I sit cross-legged on the floor of the forge, holding the ruby in my palms. I stare into its red facets, reading the runes that speak of an eternity of battle.

Can it be true? Can the black dragon really have been sighted? I'd heard rumors, from the caravaneers I think, that it'd been attacking far-off mountain kingdoms. I didn't put much weight in them—those rumors were very vague.

This rumor is different. It's shot through Allabrast like a wildfire. After the party—after I'd recovered from my hangover—everyone in the guild was talking about it, and outside in the street too. All throughout the city, a nervous kind of excited panic has taken hold.

An entire kingdom and its Runeking—destroyed! What else could do that but the dragon that turned two cities to molten death in an instant? And another question being asked is: will the traitor make good on his oath to slay it, or will some other runeknight, or even Runethane, prove better suited to the task?

I sink deeper into the ruby's facets. I can feel myself leaning closer and closer. My mind becomes clear, my headache starts to dissipate.

I pull back. I can't put this on. I mustn't! My war-pick made me strike someone—nearly made me snap his neck. What kind of madness will putting this thing against my flesh lead to?

I return it to the safe.

Out to the training yard I go. Only three long-hours left now. If I dare not take advantage of the ruby, I must polish my combat skills to perfection. This time I fight in my armor, though my weapon is still one of wood. Special session this hour: it's for me, not the initiates. Out of them only Guthah is here, and then I'll face Faltast, Mulkath, and Braztak.

“Ready?” I ask Guthah.

“Ready,” he says.

He's wearing his own armor today also. It's primitive, of cheap steel and silver runes. The poems are of few lines and not particularly inspired. Nevertheless, his first strike is snake-quick.

I twist to dodge, pivot with the help of my gripping boots, and batter his spear out the way as he goes in for a second strike. I corkscrew the pick while thrusting forward, attempting an advanced hook-technique, and succeed. I pull him close and elbow-strike his head. His helmet clangs; he falls. I bring the pick down.

I taps his helmet gently with it.

“One to me,” I say.

“You're too fast!” he gasps.

“You're still not moving in your armor right.” I resist the urge to make a cutting remark about the metal. “It needs to be like a second skin to you.”

“You say that, but I don't know how.”

I shrug. “It's just practice.”

“Don't look so downcast,” says Braztak from the side. “You're not even a runeknight, yet even so a fifth degree has asked you to spar with him. You're talented.”

Guthah picks himself up and bows to Braztak. “Thank you, honored runeknight. Only with the spear though. At the forge...”

“You're good enough for tenth degree,” Braztak reassures him.

My next opponent is Faltast. His armor is titanium, adorned with poems praising speed and strength, a standard affair. It's well-crafted but, privately, I don't think it's quite as well crafted as my own. He wields a long axe in his right hand and clutches a buckler in his left.

He swings at my neck, a decapitating blow—if his weapon was metal. I duck and bring my pick down at his foot. He steps back deftly and my pick hits the stone. I bounce it back up just in time to guard his next strike.

I curse. If I'd been wielding my real weapon, it'd be stuck into the stone, and I'd be headless, or at the very least have a cloven helmet. He swings again and I try to hook the blade as I step back, but he twists his axe away at the last moment. Frustrated, I barrel forward and shove him over. I bring my pick down in a murderous vertical strike which he blocks with his buckler.

“Would have gone right through,” remarks Braztak.

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“Hah!” spits Faltast. “First, he'd have stuck his pick right into the stone.”

“Yes,” I say glumly. “Your round, Faltast.”

We go through another few. I win half, he wins half. In the past, with a spear in my hands, I never lost to him. I'm starting to think that maybe I ought to bring Heartseeker to the examination instead. Yet what kind of runeknight brings his second best weapon to battle? Though it's certainly strong, I worry that Heartseeker isn't quite sharp enough to get through whatever nasty surprise the examiners are going to send my way.

“My turn,” says Mulkath. “Let's see what you can do.”

I ready the wooden pick. He readies his short sword and square shield. I'm not worried about his weapon choice, for I outrange him, but Mulkath's armor is tricky. Its poems are mercury-etched and speak of slipping and sliding from the enemy's grasp. The metal shimmers and seems to ripple as he strides toward me.

I strike at his shield, hit it nearly square but not quite. Splinters fly, and some force is applied, so he has to step back to steady himself, but if he was using his actual shield, with the same mercury runes that are on his armor, I'd be woefully overbalanced right now.

He stabs at me. I take the glancing blow then quickly get out of his range. Damn! I'm out of range as well—I've automatically stepped the right amount away for a strike with Heartseeker. I step back in but my initiative is lost, and he manages to land some quick blows on me. Wood on titanium echoes dully.

We both know they wouldn't have done much damage to my armor, so after a quick pause, the bout resumes. I strike downwards, trying to hook his shield from the top. I manage, but he keeps hold of it—I missed his wrist—and now he's in a position to stab me.

Which he does, solidly.

“Your victory,” I say. “That would've done some damage.”

“Yes,” he spits back. “It would've.”

I can't quite count Mulkath as a friend. Neither he is an enemy, or else he wouldn't be out here helping me, but he's made it clear to me several times that he hasn't forgiven me for my treason. He's mostly here because he's on good terms with Braztak, who thought I needed a trickier opponent to face. That's what my pick will be weak at, he judges. Dwarves whose armor shifts, from which weapons slide.

He also just wanted a chance to beat me up, I think.

We go a few more bouts. I can't hook him much, he's too savvy. I give up and start trying to close to wrestle him instead, which works, though of course my pick is no help at such close range.

“Try some throws,” suggests Faltast. “If he's on the ground and you're up, you'll be able to land some solid blows.”

What does he bloody think I'm trying to do? But each time I'm positioned to toss Mulkath to the stone, he manages to make sure I go down with him.

Eventually we break, breathing heavily.

“Good match,” I say.

“So-so,” he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. We're both drenched—my beard is like black oil and his a sodden tangle of brown.

“Ready for me?” says Braztak.

“Not even going to give me a rest?” I laugh, a little more harshly than I intend.

“Your foes won't give you a rest,” Braztak says, scowling. “Why should I? If you want this training to be effective.”

“Bring it on then,” I say, and raise my wooden pick.

Braztak's armor, of violet and green gold—alloys very few know how to make—is covered in poems praising the birth of life from death. They are masterful, some of the best in the guild. They tell of fungal growths springing from the graveyard of battle, which then tear each other to pieces, then grow back stronger.

The more strikes the plates take, the tougher they get. There's rumored to be more to the armor as well, but Braztak keeps its other secrets closely guarded.

I strike downward. He parries with his wooden halberd then ripostes expertly. The spike is flying at my visor. I duck, but my eyes also shut out of instinct. I only just sense the angle of his second attack.

I parry, botch the hook, and we reset. We lock eyes. His are cold. The usual kindness is gone from them. He may have deep veins of empathy within his heart, but that doesn't change the fact that he's a warrior. When it's time to fight, he fights to kill.

So do I. I feint to the side, throw a sweeping blow at his ankle. He lets it connect, and I realize my error too late. Because I was aiming to hook, he didn't need to move. And he knew the blow wouldn't shift his stance, even had my weapon been real, because I was aiming for the point to go behind his ankle. And now my weapon is down low, and his is high.

He thumps me over the head. The wooden axe-blade shatters. The force shocks me—the hit is like from a hammer! I grunt and fall to one knee.

“Victory to Braztak,” says Mulkath.

I'm too stunned to respond.

"You alright?" asks Braztak.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I think so."

“You're relying too much on tricks,” he says, helping me to my feet. “Your weapon is designed for piercing, not hooking.”

“I see.”

“You should see—you crafted it.”

“I know. It's just that every manual I've read says I should be using it to hook.”

“And what runes do the figures in the manual have on their picks?”

“They didn't go into detail on how the weapons were crafted. Maybe they thought it too embarrassing.”

“I'll bet they intended weapons that were magnetic, or ones whose handle was imbued with strength for the pull back instead of the strike forward. That's why they included all those fancy moves.”

“Right.”

“If I were you, I'd focus on more simple strikes. Once you've mastered how your weapon moves with those, you can add in more advanced stuff.”

I bow my head. “Thank you for the advice.”

“It's no problem.” He smiles. “Another round? Or are you too tired?”

“No, I can do another.”

This time I take his advice and don't try any hooks, but he still beats me handily. Feeling somewhat dejected, I thank everyone for their time, and head into the guildhall. I've just sat down for a cold beer when I hear an angry shout:

“Zathar! Come here, immediately!”

Guildmaster Wharoth is staring me down from the other end of the hall. He's still in his leather forging overalls. His face is red and shiny with sweat. His arms are folded over his ashen beard, and there's rage in his eyes.