Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I go straight to the forge. Cold white runes are spinning in my mind. Perhaps white is the wrong word, since the shapes of runes have no color. They only take one on when twisted from metal then grafted. The runes are cold.

My papers are still on the anvil. I hunch over them and start to write. My hand is a blur, as it always is when I'm in a frenzy, when inspiration takes firm hold of me.

The runes I create bear no resemblance to any script I've ever seen before. Each is a downward jag, an icicle, with smooth straight lines through and alongside it that determine its meaning. Some words I've never seen in runic form appear.

The dwarvish tongue is old, unchanging, some say immutable, with many hundreds of thousands of words, some common and some only spoken or written once a decade. This stands in stark contrast to the human tongues, of which there are hundreds, and which change so often that a dwarf fluent in one at one time, could return to the surface a couple centuries later and barely understand a single syllable.

But each runic script only contains a limited number of words. The script I was trying to use for my first attempts at a poem of ice simply didn't have the necessary vocabulary. Now, though, my thoughts can flow out unimpeded. Chill, cold, gelid, frozen, and names for every degree of temperature in between are born onto the page.

The dwarf slips around the troll with ease, for its lumbering blows are slowed by a chilling wind. He slices into its flesh with a spike of ice. The difference in speed between them increases. The troll cannot keep up. By the final stanza the dwarf is like the wind whistling around a statue of stone. With a blow fast as ice splitting, faster even than the first, most violent tremor of a cave-in, he lays the monster low.

I pause, scratch at my beard. This isn't quite right. I'm meant to be making a poem for armor here, not one for a weapon.

The runes don't seem perfect either, certainly not as perfect as the ones I've written on my war-pick. The icicles are each too similar to each other and seem a little off at their angles.

It's a start though, and not one that I'm about to stop. I take another blank sheaf.

I glance at the timer on the wall. I frown at it, blink hard, then check again. That can't be right. It's been nearly a third of a long-hour since I returned from the House of Ice. A full day. Can I really have been down here so long? I don't feel any kind of fatigue at all: not sleepiness, not a sore head, nor is there any strain in my writing hand.

There's something off about this. My hip isn't hurting either. I flex it, rotate my left leg. It's supple as ever. More than ever.

I look at my safe. Before, every time I was down here, I could constantly feel a pull from it, yet that feeling is gone now. The ruby amulet isn't exerting its strange attraction on me. I swallow. My sapphire amulet feels hot against my chest, and it almost seems to be beating, a second heart lying over my skin.

There's a loud knock on the forge door. I jump.

“Who is it?”

“It's Faltast! You still forging? The guildmaster's called a council. Everyone's to attend.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

When I get into the guildhall, nearly everyone's already seated. There's no rule about who goes where, but naturally the more senior runeknights end up nearest to Guildmaster Wharoth, standing at the far end of the hall still in his forging overalls. Our eyes meet as I sit down. He looks frustrated and worried.

Once the whole guild is seated—bar those busy with various jobs and quests of course—so all in all about a hundred and a half are here—Guildmaster Wharoth speaks:

“Voltost has told me of this Xomhyrk so many of you were eager to hear out. He's told me down to the very last detail. I've also listened to the opinions of our other senior runeknights. They are varied. Some say he's a liar, some say he's a fool.”

There's a lot of nodding at this.

“Others say they think we should join his quest.”

There's some grumbling. Wharoth shuts it down with a series of stony looks.

“I have had to think carefully about him,” he continues.

He pauses. We wait to hear his judgement.

“I do not think,” he says carefully, “that he is a fraud. His armor, at least from what Voltost could tell at a distance, is genuine first degree quality. Better than most first degrees' armor, even. Likely he could become a Runethane if he wished. So he has no need to resort to fraud to obtain wealth.

“As for his claim to have destroyed many dragons, I see no reason to doubt that either. Dragons are powerful, but not invulnerable. I myself, along with Vanerak, succeeded in doing the black dragon grievous injury. Zathar managed to stab it in the eye also—though I know that some of you doubt that claim of his.”

They can doubt all they like—it won't change the truth.

“Most dragons are not as powerful as the black dragon has become, so it's far from impossible to believe that Xomhyrk has managed to slay a few. Maybe more than a few.

“So, he is a powerful first degree runeknight. He has slain dragons. So I can understand why a few of you might be tempted to follow him into battle. You think it's your best chance at revenge.” He looks at me. “Or redemption.”

I feel the gaze of every other member of the guild turn to me also. They're wondering if I'm going to prove to be a coward. Because if I don't go on this expedition, that's what I'll be, no matter Guildmaster Wharoth's decision for the rest of the guild.

“However,” he says, “I think to follow him would be foolish. He did not witness the black dragon's destruction of our realm. He does not know that its power is a hundredfold greater than any dragon ever yet born into the underworld. Not once has a monster so fearsome terrorized dwarfkind, and I have spent countless days pouring over the lore here in the archives of Allabrast.

“The black dragon is too powerful to be defeated by anyone less than a Runegod. Likely it is equal in power to them. Xomhyrk and his guild are traveling toward death, and anyone who goes with them will die also.”

Silence falls at his words. I look around. Everyone is still looking at me. They expect me to disagree with him, argue. If I don't, I'm a coward.

Yet, he's right! The black dragon is too powerful for any dwarf less than a Runegod. It just killed a Runeking, didn't it?

Yet, I swore an oath in the arena. I said that I'd kill it or die trying. And here is my best chance to kill it. I stand up.

“I'm going to go,” I say. “As soon as I make my armor, I'm leaving.”

Guildmaster Wharoth nods solemnly. “Of course. As much as I would like to keep you here, you swore an oath. But I urge you to retreat when defeat becomes certain. Bring back some knowledge of it. Eventually, once our guild has grown more powerful, we will find a better opportunity to strike."

There's a scraping sound a few dwarves along from me. Braztak has pushed his chair back and is standing up.

“Such an opportunity may never come," he says. "This could be our only chance. So I'm going too.”

Shocked murmurs ripple through the guild. Guildmaster Wharoth's eyes widen.

“What?” There's a look of total confusion on his face. “Why?”

“Revenge for our guildmates. You know who I lost to it. We should all go, guildmaster.”

“Did you not hear what I said? This Xomhyrk is marching toward his death.”

“I heard you clearly.”

“Then why? A short-hour ago you were one of those who told me you thought he was delusional.”

“I was.”

“Then why have you changed your mind? Why are you going to throw your life away? What worth will that be?”

“I've been thinking long and hard as well, guildmaster. And I've decided that with our help, maybe he has a chance.”

Voltost stands up. “You can't believe that!” he shouts. He leans toward Braztak, his palms on the table, which bends under the weight of his armor. “Ten like Xomhyrk couldn't stand up to the dragon! Following him is madness!”

“Yes!” Wharoth says. “It's madness, Braztak. It just slew a Runeking, and no doubt a dozen Runethanes fell in the battle also, alongside uncounted third degrees—like yourself—as well as many a first degree just as strong as this Xomhryk!”

“All the same, we must try. Guildmaster, I believe this is our duty.”

“No!” Wharoth shouts. “No!”

Braztak scowls. “We are runeknights. If something harms our guild, our realm, our friends, we destroy it. Why forge weapons if not for this purpose?”

“You may as well seek revenge on an earthquake or magmatic flood.”

“Wrong. You said so yourself—dragons are not invulnerable.”

“The black dragon may as well be.”

Braztak shakes his head. “Nothing is invulnerable. Everything has a chink in its armor somewhere. It's just a matter of finding where, and then striking with everything you have.”

"We are not yet strong enough."

"We will not know that until we test ourselves."

“You were with me when it rose! You saw its fire!”

“I also saw that it was missing a hand and an eye.”

“You think it'll let you, or this Xomhyrk, ever get that close?”

“The battle will not be easy. It will try its best to burn us before we get within striking distance, either from the top of its mountain or from high in the sky. But—”

"But what?"

There's another scraping sound. Another runeknight stands, one of the fourth degrees. One of those who turns away whenever I enter the guildhall.

“You as well?” Wharoth says furiously.

“Xomhyrk means to lure it down.”

“Yes, so I've been told. But as for how he plans to manage that, I believe he had nothing to worthwhile to say!”

“He's killed dragons before. I'm sure he has some strategy in mind.”

“He's never fought the black dragon!”

“So what?” Braztak snaps, and I've never heard such force in his voice. “Just because the odds are against us, we should run away? Guildmaster, this could be the greatest chance we ever get for revenge! We should not throw it away. We cannot wait until we are more powerful, because the black dragon will also grow in power. I say again: this is our chance! We must go on this expedition, each and every one of us!”