Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Braztak—his horror writ clear on his face—makes to grab at me once more, but I'm already spinning around. I kick off hard, and let the slipperiness of my boots take on the momentum. A few more kicks, some dodges around broken shafts of aluminum, and I'm through the other side of the camp. I pass Xomhyrk talking to a couple of his Dragonslayers. I don't see if he sees me; his face is just a blur in the darkness.

I've no runic ears. They lie discarded in the snow, but I don't think I'll need them. The snow has reduced to just a thin scattering of flakes—maybe this has something to do with the monster's death. Whatever the reason, I can see the silver-lit landscape clearly.

No figures yet. They've got quite the head-start on me. I kick hard a few times, and now I'm moving faster than I've ever moved before, faster even, perhaps, than the chain in the Blue Shaft pulled me up to the surface.

There! That was quick—five dark silhouettes not four hundred yards away. The ground grows rough all of a sudden, and I'm slowed, but a few more hard kicks into the stony earth gets me going again.

I'm closing fast. I don't think any of them are Faltast: at least, none of them carry a large shield. He might have discarded it, of course, but I find that unlikely. He's pragmatic and knows equipment is more valuable than anything.

Getting closer now. I can make out some of the details on their armor, and it seems fairly crude. These are eighth degree runeknights at the most. Gutspiercer will have little trouble getting through their armor.

Thirty yards out, one of them hears me. He yells something and increases his pace to a run. The others follow suit. One glances back. His visor is down, but his body language signals shock. He raises his weapon, a short spear, and his shield also.

Gutspiercer swings down. It pierces his shield. I tear it from his arm as I slide around him—leather straps snap loudly. I dig the rough sections of my boots into the stony earth and skid to a halt. Sparks fly from my feet. I leap forward and strike down.

My opponent turns and tries to parry with his spear, but misjudges the angle. Gutspiercer stabs deep into the space between neck and collarbone. I tear it out and a spray of blood follows.

“Halt, damn you all!” I scream at the rest of the fleeing dwarves. “Halt, you traitors!”

They continue to flee. I kick off and pursue.

“He's too fast,” one of them shouts after looking over his shoulder. “We need to stand and fight!”

“That's Zathar!” another screams. “We can't beat him!”

“He's only a fourth degree! Yes we can!”

“Face me!” I scream.

Three of the dwarves stumble to a halt and turn around. They inch closer together. They're terrified of me, of my face-plate that is a grinning skull. The two on the sides back away slightly, leave their comrade to do the fighting.

He's in slightly better armor than the others, maybe about sixth degree quality. He steps forward boldly and slashes down with his one-handed sword. I let the blow contact my shoulder. It slides off with a flash of sparks.

I swing Gutspiercer at his lower body. He attempts to dodge back and to the side, but collides with his friend. Gutspiercer goes through his left side-plate and out the front of his belly-plate, bloody. He screams.

His other friend cleaves at me with his own sword. Gutspiercer is still in the wound, so I have to bat the blow away using my forearm. It slides off cleanly. I pull Gutspiercer out, reverse it so the point is aiming at the dwarf who just struck at me, strike—all in one movement. Gutspiercer bites deep into his ribs and shudders in glee as it goes through his heart, slaying him instantly.

The other dwarf stumbles away. I leap forward and bury Gutspiercer through his helmet. His corpse falls to its knees then onto its face, making a muted clatter.

“Too easy!” I laugh. “Too fucking easy!”

“Zathar!” the last dwarf screams. He's on his knees in the snow, is holding his palms up to me. “Please, stop! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to run away! Please!”

I stride over to him with Gutspiercer raised high.

“Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything! I'm sorry for not listening to you in training! Sorry for running! Please forgive me!”

I halt Gutspiercer mid-swing.

“Ulat?” I say.

“Yes! Yes, that's me! Please, instructor, stop! Please stop!”

I keep Gutspiercer poised to fall. Ulat pushes himself back a little. I take a step forward.

“Don't try to run any further!” I spit.

He stops. “Yes, yes, I'm sorry! I won't run any further, I promise!”

Ulat has always been one of the least impressive of my students. I'd always thought, back when I was training them for the examination, that he had little will of his own. He never scowled back at me like Guthah, and when I made my decision to offer them the use of other weapons, he was one of the few who stuck with axe and shield.

I was rather surprised he came with us on this expedition. Likely one or two of the other tenth degrees persuaded him to come. And now he finds himself caught up in something he's wholly unprepared for.

That's no excuse.

“Why did you run?” I snap.

“Why?”

“Yes, why? Answer me right now!”

“I... I was scared. Just scared, instructor.”

“Of what?”

“Of the thing. The thing that attacked us. Is it dead?” A hopeful note comes into his voice. “Are we saved?”

“We slew it.”

“Oh, that's great to hear!” Tears pour from his eyes. “Great to hear!”

“It slew many of us.”

“Oh. Oh, hell. Any in the association? Any of us tenth degrees?”

“Of course! No thanks to you!”

I take another step forward and am right over him now. He flattens himself against the cold earth.

“I'm sorry!” he yelps.

“You should be. If you and your friends here hadn't run off, maybe we'd have been able to kill it faster. Maybe Katak would still be alive!”

“Katak's dead?”

“That's what I just fucking said, didn't I?”

“I'm sorry!”

“Shut up!” I scream. “And stand up now!”

He hurries to stand up. He tries to back away. I swing Gutspiercer at him—bring it forward just before its point stabs through the side of his chest. I hook him stumbling in and grab him by the neck.

“I'm sorry!” he wails.

“You've said sorry enough. But fine, you're only a tenth degree. And I've been given chances to make amends for my foolishness, so I'll give you a chance also. Get back to camp, now!”

He nods. I release my grip on his throat.

“Go!” I shout.

He runs away, kicking up snow as he does so. He's rubbing at his neck—the cold of my gauntlet might have burned him. Good. He deserves a scar to remember this by.

I look around at the four who ran with him. Their blood has already frozen onto the snow, dark stains upon the white. I make to spit on them, but remember my helmet is on, so settle for a few violent kicks.

This is wrong, I think for a second. This is a crime, justice is not mine to deliver—the thought is gone as soon as it appears. I shake my head. Cowards deserve punishment. Those who abandon their comrades—

But that's what I did, all those years ago. I did worse.

None of that matters. The expedition is falling apart, and the others here must know that to disobey, to put our quest in jeopardy, means death. I look south and kick off, begin to slide fast across the land once more. There are more deserters to kill, and there is Faltast to find as well.

Maybe he had a good reason for running. Maybe he can get a second chance like Ulat.

Only a few minutes later I see another group of dwarves. There's five of them, but this time they don't hear me coming. I dispatch them in a frenzy of bloody stabs, and then I'm gliding through their carcasses toward the next group, which I can see already.

These ones offer slightly more resistance. One is fifth or sixth degree, and he gives me a nasty scratch across the visor, at nearly the same angle that the scar across my vision is, so that the two lines align. He misjudges the next blow though and Gutspiercer buries itself in his thigh, then I slam it through his back.

I laugh as I slide on. Their armor is too weak! Like fabric, not metal! Gutspiercer shivers at the praise. It's hungry for more, and more I plan to give it.

Soon I come to another group of deserters. They're pitiful. The death of only one of their number has them begging for their lives. A few moments later they are silent and I'm alone again with among corpses. I watch as the streams of blood from them slow, congeal to a crawl, stop and freeze.

“How many have we killed so far?” I say to the dark air. “Ten? Nearly ten? More?”

But where's Faltast? A dizziness takes hold of me—have I already killed him, without realizing it? I look at my bloody gauntlets. Who have I killed so far? I don't know.

Surely if I'd slain him, my friend, I'd remember. Surely.

Shit! What am I doing? Have I really just killed a dozen other runeknights? But there's no going back now. My ruby burns hot again. We must finish this.

“Faltast!” I shout. “Faltast! I know you're out here! Answer me!”

No answer comes. I slide out of the circle of corpses. This time I go a little slower, and look around the night more carefully. He might have heard the screams and be hiding.

“Faltast!” I yell. “I know you're out here!”

Again, no answer. Shit! He must be hiding. That's the cowardly thing to do, isn't it? Or the pragmatic thing to do. Maybe there's no difference.

“Faltast! You're alone out here.” I have to appeal to his cowardice and draw him out that way. “You won't make it back alone. That wasn't the only monster out there.”

Still no answer. I let my momentum slow.

“Faltast!” I yell. “Come back! We can talk this out.”

I hear a scuffling sound to my left, fairly distant. A figure has stood up. It holds a shield. He turns it toward me and it reflects the moon's light so brightly it looks like the moon itself brought down from the sky. I kick off toward it.

“Faltast!” I say. “Is that you?”

“It's me,” comes the reply. He sounds weary. “What is it, Zathar? Grown tired of killing us?”