My materials arrive. I check that they're as I requested: eight kilograms of iron scrap, cost three golden wheels; four hundred grams of charcoal dust, cost two golden wheels; twelve feet of platinum wire, gauge three hundred fifty, cost ten golden wheels; sixteen grams of quizik reagent, grain size three, cost five golden wheels.

All are here, stacked neatly on a wooden pallet. Behind them is the final material I've requested, at the cost of all thirty of my remaining golden wheels.

Upon the lid of a box is emblazoned a pupil-less eye. The runes read:

Almergris.

I open it. Inside is the same dry orange powder that so many dwarves of the fort died in battle to retrieve, and which subsequently claimed the eyes of many more. Even amongst all the other rare and dangerous materials available in Allabrast, this is still one of the most deadly substances a runeknight can bring to the forge.

Almergris and the runes of light it breathes life into are to be the agent of destruction in my craft. It is them which will destroy Barahtan's sword.

I hope they do not cause too much harm to his body. He has done no wrong in this trial. If anyone deserves to be burned and blinded it is the judges and Vanerak.

But I can see no way to achieve victory without almergris.

I shut the box tightly; I don't want to look at that orange powder any longer than necessary. I put the box back on the pallet yet, even shut, I can feel hate radiating through the lid. I shudder.

There's no time to waste on fear. It's time for the first part of the craft. Chunk by chunk I lift the iron scrap up onto the anvil. It's dirty, nasty stuff. Dusty, rent and splintered, and coated all over with rust, it looks as if it was pulled from some long-forgotten construction site. Although I ordered eight kilograms, about a kilogram of this is impurities that I need to hammer and burn away.

My first full long hour is going to be spent doing this. So, I get started. I arrange the scrap into a rough rectangle in the furnace, put on the thickest forging overalls and longest gloves, and switch on the flame as high as it will go.

The scrap begins to glow. Its rust peels and cracks. Impurities spark and flare in orange spikes of flame, and also in more exotic colors. Greens and blacks and blues illuminate the furnace interior, but as the heat of the iron increases, they are drowned out by an all-encompassing white.

I turn off the flame and wait for the mass to cool to yellow-orange, then I pull it out with the largest tongs I have. It's damn heavy and awkward to manipulate, but eventually I manage to get it onto the anvil.

With the heaviest hammer, a great two-handed mallet, I begin to batter. This isn't fine work I'm doing—there's no precision to my actions—I am simply bashing the impurities away. Scales of black fall from the orange mass. Great clouds of sparks rise up, burning my face and beard. I narrow my eyes to slits and ignore the pain, ignore the smell of smoke.

The mass of metal starts to flatten out. I lift it sideways with great effort, grunting and roaring. I let it drop onto its reverse side. The clang echoes throughout the arena. I continue to hammer. The color fades from orange to red.

I return it to the furnace. This time there are not so many gouts of flame and blasts of sparks. Many impurities have already been burned away. Only the obvious ones, though. I still have a great deal of hammering to do.

Hammer, heat, repeat. It's a very familiar pattern, but I'm putting far greater strain on my body than usual. I throw all my strength into each and every blow of the mallet. I yell and shout; the noise of my work in the ears of the crowd must be tremendous. The mass of iron flattens out until it's too wide to fit on the anvil—now for the hardest and most vital part of the process.

Using the edge of the mallet's head, I indent a line down the center of the iron slab. Then I strain to turn the whole thing over once again. I indent another line into the back of the slab. Now I grab hold of the edge with my tongs, and strain to fold the whole sheet in half.

The iron is stiff. I struggle to bend it upwards. Once, twice, three times I thrust my whole body-weight into the task. I gasp and nearly fall down. For a few moments I rest, then I stretch my arms, grit my teeth, and try a fourth time. This time the hot iron folds. I throw down the tongs, pick up the mallet, and with a few more brutal strikes, flatten the top half against the bottom.

Back into the furnace it goes. Heat, hammer, fold, repeat. Over and over again I continue. I can no longer feel my arms; the muscles are numb. My vision is blurred from staring too long into the glow. My breath comes in gasps. My heart is pounding against the inside of my ribs.

Slowly the physical discomforts fade. I am in my trance. I feel the metal through my tools and sense that it is pleased. It wants to be cleaned, purified, strengthened. I scatter powdered charcoal over it when it's at its hottest, fold it in. Now it has become steel.

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Once the process is complete, it'll be better steel than I ever could've bought.

I am truly sorry that it is being born to die.

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Guildmaster Wharoth stares down at Zathar in silence. The young dwarf batters at the steel tirelessly, taking nary a pause even to wipe the sweat from his brow. Turning iron into steel by hand—few dwarves bother with such a process. Buying it is so much simpler.

What happened to the Zathar who couldn't even be bothered linking his own chainmail? He has matured beyond measure.

Yet there's something disturbing about the way he moves. There's a sense of violence about his work, a kind of mania. It was present in his very first craftings too, yet it's increased to a far greater degree.

That war-pick—there was something odd about it, something wrong, something off. It seemed almost to possess Zathar. A couple of times, Wharoth could've sworn he was about to drive it through one of the judges' skulls.

Wharoth focuses more deeply. He ignores the whispers around him, the questions being asked of him. He tries to remember if he's ever felt such violent energy from Zathar before.

Yes. That spear of his, Heartseeker. When he first crafted it, Wharoth was shocked by its power, which was far greater than a weapon of such middling quality should have had.

What else? Further back: the dagger with the halat rune that was not halat. That was also a nasty piece of work. Well, all weapons are, if you set aside their beauty—in essence they are tools for killing, and usually for killing fellow dwarves. Yet runes that tear the blood from what the edge cuts...

Only a cruel dwarf would put such on his weapon.

Zathar has done much good, though. His friend spoke highly of how he saved the fort from someone truly evil. More than that, he put his life on the line for others many times over, even when death was all but certain.

So why are the weapons he creates so invariably brutal?

Including this craft. It's not for defense: Wharoth is not familiar with almergris, but he knows that even the merest grain holds terrible potential.

“Guildmaster! Guildmaster!”

Wharoth is pulled from his thoughts. “What is it, Guthah?” he snaps.

“Do you really think he can win, guildmaster?” asks the initiate.

Wharoth pauses for a moment. “Yes,” he says.

The initiate frowns. “You sound almost like you don't want him to.”

“Of course I want him to.”

But Guildmaster Wharoth is still torn on this point.

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

The noise of battering from Zathar's side of the arena is tremendous, but Barahtan barely hears it. He's deep in concentration working on the design for his sword. Despite the great constraints on his time and gold, it's to be the greatest he has ever crafted.

But his motivations have changed. No longer is he concerned with gaining the recognition of his father and guild. He has not glanced up at them even once. The honor he will gain through this craft is purely for himself.

Upon the paper, the sketch takes form. A lesser dwarf might say the lines of ink are taking on a life of their own, so brilliantly realized is the design. Yet Barahtan is a runeknight and he knows that a craft is nothing until it is metal and rune.

Once this design is complete, though, then yes. It'll take on a life of its own. A life in legend—Barahtan's legend—his own legend and no one else's.

He lays down the writing stick and, ready now to order his materials, turns around. To his surprise, Judge Gerapek is here, standing beside Judge Caletek. Barahtan is confused for a moment, then decides it doesn't really affect things.

“I would like one bar of titanium, alloy three eight seven, three inches in diameter. For my runes I shall have—”

“Before all that,” interrupts Judge Gerapek, “we would like to talk to you about something.”

“About what?” Barahtan snaps. He isn't used to being interrupted—and he wants as little to do with the judges as possible. Their presence disgusts him.

“We have an offer. A suggestion. You do not have to take it, of course.”

“Out with it. My arms burn to begin the craft. Zathar is not beaten yet.”

“Well, yes, that's what we wish to discuss, actually.”

Barahtan narrows his eyes. “That so? Out with it, then.”

“You have already won, you see—“

“The last two rounds, yes. Despite how his war-pick clearly pierced my craft.”

“The weapon must render the armor non-functional.”

“I hardly think a pierced section of armor can be considered functional. Especially with its runic flow rent and torn. But yes, fine, according to you I won.”

“Indeed.”

“So what's your offer? Out with it, please.”

“We have examined some of the technicalities of the rules,” says Judge Caletek in his usual dry monotone.

“Have you now?”

“You have won.”

“How so?”

Judge Gerapek clears his throat. “Zathar must win this third contest by obliteration. So, if he was to win this round in another way, technically, victory of the entire contest would be yours.”

“He's not going to win in any way.”

“Well, indeed. But in the interests of all of us, to bring the trial to a speedy close, so that all wronged by him may have satisfaction all the sooner...”

“Out with it!” Barahtan spits.

“Say, if you were to be disqualified here... Your design is for rather a long sword...”

“Eighty-one point five centimeters.”

“Yes, well, if it was shorter—considerably shorter, in fact—it would be a dagger. The trial would come to a close and no one will have to suffer unnecessarily.”

“You are saying I should throw my design away?”

“Alter it. In the interests of everyone! There is no need to prolong the traitor's suffering, nor the suffering of those who yearn for justice for their loss—“

“Justice!” Barahtan shouts. “Hah! That's what this trial is for, is it?”

“It is,” says Judge Caletek. “We wish to see it done quickly.”

Barahtan's lip curls into a sneer. “You two are fools if you think I'll take this offer. Worse than fools, you insult me. To think I would alter my craft at another's behest!”

“This is for the good of everyone!” Judge Gerapek protests.

“I will defeat Zathar on my own terms, with my own ability. I do not need to best him through technicalities.”

The judges look at each other.

“Very well,” Judge Gerapek says bitterly. “Then I suppose we have no choice but to trust in your skill.”

“Too right you do,” Barahtan says coldly. “Now take my order of materials and don't talk to me again until my craft is finished.”