I shut my eyes to block out the brightness, and immediately sense that my runic ears are too bashed for them to be any use, so I'm forced open my eyelids to a slit. Fjalar has stopped still, mace still poised to crush.
“You all right?” Hirthik asks him.
Fjalar replies instantly, “Fine. Was aiming one last blow when it vanished.”
“Liar!” I shout. “Liar! Liar! He was aiming at me.”
“Zathar—” Hirthik begins.
“Look at my damn helmet! He tried to smash my head!”
A strong hand wraps around my upper arm and Nthazes pulls me to my feet. He positions himself beside me, mace at the ready.
“He was trying to fucking kill me!” I yell.
“Calm down,” Hirthik cries. “Let’s just calm down. The darkness might return.”
“No,” says Nthazes. “Whenever we beat off an incursion, it rushes down like that. The darkness is damaged. We’ve beaten it and it won’t be back for a while.”
“We can’t know that.”
“I agree with Nthazes,” says Melkor, and the other remaining fourth degree nods too.
“Show us your amulet,” I spit at Fjalar. “This ends now. Show it and prove your innocence, or refuse and we’ll kill you ourselves.”
“The agreement was to show it at the top of the Shaft,” Fjalar replies calmly.
“I’m not giving you any more chances. You tried to kill me! You forced Nthazes from the controls, then when—”
“I was trying to get us away from the darkness!” He gestures to the two dead dwarves lying cold and still. “Maybe if he hadn’t tried to stop me, these two would be alive.”
“You’re trying to blame me for killing? You fucking bastard! I know where your weapon is. It’s in your wrist—you have some mechanism in your gauntlet that pushes it out.”
“Hidden inside my wrist, is it? Why doesn’t it pull out my own blood then?”
“You’re clever. I’m sure you figured something out.”
“Your idea is ridiculous.”
“Show us the damn amulet!”
“I will do so—at the top.”
“You will not. You’re going to try and kill us before then, because that’s your only hope.”
“Damn up-abover!” he snaps. “I said I’ll show it at the top and I will!”
“Calm down, Zathar,” Hirthik repeats. “He’ll show us at the top. He promises.”
“If the darkness is gone then he can show it now!” I shout.
“Yes,” says Nthazes. “Show it, Fjalar. Like I said before, there was no reason to start the lift before Zathar got on. His craft was powerful and he would have been an asset against the darkness with it.”
“Leaving fast was more important!”
“No,” says Melkor. “The darkness is faster than the lift is. That’s obvious.”
“Fine, I’m sorry. I panicked. We were all terrified!”
“You tried to kill me,” I repeat.
“I’ll show my amulet once we reach the top.”
“Enough of this,” I declare, and I raise the mace I picked up. “Show it now or I’ll make you.”
“And now you defile another’s craft to threaten me!”
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“Shut up! Revealing your crimes is more important.”
The damage to my runic ears is making everything shiver and twist alarmingly in time with everyone’s voices. I undo the mechanism fixing them to my helmet, lay them down, then I also push up my visor half-up so all can see my face.
This is so that if he succeeds in draining me of blood, his crime will be clear for everyone to know.
Nthazes pushes his visor up also.
“Amulet, Fjalar,” he warns. “Show it now!”
“I will show it at the top,” Fjalar repeats stubbornly, but there’s a trace of panic in his tone now. He sees the odds turning against him.
“I think you ought to show it now,” says Melkor. “It would put us all at ease, and then we can put this conflict behind us.”
“At the top,” Fjalar repeats. He raises his mace. “I’ll show it at the top, damn you all!”
“Enough of this!” I yell, and I charge him.
He raises his mace to block my sideways swing. For an instant I consider turning it to a feint, but I’m not familiar with this weapon’s balance, and my footwork is shaky, so instead I put all the power I can muster behind the blow.
It hurts both me and him—my broken rib pierces something inside me and makes me scream, while the head of my mace smashes into his left hand. His mace falls from his grasp.
I turn to give another blow, and Nthazes is already here and striking down. He’s no duelist either though, and misjudges the timing of the swing, allowing Fjalar to jump out of the way.
Our foe holds his fists up as if to box. They aren’t his weapons though. Through the gap between his right gauntlet and under wrist-guard, there's a tiny glinting point.
“See!” I shout. “Can you not all see!”
They can’t—the needle is only visible from the reflected light, and is likely too small to make out through hearing, especially since everyone’s runic ears have taken damage from the blast in the labyrinth. No one shows any sign of stepping in to help us—they still aren’t sure.
Fjalar lunges for me with hand outstretched. I sidestep and push his arm out of the way, stick my foot out to trip him but his leg hits mine with such force I end up falling. I groan and try to stand—my legs won’t let me, and my rib erupts in pain. Fjalar sees his opportunity.
He thrusts down, needle point extended all to see—I hear gasps of shock—I’m about to die—Nthazes throws himself between us.
He falls on top of me, and Fjalar lands on top of him. Their weight crushes me, putting more pressure on my broken rib under my dented armor. Nthazes is not moving and immediately I fear the worst.
Then, with mighty effort he shifts and rolls, wrestling Fjalar down. I pull myself to my feet, and glimpse a point stuck through the back of Nthazes’ hand. The needles has gone right through.
I raise my mace above Fjalar’s face. He screams in panic and I pay no heed, bring it down with all the force I can bear, my full weight behind the blow. He shifts his head and I smash the platform instead, tearing a hole in the metal. He knees Nthazes in the side with incredible strength, sending my friend rolling away yelling in agony. He thrusts at him with his needle once more.
I sweep up and catch his upper arm with my mace just in time. The force of my blow turns him half around, and he uses the momentum to stand up. The light of my mace blinds me, forcing me to shut my eyes entirely, yet I need neither sight nor hearing to know that he’s rushing for me. I sidestep and sweep at his legs.
He runs right into the blow and falls. I blink my eyes open to confirm his position and swing at his back, but he’s already leaping forward and rolling to his feet. He isn’t tired at all. I try to remain in fighting stance as best I can, yet my legs are wrecked. I sag down, am forced to use my mace like a crutch to keep upright.
He charges. I throw myself face down out the way. With desperate effort I turn my body and swing at his already damaged elbow-plate as he thrusts yet again. The blow connects—not strongly, but the pain is enough to stop his attack.
Even so, his arm is working too well for the state the armor looks to be in. His blood-filled amulet must still be siphoning life into him, repairing his wounds.
“Can’t you all see?” I cry, desperately. “He’s the killer! Do you not see his weapon?”
“I saw it,” says Melkor.
He steps around, trying to flank Fjalar. Nthazes, stumbling and breathing hard—the needle did not take all of his blood but it must have taken some, for his face is haggard—steps around to the other side.
Fjalar backs away to the low guardrail. More dwarves come forward to stand beside me facing him.
“One last chance,” Nthazes says. Each word comes slow, seems a terrible effort. “We’ll give you one last chance, Fjalar. Throw your weapon down, then your amulet. You will be given a fair trial.”
“I refuse,” Fjalar spits. “How dare you dullards, you third-rate smiths, you insults to the craft—how dare you give me ultimatums! I am better than you. A dwarf’s value is in what he makes, and my crafts are better than yours!”
“Throw down your weapon,” Melkor says. “Surrender to us.”
“If you all oppose me, then all I have to do is kill you all!”
I charge, swinging down with all my might. He leaps to get within my range and quickly stab me, he nearly does, then half a dozen mace-heads impact him simultaneously. His strength and desperation is such that even this cannot bring him down, but it slows him enough that my blow lands square on the top of his head.
His helmet caves in with a metallic screech and a crunch. Blood runs out. He falls to his knees then backwards. Blows from the other dwarves rain down, their light blinding me. The sounds of tearing metal and crunching bone fill the air. They continue for some time.
I collapse to my knees. Slowly the sounds of violence diminish, then die away. In their place is heavy breathing, then I hear the dwarves slumping down, exhausted.
I open my eyes. Torn metal leaking blood is illuminated by the blinding glare. No dwarf can look like that and still be alive—yet his amulet must still be around his neck.
“The amulet,” I say, in as loud a voice as I can muster. “Pull off his amulet!”