“You must listen to me, honored prosecutor!”

“I am forging. Do not distract me!”

“You are in great danger. Zathar's runes—”

“I do not care. I will slice through them.”

And maybe he will. Judge Gerapek looks upon Barahtan's sword with awe. Such a piece, forged by a fourth degree, in such limited time and with such limited materials...

He'd been expecting the crafts forged during the trial to be of inferior quality. But both contestants have proven him wrong: the pressure of time, of lack of materials, of life and death and honor, has made diamonds of their crafts. Especially these final two creations: they are masterpieces.

But Judge Gerapek is beginning to fear that Zathar's is the superior.

“You must listen to me. Please!”

Barahtan puts down his reagent and welder and turns around. “I believe the judges are not meant to interfere in the contest. Are trials not meant to be fair? That's the whole point of them, no?”

“It's Zathar that'll make it unfair. He means to wound you most grievously, prosecutor.”

“Wound me?”

“His runes are... They are not honorable. They do not fall within the boundaries of the competition.”

“If they are one of the scripts we were forbidden to use, then why have you not disqualified him?”

“They are not, as such—“

“Then surely there is no issue.”

“Prosecutor, no set of rules is watertight. He's found a hole, a gap, through which he means to stab.”

“How?”

“Surely you noticed those flashes of light earlier? And heard his scream?”

“I've seen nothing but my own craft and heard nothing but my own hammer, judge. I am a runeknight at work. I do not notice anything other than the metal before me.”

“He has created runes to destroy you with! Runes of destruction. They will burn you when you strike.”

Barahtan thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

“You have not seen them, prosectutor!”

“What would burning me do? He means to burn my craft, judge. He means to win through obliteration. Have you forgotten that?”

“Of course not!” Judge Gerapek snaps. “But he means to burn you along with it!”

“That will not improve his chances for victory. He means no such thing. This Zathar has honor.”

“He is a most foul traitor, Barahtan! He betrayed his entire realm to a dragon!”

Barahtan sneers. His eyes flash. Judge Gerapek flinches back.

“You've already made up your mind about his guilt, I see.”

“That is untrue—“

“I know what I just heard! Let me make one thing clear, judge. I don't like what's being done in this arena. I don't like this sham of a trial, this disgrace. I know why I was chosen: because I ought to be third degree, at least! My father has held me back. You know this full well.”

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“We were not aware—“

“You were aware! And my father is aware also—of this and how the defeat of this so-called traitor will bring much honor to him. How I feel, what honor is to come to me, is secondary. Not even that.”

“This is irrelevant! I am talking to you because you are in danger!”

“You are talking to me because you want me to win! You have failed in your impartiality, judge. All three of you have. You are corrupt. You have been bought.”

Judge Gerapek goes white. “How dare you!”

“I dare to tell the truth! You have brought dishonor upon Allabrast, upon Zathar, and upon me also!”

“You shame yourself, prosecutor! How dare you question our honor! You accuse the whole court of a most terrible crime!”

“I do! Now get away from me! You too, Caletek! I am going to enrune my blade, and then I am going to regain some shred of my dignity by defeating my opponent fairly! Do not talk to me again!”

Judge Gerapek slinks away, head bowed by the weight of his guilt.

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

I let out one final gasp of pain and throw the welding stick into the sand. Done! The penultimate rune of the final stanza, done. I open my eyes and examine the runes. Miraculously, they are unmarred. Their runic flow will be uninterrupted.

I glance at the timer. My last long-hour is nearly up. Now for the final part of the craft.

With one hand I drag the outer layer of the shield back to the anvil. My eyes water when I realize that I'll have to use both hands to fit it over the polished steel of the inner layer.

Roaring in pain, I lift it over. A clang echoes, and now the rent and melted hole where the third stanza ought to be is hidden from sight, my mistake concealed. It's still there though, a wound just as real as that on my shoulder.

The strength in my left arm gives out. It falls to hang limply at my side. I whimper at the pain, a pathetic sound.

I stumble over to the furnace and switch it on. Heat shimmers. My wound feels as if it's being baked and I tilt my body away. I heat up the welding stick, return to the anvil and, carefully, begin to draw a red line around the rim of the shield.

The line is uneven. I feel sick, dizzy. The pain is getting worse by the minute. It's as if my shoulder is metal going from red, to yellow, to white. Sweat runs down my face and wells up from every pore in my skin—even though every inch of me but for the burn feels cold.

The two layers of the shield slowly become one. I take away the welding stick. There are jags and uneven patches—this cannot be helped. I toss the welding stick away, rush to switch off the furnace. The heat in my shoulder is unbearable. I cannot let any more warmth near me or I think I will burn.

I slump down, put my back against the anvil and stare at the timers. Fatigue takes me, and my vision begins to blur and darken. I force my eyes to remain open. Sleep could mean death. I am under no illusions as to the seriousness of this wound.

The last few grains of sand drain into the bottom of the hourglass, and the bell below the arena chimes. The dead faces form in the sands. Their eyes turn toward me before they fade.

“I won't join you,” I hiss through my pain. “I won't!”

“It's time,” says Judge Daztat. “Pick up your shield.”

I turn, grasp the horn of the anvil with my right hand and pull myself to my feet. I look upon my tower-shield, and it looks heavy. Impossibly so.

“You must take it to the armor stand and affix it by yourself. Otherwise you forfeit the trial.”

I grit my teeth and pull my craft off the anvil. Its corners dig deep into the sand. I grasp the handle and heft it up. This slab of steel is too heavy to be called a shield: it's a solid wall.

I lumber up the stairs, each step an effort. It becomes hard to breath, and blackness intrudes at the edges of my vision.

Two more steps. I stumble and fall forward. The spikes on my shield screech upon the stone platform. Red sparks fly. I gasp and force myself to stand up, breath hard to force the blackness around my vision away. Colored lights dance in my eyes.

Barahtan and the other two judges are already here, but I can barely make them out. Barahtan's sword is shining blue; I have no energy to waste on gazing at it. Single-mindedly I go to the armor stand and struggle to put my shield into its hand.

Done. I stagger back, wheezing and coughing. Suddenly I realize that I'm on the floor. Did I just pass out? I force myself to get up. The agony of my burn has spread from my shoulder into my upper arm and chest. I need healing chains, and quickly.

“Step back please, defender,” says Judge Gerapek. I stagger away. “One more step... Good.” His voice is wavering. He swallows. “Now, prosecutor, ready your blade. Angle it as you will.”

“I shall.” He sounds angry. “As I will.”

I watch him raise his blade. It's five feet of curved titanium made somehow like blue-glass, and it ripples with light. It's a work of art. The runes on it are dedicated to a singular purpose: cutting.

“Close your eyes when your blade hits the metal,” I manage to gasp. “Or you'll be blinded.”

He nods without looking at me.

Judge Gerapek takes a deep breath, then:

“Strike!”