Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

After one long-hour and a bit, I finally have the strength to leave bed. I slowly make my way along the tunnel to the main guildhall. When I emerge into the firelight, everyone turns to look. Many stop their meals midway and put down their mugs. Then they cheer.

“Zathar! Zathar! Zathar!”

I grin as I limp down the hall.

“Fourth! Fourth! Fourth!”

Of course not all are cheering, not even most—several turn away with disgust plain on their faces, but it seems to me there's less animosity than usual.

“Over here, Zathar!” Jerat shouts, beckoning me over.

I sit down and he plants a full mug of ale before me.

“Drink up!”

“Thank you.”

I swig it down and let out a satisfied sigh. A sense of relaxation floods out through my stiff muscles and aching wounds. The humans say that wine is the nectar of their gods, but in my opinion, nothing can ever beat a good cold beer.

“It's good to see you again.”

“You might have come up,” I say. “Too busy forging?”

“Braztak told us to leave you alone. Excitement would be bad for your healing, he said. Worries too much, if you ask me, but it is what it is. I think he just didn't want me giving you anything unhealthy to drink.”

“I'm sure he had my best interests in mind.”

“Always does, doesn't he? In any case, we need to throw you a proper celebration. A real booze-up.”

Faltast nods in agreement. “Yes. Somewhere expensive.”

“Once my leg's properly fixed,” I say. “Stumbling up and down tunnels won't be good for my hip.”

Jerat winces. “That was nasty, what that troll tried to do to you.”

“Lucky it was so stupid,” says Faltast.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“It could've just reached for your head and twisted it off. That's what Braztak thought it was aiming for. He covered his eyes for the last part of the fight—couldn't watch.”

“I watched the whole thing, you'll be pleased to know,” says Jerat. “I always knew you'd beat the bastard.”

“I didn't,” I say. “Damn, but it was a close thing. And my armor!” I shake my head mournfully. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes,” says Faltast. “We saw it when the examiners were carrying you off.”

“Bastards,” I say. “First they fuck up the initiates' examination, and then do the same to mine.”

Jerat shrugs. “Nah. It was a fair examination.”

“Really? I saw several get killed. Or were they rescued?”

“Out of the fourteen who took it, four died,” says Faltast.

“Four! That's nearly a third of us.”

“A higher ratio than usual,” says Jerat, taking another deep draft of beer. He burps. “But it was their own fault.”

I blink, taken aback by his callousness.

“I see the look on your face,” says Faltast. “When I was younger, I thought it was a waste too.” He wipes foam from his blonde moustaches. “But then there was that incident with the redboar. Remember that, Jerat?”

“Oh, aye. I remember. No amount of alcohol can erase that nightmare. Hah!”

A memory of pain, or perhaps fear, causes a muscle under his cheek to spasm. He slaps it hard to stop it, like he's crushing a poison snake. I'm taken aback again—I've never seen him show fear or pain before.

“What's a redboar?” I ask. “Never heard of one.”

“They're rare, and not so dangerous to experienced runeknights anyway,” explains Faltast. “What it is... Well, sometimes food goes scarce in the stalagmite forest.”

“Went,” says Jerat. “Is there even a forest left anymore?”

“The outskirts, maybe. Anyway, when food goes scarce, the blindboars start to eat each other. The herd devours itself until there's only a few left—a big male and his harem.”

“Just like Runethane Broderick had,” laughs Jerat. “Wonder if he kept pigs in his as well as humans and elves?”

Faltast rolls his eyes. That remark was crude, even for Jerat. “The big male is called a redboar. It's about the size of a caravan blindboar, but leaner. Meaner too.”

“And red from all the blood?” I ask.

“No. It's brown and stinking. Blood rots, you know.”

“Of course.”

“You don't want to tangle with one,” says Jerat. “Oh, no, you do not.”

“Not if you're anything less than fifth degree. You could handle one with ease, Zathar. If you can kill an iron troll, you can kill a dozen redboars. I'd say it's about as dangerous as the monster the initiates had to face.”

“It's called a bzathletic. I had trouble with it when I was fifth.”

“In rusty armor,” Jerat reminds me.

“I suppose. But what happened when you met this redboar?”

“I'll tell the story from the start,” says Faltast. “It'd been spotted around the outskirts of the city by some commoners. At first, no one paid them much attention. But then the bodies started to appear.”

“What was left of them,” says Jerat.

“Yes. Boars aren't known to be picky eaters. So, a job was put out. Didn't pay great, but Jerat and I, and a few others, were still low in the degrees and hungry for a bit of gold.”

“We took it on without a second thought.”

“Exactly. Just a boar—seemed like easy money. A few others took on the job as well, and all in all about a dozen of us set out into the forest to find it. All of us were eighth degree or below, apart from this one fifth degree. What was his name again, Jerat?”

“Who cares? A curse on those runes, whatever they were.”

“Novok, that was it.”

Jerat shrugs and starts on yet another beer. “I don't remember.”

“Well, this Novok fancied himself a commander and, as eighth degrees, we couldn't really disagree. We let him take the lead.”

“Led us in circles for the most part.”

“Yes. For about a week were wandering around the stalagmites, not getting anywhere, not seeing hind nor hair of the redboar. Finally, on the eighth night, we spotted it. We charged.”

A few dwarves have gathered at the table and are listening intently. Mostly lower degrees. My eyes meet with Guthah's, and he bows his head in respect.

“We chased it into a shallow crevasse,” Faltast continues. “Then this Novok, the fifth degree, had a brilliant idea. He ordered us to climb out the crevasse so we could run around the back and attack it while he held his ground. That excuse was a load of shit: he just wanted to kill it on his own and claim all the glory, and the dragon's share of the gold.”

“Bloody fool,” sneers Jerat. “The redboar tore him apart like his armor was wet paper. Blood everywhere. Then it turned on us.”

“We were split up,” says Faltast. “And now that the redboar had killed one of us, it decided we were easy prey. It tore us apart one by one.”

“You two survived though,” I say.

“Yes!” cries Jerat, laughing loudly and slamming his mug down onto the table. “We killed it, didn't we, Faltast? Rent its guts right out its belly!”

“Indeed. But we still have the scars.”

“Yes—nasty ones.” Jerat turns to me. “So, Zathar, do you understand the point of this little tale?”

“You can't have weak runeknights,” I say.

“Not quite,” says Faltast. “All runeknights start off weak. But you can't have weak runeknights pretending to be strong. I honestly don't know how that Novok passed his examination. He must have found some way to cheat, or else his guild bribed someone. He certainly had the arrogance of someone born to plenty of gold.”

“His armor was seventh degree at best,” snorts Jerat. “That's what Wharoth said when he got a look at the remains.”

“And that was just some boar chase,” Faltast continues. “What about in war? A group of fourth degree runeknights is meant to be an elite force. Imagine they're to hold a vital tunnel, but turn out not to be elites at all, but only as strong as regular soldiers. It would be a disaster.”

I nod. “I see.”

“So the examinations have to be dangerous. It would be best that those who fail don't die, of course, and are allowed to fight again another day, but those who aren't of quality cannot be allowed to advance.”

“Imagine if you bought high priced steel, and it turned out to be full of impurities,” adds Jerat. “Similar situation.”

Guthah frowns. “Surely dwarves can't be compared to simple materials.”

“Hah! Shows how much you know, tenth degree. When it comes to war that's all us runeknights are. And we're at constant war—against Runeking Uthrarzak, against the tribes of trolls, against all the beasts below that see us as tasty snacks.”

“Better the weak die in the examination than put others in danger on the battlefield,” I say. “I get it."

Mostly I get it. Surely there are less dangerous ways dwarves could be tested? Then again, what use is a runeknight who won't show that he's willing to risk death? The examination is also a test of courage, and with no risk, it wouldn't be.

"Still, the incident with the initiates...”

“That was a fuck up,” says Faltast, waving his hand dismissively. “One that's being investigated. Your examination, though, was fair. Besides, someone had to fight those trolls eventually.”

“And anyway,” Jerat laughs, “What the hell are you complaining about? You passed, didn't you? In spectacular fashion!”

I wince. Maybe it seemed spectacular to those watching, but to me it was nothing but terrifying, not to mention extremely painful.

“You look tired,” says Faltast. “Maybe we've been ranting on too much. Back to bed?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I still haven't eaten anything. And...” I hesitate to ask the question that's been on my mind since I woke up.

“What is it?”

“The black dragon. Have there been any more rumors?”

He nods. “More than rumors. News. Developments.”