Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I open the box of salterite very carefully. The green hexagons are fatter than any I've worked with before, and brighter in color too. They're very high quality, which means I'm going to have to be very careful with them.

I won't start on the breastplate, but instead with the vambraces. There's only a couple runes on them so damaged they need removing.

I lay one of the fat green crystals on the anvil and tap it gently with my hammer. It makes a discordant noise and splits apart into a dozen thinner, yet still perfectly formed hexagons. I bite my lip. Seeing the way salterite breaks always makes me uneasy. The smell is harsh as well. I give it another blow and the crystals get smaller, then I give it another and another until they're powder.

With a small chrome scoop I dig out from the side-shelves, I take up some of the green powder and place it very carefully on one of the broken runes. Already the palladium begins to smoke, without me even touching heat to it.

Shit! I wasn't expecting a reaction like this. I thought palladium wasn't meant to react very strongly, just like its sister. Salterite seems to like it though—or dislike it—it's burning through fast.

I force myself not to touch. Spilling the crystals across the adjacent runes would be a disaster. Instead I grit my teeth and wait for the rune to disappear.

Once it's gone, I see that the titanium below is scarred quite badly. I curse.

Well, that's why I didn't start with my breastplate. Now I know the correct amount of salterite to use—much less.

Over the next few hours I painstakingly remove every last dead rune. I can tell which are dead by feel—any dwarf could. I also remove every instance of the rune sazk.

It's one of the most inferior ones. Not many dwarves could tell this—maybe they'd notice a slight weakness about them, but they wouldn't blame the runes itself. They'd search for a reason in the makeup of the poem, or the particulars of the runic flow patterns. But thanks to Xomhyrk I now know better. Money for materials isn't the only thing I need to thank him for.

The whole process, despite the first failure with the salterite, goes quite smoothly. In only a few places do I scar the titanium to any significant degree.

Yet I feel terribly nervous. I step back and take a look at my armor as a whole. It seems dead. The coldness radiating from it is barely present now. My skin is back to sweating again. I grow nervous. What if the new runes I create don't fit with the poems, with the runic flow? What if the cold never returns?

Have I killed everything?

I pick up a coil of palladium and my fear vanishes almost immediately. I feel angry. Why am I doubting myself? This is not a time for fear! Am I not a runeforger? Can I not do what no dwarf in more than ten thousand years has accomplished?

This is my ruby speaking, not me. Doubts are normal, and I'm not the Runeforger. This is no time for overconfidence either. It's time to think deeply.

I glance around the forging hall. No one is watching me—they're all focused on their own work, as good dwarves should be. None are intrigued enough by my armor, I think, to want to spy, and if anyone did try surely someone in the Association would notice.

I face the wall. I shut my eyes and imagine myself sinking down into the floor. I feel blackness around me, then heat. I'm in the magma sea, heading toward the sphere. My feet touch against it.

What is it? Who is in it? I can't help but wonder. Runeking Ulrike said the Runeforger was killed—is this his casket? Yet there's three shadows in it, not one. Three Runeforgers? Was the Runeking wrong when he said there was only one?

Cold, I remind myself. I'm looking for cold. A rune for it. I sink into the sphere's surface and am inside the cold and dark. I turn away from the dark shadows and think. I try to imagine how to make the feeling of eternal numbness into a physical symbol.

A line here, a line there, a jag curving leftways, one rightways... I'm going about this wrong. I have no basis for these decisions. I need to draw the power out of the deeps. That's what a rune is—power from the deepest parts of the magma ocean wrought into meaning.

Something is coming. A swell from below of shimmering heat, of boiling stone thinner than water. The sphere shivers, and in my mind I see the symbol I need to shape.

My eyes open. I gasp. My fingers blur as I shape the palladium into what I saw: a jag, curving in at both sides. A line cuts through the left side at a steep diagonal.

That's all. That's it. It's a simple rune, yet in its simplicity is all the meaning I desired to imbue.

I make eleven more the same and place them in the gaps left by the old version, whose shape has already left my mind. Cold, to me, is now the shape I've just twisted deep in the fires of the magma sea—twisted from the fires of the magma sea.

I pack jasperite around the symbols, then light. Blue-white flashes, eleven times.

Cold is pouring from my armor again. It's as cold as it was before it was damaged, and I haven't even fixed the poems fully yet. With eagerness I twist the other runes, the damaged ones, but not into new shapes. Though I'm confident that I could redesign every single one of them, I just don't have the time. Many dwarves are already packing up to leave and I don't want to be the last.

When the last damaged rune is replaced with a blue flash, I step back once more. Then I take another step back, for the cold is deathly. I feel nearly like I'm back in the snowdrift with my lips turning blue.

Braztak steps back from his forging and stands beside me.

“Did you change something?”

“Just one thing,” I say quietly.

“The runes?”

“Just one rune.”

His eyes widen. “Just one?”

“That's right. I improved just one.”

“Improved a rune...”

He trails off; he's speechless.

“I worked out how to do it. How to control things better.”

“That's good... Very good. You should always be in control of your crafts.”

“Yes. And the runic flow worked out all right.”

“It didn't change much.”

“A little. It could flow much better. But it's good enough for now.”

“This is a very impressive piece of work, Zathar. Nearly as good as my own armor.”

“Nearly.”

“Yes,” he laughs. “Nearly. Your metalworking still has a way to go.”

“I don't know how to improve it.”

“Practice.”

“But there's something else as well. Something I'm not understanding. Something deeper.”

“Ah. You've realized it. Good. That's the first step.”

“You know!”

My jaw drops slightly. So there is something I've been missing.

“Yes. You don't get to third without knowing.”

“What's the second step? Tell me!”

My heart is beating fast. I've mastered some small part of my power today, and now I'm on the verge of discovering another secret, the truth behind the metal, behind forging.

He shakes his head. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Keep your voice down, Zathar.”

“Why can't you tell me?”

“It would hurt you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you don't attain understanding by yourself, you won't gain a true understanding.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have to work it out for yourself. But I can point you in the right direction.”

“Please!”

“What goes into the Runeking's palace, but never comes out?”

“What?”

“That's all. That's all I can let you know.”

“A riddle.”

I'm disappointed. I'd expected more help from Braztak.

“You're smart, Zathar. You can figure it out soon enough.”

As I work on improving my boots—I've had an idea for them—I ponder his riddle, but can come to no answer. Into the Runeking's Palace-Foundry pours metal, but as for what does or doesn't emerge, I have no idea.

“We are prepared,” says Nazak.

Runethane Vanerak looks over the nine runeknights. They're the best and most loyal he has, yet he can't help but see the flaws in their work. The plates of their boots are uneven, their runework uninspired.

Since when did he see first degree crafts in such a way? Second degrees he's been able to criticize for a century, at least, but when did he start seeing first degree armor as shoddy? Yes, shoddy. That's the word that applies here.

“Was gold really the best choice for your boots?”

“Mine?” says Nazak.

“Yes.”

“It seemed so. Gold is a favored choice for speed.”

“Yet not for endurance. We will be crossing many miles. Many hundreds of miles.”

“The tungsten will hold together. It's well-made.”

“Is it now? In only five long-hours, you were able to create something deserving to be called well-made?”

Nazak goes pale. “I apologize, my Runethane! They are only fairly well-made. They do not approach your creations.”

Vanerak looks down at his own pair of boots. They still feel uncomfortable on him.

“Never mind,” he says. “As long as we reach Zathar in time, nothing else matters. Understood?”

The nine runeknights chorus agreement.

“Excellent. Now let us hurry upwards. Our carriage is waiting, and after it, the surface and the traitor.”