Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

A dwarven funeral requires a great deal of preparation, and that of a Runethane even more so. Those soldiers most badly wounded are allowed to lie down and rest, but everyone else, even those limping and covered in blood, no matter how exhausted they are, must assist in the preparations.

Traditionally, most dwarves are buried in a catacombs a few hundred feet below the city. These are generally quite dry, not to so much prevent the bodies decaying but to prevent the interred armor and weapons from rusting. Richer families have personal catacombs, and the greater guilds have their own large complexes too, and for those poorer runeknights there are public ones with places available for a small fee.

Runethanes are treated differently.

It would not be fitting for them to be laid to rest among the runeknights. Nor would it be fitting for them to be cremated and have their ashes mingle in the air with the remains of miners, shop assistants and other commoners.

Runethanes are laid to rest in magma.

And because Vanerak cannot abandon the peak, for this is still a siege, the magma must be brought to the mountain.

Several groups of dwarves make their way down to the industrial districts to search for heatproof buckets. Another group heads down to a known magma lake to clear out any salamanders and bats. When they return, covered in animal blood, Vanerak sends another group of runeknights to corral some miners and engineers to rig up some kind of pulley system.

All this takes time. It is an insult for Runethane Thanerzak to lie in the air for so long, yet Vanerak can spare too few dwarves. The rest must be stationed around the rubble, at sections of the mountain where the castle tunnels stray close to the open slopes, and also within certain mazes deep down that serve as secret exits. The enemy must not be allowed an easy exit.

Thus it is evening by the time the pulley system is ready and the buckets of magma are coming up to fill Runethane Thanerzak’s final resting place. It is a natural cleft in the rock near to the west side of the castle—formed, as the legends say and Vanerak can attest to personally, from the claw-stroke of the last mighty dragon Thanerzak defeated.

In those days he wielded a different weapon. A two-handed axe heavy enough to both strike and stun. Both it and Starcleaver should be laid to rest with him, yet neither will be. A grievous insult to so great a dwarf, yet to leave his mutilated body out in the air for any longer than necessary would be a greater one.

As Vanerak watches the first buckets of magma be poured into the stone scar, he hears a shout.

“Vanerak!”

It’s Guildmaster Wharoth, hurrying up toward him. The bandages around his head are dark with dried blood, and his expression is one of anxiety. He arrives panting.

“Yes?” says Vanerak.

“I know you took an interest in him... One of my guild members just gave me the news.”

“Who?” Vanerak asks casually, although he’s already guessed.

“Zathar.”

“Ah, he’s alive, is he?”

“Yes. I half thought he was dead, but he’s not. And his armor is... Impressive. Very impressive.”

“He’s a survivor, that one.”

“He is.”

“You were right to tell me this. I would very much like to speak to him. About his runes.”

“I thought you would be.”

“Of course, you are his guild master,” Vanerak adds. “And I’m sure you have a great deal to talk to him about first.”

“Yes. After that I’ll bring him to you, if the funeral hasn’t begun by then.”

“I doubt it will have. Too much magma, not enough buckets.”

“Very well.”

Guildmaster Wharoth rushes off around the rubble and down the bloody steps, worrying about his decision. Was it a good idea to tell Vanerak? The interest the aloof dwarf takes in Zathar is not a good one. Yet he would have learned of his return anyway, and it would not have reflected well on Wharoth had he been found to have concealed the information. No, best to tell him, then warn Zathar of the danger he could be in.

The battle is long finished by the time I reach the slopes of the mountain. By the time I am halfway up, the last clouds of dust are rolling past me, and the blood trickling down the paths is drying up. The last screaming has stopped.

Who has won? My heart trembles with worry. If it is the enemy, I am soon going to be facing an entire army on my own, if I can’t talk them into believing I’m one of theirs. Even if we have won, what is the toll? How many of my guild members have fallen? Is Wharoth even alive? Vanerak? And what of the Runethane, who vanished at the tail end of the battle in the city? Was he defeated by his nemesis?

I have nothing but questions and fear.

Soon, though, my main worry is put to rest.

“Hey! Oi! Who are you?” comes a shout.

I look and see two dwarves staring at me from below a rocky outcrop some way off the slope. The shorter of the pair is wrapping a runed healing chain around the leg of his friend. I wave to them and approach with Heartseeker over my shoulder, point away from them.

“I’m Zathar,” I say.

“That doesn’t tell me much,” says the short dwarf.

I decide to tell the truth. If these are enemies, their armor isn’t so good, and I judge I’ll be able to take them out:

“I’m with the Association of Steel. On our side, yeah?”

At the name of my guild, the two dwarves’ expressions change to ones of solemn respect. "The association?"

“You know where I can find my guildmates? And did we win?”

The short dwarf’s expression changes back to one of narrow-eyed suspicion. “Yes, we won. Why wouldn’t you know already?”

“I was in the caves. Long story short, I got separated from everyone.”

“Really? And come to mention it, I haven’t seen that armor before.”

“And I haven’t seen yours before. Look, I’m not a spy, and I don’t have time to explain everything to you.”

“Sounds exactly what a spy would say,” groans the injured dwarf.

The one tending to him puts a last knot in the healing chains and picks up his mace.

“I’m not a bloody spy!” I say in exasperation.

“Prove it.”

“If I was a spy, I wouldn’t be wandering up the mountain in full bloody armor, would I?”

The macedwarf pauses for thought. “Maybe,” he eventually says. “But doing something a spy wouldn’t ordinarily do is the kind of thing a spy would do, isn’t it?”

I don’t have much of a counter to that. “Look, I’m not a spy. Believe me,” I say. "Just tell me where my guild is."

“Wait!” the injured dwarf says. “That spear, I know that spear. He’s the crazy one who tried to jump five grades.”

“That one? He was in the Association of Steel?” asks the macedwarf.

“Yes!” I cry. “I am. That’s me, I tried to jump five grades, then the dragon... I fell into the chasm in the battle, if you’ll believe that. Crawled my way back up.”

“Bit of a tall tale that,” grunts the macedwarf.

“Look, I just need to get to some of my guild members. They’ll recognize me.”

“All right. I’ll be escorting you, though.”

“What about your friend?”

“I’ll be fine,” grunts the injured dwarf. “Only a broken leg, I keep telling him. I could have been up and in the battle if someone had thought to bring some splints.”

“Yeah right," says the macedwarf. "Stay still and make sure those chains don’t come off.”

So for the next stretch of the climb I’m escorted by the short dwarf with the mace. He isn’t one for conversation—whenever I try to ask a question about how the battle went, how we won, the situation at the top, why the castle is now a mound of rubble, et cetera, he tells me to shut up and stop acting like a spy. He’s definitely a suspicious type, though I can’t really fault him for that after all Broderick and his forces did.

At least my time with him is short. Twenty minutes up the steep rocky path and I set eyes upon members of my guild for the first time in months.

“Hey!” I cry. “Hey, Ghuthar! Boruth!”

The two dwarves, older runeknights whom I’ve shared plenty of drinks with, turn to look at me. They’re stooped over a third, wrapping healing chains around his head and arm which glint in the afternoon sun. They frown.

“Who are you?”

I remove my helmet and smile in relief at them. “It’s me! Zathar!”

They look at each other in shock, then at my armor in awe. The injured one moans and forces himself to look up too. His eyes widen, then narrow.

“You!” he spits.

It’s Hathat, Kazhek’s little brother, who hasn’t spoken a word to me since the fifth degree exam, let alone the dragon attack and everything after it.

“Me,” I say, my happiness dulled a little. “I’m back.”

“We maybe thought you’d run away,” Ghuthar says. “After all that with the mimicry armor, and the dragon... Everything.”

“That or got killed in the battle,” Hathat says. “Where the hell have you been? And what is that armor?”

There’s jealousy in his eyes, those eyes that so very much remind me of his late brother’s. But this is not the time for gloating.

“You’ll all hear my story in time,” I say. “First I need to talk to the guildmaster. Where is he?” I frown. “Is he alright?”

Ghuthar nods. “From what I’ve heard, he’s been spectacular today. Been promoted to Vanerak’s best friend. These are both sad days for our guild and great ones, Zathar.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems we all have stories to tell, if you haven’t heard of Wharoth’s battle with the dragon.”

Now it’s my turn for my eyes to widen. The dragon’s wounds were from Wharoth? I suspected he was stronger than he let on, but...

“I’ll tell you everything,” Ghuthar says. “Boruth, you stay here and look after Hathat, while I take Zathar here up to the peak.”

“He really one of yours?” the macedwarf says suspiciously.

“He is,” Boruth confirms.

“For better or for worse,” Hathat hisses through the pain of his wounds.