NOVEL FROG Runeknight: Before the Black Dragon Comes
The guildhall in the morning—the morning of two days after, for I’ve been too weak to leave my room until now—is deathly quiet. I shuffle up to get my breakfast from the back, wearing nothing but cheap cotton, and no one so much as looks at me nor whispers a word. I am ignored. A few get up and leave. When I sit down at the long table with my soup—and they’ve served me a little less, it seems, than usual—those opposite shift away.
I sup my soup down quickly. It doesn’t fill me. I am starved for nutrition to repair my injuries. Every part of me aches, my head most of all, even more than my cracked upper arm and my punctured ankle. I’m not going to be in shape to do much for a long time.
Certainly not fight a dragon.
My fingers around the handle of my spoon turn white as bone. I watch my hand begin to shake.
The black dragon is coming for us. Six months, it said, and in seven days those six months are up.
It is going to burn everyone.
I look around the guildhall. All avert their gaze, but that doesn’t matter. They helped me and I can’t let them die. I could barely stop a troll, though. How am I going to stop a dragon?
“Hey.”
I look up. Whelt is standing opposite, looking uncharacteristically subdued.
“Can I sit down?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Go ahead.”
“Quite the performance the other day.” He chuckles a little, awkwardly. “It was impressive. And I’m not so sad about Kazhek. He brought it on himself.”
“You don’t think I’m an insult to the guild, then?”
He shrugs. “You needed to get away from him, and you tried to do that by going up. I can understand your reasons.”
“Thanks,” I say, though he’s got my reason wrong.
“And you took him down. Everyone here has to admit that was impressive. Your spear is no joke.”
I sigh. “Though my armor was.”
“Yeah. That wasn’t ideal, but still... Runes are runes. Each is impressive in its own way.”
“I guess.”
He shifts in his seat. “Anyway, the guildmaster wants to see you.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks; my shoulders slump.
“He didn't tell me what about, but...”
“Yeah. I can guess.”
“He’s damn angry.” Whelt grimaces. “Has been since we learned you’d signed up. You should have told us that, you know.”
“I didn't want to make him angry. Guess that didn't work.”
“No.”
“Is he going to throw me out?”
“I don’t know, Zathar. I really don’t know. He’s never thrown anyone out before, but...”
“I understand. Thanks for telling me.”
“No problem. And even if you do get thrown out, we’re still friends. Kazhek used to give me a lot of shit before I was at his degree. I owe you.”
“Thanks.”
I stand up from my seat, slowly to stop my hip twinging where the troll landing on me twisted the ball in its socket, and nod to him once again.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
He smiles. “You’ve got this. See you later.”
I turn and walk down the guildhall. Now they’re looking at me, out the corners of their eyes, at the condemned walking down to meet his doom. I wonder how many are hoping Wharoth throws me out, tosses me away, maybe back down to the mines from where I came.
No. I can never go back there. Whatever happens, I’m still a runeknight. No one can take that away from me.
The door opens as soon as I knock it. Guildmaster Wharoth looks down on me—through he’s only a few inches taller, he looms.
“Sit down,” he says, quietly, but I can hear the anger seething in his voice.
I sit down on my usual seat opposite his desk. The office is decorated with half a dozen sets of gleaming armor on stands, each one the guildmaster’s, and each perfectly formed. On the walls hang weapons, equally beautiful and deadly. It is intimidating to see such displays of skill I do not yet have.
He closes the door with a click. I watch him as he walks around me to behind his desk, sits. He steeples his calloused hands on the plain wooden surface. His eyes bore deep into mine. I look down.
“Don’t look down.”
I look back up. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Sorry for what?”
“Using those runes. I know they’re not—”
“I don’t care what runes you use. If you want to trick your opponents, some say it’s un-dwarvish, but not I.”
“I see.”
“So what are you sorry for?”
“I... I wasn’t patient.”
“You could have told us, you know. How scared you were of Kazhek. That’s what drove you to try and climb up so fast, isn’t it? That’s what Whelt was saying.”
“Yes,” I lie. “That’s why I was rushing.”
I hate myself for lying. But whatever happens, whatever the dragon does, it knows where my brother is.
“You can trust us, Zathar. If we knew he scared you so bad, we’d have sorted him out for you. The guilds are rivals, true, but us smaller ones, and the Troglodyte Slayers aren’t so big either—we talk to each other. Their guildmaster would have put a stop to it. In five or six years, once you got up to seventh, we’d have organized a duel, if he hadn’t forgiven you by then.”
“He wouldn’t have. I’m a miner, from the dregs. He hated me for that.”
Wharoth shakes his head. “No, he hated you because he was a hateful person. You being a miner was just an excuse. He bullied Whelt back in the day because he was his little brother’s friend. That was enough for him.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. And that outburst of yours at the end was ill-advised, by the way. You shouldn’t threaten to kill people like that, even if your blood is up.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
“Please do.”
“You’re not going to throw me out, then?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Haven’t I brought shame upon us? You may not mind the runes I used, but everyone else...”
He laughs bitterly “We’re badly regarded as it is. Our reputation can’t go much lower. And whatever mistakes you make, you still show promise.”
“Do I really? Every piece of armor I make gets smashed.” I gesture to his own suits of plate on the stands. “Yours don’t.”
“I repaired the dents. And if it was truly bad armor, that hammer to your head would have cracked your skull open. You’ll get better. Just remember...”
“Patience. I’ve got it.”
“Good. Off you go now. I’ll get some money to you later so you can forge yourself some new plate. Might have to be iron, though I’ll let you use my linking machine for the chainmail for free.”
“Thank you,” I say, and stand up. I bow low, lower even than when he first accepted me into the guild. “Thank you.”
I lie awake, shivering. In the drawer beside my bed are the silvers Wharoth got for me, but just like he said they’re only enough for iron. They will not get me through the fifth degree exam—which I cannot take anyway. I must wait another year at least.
No exam, no joining Runethane Thanerzak’s military. No military, no access to the castle, no key.
Sneaking in would be suicide. There’s nowhere to hide in those tunnels, no way to escape up should I be caught in the act. I would get lost, get cornered, and be slain. Vanerak’s favor will become disfavor in an instant when he discovers my true ambition.
And yet I cannot allow my friends to die!
They are too kind, have helped me too much. My heart clenches at the thought of the dragon killing them. I should tell them now, warn them now! Yet the memory of my brother throwing himself over the edge floats up in my mind.
Through forging I attempt to bring some clarity to my mind over the next week, perhaps the final week of the Association of Steel. The clang of hammer on iron calms my nerves, but once I return to my room, sweating and exhausted, my mind whirls with fear in the night and I cannot sleep.
How can I warn them? It will have to be when the dragon comes, right in the seconds before it lands on the roof of the guildhall and begins to burn. Otherwise I will be found out. But will a few seconds be enough for them to escape, or prepare for battle, if battling the black dragon isn’t suicide?
The day before the dragon is due, my armor is more or less complete, apart from the chainmail. It’s a sorry, twisted piece, blotchy and weak in parts. If the dragon decides I’m not worth keeping, its claws will go right through. As if it will use its claws! Fire is more likely. I’ve grafted copper runes of fire-reflection, but who am I kidding?
They’re not going to stand up to dragonbreath.
And neither will the guild.