“What has he created?”

Guildmaster Wharoth and the younger members of the Association of Steel stare through their lenses at the metal spike upon Zathar's anvil. It's a fearsome craft—they can feel power from it even up here in the stands.

“What's he done, guildmaster?”

“Guildmaster, how did he make that poem? Why did the incandesite flash like that?”

“I can't read the runes on it.”

Wharoth is still with shock. It's not that the pickaxe is a perfect craft. Though it's well-forged enough for a fifth degree, he winced when watching some of the heavier strokes Zathar gave it. To his experienced eyes it's a little dented, the metal a little injured.

Yet once the poem was grafted, those imperfections ceased to matter. He strains to read the runes: most of them he can only barely understand. Before, Zathar's new runes—if they truly are new, he can still only half-believe that—had been warped alterations of existing ones. Yet many of the runes on the pickaxe stray so far from forms Wharoth knows that they look as if they're part of a new script altogether.

Frightening, very frightening. Especially considering how the poem's theme is far from something most runeknights will look upon favorably.

Miners slaying runeknights with picks? He won goodwill with his speech earlier; this craft could throw that away.

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I begin drafting the poem for the haft. While the head of my weapon has a poem of brutal power, my haft must have speed and accuracy. No matter how much power it has, a weapon is no good if it cannot hit its target.

I struggle to think. Inspiration isn't coming to me. I ought to link it to the theme of the head's poem, miners and effortless penetration, yet I can't think of any elegant way to accomplish this. Preparation for battle? No, then I would be discussing rocks. The speed of the charge? I implied a metaphor of air: maybe I can try to do something with that.

Wind rushes across the page, bats and spores, mist from falling water, insects and flying geckos. None of them seem to fit. Of course: wind is random, not directed. How about a ballista bolt?

It would feel odd to write a poem about a ranged weapon onto a melee one, especially since ranged weapons are so poorly regarded by us runeknights. In order to penetrate enruned plate, an enruned weapon must be used—or at any rate that's what most runeknights like to believe—and to craft a bolt or arrow just to throw it away is disrespectful.

I look at the sand-timers—more than half of my second long-hour is already gone. I curse. I need to hurry. The accuracy and speed of a ballista is what I want for my weapon. Though it might not be optimal, I'll choose this theme.

My writing-stick blurs. Runes appear, but they're messy. The stanzas are oddly structured. I calculate runic flows, and the numbers come up short or too long every time. I curse again, loudly. My eyelids are growing heavy, but I cannot afford to sleep. I decide that a walk will wake me up. I circle my half of the arena, once, twice, thrice.

Back to the writing desk, and the ideas still do not come. It's because of the pressure of time. It's constraining me. The slight hiss of the sand, barely audible above the murmur of the crowd, is a fly in my ear and my mind. I cannot focus.

But maybe I don't have to. If I give my abilities full reign, they'll respond. The fires they spring from do not go out so easily once lit: I can feel this. So I shut my eyes and let my writing-stick move as it will.

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I create—or it creates, or something creates—a poem of five long lines that will go down the length of the haft. It tells of a bolt, unerring, streaming through the twisted cavern toward its target. The tale ends the moment before it strikes, for striking is the duty of the pick's warhead.

There aren't so many new runes as I'd expected. Maybe the fires of my ability have dimmed somewhat. Or maybe the theme I've directed does not match well to it. I do not know. I do not understand these abilities. I wonder if I ever will. All I can do is hope that this hour is not the one in which they fail me.

Only ten short-hours left. I'll just have to hope the runes come out all right in the metal. My fingers blur and the wires fold upon the anvil. Once the five lines are completed I step back to read them carefully. Again, there are not so many new runes.

I scratch my head. What is the problem here? Is there just not enough material to work with? Yet that can't be helped. I sigh and get to grafting. The incandesite does not flash quite so brightly as before.

Well, at any rate, it's done now. I swing it through the air and can feel the runes are working as intended; there is just no flair or brilliance like that which elevates the head. I look at the sand-timers and see that I only have three short-hours left to go.

I push the top of the haft through the loop at the center of the head, and get to welding, very slowly and very precisely.

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Barahtan finishes his craft and he is pleased. There are no flaws in the metal like he was afraid might appear. Nothing cracked when he was hammering, as has happened with his past attempts at rune-alloyed metals. The surface poem is as fine as anything else he's ever written. Their lines are like the defenses of the fortress they describe, a layered defense impregnable to all but the most powerful blows.

For a second he worries. Those red flashes earlier, and the crowd's reaction—Zathar's creation is sure to be a powerful one. Yet he's still a fifth degree. Going on fourth, maybe, but he's still no match for Barahtan. His blows will not be so powerful.

There is only one weakness to the greave: the straps that will bind it to the armor-stand's leg. Yet even if those are broken, they are not the main part of the armor. They are not what he's being judged on. The judges won't award Zathar such a cheap victory—and he doesn't think the young dwarf would take such a cheap victory either.

He sits down and polishes while he watches the final grains of sand flow down.

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I take two discs of aluminum I cut earlier from the main sheet, and trim them into shape exactly. I place the first at the top of the haft, and weld. I flip the weapon over, and weld the second disc to the base of the haft.

Very carefully, of course. This simple process takes me many minutes.

Now for the main weld, down the seam at the back of the haft. Touch by careful touch, I turn the rolled sheet into a tube proper. My hands are shaking—I have less than a short-hour left. A few of my touches go awry, though I manage to avoid scarring any of the runes.

One final touch of yellow heat and I am done. The glow fades to red then vanishes. I run my eyes along the back of the haft and wince. It's a rough weld, and is disrupting the runic flow by more than a small amount.

But the final grains of sand are falling. There's no time to fix it.

“I see you are finished,” says Judge Caletek.

I flinch. Again, I'd forgotten his presence. “Yes,” I say. “Is Barahtan?”

“He is.”

“I see. However, I would like to practice a little with it first.”

“Go ahead. The test will commence when the bell chimes.”

Hands trembling, I grasp my completed weapon for the first time, and I am grasped in turn by the will to swing it. My muscles work without my will and raise the weapon above my head. Its points gleams wickedly in the light. The red-gold runes along it shimmer like rivers of blood.

Judge Caletek looks at me. I look at him. For the first time, something approaching life glints in his eyes, and he takes a step back, then another. I want to pursue! Like a hungry salamander after bleeding prey, I want to leap forward and strike with all my might. I see the steel of the pick slamming through the top of his skull, see blood pour from his mouth, see myself bring him low.

With terrible effort, I force myself to turn around, and I strike the sand.

I let go of the weapon and step away, breath rapid, eyes wide. My bloodlust fades; joy replaces it. A wide grin comes across my face.

This weapon is powerful beyond anything I have yet created.

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Vanerak leaps to his feet and cranes to look over the barrier. Behind his mirror-mask his eyes are wide. What power! The dark sand of the Arena of Lost Memories is not so deep; the pick has sunk deep into the stone beneath, and did so with barely any resistance.

Again, such power! The young dwarf has good reason to smile. His runes are not simply different—they are superior. To have turned that rough iron-mongery to a weapon of magnificence! Unbelievable. It is truly unbelievable: he may actually win this round of the trial.

Should Vanerak be worried? He dismisses the concern. The judges will not let him win. On pain of seeing their worst secrets exposed, they will ensure that Zathar ends up the loser.