The Maharal released their wagon and dived for cover, whooping as they ran. A moment later the wagon struck the barricade. There was a loud crash. A screech tore through the air. Marred strength runes carved down the length of the wagon gave way. Boulders began to fall.

The first stone thundered home. The blockade did not so much as shiver. A second crashed down. Bren held his breath. Nothing. How strong was the—Crash!

The world exploded. The ground shook. Logs crashed through the woods, knocking over trees and sending up great sprays of dirt. Sticks the length of spear flew in every direction, hammering the roofs of wagons and shattering against the bodies of golems.

When the barrage finally ended a great crater was left in the road and surrounding woods. Bren left the oak he had been crouched behind to survey the damage. It would take the golems ten minutes at most to clear a path. The torn and pitted road was a large concern, but Ice could get the wagons over as long as they were careful. All in all, the setback would only cost them a few hours.

A groan distracted Bren from his thoughts. Someone was in pain. The person groaned again, this time fainter. Bren ran after the noise. It sounded like they were dying. By the time he got there it was too late. Por was lying against an upturned wagon. A large shard of wood jutted from his chest.

“Por!”

Bren ran to his side, “No! No. My friend, my friend.”

Bren clutched uselessly at Por’s hair, brushing it from his eyes. Por took a small quick breath.

“Fleysh! Fleysh I need you!”

Kolek and Fleysh arrived together.

“No injuries to report,” said Kolek as they wound their way past a log the size of a ship’s mast, “Even my golems are fine.”

He gasped as Por came into view, “What happened? What went wrong? Does he still live?”

Fleysh was already crouched beside Por. “With steady hand he will. Tsamen could have mended his wound in a trice. I’ll try, but I have not her careful hand.”

Fleysh ran his hands along the tools in his belt. He hesitated, then chose the dull weight of lead. Fleysh’s knees trembled, but the hand he placed on Por’s chest was steady. He was a master.

“Loop, loop. Like a rabbit’s hole not a fox’s. A fish hook. Closed at the end. One, two, one two three. Now run on home, fast as you can. Loop, loop…”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Fleysh muttered under his breath as he carved. The words were for children. They were often discarded as confidence and skill grew, but now was the time for gentle familiarity. With a final stroke, Fleysh set back on his heels and let out a sigh.

“How long does it take?” Bren asked. The wound was not closing

Fleysh frowned, “It should be instant.”

He ran his fingers along the rune. Repair itself had become a scar, but blood still pooled about the spear in Por’s chest.

“Perhaps the splinter is preventing it from healing?” Bren said.

Kolek’s eyes widened. Before he could warn them, Fleysh tugged the spear from Por’s chest. A rush of blood greeted him, and the flow did not abate.

“The rune! It won’t let him heal!” Kolek cried.

“Destroy it!” Bren tore off his loincloth and stuffed it against Por’s wound.

Fleysh grabbed an inscription tool at random and slashed it across the rune on Por’s chest. The flow of blood slowed, but did not cease. Fleysh grabbed an iron tool from his belt. It was a safer choice, but far less likely to succeed. Fleysh hastily began another repair rune. As he reached the last line he slowed, and, drawing a deep breath, drew it straight and true. Kolek let out a sigh of relief, but again the wound did not heal. Through a slick of blood or twitch of Fleysh’s hand, the outer circle had been drawn imperfectly.

Before the men’s eyes Por’s chest began to dissolve. The skin peeled away, muscle unwound from bone, and then his exposed ribcage began to crumble.

“Mar it!” Bren cried.

Fleysh struck it with his iron tool once, twice, and still Por’s chest continued to melt. Kolek knocked his hand aside and grabbed the lead tool from the ground where it had been discarded. He frantically scored another mark across the already lacerated rune, ending it. Por groaned in pain, shuddered, and was still.

Fleysh flung himself backwards in horror. He wrapped his arms tightly about his sides and began to sob, rocking back and forth where he lay. Kolek dropped the tool and stared, unseeing, down at Por’s face. All was silent except for Zaytmos, still strapped to Por’s wrist, still ticking.

Bren turned away, refusing to look at Por’s body. Bren staggered back to where the Maharal waited.

“Let us mourn,” he said hoarsely. Before anyone could comment on his state or his nakedness he turned and stumbled away.

In the seventh of a day required for mourning, Bren had managed to find himself a fur skirt to replace his loincloth. The furs dispelled the cold of the setting sun, but not the cold which had been growing since Tsamen left. Bren shook his head, as though chasing off flies. It was best not to think of such things. Best not to think at all.

Bren walked to the spot where Fleysh had remained, unmoving, since Por’s death. He attempted to pull Fleysh to his feet, but failed. Neither man tried hard enough to succeed.

“We’re leaving,” said Bren.

Fleysh nodded rhythmically to the golem’s ticking. “I am too.”

A branch lay by him, smote from a tree as it fell. Fleysh grabbed it and forced himself to his feet. He turned, not to join the Maharal, but back down the road they had come.

“Fleysh. You must come with us.”

“I am useless. My heart is creased beneath the cruelties of endless defeat. My hands only shape pain and abuse. Victory was always only bittersweet. We have been mislaid.”

“We need you to restore your runes.”

Fleysh started walking, leaning on the staff for support. “You’ll arrive before my runes fail. They do not feel as I do. They do not despair.”

“Fleysh, you are our crafter, we need tools.”

Fleysh raised a trembling hand into the air, then dropped it despondently.

“You are our dreamer!” Bren yelled.

Fleysh turned back one last time, “I will dream no longer, for my dreams have become nightmares.”