Three short-hours of my seventy are gone. I feel that I've used the time well. The final shape of the head is coming together in my mind and on paper, and I have the beginnings of a few ideas for what runic poem I will graft as well.
It's not yet time to choose the materials, though. I still have to decide on how to make the haft. Usually I would not put so much thought into it, but my experience forging my mace of light taught me that the haft is just as important as the head. It must be balanced and easy to hold, to ensure maximum accuracy and power.
I consider the length, the shape of the cross-section, the curvature, the thickness. Each aspect I mull over. I go through a dozen sheets of paper; my writing-stick is a gray blur. I make hundreds of calculations—here's another aspect of forging I've neglected until now: mathematics. Angles and force are the essence of combat.
The short-hour timer has now turned five times. I have the shape of the pick decided—now I need to choose what to make it with.
For the head, I choose steel. It's denser than titanium, and takes incandesite better, whose fury will work well with the weapon. While I haven't worked with the metal much recently, I'm confident that my forging instincts remember its feel. And since it's cheaper than titanium, I can afford the highest quality alloy possible.
For the handle, I'm going to go with aluminum. It's a bit expensive, so I've had to design my handle to be a little shorter than I calculated was optimal. Unfortunate, but it can't be helped. The lightness and strength will hopefully make up for the literal shortcoming.
“I'd like to order my materials, please.”
Judge Caletek nods. He's standing a little further away than he was before. The grin I gave him alarmed him quite a bit—why I cannot say.
Perhaps he's worried about not getting the full bribe from Vanerak.
“I need a thirteen inch length of high-carbon ten-eighty chromium-free, two point three five inches in diameter, and a two feet and eight inch length, six inch wide, four millimeter thick sheet of magnesium-silicon alloy aluminum of the fifth series.”
He examines the two pages in the catalogue carefully. “That will cost thirty gold wheels and two silver discs.”
There's no tax this time—seems that really just was a ploy of Judge Daztat's. I won't bring it up; I don't want to cause any more trouble than is necessary.
“Thank you.”
He relays my order to a guard; I listen in—he relays it honestly.
When the metal comes, I still have nearly another full short-hour left for designing. I resist the urge to heat the furnace and pick up the hammer right away, even though my dwarven instincts are crying out for me to do so. I stay at my writing desk, checking and re-checking my equations of force and momentum, and once I'm satisfied with them, I force myself to stay seated, and think of the outlines of poems.
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Vanerak watches Zathar. He frowns behind his mirror-mask. The young dwarf looked aghast when he first learned what he was to make—at least, according to Judge Gerapek he did—but now he seems only barely perturbed. His design looks fairly efficient also, though whether he'll be able to forge it well is another matter.
Maybe choosing a pick was a mistake. The young dwarf had always seemed emotionally troubled back in Thanerzak's realm, anxious to prove himself and leave his shameful past behind, unsure of his talents, and struggling with the guilt of betraying his guild to the black dragon.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
It seems his time down below has changed him. He may prove harder to break than anticipated, even after his inevitable capture. And it is inevitable.
Still, there's no reason to give up on demoralizing him. Vanerak calls over one of his guildsdwarves and whispers an order.
It is obeyed without question.
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The timer turns to mark the beginning of the eighth short-hour. I stand up from my writing desk and stretch my shoulders, arms, and fingers.
Now it's time to begin forging. Originally I was going to spend this next section of time on the handle, but I've reconsidered. In many ways it'll be harder to manage than the head, and so I think it's best to get back into the feel of forging before I attempt it.
So I switch on the furnace and heat the steel bar until it's glowing white-yellow. The warmth on my face is harsh, almost burning as I take it out, yet it is a good burning, vital, invigorating my blood and bringing out clear sweat that washes the arena dust from my face. I place the metal on the anvil, raise up my hammer, and begin to forge.
The clangs ring loud and clear through the arena. I sense the eyes of the crowd on me; I don't acknowledge them. Soon, I forget them completely as I fall into a forging trance. My hammer works the steel smoothly—each stroke takes the metal exactly where I want it to go. After so long struggling with titanium, it feels almost too easy.
Easy means I'm taking this too lightly. I slow my rhythm, become even more exact with my strokes. That's the way to get better at something—you must do it slowly before you can do it quickly. I have set myself ten short-hours for this. By the time those have passed, I'll be a better smith.
Time passes, measured by the beats of my hammer, the shudder of each impact traveling up my arm. I reheat, hammer, reheat, hammer. The steel bar transforms—it is now, after two short-hours, triangular in cross section, thicker at the right side, and the left tapers into a fine point. I let it cool to gray so I can examine the shape properly.
It's well-formed, but not perfect. I must continue my work, though I am extremely tired by now. I take a quick sleep.
And am awoken by chanting.
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Barahtan has not slept once. He's been too busy with his design: drawing measurements and selecting precise alloys. Besides, he's lived nearly his whole life in Allabrast and is well-used to going several long-hours in a row without sleep.
This is another unfair advantage he has over the traitor, but he won't force himself to take a nap to even things out—that would be disrespectful. Unlike some dwarves, he has honor.
He re-checks the final measurements. At first he was rather disappointed at being instructed to make a simple greave. When a runeknight wishes to show off his skill, he will make something large and obvious: a breastplate, a shield, a plumed helm, or a magnificent two-handed sword. Greaves, vambraces and other smaller pieces of armor are generally more reserved and functional crafts.
Still, that doesn't mean he can't forge something impressive. If it can't be impressive in appearance, it'll just have to be impressive in function.
He means to make a piece of armor that the traitor's weapon will barely scratch the surface of.
Though, the chant that's just started is rather infuriating. He wishes they'd stop it. There's no need to be so petty.
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“Brolpak Yalzakhamza! Brolpak Yalzakhamza! Brolpak Yalzakhamza!”
“Traitor miner! Traitor miner! Traitor miner!”
“Nachroktey! Nachroktey! Nachroktey-zam-ala!”
Death, death, death to him now!”
The violence in their voices startles me to my feet. I look up and around—every single dwarf in the stands has stood up and is shouting at me. Spittle flies from their bearded mouths; they shake their fists; some are pointing their index fingers down, a gesture that in every arena throughout the underworld means: kill him now!
“Brolpak! Brolpak! Brolpak!”
Miner, miner, miner. So the rumor of what I used to be has spread fast. Doubtless Vanerak had a hand in spreading it. Both hands.
My lip curls in disgust. What an underhanded way to manage things. As if paying the judges to be on his side wasn't enough, he's got the crowd to help him along also—and they already hated me!
I refuse to let their chant bother me. They'll get tired of it soon enough.
But they don't. I heat and hammer, heat and hammer, and all the while their voices fill my head. The forging trance cannot take hold of me. Each time their shout of brolpak coincides with a hammer-beat, I feel as if I'm back in Runethane Broderick's half-done palace, hollowing out the wall with my pick.
Hammer on metal, pick on stone. Are the two so different?
I yell in rage and throw down my hammer. Of course the two are different! One has a future, one does not. How dare they make me even consider such an idea?
I turn to where the chanting comes loudest—the other side of the stands where Barahtan's family sits—and raise my fist. I prepare to holler and scream, throw the most vicious and degrading insults that exist in the dwarven tongue, yet just as the first is about to leave my mouth, I stop myself.
All I'd accomplish by that is to prove that I am what they think I am—a foul mouthed, dirt-grubbing miner.
Instead, I'll show them my honor.