Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

After a couple more beers I end up taking Guthah's advice to retire to my chambers and sleep. Blackness takes me quickly, yet my mind remains at furious work. Runes crystallize in my dreams. The new script I saw in the ice is becoming definite. Its runic flow pattern is different to that of most scripts. Instead of flowing along horizontal or vertical lines, it spreads in branching patterns.

When I wake up, I grab a piece of paper, scribble a simple poem in it, and practice the calculations. They're tricky, involving multiple simultaneous factors. This is a problem I hadn't anticipated—until now my powers have done the calculations for me, but it seems that gaining greater control of them will mean doing more of the hard work myself.

I'll overcome it. I have no choice to.

Before that, though: Braztak. I knock on the door to his chambers. He opens it. There's dark bags under his eyes and a shadow of frenzy on his brow.

“Zathar,” he says. “Come in. Can you believe it? Can you believe what our guildmaster's decided?”

I sit down on the chair he offers. He sits on his bed, which I get the impression he hasn't slept in—the sheets are smooth, and the air in here smells of oil-smoke from his lamp.

“He's scared of losing us,” I say. “He cares for us. That's why he's so reluctant.”

“Cares for us? He knows what we need to heal. And now our chance for revenge is staring us straight in the face and he wants to turn away—run away!”

“You really trust this Xomhryk, then?”

“No! Weren't you listening yesterday? Or last long-hour, or whatever the fuck it's called down here in these pits. It doesn't matter if we can trust him or not. If he's delusional, if the dragon kills him, so what? We're still in front of the black dragon.”

“I see.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes. I'm with you all the way, friend. I can't turn my back on my oath.”

“Exactly. Exactly! That makes you a hell of a lot better than Wharoth. He promised us we'd get to strike at the dragon again—and now he's gone back on that.”

I don't like that Wharoth's running scared, but I can accept why he is, and I accept the fact that he won't be coming with us, though I truly wish he would. But I don't really want to get into an argument about whether or not he's a liar, an oathbreaker, or whatever else Braztak is going to call him. So I change the subject.

“When are we leaving? I hope not too soon. I've got a lot of forging to do.”

“In twenty long-hours, from the top of the surface shaft. There'll be a test, we'll hand in our gold, and then we're off.”

“You know Xomhyrk's plans already?”

“I sent someone to run and find out as soon as Voltost and I called a truce.”

“That was quick.”

“We've no time to lose. Xomhyrk needs his army together as soon as possible. I don't want us to be stragglers. The surface is a dangerous place.”

“It's really that dangerous?”

“Some of the parts we're traveling through are. And on top of everything, if Uthrarzak's lot get there first, we're going to have major trouble.”

“They might be there already.”

“Doubt it. It takes a while to assemble a big force, and Runeking Uthrarzak tends to do things by wholes.”

This sounds like wishful thinking to me, but I don't know enough about Runeking Uthrarzak to disagree.

“So I've got twenty long-hours to complete my armor.”

“Let's say nineteen and a half. We don't want to risk being late. Do you need any more gold, by the way? I'll lend you some—no, I'll gift you some if you need it.”

“I think I have enough.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I'll give you some.” He reaches under his bed and pulls out a rather fat leather purse. “There's forty gold wheels in here. Take them.”

“Forty!”

“I'd give you more.” He smiles. “But the rest is in my safe, and it's a right pain to unlock. Take them, Zathar. I've bought the materials for my new weapon already. And you deserve a reward for being the first to speak up against the guildmaster.”

“I don't think I spoke up against him, exactly. He wasn't against me going.”

“Yes he was: he told you you should run away as soon as you saw the thing!” He shakes his head. “I don't know what's gotten into him, I really don't. What happened to the guildmaster who charged down a collapsing pit to have a go at it with his axe? Where'd he go, I ask you? I think all these years in Allabrast have made us soft, Zathar. We're meant to be hard dwarves, not like the rest of the sword-swinging, posturing snobs down here under the safety of the Runeking. A bit of fresh air and danger will do us—those of us who aren't cowards—a lot of good. It'll be our whetstone, sharpen us up for the dragon.”

“I just hope we'll be sharp enough.”

“We will be. And if we aren't, what does that matter? We tried to fulfill our duty as best we could. That's all that matters in the end, for an honorable runeknight, one who's interested in more than just himself and his own advancement. You understand this, Zathar. I wish everyone else did as well.”

Braztak's changed, and the change frightens me, not least because it's come over him so suddenly. Not that there's never been steel in him, but it's never been so razor-sharp. He's genuinely angry at Wharoth for what he sees as betrayal.

His wife was killed in the first dragon attack. He wants revenge more than anyone here. I just wish he could find some way to understand Wharoth's feelings as well.

Well, there's no point dwelling on it. I've never been particularly good at understanding what others are thinking. If Braztak's angry at Wharoth, all I can do is accept it. It's not my place to intervene.

I just hope no further changes come over him as we approach the black dragon.

Back in the forge, I look over the titanium plates. I scratch my beard. They don't seem quite as good as I remember. Maybe this is just because my mood has sunk. There's nothing obviously wrong with them, after all: the shapes are perfectly cut out and the curves hammered flawlessly also.

I pick up one at random, a leg-plate, and examine it closely, first with my bare eyes, then with my lens, and then with my runic ears, tapping along its length and listening to its chime. There's slight unevennesses, to be sure, but I don't think it's these that's bothering me. It's something deeper.

Metal as living material. I've still got the same problem I had when I was working on Gutspiercer's handle. Why doesn't my metal seem alive? And it's not just because the runes haven't been grafted yet. There's some deeper secret here that most aren't privy to. Braztak probably knows, yet whenever I've turned our conversations in this direction he hasn't revealed anything, and I doubt he's in the mood to discuss it now.

I put the metal down and sigh. This craft won't be the perfect piece I envisioned. Well, what piece is? I'm sure even the Runeking could critique his own work, see imperfections that no other dwarf could.

Probably. His forging was something else, though. What was it he said? That when you worked with his materials, his tools, more was released than simple sound and sparks. Something like that.

Maybe there's a problem with my tools. I hope not—they cost a fortune. Maybe I ought to be forging my own, which is something only a few runeknights do. I've never really thought about why.

So is the problem with my materials? But I purchased the best quality titanium they had. And as far as I know, no runeknight, whatever his level, mines and process his own ore. That's what commoners are for.

No answers forthcoming, I get back to work making the rest of the plates, as well as all the minor buckles and hinges that will fit everything together.

A forging trance soon comes over me. It comes easily now the ruby amulet's around my neck. Mind, body, and soul. Nthazes told me an amulet of unaging affects all three, and only now do I come to understand what he meant by it.

After several short-hours of cutting, sawing, sweating, hammering and bending, I'm done. Ears ringing with the echo of metal, which still seems to be reverberating off the walls, I step back to examine what I've made.

As with before, there's nothing wrong with the shapes. There's just a kind of lifelessness about them.

Maybe this'll change once I apply heat. Having to treat so many titanium plates in a row would've terrified me at one point—I remember my early failures with the metal down in the fort—but I'm much more practiced now.

I turn the furnace up then start small with a toe-cap. It turns the right shade of yellow and I snatch it out. I let it cool before doing the next, just to make sure I haven't messed up the timing. I haven't. It's not warping.

But neither does it seem to be coming alive.

I spend the next long-hour heat-treating the rest. None warp, and they all take on an attractive sheen. I decide to put my worries about them not being 'alive' enough to one side. These are good, well-made. Supremely well-made.

I break down coughing. I've forgotten to drink again. I drag myself back to the guildhall for a drink then a rest. In my bed I shut my eyes. No time seems to pass before I'm opening them again, then I head right back to the forge.