Barahtan's blade falls toward my shield. He is striking right down the center, through the thickest part where the poems are. As predicted, he doesn't want to win with a trick. He wants to break my craft with honor.
His blue blade contacts the steel. It cuts.
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Vanerak's breath has stopped. He stares with eyes wide open. The blade enters. Now the true power of Zathar's runes is about to reveal itself. The true power, of runeforging!
Batarast's eyes are wide also. What's his fool of a son doing? Striking right through the central runes, the runes of destruction, after the judges so carefully warned him of the traitor's underhanded tactics? Fairness, honor... What do those mean when your guild's glory is at stake? There is no honor in defeat!
Wharoth is calm. All his worries are distilled into this moment—after it is over, he will know what he has to do. He will know if he must save Zathar or slay him.
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The blade parts the outer layer as if it were paper. The spikes designed to scratch and slow it are like soft hairs before a razor and do not slow it. The blued titanium is cutting through the first ordinary stanza now. My shield begins to glow from the top, redly, a wave of blood-red heat follows the blade's path—but the heat needs to be at the blade, not behind.
Now Barahtan's blade is cutting through the first stanza of destruction. The spiral of runes glows white. Quickly I shut my eyes. Through my eyelids, I see the beam lance out. It stops where Barahtan is, yet he lets out no cry of agony—in his battle-trance, he feels nothing.
His leathers are aflame, but his blade, now past the almergris-grafted runes yet unharmed, continues—but the red wave of heat is catching up to it—the heat must hit the next stanza of destruction at the same moment as the blade—the blade cuts through first and a moment later the stanza activates. I shut my eyes once more as a second beam of white lances into Barahtan. Again he makes no sound.
The red wave reaches the blade—the blued titanium hits where the third stanza of destruction ought to be and accelerates. Then it hits the fourth stanza of destruction. The red heat hits a fraction of a fraction of a second later.
Just in time. Barahtan's blade is not yet fully through.
The final beam lances out. My eyes are wide open—I cannot close them. The light hits Barahtan's blade just above the hilt. Molten metal splashes like water, burning Barahtan's midriff and hands. He screams and falls down at the same moment his severed blade slices through the base of my shield. It falls through and cuts into the stone floor. More metal spatters from it. The two halves of my shield fall either side.
I yell out in panic—there is a bar of black down the center of my vision.
Our screams are the only sound in the arena for a few seconds, then:
“Seize him!” yells Judge Daztat. “Guards, seize the traitor! His craft has failed! Seize him!”
Armored guards grab me and throw me to the ground. They force my arms behind my back. My shoulder explodes into pain. I scream louder.
“Drag him away!” yells Judge Daztat. “He is to be executed immediately!”
Barahtan is still screaming as well. He is hideously burned on his chest, belly, midriff, groin and forearms. The smell of his blackened flesh permeates the air. Guards rush to him also, pick him up to carry him out of the arena.
I'm pulled up to my feet—agony flares and I scream louder still—and I'm pushed to the stairs. At the last one I fall down into the sand, am immediately pulled back up, pushed toward the arena exit.
The pain becomes too great for me and I lose consciousness.
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I awaken in a delirium. I am soaked in cold sweat. This isn't a cell I've been in before; it's far too cramped. My head is up against the wall, my feet are against bars. I can hear a rushing sound above me, like a waterfall is crashing onto the low roof. The crowd. I must be below the arena.
All of a sudden my pain returns. I scream out and grasp at my shoulder, then let go as contact makes the pain even worse. Something sticky is on my fingers. Pus, no doubt.
I need healing chains. If this wound festers, I am dead, no matter what Vanerak wishes.
For a while I lie still in the blackness, breathing in cold air. The pain fades from white-hot to red-hot, and I'm able to think on my fate.
Am I to be judged innocent or guilty? My craft broke Barahtan's, yet his also cut through mine on the first strike. Does that mean we've both won victory by obliteration? If so, will his victories in the first two rounds be taken into account, meaning my defeat?
I don't know. There's no way to tell, not down here in this cold cell. All I can do is wait.
The wait continues, and continues further. I fall asleep, wake to pain. I still my body once again. The pain recedes and I fall asleep again. Soon I'm unable to tell whether I'm asleep or awake. The two states blur together. With no way to tell the time, I cannot tell how much has passed. A long-hour or so? Less?
There's a strange smell. I assume that I shat myself, but no, I realize that the smell is from my shoulder. I touch it lightly and it feels mushy. It's infected.
I need healing chains! Are they going to leave me to die like this? Would they be so cruel? Would Guildmaster Wharoth be so cruel? Is he ensuring my death not with his axe, but by making sure no one comes to see me?
The sound of steps disproves that worry. Light fills the cell. Something about my visitor's gait is familiar. He kneels to look at me.
It's the special investigator—I can't remember the name—the dwarf who told me of my first sentence of death, back before I even knew that my trial was to be one by forging. His eyes are narrowed.
“The judges have made their decision,” he says. “You have lost. Your execution is to be held forthwith. Do you have any last words?”
I have nothing.
“Then goodbye. The executioner will arrive shortly.”
He sounds gleeful. As he turns to leave, I manage to force out some words:
“Why... Why do you hate me so?”
“I had relatives in Thanerzak's realm. All dead now, because of you.”
“I see.”
“Goodbye, traitor. I'll see you at the execution. The crowd up above are eager to witness it.”
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I lie on the stone in silence. I can do little else. My left arm is almost completely dead, and my breathing is weak and ragged. Life ebbs out of me with each heartbeat. By the time Vanerak or Wharoth comes, I'll already be gone.
Vanerak... In the end, I couldn't stand against him. Looking back, I never had any hope. He's just too powerful, too experienced. Not even my runes could save me.
My runes... What did he want them for anyway? Simple ambition to become Runethane, Runeking, Runegod? The same path I was obsessed with taking?
Perhaps he has something more sinister in mind. Panic takes hold of me—what if he comes right now, this second, with the best-forged healing chains money can buy? Then he'll truly have me.
Panic temporarily evaporates my fatigue. I must escape somehow, find Guildmaster Wharoth. How? I use my legs to push me around so that my right hand is at the bars. I feel rust on them flake away, but even so I have nowhere near the strength required to break them. Desperately I pat around with my right hand, searching for a rock, anything that'll help me get through.
A rough piece of metal brushes the back of my hand. I grasp it. A file! And it seems to be a well-made one at that. One of the guards must have dropped it for me! Why?
Maybe Vanerak isn't the only one who knows how to lay a bribe.
Water is dripping somewhere. I time my cuts with the drops so that I don't alert the guards that surely lurk in the blackness. The bars are soft and the file cuts them deeply. Because of the damp, no sparks fly either. This might be a miracle. I might actually be able to escape...
Escape to my death, I remind myself. Guildmaster Wharoth said he'd obey what the million runes of the golden hammer decreed, and no matter the injustices I faced, the failure of my last craft was my own fault. The outer layer of my shield was not well-forged enough to catch Barahtan's blade.
The file breaks through the bottom of the bar. Now for the top. The angle makes it more difficult and I slow down. I'm also already feeling tired, and not only because of the injury. The exhaustion of so many long-hours at the forge is catching up to me.
Cut, cut, cut. Slowly and steadily, back and forth. Halfway through now. After that... I don't know. Somehow overpower the guards. I'm too delirious to think properly. I'll deal with that problem when it comes.
Three quarters of the way through. I hear footsteps, many of them, the armored tread of a small phalanx. The executioner is here—probably he is Vanerak. I saw faster and faster, violently. Sparks flash and the rusted metal screams. The bar falls away and I force my body through. My shoulder scrapes on something and pain overwhelms me.
I stand up screaming. I stagger away from the sound of marching. Three paces out and I'm pushed backwards.
“Halt!” says a guard. “Halt!”
I try and fail to side-step him. He wrestles me down. I wail as I struggle in vain against his armored bulk.
My strength gives out. It is all over, truly over. I look up at the guards bearing down on me from the other direction. I see the executioner. An axe hangs from his belt.
It's Guildmaster Wharoth.