Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

My shock turns to anger.

“What the hell are these?” I demand.

I glare at the younger dwarf then the older. What are they saying by giving me this? That I can't forge my own armor, create my own poems?

“What do you mean?” asks Jorolot. “They're bits of armor to replace those that got damaged. And new poems for if your runes were broken.”

“You expect me to buy these? Who made them anyway?”

“We did,” says Yeralt. He sounds offended. “Are they not good enough for you?”

“That's not the problem here!”

“Then what is?”

“You mean to say you sell your own armor? Your own runes?”

“How else are we meant to make money?”

“Money? This isn't about money!”

“What is it about then?”

I stand up. “Pride!”

“Pride won't bring in gold. How do you make your money in Allabrast, then?”

“The honorable way!”

“What the hell is that meant to mean?”

“Slaying dangerous beasts. Fighting against those who'd do you harm. The whole reason we have weapons and armor.”

“We do that,” says Jorolot. He sounds offended too. “But we also make money from forging. Don't you?”

“No! A runeknight makes his own armor and weapons.”

“What about those who aren't good enough at forging yet?”

“Then they do as best they can.” I can't help but scowl. “You mean to say anyone here can buy their way into becoming a runeknight?”

One of the other dwarves stands up suddenly. “You take that back!”

I stand up too. “I will not! What kind of runeknight can't forge?”

“Some fight, some forge. Some do both. What's so strange about that?”

“A runeknight must do both!”

“Inefficient,” says Jorolot. “Why not divide the labor?”

“Because that's not how things are! And how can you use something you just took from another dwarf? It won't fit you. Try forging your own armor and you'll learn for yourself.”

“The fighters know a bit of forging too,” says Jorolot. “They adjust things to fit. Or sometimes we help adjust it. It's not impossible to make something for another, you know.”

I shake my head. “It is impossible. When you make a craft, you learn everything about it. When you use another's, it's just a lump of metal.”

Yeralt scowls deeper. “Take that remark back. Our crafts are fine.”

“If they were so fine, you'd keep them for yourself.”

“Don't be so quick to insult us,” says one of the others. “Just remember where you are and who surrounds you.”

I glance around. Many of the hill dwarves at the other tables are staring at me with angry looks in their eyes. The Allabrast dwarves look alarmed. I scowl at both groups.

“Is that a threat?” I say.

“It's a warning.”

I hear heavy footsteps behind. I turn. It's one of the senior Dragonslayers—Gollor, I think.

“What's going on here?” he demands. He eyes me suspiciously. “Getting drunk and picking fights, are we?”

I pick up the parchment catalogues and wave them in his face. “They tried to give me these!”

“Ah.” His expression softens. “Ah, you Allabrast dwarves aren't so well-traveled, are you?”

“I'm from Thanerzak's realm,” I say coldly. “And I've been nearly as deep as a dwarf can go as well. I've travelled plenty. Never has someone tried to insult me so.”

“We intend no insult,” says Jorolot. “We're trying to help.”

“By implying I can't forge my own armor?”

“We never implied that. We meant no offense—though I think you, in your subsequent remarks, did.”

“I only told you the right way to do things.”

“The right way?” snaps Yeralt. “And what makes your way right, exactly?”

“Runeknights—“

“Quiet!” snaps Gollor. “Zathar—you're Zathar, aren't you? Not every dwarf thinks the way you do.”

“I know that. But giving away your crafts for gold! I mean...”

I throw my hands up. I have no more words left to express my utter disgust.

“We don't do that where I'm from either," says Gollor. "But every realm has its own way of thinking.”

“I know that.”

“You don't know the half of it. Far, far to the south, in the sandstone catacombs, there are dwarves who'd laugh at you for forging armor. And they'd be insulted if you offered to give them metal to forge with.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Do you think I'm lying to you?”

“Dwarves that don't use metal? I'll believe it when I see it.”

“They do use metal. They just won't buy it. There's a great many rockworms in that land. They turn ore into skin, a bit like iron-trolls. A real dwarf has to craft with the spoils of a hunt. And only weapons—if you need armor, that means your weapon isn't good enough, and your jewelry not powerful enough. Their protection is speed and accuracy.”

“I see. And do they sell their weapons?”

“No. They would be as insulted as you are at the suggestion."

"Well, there you have it. Exactly."

"My point is that there's many kinds of thinking out in the underworld.”

"That doesn't mean there aren't right and wrong ways of thinking."

Now it's Gollor's turn to throw his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. I'm not saying you have to like how they live here. But we are their guests and must show them respect."

“All right,” I say reluctantly. “You're right. We are their guests." I glare at Jorolot and Yeralt. “But I'm still not buying anything from you.”

“We do sell raw materials as well,” says Jorolot. “Untouched ore.”

“Runeknights generally don't melt down their own ore.”

“Some of us do,” says Gollor. “Some would say it's silly to leave such an important task to mere metalworkers.”

“See?” Yeralt says triumphantly. “You Allabrast dwarves might not be so perfect after all.”

“That's enough,” says Jorolot. “We're trying to make a sale here. We sell metal as well.”

“What do you have available?” I ask suspiciously. “And do you have reagent?”

“Yes, we have reagent too. I'll get some catalogues from my office.”

“No need,” says Gollor. “Xomhyrk already has them.”

“Not my personal ones! Our family do good trade in a very wide range of metals.”

“Do you have titanium?” I ask.

“Of course. It's hardly rare.”

“What about palladium?”

“Not so common, but you're in luck. My family has the rights to a rich vein. And we sell jasperite as well to go with it. We can offer a deal. A good deal.”

“All right. How much?”

“Half off—“

“—if you admit your way isn't the only way to do things,” adds Yeralt.

I feel my jaw clench. I don't want to admit there's any right in selling crafts, but I also need to repair my armor. And the dragon outweighs any problems I might have with these dwarves.

“All right,” I say through gritted teeth. “Maybe there's other ways as well.”

“Not maybe. Definitely.”

“That's enough, brother.” says Jorolot. “The deal is made. I'll get the catalogues.”

“Excellent,” says Gollor. “In the meantime, come with me, Zathar. Xomhyrk wants to talk.”

I can guess what about. A little fear rises in me.

“Very well,” I say.

“You don't sound very grateful.”

“No, no. I am. Just... Never mind. I'll come.” I turn to Jorolot and Yeralt, and give a small bow. “Thank you for agreeing to give me a good deal.”

“It's no trouble,” says Jorolot. “And we'll forgive your rudeness.”

I walk away not quite knowing what to make of our argument. Logically, I don't think they said anything incorrect, and their way of life certainly seems to be working, since they're maintaining their independence sat between two great kingdoms, which cannot be an easy task, yet the idea of selling crafts still doesn't quite sit right with me.

All my life I've believed that creation is what lifts runeknights above miners, farmers, and even other craftsdwarves. We make runes, that most difficult of crafts. We give metal life, and this in turn gives us the right to power over life and death. This is what puts us at the top of dwarven society.

Mere riches does not a great dwarf make. Riches are just a side-effect of our striving.

Though, is that really the case? Plenty of runeknights in Allabrast dedicate their lives to riches, and look down on poorer runeknights far worse than they do rich jewelers or even metalcrafters. And plenty of runeknights in Thanerzak's realm did the same.

Only the dwarves of the deep, then, had true honor, created runes for the right purpose. And they never used the crafts of others, even to defend against the darkness. Otherwise the shining maces of dwarves long since fallen would have been passed to the lower degrees instead of being interred with their creators. When Runethane Yurok had them pulled out and used to light the halls even that was taboo.

Even borrowing a craft is unacceptable. As for buying a craft! The only thing that could be worse is stealing one.

I shake my head. I can't accept how these hill dwarves live, I simply can't. I won't say anything more about it, but all the same, I won't accept it, and I won't be coming back here any time soon. I'll be glad to be rid of this place.

“Ah, Zathar,” says Xomhyrk. “There you are. Up earlier than most, I'm glad to see.”

“I have a lot of work to do. I can't waste too much time sleeping.”

“That's very diligent of you. I approve. How are you finding Heldfast Hill?”

“He doesn't think much of it,” snorts Gollor. “Was about to start a brawl.”

“Don't judge too harshly,” says Xomhyrk. “It's an understandable reaction. I had the same one when I first came here.”

“I worry that we're going to have some trouble keeping the peace.”

“Our guild will forge in shifts then. Anyway, Zathar, I want to talk to you in private. Come with me.”

Nervously I follow him out into one of the corridors. We walk for some time, through dim passages smelling slightly of damp. He's not in armor, yet somehow still radiates an aura of power. Maybe it's from his amulet, or maybe it's just from his person. Some runeknights let their bodies go soft—this isn't considered a particularly bad thing—but Xomhyrk has not. He's solid and strong, and when he turns to speak to me, at the end of a small, old and thin tunnel, his eyes are as piercing as Icemite.

“Let's talk about your runes,” he says.