Judge Gerapek breaks from the huddle and approaches me. I could only catch snatches of what was said; my heart pounds in anticipation of his decision. Am I to live, or am I to die? The look in his eyes is a solemn one—yet I also sense fear. He has gone pale. His hands are clenched in a failed attempt to stop them shaking.
He's nearly as frightened as I am! Scared of Vanerak, no doubt. Maybe he isn't being bribed, but blackmailed.
He halts before me.
“We have made our decision,” he 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.”
My hope is shattered to pieces. Rage rises from its ruins—I raise my war-pick!
Then I let go. It clatters on the black stone and I sink to my knees in front of it.
The trial is over. I am to die. I only hope that Guildmaster Wharoth will be able to carry out the sentence before I am captured by Vanerak.
I hear the march of armored footsteps: the guards are already here to take me away. I am grabbed and pulled to my feet. I give no resistance.
“Wait!” someone shouts. It's Barahtan!
The guards pause. I look up at my opponent, and see that his handsome face is twisted in fury.
“Wait!” he shouts again. “This isn't over!”
“What are you talking about?” snaps Judge Daztat. “You have won, Barahtan! What in hell are you complaining about?”
“I have won only two rounds. There is still a third.”
“I understand that you are keen to gain your guild honor,” says Judge Gerapek, “but the trial is now over. You have won two out of the three rounds. Perhaps your victory was not so clean as you hoped, but even so, I'm afraid—“
“What of victory by obliteration?”
“What of it?”
“If victory by obliteration is won in any of the rounds, the trial goes to whoever achieved it. That's the rule, is it not?”
“The rule of victory by obliteration is to make sure that unfair contests do not drag on any longer than needs be,” says Judge Daztat. “It is not to give the inferior runeknight some final chance that he will throw away regardless.”
“It does not matter what the rule is for. What matters is the rule itself. Unless there is a clause that states victory by obliteration can only be won in the first two rounds, Zathar still has a chance, and I did not hear you speak of such a clause in the reading of the rules.”
“Such an obvious point does not need to be written down. Guards, hurry him away! It's time for the traitor to die.”
They start to pull me back, but this time I do struggle.
“Stop this!” I shout. “Barahtan is right. By your own rules, I still have a chance!”
“Silence him!” screams Judges Daztat.
A guard clamps an armored hand over my mouth. I continue to writhe yet they are in enruned armor and I am in leather overalls. I am pulled inexorably toward the steps.
“Halt!” orders Judge Gerapek. “Halt, guards!”
They halt, though the one with his hand over my mouth keeps it there. Judge Daztat turns to the older dwarf with fury.
“What are you saying!” he cries—and there is terror in his voice, manic terror. “The trial is over!”
“No.” Judge Gerapek is trembling. “No, Barahtan is right. The trial cannot be brought to a close while the defender still has a chance of victory.”
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“What chance! He has no chance. Barahtan has proved his skill twice already!”
“By the barest margin.”
“No, beyond all doubt!”
“Silence!” Judge Gerapek screams. “Silence yourself, damned wretch! You disgrace! You insult our justice!”
Judge Daztat's mouth freezes open in shock. Judge Gerapek has gone white, and muscles in his face spasm uncontrollably. He swallows to calm himself.
“The trial must continue,” he says in a whisper. “That is the rule. As judges, we must obey the rules that are set, or we do not deserve the power to punish those who break them. We must ensure the law is applied equally and impartially. Zathar still has a chance for victory. However slim it may be, he still has that chance.”
“Yes,” says Barahtan. “He does.”
“The trial will continue,” Judge Gerapek repeats. “It shall continue!” he shouts up at the stands. “I recant my earlier announcement! The traitor Zathar's execution is forestalled! If, during the third round of this trial, Barahtan's weapon should break, the defendant will be proclaimed innocent!”
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I sit slumped on the bed in my cell. An hour at least has passed already yet I am still in terrible shock. My foot is tapping. My skin is cold with sweat. I keep glancing up at the bars of the door, terrified that Judge Daztat or Vanerak will appear, to announce that the trial is to be brought to a close after all.
No one comes.
I have been granted a chance! One final chance! I cannot throw it away, yet neither can I see how I can take advantage of it. To craft armor so strong that a weapon of third degree standard breaks upon it—how is that possible to accomplish?
And the judges will give me something very difficult to craft. Something that requires a great deal of materials, to stretch my coin as thin as possible. Whereas Barahtan will be given a simple task: to make a spear, or an axe. Or perhaps a sword, since every dwarf in Allabrast is well-used to creating those.
The odds are against me worse than ever before. Yet, a way occurs to me. A slim line of light in the darkness. A tiny chink in the armor of Vanerak's schemes, only a fraction of a millimeter wide.
I will pierce through it.
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Barahtan does not return to the guildhall. Instead he finds the highest, dirtiest pub in the district and sits alone, a hood over his head. He has torn the gems from his beard and tucked them into his shirt. He does not want anyone to recognize him—he cannot face the shame.
No matter what the judges say: he lost. The war-pick pierced his ten-fold rune-alloyed bronze. It broke apart the runic resonances, killed what he poured all his knowledge and skill into creating. Zathar proved himself the better runeknight.
Yet the judges tried to have him slain regardless! This trial is a sham. It is nothing but entertainment for those who bear a grudge against Zathar. That their grudge is a reasonable one does not matter. Justice should be about truth, not a means to revenge.
Barahtan wonders if his father is in on this. Even if he isn't, likely he suspects something, and is ignoring it. Anything for the guild, would be his excuse. It's always for the guild. Holding his own son back—that's also for the guild. It'd bring shame if Barahtan was die in a mere exam instead on some more glorious quest.
“Another drink?” rasps the barkeep. He's spent some time in the mines, by the looks and sound of him: his skin is gray and his throat is ruined from rock-dust.
“Two.”
“More hot beer?”
“No. Something stronger.”
“What, then?”
“Your strongest.”
The barkeep gives him two glasses filled with acid-smelling blue liquid. Barahtan downs them both in quick succession.
Zathar was a miner too. This compounds Barahtan's shame, for he is the son of one of the strongest bloodlines in Allabrast. To be defeated by a miner, and with a pickaxe at that... He shakes his head bitterly.
What good are gold-running veins if even a miner can defeat him? And why is a miner more noble than his father by far? As far as Barahtan can remember, his father has never admitted any of his wrongdoings, of which there have been many.
Barahtan makes a decision. No matter the outcome of the trial, he will leave the guild afterwards. He's had enough of false honor.
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“You... You are displeased, I can see that. But I had no choice. The rules are the rules, and we cannot break them. Bend them, yes! But not break them. We cannot go that far. The High Justices... We don't want to get them any more involved than they already are. You don't want them involved either, I'm sure. Unless...”
“Are you suggesting they are also in my vise?”
To the three judges, night feels colder than it ever has before. In the time they have been waiting for Vanerak, and he has kept them waiting for some time, the cavern's chill has sunk through their armor and into their flesh and bones. Even Judge Daztat is subdued.
They can feel the black dust eating into their lungs also.
“Well, I thought... Our appointments in the first place...” Judge Gerapek continues to stammer. “They are not, then, I presume.”
“Whether they are or are not is irrelevant. What matters is that you are failing me.”
The three judges look down. None of them is about to point out that it was Vanerak's idea for the traitor to make a war-pick.
“My choice of craft for the foul traitor was a miscalculation," Vanerak admits. "However he still should not have been given this chance.”
“The rules...” Judge Gerapek says weakly.
“The rules can be bent.”
“We will not fail you this time,” says Judge Daztat. “The traitor will be yours.”
“He shall be. Barahtan will forge a sword, and Zathar a tower-shield.”
“It is a rule that the type of shield cannot be specified,” says Judge Gerapek, his voice nearly a whisper. “He must be free to choose the kind.”
“As you said before, the rules can be bent. Specify the dimensions exactly—it is to be both tall and wide. Stretch his coin thin.”
“Very well.”
“And when it comes time for the final judgement, do not fail me again.”