The time finally arrives. A phalanx of guards leads me from my cell; a dozen march before me and a dozen behind. Their armor and weapons are well-crafted. These are not lower degree grunts. We emerge into a wide corridor, and at the sides are standing hundreds of what look like clerks, off-duty guards and lawyers. All are eager to see the beginning of the spectacle, of the trial by forging of the infamous traitor, Zathar.
They watch us in silence—but then we exit Allabrast Civil Prison and are on a wide street. A crowd throngs here, of both runeknights and commoners alike. All are shouting and jeering, even the little children sat on the shoulders of their parents.
We approach a steel-clad carriage. Out of the corner of my eye I see a rock sailing toward me; I duck, one of the guards deflects it with his shield. A clang rings out. The jeers grow louder.
For these dwarves at least, my guilt is not in question. I wonder how many are from Thanerzak's realm. Maybe many of them. I can see burns on the faces of about half.
The carriage ride is mercifully silent: the steel and hard wooden walls cut out all sound from outside, even that of the air rushing past us. Even the wheels do not rumble so much. Probably this is the best crafted and most secure carriage they have.
I feel shrunken, diminished. The scale of the crowds outside, the phalanx of elite guards, the empty spaciousness of the carriage all serve to make the enormity of my crime overwhelming. When I gave the black dragon the key, there was only the three of us, me and it and Hayhek, yet the repercussions have destroyed, maimed, and thrown into disarray the lives of tens of thousands.
Maybe I deserve worse than death. Maybe I deserve what Vanerak has planned for me. Even if I win, will I be able to accept the fact of my innocence? I feel that many in the crowds outside will not.
The carriage glides to a halt and its doors are opened. I step down onto the tiles of a darkened room and am greeted by one of the judges, the one who didn't speak at the reading of the rules. His hair and beard are dark like mine, and he has an unnerving gleam in his eyes. Judge Daztat, I believe I heard.
“Come,” he orders. “It's time for you to learn what you're to craft, and then it'll be time to begin.”
Guards flank me, then I follow him up a flight of stairs to a small chamber. It's of black stone, lit brightly by a bluish crystal lamp that gives no heat. I shiver.
The judge gestures for me to sit down on one of two seats. A few minutes later, Barahtan arrives and sits beside me. He gives me an awkward grimace.
“Good hour,” he says.
“To you also,” I reply.
The other two judges arrive. The head one, whose name I've since learned is Gerapek, speaks to us:
“Prosecutor and defendant, welcome. The first contest of the trial by forging is to begin. Zathar, you are to construct a helmet. Barahtan, you are to construct a hammer.”
A helmet. All right. I've made plenty before, and they've never failed me yet.
The second judge, Caletek, says, “A helmet is defined to be a piece of armor protecting the entire head and upper neck; it may or may not also give protection to the face. It must be breathable and when worn, the wearer must be able to see out of it, or else through some runic methods have his other senses be enhanced to a significant degree.”
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Interesting—perhaps I should affix runic ears to it—no, they would be too vulnerable, and also take up time better spent on the main construction.
“A hammer is defined as a crushing weapon, made to be wielded with one or two hands. It is formed of a handle and a head. The main striking surface of the head must be flat, or have more than four points for violent contact. The secondary or other striking surfaces may be crafted for penetration or cutting, however you must strike the defender's armor with the main striking surface only.”
This is something of a relief: I only need to worry about resisting crushing damage. Already ideas for what I'm to make are assembling themselves in my mind.
“Once the crafts are complete, or the two long-hours come to a close, the test will be carried out. Zathar will mount his helmet upon a prepared armor-stand. Barahtan will attempt to destroy it in ten blows. Should the armor-stand fall over, it will be righted before the next blow, however should the helmet be displaced from the stand, Barahtan may strike it where it lies upon the floor.”
I'll need to make the chin-strap very secure then.
Judge Caletek steps back and Judge Daztat speaks:
“One of us will be present with you at the forges at all times. You will have a catalogue from which you can order materials; tell us what you want and it will be brought to you with haste. On the wall will be sand-timers by which you can see how long you have remaining.”
He steps back.
“Now,” says Judge Gerapek. “Is any clarification required?”
I shake my head; Barahtan does also.
“Good. Then you shall now be led to the forges. Do not touch tool nor material until the bell is rung to announce the start of the contest.”
We nod.
“May justice prevail. Follow the guards now, please.”
We follow them out of the room side by side. Barahtan turns to me.
“Good luck,” he says. “I'm sorry it had to be me.”
Something about his voice irritates me; he speaks as if this is some friendly competition. For him, maybe that's all it is. But my life, my justice, my acceptance of my past and the potential of my future are all resting on the next dozen long-hours. For me, this contest goes beyond even life and death.
“Good luck?” I say. “There is no luck in forging. Skill only. And through my skill I will prove my innocence.”
His eyebrows raise a touch, then a shadow clouds his brow and he nods solemnly.
“You are right,” he says. “There's no luck here. Just skill and justice.”
“Yes.”
We reach a fork in the corridor and halt.
“I will see you in two long-hours,” he says. “May justice prevail.”
“It shall. One way or the other.”
He makes to hold out his hand, then withdraws it and bows deep instead. I return it. Then, we are led our separate ways into the Arena of Lost Memories.
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Like every arena I've ever heard of or been in, the ground is sand. I see it beyond the portcullis—darkly silver grains, like crushed pearl. The walls form a great circle of black stone whose age I can nearly feel. Dividing the arena in half is a newer wall, of fossil wood; at the north end of it, below shadowed box seats, is a raised platform. My stomach roils a little. I imagine that is where the tests will take place.
Halfway along the dividing wall is my furnace, anvil, tool cabinet, and everything else a well-equipped forge ought to have. A short distance away from those is a writing desk and upon it the thick catalogue of materials we were told about.
On the other side of the wall will be Barahtan. I wonder what kind of a weapon he has in mind to make.
And all around are the stands, concentric rings of seats filled totally by the crowd—there is not a single free space; it is a sea of dwarves. Most are in armor but higher up are commoners as well. They're talking to each other as they point excitedly to the portcullis and me behind it. The sound is like that of hungry river-rapids.
The portcullis grinds upward. I walk out onto the sand. The sound of the crowd becomes the roar of a waterfall as every single dwarf in the stands rises to their feet, screaming and shaking their fists. I falter; I feel a wave of hate crash into me, a tide of emotional magma seeking to throw me down and burn me, to force me to give up before the bell of commencement has even struck its first chime.
I press on. The sand flows around my thin shoes. I will trust in the runes of the hammer Head Justice Ratarast passed over me, and hope that if I win this both their hatred and my inner guilt will fade.