I look up at stands, though not to the shadowed boxes where Vanerak and the most influential dwarves sit, and not to where Barahtan's family and guild sit. Neither do I look up at Guildmaster Wharoth and the Association of Steel, though what I'm about to say is for them also. Instead I face a section of the stands far up at the top, where a group of dwarves with burned faces and patchy beards are sitting.
Their chanting is not the loudest, but it is the most viscous, especially when they come to the word yalzakhamza, traitor.
“Listen to me!” I shout. “Listen to me! I will not ask for forgiveness! I will not ask for forgiveness, but listen to me!”
Their chanting does not stop. That's fine, I expected that. I repeat my words again and again until my throat is hoarse. I do not take a rest: to sip water would show a lack of resolve. I need them to hear my pain.
After many, many minutes of shouting, the crowd's chant begins to slowly die down—though not vanish, and from some parts of the stands, especially from where Barahtan's family is, it is continuing at full volume.
Yet it's quiet enough that those at the front will be able to hear my speech clearly and relay it up to those out of earshot. Quickly I clear my raw throat. Then I begin:
“Dwarves of Allabrast! Dwarves of the burned cavern of Hzhakmar! Dwarves from wherever you may hail from—I admit that I used to be a miner.”
The chanting from Barahtan's guild grows louder, but I ignore it.
“I toiled at the rock for many hours every day. It was a dull task, with no art, only destruction. I always felt ashamed—I was not even a stonecrafter, not a metalcrafter, not even a farmer. I was a grubby miner, as distant from runeknights as the magma sea is from the stars of the surface night.”
I pause—I can see dwarves at the front repeating what I said to those behind them. The chanting, apart from where Barahtan's family is, has almost entirely faded.
“Yet my dream was to become a runeknight. I did not want to smash rocks forever, keeping company with drinkers who cared nothing for advancement. I wanted to raise myself up through crafts, runes, metalwork. I wanted to progress, to become greater, to become great. All runeknights worth the title desire this, do they not?”
There is nodding from some, though their eyes are still narrow with skepticism.
“My beloved brother felt the same way. He lost his life when he was on the cusp of escaping the mines. Then, a few years later—a few hundred long-hours—I got my own opportunity. And what's more, I was given the opportunity to see my brother once more!" I pause. "By the black dragon.”
After those words filter up to the top of the stands, an icy chill seems to fall over the arena.
“So that is why I betrayed you all. That is why I sold you out to the black dragon. I am sorry for my mistake. I regret it, I truly do. I do not ask for forgiveness.”
Their gazes are piercing. I turn around to look at Guildmaster Wharoth, still in the same part of the stands he was for the last round. He is frowning deeply.
“This trial is to determine whether or not I can be held responsible for my actions. But I know that even if I should be found innocent here, if the runes decide that I am pure of heart and was simply a victim of the dragon's manipulation, many of you will still be unable to forgive me.”
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I see nodding in the stands.
“I will also remain unable to forgive myself. The stain of my action I will bear in my heart for all my life, a critical flaw in the metal of my soul. Yet I swear to you I will never betray those who trusted me again. I am stronger than I used to be—I do not care only for my advancement, my dreams, at the expense of others. I recently met a dwarf who did—and I slew him.”
Murmurs ripple—I'm sure some at least have heard of what I did in the fort.
“So I beg of you: understand that I am a changed dwarf. You may still believe I deserve death for what I did, and I accept that. But do not be under the impression that I am as selfish as I once was. Just like I shed my shameful profession, I have shed some of my selfish nature. I am honorable. I am an honorable runeknight, and through this trial I will prove this.”
I bow deeply. The spectators remain silent—but for Barahtan's guild, still chanting their cruel chant. I turn back to the section of stands where the burned dwarves are.
“I know most of you are still not convinced. So I swear this to you: if I should be proven innocent in this arena I will dedicate my life to undoing what I did wrong. I will find the black dragon and I will kill it. It has been injured before and can be injured again—but this time, mortally. And I will be the one to give it such a wound.”
Now, even the chanting from Barahtan's side of the arena dies away. There is whispering in the stands, and some laughter. Slaying the black dragon? That wiped out two realms in a single breath? It is an absurd proposition—yet it is an honorable one! To throw one's life away for atonement, to embark on a quest sure to result in death: very rarely will a runeknight do this.
For us dwarves desire wealth, and power, and immortality—or as close as we can get to it. Certainly very few dwarves of Allabrast, this safe and warm, comfortable portion of the underworld, would do such a thing.
Only the dwarves of the fort were happy to sacrifice their lives. And now I am one of those dwarves. Gone are my childish dreams of endless glory, of rising to the top for no reason other than destiny, because I thought I was gifted. Now I forge to undo as best I can my past sins.
I bow deep and return to my craft.
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Guildmaster Wharoth is speechless even as the guild members around him erupt into chatter—there is no one reaction from them: some are shocked, some outraged, some proud, some hopeful.
His own feelings are more complex.
Part of him is proud that Zathar has come to such an epiphany. Partly he is doubtful as to whether he really means what he says, or has the resolve to carry it through. And mostly he is sorrowful, for he still cannot see a way for the young dwarf to win.
Even if he's learned his lesson from the first contest, that his craft must be designed not for battle, but for the single moment when it will be tested, there is still too great a gap between him and Barahtan. It's not a gap: it's a chasm. Zathar's hammering is still too inaccurate, uncontrolled. His dexterity when it comes to welding is extremely poor. He's put little thought into his selection of alloys. They affect the power of the runes grafted to them more than he realizes.
His runes are the only hope he has. Yet, Barahtan's skill with runes is masterful also. Especially considering the technique he's preparing to attempt.
Wharoth notices something cold on his palm. He looks down. His hand has crept down to rest on his axe without him realizing it.
He grimaces.
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Barahtan has laid down his writing-stick and is staring blankly at the dividing wall. He is in shock—he had not expected to hear such words from his opponent. Zathar had shown one flash of resolve, true, just before the first contest, when he'd said that there would be no luck in the arena, only skill. But other than that, the young dwarf has been subdued, keeping his head bowed—even his handshake was weak.
So now, to hear such honest and courageous words from him—it brings tears to Barahtan's eyes. Admitting his shameful, low past was brave enough, but then to admit he felt guilt—risking putting the entire trial in jeopardy, perhaps—that was brave beyond words. Especially in the face of so many dwarves crying out for his death.
Compared to this courage, what worth do Barahtan's own actions have? What is he proving down here, showing that he is superior in craft to a mere fifth degree? What is his father expecting him to gain?
Of course his father is much more interested in what the guild can gain, but even so, Barahtan cannot see what this unfair contest has in it for the guild either.
He shakes his head bitterly. No matter Zathar's courage and nobility, losing to him will bring embarrassment and dishonor. Barahtan cannot not allow that to happen.
His resolve to win remains unchanged.