Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I swing my pick at the rock wall. The vibration shudders through my hands, the clang shudders in my ears, and sparks fly toward my eyes before they dim and float down to join the pile of dust and gravel at my feet.

This is my life. The life of a miner. Sixteen hours a day I swing my pick at the rock wall, hollowing out a new forge-hall for Runethane Broderick, for his war-effort under the command of Runeking Uthrarzak, who fights against another ten Runekings in his hundred-year struggle to throw down the Runegod of the Western Mountains and take his place.

My arms burn. From the center of the half-done cavern I can hear laughter and drinking as my fellow workers take their lunch break. They claim you can only work well after plenty of rest, but I know this isn’t true.

If I am to find what I desire, what I have been seeking for the past eight years of swinging my pick, I have no time to rest.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Iron shudders and sparks fly. I know if I work hard enough I can find something, anything that will put me on the path to greatness. My brother found something. He died for it, but I shall not.

A glowing chip of rock the size of my fingernail carves a path of light through the air and hits my cheek. It burns and I gasp in pain.

"Bastard!"

I pull the still-hot stone from my skin.

“Bastard! That’s going to leave a scar... Oh.”

The tiny piece of glowing stone I hold in my hand is not stone at all. It is metal, and it is no ordinary metal. It is one of the eight reagents, a vital ingredient in the forging of runic weapons and armor. It is Incandesite, and it is worth a hundred silver coins a gram.

I quickly lean in and, holding my pick near the head for better control, chisel away to uncover the nugget. It glows in time with each iron tap. I bring my body in close to cover the glow: it goes without saying that I don’t want my co-miners to see. Luckily they're too interested in their flagons to look at me.

Flake by flake I uncover the incandesite. It’s the size of my fist. I reach into the hollow I’ve dug out, and grasp it. Warmth flows into my palm and fingers and I can see every bone in my hand backlit by its glow. For a few moments I stare, my breath held still in my lungs, my mind blank with happiness and fear.

I’ve done something few miners are lucky to do. I have dug out something worth a great deal of silver. Enough, if I sell it in the underground markets, to retire in modest comfort.

I am not going to sell it. Nor am I going to hand it in like a good dwarf for far less silver than it's worth.

I am going to forge it.

I carefully place it into the pocket of my baggy sackcloth trousers, set down my pick, and wander over to the slackers. I do this because if I'm to rush out now, I will draw a great deal of suspicion. That was my brother’s mistake.

“Ho, shortbeard,” cries one of the miners. “You going to have a drink today for once? It’s not good for a young dwarf to stay sober.”

I smile. “Maybe you’re right. I’m feeling a little tired today.”

He claps me on the shoulder and grins like a loon. His beard is grey and straggled, specked with little chips of rock. He’s one of those too lazy even to wash it, let alone apply some oil. He pours a flagon and hands it to me. I take a swig; it tastes sour and cheap and coats the inside of my mouth with rock-dust.

“Why are you grimacing? This is Grogwatch’s finest!”

He laughs and claps me on the shoulder again. Hardrick, I think his name is. I really ought to know—I’ve been mining with him for the past four years. Maybe longer.

“It’s got dust in it,” I point out.

“All good beer has dust in it. Dust is nutritious. Got calcium, like milk. Makes your bones strong.”

“Sure it does.” I force myself to down the rest of the flagon. “Very healthy.”

“That’s my dwarf.” He pours me out another flagon. “Have another.”

I have no choice but to oblige. He offers me a seat on one of the stone chairs next to the barrels and I take it.

There are about ten dwarfs working to hollow out this section of the new forge-hall. Their faces are lit blue by cheap crystal lamps strung overhead, and each looks haggard, hunched over his own flagon. Their eyes are dead, even though their mouths babble stupidly about their wives, mistresses, damn useless kids, other miners, complaining about anything, blaming everyone apart from themselves for their pathetic position at the very bottom of society.

That’s what makes me different. I don’t complain. I strive.

“I better get to the loo and back to work,” I tell Hardrick after another flagon.

“Back to work? You’d enjoy yourself more if you didn't,” he laughs. “Even if you find something worth a copper, that dime will vanish soon enough.”

“A copper is still a copper, though.”

Shaking a little, the incandesite hot against my leg, I stand and make my way to the bathroom, a wooden cubicle at the back left corner of the cavern. I unlace my trousers. As soon as I’m done, I’m out of here to buy a hammer, speed off to an isolated cave somewhere—no one will miss an eighteen year old miner, will just assume I got eaten by a salamander or fell down a shaft—and forge something powerful enough to get me admitted to a guild.

I finish and lace my trousers back up. A hand grabs me around the back of the neck and thrusts me against the stone wall. My nose cracks and I feel blood run down my face, nearly as warm as the incandesite.

There's hot breath on my neck. I think it's Hardrick, smells sour enough. And I can guess what he’s here for.

"Where is it?" Hardrick hisses. "I saw the glow."

Something metallic comes against my neck, and with a thrill of fear I sense the power in it.

"Saw what?" I say, trying to buy time as my mind races to think of a way to escape.

"You found something. I saw it. Don't play dumb!" He pushes the blade against my neck harder. From where the metal touches an icy, unnatural pain crawls into my skin. "Can you feel that? This knife has a death rune. One cut and your heart stops!"

I grab his wrist and try to push the knife away. He resists. I stamp down hard on his foot and manage to twist and turn out his grip, but he grabs me again, by the collar, and shoves me back against the wall. He places the tip of his knife against my cheek.

It's a crooked ten inch length of semi-rusted iron, blunter than a cook's cleaver. But it has a rune, alright. A small, messily carved thing of blotchy rose gold. It hums unevenly.

"Hand it over," he says. "One touch and you die."

"Never!" I hiss, and knee him between the legs.

He bellows in pain and shock. His knife slashes deep into my cheek and icy pain rushes through my face, deep into my skull; my brain feels like someone has tipped ice onto it, and momentarily I'm blinded.

But I recover quicker than him, bunch my right fist and deliver a hammer-blow to the side of his head. He crashes into the wooden cubicle wall, nearly stumbles into the toilet.

I swing again. A tooth flies. Again. Blood sprays from his lip. I grab his wrist and try to wrench the knife from his grasp.

"You little bastard!" he howls.

I duck his punch.

"You little bastard!"

I jab at his eyes. One of his hands shoots up reflectively to block. I bring my jabbing hand down and with my two hands against his one on the knife, I finally take it from him.

He's still up, though, and bigger and stronger than me.

I have to finish this now.

Like a striking snake I plunge the ill-forged weapon deep into his shoulder. He screams in agony and falls against the wooden wall of the cubicle, bringing it down with a crash and a cloud of sawdust. The knife remains buried in him to the hilt.

The other miners, who were already running over to the commotion, see me standing over him, splashed with blood.

I run.