Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Only one more mundane task to go before I can get to the runes, and that's the chainmail. I'm not going to make much of it—indeed I don't have the metal to make much of it—but there's a few wider gaps I want to put some under. Even human weapons can kill if they get into the right place, after all.

It's time to embark on that most laborious of processes, then, making chainmail, except this time I don't even have the wire ready-made. I'm going to make it myself out of all the little offcuts from the plates.

I grab a long, bar-shaped crucible and fill it with the metal scraps. I push them down and pack them tightly—I don't want any bubbles in them. Then I turn the furnace up high and push the crucible in. The tungsten shimmers slightly as the titanium splinters within soften and meld together. When it's liquid, I pull it out, then let the crucible rest.

In the meantime I work on my poems. I'm not sure which I'm going to start with. I was thinking one for one of the smaller pieces, as a kind of practice run, but I fear getting into that mindset. If I treat a piece of armor as nothing more than practice, it could end up being the weak-point that fails me.

Then I'll start on one of the more important pieces. The legs. A simple poem should do, praising the strength of thick, old ice, and how all that tries to do it harm slides off, leaving nothing more than scratches.

I draft. The form of the runes is really coming together now. The same words repeat a few times with no variations—they're fixed. For now, at any rate—my power may improve them when I twist the palladium I'm saving my money for.

It's an average poem. A little dull, but maybe dependable is best. I'll improve on it later.

The titanium is cooled to orange now, and it's shrunk from the darker sides of the crucible, which I tip over. I rap on its top and hear a clunk as the titanium drops out. It's glowing hot and bright.

I grimace. This next process is going to be long, hard, and very dull.

Hammer, hammer, hammer. As the blows ring, scales form then fall from the steadily lengthening metal. It starts to get a bit flat, so I turn it onto its side. I need to keep its cross-section as even as possible. The bar grows. It seems almost alive! I get excited, but after fatigue takes hold of my arm sending my mood back down, I realize there's nothing special here. It's ordinary.

It seems that the secret I'm searching for doesn't hide in the hammering.

I'm forced to stop for a break for hunger and thirst. Tired and irritated, I head back to the guildhall. I scoff down some meat, drink some water, sleep, and am back before the anvil. Heat and hammer. Now the bar's too long to fit into the furnace. I jam in two-thirds, heat to yellow, pull it out to turn it around, and I fumble. Like a glowing spear it thrusts into my foot. I yelp and hop back. It clatters onto the stones.

“Ah, shit!”

Quickly I pull off my shoe to inspect the damage. The skin is red and raw, but the pain is already beginning to fade. I put the shoe back on and get back to work.

Half an hour into my hammering and I feel a little concerned. My foot isn't hurting at all, despite the heaviness and extreme heat of the blow it took. I pull my shoe back off. The redness seems to have faded. I check again an hour later. It looks like its beginning to heal already.

Will it heal completely by the end of the day? I check again after the bar is nearly thin enough to be called wire. The burn is still there, which relieves me a good deal.

My ruby amulet is not completely supernatural then. So maybe its more negative effects won't end up being so pronounced either.

The cries of my body become too strong to ignore again. Reluctantly I obey them and return to the guildhall. I eat and drink—I'm not sure what. It seems tasteless and cold. I want to feel the heat of the forge, and to taste the tang rising from molten metal.

“How's your armor going?” asks Faltast, sitting down opposite just as I'm about to rise.

“Oh. Well enough. Though I feel there's something missing in the metal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just... I don't know. You've never felt that way?”

“Not really.”

“I think it should feel more alive.”

He shrugs. “Metal's metal.”

“I suspect there's something more to it than that.”

“Perhaps that's a mystery for fourth degrees like yourself to unlock.”

“Why don't you try? Maybe you'd jump ahead of me.”

“Hah! Wouldn't dream of it. I don't think anyone's ever going to race ahead of you, Zathar.”

“I'm sure someone will.”

“I'm sure they won't. It takes decades to reach fourth for most dwarves.”

“I suppose that's true. How long have you been fifth degree?”

“Just over a decade now. Took the exam shortly after we came to Allabrast.”

“With Jerat?”

“No—he turned up late and missed his chance that time.”

“He must have been annoyed.”

“Not at all. Just shrugged and laughed. Maybe if he ever sobers up he'll regret it—that and a lot of other things.”

I laugh. “I can't imagine him ever sobering up. But I suppose everyone has to eventually.”

Faltast scratches his beard. “No,” he says after a few seconds. “I don't think that's true. I've known dwarves drunk on power, on revenge, on fear, on joy, who never sobered up.”

I think of Runethane Yurok and his fear. I think of Braztak and his revenge. And I think of Vanerak and his obsession.

“Me too, come to think of it.”

“Aren't we all drunk, us runeknights? Most on greed, some on other things. Out of all the things to be drunk on, beer is one of the least dangerous, don't you think?”

I nod. “Then what are you drunk on, Faltast?”

He grins. “Nothing. I'm sober and sensible. I take things easy—I don't need to be head-down in a drunken stupor to feel normal. How about you, Zathar? What are you drunk on?”

I think hard, but come to no answer. “Many things,” I eventually say.

“Yes. Yes, I think you are. Maybe you're the opposite of me.”

“Strange that we should be friends then.”

“Not at all. Don't opposites attract?”

“I don't know about that. Xomhyrk's attracting us, isn't he? Everyone with their mind bent on revenge is going to a dwarf who's built his entire life around it.”

“Revenge and riches and glory. The latter weigh more heavily in most of his followers' minds.”

“Not in mine.”

Faltast raises an eyebrow. “Not at all?”

“Not at all.” I frown. “And you?”

He smiles. “Like I said, I take things easy. I'm not drunk on revenge. I want a bit of all three, I think. Not that revenge won't feel good, but riches and glory, well, they're fine things in moderation too, no?”

Back in the forge. I drag a hefty wire-drawing bench from the back. I purchased it soon after my trial for a bargain. One of the guildsdwarves wanted it off his hands. I haven't used it yet—strangely enough, I didn't do much forging after the trial. Maybe even I was sick of it. That, and I didn't have much money for materials.

At one end of the bench is a plate of hardened steel with circular holes cut into it. Number runes inform what gauge each is for. I lubricate the bar with some holwok mushroom oil—a luxury choice, purchased with some of the gold Braztak gifted me—and force it into the widest hole. Force! I push with my entire bodyweight, and slowly it goes through, thinning as it does so.

At the other end of the bench is a wheel and some tough rope. I pull the rope out, bend a hook into the bar using a small hammer, and tie both together tight. Then I begin to turn the wheel. It feels rusted, but I oiled it only a long-hour ago—this job is just tough.

Inch by strenuous inch, I pull the bar through. The wire-drawing bench is creaking like its bones are on the verge of breaking. Or maybe it's my bones that are creaking.

I wonder how much harder this would be if I were wearing my sapphire amulet instead of the ruby.

The other end, finally, comes through. I lie back, panting hard. But I can't congratulate myself yet. The wire needs to be thinner.

I extrude it through the next thinnest gauge, then the next, then the next. I'm covered in sweat, my arms are shaking, my throat burns. I want to collapse onto the floor and sleep. But one more pull-through and I'll be done.

Done. I feel half-dead. My arms and hands are agony, my muscles pulped. But I've got my wire. It extends across half the length of the forge, and it gleams brightly. Is it finer than anything I could have purchased? Maybe so, or maybe it just feels that way because of the work I put into it.

My work is nowhere near done yet. I still have to turn it into thousands of miniscule rings. But I think I'll give my hands a rest. Now is the time to use my mind: it's time to compose the poems.