Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

With trembling hands I withdraw the ruby amulet from below my shirt and beard. Even in the sickly phosphorescence of the wormlight globe its color is a clear and brilliant scarlet, and its runes are wounds of even more vivid red.

Vanerak leans over the table. “Hold it up higher, and closer to me,” he orders.

I do so. He leans in a little further until his mirror-mask is almost touching it. He remains in this position for some time. He orders me to turn it around, then back the other way, then side on, then to the other side, then upside down. Finally he pulls away.

“They are most interesting runes,” he says. “I can only guess at their meanings, though my guesses are often accurate. It is a shame that you used such an imperfect and shoddily carved gem to inscribe, and the setting leaves a great deal to be desired also.”

“It was the best ruby I could afford, my Runethane.”

“If you can carve runes onto a gem, you can carve a gem yourself. I believe you heard me tell Nazak something similar.”

“Yes, my Runethane.”

“This amulet can be much improved. I will task you with doing so, in the future.”

My heart misses a beat. The amulet, made more powerful? I do not want to contemplate the idea. It might overwhelm me completely, drive me into a frenzy at the mere thought of blood.

“First, though, your armor. Even guarded as you are, the underworld is a dangerous place, and the magma sea doubly so.”

“You talked of demons before. Might they attack up here?”

“They only attack those who wade into the ocean itself. But firewyrms and salamanders do often come onto the shoreline.”

“Have any ever broken into here?”

“They wouldn't fit through the gates.”

“I see. I do not wish to criticize your choice of lodgings for me, my Runethane, but is there no safer place in your realm?”

“You know why you are here—the power of runes is the power of the molten world bound into shape and meaning. The closer you are to that molten world, the more your power may show itself. And you are safe enough. The rock is thick and tough in this part of the shoreline cliffs.”

“That relieves me, my Runethane. When am I to begin work on my armor?”

“As soon as your personal forge has been furnished. In the time between now and then, you are to transcribe the runes of your ruby onto paper, with phonetics and details of runic flow as well.”

“Yes, my Runethane.”

“Any further questions?”

“Yes—you said I am to have whatever metal I want, but what about reagents? Even if gold is no barrier...”

“You can have whatever reagents you want also. However, you are to refine them yourself. They are the root of our magic, and I do not abide by common dwarves handling them.”

“I have some experience with refining reagents already, my Runethane. Very well.”

“Good.” He stands up. “I have many things to oversee, and my own forging to do also. I do not know when we will next speak to each other, but when we do so I expect you to have finished transcribing the runes of your amulet. It is most fascinating to me.”

I bow my head to the table. “I will do it at once.”

“Good. Make sure what you write is accurate—I will be able to tell if it isn't.”

He leaves. I stand up and throw myself backwards onto the bed, shut my eyes, and try to sleep. My dreams are all of mirrors reflecting seas of blood and fire.

I wake up feeling as if I haven't slept at all. The mattress is too soft; my back hurts terribly. My legs still have not recovered from the long journey; my muscles are tattered. And then there is the oppressive and ever-present sense of being trapped. Vanerak may have said I have freedom here, but his visit has proven that I have exactly none. All I can say to him is yes, and all I can do is obey his orders. I have no volition.

I look around the room. The stone walls seem too close together. I look toward the door, and remember that beyond it is a bare corridor through which I can never walk unless accompanied by four stern and cold guards.

The worst thing of all about my condition, I decide, is the lack of company. I have no one to ask for advice, no one to have a friendly chat and drink with, no one to even give me a nod of acknowledgement. I think back to long nights in the guildhall drinking with my friends—with Faltast and Jerat and Braztak, and the tenth degrees, and on rare occasions even Guildmaster Wharoth. We joked, and swapped tales of adventures whose horror was made distant by drink and time so that only glory remained, and we sang and we ate good food, and we went out and strolled through the streets of Allabrast, proud and happy. And when one of us was troubled, another was always there to extend a hand to help.

I groan and turn over. They're all gone. Jerat and Braztak killed, and Faltast slain by my own hand. He ran away and abandoned us, true, and that was a crime deserving of death, yet perhaps if I'd let him run with a warning he might have returned, and then in a calmer frame of mind I might have forgiven him, and we could have been friends once more.

All gone. Guildmaster Wharoth can't come down to this cell to bring me out into the light, as he once did in Allabrast. I've no saviour here but myself.

I turn over and over. The sheets cling to my sweaty skin, wrap me and tighten like snakes. My thoughts are of escape: how can I get out of here? Vanerak says I may go where I want within his realm so long as many guards are with me. That's my only opportunity to make a dash away. But I do not know the caverns of his realm, while his guards certainly do. I would be caught.

Then, like a ball and chain around my ankle, are the hostages. If I'm to escape, they must come with me. I won't have them punished for my crimes—how could I ever look Wharoth in the face again? I don't even know if I can after slaying Faltast, and unlike him, Guthah and Pellas truly are innocent.

So for now I am utterly trapped. My only option seems to be to bide my time and hope some miraculous opportunity presents itself, even though I haven't the slightest idea of what such a miracle might be.

Staying in Vanerak's good favor is a must if I'm to be allowed out my cell with any regularity, so after I untangle myself from my sheets to rise, and ask the guards outside if I might be allowed some breakfast, I find some paper in my desk drawer, a very fine and vivid inkstick, and get to work transcribing the poems of my ruby.

I bite my lip and pull it from my shirt. I attempt to draw the chain over the back of my head to take it off fully, but my hands will only move a certain amount up before they refuse to go any further. So instead I hold it in my left palm while I write.

It's been a long time since I looked upon it. Against my chest it felt bigger than it really is—how could a piece of stone only a centimeter long and half that in width exude such power, have such control over my heart?

The how of it becomes clear when I read over the runes again. They're exactly as powerful as I remember, each one part of an original script—though how I managed to create a new script back when I had such poor control over my own power, I can't imagine. I'd never seen the sphere before at that point.

Blood was on my mind after defeating Fjalar, as strongly as ice was on my mind when I created my script of ice, or even more strongly. Maybe that's how I managed it with no conscious thought. Which would make this script a script of blood.

This revelation, though it's one I'd always half suspected, makes me feel slightly ill.

I go over the runes again, and again, examining the runic flow and mouthing the poem carefully. As I do so, I see mistakes here and there, minor irregularities in the angles, rough scratches for some lines instead of smooth strokes, and the material of the ruby itself is, as Vanerak said, imperfect. The facets are not as smooth as I remember them being. My eye for such things is better now.

Despite its great power, the ruby is still not as powerful as it could be.

I curse under my breath. It is the dwarven instinct, the runeknight instinct, to want to improve one's work. But this work should not be improved. It needs to be controlled. Restrained, in independence if not in power.

How might I accomplish this? I examine the poems I've copied onto the paper. Written in ordinary ink rather than bloody stone, I'm able to feel a little distant from them, able to examine them a little more logically.

I sit back and ponder. The poem gives the impression that my chisel ran over the ruby like a rabid salamander, wild and uncontrolled, and though the runic flow works well, it is also extremely chaotic. The power emanating from it is constantly shivering. The directions of the streams of power flowing over it switch and turn.

It is immensely complex—yet if I exert all my mind, I think that I can rewrite it to bring some order upon it. To do that without losing any of its power will be very difficult—but not impossible. Only nearly impossible.

Over the next few days I go through half a hundred sheafs of paper trying to tackle the task. I rework and rearrange the runes, reorder the runic flow. I try to understand what the runes are, what their subtle meanings are—what aspects of the words they form do they embody the most? Bloody ones, always.

That is not neccessarily a bad thing: blood has good aspects as well as evil. It is, after all, required for life and living. It is only evil when spilled, and even then, if the blood spilled is that of your enemies, that is a good thing also.

I shake my head, scrunch up another piece of paper and fling it into the corner. I hold my head in my hands. Good and evil—it is the chaos I need to tame, but I can't. No matter how much I rearrange the runes, shift lines around, recalculate runic flows—I cannot impose order on anything. My calculations come up wrong every time, with impossible fractions and infinite loops.

I simply do not have the skill required for the task.