Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

It’s time to repair my armor. I take it off and put it on the stand next to the anvil. Vanerak has generously lent me one of the better forges, in a relatively untouched part of the city.

I can hear the tungsten elites hammering away in the adjacent rooms and the sound of their blows intimidates me somewhat. Each has spent decades, at least, bent over the forge crafting perfection, and out of tungsten too, a notoriously tricky metal to manipulate. I can’t let that bother me though. What do I have to be intimidated about? Just a year since my first craft, and I’m nearly ready to join their ranks. I ought to be proud of myself, of my talent. My brother was right about us. Forging is in our blood.

I lay my breastplate on the anvil and pick up the thin poker I’ll be using for this job. I’ll be leaving the innumerable dents and scrapes alone for now—my priority is to repair the fire repelling runes that have broken apart.

Fire repelling runes can only reflect a certain degree of heat. After a point their effectiveness diminishes and the heat starts to warp them, further reducing their heat tolerance, which makes the heat warp them even further, until quicker than the blink of an eye they shatter. Fortunately mine were grafted well enough not to totally shatter. Hytrigite is sought after not just for how excellently it bonds rune to metal, but for the toughness it confers on both. The runes that failed are only cracked slightly.

Still, repairing abyssal scale is no easy task. First, the poker must be heated until it is incandescent. Then, I have to tap it very gently along the cracks. I pick out a crack and touch by feather-like touch I go along it. My focus is intense—I fall into a trance-like state and all my worries are obliterated.

Gradually the heat of the poker—aluminum for its good thermal conductivity—fades. I place it back in the furnace and sigh. My trance is gone; my worries have returned. My fears.

Vanerak approached me after the funeral:

“I hope you were not... disturbed by my actions as some of the other dwarves were,” he said with his usual coldness.

“Not at all,” I said carefully.

“Good. The dwarves we threw down deserved their pain.”

“Of course.”

“And they felt a lot of pain, young Zathar.”

He paused for a while. I could feel his eyes boring into mine.

“Do you know,” he said, “That up on the surface the humans have people dedicated to probing the mystery of what happens after death? They are called priests, I do believe.”

“I didn't.”

“As far as I know, they have not succeeded. This suits me just fine: I have my own theory of what happens when one dies. Would you like to know what it is?”

I shivered slightly “I... I would.”

“I believe that everything freezes still the moment you die. What you feel in that moment continues for all eternity. Pain, regret, shame—all continue for eternity. Imagine a song stopped halfway, and the note it stops on continuing in a monotone scream, forever. That is how I believe death is experienced.”

I flinched. “I see.”

“So you understand why I am so devastated about the loss of our dear Runethane. The only thing that can bring solace to our hearts is by visiting worse deaths upon those responsible for his eternal suffering.”

I had no reply to that. I believe I went pale.

“Ah, you are still so young. I forget, looking at your fine armor, that you are not yet twenty. Perhaps you are not ready to attempt to comprehend the horrors of our world—yet you must become able to comprehend them in time. Perhaps soon.”

After saying that he offered me use of this forge, and then he left.

It was a fearful conversation, and I can’t help dwelling on his view of death. Is what he said true? Are the dwarves who died because of my crime still burning, burning for all eternity?

I can’t talk to Wharoth either. He won’t so much as look at me. I wonder if he really did forgive me. Maybe he did yesterday but has since changed his mind. I shudder suddenly. Will I be thrown naked into a pool of magma for my punishment? Will the agonizing instant of my death stretch out for all eternity?

The aluminum poker is glowing white again. I take it up and resume my work, and let the forging-trance obliterate my fears once more.

Guildmaster Wharoth is repairing his shield. It is not easy work. The more complex a piece of equipment is, the greater the number of metals that have been alloyed together, the longer the runic poem, the more difficult it all is to repair.

And the runic poem spiraling around his shield is indeed a long one. The longest he’s ever written, in fact. Only the poem within his amulet of unaging rivals it, and thankfully he has never had cause to repair that one.

He takes up a magnifying glass and examines each rune one by one. He grimaces. The slashes of his enemies’ blades have taken their toll, and there are too many scars to repair in so short a time. The final battle is coming—Vanerak briefed him and the other high ranking runeknights a few hours ago, so he knows it will not be long until Broderick's forces mine themselves out of their predicament.

He will just have to repair what he can. He takes a poker from the rack, heats it until it’s white, and begins the repairs.

It’s hard. Very hard. He knows that even the smallest slip of his hand could warp the rune in some miniscule way, one that only becomes apparent in the heat of combat when a blade slices through or a gout of dragonfire melts it. The work demands intense concentration.

Yet for all that, this is a process he has done a thousand times before. More than a thousand. And he spent decades on this shield—he knows it intimately, every idiosyncrasy, every minor flaw. The concentration the repairs demand is intense, but does not occupy his entire mind. He has space to think.

To regret.

Zathar. It was he who brought the dragon, he who is responsible for the deaths of dozens of Wharoth’s guild members, friends. He is responsible for the deaths of old hands and young dwarves full of promise alike. Wharoth remembers seeing the light die in Whelt’s eyes after the dragon escaped, and he has to withdraw the poker temporarily as anger overwhelms him.

He takes a deep breath, the smell of molten metal calms him, and he resumes the repairs.

If that miner hadn’t dragged himself up to the guild gates, none of this tragedy would have occurred. Why did he even take him in? Curiosity, that was all. The appeal of new runes is strong for any dwarf, and for Guildmaster Wharoth even more so.

The most shallow runeknights, those he cannot stand, desire to rise for the benefits their weapons and armor bring them. Others do it for the satisfaction of crafting a masterpiece—Guildmaster Wharoth feels some of that too, but it’s not what drives him.

Runes are what fascinates him. Their history, their use, even just how they look. Rare ones are the most intriguing. Most guilds would purge books containing ineffective, overly complicated, or taboo runes from their libraries. Not Guildmaster Wharoth. He collects them all.

That’s why he took on Zathar. Curiosity, and a little pity too.

So why is he keeping him? Why did he say he forgave him? Is he going to continue to put his guild at risk just out of curiosity? Anything Vanerak takes an interest in tends to break, bend, warp. The further the guild stays away from his attentions the better, especially now Thanerzak is no longer around to keep the cruelty in check.

The poker grows cold. Guildmaster Wharoth sighs bitterly as he places it back in the furnace.

Maybe he does forgive Zathar. Maybe it isn’t just curiosity that makes him want to help, but genuine empathy. Wharoth doesn’t know what he really feels—he’s not the sort to be in touch with his emotions, never has been. Most dwarves aren’t. They much prefer metal: it’s easier to understand than other dwarves. Easier to understand than themselves, even.

For now he’ll stick to his promise and support Zathar.

If he brings harm to the guild again, though...

“Why?” whispers Halda. “But why do you want to help him? Why keep his secrets?”

“He’s not so bad,” says Hayhek. “He saved us both at the battle. Before...”

“He killed our son.”

“That’s not fair.”

They are sitting at their table in the darkness. The children are long since asleep. Hayhek promised to tell her everything once the funeral was over. He tried to tell her before, two nights ago after Zathar left, but couldn’t. He was too afraid of what she’d say, how she’d feel. Now he’s finally told her and he’s still afraid.

“It is fair,” Halda whispers fiercely. “He made Yezakh trust him, then led him to his death. Our boy.”

“He stopped us wading into the battle on the mountain. I’d be dead too if it wasn’t for that. And I wouldn’t have survived the caverns without him. I’d have been torn apart by the amphidons.”

“So? He just saved you out of guilt.”

“No. He has a good heart. If you knew him better you’d understand.”

“A good heart! You think everyone has a good heart, deep down. That’s why you let them walk over you.”

Hayhek sighs. He knows it’s true.

“He thinks his brother matters more than anything else," Halda continues. "More than everyone else. Who knows what the dragon is going to unlock with that key? Nothing good. Nothing good.”

“He’s hurting. He had a terrible life. That’s why I forgave him.”

“So? He doesn’t matter! Not compared to the life of everyone in the city. You need to go to Vanerak and tell him about the dragon, and the key. He needs to know, so he can make sure we’re defended. Otherwise you could be condemning us all to die, husband. This is serious.”

“I know it’s serious,” Hayhek says. “I know.”

“Then go tell him!”

“I... I will.”

“When? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? You always say you’ll do things, then you put them off, and nothing ever happens.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispers faintly. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”