Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

“It’s here,” Whelt rasps. “I can feel it on my skin. It’s close, close!”

“Yes,” Guildmaster Wharoth says. “We have it trapped. Trapped and ready for slaughter.”

“We will have our revenge,” says another guild member grimly. “Today it dies.”

It is the night before the final trapping of the black dragon, so far as night and day have meaning this far from the central mirrors. The stalagmite forest is vast—Wharoth had forgotten just how vast. The stalagmites here stretch hundreds of feet into the air and join to the hanging stalactites above, forming stone pillars so massive the dwarves feel like ants walking beside them.

Yet they do not bow to fear, for fear is driven out of their hearts by a burning sense of righteous justice. This is most especially true of those of the Association of Steel.

Guildmaster Wharoth has gathered them under the coolness of a translucent quartz arch away from the campfires. Those injured but who had the strength and fury to ignore their wounds and accompany the hunt lie on the crystalline ground. The proximity of the dragon, the mere sense of heat its presence creates, has turned their pain to agony and felled them. Not all, the guildmaster knows, will make it through the night.

Whelt is an especially tragic case. He was always a relaxed young fellow, with talent but not drive, content to progress with his forging at a steady pace, who spent most of the money he earned on beer and women, and oil for his fashionable beard. Now that beard is gone; his face is charred beyond recognition.

“You all should have stayed back,” Wharoth whispers to himself. “You might have healed.”

“No,” Whelt hisses. “No. We have to be here, with you. See the end for ourselves.”

“Very well. It’ll be here soon.”

A series of thudding clunks and a chorus of whines announces the launch of more bolts. The dragon must have tried another dash to the ground and the cave. Wharoth looks up and sees its panicked flapping figure back off up into the cluster of thin stalactites it’s hiding in. Far forward, he can hear the rumble of more bolt launcher carts advancing. Soon the dragon's hiding place will be surrounded—and there will be no further hiding places for it to dash to; they have chased it to an extreme corner of the cavern. The only thing beyond this place is sheer, smooth stone walls.

“Guildmaster,” says one of the dwarves. “I want to get closer.”

“No. Too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? We knew that when we came.”

“I don’t want to lose any more of you.”

“We don’t have to be directly under it,” Whelt rasps. “But we need to see.”

“We can look at its corpse.”

“It’s not enough,” says another of the injured, weakly. “We need to see it die. For our lost brothers and sisters too. When we get to the other side, we need to tell them what it was like to see the evil light leave its eyes.”

“You won’t be going to the other side any time soon. Not if I can help it.”

“What right do you have to keep us here?” one of the uninjured dwarves cries out, raising her bright axe up in the air.

“I’m your guildmaster!”

“So?”

“What the hell do you mean, so?”

“Just because you’re guildmaster,” Whelt rasps, “Doesn’t mean you are our master.”

“You will stick to my orders. We will all stay here until we are called for, then me and those I choose will go to where Vanerak orders.”

“And if we choose to go earlier?” snaps the dwarf with the axe.

“It’s not your choice to make. It’s Vanerak’s.”

“No!” Whelt cries. He strains and forces himself to his feet. His face contorts; dried pus cracks and clear fluid runs out. “It is our choice. We have suffered the most from all this. Who would punish us? Not the Runethane!”

“The Runethane isn’t here...”

Guildmaster Wharoth trails off. He looks around at the faces of his guild members. He cannot stop them, he realizes. Whatever he says, they want their revenge. And why shouldn’t he give it to them? If they want to take the risks, that is their choice. They are not children.

“Very well,” he declares. He takes up his axe and bangs it on his shield. It rings like a deep bell. “Stand up, all of you. Stand up!”

Everyone uninjured leaps to their feet. The injured are helped up by their comrades. One, swathed in bandages from head to foot, refuses his stretcher and for the first time since his injury, forces enough strength into his arm to pick up his sword. Blood leaks from his hand but he does not care.

“What are we waiting for?” rasps Whelt. Tears of pain are running from his eyes but his voice is resolute. “Tell us to march, guildmaster!”

They are not children. This is their decision.

“March,” Guildmaster Wharoth orders grimly, and he leads them forward through the stone pillars toward the vanguard. Formations of rippled electrostatic quartz light their armor a dimly iridescent blue. The smell of acrid heat increases as they draw closer to clearing below the dragon’s hiding spot.

“What are you doing here?” snaps a tungsten clad runeknight of the second degree, running out Vanerak’s main formation. “The orders for you—”

“We won’t wait for orders,” Whelt rasps, stepping up to him. “This is our revenge.”

“This is not about revenge. It is about the safety of the people. If you break formation—”

“Listen to me!” Wharoth snaps. “How old are you, runeknight?”

“What are you on about? Get back to your positions! No one is to break formation.”

“How old are you, runeknight?” Something in Wharoth’s voice makes the dwarf flinch. The second degree's armor may be superior to the guildmaster's, but not by that much.

“I am two hundred and fifty.”

“Then you weren’t part of the conquest, were you?”

“I fail to see why that matters.”

“Bear with me for a minute, runeknight. I wasn’t part of it either, but I know some who were.”

“As do I. What is your point, third degree?”

“My point is that we both know our history. We know why Thanerzak ordered so many out here.”

“To protect the dwarves of his domain. To say otherwise—”

“It’s for revenge and we both know it! Revenge on all the dragons, any that come within his reach. Well, we’re here for the same. We’ll disobey you, and even if you don’t happen to like it, the Runethane will forgive us.”

The guild members are pressing forward. Each has his or her weapon drawn. The runeknight raises his palms and backs away carefully.

“Fine, fine. You can deal with the consequences yourself. Just don’t disturb Vanerak.”

“Where is he?”

“At the center of camp, of course.”

“Thank you.” Wharoth turns to his guild. “Spread out in small groups around the main force,” he orders. “If the dragon descends, you will have ample chance to join the fight from there.”

“The others will get to it first!” barks the woman with the bright axe.

“No,” Wharoth says. “Look up, Gerthel.”

All look up at the stalactite formation above their heads. The black dragon isn’t visible, tucked away into some of the downward spires, but they can all feel its presence.

“Once the bolt-launchers are at the correct positions, it will have no choice but to fly down.” He points to a large perfectly circular hole in the ground, around which stand Vanerak and his tungsten clad lieutenants. “This is the only cave near here. It will go for it, for it can’t fly back out of this corner—that’s why those two dozen launchers were left behind yesterday. They’re a line to trap it.”

“Your point?” Gerthel says angrily.

“The cave isn’t directly under the dragon. It will have to come around at an angle. Which means it will have to go through some of us. Well? Do you understand the geometry of the situation?”

The dwarves look around at the soon-to-be battlefield. Wharoth sees nods and hears murmurs of understanding.

“Good. Now get to your positions, and ready yourselves.”

I’m lying on the slimy stones of the main grotto, after having been carried back, coughing and rasping, all the way through the tunnels. Now two days have passed since our return, and I’m nearly feeling better. Better is rather a relative word, though.

My shoulders ache and still don’t move quite right, from the impact of blocking the salamander’s downward blow. And that cut from its smallest claw went right through my armor, though I didn't realize it at the time, so there’s a hole of sharp pain at my right ribs. My face is red and raw in vertical stripes over my mouth, and in circles around my eyes—my eyebrows and lashes are gone.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to breath anymore.

“How are you feeling?” Dwatrall asks, leaning over me.

“Better.”

“I brought you some more cooked meat.”

“Amphidon or tentacle beast?”

“Tentacles, I’m afraid.”

I grimace, but sit up and take them anyway. At least its not dwarf.

“How goes the forging?” I ask. “Hayhek made much progress?”

“Not so much. We tried heating another of the hytrigites, but...”

“It exploded again?”

“Yes. Cut my hand up badly.”

He shows me his palm, which is cut apart, though the cuts are already scarred over.

“Damn. At least we have plenty to waste. How are you heating it?”

“Slowly. And we press them gently too, but the energy just won’t spread out evenly, like you say it’s meant to.”

I sigh heavily. “Probably you’re being too gentle.”

“Hayhek wants to be cautious.”

“He’s too cautious.”

“Are you still angry at him?”

“No, no," I sigh.

"You sound like you are. Trolls are often angry. I know the emotion well."

"I'm not angry. I told myself I’d protect him, and I did. I’ve nothing to be angry about.”

“He should have helped you. We both should have helped you more.” Dwatrall bows his head.

“You saved my life, Dwatrall.”

“Even so...”

“I don’t expect everyone to be as crazy as me. Don’t worry about it. Just... Tell Hayhek to put a bit more force in when he hammers the hytrigite. A book I read called it the most regal of the eight. It doesn’t care for weakness.”

“All right.”

He leaves me. I finish my meat and lie back down to rest and think.

Ah, Hayhek! I’ve no reason to feel ungrateful to him, I know: I protected him as I promised myself. The only emotions I ought to be feeling are exhilaration, relief, and excitement at the rolls of abyssal salamander skin we have for our runes.

Yet he might have done something back there!

Maybe part of him wants me dead, I think darkly. But no, he’s not that kind of dwarf. And hell, it’s good thing he didn't try to help me, or maybe I’d be responsible for two deaths instead of one.

I flex my fingers then shut my eyes to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow we will make our runes. I’ll show him what to do—how hard can hytrigite be to master? It's just another kind of crystal, isn't it?