Our initiates exit the arena in one group. Wharoth leads us in swarming them. We thrust mugs of beer into their hands, even though they look to be in no mood for a party. They're exhausted, breathing heavily, hunched over, feeling every pound of their armor. And no one looks more exhausted than Guthah.

I grab him by the shoulder and pull him stumbling from the crowd, onto the side of the wide road. He looks at me. His eyes are wild.

“Zathar!” he says. “I fought just as you taught me! Just as you taught me!”

“What are you praising me for?” I laugh. “This is your victory!”

“Only because you put faith in me. Thank you, instructor.”

I grimace. “Honestly—I was losing faith toward the end there. I'd have run in your position.”

“Nonsense! I can't ever imagine you running from a fight.”

“Oh, I've run from plenty. Sometimes it's the right decision, but not this time. You were right and I was wrong.”

He shakes his head. “Maybe not. One missed blow...”

“But you didn't miss any.”

“No. But the others...”

He's shivering. I recall his background: as a son of jewelers, he's from one of the richer, safer districts of Allabrast. This was his first taste of violence. I reach out and grasp his shoulder, shake him firmly.

“You're a runeknight now. You'll see a lot of death.”

“I know. At least, I thought I knew.”

“Weren't prepared?”

“No.”

“No one is, I don't think. But after we forge, we fight and we kill. That's what it is to be a runeknight. And sometimes fighting means watching others, our friends, suffer. Even perish.”

He composes himself and nods sharply. “I understand, instructor.”

“Good.”

“You've got your own test soon, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be cheering you on.”

“Thank you.”

He bows low. “I hope you'll agree to teach me further, instructor.”

“Of course I'll teach you further. You're a skillful student.” I grin. “You need a skilled instructor.”

But behind my grin I'm feeling fear. Through the gates some of the initiates who charged alongside Guthah are moving and moaning, or screaming as they're wrapped in healing chains and bandages, but four are draped with shrouds. This incident—whether it was born from miscommunication or simple sheer idiocy—has severely shaken my faith in the examiners.

----------------------------------------

I watch the examinations for ninth to fifth degrees with the rest of the guild. Everything proceeds in an organized, civilized manner, with no more disasters. Plenty dwarves fail, and plenty get injured, but only one dies—a sixth degree is crushed against the arena wall by a stone troll. He's not one of ours though.

As I watch, I grow more nervous. The examinations may be fair, but still, each is more brutal than the last. And the brutality I face is going to be worse than the sixth degrees' continuing battle against the trolls by a large margin.

Most runeknights' progression grinds to a halt somewhere between tenth to fifth degree. Sometimes the cause is death: failure to craft an amulet of unaging, violence in battle, or simple bad luck out in the caves. Roll the dice enough times and they'll always come up snake eyes once or twice.

But many also stop before fourth voluntarily, afraid of the terrible dangers senior runeknights are expected to face. Only the most expert crafters and the fiercest warriors can hope to survive them. Fourth degree is a cut-off point. That's why only dwarves fourth and above forged weapons of light in the fort, at least until Runethane Yurok's fool gamble.

It's also why my examination, and those for the degrees above it also, will not be taking place in the arena , but some way outside the city. We haven't been told the exact location.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

We cheer our newly-minted fifth degree, then it's time to relocate. Braztak pats me on the shoulder as we approach the carriages.

“Good luck.”

“Thank you. Hopefully I won't need it.”

“Hopefully. But you're in for a tough battle, Zathar. Tougher than you realize.”

"I'll win it."

"Don't take that for granted," he warns. "Don't let your guard down by a single inch."

“Get in the carriage, Zathar,” says Guildmaster Wharoth. “Hurry up!”

I won't be riding with my guild, but with the other examinees. “Very well,” I say to Wharoth. “No final words of advice?”

“You need them?”

“No.”

“Go on then. And I won't say good luck. Your armor's the only luck you need.”

“And my weapon.”

“Yes. That too.”

“Good luck, Zathar!” roar Jerat and Faltast. “We're expecting great things!”

I grin. “I'll show you some.”

“Good luck!” shouts Guthah, and the other tenth degrees yell encouragement also.

“Thank you!”

I step into the carriage—one of the Civil Force's, clad in steel. I sit down beside the other examinees. They don't look at me. The doors shut with a clunk. The only windows are small and set high, so it's suddenly quite dark. There's a jerk and a rumble. We're off.

Once my eyes adjust to the dimness, I look at my fellow examinees. Their armor is smoothly curved where it's meant to be curved, dead straight where it's meant to be straight. There is little steel or bronze here; mostly they are in titanium, or tungsten, or more exotic metals. Some have even had the confidence to eschew plate, and are in chainmail with runes grafted onto each ring.

One is even in scales of platinum.

They all bear swords. Each is razor edged and most glow, and the poems running down them are works of art. They look as if they'd part my own armor with ease. I feel inadequate, sandwiched between these dwarves.

Maybe partly this is because I'm the youngest here. Most of those who sit the examination for fourth are at least a century old. I can see veterancy in their eyes, that coldness most senior runeknights have, the metallic look that comes from a century of staring into the fires of battle and the forge.

At just over thirty, I'm a child next to them. Not for the first time, I begin to worry I'm making a mistake sitting this examination. Nthazes is a fourth degree. Do I really think I'm as skilled and strong as he is?

We sit in silence for several hours. Then, gradually, the carriage begins to slow. Maybe we're just rounding a bend—no, we're coming to a stop.

“Here we go,” whispers the runeknight in platinum scales. The others stay quiet.

There's a clinking sound as the carriage doors are unlocked, then they open and light floods in. We begin to step out, one by one, into the brightness.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I look around and am shocked to see that we're inside a mine. No, that's not quite right. Before us is a great slope, barren, cut out of the cavern by the work of thousands of chisels and rock-saws. The rock is granite, a valuable building material. This cavern is a quarry.

Up to the extreme right, far away, are temporary stands. I think I can make out Braztak in his distinctive green and purple, and also Guthah with his long spear. Maybe that's Wharoth next to them, or maybe it's another dwarf with an ashen beard. Bright lamps fixed at its top pour their light over us, and in a path up the slope also, though the very top remains dark.

The last fifth degree steps out from the carriage. There's a crack, a squeal from the blindboar, and we're left alone in the gray wasteland. A cold wind is blowing down the slope, kicking up grit which gets through my visor. I'm forced to raise it to rub my eyes clean. When they are, I see that we're not quite alone. The head examiner has come down to greet us, red cloak streaming in the grit-laden wind.

“Fourth degree hopefuls,” he says. “Welcome to garenzor-ekt.”

Garenzor-ekt. Granite Hill.

“I know this place,” says a runeknight in glittering chrome and silver. “It's disused. Abandoned.”

“That's right. There was a troll infestation.”

I can't quite remember the head examiner's name. But he's a renowned troll-killer. His armor is forged of iron troll skin folded over itself thousands of times. It ripples in the light in patterns that look like trolls' teeth.

“I suppose it's going to be re-opened soon,” says the runeknight in platinum scales.

“That's right. It was an embarrassment for there to be a troll nest so near to Runeking Ulrike's capital, so my guild recently dealt with it. Though not without losses.”

I frown. “Totally dealt with?”

The head examiner smiles. “Well, not quite totally. There's a large group holding out up at the top.”

“And we're to deal with them?”

“Yes.”

“Full-grown iron trolls?” asks the dwarf in platinum.

“That's right.”

“How many?”

“A few dozen.”

Murmurs go up.

“Sounds like a third degree job, at least,” a runeknight with a golden sword says.

“We captured the chieftain alive. The runeknights striving for third will be slaying her.”

“I see.”

“Do you wish to back out? You have every right to.”

“No,” says the runeknight with the golden sword.

“How about the rest of you?” The head examiner looks across us slowly. “This is your final chance to back out with honor. There's no retreating from here on.”

“We won't retreat,” says the dwarf in platinum. “Us runeknights won't, at least.” He gives me a sideways glance. “Not sure about the miner.”

I glare, spin my war-pick in my hands. “I'll drive this through any troll that gets in my way—any dwarf too.”

“I advise cooperation,” says the head examiner. He fixes us with a cold glare.

“We'll cooperate just fine,” says the dwarf in chrome and silver. “Just tell us where to go.”

“Up the slope.”

“Very well. Though I want to make it clear that I don't appreciate being made to do your guild's dirty work.”

The head examiner shrugs. “Someone has to do it. Why be so selfish as to give all the honor to my guild? This is an opportunity for all of you. You're to show your worth by doing something of worth.”

“And save you money on buying something for the arenas.”

“That too. Now, off you all go.”

“Wait,” I say. “How are we going to be judged? Who's going to be watching us up there? Won't we be scored?”

“Yes,” says the dwarf in platinum. “What if someone refuses to fight?”

“You'll all fight,” says the head examiner. “The trolls will see to that. Now get moving.”

We look at each other, some shrug, and then we begin to trudge up the stony slope. I can just make out dark hulking figures at the shadowed top. Each is at least four times as tall as I am.

The point of my war-pick glints redly. It's hungry for their blood.