Jaeltham is smaller than I thought it would be. For some reason I’d expected it to be constructed like Thanerzak’s city, composed of houses and streets all inside a large cave, but once we park the carriages and stable the blindboars and head in, I see that it’s more like the fort, or the terrible underground realm where the darkness dwelled—there are no open spaces, just tunnels and doors.

Feltram tells the guards he has to see the mayor and, to my surprise, they readily agree to lead us to him, no formality or paperwork required. I suppose I ought not to be too shocked—this is a just a mayor we’re meeting after all, not a Runethane. Feltram, Nthazes and I and one more caravaner follow a guard through the well-lit yet dusty tunnels. The rest of the caravaners are to guard the carriages, and the loaders are sent out to buy supplies.

“Do you remember any of this place?” I ask Nthazes.

“Very vaguely. I don’t think I ever went anywhere near the mayor’s residence though. I imagine I grew up in the rougher side of town.”

“There’s a rougher side?”

“I think so. I remember drunken miners and squabbles with other children, and tunnels that were half-crumbling. Not like this neat one.”

“How many live here? Do you have any idea?”

“I’ve heard a few thousand.” He gives a slight laugh. “That used to seem like a big number, but where we’re going there’s far more, isn’t there? How many dwell in Allabrast?”

“I’ve heard a million.”

He whistles. “A million. I can barely imagine it.”

“Maybe more, maybe less. I can’t even remember where I read that number, come to think of it. I’m sure Feltram knows.”

“About a million is right,” Feltram calls back to us. “It’s a huge place. You’ll be shocked when you see it.”

We reach a set of stairs. They’re polished, with a diamond pattern cut into them for grip. Looking up, I see at the top a large pair of doors with the runes ‘jael’ and ‘tham’ on them, meaning Graveltrail, in Deep Velet script—a fairly uncommon one—and above those runes, the runes for mayor.

The guard leading us, a fifth or fourth degree by the look of his armor, greets the two more senior ones standing at the top. There’s some brief talk between them and Feltram. Nthazes and I get some odd looks, but then the doors are opened and we're let in.

It’s been a long while since I’ve seen this kind of luxury. Jaeltham might be a small town, but the mayor is a runeknight of the first degree and so naturally he has money to spare. So long down in the money-less fort made me forget: to be a senior runeknight you must be able to afford the materials.

The rooms of his abode are polished pink and green granite, inlaid with silver patterns. The shelves of runic texts are of fossil-wood, and when we’re led through to a private meeting room, I see that the table and chairs are carved of clear white quartz.

The four of us sit down and we await the mayor. He comes hastily, a concerned expression on his face. He’s wearing an elegant robe in place of armor, but at his belt is an axe inlaid with gems and a dense text of runes.

“This is an odd meeting,” he says as he sits down. “Why do two guards of the deep dark come up now? I was told by Chamberlain Helthok that there’d be none let up on leave for a while. What news do you have? You told the guards it was serious?”

“Bad news,” Nthazes says. “Terrible news.”

The mayor frowns deeper. “I’d guessed that.”

“Runethane Yurok has perished, alongside the majority of the fort, including all above fourth degree.”

The mayor flinches back. “What?”

“We attacked the deep darkness down the Shaft, and only eleven of us escaped.”

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“Eleven?” The mayor blinks in shock. “Eleven, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Eleven remain. Not eleven perished?”

“Yes.”

The mayor doesn’t speak for a while; he seems frozen in place.

“I also didn't believe it at first,” says Feltram. “But it’s as he says. The fort is all but deserted.”

“I see.” The mayor swallows. “The darkness... Is it likely to rise up? To come here?”

“Not anytime soon,” Nthazes says. “We hurt it down there.”

“Not soon, you say? But I know how you down there think of time—or rather how you don’t.”

“We’re going to petition the Runeking for reinforcements,” I say. “We’re moving as fast as we can. So long as he sees the seriousness of the situation, you’ll be protected again.”

“They do say he sees everything.” The mayor gives a wry chuckle. “Well, he’ll have to take us seriously now, won’t he? Eleven left...”

“As mayor, it’s of course up to you whether or not you make this general knowledge,” says Nthazes.

“A panic is in no one’s interests. Only myself and my most senior runeknights will know.”

“We would also be much indebted if you could send messages to the other towns around here, to your Runethane, and to Runethane Ilthik above also.”

“Of course.”

“We would also be indebted if you could add your seal to our letter petitioning the Runeking. The word of a first degree would add much weight.”

Nthazes takes out the letter of petition from a satchel and unrolls it. Light glints off the black ink of the text and the black seal also. The mayor frowns at him.

“I believe that only Runethane Yurok and his chamberlain are allowed use of this seal.”

“That is correct,” says Nthazes. “But now they are dead, the right to use it falls to the next most senior runeknight, which is me and two other fourth degrees.”

“I see. Yes, that would be the case, if the disaster is as great as you say it was.”

“It was,” I insist. “Please, help us. You must.”

The mayor frowns deeply. He looks into my eyes. There's a suspicious glint in his own. Anger rises in me. How can he possibly doubt us? But maybe doubt is reasonable. Not all dwarves are trustworthy. For all he knows, we're spies from one of Runeking Urabrask's realms, and are attempting to spread panic and confusion.

Yet I think if that were the case, we'd have chosen a more likely story. No: our story has to be one of those so absurd it must be true. Surely that's the conclusion he will reach.

“This is all sudden...”

“They speak the truth,” Feltram says. “I went to the chamber of the Shaft myself. There were only eight standing guard around it, and none of them looked to be third or above. I know the word of a mere caravaner such as myself doesn’t mean much, but...”

The mayor nods slowly. “Yes... Caravaners are well known to exagerrate their tales.”

“But what could I gain from lying to you?”

The mayor's brow wrinkles. He's thinking—what motive could we have if we're indeed lying. Then he sighs.

“I believe you. I don’t think you can fake the fear I hear in your voices. Mostly I sit around now, but I’ve fought in the past. I know what fear sounds like. I’ll sign.”

He produces pen and signs the letter carefully. He blots the ink and Nthazes rolls the letter back up.

“Done,” the mayor says shakily.

“Thank you,” Nthazes says, and he bows his head low. “We’re indebted to you.”

The mayor shakes his head. “No. We’re indebted to you. I should apologize: maybe in the past I haven’t tried hard enough to get you new initiates.”

“We would appreciate more once the main reinforcements have come down, and there’s a new kind of normality in place.”

“You’ll get them, and more before. I’d like to send down some of my own dwarves; hear what’s happening down there from them. Like I said, I believe you, but even so...”

“You’re welcome to,” says Nthazes. “And if any are brave enough to stay down there to forge weapons of light and join us, we would be most thankful.”

“I don’t think many will be. But maybe some will see honor in doing that. You never know.”

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

We return to the carriages. The loaders have bought the supplies and are already packing them in. They’re moving the heavy crates of food and heavier barrels of water efficiently, without a single wasted movement—earning their keep. Apparently they’re paid rather better than miners.

Before long, Nthazes and I are back on top of the front carriage staring into the featureless black. There’s no light to see what we’re heading toward—fortunately the blindboars are capable of sensing potential obstacles, and also decide whether to slow and stop if it's a cave-in, or speed up if it's some creature.

My nerves are still on edge. While it’s a good sign that the mayor here agreed to our requests, and offered more besides, there’s no guarantee the Runeking will be equally as accommodating. If he isn't, the consequences will be terrible.

No, no. Why am I lying to myself? That’s not what I’m nervous about. I’m nervous about facing my past, facing my guild, Guildmaster Wharoth, and Vanerak. Now that my suspicions are confirmed, now that I know that the black dragon really did annihilate the realm I hail from, a sense of reality is setting in. No longer is my crime a nightmare from fifteen years ago; it is now something very present.

Will I be forgiven? Will I be understood? Should I be?

And adjacent to this main worry: I don’t think Vanerak will have forgotten my abilities. As soon as he hears that I’m alive, he’ll do what he can to acquire me. Maybe if I’m locked up awaiting trial, that won’t be so difficult. Maybe, rather than worrying about how my trial will go—if I’m not simply given a summary execution—I should instead be worrying about being stolen away, kidnapped.

I let out a shaky sigh.

“You all right?” asks Nthazes.

“I’ll be fine. Just worrying about the future.”

“Well, at least we’ve got a long journey before it comes.”

“Very true.”