“Fight like a dwarf!” I shout. “A dwarf! Stop flinching! Use your armor! Stop leaning into your blows so much! Let your weapon do the work! Didn't you craft it yourself? Show it some respect!”

I've done many jobs in the hundred and a half long-hours since my trial ended. Some have been easy: guarding, escorting dwarves of importance, inspecting various works of metal. Some have been difficult: forging chains of healing, cavern-clearing outside the city—though I've only dared to take those jobs on after Runethane Vanerak's departure from Allabrast—and wrangling trolls for the arenas.

Yet the hardest, by far, has been teaching. It's not that it's particularly dangerous, or even physically strenuous; I'm just entirely unsuited to it.

“Keep your shields up when you attack! Otherwise why did you even forge them? Keep them up!”

No matter how much I yell, the initiates are unable to obey me. Or, if they manage one thing I say, they forget everything else I've taught them. Teaching them is like trying to forge metal that thickens and warps the more you hammer it.

I pull at my beard in frustration as I watch them spar. They're fighting with abandon, throwing blows far too hard, like they're trying to splinter their wooden practice weapons. As for defense, they're dodging too wide, like they don't understand that their armor will protect them from most blows. They're all tired as well, because they're moving all wrong. You have to let the weight of your equipment do the work for you. This has always come naturally to me, but apparently not to this lot.

“Got you!” cries one dwarf in glee, as he batters his opponent to the floor with a triple-blow to the head. He turns to me, grin clear to see through his visor. “What do you think of that, Zathar?”

“That's instructor to you!” I snap. “As for what I think, I think you left yourself completely exposed, and why did you smack the same target three times in a row?”

His grin turns to a scowl. “I still beat him, didn't I?”

“If he'd been only slightly less idiotic than you, Guthah, you'd lying on the stone.”

Guthah's scowl worsens. He shakes his shield. “It's because of this stupid thing that I can't fight properly—“

“Don't insult a craft!”

“It's just a piece of wood, not a real craft.”

“You need to treat it as real, otherwise what's the damn point in doing this?”

“Why do I even need a shield anyway? Isn't armor good enough, if it's forged well?”

“For an initiate like yourself, a shield is the best option until you're able to craft half-decently.”

“From what I've heard, you never used a shield even when you were an initiate.”

“I'm more talented than you.”

“Maybe I'd be able to show my talent if you let me throw off this thing. Maybe I'll be able to kill a salamander as well.”

“The examiner killed it. I only got in one blow. But this is beside the point. The guildmaster wants you to train with shields, and so that's what you're going to do.”

“But instructor,” asks Guthah's sparring partner, still on the ground, “if you've never fought with a shield before, how do you know how to use one?”

“I've fought plenty who did use one. Killed them too, because they left themselves open.” I notice that everyone has stopped to listen to me. “Get back to fighting!” I snap. “And try to bloody remember what I keep telling you: keep your shield in front of you, conserve your stamina, and don't be predictable!”

Fighting isn't the only thing Wharoth's paying me to teach. I'm also instructing these dozen initiates how to work with steel, and they're nearly as bad in the forge than they are in the sparring yard.

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“Hit harder, Pellas! It's steel, not... It's steel! You need to hit it with force!”

She puts down her hammer and scowls at me. “Five minutes ago you were telling me not to hit it so hard.”

“I told you not to hit it so roughly,” I correct.

“What's the difference?”

“Rough means you don't hit with precision.”

“And hard?”

“Hard means you put power into your blows. I've explained this before. Look...”

I take the hammer from her and strike the bar of iron that's she's trying to turn into a dagger. The spark illuminates the faces of the other five initiates in the forge. I strike a few more blows. The steel rings like a bell as it lengthens and flattens according to my will. I glance to the side and see that Guthah's eyes are wide in awe. Pellas, however, is still scowling.

“You make it look easy,” she says. “But for us, we have to think about each blow.”

“I know.”

“You could, maybe, give us some more specific advice? Other than hit harder or softer.”

“I can't. Forging is just something you need to practice. You need to get a feel for it.”

“What about teaching us how to use the different types of hammers? Or how to strike at different angles?”

I shake my head. “You just have to get a feel for it yourself. And it doesn't matter what kind of hammer you use. For my first craft, all I had was a rock, and a pool of magma for a forge.”

“Yes, you've told us this...”

“Many times,” someone adds.

“...but surely you learned a lot after that. Something you could pass on?”

“No. You just have to get a feel for it, by yourself.”

“And if we don't have a feel for it by the examination?”

“Then you'll fail, I suppose, and have to try again some other time.”

“Failure could mean death.”

“Death is rare. Your examiner isn't going to be Vanerak.”

“Initiates still die sometimes.”

“Only occasionally. Besides, if you want to be a runeknight, you're going to have to face danger eventually. Often. You'll have to get used to death staring you in the face. Now, get back to work!”

They return to their anvils and continue to beat the metal. I cringe as I watch them. The steel seems to be crying out in pain.

But I just don't know how to get them to work it better. Like I told them, you just have to get a feel for it through many, many long-hours of practice.

A few short-hours later, I'm back in the guildhall.

“How are the initiates doing?” asks Braztak, over some beer—chilled. Guildmaster Wharoth shares our disgust for hot beer.

“Badly, as ever.”

Braztak shakes his head. “You just need to be a bit more understanding, Zathar.”

Braztak is one of those rare dwarves with a great deal of empathy. A third degree nearly as old as Guildmaster Wharoth, he's been through more than most, and come out the other side not with burned-out scars where his emotions should be, but with the ability to understand deeply the troubles of his fellows. This quality is why he's become one of my only friends in the Association of Steel.

Unfortunately, I do not share this empathy, at least when it comes to the initiates.

“I understand that it's hard for them,” I say. “I've had plenty of struggles in the forge. But I just don't know how to make them better.”

“You can't make them better. That's not what a teacher does. A teacher guides.”

“Yes, but how? They won't listen to what I say!”

“I think they are listening. You just need to be more observant.”

“I watch their every move,” I say stubbornly.

“Watching isn't the same as observing. Take Guthah for instance...”

“That short-beard!” I snort. “He's the one that listens least. Thinks he's the good shit because he's brawnier than the rest. Brawn doesn't matter if your opponent's armor's covered in runes of strength. Just makes you a bigger target.”

“No, he is listening. He just chooses not to obey.”

“That's even worse.”

“You need to find a better way to convince him that what you're telling him could save his life.”

“Not a chance. He's hell-bent on throwing away his shield.”

“Maybe you should let him.”

I let out a sigh. “I would, but I can't go against the guildmaster.”

“Who's the guildmaster to tell them what to forge?”

“He's the guildmaster, that's who. And if I let Guthah train without a shield, half the rest will want to throw theirs away too.”

“Well, then let them.”

“And when the guildmaster sees that? And if one of them gets killed in the examination because he didn't have a shield?”

“That would hardly be your fault. They aren't children, Zathar. A couple are older than you. They can make their own decisions about how to fight.”

“Yes, but the guildmaster...” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “He doesn't want to lose any. That's what it comes down to.”

“Well, I suppose we can understand why."

“Of course.”

“But maybe you can change his mind. He respects you, you know.”

“Does he? He doesn't often act like it.”

Braztak laughs. “He's always been like that, to everyone. Even to me.”

“All right,” I say. I slap my palms on the table. “I'll let them choose their weapons—still not sure about letting them discard their shields, though."

Braztak nods. "I think you're making the right call."

"I don't think this'll solve all my problems with them though.”

“No. You still need to try and understand them better.”

“Trouble is, I've never been as bad as them. I was talented.”

“Yes... But you've had other troubles. Try and draw on that experience. And in the forge, at least, you still have plenty to learn.”

He's right about that. My metalworking has hit something of a wall.