My stomach sinks. Victory by obliteration: another way for me to lose. Since I presume I won't be wearing the armor—otherwise the weapon piercing on even the tenth blow would bring the trial to a sudden close—Barahtan will get plenty of time to line up perfect strikes. There'll be no glancing blows or near misses, only full power and exact accuracy.

“The use of runic dictionaries is allowed, however no more than three thousand pages' worth per round are permitted to be taken into the arena. Scripts are to be chosen freely, apart from...”—he lists a dozen scripts I've never heard of—“...which are disallowed due to the danger they pose to the participants, judges, employees of the court, guards and spectators.”

Judge Caletek goes on to list more rules in exacting detail, regarding food and drink, honorable conduct, and also some regulations regarding what the spectators are allowed to bring into the stands.

He finishes and sits down. The head judge rises to his feet again.

“Thus ends the reading of the rules. Does either the defendant or prosecutor wish for clarification on any part of them?”

I shake my head. Barahtan raises his hand.

“Yes, prosecutor?”

“Are there any restrictions on what we can do between rounds?”

“The defender must return to his cell. The prosecutor is free to go where he pleases, though if you are late to return you will not be given extra time and in addition you will be fined.”

“All right.”

“Any further questions?”

One of the dwarves on the benches—the one Barahtan asked about shaking my hand, I think his father—raises his hand. The head judge ignores him, but he speaks up anyway:

“I was given to understand that the Civil Force was to pay the expenses of this trial, including the one-hundred fifty golden wheels my son here is to use to purchase materials—”

“You are mistaken,” says the head judge calmly. “The prosecutor is to purchase his own materials. I am sure it is not too great a sum for your family.”

Barahtan's father grunts in disapproval; Barahtan winces slightly.

“Now, prosecutor, stand up,” says the head judge. “You will now swear on the hammer. Come forth please, if you agree to the rules just set out for you.”

“I do agree,” Barahtan says, and walks up to the judges. He swears a similar oath to the one I swore, to much applause from the dwarves at the edges of the benches.

Many have the same golden hair as he does, I notice. His family? Others, the more boisterous ones, might be his friends. There are more than a few dwarfesses also—they could be suitors. Yet there's a great many others too.

It hits me: they must be spectators, allowed even into this preliminary but sacred part of the trial. Yes, more than a few have been staring in fascination at me this whole time—it's their first glimpse of the infamous traitor, Zathar.

I can tell they're all rich. Even the lower degree ones have gems in their poorly made armor, and wear swords of rare alloys. My stomach turns. So this is justice here—entertainment for those with the money to buy it! I doubt many of these spectators are from Thanerzak's realm, or their stares would be of hatred, not curiosity.

“Barahtan has sworn the oath,” announces the head judge. “The reading of the rules thus comes to a close. You may all depart.”

Chatter breaks out among the spectators as they gather up their bags and belongings, while the clerks keep silent as they shuffle their papers and put away their pens and ink. Guards flank me and gesture for me to stand up.

“Wait,” says Barahtan, hurrying down to me. “I really do feel obliged to shake his hand.”

The guards shrug and step aside to let him approach.

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“No need to look so suspicious,” he says to me. “Just trying to be friendly, that's all.”

He smiles; it seems geniune.

“Friendly?” I ask. “You know what's to be done to me should you win, right?”

“Well, yes,” he says awkwardly. “But that's no reason for rudeness.”

“I suppose not.”

“Of course not.” He sticks out his hand. “As honorable combatants we should shake hands, I think.”

I reach out slowly, half-expecting some trick. He grasps my hand firmly and shakes it three times. He smiles again.

“Good luck,” he says. “I... Ah, I'm sorry it has to be me.”

“What are you talking about?” snaps his father. “This is a great honor for our family and guild.”

“Of course, father.”

“Let's get out of here. You've a lot of work to do before the contest.”

“The trial, father.”

“Yes, yes.”

The father glares at me. He's similar to his son, but not quite so handsome—his nose is bent and his beard starts a little too far down on his face. Disdain and disgust glow from his amber eyes.

“Try to put up at least a little bit of a fight, traitor. Too easy a victory won't bring us much honor.”

I scowl and step forwards; one of the guards puts a steel-clad hand out to warn me against advancing further.

“I'll fight and I'll win," I say. "And I'll prove that I'm no traitor.”

“We'll see about that,” he sneers.

----------------------------------------

A few hours after I return to my cell, Wharoth appears before the door of bars.

“Visitor to see you,” says my guard. “One Guildmaster Wharoth.”

“I know who he is. Please, let him in.”

The door is opened and Wharoth enters. He sits down at my table before I can offer him a seat.

“Sit down,” he tells me.

I avoid his gaze as I sit—it's difficult to look into the eyes of someone who's sworn to execute you. Fortunately he doesn't look angry at all today, but friendly, even.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You just had the reading of the rules?"

“Yes. But I didn't realize my trial was to be a spectacle right from the beginning.”

“Of course it is.”

“I don't think there were many from our realm there. Just the rich and curious.”

“There'll be plenty victims of the dragon at the main event. Entry is half-price for anyone from Thanerzak's realm.”

“I see.”

“What did you think of your opponent?”

“He was polite, at least. Shook my hand even though his father wasn't too happy about it.”

Wharoth gives a wry chuckle. “His father is the first degree runeknight Batarast, guildmaster of the Firefly Gleam Agglomerate.”

“They looked like they have money to throw around. Even the lower ranking ones were covered in gems.”

“Yes. They have a lot of money, very little taste. They own a lot of the establishments in the Fireflea District.”

“They're not warriors then.”

“You sound disdainful. They've all been on their fair share of adventures. It's just not where they make their money. And they're skilled smiths.”

“Including this Barahtan, I presume. A fourth degree, but closing in on third?”

Wharoth grimaces. “His father doesn't want him taking the third degree examination, after he nearly died on the one for fourth. So he's been kept back for far longer than usual.”

“He'll know how to use all the fancy equipment we're to be given, I imagine.”

“Yes. He's been well-educated.”

“This Batarast and his guild, are they connected to Vanerak in any way?”

“Batarast is eager to ascend to the ranks of the Thanic Guard, and has been cozying up to him. I imagine volunteering his son for the role of prosecutor was Vanerak's idea, and his final selection also has Vanerak's beard-hairs all over it.”

“I see,” I sigh. “The odds are stacked against me, it seems.”

“Indeed.”

“As they always are.”

“Everyone feels like that, Zathar.”

“I doubt Barahtan does.”

“From what I hear, he's not particularly keen on this role. He's sick of being pushed around by his father.”

“He's not going to let me win, though. He'll make the best crafts he can.”

“Of course he will. He's a runeknight.”

“Any advice for me? I presume that's why you're here.”

“Yes: trust in your abilities. Don't hold back.”

“Even in front of so many watching? Having Vanerak after me is bad enough, but—“

He grasps my hands and squeezes them hard. “You will lose otherwise,” he says. “His skill is beyond yours by decades. You cannot beat him without putting in every ounce of steel you've got.”

“But this..." I lower my voice. "This gift of mine... Guildmaster, I cannot control it yet.”

“You must learn quickly, then," he whispers. "You must understand, Zathar. It's not good enough to craft as well as him. You must surpass his works beyond doubt.”

“Beyond doubt?”

He lets go of my hands, leans back. Scowls. “The judges will be bribed, I'm sure of it.”

My eyes widen. "Bribed? Vanerak can do that? But they're judges, and second degrees at least!"

"Even so, I think he could get away with it. He would have to be very cautious, but yes, I think he can. I think he will."

“But even if he does, the contest is decided by if the armor is broken or not.”

“And who makes the decision about how bad the damage is? The judges do. In edge cases, you will lose.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. But I don't see how I'm going to pull it off.”

“You're extremely talented. I think you have a small chance.” He stands up. “I have to get back to the guild. The next time I see you, it'll be from the stands.”

“It's soon, then?” I say with alarm. “They still haven't told me the date.”

“The arena's still being prepared. But it should be within the next two-long hours.”

“Shit!”

“You have a chance. All you can do is try your utmost. And please do so." He looks me in the eyes. A pained expression comes onto his face. "I don't want to have to execute you," he says quietly. "I really don't.”