I wake up in my own bed. My first thought is that the battle with the iron trolls was a dream, and that the examination starts from now. Then the pain comes. I groan. It's especially pronounced in my right hip. There's something wrapping my flesh there too, adding to the pain, squeezing and making it worse. More coils are around my chest.

I grasp them; they're cold. Healing chains. So my battle against the iron trolls was no dream. Remembering how the last one tried to tear my leg off, I panic, grab at my thigh, and am relieved to find my leg still there.

Well, I'm in one piece at least. But did I pass?

Beside my bed is one of the initiates—now a tenth degree. He's sleeping.

“Katak! Got bored of watching over me, did you?” I say.

He wakes with a start. “Zathar! I'm sorry, I didn't...”

I shake my head. “I'm sure you're exhausted.”

“Not that much.” He looks guilty. “The examination finished some time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“Four long-hours.”

“That long?”

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Sore, but wide awake.”

“I should get the guildmaster.”

I nod. “You do that.”

He hurries from my quarters. I try to relax, and wince. The slightest movement brings pain shooting into my hip and my side. It's not a burning pain, or a cutting pain, but rather an uncomfortable kind of pull, as if everything down there's been drawn tight.

I hope nothing's permanently damaged. Disabilities can be compensated for with runes, but only to an extent.

A few minutes later, there's a polite knock on my door. I recognize it as Braztak's—I doubt Wharoth would have knocked.

“Come in,” I say.

He enters, looking serious. “May I sit down?”

“Please do.”

He takes the chair from my desk and positions it beside the bed, sits on it.

“Did I pass?” I ask immediately.

“You did,” he says. “Your certificate is in your desk. Want to see?”

“Of course!” Pain shoots up my side. “Of course,” I say, more quietly.

He opens the drawer and pulls out a thin sheet of stainless silver, embossed with runes. He makes to hand it to me then pauses.

“I can manage to hold it myself, at least,” I say.

He nods. I grimace as I pull my hands out from under the blanket to receive it. I hold it up to the light and examine the runes closely.

They read:

This metal is to certify that Zathar of the Association of Steel has attained the degree numbered fourth, on this one hundred twenty three thousandth, six hundred and eighty first long-hour of the reign of Runeking Ulrike of Allabrast and all the realms that have sworn allegiance to him.

May he forge for an eternity or else die in glorious service to Runeking Ulrike.

“Check the other side,” says Braztak.

I do so:

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A fearsome craft. —Ulrike

I draw breath sharply. “The Runeking himself wrote this?”

“The runes are of no metal I've ever seen before, and I can't tell what reagent he used either. And they're completely perfect in form.”

“That's a yes, then.”

“Yes. Usually only first degrees get such a personal congratulations.”

“I'm honored. Very honored.”

“He's still got his eyes on you, it seems.”

“Yes. That's a good thing. I hope.”

“You said he seemed decent enough.”

“Even so, he's still very powerful. And my experiences with powerful dwarves have, on the whole, been negative.”

Braztak nods. “Aye. I know what you mean.”

“I'm still honored and grateful though. Don't get me wrong.” I take a deep breath. “But why do you look so concerned? It's my leg, isn't it?”

“Your leg is fine,” he says. “Your other injuries as well. The healing chains they had on hand were some of the best. You'll make a full recovery—after some time.”

“I see. How much time?”

“A dozen long-hours or so. But you'll be able to leave your bed before then.”

“And get down to the forges, I hope.” I chuckle. “I think I've got quite a lot of repairing to do.”

His face falls even further. “About that...”

“What?”

“Most of your armor is fine. But your breastplate...”

“What about it?”

"It's.. There's no easy way to say this, Zathar.”

I'm beginning to feel a little worried. “How bad is the damage?” I ask.

“Damage isn't the right word... It's... Well, it's completely shattered. The runes melted themselves trying to take the impact of the troll's foot.”

“I can remake them.”

He shakes his head. “It's beyond repair, Zathar.”

I shake my head. “No. Nothing's beyond repair. It's just a matter of careful welding.”

“Not in this case.”

"I'd like to see for myself."

"I don't think the shock will do you any favors."

"Please."

“I see. As you wish. Now?”

“Please.”

He leaves, shutting the door behind him gently. Beyond repair? Surely a third degree like him knows that no craft is beyond repair. Like I said, it's just a matter of careful welding.

Braztak returns holding a large box. It rattles slightly with each step he takes. I a low groan escapes my lips. From the box I can't feel anything, nothing, not the slightest hint of runic power.

“Are you sure you want me to open it?”

“Get it over with.”

Silently he lifts the lid. He pulls out the contents, which clanks mournfully, metal bones hitting against each other. My groan turns to a whimper.

“Oh...”

My breastplate and backplate are smashed to splinters. Only the interior padding is holding them together, and barely so. There's hundreds of shards missing. But that isn't the worst of it.

Where once were runes are now melted holes. Of the salamander skin I fought so hard for all those years ago, there's nothing but smudges of blackish dust.

Tears are rolling down my face.

“Beyond repair,” I whisper. “You're right.”

“It was a fine craft. A fraction less tough, and your ribs would've been crushed into your lungs and heart. But it held just enough.”

I swallow. “I reforged it once before, you know. It rusted on my journey down to the fort. I thought it was beyond repair then, but even so, I remade it.”

“I suggest that you frame it. Put it on your wall. Or we can display it in the guildhall.”

“There's absolutely no chance it can be remade?”

“Only if you melt it down and hammer out the impurities. But to me that would feel like an insult.”

I breath deeply a few times, then wipe the tears from my eyes. I swallow again.

“You're right,” I say. “It did its duty. It deserves better than to be melted down.”

“If you do decide to put it in the guildhall, it'll have a place of honor. Guildmaster Wharoth will agree to that. If he doesn't, I'll persuade him.”

“I'll think about it.”

“You'll get a stipend for materials for a new piece. I've already arranged it.”

“Really? Thank you.”

“It's no problem.”

“You're a real friend, Braztak. To everyone in the guild, but especially to me.”

“Thank you, Zathar. I'm moved.”

I sigh, and hand the remains of my breastplate and backplate to him. A splinter detaches and clinks on the floor. “Put them back in the box for now.”

He does so. He kneels to pick up the splinter also.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask.

“A few things. But for now I think you ought to sleep. You look exhausted.”

“All right.”

I sink back into the covers and unconsciousness takes me. I see no dreams.

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

When I wake back up, there's no one here with me. Seems they've decided I'm not going to die in my sleep. For a few moments I feel well, then the pain returns, and I remember the state of my breastplate. Its shattered fragments dance in my memory's eye, and I let out another low groan.

I lie back and attempt to go to sleep again. I can't; I'm wide awake. With painful effort, I lean out of bed toward my table and light the oil lamp—it has a clever switch that sprays sparks over the wick when pressed.

In the low light, I consider what to do. Though losing my breastplate is a terrible shame, maybe it's also an opportunity. I'm better at forging than I was when I created it and even when I remade it. I feel sure that I can forge an even tougher, even stronger piece of armor. One so well-made a troll's foot would bounce right off it.

After all, if I'm going to be fighting with my pick, I'm going to be up close and personal with my foes. I need the best protection my abilities can craft.

And I am going to be fighting with my pick. It proved itself a hundred times over, with every strike that stabbed through the trolls' armor and rent their guts.

It deserves a name. One comes to me. It's brutal, but my pick is a brutal weapon. It's a tool for killing trolls, cruel dwarves, and maybe even a dragon. Its name must suit the bloody stanzas that adorn it.

I will call it:

Gutspiercer.