Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I decide to quit attending lectures and try and save up some money. Iron gear, if I can supplement it with a bit of steel, should get me a job that pays at least a little more than cleaning.

My study then, when my back and arms ache too much to continue cleaning, is restricted to the guild library. Guildmaster Wharoth told me I could use it for free if I sorted all the books by script, category and into alphabetical order, so I did just that.

He didn't pay me for the job, but getting free access to here was worth it.

The world of runes is far vaster than I ever imagined. There are dozens of scripts, and more get unearthed every decade. Each single rune has several layers of complexity: my brother's dictionary only showed the first. Their sound changes depending on which others neighbor them, what metal they are carved on, their proximity to certain gems.

At the end of every night's study my brain is throbbing with the effort of remembering them all.

It's a good pain.

One night, a week or so after my sparring lesson, someone claps their hand on my shoulder when I'm deep in strained thought.

"Boo! How you doing, little initiate?"

I scowl. It's the red-beard who judged my craft alongside Hathat and the guildmaster. Whelt. His beard stinks of too much perfume.

"What do you want?" I snap.

"You've been spending a lot of time in here lately. When are you planning on getting back in the ring?"

"The sparring ring? You were one of those watching and laughing, were you?"

"I was laughing a little, yeah."

"I'll return to the ring once I have some armor. Right now I'm focused on study, and earning some money."

Whelt shakes his head. "You want to fight in real armor, you won’t be allowed to do it here. Not against a bunch of kids. You’ll have to go to an arena, and at your skill you’ll get your head smashed in for sure.”

“I’m not as shit at fighting as I look, you know.”

Whelt raises his eyebrows. I slam my book shut.

“What am I supposed to do then? Buy a better set of wooden armor?”

He laughs. “It’s not the armor that’s the problem. Only a poor smith blames his tools.”

“It’s two sizes too small! It fights me every move I make.”

“It’s not your movements that’s the problem. It’s your style.”

“My style?”

“Yeah. You’re trying to fight like a cave bear, all slashing and biting. You need to fight like a dwarf.”

“I am a dwarf. How could I be fighting like anything else?” I scowl. “And what do you care? I thought you didn't even want me in the guild.”

“Huh?” He looks surprised, then understanding dawns. “No, no. I voted in your favor. Hathat was the one against.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. He’s not a big fan of anyone without a runeknight for a dad. Brother’s a bad influence on him too—not to mention that sister of his. Anyway, fighting. You gotta fight like a dwarf.”

“But what does that mean?”

He tells me.

The next morning I’m back in the sparring yard. My wooden armor feels just as uncomfortable as last time, squeezing my every limb like a vise and obscuring my vision. Every time I breath out warm sweaty air rushes up my face. It’s dizzy, disorientating, and restrictive.

Yezahk spins his axe in his hand. I've requested to fight him, against the instructor’s advice not to. Apparently he’s gotten even better.

“Ready?” he says.

“Ready.”

“To eat gravel or to win?”

I can’t see his face for the visor, but I know he’s smirking at me. I’m going to wipe that smirk right off his face.

I ready myself, and don’t charge.

He’s as impatient as I was last time, and rushes for me with his axe in high guard ready to cleave downward. I take one step forward—just one deliberate step—and meet his charge with my shield. He tries to swipe it away with his own and bring his axe down in the same moment, but my posture is stable enough that he can’t take me off balance. I block his strike easily.

“You been practicing somewhere else?” he says, stepping back and readying for another attack.

I don’t answer, just return to fighting stance. He shrugs and charges again. And with only three simple movements—my foot back, my shield forward, my axe meeting his from below—my defense is successful.

The armor is still a pain, of course, but it doesn’t hinder me so much as long as I keep my techniques small.

Yezakh charges again, thrice as ferociously. His axe slashes at me from every direction: above, below, left, right, diagonally. But I block most of the strikes, and those I don’t only hit the strong parts of my armor.

“Go on!” shouts his dad from behind the fence. “Wear him down!”

He redoubles his attacks. Now that he’s really trying, his skill becomes apparent. I’m starting to have trouble keeping up, more and more strikes slip through. But defense isn’t the only part of fighting like a dwarf.

I kick his ankle hard. He stumbles back and I see an opening—strike him round the back of the head.

“Ah!”

He retreats. I’m grinning behind my visor, and can tell he isn’t. He’s panting too hard, breath like white steam puffing out.

“Give up?” I ask him.

He charges again, but his axe-arm is tired and slow. I guard easily—though I’m hot encased in my armor, I’ve barely broken a sweat.

A fight between dwarves, Whelt explained to me, is one of endurance of both body and equipment. The amount of damage a weapon can inflict on armor of equal quality is always low, no matter how strong the wielder. That’s how good dwarf armor is. So fights are nearly always slogging matches, and tough beats fast.

And swinging a pick for sixteen hours a day, every day, for ten years, tends to build up one’s endurance.

I walk toward him slowly and deliberately, axehead resting on my shoulder, ready for a powerful yet unpredictable attack. He lifts his shield and I can see it shaking. I strike at the top of his head, knowing he’ll have to expend a lot of energy to block it there. The moment my axe hits with a crack, I shove my body forward.

He falls to the ground and I stand over him, ready for victory. I slash down, hit, hit again.

With a sudden burst of stamina, he grabs the haft of my axe and pulls me down by it. For several furious minutes we roll around in the gravel, punching, kicking, grappling. The fight ends with my arm around his neck and his hands twisting my ankle sideways nearly out its socket. He lets go of it.

“That’s enough, boys, enough!” shouts the instructor. “Separate!”

Reluctantly I let go of Yezakh’s neck and stand. He’s too exhausted to do the same though; he flops his arms out and lies there spread-eagled, panting.

Outside the fence his father bows his head with a sigh.

“Come on,” I tell Yezakh, holding out a hand for him. “I’m three years older than you, nothing to feel bad about.”

He lets me pull him up. “I don’t feel bad,” he says once he gets his breath back. “I’m just tired.”

“Too tired to go again?”

“In a bit.”

So I fight a few more of the juniors. They all make the same mistake Whelt told me not to—charging in and burning through their stamina in the first few minutes. I beat them easily—one by one they fall at my feet. The parents behind the fence begin to grumble about unfairness.

“So what?” the instructor tells them. “If they ever have to fight anything that isn’t a dwarf it’ll be something bigger than a dwarf. This is experience.”

It does begin to feel a little unfair though, apart from when I fight against Yezakh. He’s already caught on, instinctively, to the lesson Whelt taught me, and he holds back his enthusiasm and begins to attack in a more calculated manner.

For the next few weeks I spar every day, and do it so well the instructor promotes me to assistant. So I start to earn money from sparring rather than lose it.

Soon I have enough silver in my purse for the iron plates, steel strips, and leather I need to forge my first full set of armor.