Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I am sitting on the stone at the far edge of my guild’s assigned place, waiting for the funeral to begin. The slowly bubbling burial pool lights the crater walls brightly, and us runeknights, seated in a semicircle around the rim, shade our eyes from its intensity. The largest guilds have the foremost seats—ours is sandwiched between the two greatest—and going outward are the medium guilds, the lesser guilds, then common citizens. Even some miners have showed up to pay their respects, though they are seated far down the path and might as well not be present.

The only runeknights not attending are those guarding distant tunnels and the thin slopes where the castle tunnels stray close to the surface. They will come to pay their respects later.

Midday comes, and the sun’s rays from the mirrors turn the magma a pale color, yet its brightness is not diminished. Heat drifting up from the pool makes my hair and beard glisten with sweat. The pool is swollen in size from yesterday: the magma now fills the entire claw-wrought cleft at the bottom of the crater, fifty feet from end to end.

Mighty indeed was the final dragon Thanerzak slayed.

The last cables and bars holding up the scaffold are put in place and finally the ceremony can begin. Vanerak climbs up the scaffold’s stairs slowly and deliberately until he stands upon the topmost platform. He is still below the watching crowd but this does not diminish his authority.

“Runeknights of Thanerzak,” he says to us, his voice amplified by a runed disc held before his mask. “We are gathered here today because our lord has been taken from us.”

Total silence surrounds the crater.

“An untimely death, many commoners would say. But for a runesmith, whether he be mere initiate, runeknight, Runethane or even Runeking, the concept of an untimely death does not quite make sense. We wear amulets of unaging, so there can be no natural ending of time for us, and we live dangerous lives, prepared to risk all in pursuit of perfection.”

Out the corner of my eye I see Guildmaster Wharoth nodding.

“So let us not say his death was untimely. Fate comes for us at her time of choosing. Instead let us reflect upon the manner of his death: from a terrible betrayal. Even dwarves who are mortal enemies must have understandings between them, for we face many threats from both above and below. No war should have been fought with a dragon on the loose.”

Angry grumbling rises from the crowd. Vanerak holds up his right hand to still it. Then he makes a gesture with his left and a crane in the center of the scaffold whirs to life. It begins to draw a tungsten casket up through precisely cut gaps in the platforms.

“I remember Broderick,” says Vanerak. “He was a most unpleasant subordinate.” His voice is heavy with disgust: an uncharacteristic display of emotion—perhaps his heart is not totally cold after all. Maybe his cruel past deeds were all done out of love for his Runethane.

Or perhaps he is manipulating us. I shift uncomfortably. No one can tell where he’s looking through his dark-mirror mask, yet I cannot help but imagine that his eyes come to rest on my face now and again.

“Broderick did not respect our Runethane,” Vanerak continues as the casket makes its way upward. “He did not listen to orders in even the most dire circumstances. He refused to listen to our Runethane’s teaching on the proper methods of forging. He jeopardized the safety of the conquest force in almost every battle.”

Many of the crowd are shaking their heads in disgust.

“Thanerzak was not Runethane yet. That was Broderick’s excuse for disobeying him. Yet even once Thanerzak was granted rule of the cavern, Broderick still refused to obey. Instead he snuck down to that most infamous Runeking, Uthrarzak, and persuaded him that he was worthy of becoming a rival Runethane.”

The casket has nearly reached the top.

“You know this story, of course. But it bears repeating, for it will build rage in your hearts. Rage we need to bring Broderick down and defile him just as he defiled our beloved Thanerzak.”

I can nearly hear the tears in Vanerak’s voice. Somehow that disturbs me even more than his usual coldness does.

The casket reaches the top; the section of platform the crane has carried it on clicks into place. Vanerak throws it open and the gathered runeknights, even though this is their second time witnessing his corpse, all cry out in anger and horror. It's my first time; I flinch back and my stomach roils.

Thanerzak’s face is as hideously scarred as my guild members told me. It’s more like a blob of gray-red wax than a face; every feature is melted into the others, and it is completely devoid of hair and beard. Somehow that is the most disturbing thing to me: only the most shamed dwarves are forced to undergo such punishment. For a Runethane to be seen in such a state is a terrible tragedy to behold.

A deep axe wound in his forehead must be from the blow that killed him.

“See what our enemy has done!” Vanerak cries out. “His helmet and dignity stripped from him. His noble head split apart. Remember how he was displayed to us! I ask you, what do our enemies deserve?”

“Death!” shout the runeknights, standing up and raising their weapons high. A sudden surge of rage courses through me and I join in.

“Death!” I shout.

“Nachroktey!”

“Nachroktey!”

“Nachroktey!”

“You are all correct,” Vanerak says when the shouts finally quiet. “Death is what they deserve. What they require. And we will give it to them—we started yesterday, we will finish the job tomorrow, and we will continue it today. Behold!”

He gestures grandly to a long gap separating the two halves of crowd. I turn to look and a thrill of horror runs through me. Down the aisle, pushed and prodded by tungsten elites, limp a dozen captured enemies. They are bloodied, naked, and nothing remains of their beards but a few bristles and many razor wounds. Their armor and weapons are piled on a cart trundling behind.

Murmurs run through the crowd, but Vanerak silences us:

“Don’t be so squeamish, my runeknights,” he says. Some of the passion has cooled from his voice so that he sounds a bit more like his usual self. “This is the punishment you demanded.”

I look to Guildmaster Wharoth in alarm, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Vanerak raises his halberd high, points it to the shaven enemies who are now trembling at the edge of the crater, and brings it down. The tungsten elites shove forward with their shields. The captured enemies plead in terror. One tries to climb over a shield and is punched down by an armored fist.

The unlucky dozen cry out in despair as they are driven off the edge. They roll and tumble toward the magma. The slope is not steep or jagged enough to kill them before they reach the bottom—I imagine Vanerak calculated this carefully—and they hit the magma screaming. Flames and bursts of steam erupt from them as their blood and flesh vaporizes. Those who fell last have it the worst: they survive for a few painful seconds more on top of the disintegrating corpses of their friends before they too are subsumed.

Their weapons and armor come tumbling after them and sink slowly into the brightness. A minute later, no trace remains of the unlucky dwarves but a slight smell of charcoal drifting in the air.

Silence reigns. No one was expecting this display of brutality. Vanerak shakes his head at us.

“They deserved it. You said so yourselves. Such insults to dwarfkind must be dealt with appropriately. Made an example of. Do you not agree?”

For a moment there is hesitation, then each and every runeknight begins to nod, including me. Each fears that Vanerak has his eyes fixed on them through his dark mask.

“Be assured that our Runethane would have approved of their punishment. And now, it is time to say goodbye to him. I would ask that you all stand and bow.”

We do so. Vanerak steps back from the casket and bows also.

“Goodbye, my Runethane. You will soon be avenged.”

He closes the casket lid. A dwarf at the base of the scaffold pulls a lever. A thin section of the top platform tilts down to become a slide and Vanerak pushes the casket onto it. By degrees the casket slides down, then starts to quickly pick up speed. Its weight tilts the slide down further and it becomes a dark blur, then it flies off the metal in a spray of sparks.

It plummets vertically down and vanishes into the glow of the magma. Vanerak bows once more, and the ceremony is over.

The black dragon is nearly there now. Nearly there! It can smell the stench of its brethren more strongly than it has in many decades, back when it was small enough to sneak through various secret passages unseen.

Now it is far too large for secret passages and must go by a more direct route. Fortunately there do not seem to be so many dwarves as it expected, and those few it has encountered proved to be no challenge at all.

Its belly is no longer empty, and the nutrition has made its inner fires flare hotter.

And lucky that they are flaring back up: the black dragon has come to one final obstacle.

This challenge is not combat, for the Runethane trusted no one with the knowledge of this place but his strongest elites, who are now distracted far above. The challenge is that the tunnel is far too thin. With much effort the black dragon manages to squeeze its head and shoulders through, then the narrowing of the rock stops it dead. It snarls in anger. It has not come this far to be defeated by rock. It pulls out of the tunnel, arches back its neck, and breaths fire.

The incredible heat makes the air shimmer like boiling water. White light plays across the dragon’s black scales, illuminating the deep scars in them. The rock begins to melt and fall away like wax with a wettish rumble. Some of the lava pools at the black dragon’s feet, but most begins to flow slowly down the tunnel.

The prisoners sense the heat. Some begin to hope.

Others begin to fear.