It is midday now. The snow is bright with reflected sunlight, almost blinding. The black scar in my vision is more vivid than ever. Its edges are ragged, and it even hurts a little, as if the excessive light is worsening the damage.

We are digging out the last graves. They're rough and shallow, for the stony earth is near impossible to dig into without tools. Most are being dug out in a row on the other side of camp, but Braztak has me working away from the rest—for my own safety and for their safety too perhaps.

I refuse to use Gutspiercer. It may be suited in shape but I feel it will become wrathful if I insult it so. This is a foolish reason to not use it—other dwarves are using their weapons to dig, since making a grave is about the only occasion when it's suitable for a runeknight to mine, so by all rights I should be using Gutspiercer, yet I'm starting to fear it, and not only it, but my other crafts also.

A tool should be under the control of its user, not the other way around! The armor is moved by the body it covers, the weapon by the hands that wield it. An amulet works for the body, slows its decay.

It should not make the body work to its own ends.

Did I choose to kill Faltast? Or did my amulet?

“Zathar?” someone says nervously.

It's Guthah. I'm thrown from my thoughts.

“Yes?” I snap. I cease my digging and look up at him. His face is very pale.

“I'm worried.”

“About your arm again? I told you it'll heal—”

“Not about my arm,” he says quickly. “Ulat still isn't back yet.”

“I see.” The sound of my voice shocks me: when did it become so cold?

“How far away from here was he when you found him?” Guthah asks.

I try to soften my tone a little. “Not so far. He was one of the first.”

“And you let him go?”

“Yes. Yes I did, you have my word on that.”

“But he's still not back yet.”

“Hah. Maybe he ran away again.”

There it is again, more coldness in my voice.

“...back to Heldfast Hill?”

“In that direction.”

“Did he have supplies with him?”

“I don't recall. He could have taken some from the others he was with. From their bodies.”

“I see.”

“He betrayed us, Guthah.”

“Just a mistake—”

“A mistake that cost lives.”

“He was only a tenth degree, instructor.”

“Doesn't matter. Every last body is helpful in a fight. Even if it's just to get in the way.”

“He agreed to come back though, right? He's learned from his mistake.”

“If he comes back, we will judge that he has learned. If he doesn't, we will judge that he has not.”

“Instructor, you are being harsh. He doesn't deserve to die!”

“Neither did anyone who fought last night.”

“He wasn't responsible—”

“He was in part. Just like those dwarves who ran away in your exam were responsible for the deaths of those who stood and fought. Were you not disgusted by them? I remember seeing anger on your face.”

“I was mostly just scared.”

“And also angry. No? Did I see things?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Good. You should have been.”

“But I can't feel angry at Ulat.”

“Why not? The situation is the same.”

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“It's not.”

“Why?”

“The thing we faced in the examination was bad, but it wasn't... That thing.”

He gestures to the mound of red and white fur in the center of our ruined camp. An eyeball hanging from its smashed and cloven face is glaring down into the snow. Its tusks still gleam—no one was able to break them. Its feet remain coated with frozen gore.

“There's no difference,” I say. “A foe is a foe. You shouldn't abandon your friends to it.”

Guthah frowns. “You told me you've run from battles before.”

“That was to save my friends,” I snap. “I didn't abandon them.”

This is no lie: when I fled the battle for Thanerzak's city I took Yezakh and Hayhek with me, and when I fled the deep darkness, I saved Nthazes' life.

“I apologize!” says Guthah. “I shouldn't have... I mean...”

“Shouldn't have what?”

“Doubted you.”

“I accept your apology.”

“But instructor...”

Things go black for a few moments.

“Never mind!” he cries. “I apologize!”

He turns and hurries off. I let out a deep breath, then blink a couple of times. Did he just run from me?

“Wait!” I call, but he just increases his pace and vanishes behind a group of gravediggers.

They aren't even from our guild. Did I scare him somehow? I try to remember what just happened, but I can't remember anything. We were talking, then I did something. But what?

There's something odd about the way I'm positioned. I look down. I've taken a long stride forwards—I don't remember stepping forwards. And Gutspiercer is poised to strike.

“Ah, shit,” I say under my breath.

It happened again. I lost control. Or rather, my amulet and Gutspiercer gained it.

Come to think of it, when did I even pick Gutspiercer up?

“Shit!” I hiss under my breath. “Oh, shit! Hell!”

I was about to kill him, wasn't I? After all, what's one more dwarf, one more friend, after all those I killed last night? An excuse for the murder comes to mind: he confided in me that he was going to run when we met the dragon, and I took pre-emptive action.

I sit down in the snow. I stare at Gutspiercer, at its runes of brutality. This has gone too far. I need to get rid of it, get a new weapon. And I need to take off my amulet as well. It doesn't matter how well it protects me if it's going to make me kill more of my friends.

Yet if I take it off, I'm putting my chances with the dragon in jeopardy. And I can't throw Gutspiercer away. It's not like I brought a spare weapon with me.

Maybe I can ask someone else to carry it—no, that would be irresponsible. What if it starts to influence them? Then, what if I use some ruined tent fabric and poles to make a case for it, and then I drag it behind me at a distance where its bloodlust can't reach me so easily? Yes, this seems like a passable solution. It might bring a few strange looks, and it'll leave me vulnerable on the march—to my fellow dwarves too, some of whom might, against all good sense, seek revenge for their murdered comrades, deserters though they may be—but that can't be helped. Keeping control of my mind must be my foremost priority.

I look at the tent nearest to me. In my mind's eye I sketch designs for a kind of fabric sled. Yes, this plan can work. I can confide in Braztak the problem—he'll understand, I'm sure, and he'll make sure no one tries to get revenge on me.

So I stand up, let go of Gutspiercer and—

I haven't let go. Gutspiercer is still in my hands. For a moment I'm confused, then a sinking feeling comes into my stomach.

I try to open my fingers, but they won't open. My muscles won't respond to my will.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I try to let go again—my hands won't respond. They're paralyzed, like this is some waking nightmare where my eyes are open and there's something in the room with me but however much I try I just can't move.

I try again. It's no use. I lift Gutspiercer high and try to throw it. Instead I lunge brutally northwards, pulling myself off balance. I nearly skid on the snow and fall, but my legs steady myself and suddenly I'm back on my feet and sliding forward.

Shit! Shit! I don't want to go forwards. We're not moving yet. I will my legs to stop their movements, and it's only after a few long strides than I'm able to come to a halt.

"Not yet!" I say to my armor. "Not yet!"

With great effort I manage to turn myself around and walk back to the grave I'm meant to be digging.

A few dwarves are looking at me curiously. I glare and they turn away.

Body, ground. I'm meant to be digging.

“Let me let go!” I hiss to Gutspiercer.

My fingers still won't unwrap themselves.

“Please!”

No response.

“The faster I can dig this grave, the sooner we'll be on our way.”

My fingers still won't move.

"Please!"

Again, nothing. Begging and reasoning aren't working. I bite my lip. Maybe my only option is to threaten.

“I'll be forced to use you to dig, you know.”

Suddenly my fingers tighten. I cry out in pain—I've never gripped anything so tight before. My knuckles feel as if they're going to burst from my skin.

“I'm sorry!” I yelp.

My hands relaxe. I attempt to let go again, to go with the momentum and make my fingers continue to relax. This idea fails as well. My grip remains firm.

“Look, how am I going to eat?”

Am I expecting it to answer? Even if there's life in runes, they have no mouth with which to talk.

“Look, please. I need to dig this grave. Then we can get going. You can kill again. Please! Give me one hand, at least.”

I attempt to let go with just my right hand, and to my shock, my fingers come away. I breath a sigh of relief. At least I'll be able to eat.

With my free hand I'm able to grip the broken length of pole I was using to dig out the grave and complete it. Then I start on the next, and then I do another one too.

It's late in the afternoon by the time all the graves are ready, then it's time to lay the bodies inside them. All the while I move awkwardly, forced to do every action with only one hand. No one comments—no one dares to.

Once the burials are complete, the dead hidden from the harsh sun, Xomhyrk gathers us. We line up in ranks.

“They will not be forgotten,” he says. “Unlike those who ran. Those who did, and any foolish enough to do so in future, will have no grave. They will lie under the sun to rot and be torn apart by beasts. My anger from earlier has not softened—do not disobey me.”

Everyone nods in understanding.

“Let us move out.”

We do so, slowly, the wounded limping or being carried in makeshift stretchers. My right hand remains clutched hard around Gutspiercer. My boots are pulling me forward too fast. My ruby is warm.

"Braztak," I say. "I... Have you ever felt that you're not the one making your decisions?"

"What?" He gives me a bitter smile. "Don't lose your nerve now, Zathar."

"That's not what I mean. Braztak, can a craft control a dwarf?"

"Of course not. Our crafts are what we will them to be. If you feel like your craft controls you, it's really the you back in the forge urging you forward."

His bitter smile widens to a joyous one. His eyes brighten. He taps his green and purple breastplate. The ringing sound it makes is discordant.

"At least, that's how I feel about my craft."