The longest carriage in our train seats fifty dwarves, but we have made it fit seventy—packed them all in like so many metal ingots. I feel somewhat crushed myself, even standing as I am upon a barrel at the back. It is the prize for this hour's contest: undiluted luxury beer, brewed from the rusted hops of one of Runethane Ilthik's most prized farms.

"Are you ready?" I bellow to my thirty-five.

"Ready!" they scream back.

"We can shout louder, can't we?" Ithis yells to his thirty-five. "Can't we?"

"We can!" they reply.

"Well, are you ready then?"

"Ready!" they scream, and they clash their wooden weapons against their armor.

Our forces are mixed from several different guilds. In fact, no two are from the same guild. I've ordered that some of the training sessions be organized like this, because even though I plan for each guild to fight together, they'll also be fighting alongside one another, and, in the chaos of battle, maybe even dwarves from other realms will find themselves mixed in. In short, everyone must get used to fighting beside strangers.

The caravan shudders as it goes over a stone, or maybe a dead troll. The lanterns flicker. The air is hot, sticky, unpleasant. We round a bend and the carriage sways to the side. Armor clanks and clatters loudly as the runeknights try to stay standing. To my mind, this adds a touch of useful morale-strain and unpredictability to the training, even if tunnels do not usually sway—and then again, who can predict what terrible stone-shaking siege weapons will be brought to bear, from either Uthrarzak's side or our own?

I nod to Ithis. He nods back.

"Fight!" we both yell.

The two sides were already pressed together, so there is no charge, so to speak. Instead there's simply a surge of force, like at the beginning of a miners' arm-wrestle, when the contestant's muscles suddenly bulge with strain. Armored bodies compact together, and a great thunder of yells bursts forth, before lowering in volume to grunting and swearing as both sides attempt to bring their model spears, swords, axes and mallets to bear.

Wood won't do too much damage, even to tenth degree armor. But it can stun and hurt still, if smashed hard enough, and the dwarves are dragged down one by one. If you fall, you're counted out. That's the rule.

It's hard to fall when pressed together, though, and in a real battle, most of the slain are killed when their armor fails or else an opposing spear or sword dwarf gets lucky, not via wrestling. So, this method of scoring is not entirely realistic. But these exercises work well enough at getting them used to cramped violence and chaos, especially for the lower degrees.

"Push harder, my dwarves!" Ithis screams from the other end. "Harder!"

They surge, and my side falls back under the sudden onslaught. Wood splinters on metal. Someone cries out—maybe a splinter got through his armor. It's impossible to tell in the low light. The carriage shudders again and one of the lanterns goes out. For a second, the opposing forces' onrush is thrown off-balance.

"Push back!" I order my dwarves. "Counter-attack! Batter them!"

Their sudden cries of fury make the carriage shiver. The warm air becomes a congealed mass of noise—metal, splintering wood, and yelling all mix together like a dozen different stones melting in a crucible. Ithis opens his mouth, but no one can hear what he says.

The battle is now out of our reach. There is no more strategy, just shoving and punching and screaming. Dwarves at the back, who should be out of play, rush back into the violence. I let them. They can fight until they're exhausted, and whoever tires last will have the victory. That's how this match will be decided.

Surge, retreat, surge. The advantage ebbs and flows. The runeknights' movements grow sluggish. Barely a weapon is left intact anymore. The fallen, who at first leapt back to their feet, eager to return to the fray, now stay down, to tired even to groan.

In the end, Ithis' force wins. There's only five left still able to bear the weight of their own armor. They stagger over to me. I step off the barrel and gesture to it.

"Well done," I say.

They bow. One falls to his knees. I help him back to his feet. "Well fought," I laugh. I raise my voice. "All of you, well fought!"

In this way, the journey to Allabrast continues. I have had shifts scheduled: one third of the dwarves train to exhaustion, while one third recuperates and the other third is on-guard.

There are no more brawls, although as the ale and dried meat begins to run low, and rationing is tightened, there are a few thefts of food.

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They stop after one dwarf, caught red-handed, is punished brutally; I have him dragged behind the train until he is all but dead. To steal from one's comrades is no better than desertion, and I will not abide that crime. My dwarves do not flee. They do not betray one another. I will not allow it.

And I feel no guilt about doling out harsh punishments for breakers of this rule. Yes, years past I have fled from battles. But now that I understand the consequences of such cowardice, I will not forgive them in others. Why should I let discipline falter just because I used to be undisciplined myself?

Too many long-hours into our journey, we finally make it to the famed magnetic rails. They have been extended and upgraded since last I was here—and greatly so compared to my first journey on them. Training is suspended, for fear of rocking carriages derailing, and I order my dwarves to reflect on the exercises thus far.

How do you think you will fare in a real battle? Will you hold, or will you flee? That's what I ask them. Will you be able to face the enemy and slay them, or will you fail me?

I spend most of my own time in silent reflection, listening to the screaming of the rails below.

Then, this last leg of the journey, which I expected to be quick, slows to a grindingly sluggish pace. The screeching of the rails becomes a low whine. I curse, send a message down the train for everyone to ready weapons, and climb out onto the roof.

In front of us, a little way up the track, I can see another column of carriages.

"Who are they?" I demand.

"I don't know!" the driver calls up. "We were told the roads would be cleared."

"Why aren't they?"

"Probably the disembarking and unloading has been delayed. That's usually behind this kind of thing."

I curse again. Suspecting some kind of sabotage, I order the guard shifts intensified, but the driver seems to be right. There's just been some mix-up with the scheduling. We start moving again, albeit slowly.

A whole long-hour passes before we manage to crawl our way to one of the main junctions. I look out at the mess of curving roads and bridges, trying to figure out which other realms are arriving at the same time as us.

I spot Runethane Lapek's border dwarves, who favor two-handed axes and armor of wide plates. I see a carriage of shining gold, which can only belong to Runethane Gaflek, famed for his ostentation. Miners fear to be sent to his realm. Standing at the head of his carriages on a distant bridge, plates of white diamond glitter. Runethane Duthur, that must be. It's rumored that he's managed to mimic the Runeking's technique of crystal-growing, and that his diamonds are ten times as strong as even Allabrastian ones.

What do they each think of me, I wonder? And what do they think of my runes, which I'm informed that some of their own dwarves have begun to take an interest in? Their use cannot be forbidden—by decree of Ulrike, there is no such thing as a forbidden rune in his kingdom. But they are discouraged by some rulers, who see them as unreliable and untrustworthy. Runethane Duthur is one who holds such an opinion. I met him in Ytith's realm about a decade ago, when we were trying to persuade Runeking Bolotorok to join our cause. He did not say a word to me.

To some, I will always be the traitor.

We're riding along the last stretch, now. In just an hour we'll be in Allabrast. I am giving the captains their orders for arrival:

"...all guilds must account for every one of their members. No one is to go disappearing into the pubs until we're at our billings. No one is to go out without permission, and they must go out in groups if they do. We could be attacked without warning. Saboteurs and assassins are likely on the loose."

"That is all well and good, my Runethane," asks Lekudr. "But when we get to the station—what are we to do then? How are we to organize everyone properly? Will anyone guide us?"

"I assume so. But Ulanak, before she left ahead of us, told me nothing. I will sort things out when we get there. No one will dare to keep me waiting, surely."

"There are a lot of Runethanes here, though. None will want to be kept waiting."

"Zathar is the Runeforger," says Ithis. "The Runeking regards us more highly than the others, even if he won't admit it. We'll be prioritized."

Lekudr runs his fingers through his white-beard, frowning. "Our force is one of the smaller ones, though. And however useful our runes are—well, the forging is more or less done, isn't it?"

"That's speculation," Ithis replies. "This war could be a grinding one. We do not know. It could last centuries. The last ones did."

"I don't get that feeling," I say. "I think the Runeking has something decisive planned."

Ithis snorts. "I wish he'd tell us what."

"Whatever the strategy is going to be, fighting is fighting. We'll have to work out how best to train. I want something more real. I want runeknights grouped by weapon-type, and I also want some wooden pikes and shields made. We need to come to understand how the enemy fights, and how best to deal with that. I've read the military histories, but Uthrarzak has too. He's famous for it. He'll have developed counter-tactics. We must develop counters to those."

"I would caution against over-planning," says Captain Brognir—an ex-member of the Red Anvil guild, he joined soon after the battle against the two sorcerers, appalled that some of his fellows deserted their own Runethane. "No blade gets through the battle unscratched, no matter how cleverly designed. We should focus on the best ways to defend. Uthrarzak has more dwarves than we do. We can't afford to lose any more than necessary."

"I disagree," says Ithis. "He has the numbers to grind us down if we try for endurance. We should think of ways to get into his lines and do as much violence as possible. We need to spread fear and confusion—they have strength in numbers, so we must split them up."

"I leave the exact tactics to you, my captains," I say loudly, cutting off the argument. "We will soon find out what works best."

"Very well, my Runethane," they say, bowing.

I steer the conversation back to logistics. Then, just as Lekudr is making a point about how we ought to stock ale in a more organized fashion, the carriage begins to slow. Alarmed, I grab Steelpierce, push down my visor, and climb out onto the roof.

Our carriage is emerging from a tunnel into a pillared hall. Other carriages are pulling in as well. Some have stopped already and are disgorging axe-wielding runeknights, in iron armor enruned with copper and gold—the border guards of Runethane Lapek. Their faces are grim and scarred.

A few look at me. I don't think they recognize me, but they recognize the runes. I smile when I see that some have the same kind on their armor. My scripts of metal have spread further than I thought.

"We're here!" I call down into the carriage. "It's time to disembark. Welcome to Allabrast!"

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