The bell chimes; the faces form in the arena sand then fade back into indistinct mounds. I wield my war-pick and follow Judge Caletek to the raised section. Every step of the way I must fight my urge to strike him down—the injustice of what is happening! Does he not deserve to die? Yet he is unarmed and helmet-less. To strike him would destroy what little honor I have.

Despite this logic, the urges remain. They're not from me; they're from my weapon.

I hope.

We reach the top of the platform. Judges Gerapek and Daztat are already here, standing off to one side. Barahtan is here too, kneeling in front of the armor stand, fixing his greave to it. Right now he's blocking my view of the craft. I wait patiently with war-pick raised for him to step aside. My arm aches to swing down.

He steps aside; I see the greave. It looks plain to my eyes, a slab of dull bronze, thick and rectangular. Its front edge is flat—angles are not so much use when your opponent has all the time he likes to aim as he pleases. He is counting on simple thickness of metal, and simple shape for clear runic flow.

It's long, in Bezethast script like is favored by the Red Anvil guild. Yet I sense something more to it, something behind it: layers of strength like the many walls of a nigh-impregnable fortress.

I remember what Helnat said about how creating one's own alloys has become popular here in Allabrast—grafting runes to molten metal. During my time in the Red Anvil's guildhall I learned more about the process: it's fiendishly tricky. Only a third degree or higher has the skill required to reach any kind of mastery.

It seems that Barahtan has this skill.

No matter. My war-pick cries out to destroy, and I will let it. I stride forward—

“Wait!” says Judge Gerapek. “You are to wait until we give you permission.”

With great effort I halt my swing.

“He already broke the rule,” says Judge Daztat. “He is disqualified.”

“I... I was just getting my aim.”

“That does not matter.”

“He did not strike yet,” says Judge Gerapek. “As long as his weapon did not touch the metal, there is no issue.”

Judge Daztat sneers at me, then shrugs. “As you say, Gerapek.”

“Now, Barahtan, step away a little farther please.”

He does so, then takes a long look at my war-pick. His eyes widen.

“Zathar, ready yourself, but do not strike yet.”

I hold my war-pick up, angle it diagonally. My eyes focus on the part of the craft I will strike. The weakness is clear to me.

“Judges, take your positions.”

Judge Daztat steps around to look from the left, and Judge Caletek shifts a little more to the right.

“The testing of the crafts now begins. Defender, you may strike.”

I yell out and swing down. The speed shocks even me, yet despite this I am conscious of every last detail of my movement. I correct the angle halfway down. The tip makes contact—my runes become the color of arterial blood.

My pick rends apart the catch at the side of the craft, the one securing the tight metal strap that fixes the craft to the armor-stand. Shards of bronze spin and flash. My pick continues into the armor-stand's wooden heel, digging deep. The leg splits apart and the stand collapses. The greave falls at the same time, clattering on the stone front-up, spinning.

I draw my pick back. None of the judges say anything—though Barahtan has gone pale.

“Is it not rendered non-functional?” I ask Judge Gerapek.

“No.”

“How can a piece of armor that can't be secured to the body be considered functional?”

“The contest is to see if you can get through the plate,” Judge Daztat snaps. “Whether the buckle breaks or not is immaterial.”

I shrug. I expected as much, though it was worth a try. But a slim chance for an easy victory wasn't the only reason I struck there: now that the greave is lying on the stone, I can strike it more easily and with greater force. How my helmet came off set a precedent for this: the judges can't reposition Barahtan's armor without making their corruption clear.

I raise my pick for the next strike. I am aiming for the very center of the greave. A shiver runs up my arms from the runes of my weapon.

I swing! The head of my war-pick is a steel and red blur. It strikes Barahtan's greave at the exact center. So far the handle isn't hurting my aim. A clang sounds, almost as deafening as that of the arena bell. I feel the steel sink into the bronze.

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There's a metallic sound as I pull out the war-pick. The greave lifts off the ground slightly before falling back down. Where I struck is a tiny hole—it's only a few millimeters deep, but if my next eight strikes keep true, I can get through it.

I can get through it! A rush of excitement fills me, like that you feel in a battle when you sense that the enemy lines are about to break. Barahtan's face and those of the judges have gone white. I can win this!

But only if my next hits strike true, I remind myself. I must swing carefully.

I line up my war-pick. I swing for the third time. My awareness seems to speed up; three-quarters of the way down I realize I'm off by a fraction of an inch. Muscles contract in my wrists, correcting the angle, and the point of my pick strikes right into the center of the hole.

Clang! My steel sinks further into the bronze. It's tough, though, this craft. Runic alloying has given it strength far beyond that of ordinary bronze. I recall the armor of the elders of the Red Anvil, and the feeling of solidity it radiated. This metal is of the same quality.

Again! I strike true for a fourth time, and a fifth. I am halfway through the greave now—Barahtan and the judges are staring at the damage in abject horror. I give them a nasty smile: I know I shouldn't, but I can't help myself. None of them expected me to craft so well, and their plot to demoralize me has failed utterly.

A war-pick is the perfect weapon for a task like this. After all, a pickaxe's main function is to strike over and over again at something immobile. The fools!

My sixth strike hits true, then my seventh and eighth do also. Sparks fly up like spurting blood. The sight makes me grin even fiercer. I'm nearly through now. The crowd is utterly silent—their breaths are held. The only sound in the arena is that of my heavy panting.

But though my arms may be tired, my spirit is burning to destroy. I aim for a ninth time. I bring it down—my arms are shaking but I'm barely on course—there's a loud cough.

The tip of my pick hits a tenth millimeter off. It still slides into the hole, yet half of its power has been robbed from it.

“Who was that!” I scream.

There is silence. I look at Barahtan. He shakes his head and I believe him. It had to be one of the judges. I glare at Judge Daztat. It was him, I'm sure, yet his face is impassive.

“Do that again,” I warn. “And...”

I stop myself. Threatening the judges is not a good idea.

“And you'll what?” he says coldly.

“Never mind.” I shrug. “I am still going to break through on my next strike.”

“Go ahead then.”

I aim, swing, and my tenth strike is the truest of them all. My war-pick sinks in far, and at the very final fraction of a second of the blow, I sense the resistance of the bronze give. I've hit stone—I know the feeling well.

I wrench out my weapon for the final time. The hole in the greave is perfectly circular and dark black. The runic power radiating from the bronze is diminished by several times. I step back and look at the judges.

“I've pierced it,” I say. “I've won. My craft is superior.”

----------------------------------------

“It is we who will judge that,” says Judge Gerapek sternly.

He steps forward and kneels down to pick up the greave, then beckons the other two judges to follow him out of Zathar's earshot.

Hands shaking, he turns the bronze slab over. His mouth goes dry. The traitor was right: the war-pick pierced through. Vanerak's gamble has failed utterly—but who could've predicted that a mere fifth-degree's runes would have such power? Judge Gerapek is second degree yet even he has never seen these particular symbols before. The traitor's skill at working metal may be fifth degree, but the depth of his runic knowledge clearly goes far beyond that.

“He has won,” Judge Gerapek whispers.

“Show me more clearly,” Judge Daztat demands. “Give me the greave!”

Judge Gerapek hands it to him. He holds it up to the lights. The tiniest beam of white shines through.

“Barahtan has lost,” says Judge Gerapek. “Vanerak made a mistake in having the traitor make a war-pick. It's perfect for this kind of contest.”

“Maybe you should have raised that critique down in the night,” says Judge Daztat acidly. “Now look what's happened.”

“In the... In the end there'll be no issue. The weapon always has the advantage in a trial by forging. He will lose in the final part.”

Judge Daztat does not reply; he keeps turning the greave over and over in his hands. The broken strap swings back and forth; the point of light through the hole flashes.

“No,” he finally says. “There is to be no final part.”

“The greave is pierced! Anyone can see this. The High Justices examine these also, you are aware? And Vanerak holds nothing over them!”

“The contest is not decided by if the armor is pierced or not. It is decided by whether or not the armor retains its function. And this tiny hole is far from fatal to its integrity.”

“The runic function is all but destroyed.”

“Not from such a tiny piercing!”

“No, from the violence of the strikes. Could you not tell by the sound? The poems within the alloy have been killed.”

“That doesn't matter.” Judge Daztat looks the elder judge directly in the eyes. He lowers his voice. “The state of Barahtan's craft does not matter. Surely I do not need to remind you of what will happen if Vanerak is displeased with us, even in the slightest? If we delay his desire even a little? Once this contest is over, regardless of result, we are no longer useful to him.”

“That is not true! Our positions remain.”

“He will have his own realm soon—even compared to the other members of the Thanic Guard, he is powerful. And the others want him gone. If he decides to take an opportunity for a realm, many of them will not oppose his ambitions. I have friends in high places, Judge Gerapek—higher than your friends. I know these things.”

“Having judges beholden to him will always be useful.”

“Not if he's no longer in Allabrast! And there are other judges, and everyone has something they can be blackmailed with. I want my skin saved, Gerapek. If you do as well, do not get in his way!”

“None of this changes the fact that the bronze is pierced!”

“There is still a strong argument to be made that it is not pierced thoroughly enough. The diameter of the exit wound is small.”

“The High Justices—“

“—have granted us the legal power to decide here! Even if they cast doubt on us later, right here, right now, the judgement is ours to make. And we both know we have no choice in what to say!”

“I disagree. There is still the final craft. Zathar has no chance there. Vanerak will get his wish.”

“Vanerak does not want to be kept waiting!”

“We will let Judge Caletek decide.” Judge Gerapek turns to the dull-eyed dwarf. “What do you say, Caletek?”

Judge Caletek looks at the hole in the bronze. He flicks his eyes up to the shadowed box where Vanerak is. He looks back down at Judge Gerapek.

“The craft is pierced,” he says quietly. “The traitor is defeated.”

“Good,” says Judge Daztat.

“Very well,” Judge Gerapek says softly.

He turns from the other two and walks over to the fallen armor stand and Zathar. The traitor's gaze is fierce, yet there is fear in him also.

“We have made our decision,” Judge Gerapek announces. “The damage to the greave of the prosecution was insufficient. You have lost this round, and thus the trial. You are hereby found guilty and your sentence of death shall be carried out forthwith.”