Wharoth yells at someone to shut the door behind us, then storms to his desk. He sits down heavily. He doesn't offer me a seat. I grit my teeth. This is the angriest I've seen him in a long while.
“I've just been told you've ordered the initiates to discard their shields.”
“That's not entirely—”
“Silence!” he barks. Spittle flies. “You have told them to forgo their most vital defenses in the first real combat they'll face.”
“Only Guthah will—”
“Not only this, but you've encouraged them to forgo axes as well. The most reliable of weapons.”
I decide not to interrupt him further.
“What the hell are you thinking, Zathar? What the hell am I paying you for? What the hell have I put my trust in your for? To get our initiates killed?”
“They weren't progressing as fast as I'd hoped, guildmaster. So I decided to take a gamble. I thought maybe they'd do better with weapons of their own choosing.”
Technically that was Braztak's suggestion, but to deflect the blame onto him would be cowardly. And of course, the final responsibility for the initiates is mine, no matter who gave me the idea.
“So you've given them leave to start on new weapons, with only a few long-hours to go before the examination?”
“Yes.”
“And did you think that decision through?”
“I did.”
“For anything more than a minute? A second?”
“I thought long and hard about it,” I say, and then I can't keep my mouth from curling into a scowl. “Who am I to tell them what to craft?”
“You're their instructor!”
“They're still runeknights. It's their decision.”
“They're initiates.”
“They're dwarves nonetheless! We've the freedom to choose our own path, if we wish to put in the effort.”
Guildmaster Wharoth throws his hands up. “You're giving them the freedom to throw their lives away!”
“But they have improved!” I cry. “My gamble paid off. They move faster, more accurately. Even those who've kept with axes are doing better than before.”
“That doesn't change the fact they've a very limited time to forge.”
“My first spear wasn't exactly a masterpiece either.”
“Yes, and look what happened at your examination!”
“Vanerak isn't going to be in charge of this one. And everyone tells me they're safer affairs than the kind of thing Runethane Thanerzak insisted on.”
“Dwarves still perish every time.”
“So the faster and more accurate the initiates are, the better. I made the right decision, guildmaster. I know I did.”
“They don't have enough time to forge properly!”
“The axes they were crafting had too many mistakes anyway. In my opinion, it's because their hearts weren't in it. And now they've started anew, they're doing much better. Go down to the forges yourself and compare if you don't believe me.”
Guildmaster Wharoth clenches and unclenches his fists, shifts in his seat, opens and shuts his mouth, then finally sits back, a look of deep consternation on his face. He's got no argument to beat me with. I'm right and he knows it.
“We haven't touched on the question of shields yet,” he eventually says.
“Nearly all of them are still going to use shields, guildmaster.”
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“Nearly all.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why I insisted they all make shields, Zathar?”
“Yes. So they could protect themselves.”
“A good shield is simpler to craft than a good set of armor. Much easier. And it provides just as much protection.”
“Not quite as much.”
“Just as much,” he emphasizes. “You've never used one. You don't know.”
“I've fought against dwarves using them.”
“But never used one yourself. Just so long as you manipulate it well, it's just as good as your plates.”
“Be that as it may, plenty of dwarves use two-handed weapons.”
“Yes, once they have the skill to craft good plate!”
“I didn't just tell them to toss them away, guildmaster. I tested each in combat. Thoroughly.”
“Did you now?”
“I don't know who told you about what I've been doing with the initiates, but they clearly didn't tell you everything. I sparred with each of them, hard. And rejected each and every one, apart from Guthah.”
“Guthah, Guthah... The jeweler's son, right?”
“That's right.”
“You judge he's that good, do you?”
“I do. He moves the spear like he came from the womb clutching it in his hands.”
Wharoth snorts. “How poetic. Does he really now?”
“Yes.”
“And his forging?”
“Not the best, but far from the worst.”
“So you're confident his armor will hold up in the examination, I take it?”
“Yes,” I say. “It'll turn the blows from a tenth degree weapon. Probably a ninth or eighth too.”
“They won't be fighting dwarves, Zathar. Beasts, just as you did.”
“But the examiners won't throw anything a tenth degree couldn't handle at them, no?”
“You never know. Sometimes they like to twist their strikes.”
“I'm confident he'll pass, guildmaster. I'd put gold on it.”
His eyes flash. “We're not risking gold. We're risking lives!”
I bow my head. “I apologize. Of course. But all the same, he'll pass.” I raise my head to meet Wharoth's gaze again. “I'm certain of it.”
“Very well.” He nods curtly. “If any harm comes to him though—or to any of the other initiates—I hold you responsible.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
I remember his promise to execute me should I lose the trial, and the conviction in his voice when he made it. That same conviction is in his voice now also.
“I do,” I say. “Completely.”
“Good.” He sits back, then sighs. “Oh, I don't know, Zathar. Maybe you're right.”
“About what?” I say, taken aback.
“Not telling them what to forge.”
“Braztak thinks so.”
“Yes. He would.”
“He's been here since the start of the guild, nearly, hasn't he?”
“Yes. He joined just a few years after I started.”
"Really?"
"Yes. But anyway, you know why I care so much for the initiates, don't you, Zathar?”
He looks pained. I nod grimly. “I know.”
“Good, good.” He sighs again. He seems exhausted. “Dismissed, Zathar. Good luck for your examination. I might watch, I might be in the forge.”
“I'd be happier if you watched, guildmaster.”
“Maybe. Maybe.”
I leave and shut the door behind me. It clicks. I wonder what craft he's working on that's so important. Or maybe it's not that important—he's just spending time down there to take his mind off worrying about us getting killed.
----------------------------------------
Train, polish, train. This is my life for the final long-hours before the examination. I take Braztak's advice and focus on perfecting my direct strikes. Without having to worry about hooking and grappling my opponents' weapons away, sparring gets easier.
My armor gleams brighter and brighter each time I polish it. The function of the runes feels much improved—my boots grip better, my gauntlets grasp more strongly. The runes of abyssal salamander skin across my breastplate become like faintly glowing coals.
I polish my war-pick as well. I still haven't decided what to call it. It deserves a fitting name, so I'm not going to rush the decision.
The sand in the timers flows down. The long-hour is nearly here. First the initiates will have their examination, then the tenth degrees, and so on until finally it is time for mine. I wonder how many will be taking it with me, and if any of them still hold my crimes against me. Will they seek to hinder me? I bet some will.
I make my final trip to the forge. I lay out my panoply, my armor and weapon. Time to equip myself. First I strap my feet into my boots, then on go the leg plates, then I fix the slats around my waist, then I close my backplate and breastplate around myself like a shell. I clasp more plates around my arms, then put my hands into my gauntlets, tighten them. Finally, I place my helmet over my head. No runic ears—the examination will be a public spectacle, just as my trial was. The noise of the crowd could deafen me. And everything will be brightly lit so the examiners can see us clearly.
Finally, I lift up my war-pick. My posture changes naturally into a fighting-stance, the head of the pick up high and ready to pierce down. I grin behind my visor.
Victory shall be mine. I don't care what the examiners send against me. Whatever foe comes, be it troll, salamander, dwarf or something worse, I will destroy it!
I'm ready to go.
I find myself on my knees with the ruby of unaging held in my palms—my ungauntleted palms, the drop of solid crimson sits on my bare skin. I shiver. I don't remember taking my gauntlets off. I don't remember opening the safe.
Should I risk it, though?
It would be the work of less than an hour to prize the sapphire from its setting and replace it. The housing would not be a perfect fit for the ruby, but it would be good enough.
Should I do it? I grimace, squeeze the ruby in my fist. My heart begins to beat more strongly, more evenly, like a war-drum.
I need all the advantages I can get to pass. And if I'm going to, one day, maybe soon, make good on my promise to slay the black dragon, I'll need some truly terrible strength.
Can I really reject what this craft can give me?
Yes, I can. I put it back into the safe. I let out my held breath. To put it on would feel... It would feel like a loss of control. I can't equip it. My sapphire is good enough.
I put my gauntlets back on, pick up my war-pick and, with it rested over one shoulder, make my way out of the forge and back to the guildhall, outside of which the carriages are waiting.