Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I see a thin cloud that might be smoke rising far to the west, but that's all. Wherever the humans are, they aren't here. I feel angry at myself for feeling disappointed—I ought to be hoping we don't meet a single one. We're here for the dragon. We don't need any distractions.

Before long, however, we do come to a sign of humans, a road. It's not like a dwarven road, chiseled flat from the cavern stone, but rather is just a trail where the fungi has been trampled over too many times. It's brown and dust rises from it as we walk.

“Hot, isn't it?” I hear someone complain.

I laugh behind my helmet. I'm not hot in the slightest, or at least no hotter than I usually feel when marching in full armor. My icy metal is repelling the sun's heat just as it should repel the dragon's.

Despite the coolness my armor radiates, no one wants to walk too close to me, not even my friends. I wonder if this is because it's just too cold, or if it's because of my armor's shape. Probably the latter. Who wants to walk next to someone who's made their helmet like a skull? Most runeknights, especially those from Allabrast, want to live forever, or at least for as long as possible. They don't want any reminders of death. As for my guildmembers, they want to live at least to reach the dragon. Walking next to me probably feels like a bad omen.

Have I made a mistake with my helmet? Is it cursed? If it helps me get to the dragon, does that matter? I can see far and clear through the metal. Detail, especially at long distances, is easy to make out. There's another thing about it too: whenever I'm not looking at anything in particular, my eyes tend to fix themselves directly to the north. That's where the dragon lies. Has to be.

Onward we walk underneath the bright blue sky. I'm proud of our guild—our members are some of the better equipped.

Braztak: his green and purple armor glints through the haze of dust. I don't yet know the power of his double-headed axe. I look forward to finding out.

Our second degree, Erak: his steel armor is imbued with red runes that describe an inferno blazing brighter and brighter. He seeks to bathe in the dragon's power. He wields a long spear with a titanium head.

Three more third degrees: their armor is steel and titanium, imbued with poems of strength and toughness. They've taken to Allabrast culture, and wield swords of exotic metals.

Six fourth degrees. Five I don't know well. Their armor is also fairly traditional and neither are their weapons exotic. They never had much time for me, but I'm glad they're here all the same. Maybe they've forgiven me my crime now that I'm showing I truly am willing to make right the wrongs.

Mulkath is the one fourth degree I do know. His mercury runes shiver with each step and reflected sunlight ripples around him. The warmth here suits them. His short sword is sharply pointed.

Seven fifth degrees, including Faltast and Jerat. Faltast is in titanium armor of speed and strength. Its runes are platinum and gold. He's replaced his buckler with a large round-shield, and it's enruned to resist fire—he got his hands on abyssal salamander skin for the key runes. They glow like coals. His axe is simple and deadly sharp: steel with platinum runes grafted with incandesite.

Jerat! He might be the most strangely equipped of us—of the whole army. His steel armor is imbued with great toughness, as well as speed on the charge, with runes of silver and gold. A fairly normal choice, yet the way the runes look is not normal at all. They're wildly shaped, and the rhymes stretch pronunciation very far, yet somehow they work.

But his weapon is what truly sets him apart. It's a two-handed flail, its head a spiked steel bar attached by a short chain. I can't read the runes, and apparently very few can, for he's used a very rare script, but the effect is clear enough. Sparks fly and blue arcs flash as the head swings in time with his steps.

The power of lightning. Most dwarves aren't aware of the phenomenon—a terrible power, both light and fire yet also neither. Rare stones burst with it when shattered—though they're truly rare, I've only heard of one place they exist: the stalagmite forest that surrounded Thanerzak and Broderick's twin city.

It's more common on the surface, where it sometimes falls from the sky amid rainstorms. I hope never to see it, and I don't plan to stand anywhere near Jerat when he fights either. Metal attracts lightning. It's obvious why he's made the haft of his weapon so long.

Then there are about forty fourth to ninth degrees, then finally the tenth degrees. Eight of my students have followed me out here. Their armor and weapons are passable, I suppose. Guthah's spear looks sharp, and Pellas' armor is impressive for a dwarf of her level, though I worry she's put too much emphasis on runes of strength. Armor's main use is for protection, and you should never forget that.

As for the rest of the army, stretching before and behind us in a long line, there's too many strange weapons and armors for me to properly examine. I suppose that anyone who chooses to follow Xomhyrk is unlikely to be a conservative, sensible type. We're the crazier ones, willing to take terrible risks for great gain.

This doesn't hold true for the members of Xomhyrk's guild, however. Each is in armor of tungsten and wields a weapon of cold. Their fitting name is The Dragonslayers.

The sun sinks close to the horizon and the sky turns a vivid red-orange. A few dwarves panic. They're reassured by the others that this is normal.

The sky turns dark. Bright points of light, stars, and the silver-coin moon appear. We keep on marching through the darkness. Thanks to the moon, it's a fair bit brighter than most caves are, so we have no trouble seeing where we're going.

“It's a little unnerving,” Guthah says. He's come up behind me. “Having nothing to our sides, I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“The wind is getting colder too. I suppose you don't really notice that.”

“I haven't.”

“You've... You've made yourself some very impressive armor, instructor.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

“What script did you use? I've never seen anything like it.”

“That's a secret. Be careful about asking too many questions of another's equipment, Guthah. Some might suspect you to be spying.”

“Sorry. I'm just curious.”

A gust of wind rushes through the line, making the edges of my armor whistle. I look to where it's come from, then left to where it's going, and see nothing but darkness.

“I wonder why there's no humans around,” Guthah says.

“They're in their villages.”

“All of them? What about their farmers?”

“These are untamed lands, not farms. But we'll meet some soon, I expect.”

“Did we get permission to enter?”

“I doubt it. Relations have been bad recently, from what I've heard.”

“Why? We trade with them, don't we? At least some.”

“In Tallreach's case, we signed a century long trade agreement, which they tried to change only a few decades in. The Runeking wasn't very happy.”

“And they're not happy with us either?”

“No. But it's not as if we're at war or anything. As long as we don't bother them, they shouldn't bother us.”

“I see.”

Suddenly, after remembering all that history I read about in the human library of Allabrast, I feel nervous. My sides feel exposed. In a cave, ambushes come from side-tunnels you can see in advance. The position of your enemies can be predicted. Yet out here an attack could from anywhere, from any angle. I look left and right again, smell strange things on the wind. Humans? The beasts they ride on?

The moon climbs higher in the sky. The stars spin. So far, nothing. Then I hear it. A rapid thudding. Animals. Humans on their animals? I turn right to face them. In the darkness I can see shapes, large shapes with four legs, and tall things on top of them.

No one else has noticed anything—even though my runic ears aren't on, my ordinary ones are still sharper than most from my time in the deep. I hurry forward past the third degrees and Erak to tap on Braztak's shoulder.

“Look!” I whisper. “And listen! Humans!”

He turns and squints. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

They aren't getting any closer to us, but running alongside us. Observing, not attacking. I can see six of them.

“I think I can make them out,” Braztak says. Then he shouts: “Xomhyrk! Humans to our right! Scouts!”

“Halt!” comes Xomhyrk's reply.

His Dragonslayers, stationed at regular points, relay the message down, and our column stops its march. We all turn right, forming a line facing the humans. Fearful murmurs run along the army. I focus on the humans—they've stopped too. Then they wheel their beasts around and vanish into the blackness.

“Gone!” I shout.

The army waits a few more minutes to see if they'll return. I look behind us, but there's no one there, just gently waving grass—finally I remember the name of the long fungus. It's rustling in the wind.

“Continue the march!” comes Xomhyrk's order. “They won't bother us yet!”