Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

The long-hours pass in soothing silence. I feel nearly relaxed as I sketch my designs; my inkstick moves smoothly over the paper, creating breastplates, greaves, helmets and gauntlets. None are quite right, but each is an improvement upon the last, striking a little closer to the mark.

I think over what poems I'll graft to them as well. To get the power Hayhek and his comrades need, I'll need a script just as strong as my one of cold—stronger. Each and every rune will have to be as powerful as the one for salz I forged after diving into the snow.

What element, what material, should my script's power be inspired by? Stone and magma as the only two I have access to. How about something more esoteric? Certainly most of the first runeforger's scripts don't seem to have been inspired by anything as simple as snow, or magma, or stone. They are more broad. For me though, who is far less skilled than he was, starting off with a simple and tangible concept seems best.

More than two long-hours after Hayhek's visit, Vanerak finally returns to see me. I jump up from my desk when I notice him standing in the doorway—I didn't even hear the lock click in my concentration.

“Greetings, my Runethane,” I say, bowing low.

“Greetings, Zathar Runeforger. I see that you are working hard on your armor. I assume that to mean my first request has been completed.”

“Indeed it has, my Runethane. Let me get it for you.”

I open my desk drawer and retrieve the full diagram of my ruby and its runes. I hand it to him. He unrolls it and briefly looks it over.

“Not just unaging indeed. Vitality. And violence.”

“An amulet of violence?”

“It could be called that. An amulet of unaging exudes power into the wearer's body, keeping the bones from becoming brittle and the muscles from wasting. You have written for yours to do further, for your strength and stamina to be sustained during in combat—and then further still, to make that combat a very part of you, to be the thing that gives you strength.”

It is a very succinct description of my ruby, and an accurate one. It's worrying how easily he seems to understand the craft, as if he understands my runes better even than I do.

Surprisingly, he doesn't seem to think as much of it as Wharoth did. He does not speak in reverent tones. To him this craft is clearly similar in neither quality nor character to the work of a Runeking. He speaks almost as if it's normal to forge an amulet like this. Maybe it is, for him and other Runethanes, and Wharoth was wrong. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to make me feel too confident in my power.

“Indeed, my Runethane,” I say. “It's a bloody craft. Many would say that fits my character well.”

“Yes. There are very few dwarves who have spilled as much blood so young as you have. I am not here to talk about your deeds, though. Sit down.”

I quickly do so. He sits opposite and looks into my eyes—I can feel his own from behind his mirror-mask. They are on me, and gazing intently, searching for something.

“It remains intriguing to me how you created such unique runes,” he says, “truly new ones, before your powers properly awakened.”

“It is a mystery to me also.”

“Tell me again: when you created your most powerful rune, that reading salz, what did you see and feel?”

I repeat the same story I've told him a dozen times already: “I closed my eyes and focused on what I wanted the meaning of the rune to be. Cold, the sound of the word itself, salz, and in particular its aspects of emptiness and numbness. Then I felt myself sinking into the stone. My feet, then the rest of my body grew warm—”

“Simply warm?”

“Hot,” I correct myself. “Boiling hot yet with no pain. I saw yellow and orange light, shifting tides of it. Then I felt a surge of heat and power below me, and the form of the rune came into my mind.”

I realize that I've closed my eyes; I open them.

“Is that everything?” asks Vanerak. “Every last detail?”

“Yes,” I say, worried that I've left something out.

“The form just came into your mind? You had no control over what it was?”

“Yes and no. I shaped it, but I didn't put any thought into the shaping. I just shaped it into the form it was meant to be in.”

“That does not make sense to me. Explain yourself more clearly.”

“I...”

I struggle to come up with something. To tell the truth, it is hard to remember exactly how I did it. What did I say last time he asked me this? Has he ever asked me this? I feel that he has, and that he was happy then at the answer I gave, but I can't be sure. Our journey through the fume-clogged tunnels on the way to his realm is already hazy in my memory.

“I'm sorry, my Runethane. It's difficult to recall every detail. It was quite a while ago now, and so many things have happened between now and then. When I next forge a new rune, I'll try to remember the process in more detail.”

Vanerak is silent for a few seconds. Fear grows in my gut.

“Very well,” he says. “I would rather you tell me you do not know than make up some lie. It would not be a good idea for you to lie to me. As I'm sure I don't need to tell you.”

“You do not, my Runethane.”

“More than anything else, it would be a grave insult to us who took such risks to bring you back here. After the dragon's death, it would have been extremely difficult for you to make it back from the mountain alone. Impossible, in fact, with the snows growing heavier and colder.”

“Yes, my Runethane. I shall not lie to you. I have never even considered lying to you.”

“I should very much hope not.”

“I will write down every moment of the process in detail after I forge my next rune.”

“That you shall. And you shall create it soon—your forge has been completed and your supplies stocked.”

I can't help but feel a little joy at this. “It has, my Runethane?”

“Indeed. Nazak will take you to it. I do warn you, however, that you may find one aspect a little distasteful. But it is necessary for the good of all dwarfkind.”

My heart sinks. What aspect? Yet the only reply I can make to him is: “Of course, my Runethane.”

Seemingly satisfied, Vanerak stands up and exits the room, taking the detailed sketch of my ruby with him. Nazak comes in a moment later, scowling as always.

“Get up, traitor. It's time for you to see your place of work.”

I follow him out. Guards close tightly around me, more of them than usual, more than a dozen. They walk so near to me that my shoulders brush the plates of their tungsten armor. The metal is cold. I read the runes on those whose scripts I'm familiar with, and am I little put out to realize that the poems are not so different to the ones I put on my own armor of ice.

They are a little less passionate, perhaps, but in form they are better made. There are no flaws in rhyme or alliteration, and their rhythm is exact also, the meters unwavering. The choice of runes has also been well-thought out—actually, I have to admit, better thought out than my own choices were. Often in my poems I'll put a word in that works with the poem, but whose power does not necessarily coincide with the power I want in the piece of armor.

Their armor has been made to be armor as well, armor alone. Protection is foremost. It's crafted to keep out heat and heavy blows, do nothing more and nothing less. And there's a focus especially on keeping out the heat. I think that was a flaw in my own icy armor. My poems described a field of ice withstanding heavy blows, but only in one stanza did they have to resist fire.

Perhaps if I'd gone for a more appropriate metaphor it wouldn't have ended up melted beyond repair. Well, I'll just have to think a bit more carefully on my next attempt.

Nazak leads me and the guards through a zig-zagging tunnel that bores deep into the cliff. It's well-ventilated, though after a certain point there are no more ventilation shafts. Instead alcoves in the wall appear, slightly raised. As we pass, guards step out from the formation into them.

We take a sharp left down a corridor pointing backwards, and it's so thin that we have to shuffle sideways. Then there's a set of steep and uneven stairs, flanked by more alcoves into which several more guards step.

Finally we reach a grand metal gate. Its lock is a vast, circular beast, humming with runic power. It exudes impenetrability, so much so that I wonder if Vanerak forged it himself.

Nazak makes another sharp turn. Beside the gate is another thin corridor, cleverly worked into the dark stone so that it's all but invisible. We travel down another twisting route and come to a different gate, with a different lock. This lock is smaller, and square—ordinary looking. The power it exudes, however, is far from ordinary. The runes covering every millimeter of it are too small to make out without a lens.

“I forged this lock myself,” Nazak says proudly. “No one with less power than a Runethane could break through it. Our Runethane himself even said it would take him a while to get through. And the door was forged by me also, with the metal that only the greatest dwarves can utilize.”

“With the secret of true metal,” I say, almost unconsciously.

“You do not know that secret,” says Nazak. “I can tell.”

“In order to forge the greatest runes I can,” I say carefully, “perhaps I need to know it.”

Nazak laughs sharply. “Are you suggesting that I teach it to you?”

“Someone of your high level, or our Runethane himself, if he deems it appropriate.”

Nazak laughs louder. “The secret to making true metal is one that a runeknight must figure out for himself. It is too dangerous otherwise.”

“Dangerous in what way?”

“I've said too much already. You will be concentrating on runework, not metalwork, in here. Do not waste your time trying to find out the secret.”

The lock clicks, one incredibly solid click that I feel in my bones. Nazak swings open the door. Three of the remaining six guards walk through with weapons drawn. A few seconds later they tell Nazak it's clear.

“In, traitor!”

He leads me into my new forge. I look around, and my heart sinks.