I am now signing the papers of acceptance. They are long and complex, written in several different scripts, stating and restating the legal chains I am to be bound by once I submit them. The gist is this: I will undertake the trial by forging, and by the strength of my crafts will my fate be sealed.
“I'm done,” I say to the special investigator. “I've signed them.”
I hand the sheaf of paper to him. He takes it up carefully in both hands and places it into a steel case. He locks both locks.
“Come with me,” he says. “You must also swear on a hammer of justice of Allabrast before one of the high justices.”
I follow him out. Wharoth is behind me. We pass through twisting carpeted hallways and up tight spiral stairs.
My heart feels heavy, my stomach sick. I came up here to find justice. Absolution for my sins. Yet instead all I've found is another fight against a powerful foe, and there's no justice in sight.
Only this time the challenge will not be decided in the battlecavern, but over the anvil.
The trial by forging, Wharoth has explained to me, is a duel in three parts. I will make three crafts, which will be tried for their strength against my opponent's crafts. All I have to do is win two of these bouts and I'll be free of Vanerak's grasp.
Winning even one will be a challenge. My opponent will be selected by the judges of the trial, and no doubt Vanerak will find some way to influence their decision. Although the selected opponent can only be a maximum of one degree above me, the fourth degree they find, Wharoth has warned, will be one ready to take the examination for third.
I'm going to have to push my skills to their utmost limits if I'm going to have any chance to escape the clutches of Vanerak.
Only after that will I have any chance at true justice.
----------------------------------------
Vanerak is sitting in his private chamber when the news is brought to him.
It's a large, dark room, with a furnace—dark and cold right now—at its center. Vanerak's seat is at the back of the room. It's tall, of stone, and the steps leading up to it are uncomfortably steep. This is by design. Approaching a dwarf of Vanerak's ability and influence should not be an easy thing to do.
The messenger dashes around the cold forge and climbs as fast as he can up the dias, breathing heavily.
“Guildmaster!” he cries. “Guildmaster, we've learned what's to happen!”
“Yes?” Vanerak says. His voice is cool and calm, as it always is.
“The traitor's request for a trial by forging has been granted.”
“I see.”
"Guildmaster, he now has a chance for victory!”
“You think so, do you?”
The messenger is a proud dwarf of third degree. Yet in Vanerak's presence he is reduced to a lackey, a servant. He suddenly doubts his words. Like all who look into that mirror-mask, he feels as if Vanerak's eyes are boring into his soul.
“I thought... I thought you said that a trial by jury was our best chance of bringing him to justice. That this trial by forging was a fool tradition, and that we'd never gain our rightful revenge by it.”
“Yes. I did say that, didn't I?”
Vanerak blinks behind his mask. This is an irritating development, to be sure, yet one he'd been expecting for a while. That Wharoth is far more popular than he ought to be. He might have let a traitor into his ranks, but he still carved up the black dragon near as well as Vanerak himself managed. That won him and his guild a good deal of respect.
He is also the only other dwarf aware of Zathar's true value—though doubtless more will begin to suspect it once they witness his crafting during the trial.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Yet another problem to deal with.
“Yes,” says the messenger. “Unless you have some way of... Some way of making sure the justice given is appropriate.”
“You are not suggesting I manipulate anything, I hope?” Vanerak puts some ice into his tone. He's been very careful since arriving back in Allabrast to keep a clean image. That's why he was pleased to hear that the dwarf captured during the failed kidnapped broke his own neck using the bars of his cell rather than give up any information. Out of fear rather than loyalty, but what does that matter? And the purchase records of the carriage were masterfully obfuscated
“No! Of course not. I just... We all want fairness.”
“Do not worry. You will get it. All us victims of his treachery will get it.”
“Should I tell the others that?”
Vanerak thinks for a few moments, then says: “Tell them that the traitor cannot hope to escape justice, no matter what form his trial may take. The stain of the ashes of our beloved city is on his hands. He cannot hope for mercy.”
The messenger bows low. “Very good, guildmaster.”
He hurries from the chamber, leaving Vanerak alone to ponder his options. A few words in this ear, a donation here, a whispered threat here... Yes, he thinks he can get his way. Why shouldn't he?
Thanic Guardsdwarf Vanerak, Guildmaster of the Reconquerors—one of the greatest guilds in Allabrast, counting nearly every survivor from Thanerzak's realm in its ranks—always gets his way.
In a matter of a mere dozen long-hours, Zathar and his runeforging will be his to control.
----------------------------------------
All of a sudden, the carpeted tunnel widens into a cavern. It's one of the most impressive spaces I have ever entered. On the walls, angular granite reliefs meld, flowingly, into naturally rippled curtains of pale rock. The stalactites that hang from the roof are wrapped in gold chains from which dangle lamps of shining crystal. The floor is mosaics that depict councils of justice: solemn juries and stern judges, the bowed heads of the guilty, the relieved smiles of the innocent. In darker corners loom executioners wielding heavy hammers. Within still clear pools lie crushed skeletons. Whether these latter are real or art I can't quite tell.
Throughout the hall are many desks, each with a clerk behind it writing quickly and precisely. There are shelves heavy with papers. There are even round tables where whom I guess are prosecutors and defense are holding heated discussions. This is not a ceremonial hall. In here turn the wheels of justice of Allabrast.
At the front of the hall is a wide flight of stairs, at its top are heavy curtains. They are white and emblazoned with the same golden hammer that is on the scarf of the special investigator, who leads us toward them.
I feel terribly small. The tall reliefs of judges and executioners cut into the walls glare down—it feels as if the very stone they're carved from presses upon my shoulders.
Whispers spread.
“That's the traitor... Zathar.”
Pens are laid down; clerks and lawyers look up. All eyes are upon me.
We are led up the stairs. A section of the curtains parts and we walk through. Behind a desk wrought of silver stands a dwarf in masterful armor—he has to be first degree. His oiled black beard hangs heavily over his breastplate, which is wrought of a metal I've never seen.
At his belt is a golden hammer, its every surface thick with runes.
“Defendant, kneel before High Justice Ratharun!” orders the special investigator.
I do so. High Justice Ratharun gives a slight nod. The special investigator opens the metal case and holds it down in front of me.
“Present him your papers,” he orders.
I take the sheaves from it, waver, unsure of what to do next. The high justice gestures to his desk. I stand back up and place them there.
“You will now swear the oath,” orders the special investigator. “You will repeat my words.”
I nod. He clears his throat.
“By the sanctity of my blood and hair, I swear to obey the rules of this trial.”
I repeat: “By the sanctity of my blood and hair, I swear to obey the rules of this trial.”
“By the steel of my tools, I swear to pour my soul into my crafts.”
“By the steel of my tools, I swear to pour my soul into my crafts.”
“By the fire of my furnace, I swear to make no quarrel with my judges.”
“By the fire of my furnace, I swear to make no quarrel with my judges.”
“By the sparks of my hammer, I swear to hold no ill-will against the creator of what my crafts are measured against.”
“By the sparks of my hammer, I swear to hold no ill-will against the creator of what my crafts are measured against.”
“By the bones of the underworld, I swear to honor the outcome of this trial.”
“By the bones of the underworld, I swear to honor the outcome of this trial.”
“Magma devour me should I break this oath.”
“Magma devour me should I break this oath.”
My skin feels hot all of a sudden, as if magma is already taking me. My mouth has gone dry; my last words just then were but a whisper. The high judge heard them, though. He bows to me.
“May this trial lead to justice done,” he says. He raises the golden hammer. I flinch, my battle-instincts telling me a strike is coming to my head, but he does not strike. “May the metal you heat and hammer be true if your soul is pure. May it shatter if your soul be unclean.”
He passes the hammer over my head. The runes on it seem to shiver, and I feel a wave of force press on my skull. It travels down, through my heart, my guts, all the way to the soles of my feet, and through into the stone beneath.
“It is done,” he declares. “You are bound to your trial now.”
I bow very low. “I thank you for this opportunity to prove my innocence.”
“There is no need to thank me. I am here to make sure justice is done, that is all.” He fixes the special investigator with a hard look. “Take him to his new cell, Natarak. Make sure he's given the comforts he has rights to as his own defender. You have done your part in bringing him to justice. Now his fate is in the hands of the metal he touches; nothing other.”