Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

The mountain is like a corpse: all gray skin and with a gaping black wound through its heart. Its mere presence weighs on us—many cannot bear to look up at it and walk with their heads bowed to the snow, of which there is only a thin layer here.

Only a few of us seem to want to approach the end of our quest, and I am one of them. I keep wandering out a little from the main force, Gutspiercer tightly gripped, or sometimes I'm twisting the weapon through the air in looping motions. It's my boots that are moving me. If I force myself to stop still, I can still feel myself sliding, like the mountain is a great lodestone and my armor neodyne.

At first Braztak keeps warning me, keeps pulling me back in line, then abruptly I find him joining me on my little jaunts. When I glance at his eyes, there's anger in them.

“I wish he'd find this damn tunnel!” he spits.

“Yes,” I say. “We're going around in circles.”

“A fold in the rock. There's no fold. We should go straight.”

“It almost makes me think he's stalling.”

“I know.”

The Dragonslayers don't seem to mind so long as we don't go too far out. If we do, we obey their warning glares and fall back in line. They do no more than that though—maybe they don't want to risk me going berserk again. And perhaps they empathize with us somewhat, for our journey does seem to be taking a lot longer than necessary.

Xomhyrk thinks that scaling the mountain and traversing its gaping wound would incur unnecessary risk. If any of Uthrarzak's dwarves survived, they are likely to be watching there, or even guarding it. So instead we are searching for a hidden tunnel, marked on the great quartz map as being somewhere around here, lying hidden under a fold in the ground. So far there has been no sign of it. The ground, exposed here and there by the melted snow, is flat.

A few whisper that it's been closed up through the slow movement of the stones over time, or else melted shut by a stray flame from the dragon.

Whatever the reason, our journey has slowed. Two days we spend wandering below the foothills of the looming mountain, yet during them we draw no closer. My armor is growing furiously impatient. A couple times Xomhyrk has us double-back; each time he does, my legs end up shivering with strain from working against the runes.

Then, on the third day, Xomhyrk stops dead. He looks down at his feet. Then he cries triumphantly:

“Here!”

We line up beside him to look. Just as he described seeing on the map, there's a fold in the ground. We're standing at the top of a ridge just a few feet high, all but invisible on the flat, near featureless plain. Cut into it, below us, is a hollow circle just large enough for a dwarf to squeeze through.

“Some of my Dragonslayers will move in first,” he says. “Once they confirm the route, we follow them.”

He nods to two of his dwarves. One produces a lantern of a design I've never seen, then they jump down the ridge, duck low, and vanish into the darkness. For a long time we wait. I sense the dwarves around me become tense: will the two emerge? Or perhaps the tunnel is blocked, and we'll have to approach the mountain directly, and maybe even crawl into that awful black gaping wound. I relish the prospect. The others do not.

Wind howls around us, neither hot nor cold. It kicks up heavy flecks of slushy snow.

“All fine,” comes a voice, and then the two dwarves crawl out. They're covered in black dust that stains the snow they tread on.

“There's a bit of rubble,” the second says. “And a lot of ash. Other than that the way into the halls looks clear.”

“What about the halls themselves?” asks Xomhyrk.

“It seemed like most everything is intact. Well, the stone at least. Everything else is, well...”

“Burned.”

“Yes.”

“We are well-used to fire though.”

“And will be more used to it by the time this hunt is done.”

“Indeed.”

Xomhyrk jumps down the ridge and walks forward a few paces. Then he turns to address us:

“Here begins the final leg of our journey: the burned halls of Halajatbast. It will be uncomfortable and dangerous. There may be some of Runeking Uthrarzak's dwarves lurking—deserters or perhaps posted guards. If we meet any, we will reason with them.”

I sense some very dark looks being thrown in Xomhyrk's direction.

“We went through this before,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You may find it distasteful, but we are here to make war on the black dragon, not on our fellow dwarves. If we meet any of Runeking Uthrarzak's forces, we tell them we are here to help. And we may need their help, considering how few of us are left.”

Whatever darker looks these words bring, Xomhyrk ignores.

“Now,” he continues, “we have brought lights for this occasion. Many were trampled by the ice beast, but I think we still have enough for a safe journey. Dragonslayers, distribute them please.”

The tungsten-clad dwarves hand one lamp to every tenth dwarf. They are of glass, and within each is a teardrop of enruned crystal, held in place by wires. I examine Braztak's closely—I can read these runes, they're runes of light! The poem is well-made, describing a single flame in a cave that refuses to go out despite the storm of wind and spray rushing over it.

I get a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach: I followed these same runes deep below once before, to face an different impossible foe, as part of another army that was far inadequate for the task.

And I deserted then! Same as Faltast—

My ruby blazes hot. This is different! Back then my duty was to root out the killer, not to die for Runethane Yurok's suicidal delusions. And this time we are led by Xomhyrk, and the foe, while strong, is known to us and known to be mortal also. There is no reason for any honorable dwarf to desert.

“Step down and form up in single file!” Gollor bellows. “It's time to hunt a dragon!”

I'm startled from my thoughts by the sudden shout and movement. Someone pushes me forward off the ledge and I land heavily. I glance back, scowling, but the dwarf who's to follow me is some way back. I wasn't pushed, I realize, but pulled by my own armor.

I make to form up with the rest of the guild, but without me really realizing how I got here, I end up near the front of the line, just a few dwarves behind Xomhyrk.

“Eager, aren't you!” says Braztak, and he slaps me hard on the shoulder. He's only one place behind me.

“Yes,” I say.

“I haven't complimented you on your boots enough. You just slide where you want to go, don't you?”

“That's right.”

Is it? Do I slide where I want to go, or do I slide to where my armor, amulet, and weapon want me to go? Or do I, like Braztak suggested before, slide to where the me from back in the forge knows I have to go?

“...mobility is under-rated by most dwarves,” Braztak is continuing. “But we'll need it when we get to the dragon. Xomhyrk knows this too.”

“Yes.” I frown. “Have you figured out how he does it?”

“Flies through the air?”

“Appears where he needs to be.”

“Yes.”

“I haven't.”

“Take a closer look at his armor and you'll figure it out. And at Icemite too—they're made of the same material.”

“Material?”

“Ah, have I given it away?”

An idea hits me. “Wait—”

“Forward!” Xomhyrk yells, and now we're marching.

One by one we duck down into the tunnel. Blackness envelops me, and the light of Braztak's lantern can only partly ward it off. I get the feeling that the power in the glass is limited—in duration as well as strength, or we might have used them when we took the bodies to the underground river after the battle with the humans. We will have to get to the dragon quickly.

I equip my runic ears just in case.

The tunnel is thin and crooked, though evenly paved. It turns at sharp angles and there are branches hidden in the walls that come to dead-ends. This would be a difficult place to attack down. The air is humid and smells of old ash and tastes bitter on my tongue.

We come to a steep set of stairs down. Each is angled slightly differently, and it takes all my concentration to not topple over and plummet down them.

When we finally reach their end, we enter into large circular room. It's shaped almost like an arena, with steps leading up all around it. Dwarves with long spears might have been posted here, to stab down at any disorientated intruders, or maybe they had crossbows—maybe the dwarves of Runeking Halajatbast were not as averse to ranged weapons as us dwarves of Runeking Ulrike are.

After the arena, we pass through some thin doors and now it seems we're past the fortifications. We're now in a wide hall, its arched roof held up by four rows of stone pillars. Xomhyrk orders us to stop and reform into a column five dwarves wide, with those with longer weapons toward the middle, those with shorter at the edges.

“Here, Guthah!” I order.

He comes to stand beside me and Braztak. As the rest of the army reforms around us, I try to make some small talk about the tunnel, and the warmth and the blackness, and the increasingly intense stench of ash, but he doesn't really want to discuss anything with me. He won't even meet my eyes.

I feel I should care more about this. Wasn't I meant to be looking after the tenth degrees? I look back but can't see them all. At least Pellas seems to be doing better. She's walking on her own now, though with armor in that state I don't know what she's going to be able to do if we're attacked.

“Quick march!” Xomhyrk orders, and we're off again.