Four long-hours left to go. My equipment being more or less ready, now I must focus on training. Combat training. One of the first things I did after deciding to remake my war-pick was purchase a training one out of wood. Until recently, I hadn't done much sparring with it, just gone through drills in the privacy of my quarters. I was embarrassed to be seen with it. I thought I'd gotten over the shame of my past, but apparently not entirely.

But survival is more important than shame. Now, for about at hour before each training session with the initiates, I spar with my war-pick out in the open.

One of my regular sparring partners is Guthah. Initiate he may be, but with the spear, it's become clear he's something of a savant.

He jabs high. I try to hook my weapon around the tip but he was just feinting. He whips it back and it's flying low—no, middle! I dodge and swing at his head, but strike only a glancing blow, and a badly angled one at that.

We break, panting, though he more than me.

“Got me again,” he gasps.

“Well, you got me as well.”

“Only once.”

“Still, striking a fifth degree runeknight is impressive.”

“One who isn't in his armor. You weren't lying before. You move twice as fast when you spar in it—I've watched your bouts with the other senior runeknights.”

“Fifth degree is hardly senior.”

“Fourth soon.”

“All the same, you should be happy with your progress. You're a mile better than the other initiates.”

“You're confident I'll pass then?”

“Yes. Though nothing's guaranteed. Keep your guard up. Now, another round?”

He grins and pulls his visor back down. “Gladly!”

We go at it again. I practice the techniques I've studied from the few war-pick combat manuals I could find. Most are various kinds of hooks and pulls, and combinations of those.

They're proving tricky to master. A war-pick is slower than the spear and has much less range—about half as much. I can't unleash quick flurries of strikes—each blow must be deliberate. Feints are difficult to pull off.

Nevertheless, what it lacks in speed and range it makes up for in power. Each time I land a solid blow, Guthah winces. I've even cracked his wooden armor a few times. I won't have to worry about striking gaps and weak-points when I use my real weapon. Wherever I hit, I can damage.

Our session ends and the main session with the rest of the initiates begins. Their rapid improvement is continuing. They're eager to prove their choices were correct.

The training ends and I head back to my forge and get to polishing my armor. Mere scratches won't do much to runes, but they will do something, and for my examination everything needs to be at full functionality.

I'm beginning to grow worried—well, I've been worrying for a while, but now I'm worrying more seriously. In my dreams I'm forced to see my examination for tenth degree. I remember the screams of the other initiates as the abyssal salamander devoured them one by one, while Vanerak watched on coldly.

That was a bloody exception, even for a far-off frontier realm like Runethane Thanerzak's. Yet I can't help but feel that Allabrast's examiners might want to throw in a few surprises against the infamous traitor—I may have been found innocent, but I know not everyone has accepted the outcome.

All of a sudden I'm unlocking the safe. I pull out the ruby. Its blood-color facets gleam. My right hand, clutching it, feels stronger, more flexible. The skin on the back of my hand looks smoother. The aches from over-work at the forge and in training fade.

I squeeze the ruby harder and the aches vanishe entirely.

Should I equip it? Should I really equip it? How about just for the examination?

But once I do, I don't think I'll be able to take it off very easily.

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

“Congratulations, Zathar!” roars Faltast. “On the creation of your new weapon!”

“Thank you. I hope it serves me well.”

“I'm sure it will,” says Braztak. “In the meantime: another round of beers, barmaid!”

A few of my guildmates have taken me out to an expensive pub to celebrate the completion of my war-pick. It's not a big party, since I don't have very many friends, but I'm looking forward to the night—not really a night, of course, but we're calling it that—especially since this place is rumored to feature several rare alcohols, some of which they serve properly chilled.

The beers come and we swig them down. It says on the barrel behind the main bar that the brew is one hundred percent real hops. Brewed from cave wheat, not cheap cave mushrooms.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“So, Zathar,” says Jerat, a fifth degree with a rather unkempt brown beard and a nose like a bent axe-blade, “What're you going to name it? A craft this great ought to have a name.”

I look at my war-pick. It's balanced on top of its own chair—after all, it's as much the object of celebration tonight as I am. The glow of the hearth plays across its bloody runes. I scratch my beard.

“Not decided yet.”

“No?” he says aghast. “We'll have to come up with one.”

“I'm sure he can come up with his own,” says Faltast, wiping foam off his pleated blonde moustaches. “You shouldn't rush these things.”

“You shouldn't leave them until too late either,” says Jerat. “I always name my crafts before I complete them. Helps the direction of the piece, I find.”

“You name every single craft?” I say.

“Of course! They deserve it. Don't you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don't either,” says Braztak. “Only those most worthy of a name get one.”

“Like your halberd? There's a craft to admire,” says Jerat solemnly. “Spike them and slice them! I'd never had much interest in multi-use weapons until you finished it.”

“Oh, old Horn Teeth is a good enough piece. But I think Zathar's pick is more than its equal.”

“Never,” I say, shaking my head. “My poem is good, but I still think my steel leaves something to be desired. As you often remind me.”

“It's better than the steel of most,” says Faltast. “Though I'm curious as to why you didn't go with titanium. You're quite the expert with it.”

“Titanium's all well and good. But steel has more of a... A bite to it. I don't know. It's less complicated, more focused.”

“Runes don't take as well though.”

“Depends on the runes. But enough of talking metal,” I say hurriedly, keen to keep the conversation away from runes. Out of my six friends here, only Braztak knows my secret—he's the most trustworthy dwarf in the guild.

Though I do worry that others, both inside the Association of Steel and out, are beginning to have suspicions.

“What are we going to eat?” I say.

All but one of us originally being from Thanerzak's realm, and thus partial to hot meat instead of cold, solid slabs, we end up splashing out on salamander. The steaks come smoking—not steaming—and coated in a fiery sauce. Both meat and sauce heat my belly like they're the fuel for a furnace. For vegetables, there's a strange green thing imported from the surface. Asparagus, I think it's called. It tastes good broiled in butter.

For dessert, we have sugar-glazed sticks of boar's skin. The bristles have been expertly shaved away, for which I'm thankful. There's nothing worse than getting bits of boar-hair stuck in your gums.

Then, more drinks! Beer of every variety, all chilled, then some hot wine, hot spirits—even a whiskey infused with salamander blood. The surroundings grow fuzzier each mug, glass, and goblet I down. Our words slur. We're at another bar all of a sudden—we've gone through three already, I'm pretty sure. My pockets feel a good deal lighter than they did when we left the guildhall. They were only holding silvers, but still—a lot of them.

“So, you see, usually they'll get you to do some useful job for the fourth and up examinations. Though it depends on the examiner. This year he's...”

Braztak just said something, but it's already gone from my memory. No matter.

“'Nother drink?” I slur at Jerat.

“Another round!” he shouts cheerfully at the barkeep.

We all down another beer. It's steaming hot, but I don't really care anymore.

“Hey, I'm talking to you! To you!”

I turn to the voice behind me. I stumble forward a step too far, two dwarves catch me by the shoulders and steady me. I blink—the two dwarves become one.

“What is it?” I slur.

“You're Zathar, aren't you?”

“What of it?” says Jerat, stepping up beside me. “You two looking to start something?”

“What? No,” say the dwarves—there's two of them again. “Not at all!”

“What is it then?” I slur. I clench my fists.

“Calm down, please!” he says. “I'm not looking for a fight. I just wondered if you'd heard the news!”

“News?” I say. “What news?”

“Runeking Halajatbast is slain! His kingdom thrown into ruin! The mountain dwarves have fled!”

“Runeking who?”

“Halajatbast! The ruler of the dwarves of the great north mountain and all the hills about them!”

“The north mountain?” I say. “A bit far away, no?”

“That's on the other side of the world, or near enough,” scoffs Faltast, wiping beer-foam from his mouth. “What's it matter to us?”

“It matters to all of your guild!”

The others stop in place, drinks halfway to their mouths. Their eyes narrow. Braztak puts down his mug.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“You mean you don't know?”

“Of course we don't fucking know,” I laugh. I slap the dwarf violently on the shoulder. “Can't you fucking figure that out?”

“More beers!” yells Jerat. “More beers, hot, cold, or in between! Two for our new friends here too!”

“What don't we know?” says Braztak.

Something in his tone takes the edge off my drunkenness. Jerat senses it too, and stops shouting at the barmaids for more drink. I take a step back, toward my war-pick.

“He was slain by none other than the black dragon!” say the dwarf. “The one that destroyed your guild! Your realm!” He turns back to me. “The one you swore to kill!”

I grasp my pick at the top of the handle, swing it up. I don't know why I'm swinging it, I just am. A look of shock crosses the dwarf's face as I uppercut him with the middle of the warhead. He falls down, and then I'm sitting on his chest with one hand around his neck.

“What?” I scream, spittle flying. “What did you say?”

My friends are dragging me back. Everyone in the bar, which is spinning a little, is staring. I force myself out Braztak and Jerat's grasp and put my hand around the dwarf's neck again.

“If you're lying...!”

“I'm not lying!” wails the dwarf. “I just thought you should know!”

“It's the black dragon? The same black dragon? Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“No!” another patron shouts. “No one knows what did the mountain dwarves in.”

“That so?” I press the metal of my war-pick into the dwarf's unarmored neck.

“That's enough, Zathar!” shouts Braztak, and with a mighty surge of strength he wrests me backward and to my feet.

I breath deep. I feel sick all of a sudden, and not drunk at all. The bar ceases to spin. My head is throbbing.

“What the fuck is going on?” I say.

The bar is silent. The dwarf I was throttling crawls backward, rubbing his neck and staring up at me in terror.

“The mountain kingdom of Halajatbast is rumored to be destroyed,” someone finally says. “No one knows what by. Some say a dragon. Some say a black dragon. Some say a falling star, punishment for straying too close to the sky.”

“No one knows?”

“Everyone knows,” insists the dwarf I throttled, now pulling himself up onto a chair. “It's the black dragon. I didn't lie to you, honored runeknight!”

“Is there any proof?” demands Braztak.

“No... No proof. But everyone's saying it! Where there's smoke there's fire!”

“Dragonfire doesn't make smoke,” I say acidly.

“Does when it burns wood,” slurs Jerat. “Did when it burned us...”

“Who's saying it?” demands Faltast. “Who in particular?”

The dwarf flails his hands around. “Everyone!”

“It's a rumor,” says another patron. “Just a rumor. You shouldn't worry about it. It won't be true.”

“It might be,” I say. Rage rises in me. The urge to strike my pick through dragonflesh burns in my heart. “It might be!” I scream.

“That's enough, Zathar!” shouts Braztak.

I take a deep breath and lower my war-pick. I didn't even realize I'd raised it again.