Luck was on our side for a while after the incident at the lava lake. We soon found a valley that wound between the volcanoes to the east and we followed it for several days. The smoke and ash remained light, the terrain was smooth, and the concussive blasts of exploding mountains felt distant enough to spark only the smallest bit of fear.

  My main problem was that my makeshift sledge, constructed primarily from Drifter's destroyed tent, barely qualified as transportation. While I was grateful for Borin and Drifter for dragging me along for dozens of miles, it felt like lying on a blanket and being dragged across a field of glass. Smooth terrain for walking was not the same as smooth terrain for dragging one's ass across.

  Our lucky valley did not carry us all the way to the highway, unfortunately. I was hauled halfway up a mountain, I was pulled along a steep hill of gravel, I was dragged through a field of knee-deep ash and dust. In the end, despite not taking a step, I looked the worst for wear of everyone in the party.

  The morning of the fifth day brought us up a large hill, and looking down we finally saw our destination. Calling it a highway was certainly an overstatement, but throughout the whole of the Wastelands it was the closest we would find. A wide trail, just enough for a wagon, was worn into the stone through the passage of what few merchants could afford the protections needed to traverse the Blasting Mountains. The highway stretched from Wystole in the north down to Fionne in the south, with a rarely used branch in the path leading to the Raven's Peak Fortress marking the border of Arestria. The road wound between mountains and hills, for the most part, only skirting up the slopes to avoid lava, debris, and the odd area where geography drew smoke down to choke out the valleys.

  We descended the hill into what may have been the least interesting area of the Blasting Mountains I had seen so far. The hill we descended was grey shale, as was the hill opposite, as was nearly everything I could see within our small clearing of smoke. The main difference between earth, air, and sky was the shade of grey.

  Once we reached the highway - and the gravel under my rear felt relatively comfortable - we decided to rest for a bit. While we'd been able to find quiet areas to stop for the night every day, we hadn't found many opportunities to rest during the day. It was nice to have a meal while light still filtered in from the sky, though we could not see exactly where the sun was through the smoke overhead.

  After eating our rations and getting our gear ready to go again, Drifter looked to the north and said, "Caravan."

  It took little time before we could hear the incoming grav carts, the low hum of their magic vibrating through the air. Soon the first of them broke through the smog veil around us, hovering a foot above the ground with the air blurring beneath it. It was much like a typical covered wagon, with a canvas rear and a seat in front for the driver. The main differences were that the front seat had its own protection with a glass front and a wooden top, and the wagon obviously had no need for wheels.

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  Our party stood off to the side as it passed us by, followed by another grav cart, and then another. As the fourth cart passed us by it slowed down and sounded a whistle, a signal to stop that was repeated all along the caravan. The carts lowered themselves to the ground and the hum disappeared.

  If I were to describe the stereotypical caravaneer I could do no better than the appearance of the man who hopped out of the fourth cart to talk with us. Gallivant Fremen, as he introduced himself to us, wore a long coat of leather too fancy for travel but quality enough to provide protection from the elements anyways. He wore a large hat with a flamboyant red feather, a fitted shirt and pants made of fine materials, and long riding boots that went up to his knees. His wide moustache could only be described as ostentatious, not the least because he seemed incapable of speaking without his chin jutting out at his conversation partner.

  Orwyn greeted him and introduced us with more deference than I had expected. My impression of someone too big for his already-large boots may have been wrong; his overwrought appearance may have been well-earned.

  "So, a party of adventurers in the middle of the Blasting Mountains with no goods for sale, plenty of weapons, and an injured comrade. Suspicious, don't you think?" Gallivant, in stark contrast to his name, seemed unwilling to play around.

  "With the roads south of Beorne closed we took the path through the Black Desert to reach Fionne," I explained from my seat on my tarp. "We got unlucky and ran across Durin and had to either turn back into the storms of the Plains of Shattered Glass or flee into the mountains. We chose the latter, questionable though the choice may have been."

  "Hm." Gallivant looked over our mish-mash of party members and seemed to decide we were unlikely to be bandits. With Orwyn, Damien, and I the group as a whole had too many noncombatants to make sense as a raiding force. Even Olivia, as intimidating as she could look in peak condition, didn't look like much of a fighter that day. "So it's just coincidence that we've crossed paths here, is it?"

  "Very much so," Orwyn answered, "We actually just came over that hill. Virilus here was injured as we escaped some sort of monstrous creature a few days back and we only just reached the highway to make his transport easier."

  A few other members of Gallivant's caravan had gathered around at this point, a mix of merchants, drivers, and guards from nearby carts wanting to see what the fuss was. One of those merchants piped up with some interesting information: "Are you talking about the lava wyrm?"

  "No idea. From what we could see it was like an eel encased in stone resting in a lake of lava. At first we even mistook it for a bridge." Orwyn shrugged, adding, "I could definitely see someone calling it a worm as a joke, if nothing else."

  "And you're headed south?" Gallivant asked.

  "If we can, yes."

  The caravaneer stroked his moustache, calculating our worth. "Do you think you can get revenge?"