Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Ghuthar is in awe at my story. He was always a good sort, stuck by me even after I dishonored myself with the mimicry armor, and he doesn’t question even the more amazing aspects of the tale, like how I defeated an abyssal salamander in unruned armor, or the transformation of Dwatrall by the strange crown.

I don’t tell him about the dragon, but I’ve made up my mind to confess to tell Wharoth. After all, I told Hayhek, and even after all I did to him he decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. I can’t expect such kindness and understanding from every dwarf, of course, but the longer I keep on deceiving them, the worse it’ll be for me when the truth finally gets out.

And telling my guildmaster is just the right thing to do. He deserves to know.

Ghuthat tells me the guild’s tale: of how Wharoth nearly slayed the dragon, and the terrible toll of depression its escape wreaked on the burned guild members. I’m particularly pained to hear of the death of Whelt, who taught me what feels like so long ago how to ‘fight like a dwarf’. Even the news of Runethane Thanerzak’s death and desecration pales in comparison to the news of the death of my friend.

As we walk, we run into other members of our guild— just a few, mind you, for most are on guard duty or helping with the funeral preparations. They are shocked at my survival and gear, wondering how someone so shamed and beaten after the disastrous exam could have not only survived the invasion, but pulled himself together to forge some proper armor. Some stick with us to listen to my tale, while other rush up through the blood-soaked path to find Wharoth and tell him of my return.

When we reach the top of the mountain just after nightfall, he is standing there waiting for me. His armor is battered, the runes on his great shield scarred through, his head wrapped in healing chains and dark crimson bandages, and his eyes are haggard with exhaustion, yet despite all this he looks more powerful than ever.

“Zathar,” he says. “We need to talk.”

“Yes,” I reply, mouth suddenly dry. “We do.”

He leads me to a hollow in the slope, too small to be called a cave, and orders Ghuthar and the other guild members to stop anyone getting within hearing range. They are not to listen either. I begin to sweat even more so than I am already. Has he somehow already heard about my deal with the dragon? From the dragon itself, perhaps?

“Sit down,” he orders.

I sit on the stone ground and he sits down opposite.

“You’ve made quite the comeback.”

“I suppose so. I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you all. I should have volunteered to go on the expedition, but...”

“I understand. The runes you used to fight Kazhek brought shame on you. I can understand why you wanted to hide away. And you were in no state to take on a dragon anyhow.”

“Others were in a worse state, and they still did.”

“That’s true. But I never expected it of them.”

“Still...”

“Enough. You made mistakes and you paid for them. Though I do wish we’d had the chance to talk after the dragon came. Before I left on the expedition.”

“I’m sorry for avoiding you. I still felt so...”

I nearly tell him about the dragon then, but I can’t quite steel myself to say the words.

“...I don’t know,” I sigh.

“It was hard on all of us. And harder when we lost our chance at revenge, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“They told me everything. I didn't realize you had it in you to cut up a dragon.”

“Oh, I do. I should tell you how it happened from my perspective, I suppose, the full story, but we don’t have time.”

“I know. The Runethane’s funeral will be soon, right?”

“Not so soon—there’s a lot of magma that needs to be brought up. We don’t have time because Vanerak wants to talk to you.”

I flinch. “Vanerak? Personally?”

“Yes. But first, I need you to go through everything that’s happened... From the very start.”

“The very start?”

“You never told me exactly where you came from. I didn't ask too many questions—I could tell you were a miner, shamed by it, and I didn't want to pry further. Yet there’s something strange about you, Zathar. Vanerak sees it too. And the more I know, the better I can help you.”

“Very well,” I say.

I try to relax.

“Go on. Don’t rush, but we’ve got no time to dawdle either.”

So I tell him everything. Not about the dragon yet—I will, I will, I keep telling myself. I go from my brother’s death, to the incandesite, my fall... I skip what he already knows, and find myself going through the battle and Yezakh’s death.

He narrows his eyes at that, and my heart beats hard. If one dwarf dead because of me makes him angry, how much rage will my confession about the dragon bring? Will he listen, or just strike my head from my shoulders?

He stops me again when I come to the forging of my new armor.

“Let me look at those runes,” he says. “Stand up.”

I do so. He stands up also and bends forward to examine them closely.

“Interesting,” he says. “Very interesting. Continue.”

We sit back down and I continue the story, right up to my last meeting with the dragon. There I stop, and clench my fists to stop them shaking.

“What is it?” he says.

I can barely make myself meet his eyes. “The black dragon. I met it.”

He leaps up. “Where?” he cries. “Down below the city?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “But that’s not all.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean, not all?”

“Please sit down.” My voice is barely audible.

He sits down and frowns deeply. “What is it, Zathar?”

I tell him: of my first encounter, its promise, our deal... What it said to me in the forest... I omit no detail.

I finish. His hand clasps the handle of his axe. I bring Heartseeker out in front of me, ready to guard—though maybe I should put it down, and just accept my punishment. His face becomes a mask of pure rage, red, every vein standing out and pulsing, his eyes staring like death.

Then, with immense effort, he forces himself to let of his axe. He stands up and places his hands against the stone wall. I see that his eyes are screwed tight,. He begins to mutter to himself.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Though I know that isn’t enough.”

His muttering grows louder: “I should kill him I should kill him I should kill him I should kill him...”

“Maybe you should,” I whisper, trembling.

“No,” he sighs, and he turns to me. “Stand up."

I stand.

"You deserve execution, most would say. And I nearly agree.”

I bow my head. My whole body is shaking.

“If the other dwarves heard, they’d kill you on the spot, I think. Or burn you alive.”

“Maybe I deserve that.”

“No. I don’t think so. You... You aren’t the perpetrator here. You’re another victim. The dragon manipulated you—you, a dumb, naive young dwarf, had no defense against that. Dragons are not just feared for their strength, but their cunning also. It defeated you with its mind as surely as it defeated our guild with its fire.”

“I should have told you. Warned you all.”

“You should have,” he says. “You’re damn right about that. But I won’t fault you for being afraid of a dragon.”

I look up. His face is distorted through my tears. “You forgive me, then?” I dare to whisper.

He takes hold of my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Many will not. But yes, I do forgive you. I’ll say it again: you’re as much a victim as anyone else in our guild. That doesn’t mean your crime will go unpunished, though. You will face judgment.”

I look down. I do not fancy my chances at a trial.

“I understand,” I say, wiping my tears onto my armor. “Whatever my punishment, I’ll accept it. Will you tell the others now? Or should I do it myself?”

“I will tell them, but not now. Not while their blood is up. I don’t want to see you torn apart without a chance to make your case.”

I look up and meet his gaze again. “Thank you.”

“I shall also make it clear that I will not stand in between you and whatever punishment is decided,” he says sternly. “No matter how harsh.”

“I understand.”

“Your crime is not just leading dwarves to die. It is also compromising the security of the city to a most terrible enemy. Make no mistake, even if it is not execution, your punishment will be harsh.”

“I know. Whatever the key is for...”

“We may find out soon enough.” He steps back and smiles grimly. “There is one thing in your favor, though.”

“What?”

“Vanerak.”

I frown. “Surely he hates the dragon more than anyone?”

“Yes. But he’s taken a strange interest in you. The runes you write are not normal, Zathar.”

“Not normal? They work just fine, don’t they?”

“They work too fine.” He draws out his axe and turns the flat of the blade to me. The rune flashes in the light. I recognize it.

“That’s the same as on my knife! Why?”

“Because it’s a rune I’ve never seen before. Those on your armor too—I’ve never seen half of them either. They look like a script I recognize, yes. But each isn’t quite right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. There’s two possibilities, as I see it: either you have some deep runic knowledge locked away in your head, knowledge of runes long since lost to time; or you have created new runes.”

I’m shocked speechless.

“Neither possibility makes sense to me either. Yet they’re the only two I see.”

“How, though? How would I do either of those things?”

“I don’t know. By any logic what you are doing is impossible.”

I shake my head. “I’m skilled at runes, I know that. Not that skilled though—and there are better dwarves than me at it. That silver legend on the other side, for example.”

“There’s a mystery with him too, I’m sure. Whether it’s connected or not, I don’t know. You mentioned you might have met him though, yes?”

“That bastard Danath said that. I don’t believe him.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss him. Your brother too—I’m sure he did survive the fall and forge. The dragon wasn’t lying about that. And if it had killed him, it would have been sure to gloat about it.”

I shake my head again. “There’s nothing special about me.”

“No, there is. The other dwarves might not notice what I did, but I know more runes than nearly anyone in the city. The ones you wrote are either long forgotten, or newly created.”

“And Vanerak noticed too.”

“Yes. He knows more runes than even me, I think. He’s keen to see you alive.”

“I suppose that’s a relief.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. At any rate, I better take you to him.”

“Very well.” I swallow. “And when will you tell the others about my crime?”

“I don’t know yet. After the funeral. After things have calmed down.”

“Thank you.”

“You will be punished though,” he says sternly.

“It wouldn’t be justice if I wasn’t. Truly.”

He leads me from the rocky hollow. As he walk, I reflect on his words. By all rights I should be terrified of the trial and punishment that awaits me, yet I am not. The fear is certainly there, but my sense of relief is stronger.

I feel that a terrible burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

When the time comes I shall make my case, and whatever my punishment is, I will face it with my head held high, knowing that justice is being done.