The initiates wait nervously as the red-cloaked examiners walk down the rows of desks handing out thick, securely bound scrolls. In each is the phonetics for the runes they're to write, and what script they're to write them in.

Unlike how the runic tests were carried out in Thanerzak's realm, here in Allabrast the runes are checked automatically. The slates the initiates are to write on are treated with some kind of alchemic trickery. If a mistake is made, a red splotch will appear, like spilled blood.

The bell rings. Anguished faces appear in the sand, fade away. The initiates begin to write—the scratching sound of their styluses fills the arena.

I focus on Guthah's slate. He finishes the first row of runes without issue, then on the first rune of the second, red flows out.

“Moron!” I spit.

“They're allowed to make a few mistakes,” Jerat says. “One wrong is no problem.”

“How many mistakes?”

“Three, I think. Or maybe five. Can't remember.”

They're to write ten rows of twenty runes each. I squint at the initiates' scrolls; none of the runes they're to write have more than ten strokes, and the angles and curves are all very regular. I move my gaze around the desks. Apart from Guthah, none of our initiates have made any mistakes yet.

The slate of another guild's initiate shatters into crimson fragments. He stands up, shouting and ranting—his curses echo around the stands—kicks his desk over. Two of the runeknight examiners drag him away.

I go back to Guthah, hoping he hasn't made any more mistakes. He has, one more. On a slightly more complex rune, true, but I can't help but feel disappointed.

“Come on,” I mutter as he scratches with his steel stylus. “Don't fuck up here!”

Another red blot forms.

“Shit!”

“Must be five to fail then,” Jerat says. “At least he's up to the last row.”

“The most difficult row!” Guildmaster Wharoth snaps from behind. “What in hell have you been teaching them, Jerat? Two more are nearly out too!”

Jerat shrinks into his seat. “They'll be fine, guildmaster. Just you watch!”

I do watch, closely, as Guthah makes his fourth mistake. The red blotch is large this time, a great splash of blood that flows over a good fifth of the slate. Quite a few initiates have dropped out by now.

“Last rune now,” mutters Jerat. “Don't fuck up, don't fuck up...”

I bit my lip—I know this rune, there's two curves at awkward angles—Guthah's pen is scratching the wrong way—he stops himself, reverses—finishes the rune correctly. I sigh in relief; Guthah does too.

One by one, over the next few minutes, the rest of the initiates put down their pens. Again, all of ours remain. Pellas even managed to complete every rune flawlessly.

“Told you!” cheers Jerat. “Told you all they'd manage it!”

But now come the real challenges.

The remaining initiates—only half of the original one thousand eight hundred—are led to the section of arena set with ropes, heavy-set armor stands, and other targets. It's time to test their weapons.

The red-cloaked examiners divide them by weapon type. Those with cutting weapons move to the area strung with thick ropes, those with crushing weapons to where the heavy-set armor stands are, and those with piercing weapons, like Guthah with his spear, head to where some large, lumpy looking things have been set up.

“What are those?” I ask Braztak.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“The heads of slazak mushrooms, wrapped in tanned blindboar hide.”

“They look fairly tough.”

“Our weapons would go through like butter. The initiates' weapons... Well, we'll see.”

I watch as the initiates form lines behind their targets. They've got only five hits to cut, smash, or pierce through. I flick my eyes from section to section, trying to catch our initiates' blows.

The bell sounds, and this time instead of faces, the forms of broken weapons appear in the sand. The patterns fade out; cheers sound from the stands as the initiates begin. I smile as the first of our initiates cleaves his rope in half on the second try. Another walks forward with his hammer, swings at a heavy-armor stand. It topples onto the black sands.

Everyone in the Association of Steel is standing now. We're all pumping our fists, or brandishing empty mugs, and yelling. Even Guildmaster Wharoth is getting into it.

Guthah approaches his target. His angle is perfect, and his runes mustn't be too shabby either, for his spear goes right through in one strike, so deep he has some trouble pulling it out. A few minutes later, it's Pellas' turn. She's been sent to the cutting section, which worries me, because her short sword is clearly designed for stabbing, but it slices right through the rope as if it were nothing but a string of pork sausages.

We all cheer louder—she was the last of ours. We sit down and swig some more beer—though I hold off on having too much.

The remaining initiates continue to hack away at their targets. Many are led away in shame after failing, heads bowed, unable to face their guildmates up in the stands. Once all is finished, and the initiates back in formation in the center of the arena where they started, I see that their number has been halved once more.

“A high failure rate,” I remark.

“It gets tougher every year,” says Braztak. “In the interests of safety. It wouldn't be moral to send the weaker ones to their deaths.”

“No.”

I begin to grow nervous again. There's commotion behind the side-gates in the arena. Shadows are moving. I glimpse chained beasts and runeknights struggling to hold them, but I can't make out what the beasts are. Salamanders, maybe? There's a few flashes of flame.

There won't be an abyssal one. Surely there won't be an abyssal one.

The examiners begin to divide the initiates into groups, and lead them into the fenced enclosures. Mostly their in groups of five, but there's one group of over twenty as well. Guthah is in it. I frown.

“What's going on with that group?” I ask Braztak. “Why's it so big?”

“Probably more initiates made it through than they expected. So they've made one big group of all the extras. They'll have something special for them to fight, I expect. Something that might have gone to one of the higher examinations.”

“Something big?”

“Yes. A stone troll or something.”

“A troll? I though Jerat was joking about that!”

“Won't be an iron troll,” says Jerat.

“Still!”

“Guthah will be fine,” Braztak reassures me. “Whatever they bring out, I'm sure he'll be the first to stick it. You put your faith in him, remember?”

“I suppose.”

Three of the fenced enclosures are combined, then Guthah's group is shown in to it. The gate shuts behind them. At the opposite end, close to the arena wall, is another gate. It's wide open. I wait, dead still, to see what will be dragged through it.

Too quickly, all the initiates are locked in the various enclosures. Silence falls. All nervous chatter has died. I hear a low scraping sound. The portculli are lifting up. Runeknights wrestle and pull beasts out into the light.

Smallish salamanders, amphidons, troglodytes, wild blindboar. I breath a sigh in relief. Nothing too frightening. Nothing our initiates won't be able to handle.

Then, out of the gate nearest the largest enclosure, the one where Guthah waits with his spear angled low for a first strike, something out of nightmare is pulled: a long, worm-like beast, with a thousand legs sticking from its body at all angles, two pincers on multi-joined arms, and a hole filled with needle teeth for a mouth.

I recognize it. I remember it well. It's a bzathletic, from the deepest caverns above the fort against the darkness, the creature that nearly killed me just before I crashed through into the deep dwarves' forging hall. And if it could nearly kill me, a fifth degree, what is it capable of doing to the initiates?

“What the fuck are they thinking?” I cry out, standing from my seat and pointing violently. “What in hell!”

“You recognize it?” asks Braztak.

“It's from deep below. From near the fort. Called a bzathletic.”

“It's not so big,” scoffs Jerat. “Legs look fragile too.”

“Fragile? Those things are like spears. Those pincers can take off a limb—a limb wrapped in steel.”

“It's really as dangerous as you say?” Braztak asks. Some concern is creeping into his voice.

“Yes. How the hell did they get their hands on it?”

“I've started to hear rumors,” says someone behind us. It's one of the most senior guild members, a cautious type in very thick armor, called Voltost. “About creatures from deep below being put on the market. Both for forging materials and for the arenas.”

I scowl. “Damn that Haltast. Nthazes was right. We should've backed out.”

“The deal wasn't yours to back out on,” Braztak points out. “Though, that does worry me, Voltost. If this beast is relatively new to the arenas, they might not know how dangerous it is.”

“They don't,” I insist.

“Or maybe there's been a miscommunication somewhere, and they brought out the wrong one.”

“They'll send it back then, won't they?”

“Maybe. But the orders might take a while to come down.”

“Shit!”

“You managed to beat it though,” says Jerat. “And your armor was mostly rust by that point, wasn't it?”

“Yes, but even so!”

“Let's just calm down,” says Braztak. “All we can do from up here is have faith.”