the carriage or out here?”

A cold wind is blowing downward, and the hollow isn’t very good shelter from it. The caravanways also act as ventilation, after all. Connect right to the surface.

“Out here,” Feltram answers. “We don’t eat in the carriages on principle. Shows respect for the goods we’re taking.”

“We can just have our rations,” Nthazes says. “We don’t want to be a burden on your supplies.”

“Don’t worry, we have plenty.”

Before long, the loaders have the meal prepared. One large meat and mushroom sandwich each, washed down with a mug of water. It’s been a long time since I’ve had proper-tasting bread, so I devour mine with relish.

The runeknights sit in one circle, the loaders another, but the amount of food each dwarf gets is the same—the caravaners seem to respect their servants.

“How long until Jaeltham?” I ask.

“Two and a half long-hours,” Feltram says. “Not long at all, and there won’t be any unexpected traffic. Far as I know, we’re the only caravan that was set to come down this way.”

“Are the roads crowded further up then?”

“Yes, but there’s no need to worry about delays. We’ll be hitched to the tracks on the latter half of the journey, and the timing system is very smooth. Everything’s very civilized up there. You might be surprised. I’m assuming you’ve never been, of course.”

“Not to Allabrast, no.”

“Ah, but you’ve been to other places? You don’t look like the typical deep dark fort dwarf, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“No. I journeyed down here. Took me ten years or so. Walking.”

“Years, ay?” He eyes me with curiosity, and the other caravaners look at me the same way. "Quite the journey!"

"There were some unfortunate circumstances."

"Oh? What kind?"

"A... Disaster, of sorts."

“I see. But to walk for years... And to use years to measure time... You must be from one of the more frontier realms, near the surface. Which one? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I hesitate for a moment. Am I going to let something slip here? But I’m sure plenty fled the black dragon. There’s no reason that telling the truth should raise suspicion, while avoiding the question certainly will.

“I’m from the realm of Runethane Thanerzak,” I say. “I fled the dragon.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Ah!” says Feltram, and his eyes widen. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry; maybe I’ve brought up some bad memories.”

“It’s no matter. It was all so long ago.”

“Only...” He calculates. “Fifteen years ago by upper reckoning, right? But you’re young; maybe that’s a long time to you. I remember when the news came.”

Fifteen years! Did I really just spend five years in the fort? Or maybe Jaemes’ initial count was a little too short. Either way, I feel a shock—though it's nowhere near as big as the one I felt when I first came to the fort.

“You probably know more about it than I do,” I say. “I was down in the tunnels when it happened.”

“You must have been quite far down to escape the heat. A whole city—two whole cities—melted by dragonfire. It’s a miracle so many made it out.”

“Many did?” I say. “I’d assumed most didn't...”

“From what I’ve heard, many were already hiding in the caves below.”

I nod. “Yes. Hiding from the battle—though I was fighting, of course.”

“Wasn’t most of the fighting on the mountain?” says one caravaner. There’s a slight air of suspicion to his voice. “I heard some stories about it.”

“It was, but some of Broderick’s forces tried to break out the mountain from below. I was in the tunnels to stop them. Did no one fighting higher up make it out?”

Guildmaster Wharoth was on the mountain with the rest of the guild, and probably Hayhek was there too. My heart begins to beat faster. Am I about to learn their fate?

Feltram sees the look on my face and tries to give me a reassuring smile. “A good few did,” he says. “The heart of the mountain remained un-melted, from what I know. And I think I heard there was some kind of temporary truce made—not too sure about that, though. But of those who did survive, I’m pretty sure most from Thanerzak’s side ended up in Allabrast. Probably you’ll run into at least one dwarf you know if you look in the right places. Good news, no?”

I nod, hoping dearly that the guildmaster was one of those who lives. He had good armor, and his shield was enruned to resist dragonfire, so I think his chances were better than most. I hope most of the rest of the Association of Steel survived also—even though many will bear a terrible grudge against me after I confess my crimes.

Maybe Wharoth bears a grudge too. I don’t think he ever truly forgave me, did he? My memory of our last conversation is hazy.

“I know the name of one of the survivors,” says another caravaner. “Thanerzak’s chief commander, I think he was.”

The hope welling in me turns to icy fear in an instant.

“Vanerak,” Feltram says. “That’s the one.”

“He’s one of the Thanic Guard now,” continues the caravaner. “Something of a rising spark. Do you know him?”

“I... I know of him.”

Nthazes gives me a concerned look.

“I saw him once,” Feltram says. “He had a mask on though.”

“He always has it on,” says the caravaner. “Maybe the dragonfire burned his face.”

I shake my head. “He had it on since before the realm was destroyed.”

“Maybe another dragon burned it then. Back when Thanerzak was first conquering the cavern.”

“Maybe.”

“We should stop this talk,” Feltram says. “I don’t think our friend here wants to discuss dragonfire.”

“Ah, of course,” says the caravaner. He bows his head to me. “I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Like I said, it was all so long ago. It feels like an eternity, especially with all that’s happened since.”

“The darkness?” another caravaner says. His face looks rather pale. “Could it come up now? What happened—”

“That’s enough!” Feltram orders. “Our friends need rest and recovery. Dragging up painful memories isn't any help to them. Get the blindboars fed and groomed and then we’re going to sleep.”

----------------------------------------

Feltram rings a bell to wake us, and soon we’re off again, feeling the cold air rush through our beards and watching the gray stone of the tunnel blur either side of us. Nthazes attempts to strike up a conversation with the loaders, but they aren’t interested in talk, only in playing their game.

It looks similar to something Hardrick and the other miners often played in the pubs, except these dwarves don’t look like they’re gambling—until, that is, I spot one surreptitiously keeping track of score on a long sheet of paper. I imagine there’ll be calculations done once the journey is finished. I wonder if Feltram knows, and just turns a blind eye to it.

Whatever. It doesn’t bother me. If they want to throw their silver and gold away, that’s on them. I’ve got more important things to worry about.

And, unfortunately, worrying is about the only thing I can do here. There is no way to forge, nor even paper and pen to scribble runes on, nor are there any books. There’s just the gray walls either side, the shaking rumble of the carriage, and the stench of the blindboars. My only diversions are at mealtimes when I can talk to Feltram and the others. These conversations are interesting, but always too short—the caravaners do everything quickly and efficiently, even eating.

“Speed is everything to us,” Feltram explains to me one mealtime between bites. “The faster we deliver our goods, the bigger our bonus.”

“Doesn’t that encourage recklessness?” Nthazes asks.

“Less than you’d think. We’ve all seen crashes, and are none too eager to get involved in one.”

“What do you spend your money on?” I ask. “You’re runeknights—surely you forge also.”

“Of course. Some of the roads aren’t safe, especially in the border tunnels. Our money goes to our weapons and armor, same as every other runeknight. Though we travel light for journeys like this.”

“You mean ones in the middle of the Runeking’s domains?”

I’ve started to form a kind of map in my head about where each Runethane has his realm. Thanerzak’s was very distant, an outcrop of the kingdom. No wonder it took me so long to wander down here.

“Well, it's more about the quality of the roads. If any walling-offs are weak, or if there's known to be trolls nearby. Fortunately for you, the one to the fort is very well-made, despite its age.” He yawns. “Anyway, we all need to catch some sleep now. Got to keep moving, and you can’t control a carriage without a few short-hours' rest.”

And in this way our journey continues: long stretches of rumbling passage punctuated by quick conversation at mealtimes. Until, finally, we reach Jaeltham.