Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

It's been a few days now since we were bothered by the humans. We've seen a few—in the distance in a little village of wooden houses. They were just farmers, with small pink boar in their yards, and surrounded by long fields filled with the cut remains of wheat. I wonder if their crops will be made into bread or be fermented into alcohol.

They didn't seem to notice us.

Despite its grim purpose, I'm rather enjoying the journey so far. Traveling on the surface feels rather freeing compared to moving through the underground. In caves you usually have only two ways you can go, forwards and back, and only occasionally you can turn, but up here a dwarf can walk any direction he pleases.

The views too are brilliant. I've never been able to see so far, though partly I think this is thanks to my helmet, for the others are complaining their eyes hurt if they focus on anything too far away. For me, though, the rolling brown-green is fabulous to look upon, especially at night, when the moon lights everything in a glow like white silver.

Then there are the other oddities. Trees, for one. The hills to the far west are covered in dark green. Patches of the forest are bare of leaves also, so I can make out the height of these strange fungi. Each looks to be about a hundred times the height of a dwarf.

Past them, though, is something even taller and more spectacular: the Western Mountains. They're so far away that according to Braztak what we're seeing is just their peaks, yet even so, the sight of such great piles of stone, topped with white ice, takes my breath away each and every time I look.

The food is not bad. The dense ration biscuits are far better tasting than the stuff the deep dwarves ate, and the jerky is better flavored too. Though, the beer is a bit thin. Jerat looks depressed.

Our path meets a foaming river. We cross it, then continue our march. We wind around a small hill and I face the Western Mountains again. The white ice on their peaks—compacted snow, which is ice that falls from the sky—seems almost to be beckoning me closer. I want to climb those mountains, touch their cold with my bare hands.

What runes could I create after that experience, after touching real cold, not that manufactured for entertainment? If this armor is fourth degree standard, that which I'd make after climbing would be third degree. I'm sure of this.

We soon turn back to our straight ahead path. New runes and new forging will have to wait. First I must make use of what I have.

The sun sinks. We slept last night, so this night we'll be continuing our march. I'm glad I'm not a weak-legged human. What our legs lack in length, they make up for in endurance, even when forced to support the weight of plate-armor and bulky supply packs.

The moon shines bright, then suddenly it dims. Clouds are over it, and its light can barely make it through. Then the clouds thicken and there is no light, none even from the stars, which are also covered. Silence falls over our column. I listen closely to the left and right for the sound of rapid animal footfalls.

When they come they're louder and more numerous, and this time I'm not the only one to hear them.

“Halt!” Xomhyrk shouts. "Turn to the right!"

We do so. The footfalls are growing closer, yet tonight is as dark as a cave. I hold Gutspiercer high, ready strike at either animal or man.

I hear a whistling sound, followed by a dozen more, and thuds. Arrows! No one's yelling in pain though. They didn't find their mark. Nevertheless, I hear Xomhyrk shout:

“Loose at me, will you?”

There's a faint rattling sound from the head of the column, then a terrible scream. I don't think it's a human scream though—it's akin to the squeal of a boar, yet a bit shriller. There's a thud, and then angry shouting—the latter definitely from a human.

The footfalls restart, fade into the distance.

“Resume the march!” Xomhyrk orders.

We do so. I hear the clinking of mediocre armor behind me and turn: Pellas, Guthah, and the other tenth degrees have run up to me and Faltast.

“What just happened?” Guthah asks.

“Those were arrows, weren't they?” says Pellas.

“Yes,” I confirm. “But they missed.”

“Or they were just a warning.”

“I suppose. I think Xomhyrk gave them a warning of his own.”

“He killed one of the animals, didn't he?” says Guthah.

“Horses,” says Pellas. “They're called horses. Tall, skinny boar.”

Despite all my reading, I didn't remember that was their name. Most of the books I read just called them animals, though that might be because different kingdoms of humans utilize different animals—some like horses but with tall humps, some massive with noses like snakes. Some predatory.

“Yes, I think he killed it,” I say. “What with I don't know.”

Faltast scratches thoughtfully at his beard. “I think he has more weapons than just Icemite. Have you noticed that some of his dwarves have scythes at their belts?”

“Yes,” says Guthah. “I didn't think those were ranged weapons though.”

“They could be, if you attached chains to them.”

“I think they have to have some kind of ranged weapons,” says Pellas, lowering her voice. “Dragons fly. And they're smart enough that it's difficult to corner them.”

“That's very true,” says Faltast. “I remember when we marched out to catch the dragon, it was hard enough to corner even with ballistae, and we don't have those on this expedition.”

“Hooks and chains...” I say. “Arrows still outrange those. And it's the humans we have to kill before anything else.”

“Only if they decide to attack in force,” says Faltast.

“They will. I'm sure of it. They don't want us here—but they can't stop us.” I smile. “When they try, they'll meet our steel.”

“I'll drink to that!” says Guthah, and most of the other tenth degrees shout their agreement. But Faltast and Pellas don't say anything.

When day comes, the rain comes also. Some of it slips through the gaps in my armor, dampening the furs inside. The rest of the drops that hit me freeze on the main plates, and I have to scrape the ice off. This proves a very difficult task, because the ice I scrape off immediately freezes to my gauntlets.

We've marched well past the dead horse and the arrows, and since we can't see their footprints—hoofprints—for the snow, we have no way to tell exactly how many there were.

“I reckon about ten,” says Braztak. “That's what it sounded like to me.”

“You've faced them before, haven't you?”

“No, I allied with humans the last time we were on the surface. Or rather they were our mercenaries.”

“Should we be worried?”

“No. Human arrows are no match for dwarven armor. Not unless they fill the sky with them. Even the town we're heading to, and it's a fairly big one, doesn't have enough humans to do that. Not enough arrows either. Humans are clumsy. They can't make even crude ones quickly.”

“Town?” one of the tenth degrees behind us says. “We're heading to a town?”

“Yes,” Braztak says. “It was decided a couple nights ago. Do try to pay a bit more attention, Karak.”

“Do you think they'll let us in?” I ask.

“Not without a little persuading.”

We come to the base of a fairly steep hill. The ground's been getting more and more uneven these past hours, so that it's no longer possible to tell what's ahead of us. Unlike traveling underground and hitting a wall, however, we can bypass the blockages.

Up we march, left and right and left along a zigzag track cut crudely from the earth. The damp is giving everything a funny smell. A kind of rotten smell. It makes me nervous. Will we crest the hill just to meet a hail of arrows? They won't do anything to my armor, I'm sure, but I worry about the tenth degrees. Not all human arrows are so crude, and they sometimes use ballistae also.

When we do crest the rise, we finally see the town we've been heading for. It sits upon a hill about as tall as the one we're now on. Two walls protect it: a lower one around the base of the hill, and a higher one of stone about halfway up. Ramshackle wooden huts fill the lower section of the town, and better-made stone ones the upper. A road cutting through both districts leads out the main gate.

After we descend our hill, it's that road we head toward. It's better made than any we've yet cut across or walked along—for one thing, it's not dirt but paved with stone slabs. Rather ugly, uneven slabs though, it has to be said. They shift as we stomp over them.

“Look out!” comes a shout from the back of the line.

I turn to look; a cart is rushing up the road past our column. It's cutting close—I see several of us tumble in their hurry to get away from the wheels and the huge horses pulling it. They're not as big as blindboars, but they're still frightening in their own right, with stretched, ugly faces and feet that spark on the stones. The human driving them looks like he's in shock at the sight of us, but he shows no sign of slowing down. I think he wants to get past as soon as possible.

The cart is coming right at me. I don't know how, but I'm not at the side of the road anymore, but right in the beasts' path. My pickaxe is raised high—

Braztak pulls me out of the way. I tumble over into the dirt on the side of the road. The beasts and their burden roar past, shaking the ground.

“Zathar!” Braztak says, aghast. “What the hell were you thinking?”

I climb to my feet and shake my head, and blink hard a few times. I'm bewildered—I can't remember what happened between standing at the side of the road and in the path of the carriage.

“He's too eager for battle,” Jerat laughs. “Damn human's fault for trying to run us down.”

“We're not fighting yet,” Braztak warns us. “We ought to try and show some measure of politeness, even if the humans won't.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Just be more careful, all right?”

“Sorry. I will be.”

A few more carriages rush past us on our journey to the town gates. Recovered from the shock of the initial one, dwarves shout insults back at the humans. Some even brandish their weapons, though Xomhyrk's Dragonslayers quickly put a stop to that. They seem to agree with Braztak that we should return unfriendliness with friendliness, or at the very least neutrality.

The path steepens and the slippery paving slows us, for the rain has grown more violent. I can't keep up with the ice forming on my plates, so I'm covered by a thin layer of the stuff now. It freezes unevenly on the face of my helm so that my vision blurs.

The column halts. I look up and see that Xomhyrk and his senior commanders have made it to the gates. A dozen humans have emerged to greet them—though not in a friendly fashion. They're armed with long spears and bows.

I hear talking, then shouting. Then the command comes down the line for us to turn and reverse course.