Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I remain sitting on the floor, staring into the ruby. I'm stunned. When did I set it? I can't remember, yet I've fitted the metal perfectly. Melted and reforged it without remembering doing so. That's the only explanation. The steel is more angular, sharper at its six points now. It takes the ruby far better than it ever took the sapphire.

I ought to tear the damn gem right out. That's the most sensible option here. It's the only option! How can I risk keeping something that's controlled me around my neck?

I take off the amulet and place it on the ground. I take several deep breaths. Honestly, I'm half-surprised it even let me take it off.

The ache in my hip returns. I become aware of blisters on my fingers from too much rapid writing. A tiredness takes hold of me, and I slump, and my spine creaks like it's rusted.

While fighting the iron troll, when it was attempting to tear me apart, I regretted leaving my ruby behind. If I'd had the vitality it gifts me, I'd have strode out of that fight hale and healthy, instead of being carried out unconscious with my limp body wrapped in bandages and chains of healing.

My next battle will be against far worse than an iron troll. I need every edge I can get. All the strength I can forge for myself. If I lose my nerve here and refuse to take on the ruby's power, and fall to the black dragon because of it, I'll be failing not only myself, but all the dwarves I promised to do right by.

I swore an oath I'd kill the black dragon. I have to risk everything on this attempt.

Yet I'm still not sure. I hold my ruby in one hand and the scarred sapphire in the other, weighing the decision. I can't reach an answer. I need advice.

Who can I go to? Braztak and Wharoth are the only two in the guild that I've trusted with knowledge of my powers. It has to be one of them.

I put my ruby amulet in one pocket, the sapphire in the other, close and lock my safe, and head back to the guild.

The argument is still raging. The guild has split into two groups. Those against following Xomhyrk are surrounding those for it, with Voltost at their forefront. He's engaged in a shouting duel with Braztak, which Braztak seems to be winning, at least in volume. I've never seen my friend so angry—his green and gold gauntleted fists are shaking.

“The guildmaster said we'd go after it once we dealt with Broderick! That as soon as we had a chance, we'd take it! And now we have a chance!”

“This is no chance! It's foolishness!”

“We're only fools if we don't take it!”

I slip through the guildhall and into the back-corridor. There's a set of stairs here that I've never been down, but I know where they lead to: Guildmaster Wharoth's personal forge.

Orange glows around the door, yet there's no hammering from the other side. I knock. There's no answer. I knock again. Still no answer. I open it a crack and peer through. Guildmaster Wharoth is turned away, leaning on the anvil. I open the door a touch further and it creaks. Wharoth turns around. I flinch back, suddenly afraid, but there's no rage on his features, only sadness.

“You can come in.”

I obey. The room is even plainer than I expected. His benches hold only hammers and other simple tools. I stand just within the entrance.

“I suppose it's too much to hope that you've changed your mind, Zathar.”

“You were never against me going.”

“I am, but I can't tell you to go back on your oath in front of the others.”

“So then you're saying I should go back on my oath?”

“You shouldn't fulfill it like this.”

“Maybe I don't have to. Maybe instead of this Xomhyrk leading us, you could. Braztak is right when he says the whole guild should go.”

Wharoth shakes his head. “No. I'd just lose you all again.”

“There's no way I can persuade you?”

“No. My mind is made up. All I can do now is hope that a few of you realize the folly of this quest and turn back before it comes to ruin.”

“I won't turn back.”

“I know. You're not a coward.”

“I know that you aren't either.”

Wharoth shrugs. “They'll call me one. But it's one thing to risk your own life, Zathar, and quite another to risk the lives of others.”

“I see.”

“You will soon. Very soon.”

His sad gaze is too intense. I turn my eyes away. “Perhaps.”

“Not perhaps. Certainly. Anyway, leave me be, Zathar. You can't persuade me.”

“I didn't come down here to persuade you, guildmaster. I came here for your advice.”

“I've given it: don't go.”

I shake my head. “Not about Xomhyrk. I've made up my mind on him just as firmly as you have. It's... It's something else I need your advice on.”

He looks thoughtful. “I see.”

“I think you do.”

“About your abilities.”

“Yes. And where they might lead me.”

I take from my pockets the ruby amulet and the sapphire, and hold them out to the furnace-light. The crimson glitters far more brilliantly than the blue. It looks almost liquid, like blood trapped in glass. It's uncannily like Fjalar's amulet.

“You've changed your amulet, I see.” He walks over and frowns down at the ruby. “I can't read these poems.”

“Maybe that's just as well.”

“Are they as brutal as what's on your weapon?”

“More brutal.”

“And terribly effective, I imagine.”

“Yes. Far more so than what I cut into my sapphire. Right now my hip hurts terribly, guildmaster. But less than an hour ago, when the ruby was around my neck, I felt nothing. No pain at all.”

“I see. Well-crafted amulets can have this effect. When did you make it? Recently? After your trial?”

“No. Right after I slew Fjalar. It scared me so much I couldn't wear it, so I made the sapphire to go in its place.”

“How do you mean it scared you? Because it's too effective?”

“Not just that. When I have it on, I'm...” I hesitate to speak the truth.

“Go on.”

“I'm changed. I feel I can take on anything, that nothing can stand in my path, that my body is unbreakable. The poems, which only I can read, I think, tell of endless battle, of me slaying and slaying and slaying anything and everyone in my path. When I put it on, I feel... I feel that I'm living this poem. That it's become my reality.”

Wharoth's eyes widen. “Really?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“It has that power?”

“Yes. I've read of amulets going wrong and destroying their wearer. Is this one the same? Will it destroy me?”

“Amulets that destroy their wearer do so because they're forged poorly. Flaws in them imprint on the body, mind and soul of their dwarf. This... I don't think this is one of those.”

“Yet when I wear it, it imprints something on me.”

“Indeed. But I've never heard of an amulet of unaging doing this.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“So then what have I made?”

“Rings have been forged to increase the strength of their wearer. Chains can heal the bodies of those they wrap around. Those are simple effects, but then of course some dwarves are capable of creating much more. There are the crowns of the Runekings: each different, each terrible in its power.”

“I wouldn't presume to have made anything that strong.”

“No. Not as strong as a Runeking's crown. But you've made, I think, something of a similar type.”

My breath is taken away. I can do or say nothing for several seconds. His suggestion that I've forged something that's even a shadow of a Runeking's crown is unbelievable.

“That's not possible,” I finally say.

“Your ruby changes yourself. Have you not witnessed a similar craft before?”

I think. My eyes widen. I have. “Dwatrall's crown.”

“That craft changed their very nature on a grand scale, wouldn't you say? Just as the ruby amulet changes yours.”

He's right. I think he's right.

“There can be no doubt about its power,” he says.

“So I should wear it?”

“I didn't say that. I think, Zathar, that only you can answer that question.”

“I don't know the answer. I mean... I'm worried that it'll change me permanently, partly. Mostly I'm worried that it'll lead me into danger.”

“It makes you reckless.”

“Yes. But I can't ignore its strength. If wearing it allows me to fulfill my oath...” I draw breath. “Then I think I should wear it.”

“Then you have your answer.”

I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn't.

“Is that all?” I ask him.

“Are you expecting me to warn you against putting it on?”

“Yes. You said you didn't like the... bloody nature of my crafts.”

“I don't. Yet all our crafts are bloody. A weapon is a weapon, after all. It's a tool for killing.”

“Most would say they're works of art.”

“They are that. They are also tools for killing. And us runeknights, well, we're killers too. Some of us kill for good causes—to defend our homes, our guilds, dwarves that are less strong than us. Most of us kill because we want to climb up to the top.”

“I'm going to kill for a good cause. To stop the black dragon doing to others what it did to us.”

“Yes, you are. You're sincere about that. Before the trial, I'd have thought you were lying, or delusional about your own intentions, but you've proved yourself to me. You've put yourself above most other dwarves—including most of those going with this Xomhyrk.”

“Us from the Association are going for the same reason I am.”

Wharoth shakes his head. “No they aren't. They're going for revenge. Xomhyrk is going for the same reason, from what I can tell by hearsay, at least. He wants to wipe out every dragon—if his story about his guild being attacked is true, in any case. But worse are the dwarves from other guilds.”

He pauses and fixes me with a cold look.

“Voltost told me Xomhyrk's closing words. Do you remember them?”

I think back. “Follow me if you want glory and riches... Something to that effect.”

I feel a weight take hold of me. I see what my guildmaster is saying, see the truth in it.

“Xomhyrk knows,” explains Wharoth, “that the only way to get most runeknights to act is promise them riches and glory. Mostly riches. So, it follows that most of those coming with you on his expedition will be thinking of that. When they realize the true power of the dragon, they'll turn back. I know they will. They'll abandon you to it.”

“The dragon has a great deal of riches now. Maybe that'll be enough to persuade them to stay.”

“And soon they'll realize that if they want to keep those riches, they're going to have to fight an awful lot of Runeking Uthrarzak's dwarves. Maybe a Runethane or two as well.” Wharoth shakes his head. “This expedition is doomed, Zathar.”

“Xomhyrk has no quarrel with Runeking Uthrarzak. And by killing the dragon, won't we be doing him a favor?”

“Runeking Uthrarzak is cruel and ruthless. If you think Vanerak is bad, well...” He shrugs again. “But you've already made up your mind.”

Suddenly he groans and turns away. He holds his head in his hands, as if it's grown too heavy, filled up with imaginings of what's going to happen to us when we meet the black dragon, or before.

“Go now, Zathar. And put your amulet on—that's my final advice to you. I don't like it. I don't like what it might do to you. But don't walk into this battle without as much power as you can possibly muster.”

It shocks me to see him like this. I open my mouth to say something, offer some word of comfort, but I have nothing, so I turn away and leave his forge, wondering if this was our last meeting.