The initiates train in a small courtyard near the back of the guildhall. It's as plain as can be, like most everything in the Association of Steel. There are no fancy training statues, weights, climbing scaffolds or strike-power gauges. Guildmaster Wharoth believes in the simpler ways of improving combat ability.

I line the dozen dwarves up. I fix them with my hardest stare.

“I've been noticing something of a lack of respect recently.”

A few of the initiates shift awkwardly, but most are impassive. I've started many a training session with this line, after all.

“There seems to be a certain scepticism about my training methods.”

Guthah is returning my hard stare. I look at him.

“Some of you want to try different weapons. You think you're too good for axe and shield. Maybe you think I should be teaching you the weapon I use.”

I hold Heartseeker out—I've brought it here to show them.

“My method of fighting, when I use this, is not what Guildmaster Wharoth wants you to learn. I don't smash and chop to break my opponent's armor, I aim carefully to disable their joints, feet, hands. This requires a high level of skill. My accuracy must be supreme. The runes on Heartseeker assist me with that. Any runes you create would not be good enough.”

A few initiates scowl.

“I'm only telling the truth. However, I've had a think, and decided that maybe you should get the opportunity to try out some different weapons. There's still a fair few long-hours before your examination. Plenty of time to craft a new weapon. Hell, a lot of you need to do that anyway.”

“What about the guildmaster's orders?” one of the initiates asks.

“As long as you keep your shield, he won't have any issue.”

I gesture to a weapon rack behind me. In it is a wide variety of wooden practice weapons—hammers, maces, swords, and spears. Most are one-handed, but some are hand-and-half, designed to be used in either one or two-handedly. I see Guthah's eyes move greedily to one of the long spears.

“Now, choose a weapon. Whatever you thinks suits you best. Or, you can keep your axe.”

I step aside and let them make their selections. Most choose swords, a few go for hammers. Maces aren't so popular. Guthah grabs the longest spear.

They pair up like usual and begin to spar. I wince at their techniques. In the time I've had them, the equivalent of a few months, they really haven't improved very much. Probably they ought to go back to practicing basic strikes against the air, like Braztak was having them do before he got too busy with his forging. But with the examination so close, they need to get used to having someone—or something—in their face, trying to hurt them.

As the minutes pass, however, something strange happens. They improve. The weapons move more quickly and accurately. Their movements speed up. I fold my arms and frown. What's gotten into them?

Maybe they want to impress me. Though I do complain about their lack of respect, at least they don't openly despise me like many others in the guild. These dwarves are young, and mostly born here in Allabrast. To them I'm an object of fascination rather than the betrayer of their guild and realm.

But a simple desire to impress doesn't explain what I'm seeing. I watch Pellas. She's one of the younger dwarves here, barely twenty years—or two thousand five hundred long-hours, as she would put it. For her practice weapon she's chosen a short sword, and is moving it deftly around her opponent's shield to strike at the gaps in his armor—this is the correct way to use a sword against an armored opponent.

I never told her to do this. She just seems to have worked it out naturally.

Guthah, on the other hand, is not doing so well. He keeps missing with his spear and getting clobbered on the head by his opponent's hammer. There's frustration in his green eyes, and his shield is behind him.

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He catches me looking and stops.

“I want to try without a shield, instructor, please.”

I open my mouth to snap at him, then stop. For once there's no petulance in his tone.

“Please, instructor.”

He's nearly begging!

“Please,” he repeats. “Why not? Don't I have a better chance of passing if I'm using something I'm comfortable with?”

“The guildmaster wants you using a shield. It's safer.”

“But with all respect, instructor, with a spear I can keep my foe—whatever they send at me—at a distance.”

Respect! I've never heard him speak the word until now.

“That's not so easy,” I warn.

“Maybe not. But I won't know until I try.”

I open my mouth to rebuke, and realize I have no argument with what he's saying. He's right. Who am I to tell them what weapon to use? My eyes flick to the stark stone walls of the guildhall, within which Guildmaster Wharoth is forging.

Who is he to tell them what weapons to use? The strength of us runeknights is in how we can create tools of protection and destruction in exactly the ways which fit us. Telling one to craft this or craft that is antithetical to this principle.

Runethane Yurok went that route, and near-destroyed the fort against the deep darkness.

I nod. “Maybe you're right. Yes, why not. All right.”

“You mean it? Really?”

Guthah seems shocked. “I mean it,” I confirm.

“Really? We can? No catch?”

“There is a catch,” I say. “First, I test you.”

I lean Heartseeker against the wall and pick up a training spear. It's a little shorter than I'm used to, but I don't mind. They need all the advantages they can get.

I beckon the initiates to come forward. “If any of you can land a hit on me without using a shield, you're allowed to use a two-handed weapon in the examination. Well? Anyone keen to take on the challenge?”

Guthah steps forward. He readies his spear. He's quite tall—maybe he'll be able to use it well. Some of the others come forward too. In fact nearly all of them do.

I chuckle. I see what's going on. They want to have a go at beating me up. See if I'm really as strong as everyone says I am.

I'll show them exactly how wide the difference between us is.

“Could we have some time to practice first?” Pellas asks.

“Yes, of course. You can have thirty minutes. Then ten minutes' rest.”

“What are the rules of the bout?” asks one of Guthah's friends, wielding a large hammer.

“Rules? If you get a single hit on me, you win. If I score five hits on you, I win. Fair?”

“Last long-hour you said you were twenty times better than us,” says Pellas.

“Quite right. Fine, I have to hit you twenty times.” I grin. “How do you feel about that? They won't be soft hits either.”

“We've got armor on,” someone says. “I'm fine with those rules.”

I laugh loudly. “Good. Then get practicing.”

I wander into the guildhall to get a beer, and ask where Guildmaster Wharoth is. Still at the forge, apparently. Probably he'll be down there for at least a couple long-hours. Good—if any of the initiates actually manage to win against me, I won't have to deal with his ire immediately. Recently I feel that he's been starting to regret giving me full reign over them.

Beer downed, I head back out into the yard. Once again I'm impressed. They're striking much more quickly and accurately than I'd expected, Guthah especially. He's succeeding at keeping his opponent at long range—a very tricky task when they've got a shield. His opponent closes suddenly—Guthah flips the spear round and smacks him down with the end.

“Nice blow, Guthah!” I shout.

He turns to me and grins. My praise is rare—I only give it when they earn it, which is about once every three or four long-hours.

“Ready for the test?” I ask them.

“Yes, instructor!” they bellow.

“Good. Who's first?”

Guthah makes to step forward, but one of the others, wielding a large hammer, beats him to it.

“Karak,” I say. “Good dwarf. I'll let you strike first—“

He does so with vigor, sweeping at my legs before I've even readied my spear. I see the blow coming and step back. He misses me by several inches. I jab and hit him square in the face, knocking his visor up. He falls onto his rear.

I give him a couple nasty blows to the shoulders, under the gaps there, then I step back to let him get up. He pulls his visor back down, hesitantly.

“Three out of twenty to me,” I say. “Come on. You only need to get one.”

He strikes at my head. I sidestep, laughing. I feint high then strike twice low into the gap between greave and boot. He gasps in pain and falls over again.

“The advantage of a two-handed weapon is range and power,” I say. “But between blows you're open. You need to know what to do if you miss.”

He makes to get up and I jab his helmet again.

“Keep your eyes on your foe's weapon!” I snap. “Everything I've been saying these past long-hours still applies. Six points to me now!”

I let him stand. He sweeps at my legs again, so slowly I have time to roll my eyes as I step away. He's being too cautious, worrying about what to do if he misses. I give him a chance to bring the weapon across to block my next strike, which I aim very obviously. He manages, but fails to turn the parry into a riposte. I punish him with a jab to the gorget.

He falls over once again, coughing this time.

“A block is often an opportunity for a strike,” I say. “Do you lot remember nothing I tell you?”

I wait for him to get up, but he drops his weapon and holds both palms out to me. Surrender. He's still coughing.

“Bruised throat?” I say. “Once you become a runeknight, you'll have to fight through worse injuries than that. But you weren't the idiot who said he wanted twenty blows from me, so I'll let you off this time.”

“Thank you,” he coughs, and staggers to his feet.

“Who's next?” I say.

They look a lot less eager now. The one who said he was happy to take twenty blows from me especially is cringing back. Guthah, though, steps forward proudly.

“I'll go,” he says.

“Then have at me, short-beard.”