Guthah jabs at my face. I dodge easily, my instincts unimpeded by the awkwardness of the wooden armor. I stab at his lead foot, sensing he has too much weight on it. To my surprise, he manages to shift and draw it back, though I still get his toe.

“One to you,” he says, and immediately receives a stab to the groin. Despite the codpiece the force hurts him and he stumbles back.

“Don't talk!” I snap. “Don't get distracted. Distraction can mean death.”

He nods, then unleashes a flurry of stabs at my torso—if a combination so slow and clumsy can properly be called a flurry. I step around, shorten my grip on my spear, and smack him in the head.

To his credit, unlike his friend, he stays upright. I stab again, slowly to give him a chance to show some skill and block it, and he manages to. What's more, he stabs upward right after. I step aside.

“Good—“ I begin, but he's attacking again. I grin. Don't talk in a fight—I should take my own advice sometimes.

The smack of clashing wood echoes around the training yard. His blows remain clumsy, but their speed is increasing. In fact, he's taking to the spear very well. Better, maybe, than I first did.

I up the pace of my own blows. Until now I've been holding back, giving him chances to block. Let's see if he can keep pace when I'm serious. One, two, three, four... I jab up, down, left, left. He can't predict my patterns, fumbles his parries. My spear strikes him over and over, each time into the gaps in his armor.

Though, I pull my blows a little. I don't want to injure him.

I let him back away. He's gasping, exhausted.

“Let the armor and weapon do the work for you,” I say.

“But this armor isn't enruned!”

“So? It's not about how many runes of strength you have on. It's about getting a feel for the metal around you. Understanding how it moves.”

I expect a protest from him, but instead he simply says: “Right.”

Is he finally listening to me? He charges and lunges with extreme range. He's aiming at my right shoulder, then with a twist of his wrist he's aiming for my left knee. A tricky blow, which would be hard to parry if he was any faster.

So I let him have it. His spear brushes past my knee. I use my own to twist it away and up. He makes to flip it around and strike me with the other end, but I order:

“Stop! You got me.”

He backs away, blinking in surprise. “Did I?” he asks.

“Yes. Only just.”

“Did you let me?”

“No,” I lie, to give him some confidence. “Though I will say I wasn't fighting as fast as I usually do.”

I get some skeptical looks from the other initiates at that.

“It's true,” I say. “I can move faster in my real armor than this stuff. Anyway, congratulations Guthah. You can use a two-handed spear in the examination, if you want. Though you're going to have to work hard at your technique over the next ten long-hours.”

“I will,” he says.

“And of course you'll have to forge a half-decent one as well.”

“Already started on that—actually, I want to ask you—“

“After I finish off the rest here,” I say. “Now, you lot. Who's next?”

None of them show anything close to the promise Guthah did. I thrash them easily, even when I'm moving at half the speed I'm capable of. Only Pellas comes anywhere close to victory. She manages to batter my spear away and close with her sword, but decides to stab at the most obvious target. I grab her arm and throw her to the floor, and my next stab is number twenty.

“Close,” I say. “Not quite close enough, though.”

“It's hard to get in range.”

“Yes, but you chose your weapon.”

“Fair enough.”

With that, we're finished. For once I feel a small degree of pride, and more than a small degree of irritation at Guildmaster Wharoth. What was he thinking, choosing their weapons for them? Maybe your mind really does go funny after too many long-hours at the forge.

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“Good work everyone,” I say. “I don't often say this, but for once some of you managed to fight half decently. Maybe you'll pass the examination after all. Maybe. Don't get over-confident. You can continue with the one-handed weapons you chose. Dismissed. Off to the forges you go.”

They bow, deeper than usual, and leave, apart from Guthah.

“Yes? You had a question?”

“I just want some tips on how to forge a spear. Your Heartseeker is... Remarkable, after all.”

“Don't try to copy me. Make what works for you.”

“But how do I know what's going to work for me?”

“You can't until you've had some experience. Fight with it a bit more and then decide on the poem you want to graft.”

“I've been having trouble with that as well. I have ideas, but...”

“Let me guess: runic flow calculations?”

“Yes. Your runes seemed to work so perfectly.”

I scratch my head. “You mean in my trial. Yes, well, once you have experience, these things come naturally. Practice more, is my advice.”

“I already spend every hour I have practicing.”

“Good. You're on the right rails then.”

“Still... You really do make everything look easy, Zathar.”

“Trust me, it isn't. Nothing's easy. If something seems easy, it's because you're not pushing yourself enough. Take things easy and you'll end up on a plateau.”

“What's that?”

“It's a surface thing. When a mountain goes suddenly flat halfway up the top.”

“I see.”

“Good. Off to the forges you go then, initiate.”

“Are you going to come by later?”

“Probably not. I've got my own work to do.”

“Oh. Well, see you next training session.”

“Don't be late. In fact, if you're early, then maybe I can show you a few tricks. You've earned the knowledge.”

He grins. “See you.”

I smile as he leaves. Here's a dwarf with ambition! He's not from a family of runeknights either—jewelers. A respected profession, and a rich one too. Master jewelers can end up as rich as high degree runeknights. But Guthah wants to leave that all behind. Cutting gems is all very well, he's told me, but runes are where true beauty lies.

Very poetically put. I sense that he's a lot more interested in glory than beauty, however.

Off to my own forge I go. It's time to begin grafting the poem to the handle. I was going to use quizik for it, to give a little more stability, but the poem has turned out too fierce for that. It'll take incandesite well. I'll do a two-thirds mix. And hytrigite for the key runes, those referring directly to the hawk. I'm a bit nervous about the hytrigite—it's been too long since I last worked with it.

I take out my boxes of reagent and begin to mix. It's a laborious process, if not a difficult one. The quizik and incandesite need to be mixed extremely thoroughly, but also extremely slowly, lest I accidently create some spark. I measure exactly, and stir in a calm frame of mind, observing the color carefully. Half an hour later, the smell of quizik dust strong in my nostrils, the mixture is ready.

Very evenly I brush it onto the underside of the runes. The quizik sticks, but some of the incandesite doesn't. I curse as I very carefully brush it back under the platinum wire.

No. That won't work. There'll be a greater concentration of incandesite around the edges of each rune now. I brush everything off back into the mixing bowl.

After another hour of mixing, I think it's ready. I brush it onto the underside of the first runes again. Still, a few grains of incandesite fall away. What's more, the smell of quizik dust is stronger than ever. A fair bit has been lost to the air.

I groan. This means my carefully measured ratios are all off. I sigh. Have I wasted several golden wheels' worth of reagent before even beginning the grafting? No, no. As long as the ratio is even throughout the whole poem, it doesn't matter if it's exactly a two to three mix. I pour more quizik and incandesite into the mixing bowl, to make sure I have enough for the poem entire, and restart mixing.

Despite the difficulties, I feel proud of myself. I'm paying attention to even the smallest details of the forging process. My trial by forging has taught me much.

A short-hour passes and it's finally time to graft. I brush on the reagent mix, and this time it sticks well. I heat my welding stick and, rune by rune, imbue them onto the aluminum handle. Now the first stanza, bar the key runes, is done, and I look at the clock. Another short-hour has passed. I inspect the runes under my lens and they're in place exactly.

I put a lid over the mixture. Time to rest my fingers. I don't want to rush things so close to the finish.

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

The next few long-hours pass quickly. I graft, instruct, return to the forge to graft some more. Despite my worries about the hytrigite, it goes easily. Maybe too easily. I bought pre-refined stuff—maybe that was a mistake.

Finally, I'm finished the handle. I take out the head. The steel gleams redly, and a thrill shoots through my hands and into my body. Now this, this is going to be a truly deadly weapon. Sharper even than what I created in the trial, I have no doubt it'll penetrate all but the most well-crafted plates. Hell, it should even pierce first degree level chainmail, if I aim well enough.

Best not to get cocky though. I still have to weld it.

I brush the top part of the handle with incandesite carefully, then work it through the slot in the center of the head. The craft is together. I place it carefully back down upon the anvil. I heat my welding stick. Fingers trembling, I move it toward the incandesite dust.

Flash! Red fills the forge. The beating of my heart speeds fivefold. Flash again! The runes on the warhead gleam crimson. The handle shivers. My eyes are drawn to the poems—power is flowing through both of them, uninterrupted by the weld. The runic flow is perfected.

The hawk's talons become the war-pick, piercing the enemy with precision.

I seal the top and base of the hollow handle with small discs, and now the craft complete. I hold it and the urge to swing takes hold of me—the urge to swing it at something alive.

Trembling, I lay it down. There's nothing to swing it at yet, I remind myself. Not until the examination.

I swallow. This craft scares me a little. Not that I think grasping it is going to make me go berserk, or anything like that, but still, I can't help but worry that in battle my control might slip. I might get a bit carried away. Get overconfident, over-extend myself.

I'll have to be careful.

But still, what a craft! I admire it. It's my greatest creation yet. I grin widely.

Now: what to name it?