Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Hardrick stands at the mouth of the tunnel. He feels funny inside, a little sick. His heart is beating very rapidly. The feeling is fear, he realizes. He hasn't felt fear for a long time, but he feels it now. He's afraid.

“Afraid of what?” whispers the shadow. “A mere dragon?”

“Mere?” Hardrick hisses. “Just look at the fucking thing!”

Runethane Broderick's army has spread with remarkable rapidity—born of sure discipline—throughout the Mountain of Halajatbast to surround the black dragon, which has melted out a lair for itself in the mountain's very heart.

From a hundred tunnels dwarves stand ready to pour. Ballistae jut from hidden alcoves. The Runethane himself—and two more, who've arrived suddenly with their own small, elite forces, half to Broderick's chagrin and half to his relief—are positioned near the dragon's tail, just below its great mound of treasure.

Despite the cave's darkness, the black dragon is clear to see, for it's not completely black. White heat glows through the gaps between scales.

“A blemish,” says the shadow. “Dirty, foul beasts are all dragons are. I look forward to putting this one down.”

“Putting it down?” Hardrick hisses. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

The black dragon has grown since he last saw it, or maybe it just looks bigger now he's up close. Either way it's huge. Its wingspan must be six hundred yards. Its claws could grasp a dozen dwarves at once to crush into paste. Just a tap of one finger probably has the force of a rockfall behind it. One swing of its tail would crush a good third of the army.

And as for its fire! Some of Broderick's scouts took a trip to the surface a few days ago, to check on the state of the mountain from without. They saw that the black dragon burned its way in—a hole nearly a mile in diameter mars the center of the mountain. It gets smaller in diameter further in, apparently, so the dragon is thankfully not completely unlimited in power, but even so...

“Our runes will protect us,” says the shadow, but Hardrick can sense a trace of doubt in its voice.

“There's no doubt!” it snaps.

“If you say so,” whispers Hardrick. “If you say so.”

He readies his glaive. The command could come any minute now. There's no time to waste. A sleeping dragon, after all, is a lot easier to kill than an awake and angry one.

Xomhyrk, after some discussion with his second in command Gollor and some of the representatives from the other guilds, decides after all that on top of the hill is not a proper place to bury dwarven dead. We carry them, two to a corpse, down the slope and north to where a deep valley sinks into the ground to become the nearest cave leading to the underworld.

It's damp and dank. White, flakey grass—I'm not sure it even is grass, actually—crunches underfoot. The high ceiling looks unstable to me, is strangely sunken in parts. I wonder if the king had some plan to collapse it once we were in.

No one will ever know that now.

A river runs through the valley-cave. We make our way down alongside it. It's roaring and foaming white. The white turns to gray as the darkness deepens, then black. I equip my runic ears. The sound of the river, while loud, is constant, so doesn't disturb my balance so much.

After an hour's walk I can hear that the river will soon become a waterfall. Half an hour later, Xomhyrk guesses this too and calls a halt.

“Here is where we bury our dead!” he shouts. “May the waters carry them deep below, where they might find rest after a hard-fought battle.”

We take one last look at the dead. I look into Jerat's visor and choke back tears. He wrote good runes, and maybe more importantly, he was a laugh to be around. I could never feel completely down with him beside me.

Braztak and Faltast swing him back once, then forward, and then they let go, throwing him into the raging waters. He vanishes into the foam, forever.

I can hear sobbing, shouts of anger, shouts of despair. It's bad form for a runeknight to show too much grief, but that doesn't mean we don't feel it. Those shouting and sobbing think their voices are lost to raging of the river—but I can hear them.

It becomes too much and I remove my runic ears. My ones of flesh are ringing, and I'm shaking a little.

Xomhyrk lets us grieve for a few minutes, then we turn and march out back into the moonlit hills. He orders us into a square formation just below an outcrop, upon which he stands. He lifts his visor so we can all see his face clearly. His expression is one of determination. He speaks:

“My dwarves, we have suffered terrible losses today. More terrible than I'd expected for so soon into our journey. The humans proved difficult opponents. Yet, thanks to our efforts, and the brave sacrifice of our comrades, we overcame them.

“Your friends died bravely. Their lives meant more than most dwarves' lives come to mean. They died for a great purpose. They died that we might march on to rid the world of a most terrible threat. They are heroes.”

I can see many dwarves nodding, but there are also a few shaking their heads.

“The humans will trouble us no longer,” Xomhyrk continues. “News of such a great slaughter will spread. If they dragged in every wizard and every soldier from across their lands, maybe they could defeat us, but they know the cost will be far greater than it's worth. In half a month we'll be out of Tallreach anyway.

“Then we'll be into the tundra. It's a cold land, though not as cold as the very far north. It's inhabited only sparsely by humans, though we will still face danger. Many beasts roam there. Some won't fear to attack us.

“Yet I don't think we will face anything as powerful as the humans' wizard. The human king was not entirely lying when he said that dragons do not like to face wizards. So much lightning might have hurt the creature at least somewhat, if it had ever decided to attack them.

“And if we can hurt something that could hurt it, that means we can also hurt it. Do you see my logic? A fourth degree—Zathar, already striving hard to fulfill his oath—was able to kill the wielder of terrible power. That means each of you have the potential to harm the dragon also.”

There's some muttering at this. I don't think everyone's convinced of the logic. Dragons have hard scales and wizards do not.

“Scales have gaps!” Xomhyrk says. “Stop doubting your blades, my dwarves. They'll pierce dragonhide just so long as you have strength and precision. Cease from fearing loss also. Accept it!” He puts steel into his tone. “We will lose a lot more before this quest is up! Accept that you may die also!”

There's a shocked silence, then more muttering. I sneer.

“Treasure,” I say under my breath. “That's all most of this lot were thinking about. Gold and runes and gems. But they aren't prepared to die for those.”

“Yes,” whispers Braztak next to me. “But we have a greater goal in mind. And we are prepared to die for it. We are!”

“I wonder,” Faltast says quietly, “how many of this army will vanish in the night.”

“Many,” says Braztak. “But not you, I'm sure.”

“No. Of course not.”

I wonder about that a little.

“Quiet!” Xomhyrk shouts. “We have things to do before we rest. First is the gathering of more supplies. The humans brought rations with them, water also. Let us—“

Dwarves! I can smell them as I dream. They've snuck up on me while I slept, these treasure-hunters and would-be dragonslayers. They've brought bolt-throwers with them. I can smell the lubricating oil. And at my tail are some powerful creatures indeed.

Runethanes, if I'm not mistaken. Dwarves are small and weak, and like to be ordered around by those more powerful than them. Runethanes do the ordering.

Against me they are nothing. Their equipment will make a delicious addition to my already succulent hoard. It won't quite equal the magic in the runes of their king, but that magic is already fading quicker than I'd hoped.

Wait. There's another smell here. Far away, faint, the barest hint on the breath of the tunnels leading north.

A very familiar smell, yet riper than when I last scented it.

He's alive.

Alive!

The one whose runes tasted so perfect.

And he's come to offer his magic to me once more.

I must have it! I must take it! I must devour it! I must!

First, though, I must deal with the more immediate issue at claw. I open my eyes.

Dwarven shouts and the hiss of dwarven bolts fill the dark air. Metal rain beats on my skin. Blades pry at my scales. One pierces!

I snarl in anger, then make the dark bright.

“Let us—”

The sky to the north lights up. I shout in shock, expecting lightning to fall, but there's no thunder. This light is silent, like a sunrise, but one in completely the wrong direction, and it's the wrong color too. It's a hot, pale yellow, like that produced by molten stone.

For several minutes we all stare up past the hill at it. Dwarves mutter:

“Could it be...?”

“No.”

“The mountain is still far.”

“Then what?”

“I don't know. But it can't be...”

“Dragonfire.”

The heat comes next, in a dry wind rushing around the sides of the hill in front. I stagger back a few steps. Terrible memories surface in my mind. My legs itch to flee.

“It's the dragon!” someone screams. “It's come for us!”

“Don't move!” yells Xomhyrk. “Stay where you are!”

A few dwarves are already running down the valley into the caverns. More than a few. Xomhyrk's Dragonslayers move to block them. There's shouting, and the clash of steel on tungsten.

“Stop!” roars Xomhyrk. “Let the cowards flee! If they're scared now, they'll be no use when the fight comes! I have no need for weaklings!”

I was faltering back, but now I halt myself. This is no time to retreat. A magnetism takes hold in my legs, and in the metal of my boots also—a magnetism pulling me north. I look up at the horizon, at the orange. My visor seems to grow more transparent. My armor is telling me that this is the direction in which I am to go.

The roaring comes next: the sound of flame given voice. A sound I am very familiar with, yet today it strikes no fear into my heart.

Only rage.

“Dragon!” I scream into the roaring and the heat. “Black dragon! I'm coming for you!”

The roaring grows louder, the heat hotter. I match its fury.

“I'm coming to kill you!” I scream. “Kill you!”

END OF ACT TWO