I sit down beside Barahtan in the black stone chamber and, under the pale cyan of the crystal lamps, wait to hear what weapon I am to forge. I'm cold. My hands especially feel stiff, chilled, inflexible. And next to Barahtan, who has just proven his superiority to me, I feel small too.
The judges stand before us, their eyes just as dead as before—though Judge Daztat's also have that mad spark in them, a dying ember amidst ash. Judge Gerapek adjusts his white scarf and clears his throat.
“For the next round of the trial, Barahtan is to forge a greave. A greave is defined as a piece of armor protecting the front of the lower leg, which is defined as the section between knee and ankle. It must fit to the leg and not be thicker than it is wide.”
My heart sinks further. They've chosen the smallest piece of armor possible for him, which means he can make it out of the most expensive materials. Down low, it'll also be awkward to strike at.
“Zathar, you are to forge a war-pick.”
My hands clench suddenly into tight fists. My knuckles pop, my bones ache. I squeeze harder. A flush of anger and shame rises to my face. How could Vanerak have known? This has to be his doing—he has chosen this weapon to embarrass me.
I want to stand up, shout, scream! How low will he stoop to humiliate me?
I stop myself. I can't lose control, not here, not now. I steady my breathing and gradually unclench my fists.
“Are you all right, contestant?” says Judge Daztat. “You look ill.”
“I'm fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Continue.”
“A war-pick,” continues Judge Gerapek, “is defined to be a weapon composed of a haft and a head with a long spike as its main offensive part. It may have two spikes extruding at opposite ends from one another, or at the opposite end to a singular spike it may have a weight. However, the length of the head must be at least twenty inches or six times its width and depth. The main offensive spike may only have one point, which may be curved or straight. The weapon can also be one-handed or two-handed.”
Not many dwarves use a war-pick. It's considered an embarrassment of a craft. Picks are something miners use on their job. Fighting with one is akin to brawling drunkenly. To kill someone with one reeks of savage murder, not honorable victory.
“Do either of the contestants wish for clarification?” says Judge Caletek.
Neither of us do.
“Then you shall go to your places,” says Judge Gerapek. “Guards, if you will?”
We're led down the same corridor as last time. This time I say nothing to Barahtan, and he says nothing to me. He doesn't even look at me, which I'm glad of, since my face is still burning with shame.
How could Vanerak have known? Traces of my prior life were obvious to see when I was an initiate—my hunched pose, my rough hands, the gray pallor of my skin—yet by the time I met Vanerak, that had all gone.
Many in my guild had likely guessed my past. I suppose one of them, angry at hearing the rumors of my betrayal, spread the knowledge around. Or maybe it was one of the Troglodyte Slayers—they knew. I'm sure that Kazhek told them before I slew him. He was another that guessed the truth.
Whatever the case, everyone will know soon enough. They'll see me forging a pick, begin to joke that I'm some low-down, dirty miner who never should've been allowed to become a runeknight—then someone from Thanerzak's realm will whisper that those insults are true, and the rumor will spread.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
I split from Barahtan and soon am standing before the portcullis once more. It grinds up and I walk out into the arena, eyes fixed on my anvil and furnace. I angle my head down so that I can't see even the merest part of the jeering crowd.
That's right. My rule is to not look at them: not at Vanerak, not at anyone, not even at Guildmaster Wharoth. As long as I do this, I've no need to feel any shame.
Silently, I wait for the bell of announcement to ring. When it does, it shakes the arena sand into patterns once more—they are definitely faces, of dwarves and ferocious beasts both. Probably they are the faces of those who've perished here.
If Wharoth slays me before Vanerak gets the chance to steal me away, will my face appear on these sands also?
I wipe the question from my mind and sit down at the desk. I take out sheets of fresh paper and a writing stick and begin to sketch. Per my plan, I have seven short-hours for this: I will find the perfect design.
I flinch. There's a shadow over me. I look up and see Judge Caletek.
“Yes?” I say.
“Just observing,” he replies in his monotone voice. “Do not mind me.”
----------------------------------------
“So our son's to forge a greave, is he?” says Batarast's wife. For this second part of the contest, she is dressed all in silver.
“That's what the judge announced, isn't it?”
“Just one?”
“I assume so.”
“I'd have assumed two.”
“Well, he only said one.”
“You're in quite a mood.”
“I'm not in a mood,” Batarast snaps.
“If you say so.” She adjusts her amulet of unaging—she is not a runeknight, Batarast made it for her. A dwarf is allowed to do that for his or her spouse, should they be incapable: it's one of the only exceptions to the taboo against using equipment forged by another.
“More hot beer please,” Batarast says to a junior guild member, who hurries off to find one of the arena staff.
“Doesn't seem very fair,” his wife continues. “Since they both have the same amount of gold to use, yet need different amounts of metal. Surely him needing to make two would even the scales a little. Besides, what use is only one greave? It's like having one glove.”
“It's perfectly fair,” Batarast snaps. “It's honorable combat. You don't understand. You aren't a runeknight.”
“If you say so.”
----------------------------------------
I sketch, scribble, plan—but it's hard to concentrate with the eyes of Judge Caletek following every stroke of my writing-stick. The fact that I'm designing picks compounds this. I feel embarrassed. Each design becomes smaller than the last, less detailed, as if I'm trying to hide them somehow.
Eventually, I snap:
“Look here,” I say to him. “It's hard for me to concentrate with you so close. Could you at least take two or three steps back? Please?”
“My duty as judge is to watch that you keep to the rules.”
“Yes of course, and I respect that, but it really is hard to concentrate.”
“I am doing my duty.”
“Yes, but please, it would make for a fairer trial if you weren't quite so close.”
“I am doing my duty.”
A vein pulses in my temple. I shake my head. Clearly he's not going to step back—I'll just have to ignore him.
I take up a fresh sheet of paper and this time make the design as big and clear to see as possible. This is life and death—life and worse than death. I don't have the luxury of feeling embarrassed, neither by the judges nor the crowd. Likely they already know what I'm to forge, and whispers about my past are already spreading.
The trouble is, the idea of crafting a pick has never once entered my mind. Never have I lain in bed pondering the finer points of one's design, as I have about other weapons. In essence, as a piercing weapon, it's not too dissimilar to a spear, however the method of delivering its power is completely different. A spear is thrust, so the straighter it is the more power in its stab, but a pick is struck and should be hooked so that force and point are aligned.
Too curved and the point will slide off, but too straight and not enough force will be delivered. I make many calculations before settling on a shape. It's more curved than if this was to be a weapon for actual combat. My last failure taught me well.
Finally the basic angle is worked out, and it only took me a full short-hour. I spend the next debating the shape and dimensions. Making it double-headed seems a waste of time, so I opt for the second option of putting a weight at the other side. I puzzle over the final dimensions: it has to be at least six times as long as it is thick and wide, yet mine will be longer even than this.
My reasoning for this is the same as my reasoning for making it so curved: I will have all the time I need to line up each strike.
I smile. It begins to occur to me that Vanerak has made the wrong decision. A pick is perfect for breaking through armor, and is designed as a tool where each strike must be lined up with precision. As runeknights, they don't know this. It's something only I could know.
Judge Caletek leans in close. His breath is foul, as dead as his eyes and voice are, like a rotten thing.
“What are you smiling for?”
“No reason.”
I give him a fierce grin; he flinches back, alarmed.