“Guildmaster,” I gasp. “Make it quick, please. End my pain.”

“Hurry up!” he shouts. “Get the chains around his shoulder!”

The guards he's arrived with shout at the one on top of me to get off. I inhale sharply and cough as the weight vanishes from my back. Cold metal is wrapped around my shoulder. My wound cools instantly. I shudder with relief.

“What's going on?” asks the guard who was holding me down. “Is he to be released? But—“

From behind Wharoth steps the special investigator. “The traitor is to be released,” he spits. “Once again he escapes justice.”

“What?” I say. I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. “What?”

“The Runeking...” begins Wharoth.

Everything fades to black.

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

“Justice has prevailed, it seems,” I say weakly. “Otherwise I wouldn't be here.”

“Indeed it has. Mostly—Vanerak made sure to leave no trail that led to him.”

I've just woken up in a soft bed, in warm sheets, with cool chains of healing around my shoulder. The room is small and plain. Outside I can hear the bustle of runeknights—drinking, eating, talking, and also the distant clangs of hammer on metal.

“Is this the guildhall?” I ask Wharoth.

“Our new one, yes. Bigger than the last, you'll be pleased to know.”

“Good...” I feel myself drifting off, and shake my head. I can't sleep; I burn for answers. “What was the final outcome of the trial? Before I passed out... You said something about the Runeking? Did I dream that?”

“You didn't dream it. It was he who intervened. He'd been watching with interest through his Eye in the arena.”

“I never knew there was one.”

“You know they are everywhere, though.”

“True. And he decided my craft was the better?”

“Not quite. He observed the judges and thought their behavior suspicious. They didn't go where they claimed to be after each contest, but vanished out of the city, went down below.”

“Below?”

“There's caverns known as 'night' below Allabrast. They're winding and go very deep—perfect for illegal business.”

I nod. “They were having meetings with Vanerak there.”

“Vanerak was careful not to be seen. Judge Caletek too, but Gerapek and Daztat were caught out.”

“They're sitting in their own prison now, I hope.”

Wharoth shakes his head. “All three have vanished, as well as one of the high justices. Night is being combed as we speak, but...” He shrugs. “If they find anything, it'll be their bodies.”

“I see. And the outcome of my trial...?”

“After the judges vanished, the crafts were reviewed by a different committee. It was decided that you won the second round and also the final round, by obliteration.”

I sigh. “It's finally over then.”

“Yes.”

“What about Barahtan?” An ill feeling comes over me as I recall his screams. “Is he alive?”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“He's recovering well, you'll be glad to know.”

I sigh in deep relief. “I'm very glad. I wish him the best, even though he was my opponent.”

“Apparently he said the same about you.”

“I'm glad to hear that as well. But... What do you think, guildmaster? You said you'd heed the results of the trial, and...”

He grimaces. “I've made the decision not to take your head, Zathar. Even though part of me will always say that you deserve death, I will honor the runes.”

“Thank you. I meant what I said in the second round, by the way. I truly do intend to slay the black dragon.”

“We admire your courage. There are many dwarves in our guild who will be keen to help you.”

“I need to be stronger before I try.”

“Yes. And the black dragon hasn't been seen for many, many long-hours. Years.”

“It's out there somewhere.”

“More importantly, so is Vanerak—out and about in the city. I don't think he's going to give up so easily.”

I bite my lip. “I suppose that's true. Do you think I should leave?”

Wharoth shakes his head. “You should lie low here. Stay in the guild. Vanerak will ascend to Runethane soon, rumor has it. The Runeking wants him out from under his nose.”

“Why doesn't he just...?” I make a chopping motion with my right hand.

“He can't just go around killing powerful dwarves based on hearsay. Not everyone is as convinced as you are of what Vanerak's just tried to do. The Runeking would need evidence. No, his best option is to have Vanerak bugger off to some far-off cavern where no one needs to have much to do with him.”

“Like the fort,” I say. “I'm glad we found someone else to go down there.”

“Indeed.”

“I'll have to go down there again at some point. I promised Nthazes, after all.”

“Of course. But for the moment I strongly recommend staying here.”

“Of course.”

He stands up. “I'll leave you to your recovery, then.”

“Wait!” I say. “My crafts... My war-pick, at least. What's happened to it? I want it back. Is that allowed? And the fewer dwarves that examine my runes, the better...”

Wharoth hesitates. “I'm not sure. I'll go down and ask someone.”

A strange pallor has fallen across his face. I frown. “You don't seem very happy about the idea.”

“Your crafts, Zathar... There's something about them.”

“My runes are... unpredictable, I know.” I lower my voice. “I still don't know how to control this power. I can direct its extent, to some degree, how much it alters everything, but I can't choose how. When I write, I feel as if I'm on rails, with no ability to decide where I'm going.”

“It's not just that. They're bloody runes, Zathar. The sort of thing only a very twisted dwarf would come up with. Runes involving blood are frowned upon for a reason. Maybe reasons you know well, from your experiences down below.”

“I'm not completely comfortable with them either.”

“I'm glad to hear that, at least.”

“Even so, it's my weapon, my craft. I want it back. And again, the less dwarves that get to examine my runes, the better. Vanerak won't be the only one who takes an interest.”

“I'll see what I can do. But about your runes... There's another thing too. I wasn't going to tell you until you were recovered, but...”

“What?”

“It's not exactly good news.”

I sit up. “What is it?”

“Well...” He looks even more nervous. “The Runeking is intrigued by your crafts."

"Intrigued? What do you mean?"

"He wishes to talk with you. Alone.”

“Alone? With the Runeking?”

My guts feel like they've been replaced by a gaping pit.

“Yes,” says Wharoth. “Once you're recovered, I'll escort you to the Foundry-Palace.”

“I see. Do you have any idea what he wants?”

“No.”

“What if he wants to keep me there?”

“Then you'll have to stay there.”

“Do you think he wants to do that?”

“I don't know. He's thousands of years old, Zathar. No one can imagine what or how he thinks.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I'll be off now. Someone will bring food and ale shortly.”

He leaves. I sink back under the blankets, trembling. An audience with Runeking Ulrike. Never in my wildest imaginings did I ever think to meet him. Ordinary runeknights do not meet Runekings. The gap between them and even a Runethane is too vast for me to have any real comprehension of, but I've heard it compared to the distance between the lowest depths of the magma seas and the highest peaks of the surface mountains.

How might the mind of a dwarf so skilled, so powerful, work? No one even knows what the Runeking is crafting—only that it requires truly vast quantities of metal and reagent. Does he want my runes to help him complete it? Yet the idea that a dwarf so great might need my help is absurd.

The coming audience is all I can think about over my long-hours of recovery. Speculation consumes my every waking hour, and even my dreams are haunted by anxiety.

In them I walk through the Foundry-Palace, which appears as a great maze of glowing pipes and angular stone corridors. My journey is long and harsh. Eventually I find myself in the throne room. It is vast, and at the end sits a figure wreathed in smoke.

The smoke shifts. Sometimes his face is like Vanerak's, sometimes it is Wharoth's with a smile, sometimes it is Wharoth muttering about how I deserve death. More than once I see the face of Runethane Yurok, his eyes bright with delusion.

Slowly, as the long-hours pass, my shoulder wound heals. The red fades, and the charcoal in its center flakes away. Underneath is clean skin, a little smoother even than the skin on my opposite shoulder. The muscle feels weakened still, but I'll build it back up once I return the forge.

Yet I don't think anything will heal the scar in my vision. The black line floating in front of everything I look at has faded only slightly since the first time I woke up here. It's not large enough to disrupt much, but it is unnerving. Scars on my body I can ignore. This one I'll never be able to forget.