The iron troll chief's severed head and the heads of two of its biggest warriors stare malignantly out at the dark path before us from their mounting. Thanks to this ugly idea of mine, no more trolls have attacked us thus far—they may not feel pain, but the relatively intelligent iron trolls at least seem to understand the fear of death.

  Volka drives. All caravaners have at least some training in how to handle blindboars, and although she is far from expert, we keep going forward at a reasonable pace and do not crash, nor even lose a wheel. After only a few long-hours travel, we reach the exit from the wastelands. It is guarded and we must stop before a great pair of iron gates.

  “Name? Cargo?” a guard barks from a barred window in the cavern wall.

  “Volka, fifth degree of the Gem Wheel Association,” says Volka wearily.

  So much driving has tired her out, and feeding and cleaning the blindboars alone has been no easy task either—I am too inexpert to help, and the other runeknight's wound is too severe for him to be able to do much other than rest—a pike stabbed deep into his shoulder.

  “Declare your cargo. You should know that many reagents and materials are forbidden for import without the proper permission papers.”

  “Steel ingots, a dead iron troll, its weapon, some weapons of its warriors, and the bodies of our comrades.”

  The guard blanches. His armor is only eighth or ninth degree in quality and I wonder if he's ever had to fight an iron troll before, or even a stone troll. Maybe from the back lines.

  “We carry no dangerous reagents or other substances either,” says Volka. “And you do not need to remind a caravaner of the Gem Wheel Association of the most obvious laws.”

  “Of course,” says the guard. He's staring at the three troll heads mounted behind Volka, as if he's only just realized what they are, and what they signify about us.

  Then his eyes alight on my weapon. They widen.

  “I apologize, honored runeknights. I did not mean to presume—”

  “We would like to be let through,” says Volka. “And we would also like to purchase supplies for our blindboar.”

  “Of course, of course. Please, if you would write your name here...”

  Beyond the gates is a small town, where we—mostly Volka—haggle for some barley slop for the blindboar. The merchants, who seem rather intimidated by Life-Ripper and my brutal-looking cheek scar, sell to us for far below their usual extortionate prices.

  Then we're off again. Unlike the caravanways leading into Allabrast have, there are no magnetized tracks on the roads to the city of Jade and Copper, but the surface is smooth, and regular exterminations keep the caverns around free of dangerous beasts.

  “Have you been to this realm many times?” I ask Volka one night, as we sit in relative comfort on the stone benches of a rest-stop.

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of a city is it?”

  “A beautiful one. Runethane Ytith, like her predecessor before her did, upholds strict building standards. She thinks of the city as one of her crafts, they say. It's well-lit too, by great lanterns of metal-imbued glass. Those are one of her personal inventions.”

  “I look forward to meeting her, then.”

  Volka looks at me strangely. “I doubt you will get a personal audience.”

  She is probably correct. I was never granted an official rank of second degree, after all. Vanerak decided it on a whim. And even second degrees are not granted personal meetings with Runethanes very often.

  I grow nervous all of a sudden, and glance around at the other runeknights at this rest stop, who are giving us a wide berth.

  “If she learns who I am, though...”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “She won't imprison you for your past crime. Unlike what you say of Runethane Vanerak, she respects the laws of our Runeking to the letter.”

  “But she will want to talk to the black traitor all the same, I'm sure. And I will have to tell her what happened in Vanerak's realm. Runeking Ulrike must learn as soon as possible. She may not be pleased to hear that I became traitor a second time.”

  “You had cause to betray him. He is a murderer. Runeking Ulrike may well send an army to arrest him—his first degree judges are a match for Runethanes in power.”

  “Maybe. But...” I shake my head. “Never mind. You're right. I've done nothing wrong. Nothing.”

  Yet as we approach the city, as green and white veins of jade start to wind their ways through the stone walls and floor of the road, my unease grows. There is something else that I feel obliged to report—my encounter with the river trolls. Until now I have told only a few about the crown that sat within the sealed box and the unbelievable transformation it wrought.

  Neither Wharoth nor Vanerak asked very many questions about it. The revelation that I could create new runes outshone any curious story about trolls. And my crime of betraying Runethane Thanerzak's key to the black dragon was far greater than the crime of teaching trolls how to write runes. I don't think that even was a crime, actually. Trolls are not meant to have the capacity to understand runework, so why would there need to be a law against instructing them? They are but beasts.

  Or so most dwarves assume. Now I am wondering that, as terrible as giving the black dragon the key was, if giving Dwatrall knowledge of runes has resulted in even worse consequences.

  Another few long-hours and several fortress-checkpoints later, we come to the final approach to the city of Jade and Copper. It is, as Volka has explained to me, more akin to the double-city I was born in than to Allabrast: being of thousands of buildings set within an expansive and high-roofed cavern. I cannot see its famed jade buildings yet, however: just a great wall of dark red stone.

  Our six carriages slow to a halt a few hundred yards from the copper main gates. There is a queue to get in, a long queue. It looks as if every caravan is being inspected.

  “Is this usual?” I ask Volka.

  “No,” she replies. “Caravans are usually inspected on a random basis, and not so thoroughly.”

  When we finally come to the copper gates—dazzlingly complex arrangements of curved bars, enruned with a purplish metal I've never seen before—a grim-faced guard commander in third degree titanium tells us the reason for the increased security.

  “War is brewing. A blazing wind is blowing through the tunnels, one might say. The magma isn't here yet, but we can feel its heat.”

  “War?” I say, shocked. “With whom? Runeking Uthrarzak?”

  “He and his southern allies.”

  “They're marching for us? So suddenly?”

  “Not yet. But he's mustering forces. He'll come soon enough. Within the century, at least. Maybe in as little as fifty years.”

  “Oh. Well, we have some time to prepare at least.”

  “Not enough.” He peers behind me at those inspecting the caravan. “No stowaways?” he calls out.

  “No,” comes the reply. “Just bodies, like they said. And the troll is definitely dead.”

  “Some can grow a new head.”

  “Not this one. It's rotting inside its casing.”

  “All right then.” The commander turns to Volka. His armor's tightly wound platinum runes glint. “If you could sign here, please.”

  Until now, whenever she has signed at a guard post, it's been on a piece of paper. Now she is instead handed a dark tablet bordered with copper. It reminds me of the tablets used for examining lower degrees' runewriting, except that it's darkly reflective, and a copper wire leads away from it into the squat guardhouse built into the wall.

  Volka takes out a pen from her wallet, but the commander shakes his head and hands her a copper stylus.

  “What's this?” she says. “It's enruned. Who created it?”

  “One of us guards.”

  “And I have to use it?”

  “Yes. If it makes you uncomfortable, think of it as me wielding my weapon against you, not you using an implement I created.”

  She frowns suspiciously, then signs her name. The tablet flashes blood-red first, then bright, emerald green.

  A dozen guards, until now standing statue-like beside the gates, rush to surround us. They level their spears. The commander raises his sword and aims it at my face. I step back and crouch, angle Life-Ripper so it's ready to lash out. Volka drops both stylus and tablet and raises her hands.

  “I'm afraid that you are under arrest,” says the commander. “As—”

  The emerald green light beaming up from the tablet changes to the brilliant white of super-heated steel. The guards look at each other, confused and hesitant.

  “I apologize,” says the commander, and he puts away his sword. He bows deep. “These tablets are new development. Sometimes they do not work as intended. Red is for caution, green for mortal danger—but white is for an honored guest.”

  “An honored guest?” I say. I still do not raise Life-Ripper's twin points away from his face.

  “Indeed. It seems that you are both a mortal danger and honored guest, honored first degree.”

  “So we can pass through?” Volka says.

  “You may. We will take care of your carriages, and drive them where they need to be, if you'll allow it.”

  “I do not allow this, if I have a choice. They are owned by the Gem Wheel Association. We do not let others handle guild property.”

  “I would not risk angering the Runethane, if I were you.”

  “The Runethane?”

  “Yes. It is her, after all, whom you are the honored guests of.”

  A guard rushes out the squat guardhouse. He whispers urgently into the commander's ear, who then frowns at me.

  “Your name too, if you will, honored runeknight,” the commander asks. “Just to confirm something.”

  “I am Zathar.”

  The guards around us flinch. Some narrow their eyes, but the commander remains calm.

  “Then welcome to our city of Jade and Copper, Zathar.”

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