Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I wait until the moment after dark falls and grab the cold iron of the fence. I clamber up, slowly, groaning through clenched teeth each time my hurt right arm must take my weight. Here’s the closest the fence comes to the guildhall, and I stretch out my hand to the roof, grip, swing across then pull myself up onto the tiles. I sprawl across them gasping. Even this small effort has taken my breath away, and I’m not even in armor—ditched it, would only get in the way.

Heartseeker is in my hand, for what that’s worth. It won’t pierce dragonscales but maybe it could get an eye—no, if by a ten thousand to one chance I injure the black dragon, it’ll incinerate me for sure.

Still, feeling the weapon in my hand gives me some mental strength as I force myself to stand, and stare up at the cavern ceiling far above. The mirrors are giving barely any light—either the moon is a crescent, which it apparently sometimes becomes, or covering the sky are those rainclouds I don’t quite believe in. Whatever the reason, I won’t get much warning.

I shiver and try not to blink.

Something flickers over one of the stalactites far above.

The dragon? The flicker was too fast to tell, too far away.

Another flicker, right at the top of my vision. I spin around, try to follow it. Nothing more comes. I let out a shaking sigh.

A gust of cold wind comes against the back of my head. I spin, Heartseeker at the ready. I think I see wings above.

A bat close by or the dragon far away?

My heart is battering against the inside of my chest, and despite the cold my face is drenched in sweat.

Another gust of wind, from the other side. I spin again, unbalance myself and fall to one knee. There’s nothing there. I gasp in a breath, and choke on the dryness of my mouth, hack and splutter.

The back of my neck prickles. It’s here now. I can sense it. Slowly, I turn around.

Just beyond the closed iron gates of the guild there creeps a black shadow with a long curling tail and narrowed green eyes. I leap down off the roof and drive Heartseeker through the closest window. The glass shatters inward; someone shouts in shock.

I scream: “Dragon! Run!”

My guildmates look at me, dumbstruck. Food and ale pause halfway to their mouths and their eyes blink slowly.

“Dragon!” I scream again. “Run!”

“Wha—” someone begins, then a wall of flame explodes inward from the front of the room—pieces of wall and the door already disintegrating are borne on the roiling liquid yellow heat. Some dwarves quick enough to pick up shields manage to block the flame; others in full armor are thrown by the blast far to the other side of the room; those with neither armor nor shield instantly turn to ash and are scattered into nothingness.

The wall of fire comes to my window and the pressure and heat sends me flying away. I crash against the iron fence and slide down, all strength knocked from me.

The front half of the guildhall collapses in an explosion of sparks and with a horrible crumping, crushing noise. The hot smell of smoke fills the air. A scream from a trapped dwarf begins, increases in volume, continues. The rest of the dwarves stream from the back windows, all of which are smashed outward, yelling in confusion and terror. Only half have their weapons.

“Where’s the guildmaster!” one yells.

“I don’t know!”

“Was he at the front of the room? Where was he?”

“The middle!”

“Where’s he now?”

“It’s going to fly up!” another screams. “Look!”

The black dragon has raised its wings, and with terrible strength it brings them down and shoots into the air. The backdraft fans the writhing yellow flames to white—the screaming of the trapped dwarf stops abruptly. Another beat of the dragon’s midnight wings and it’s fifty feet high, looking down at us like a cat looks at rats.

I meet its gaze. Its fire-lit face breaks into what is unmistakably a smile. I told you so, the smile says. I told you so, didn't I?

It tilts its body, folds its wings and dives.

Most of the dwarves run, throwing down shield and axe and scrambling up and over the fence. I stumble to my feet to climb up after them, but lack the strength, fall and skin my knees on the gravel. The black dragon lands and faces those few dwarves brave enough to stand their ground.

The first dwarf rushes it, axe high with his shield held in front of his face. The black dragon doesn’t bother with fire, just reaches out a taloned hand, grabs the shield, crumpling the metal, rips sideways brutally. The dwarf’s arm is torn from its socket and both it and his shield sail into the darkness. The black dragon bites the top of the dwarf’s head away and his corpse topples backwards, hits the ground with a thud. Brain matter splashes over the ground.

The next runeknight smashes the black dragon’s shoulder with a mighty blow from her two-handed warhammer. A hideous clang rings and reverberates out; the hammer head falls away—the haft of the weapon has snapped clean in two. The dwarf has just enough time to widen her eyes in horror before the dragon stabs its talons through her steel plate and tears her intestines loose in an explosion of bloody lengths of gore. They ribbon through the air and she hits the ground before they do.

“Face me!” screams the next dwarf. “Face me, monster!”

It’s Whelt. His armor is blackened with soot, and his bare face is red and charcoal, scorched. His beard is crumbling ash. He brandishes his axe at the black dragon, which lunges toward him—fast, so fast—I throw Heartseeker weakly at its head. It curves toward one of the malefic green eyes.

A veil of utter darkness blocks and Heartseeker is sent spinning away. The black dragon twists its body away from Whelt towards me. Then its jaws are right in front of my face, teeth red and black with burning blood. The jaws open.

“You’re late,” it says.

“I—”

One taloned hand grasps me around my left arm, as crushing as a mantrap. The black dragon beats its wings and carries me up into the air. It halts and hovers about twenty feet above the ground, brings its jaws even closer to my face. My shoulder feels like it is going to pop, but the worst thing is the heat warming me from below.

“Was six months too short for you?” it asks.

“I tried!” I blurt out. “I tried my best!”

“I did not ask for your best,” it sighs. “I asked for the Runethane’s key.”

“It was impossible. I’m sorry.”

“I do not accept your apology. However, I do see that perhaps I placed too much pressure on you. So I shall give you a year. By which I mean another six months, for the first six have already passed, and my patience has never been thinner.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

“It’ll give you time to heal, as well.”

“Heal?”

It flicks my shin with its left talon, and the strike is like that of an iron bar swung with two hands. I scream in pain as my bone is snapped clean in two. It lets go of me and I fall, crumple. I feel my broken leg bend like at a second knee.

I’m screaming; I can do no else.

Whelt was waiting for it. He leaps, swings his axe down and connects with its snout. The blow bounces away. The black dragon opens its jaws and yellow light illuminates Whelt’s red-scorched face.

A bulky figure clad in golden scales tackles him out of the way. The fire bursts from the dragon’s jaws but the figure has rolled back to his feet and turned with deep-ingrained instinct, and raises his golden shield to block it.

The fire hits the shield and is drawn swirling into it like water being drained from a bathtub. The gold begins to glow, brighter and brighter, until it is as bright as the sun must be, for night turns to day. The black dragon’s flame dwindles to nothing, but the shield continues to shine for a good few seconds longer before its heat and light too vanishes.

The black dragon rears up and slashes down with the talons of its right hand. The figure in gold blocks with his shield and the talons glance off in a shower of sparks. The figure’s stance remains stable; the force did not move him.

I notice that the figure’s armor is not yet complete. A leg and one muscled, axe-wielding arm are bare. I recognize the arm—it’s always bare, for although Guildmaster Wharoth keeps his leather apron on at mealtimes, he never wears his long gloves.

He slashes upward with his axe, a disemboweling stroke. The axe bites into the dragon’s belly just enough to leave a tiny glowing cut.

The black dragon roars in outrage, swings its right hand down at Wharoth’s unarmored shoulder. The guildmaster ducks the blow and returns with one of his own. A cut appears in the dragon’s hand, slightly longer and deeper, more brightly glowing. A flame flares out of the wound and lengthens and winds its way through the air to the axehead. It winds around the metal, which glows red, and a rune on the side glows white.

Even with the terrible pain in my leg destroying all thought, and through my blurred, smoke-choked vision, I can read it. It’s a rune I know well.

It’s the twisted Halat, ‘come here’, I forged into my first craft—the knife Wharoth took such an interest in, the reason he let me into the guild.

The black dragon roars again and flaps up into the air, clasping its left hand over the right to stem the bleeding. It looks down on Wharoth; the fury written on its face nearly makes my heart stop.

“Get out of here!” Wharoth shouts up at it. “Leave my guild and never return!”

The black dragon bares its long teeth. “I shall stay.”

It breathes in deep—its chest expands visibly. The guildmaster raises up his golden shield and braces. The black dragon roars out a torrent of flames far brighter and narrower than before, a pillar of obliteration linking the Guildmaster’s shield to its jaws.

Wharoth shouts a warcry:

“Dway tzhet khaznor! Dway tzhet hakhthaz!”

“Dwarves stand firm! Dwarves stand and live!”

His shield starts to glow again, brighter and brighter until it outshines the dragonflame. Every building in the city is lit by brighter light than has ever touched them, and long black shadows spread out behind them in a starburst of darkness. The light increases further, until even with my eyes closed its brightness is like stabbing nails in my eyes, then the shield’s runes hit their limit and the glow stops increasing. Wharoth shouts in pain; I open my eyes a fraction and see metal dripping from the shield and splashing into tiny red bearings which roll and scatter away.

“No!” someone shouts.

A massive spear, ten foot long, lances into the ground beside me. It quivers, making a deep thrum. Another whistles overhead. I look toward the mountain, and I can see more flying from it, black needles that suddenly become spears and impale houses, the guildhall, one of the slain dwarves.

One bolt passes through the black dragon’s outspread wing. Another whistles past its head. It snaps its jaws closed and its torrent of flame evaporates. It fixes me with one last angry glare, then beats its wings and accelerates up, away. For about a minute or so I watch it speeding from the city illuminated by the sun-like glow still shining from Wharoth’s shield. The black needles from the mountain chase after it, whistling loudly, until the sun-glow fades and nothing more can be seen. The whistling continues for a minute, then that stops too.

My breath, shocked away for the duration of Wharoth’s duel, returns, and with it my scream of incredible pain and heart-rending anguish.