Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

It was at yellow heat—how could it have cracked? How have I messed this up already?

The guards behind the windows are shaking their heads. I don't need to glance back at Nazak to know that he's scowling in disgust at my incompetence. It only took two hammer-strokes for me to insult the metal.

“Not hot enough,” I say under my breath. “Not hot enough, that's all.”

Tungsten emits bright light. I've read that before. So it follows that just because it's glowing yellow, doesn't mean it's yet hot enough. It needs to be much brighter before I dare to strike it. So back into the furnace it goes—one half of it anyway. The smaller broken part I move to the back of the anvil. I'll shape it later.

The metal goes from red, to yellow, and now to bright white. It hurts to look upon, but I've gazed on harsher light before. There is nothing supernatural about this light; it's not the light of almergris. I can make out its shape clearly, the jagged crack and artificially cast edges. I place it on the anvil and strike firmly.

It flattens, a little. Not hard enough! I strike again with more vigour. A dull clang rings out. My ruby blazes against my chest. It likes this kind of forging, this beating the metal into submission, and I think the metal is finally starting to bend to my will. It flattens where the hammer hits, and with each further beat it flattens more. It becomes a slab rather than a brick. Now I begin to aim my strikes with more care, trying to even out all the bumps.

The broken gong sound comes again. I swear loudly. I've opened another crack, one leading from the side to the center. The metal has cooled down to whitish yellow, that's why. I put it back in the furnace and wait for it to become white again. Once the color is a perfect counter-shade to the scar in my vision, I put it back on the anvil and get back to hammering.

It's tough work. With titanium, when I wanted to only flatten a small part, I'd take some strength from my swing, but with tungsten each and every strike must be brutal. I need to hit as hard as I can while still being as accurate as I can.

Surely I'll get used to it soon. Yet I don't. Twice more the sound of a broken gong clangs through the forge, announcing another failure.

Sweat drips from my beard. It runs down my arms and creeps into my salamander-leather gloves. My hands are shaking. My muscles feel as heavy as the tungsten I'm beating on. I ought to rest. How long have I been in here? Just like in my quarters, there's no clock. Maybe Vanerak doesn't approve of keeping track of time, or at least of me keeping track of it.

I really ought to rest. But to rest now would be to admit defeat. Maybe if I were alone in here I would, but not while being watched. It would give my watchers, many of whom wear wry smiles on their faces, too much satisfaction.

Back to hammering, heating, hammering again. I keep the metal blazing white. But maybe now I finally have the knack of it. It begins to submit to me, properly this time—there are no more rebellions. I am breaking its will; it flattens out into a half-inch thick rectangle. I aim carefully, strike violently. The ragged edge becomes even. The cracked parts meld back together.

Now it's an even quarter-inch thick. I lay down my hammer and step back. It is done. I have successfully transformed a brick of tungsten into a sheet. No—I've only succeeded with half the brick, haven't I? So I've half failed.

I let my arms drop to my sides. I'm still going to call this a success. This was a practice, after all, just getting a feel for the metal. It's been cracked and melted back together several times, so it'll be useless for a craft anyway, unless I fold and re-hammer another half a dozen times until the flaws are worked away.

That's what I'll do, actually. That's the only thing to do—I may have unlimited supplies of tungsten, but like Nazak said, Vanerak will not be happy if he hears that I'm wasting it.

“I'm finished for now,” I say to Nazak between pants. “I'll head back to my room.”

“Already?” he says through the bars of his viewing-chamber. “Aren't you going to insult the metal further?”

“I will fold it and refold it until it is as strong as it was before. Stronger, even.”

“You will need to do that a hundred times before you come close to undoing the harm you just did. Your forging is disgraceful. I've seen sixth degrees work tungsten better. Runeking Ulrike's examiners have gone very soft indeed, it seems.”

I don't let the insult affect me. “I am happy to do it a hundred times.”

“Our Runethane will not be. He wants to see your runes as soon as he can.”

“First I need a worthy surface to graft them to.”

“I'll tell him he's in for a long wait then. I don't think you're capable of creating a surface worthy of even the basest runes.”

“All the same, I need to rest now. In my bed and alone.”

“Fine. Pack your tools up then. Not your crafts—get in the habit of that. You never know when our Runethane might decide to take a walk down here, and you don't want him to think you're hiding something.”

I pack up my tools and take one last look at the tungsten sheet. Nazak is right to be dismissive. It is indeed an insult to the metal. If it were steel, it would be tenth degree work.

How can I improve? Simple practice? Yet I get the strange feeling that I'm forgetting some vital aspect of forging. That I've forgotten some key, some tool, that's always been a great help to me.

“Come on!” says Nazak. “Or have you changed your mind?”

“Ears,” I say under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Never mind. You'll know soon enough.”

“No mysteries, traitor. What did you say?”

“I said, 'ears'. That's all.”

He looks puzzled, then his familiar scowl reappears and I hurry to walk after him.

I sit down at my desk as soon as I return to my room. I grab a new sheaf of paper and begin to sketch. No longer do I feel much exhaustion—I let my arms dangle as we walked here, and the fatigue is all but gone from them.

Runic ears. They were the greatest blessing, I think, that I got from the dwarves of the deep. It's hard to imagine forging anything decent without the precision they give me.

How were mine shaped again? And what poem did they have? I recall the basic outline and sketch it. I draw in settings for the garnets, or perhaps I'll use diamonds this time—yes, those from the troll. I draw its mirror image. They must both be exactly the same or they won't work. That was ever the tricky part.

Now to think of a poem. It must be short, and the structure will be strictly determined by the shape of the ears, yet that doesn't mean I can't be creative with the runes and metaphors. I think of cold mountains, and the whistle of the wind across the tundric plain. My script of cold won't be any good for this poem; Volot script, that rare one of the surface, will serve me best.

I sketch rows of runes across the pages. Wind twists and swirls. I calculate runic flow and power until my head pounds. Nothing perfect comes. I lay my head down on my desk, and wake up with an interesting idea swirling in my mind, desperate to get out.

I write it down. It might serve, yet so might the next, which I write down also. I calculate runic flow. Yes, the second is best: it tells of a flake of snow, a crystal of almost infinite complexity, being brought to the peak of the mountain by wind that twists through the crags. Subtle and complex information is brought up by gentle flows of air.

These runic ears are not for combat use. There is plenty of light here from the magma sea, and it isn't even blinding light. No, my new runic ears will be for use in the forge only. They will be for small sounds close by.

I have Nazak called:

“I wish to go back to the forge.”

“So soon? I thought you'd need more rest. Or does the memory of your crimes prevent sleep?”

“I've slept enough. I have work to do. And new runes to make.”

We go back down through the twisting corridors, past the great false door, through the darkness-hidden passage to the true door. Nazak unlocks it and I walk in. Reverently I set the tungsten pieces from last session aside, and on the anvil instead place a small sheet of titanium. With a metal-pen I gently trace a diagonal line from corner to corner, then I cut very carefully with a diamond-edge saw.

“Let me warn you,” says Nazak. “Our Runethane doesn't abide by the use of saws. They waste metal by the dust they make. You ought to cut by blade.”

I look at him. “What?”

“He would desire me to warn you of this. So consider yourself warned. At least use a chisel.”

“You are trying to sabotage my efforts.”

“Our Runethane would have my head for that. And I can tell what you are going to ask next—why even provide you a saw? He knows you are a lower ranking runeknight, who may out of necessity have to use such a crude tool. But you should not, if you are to stay in his good favor.”

“Then I thank you for the advice. Why tell me, though?”

“Like I said, he would desire me to. Now get on with your work, traitor. We're all eager to see your runes.”