Wes learned a lot about this world in a very short amount of time. The wagon wheels groaned as they rolled over uneven terrain, the rhythmic creaking blending with the steady clop of the draft horse's hooves. Lissa had spent the past hour peppering Wes with questions between spinning her new toy, her bare feet kicking against the wagon bed's sideboards in a way that seemed to irritate the hell out of her father.

  Harken growled, “Stop kicking the damn cart! Also, girl, let the man breathe."

  Wes felt a strong sense of fascination, but also separation as he learned more about this world. "So this is a...'dungeon world?' With the Underworld being underneath, but not underneath, here but not here?"

  Harken scratched his stubbled jaw, the wagon wheels creaking beneath them. "Aye. Underworld entrances break open if an access is left unused too long. That's why Boundary Watchers get stationed even in shitholes like Duskvale."

  Jorn fiddled with his crossbow, not looking up as he adjusted something. "Underworld's where monsters come from. And treasure, if you're good enough to dive for it." His eyes flicked to Wes's pocket where the pistol lay hidden.

  “Good? More like stupid,” said Harken.

  "Are all Underworld divers really foolish?" asked Wes. "The way you described them earlier, at least some of them, sound like heroes and celebrities."

  Harken let out a rough chuckle. "Heroes die screaming same as fools down there. Difference is, heroes get ballads sung about their corpses." He scratched his arm in thought. "Most divers are desperate men or glory-hounds too stupid to know better."

  Jorn scowled, running a thumb along his crossbow's stock. "Uncle Garin went down once. Came back with enough gold to buy three wagons like this."

  "That was just the first level too!" said Lissa, excited. "Pa is just scared of the Underworld."

  "That's because I have good sense," said the grizzled man. "What happened to Garin when he tried for the second layer? Fool never came back."

  Lissa's grin faltered at the mention of her uncle’s fate. She played with the fidget spinner, its plastic clicking softly against her fingers, rough from work.

  Jorn scowled at the road ahead. "Uncle Garin was a drunk who couldn't tell a goblin from a gnome. Doesn't mean diving's all bad."

  Harken's grip tightened on the reins. "Easy words from a boy who's never seen a dungeon break."

  "I'm ready to help, Pa! You know I'm good with a crossbow! And I practiced all those spear moves that mercenary showed me a few years ago, too."

  Garin shook his head. "If you want to fight something, boy, you should fight the harvest instead of staring into the distance doing nothing half the time."

  "He's probably thinking about that Gerina Teylor," opined Lissa. "Maybe he's hoping to see her in Mercosa, too."

  "Shut it, Lis!" Jorn scowled, his cheeks coloring.

  Harken chuckled, the sound like concrete blocks dropped from heavy equipment. "Gerina's father wouldn't let her marry a boy who can't even keep his bolts fletched proper." He looked like he was going to spit, then thought the ground wasn’t good enough. "That girl's not only pretty, she’s got prospects. Her uncle's a boundary watcher over in Greenhollow."

  Wes watched the family dynamic play out with detached amusement. The pace wasn’t bad, and the road stretched before them, winding through golden plains that shimmered in the midday heat.

  Suddenly, Lissa asked him, "What about you, Sir, er, Mister Wes? Do you have any family here?"

  And just like that, Wes' eyes shook. His breathing got uneven and his eyes filled with unshed tears. He got himself under control quickly, pushing down all of the emotions he didn't have time to deal with right now. Harken, with more life experience, likely noticed, but Lissa was oblivious as Wes quietly said, "They're all back where I came from. I'm not sure if I'll ever get to see them again."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Harken's shoulders tightened imperceptibly. The old farmer kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the lines around his eyes deepened. "Lost folk find their way sometimes," he muttered. "Sometimes they return. Or make new paths."

  Jorn shifted uncomfortably on the bench, his crossbow resting across his knees. The boy opened his mouth—perhaps to offer some awkward consolation—but a sharp glance from his father silenced him.

  Nobody spoke for a while, and Wes was fine with that. Finally, he asked, "What about the Boundary Watchers? Can you tell me more about them?"

  Harken did spit this time, wiping his mouth with the back of a scarred hand. "Bunch of jumped-up mages playing soldier if you ask me. But they keep the rifts, and the Underworld accesses under control…mostly…so folk put up with their arrogance."

  Jorn bristled, gripping his crossbow tighter. "They train for years, Pa. All of them have basic wizard abilities."

  "Yes, but they are all so varied, you never know if your level 1 B-Watcher can actually protect a village or not," said Harken.

  "What do you mean, varied?" asked Wes.

  Harken adjusted his grip on the reins, the leather creaking. "Some Boundary Watchers can summon full blown firestorms. Others can see things that ought not to be seen. Others just make little constructs." He made a face. "Rank determines their authority, not always their power."

  Jorn scowled. "That's not how it works, Pa. All Rank 1s pass the same tests—"

  "Tests don't mean shit when an ogre is chewing your leg off," Harken snapped.

  Wes nodded, starting to understand some of the complex culture of this world. He asked, "How common is magic anyway?"

  Harken adjusted his wide-brimmed hat against the afternoon sun. "Common enough that every village has a hedge witch or charm-maker. Rare enough that true mages still turn heads in the cities." He grumbled to himself, the louder, said, "Your light-maker would earn you coin in Mercosa's markets—most likely."

  Jorn's fingers tapped against his crossbow stock. "Boundary Watcher academy takes maybe one in fifty applicants. The applicants are all mages of some kind."

  Lissa said, "Tremaine Gracy, the famous Underworld Diver, turned his nose up at Boundary Watcher selection when he was young!"

  "Gracy's a fool who got lucky,” Harken snorted. “For every diver like him, twenty end up as bones decorating some Underworld horror's lair." The wagon creaked as it rolled over a rut in the road, jostling them all briefly.

  Jorn twirled a crossbow bolt. He said, "Danger is fine. Still better than hauling barley my whole life."

  Wes remained silent, absorbing these new, strained dynamics between father and son.

  The day dragged on.

  Wes continued pumping his traveling companions for information, observing the culture of this world. The way they handled the call of nature, especially Lissa, was much different than on earth.

  Lissa hopped down from the wagon without ceremony when nature called, vanishing into the tall grass with the same casualness as stretching her legs. No one batted an eye—privacy seemed a luxury these plains folk couldn't afford. Wes noted how the men simply turned their backs, continuing conversation as if nothing happened. The wagon occasionally stopped, but most times, it would just slow if someone needed to go. If Harken jumped off, Jorn took the reins.

  However, hygiene and cleanliness rites seemed to be observed, too. The family kept water and tools on hand to clean their hands.

  Wes suddenly noticed that despite being simple people on the road, that these three were relatively clean and didn't stink–no body odor. He suddenly realized that his insult of being dirty to the elder back in Duskvale might have been a cutting one in this culture, if people really cared about hygiene. Maybe it’d been a truly nasty insult.

  He hoped so.

  When the sky began to darken, Harken hummen in satisfaction. "Made good time. The Vance Creek is just up ahead. Popular camping spot. Good fire pits."

  Jorn scowled. "I hate bigger campsites like that one, though. More travelers means more possible problems."

  "But less chance for anything scary in the dark!" added Lissa.

  "Humans can be scary too, Lis," muttered Jorn.

  he wagon crested a low rise, revealing a broad bend in the creek where half a dozen campfires already flickered in the gathering dusk. A motley collection of travelers had settled in—merchants with three wagons circled like primitive fortifications, a pair of dusty pilgrims in rough-spun robes, and a group of leather-clad hunters gutting a freshly killed deer. A number of scents mingled with woodsmoke on the evening air.

  "Bad luck," muttered Harken.

  Wes blinked. "What?"

  "It's the Crostlik clan," said Jorn, void grim. He pointed with his chin to one side. "They're almost around the bend, you can barely see them. Thieves, and worse, but they never get caught. They have their own settlement. Bad lot, all of them."

  Harken guided the wagon off the main track toward a patch of open ground near the creek, keeping ample distance from the other travelers. The other travelers had stayed as far away from the Croslik camp as possible, putting Harken’s wagon and camp the closest. The Crostlik clan's campfires burned a hundred yards downstream—close enough to watch, far enough to avoid immediate confrontation.

  "Maybe you'll earn your ride after all, Wesley," Harken muttered as he set the brake. "Crostliks smell new blood better than rift wolves."

  Wes sighed. "Great."