Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Guildmaster Wharoth throws his hands up in exasperation, then slams them down on his desk in abject rage.

“Have you not listened to a word I’ve told you?” he spits. “Patience! Patience! Patience! I thought you were headed in the right direction, all that time you spent on your armor. And now you want to commit suicide?”

“But it is allowed?”

“Do you even know what the exam for fifth involves?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. Sixth and up, it is different for each dwarf. The head examiner selects the method, and if he’s taken a disliking to you, he will kill you.”

“I don’t think he likes or dislikes anything much.”

“You insult him with arrogance and he will dislike you very much. He will have you crushed like an insect.”

“I stuck a spear in the salamander’s eye!” I protest. “And now I have a better spear, and better armor.”

“Your steel will be torn through like paper. Any steel will. Steel will not get you anywhere past the eighth degree.”

“Then I stab first.”

“Listen to yourself!” he cries. “Moron! Fool! Why are you so keen to kill yourself?”

Because I don’t want you to die, I nearly say. Because the black dragon threatened me. If I don’t do what it says, you will burn.

But of course, I can’t say that. Not to the guildmaster. I am working for a dragon. I cannot tell that to an old fighter of Runethane Thanerzak.

“I just...” I trail off.

“Just have some damn patience. Do some jobs. Buy some better materials, and practice, practice, practice.”

I spend the entire night in the guild library, searching for something, anything, any kind of solution that will let me forge the gear I need quickly and on the cheap. Of course, there is nothing. Gear is not cheap or quick to make—not unless it’s bad gear, liable to fall apart at the first sign of battle, or jam up in the middle of a deadly combat.

I find myself reading a book of cautionary tales about dwarves who tried to do what I’m about to. Go in unprepared.

The dwarf who tried to take on the troll under the bridge with a stick.

The dwarf children who went into the witch-elf’s home with no disguise, and were eaten.

The Runeking who tried to battle his challengers naked, to show that skill was more important than thick armor and a heavy hammer.

Armor always wins out over skill. That is the founding principle of dwarf society, and it is a principle I cannot get away from. I must prepare properly, but the stronger the material the more expensive, and harder to work. Some alloys take months to prepare, and I have three. Less than three, now. And very little money.

Over the next two days and nights I do not sleep. I go from shelf to shelf in the guild library and read every book there is. My fingers blister and bleed. My eyes redden. A pressure grows inside of my skull, as if my brain is swelling like a buboes.

And in a thin tome at the bottom corner of one of the most antique shelves, unopened for a hundred years at least, I find my answer.

The devious runes of mimicry.

To lie about the quality of one’s metal is a hideous sin in dwarven culture. It is nearly as bad as using the equipment of another, and equal in detestedness to melting down a precious craft before it is complete. Thus it makes sense that the runes written for mimicry would be hidden away. It is lucky that I am in such a poor guild—a more respected one would never risk the reputational damage being found to hold such information could incur.

By grafting these runes to my steel, I can make it look like whatever armor I want. The examiners will surely show no bias to a dwarf who walks into the arena in shining platinum. Or to one who comes dressed in diamond, dazzling spectators, judges, and foes all with blinding brilliance. Or one cloaked in molten lava, who radiates an aura of heat so powerful all but the bravest fear to fight.

And if the runes are made just right, formed to dimensions with no margin of error, and grafted with exactly the correct amount of reagent, my steel will even take on some of the properties of its disguise.

It will be nothing near as strong as the real thing, but enough to give me an edge, should I get hit.

This is the power of runes of mimicry. As long as Heartseeker reaches my foe before he or it can strike, I can pass.

I will admit my plan is a long-shot. No matter how much the examiners are impressed by my armor of crystalline diamond, platinum, or whatever I choose, the monsters and men they send my way will not be easy opponents. But with Heartseeker, whom I notice Guildmaster Wharoth found absolutely nothing to critique about, I have a chance.

The only problem is that I have to scrub away the runes already on my steel.

And for that, I will need a good quantity of a very special reagent I do not have enough money to purchase.

I knock on the door to Hayhek’s house. He’s not expecting me, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Zathar!”

“Good morning.”

“You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

“I don’t think I have.”

“You should rest. We heard about the exam.” He shakes his head. “A disgrace. So many good dwarves...”

“A horrible waste. Does everyone who makes it to the top end up insane?”

“A lot do, unfortunately. I’ve met enough, so I should know. Standing in a forge for years on end, the hammer ringing in your ears... Bad for the brain.”

I nod, though I don’t quite agree. When you’re forging you do use your brain. It is mindful drudgery, not the mindless drudgery of mining.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course. No breakfast set for you, sorry to say.”

“Just some bread and water will do.”

“I’ll get some.”

He leads me into the dining room. The tablecloth and nice plates from last time are absent, and I see that the wooden surface is old, covered with innumerable scratches, the varnish long since gone. I sit down on an uncomfortable chair.

“Where’s Yezakh?”

“Ah.” Hayhek scratches his gray beard. “You’re here to talk to him, of course.”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen him since before the exam.”

“He hasn’t been taking it too well.”

“Did something happen to you?” I frown. “Is your wife okay? Daughters?”

“They’re fine. He didn't take what happened at the exam well. And then they’re still not changing the rules...”

“You told him I passed, surely?”

“Of course. But...” He sighs and sits down opposite me, heavily, rests his elbows on the table. “He’s damn terrified. He wanted to take it soon, as soon as he joined your guild. That why he wasn’t there the past few days of our practice—he was forging his craft, and a good few more to boot. I saved up some silver for him to rent out a forge and buy some iron.”

“Oh. He doesn’t think he can win.”

“No! And I don’t either, told him he ought to wait until the Runethane’s madness passes. He didn't take that well—he doesn’t want to wait. But he’s paralyzed—half wants to rush forward, half stay back.”

“Let me talk to him. Alone.”

“All right. Make him wait and show some patience, like you tried to. When you lost it, nearly got you killed, right? And Kazhek’s still after you...”

“Yeah.”

Hayhek leads me to Yezakh’s bedroom door. I knock.

“It’s me. Zathar.”

No answer.

“Come on out, will you? I want to talk.”

“Out of there!” Hayhek says sternly. “You can’t be a child if you want to be a runeknight.”

The door opens. Yezakh does not look like a child. His eyes are dark, his beard unkempt, his face reddened. He looks angry.

“I heard you talking,” he spits, glaring at his father. “I’m going to sit the exam. Just as soon as I’m prepared. Next month at the latest.”

“You’ll get yourself—”

I hold up a hand to cut Hayhek off. “Come talk with me, Yezakh. I’ll tell you how to pass the exam. Wasn’t so hard. And they’ve made it a bit easier, I’ve heard. Let’s go back down to the tunnel, and I’ll tell you what it takes. It has a weakness, you know?”

Some of the anger in his eyes fades. I’m not in my cloak, nor in battered iron, but equipped in my gleaming angular steel. Heartseeker is in my hand, though I’ve covered its darkly haloed head with silk cloth. He’s impressed. He knows that if anyone can help him, it’s me.

We’ll help each other. Every good thief needs a lookout.