A phalanx of guards comes to my cell. I'm already standing at the door waiting for them. In silence I'm led out for the last time. We go down the corridors past the eyes of the clerks, to the outside road and the jeering. It's diminished since my last two journeys, by a little. There are even some cheers: from a group of rough dwarves with their beards tainted gray by rock-dust.

Miners! Do they think I'm their champion? I'm not—I'm here to win a chance to redeem myself, a chance for the freedom to go and undo as best I can my crime, by slaying the black dragon. That is my only goal.

I enter the carriage. We depart. It stops on the way and my heart skips a beat. Has it been halted by some plot of Vanerak? Are his dwarves swarming outside, ready to smash in and take me? It restarts again and I calm myself. Vanerak has no reason to make a grab for me here: after all, my only chance at freedom is now so meagre it may as well not exist.

We arrive at the Arena of Lost Memories and soon I'm sitting in the room of black stone and bright crystal lights. Barahtan is already here. He's taken the jewels from his golden beard. Perhaps he tore them out from shame that my miner's tool nearly defeated his craft.

The judges are here already too and for once they do not look so lifeless. Judge Gerapek is pale with fear, and Judge Daztat is glaring at me with rage in his eyes. Judge Caletek still shows no emotion, yet while before he was like dead wood he is now like rotting wood, his back bent as if he's on the verge of collapse.

Blackmail, not bribery. It has to be. So my trial is a matter of life and death for more than just me. And their fear shows they think I have a chance.

They'll do everything in their power to snuff it out.

“Prosecutor Barahtan, you are to forge a sword,” says Judge Gerapek. “A sword is defined as a weapon with one long blade, straight or curved, sharp on either one side or both, and with a handle no longer than one quarter of the blade's length. It may be designed to be wielded in either one or both hands. The length of the blade must be at least one foot or the craft will be considered a dagger and be disqualified. The blade may or may not come to a point, however the strikes to be performed in the testing must be slashes.”

“I understand,” Barahtan says curtly.

“Defender Zathar, you are to forge a tower-shield. A shield is defined as a plate of metal to be held in one hand to guard against the blows of an enemy. It may be convex or flat. The tower variant of a shield is defined as a shield which is rectangular in shape and has a height of at least three feet and a width of at least two feet.”

This is strange. Neither of us has been instructed to make a particular type of weapon before: there are a hundred different varieties of helmet, yet I was free to choose what kind I wished to make. Equally there are a hundred different varieties of sword. Boldly, I raise my hand.

“I wish to ask a question.”

“You have that right,” says Judge Gerapek.

“Why am I being told to make a particular variant of shield?”

Judge Daztat scowls. “Because that's what we, the judges, have decided you're to make.”

“Until now I've had more freedom. And it seems to me that the bigger the craft, the more disadvantaged I am, since the amount of gold I'm given remains the same.”

“You are to craft what we tell you to craft.”

I scowl. “I feel that I'm being unfairly disadvantaged.”

“You will craft what we tell you to!”

“I feel the same way as Zathar,” says Barahtan. “Why are the specifications being given so exactly?”

The acid in his voice surprises me. Maybe he's torn the diamonds from his beard not out of shame for nearly losing to my pickaxe, but because he's realized the trial he's staked his honor on is a sham.

“Because that is the decision we have made! Now silence, both of you!”

I shut my mouth. It's clear to me they aren't going to change their minds. It's not like I was expecting them to anyway—all I wanted to do with that little outburst was sow some seeds of doubt in the minds of the guards and clerks here. Hopefully that doubt will spread up to the High Justices, and something will be done about the judges' corruption.

It's a slim hope, yet I feel I had to try. Surely someone is beginning to see through this trial. Vanerak can't be blackmailing every judge and justice.

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“Any further questions?” asks Judge Gerapek.

“No,” I say.

“And from the honored prosecutor?”

“No,” says Barahtan.

“Good. Then the final contest of the trial shall now begin. Guards, lead them to their places.”

A phalanx of guards surrounds us. We stand and are marched out the room. In the corridor Barahtan speaks to me while we walk:

“You won the last round.”

“Not according to the judges,” I say bitterly.

“They aren't interested in justice, only in having you destroyed. I can see that now. This whole trial is an insult to Allabrast. To all dwarves of Ulrike's kingdom.”

“I'm glad you realize.”

“I'm ashamed to be a part of it. I'm ashamed of my father for foisting this task on me.”

“Yet you're not going to give an easy victory.”

“No. No matter how I feel about the circumstances, I at least must try to keep my own honor, however tarnished it may already be.”

“You will forge the best sword you can.”

“As a runeknight, I must. I'm sorry, Zathar. You deserved a real trial.”

“Thank you for saying so.”

“I won't attend your execution, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I may still win,” I snap.

I'm glad he realizes the dishonor. Yet, at the same time, I can't help but feel anger also. He just admitted to losing the last contest, and even so assumes he'll crush me in this one! The arrogance sickens me.

“Of course you may,” he says, and bows his head. “I apologize for the slight.”

We reach the branch in the corridor.

“Apology accepted,” I say, my anger already fading. His apology sounded genuine. “Thank you for admitting your loss in the last round. I'm glad there's at least one dwarf in Allabrast with a sense of honor.”

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

The reaction of the crowd as I walk onto the black sands is strange: there is little cheering or jeering. Instead they eye me with breathless anticipation. I remind myself that I'm not to look at them and focus instead on the furnace and anvil and tools. I cannot afford to be distracted, to waste even the slightest amount of time.

I need every minute of the three long-hours of this final round, for this craft is going to be the most difficult I have ever attempted.

I already have the basic design in my head. It's one I could have applied to any piece of armor—after all, what is any piece of armor but, in essence, a sheet of metal? I've been planning through all the short-hours until now.

Since I have no chance of making a shield Barahtan's sword will shatter on through the virtue of simple hardness, instead I will make a volatile shield. Its purpose: to blast and break.

The moment the bell rings and the faces form in the sand—I will not join them!—I sit down at the writing desk and begin to sketch and scribble. I think deep on every detail. Though a shield has no strange curves and awkward angles like a breastplate does, that does not mean it is simple to design.

First of all, its great size poses an issue. I simply don't have the money to make the steel as thick as it needs to be all over. Parts of it will have to be thin. In fact, flicking through the catalogue, I realize ordering steel isn't even an option for me. I'm going to have to make my own from iron, because for my plan to work, I'm going to have to spend nearly all my gold on runes and reagent.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Judge Daztat approach.

“What is it?” I snap. “Come to charge me some extra tax?”

“Just the usual amount.”

But I know he's going to charge me more, and if I can't get enough material for the runes I need, my life or death gamble won't even be that. So I decide to make another gamble, right here and now. I put cold steel into my voice:

“Judge Caletek made no mention of tax.”

“Didn't he?” Judge Daztat sneers.

Abruptly I stand. He's a little shorter than me. I glare and he flinches. Behind the bluster he's just as scared as Judge Gerapek. I can make this gamble pay off.

“You're corrupt,” I say quietly.

“Excuse me?” he says sharply.

“You're corrupt.”

“How dare you!”

“You're corrupt,” I repeat.

“Silence! Do not antagonize me, or you will regret it!”

I shake my head. “Why? You're already in Vanerak's grip. I can see through you, all three of you.”

“How dare you accuse us! And an honorable Thanic Guardsdwarf!”

“Stop playing stupid.”

“Unfounded accusations will do nothing to help your cause, traitor!”

“You are already hell-bent on throwing me to Vanerak. You're trying your hardest to fail me here already.”

“We are fair and honorable arbiters!”

I laugh. “Is that why you charged me all that extra gold in the first round? You're a fool, judge. You should've told Judge Caletek to do the same. I wonder how the High Justices would feel if someone pointed out the discrepancy to them?”

He narrows his eyes. “You assume they aren't in on this already.”

“If they were, the trial never would've begun in the first place. I'd never even have made it to the prison.”

“Maybe we're just doing this to torture you.”

“You aren't doing anything. Vanerak is. And though he enjoys being cruel, he doesn't enjoy wasting time.”

“Again, you besmirch the name of an honored member of the Thanic Guard.”

I roll my eyes. “We're wasting time, Judge Daztat. Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to order my materials. You are going to charge me the correct amount. No additions. Then it's going to arrive here and I'm going to start forging.”

“You will be charged however much I decide.”

“Then I'm going to shout up to the crowd about the injustice. Whispers will spread back to the High Justices. Questions will be asked about you. And maybe that little secret of yours that Vanerak knows about will get out.”

He goes pale. My suspicions were correct. He's being blackmailed.

“Well, judge?”

“None of the crowd wants to see you win.”

“Some do. And even among those who don't, there are at least a few who want this trial conducted as fairly as possible. Not everyone is as self-serving as you are.”

Veins pulse at his temples. He tugs at his white scarf.

“The high justices—“

“Just admit you made a mistake, Judge Daztat. No one needs to know your corruption if I keep quiet. I won't tell even after the contest. Win or lose. And I keep my promises.”

“The word of a traitor is worth nothing,” he spits. “But fine. No tax. It doesn't matter anyway. You still have no chance.”