A circle is drawn in the gravel around me. The staff member hurries off as the Troglodyte Slayer approaches. The visor in his bronze helm is just wide enough that I can see his eyes. They aren’t Kazhek’s eyes, but they’re nearly as angry looking.
“Kazhek send you?” I ask.
“We had some words before this.”
“If you try to kill me, I’ll put my spear through your visor.”
“Vicious little one, aren’t you? Just like he said.”
“I never started anything.”
He shrugs. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the execution. Now, down on your hands and feet. Hurry up! Good. Pushups, until I say stop. Start. Too shallow! Your breastplate should touch the ground. Elbows straight!”
Doing pushups in full armor is not an easy task. It is a very hard one. After only twenty, my arms are burning, and my abdominals are beginning to strain too. Then the beating begins.
I feel the impact of the flail full on my back. The barbed hooks on it dig into the edges, so when he rips it back up, they catch and tear at the iron. The next impact comes a second later and knocks the breath out of me. I collapse down.
“Up! Did I say stop?”
I groan and force my arms to push me up. The next impact comes immediately and knocks me back down.
“I said up!”
I manage another ten, and then one of the flail’s hooks catches in the chainmail at my waist and tears it open. The examiner laughs, and the next impact is three times as hard as the earlier ones. When he drags his weapon back up, I feel the back plate of my armor lift slightly.
“Shoddy. Too poor to buy what you needed to make a new set, miner?”
I never told any of them I was a miner, come to think of it. Not Kazhek, not Polt, not Hathat or Whelt, Hayhek or Yezakh or Guildmaster Wharoth. They can just tell from my look—there just must be something about my expression or bearing that makes them want to either pity me or bully me. He hits again, and my back plate comes off some more. Ten more pushups, and ten more strikes, and I’m finished. My arms can take no more.
“I never said stop.”
I attempt to struggle up again, but my arms won’t let me.
“You know, most examiners would fail you here. But Kazhek told me not to fail you under any circumstances. Nice of him, wasn’t it?”
The examiner isn’t making any sense, at least to my exhausted mind.
“I’ll be kind too: give you some rest.”
And how did Kazhek know I was going to be here? I wore my cloak and hood, didn't I? The Troglodyte Slayers must have connections with the exam board.
“If he’s asked you to kill me, just get it over with,” I hiss. “Bash my head in. Or are you afraid of getting in trouble?”
“Don’t worry. I won’t be the one to kill you. Anyway, rest’s over. Stand up.”
Another groan escapes my lips as I struggle to my feet. I can feel my back plate half hanging away, loose. Up in the stands, a group of runeknights in bronze are laughing at me. Or rather, most are. The face of the one in the center is blank, his eyes unblinking. Kazhek.
“Stop standing around. Now’s the run, go!”
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All the other initiates have already lined back up next to the fence, facing left, examiners standing next to them. My examiner slaps me on the back of the head and hurries me across the gravel toward them. It is midday now and the sunlight from mirrors is harsh in my eyes.
I think I hear someone say go, and then I’m jogging around the semi-circle arena. My examiner jogs at my side, and whenever I falter slightly his flail swings out at me.
One by one, my iron plates are peeled away. First to go is my left boot. The flail catches on the toe-cap and I’m sent tumbling down face first. My examiner strikes again, on the sole, tears it right off, and a piece of my skin with it.
“Up!” he screams, and I scramble up.
The cut makes me limp of course, and this, of course, gives him more excuses to bash me. My right boot is the next to go, followed by my backplate, and then he damages the runes on my breastplate. Now it’s twice as heavy as it was, and quickly comes away.
Then the plates around my waist, then those around my ankles. Next my chainmail undershirt. The flail’s barbs puncture my skin and blood trails down my chest and stomach. The examiner leaves my gauntlets and helmet, though, so my arms remain tired and my visibility stays reduced.
Whoever duels me is going to have a very easy time of it. I look up at Kazhek, and he looks back. He has started to smile a little now, a triumphant smile.
With final a brutal blow to my ankles, my examiner knocks me down one last time just before the bell to end the run rings. I lie there in the gravel, too exhausted to twitch a single muscle. I can feel each puncture in my skin distinctly: they’re little spikes of pain like nails through my flesh.
“Stand up, you!” shouts one of the staff. “Stand up!”
I drag myself up from the gravel. I half expect to see Kazhek standing before me, holding up his warhammer, or perhaps Polt’s weapon for a more poetic justice, but there is no one left in the arena but us candidates. The crimson cloaked staff are rushing out; our examiners are already gone.
A rattling sound from behind startles me. I turn my head back to look. The fence separating arena from abyss is retracting into the gravel. With a final click, it is gone. The candidates not exhausted to breaking point begin to mutter to each other in fearful tones.
“Attention, all of you.” The head examiner has returned to his platform. We turn to face him. He shakes his head. “Turning your back from the task you have set yourself is always a bad idea. Remember that—though I doubt many of you will be remembering much after today. It would honestly be a mercy if we were to end it all for you here, and throw you off the drop. Many of you are probably considering taking a few steps backward to do it yourselves—not a bad idea. I wish we could change the rules, and have you slaughtered a few hours ago, after we got to see how shoddy your forging skills are. If any of you pass today—which I doubt you will—the first time you emerge onto the battlefield you will be killed immediately.”
“Bullshit!” someone shouts angrily. He shakes his axe toward the stands. “My father is a runeknight, my grandfather too.”
“Yes, yes. You clearly haven’t inherited any of their talents.”
“It’s all psychological,” someone else hisses loudly. “Don’t take the bait. The pass rate is about a third every month, always is.”
“Now,” continues the head examiner from behind his tungsten mask. “Usually at this point we would bring you up one at a time and have you duel the examiners. The best third of you we would go easy on, and let you pass. Half of you we would fail, but make sure not to injure you too badly. The remaining one sixth, the disgraces to dwarfkind whose armor is falling off of them in pieces, we would kill or permanently maim.”
I grip my spear tightly. I have enough strength for one good stab. Let Kazhek come—I’ll take an eye at least!
“However, the Runethane is most troubled by the recent sighting of a dragon. He wishes you to be prepared not for dwarf-on-dwarf combat, but dwarf-on-dragon. He wishes that the only ascendants to runeknight from now on be those who can look a terrible fire-breathing beast in the eyes and refuse to flee.”
Fire flashes in the gap between main arena door and ground. The head examiner’s platform shivers slightly.
“Some of his runeknights cautioned against this decision, warning it was short-sighted, and would lead to a significant drop in the numbers of runeknights. He told them quality is more important than quantity.”
The main arena door, which is solid steel, and runed heavily, trembles violently. More fire flashes. Several candidates shuffle back a step.
“I agreed with his assessment, and took it upon myself to personally redesign the final stage of the examination.”
A massive impact shudders the gates, opening them slightly. I glimpse red scales and a solid black, bestial eye.
“Slay the beast, and you are runeknights. Perish, and you are not.”
The solid steel gates crash open and fall to the gravel. An abyssal giant salamander charges out.
Each of its six limbs is as big as two dwarves. Its four eyes are pitiless. Its red scales glow like hot coals. Its claws score the fallen steel gates deeply.
Blue flames jet from its mouth as it roars in rage.