It is in the Runethane’s hall that we present our weapons. We stand in ranks in the main body of the hall, waiting to be called up to the front by degree, where Runethane Yurok, Commander Hraroth, and the chamberlain wait to pass judgment. Usually just one would be sufficient to decide the worth of a craft, but the Runethane has decided that this occasion is important enough for three.
The artificial darkness swirls around me as I wait, still like a statue. Like always, it’s cold in here, making me shiver even inside my armor. Probably this phenomenon is caused by the artificial darkness—the coals producing it making a kind of anti-heat.
Or maybe it’s not actually that cold, and I’m shivering out of nerves instead. My mace’s head is wrapped in thick cloth, concealing its pulsing glow and strange runes. I’m fearful of what Runethane Yurok’s reaction to them might be.
“We will go from junior to senior,” announces Hraroth. “Tenth degrees, line up in single file at the front.”
The three dozen or so tenth degrees lucky enough to have survived the forging unburned and unblinded shuffle forward and around the formation, heads bowed in worry and shame. Not one of their crafts is anywhere close to decent. The metalwork is wonky, the runes misshapen, the poems crude in every aspect. They shine barely half as bright as the weapons of the senior runeknights do.
Commander Hraroth is similarly unimpressed. He gives the first in line an unhappy glare.
“What kind of a construction is this?”
“I... I don’t understand.”
“How did you construct your mace, tenth degree?”
“The usual way, commander.” His voice has a tremor to it.
“There are many ways to construct maces: how did you construct this one?”
“I made the head first, out of one piece of steel, folding it into shape. Then I put the haft through it and welded them together.”
“That explains the uneven shape and the gaps then.”
“I... Maybe.”
“Runes of light you are inexperienced with, but this kind of metalwork is a disgrace! Even for a tenth degree.”
“The runes are more important,” says Runethane Yurok. “And these ones are very disappointing.”
“Right you are,” says Hraroth. “But bad runes are to be expected from a tenth degree. It can’t be helped.”
“Maybe a second attempt could improve them.”
The tenth degree flinches back. “A second attempt?”
“I don’t think it would be worth it,” says Hraroth. “This is about the standard we can expect from them.”
“No. I think I can expect more from my dwarves,” says the Runethane. “Even tenth degrees. The average quality must be brought up.”
“I am not sure it can be brought up by very much.”
“Maybe not by much, but these are my runeknights in my fort, and I say it should be brought up some.” He focuses his gaze onto the line. “Tenth degrees, if your craft proves to be one of the worse ones, it will have to be reforged. There are thirty two of you here, so I decree that the worst eight must be reforged. A round quarter. Understood?”
The tenth degrees flinch back.
“Answer your Runethane!” Hraroth commands.
They mumble the affirmative.
“Good,” says Runethane Yurok. “Even if you are a lower degree, you should still strive for perfection. Those of you with the worst weapons should welcome the chance to improve.”
The rest of the tenth degrees’ presentations go about as well. Neither Hraroth nor the Runethane hold back on their criticisms. If anything, the Runethane becomes harsher with each weapon presented.
“Why would you put this uki-stuy rune here? It is obvious that the harmonics would be much improved if it was swapped with this one! Can you not read the runic flow?”
“All in First Script! How do you expect to compose something decent out of only fifty-eight runes at your level?”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“How could you make your runes so overly large and yet so mangled? You did not need to wear a blindfold for this part of the process!”
By the end of the judgments, instead of only eight having to reforge their weapons, the Runethane decides that only twelve of the crafts are worthy to be wielded, and so twenty will have to be reforged. The chamberlain whispers something, but the Runethane brushes him off:
“No. You know as well as I do, Helthok, that inferior weapons aren’t just a danger to oneself but to the dwarves around you also. It would be irresponsible of me to let these disgraces to forging be used in battle.”
My jaw clenches in anger. Irresponsible? What about the irresponsibility of forcing the tenth degrees to craft them in the first place? And how many more burnings and blindings does he want?
Surely I’m not the only one with these thoughts going through my head right about now, but it’s not as if anyone can act on them. He is the Runethane; we have no choice but to obey.
The ninth degrees are next; they fare little better than the tenth degrees. Fifteen of them are ordered to reforge their weapons. Then it’s the eighth degrees’ turn. Hraroth becomes slightly less harsh, perhaps realizing that making so many reforge will end up being a detriment to the fort. The Runethane shows no such mercy.
“You are eighth degrees!” he booms once the last of their weapons is checked. “You should be able to write runes better than this! Why did more of you not use the Third Script? It’s not so complicated!”
They are dismissed; half of them must reforge. Now the seventh degrees are called up. Galar and Fjalar end up last in line—on purpose, no doubt, though I cannot figure exactly why.
The Runethane’s mood improves somewhat looking at the seventh degrees’ crafts. They’ve done well—unlike on the previous weapons, I can see no obvious mistakes. Hraroth manages to find a few, naturally, and the runes are not perfect, but on the whole the crafts are praised. Each weapon glows brightly and steadily.
“Not a bad effort,” says Runethane Yurok to the third-to-last runeknight. “Though personally I wouldn’t have chosen such a theme. Still, it’s a decent weapon. Next!”
Fjalar comes forward. He takes off the covering of his mace—which was glowing brightly enough before that I didn't realize it was covered—and the light increases three-fold. I blink tears from my eyes: the head of his mace is like a globe of white fire. After about a second it becomes painful to look at and I’m forced to close my eyes.
“Ah hah!” says Runethane Yurok with glee. He rubs his hands together—I hear the shape of the movement. “Now this is the sort of craft I’ve been hoping for!”
“Thank you,” says Fjalar.
“The metalwork seems solid. Wouldn’t you agree, Commander Hraroth?”
“Yes. Cast, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s right,” Fjalar says with relish. “I carved the mold most carefully. It’s a simple shape, for I’m afraid I wasn’t confident pouring metal into anything more complex. Air bubbles are a tricky thing to account for.”
“You’re modest,” says the Runethane. “The shape of your mace is more complex than most of the others’ here. Ten flanges—an auspicious number.”
“Yes. Ten flanges for a ten-stanza poem. Each line has a crux-point in the center where it curves around the edge of the flange, to ensure the highest runic flow there. This was my method of increasing the light output.”
Hraroth nods respectfully. “An advanced technique. Especially for someone of seventh degree.”
“Yes,” says the Runethane. “A more advanced technique than I would have expected from one of the lower degrees for sure. Even the fourth degrees are reluctant to attempt such a difficult composition structure.”
“I think it’s important to challenge oneself,” says Fjalar. “Especially in these dire circumstances.”
“Indeed. Though I must say, Fjalar, this craft is a rather conventional one for you. The last ones you’ve presented have all been rather more unique.”
“They never exactly met with Commander Hraroth and the chamberlain’s favor, however.”
“Indeed. They are rather conventional dwarves, it has to be said. But I’ve always found your originality interesting.”
“I thank you for the praise.”
“Something reliable,” says Hraroth, “is likely more use to us in this situation than something experimental.”
Fjalar nods. “I thought so also.”
“An increase in degree is perhaps warranted,” states the chamberlain.
“No, no,” says Fjalar. “I crafted this for the good of the fort, not for my own advancement.”
“That is irrelevant,” says Hraroth sternly. “All crafts are for the good of the fort. And to keep a dwarf with such skill in the lower degrees would not be proper.”
Fjalar bows. “Of course.”
“You are seventh degree, correct?” asks the Runethane.
“Yes, my Runethane.”
“Sixth is still too low for such an excellent craft. You are hereby promoted to the fifth degree.”
Fjalar bows low. “Thank you, my Runethane. It is an honor.”
“You will be an asset to us in the coming fight. I look forward to hearing of your deeds."
"Just remember that with a higher rank comes higher responsibility," Hraroth says sternly. "I look forward to not hearing of any more foolish arguments with your brother."
"I will try my utmost to restrain myself."
"You will not just try; you will."
Fjalar bows again.
"Dismissed. Next!”
Fjalar turns and walks back to the ranks, covering the head of his mace back up as he does so. I’m still processing what just happened—a jump of two ranks with such little fanfare? I knew there were no examinations down here but, even so, to see such a seemingly easy promotion is surprising.
But why has Fjalar suddenly decided to create something conventional, something sure to raise his rank, when until now both he and Galar have avoided this? Maybe the judgment of Galar’s craft will shed further light on the issue. He walks up to the Runethane’s throne, the head of his trident wrapped so thoroughly that I don’t think anyone who hasn’t seen it before can tell what it is. When he reaches the steps, he tears away the cloth with a flourish.