I am returned to my cell to await the second round of the trial, which is going to take place in only ten short-hours. Far too small a rest—another terrible unfairness out of many.
It is now very clear just exactly how superior Barahtan is. Did I really think I could equal the crafting of a dwarf who is a full two ranks above me in all but formality? It will take me many decades before I can rival his skill with metal, decades that I don't have, might never have. And despite my strange abilities, his strength with runes also overwhelms my own.
How can I possibly hope to beat him in even one contest, let alone the next two in a row? I can see no path to victory, not even a slim one.
Yet I must try. I must trust in the runes, trust that maybe I am innocent, that I can be forgiven. I owe this to Guildmaster Wharoth, who has doubtless risked the ire of many by working to give me this chance. I owe it Nthazes as well, who might one day need my help down in the fort once more.
I used my time badly: though I can't increase my skill with metals and runes in the next few short-hours, I can at least plan out how to most efficiently spend the two long-hours after them. Even though I don't yet know what it's to be, weapons are more similar in design to each other than sections of armor are: they have a haft and a head.
Unless I'm to make a sword, of course. That could prove very tricky.
I calculate. Out of my seventy short-hours, I will spend the first seven on planning the craft—its shape and also the general kind of runic poems I'll graft to it. By giving myself this significant amount of time, I won't be simply hoping that within my first few designs is the perfect answer—I'll make a large selection to choose from.
Then I'll spend seven short-hours to craft the haft, and sixteen for the head. Thirty I'll take for the runes, and five for welding haft and head together. As for sleep, I've left myself five short-hours for it. I'll take some whenever the fatigue gets too much for me, but never for too long at a time.
And I set myself another rule also: I will not look at the crowd. I will not let Vanerak's presence intimidate me. I will force myself to forget he is watching.
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The three judges stand together in the caves called night. Each has his alibi: Judge Daztat is drinking with a friend, Judge Caletek is resting in his home, Judge Gerapek is deep into paperwork in his locked office. Because they are respected and trusted members of the Civil Force, no one will pry too far into these tales.
Judge Daztat shivers. It's cold down here. The rock is meant to get hotter the further down a dwarf delves, but Allabrast is far from any magmatic areas. It's built in a cold-spot, and these black chalk caves are the very coldest region. Truly, here feels like the surface night in winter.
There's an experience he doesn't want to repeat. The human women weren't worth it.
Quiet footsteps herald the approach of Vanerak. The three judges tense. Is he angry? He might well be, thinks Judge Daztat. He could have the traitor in his hands by now, if it wasn't for Caletek and Gerapek's foolishness.
“Good evening, as we used to say in my old realm.”
“Good evening,” says Judge Daztat.
The other two judges bow deeply.
“So, the first round goes to the prosecution,” says Vanerak. “Though it seems the contest will continue for another few long-hours yet.”
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“It didn't have to,” says Judge Daztat. “I judged that his craft was ruined in the first blow.”
“Ah, yes. I had the impression that's what you were talking about. Judges Gerapek and Caletek, you thought differently, did you?”
“It was... was close,” Gerapek stammers. “Too easy a victory and, well... Questions might have been asked. Difficult questions. Ones that may have led back... All the way...”
“All the way to me? Or just to your accounting errors?”
Until now, Vanerak's tone has sounded cold to the three, but now it is like a blade of ice.
“There is still no question of Barahtan's victory! Zathar is too far below his level. Surely you can see that.”
“I can. Yet every hour the traitor is free is another hour of pain for me and my guild. Can you see that, judges?”
They nod vigorously. Judge Daztat goes to one knee.
“I am sorry. I should have been more persuasive.”
“Stand up, judge. I am not here to listen to apologies. We must discuss the next round.”
“Of course.” Face hot, Judge Daztat rises back to his feet. “I have a few ideas for weapons. Perhaps a—“
“Let us choose Barahtan's armor first.”
“Very well.”
“Your thoughts, judges?”
“Something small will be best,” says Judge Gerapek. “So he can afford the strongest and most quality materials.”
“A glove?” Judge Daztat suggests.
“That seems too complex. By the rules it would still have to offer good mobility.”
“Maybe a boot, then.”
“Also complex,” says Vanerak.
“A greave,” says Judge Gerapek. “Simple, small, and awkward to strike at.”
“A sound idea. Let us choose that. Now for the weapon.”
“I suggest a sword,” says Judge Daztat. “As you all know, they are the most difficult weapons to craft. That is why they are so prestigious. And I understand that they were fairly rare in your realm, Vanerak.”
“Correct.”
“So he likely has no experience forging one.”
“Yes. It is a sound possibility.”
“Swords are mobile,” says Judge Gerapek. “Easy to aim low with.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Judge Daztat scowls. “Or are you trying to convince us to give him something easy?”
“I am doing no such thing,” Judge Gerapek says. He turns to Vanerak. “I suggest a two-handed mace. Likely he'll try to copy Barahtan's technique in his panic, and constrain his own creativity. The crowd will also disparage his efforts loudly, since they'll be easily able to compare his weapon to the great craft they just witnessed.”
“Another sound idea: yet I think I have a better one.”
“Let us hear it,” Judge Daztat says eagerly.
“I have long suspected certain things about the traitor's past. Certain shameful things about his past occupation.” Vanerak smiles behind his mirror-mask. “You are correct that we should demoralize him, Judge Gerapek. And I have the perfect choice for doing so.”
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“Well done, my son,” says Batarast. “Well done!”
“By all rights you should be victor by obliteration,” says another senior guildmember.
“Yes!” says another. “What were those judges thinking?”
“Still,” says Batarast. “All the more opportunity to show off your prowess, ay?”
Barahtan stays silent and takes another sip of beer. He feels somehow disappointed. What even is this trial? The craft of his opponent was not a terrible piece of work, and he clearly has impressive runic knowledge, but still, he is far below Barahtan's level. How is this a fair fight? How is this honorable, even in the slightest?
“I said, another opportunity show off your prowess, no?” Batarast repeats, loudly.
“Yes, father.”
“You are winning much honor for our guild. Once all is done, I will have a mosaic commissioned. To defeat such an infamous traitor will be a legendary act.”
“I suppose. It might be.”
“What do you mean, might be? Of course it is.”
“As you say, father.”
“Ach, he's in one of his moods again. I just hope it clears in time for the next round—“
“Hope it clears?” Barahtan snaps. “Do you take me for an amateur who lets emotion warp his crafts? Are you afraid I have any possibility to lose this, father?”
“That's not what I meant.”
“You saw what I'm capable of. I'm going to repeat the feat—not that it was particularly impressive one.”
“Not impressive? Show some gratitude! You have no idea the chains I had to pull to get you this opportunity.”
Barahtan slams his empty mug down onto the table and stands up.
“Where are you going?”
He looks around the gold-gleaming guildhall, at the faces of his father's friends, at his uncles and aunts, at his pathetically desperate suitors, his own false friends, and feels disgust. He is more than half a century old, yet they see him still as a child, or in the case of his suitors and so-called friends, a rung on a ladder. They are not fit company.
“I said, where are you going?” his father demands.
“Back to the arena.”
“What? We still have eight short-hours!”
“I'll spend them on my own.”
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I plan, I sleep, I study runes, and finally the guards call me. It's time for the second round, already.
I do not feel prepared.