Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

The bath felt amazing—I've never been in hot water before, and the soap was a substance divine. I came out feeling like a new dwarf, born again into a blessed existence rather than a cursed one. The clothes too are neat and crisp, and smell good.

Now there’s just one more thing I have to do: sign the contract. Then I’m officially an initiate, on the first step to becoming a runeknight, Runethane, Runeking...

Guildmaster Wharoth lays it down on his desk. I peer at it. It’s very densely written, and though I understand the words, I don't understand what it's trying to tell me. It's all very official and legal.

“Take a minute to make sure you understand it all,” says Wharoth, but I’m already signing my name at the bottom.

"Or don’t."

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment," I say, then look up and smile tentatively at him. "So, what happens now? Will you teach me how to forge? Or will one of the other guild members?"

He frowns. "Teach you to forge?"

"Yeah, I mean..." I laugh nervously. "I have a lot to learn, don't I?"

"This isn't a kiddie school, boy. We don't teach you here."

"What?"

"We're a guild. Don't you know what that is?"

"I thought I did. If you don't teach me, who does?"

"You pay for lectures in the city. Then you buy some metal. Then you practice. You can use our forges, half off for the first two hours."

"You won't teach me to forge? And I have to buy materials? Don't you provide them?"

"We're too busy to teach lessons to initiates. We have our own forging to do. And yes, you have to buy your own materials. We're not a charity for the down-on-their-luck." He leans over the table. His grey brows draw together even further. "You really had no idea, did you?"

"You won't give me anything?” I can’t keep the shock out my voice. “I don't have a single copper on me. Honestly, I'm not trying to swindle you. I don't have anything."

Wharoth sighs and sits back. "Well, that's true enough. You don't have a family either, do you? I can tell. Fine, I'll give you some cash to start out with. You can make your own way from there."

"I don't understand. If I have to make my own way, what's the point in joining? Why does anyone join?"

"Discounts with our partners. A hand up when you're down on your luck. Sometimes you get to rub shoulders with someone powerful. Connections, in other words."

"I see."

"From the sounds of it you don’t, but you will soon enough.” He gropes around in his desk drawer and pulls out a purse which clinks. He empties its contents onto the table. “Fifty silver pieces.”

My eyes widen.

“Looks a lot? It isn’t. Here’s my advice: organize some lodgings first. Buy some books too—that little dictionary won't get you far. And there's lectures and demonstrations around town you can pay your way into. Junior sparring lessons you can do here—mostly they’re little wannabes, but they’ll kick your ass at first.”

“That’s all going to cost fifty silver?”

“Plus metal for forging—which you’re going to be going through a lot of—it's going to cost more. So you’ll need to find a job pretty quick too.”

“A job? What job?” I clench my fists, suddenly angry. ”I'm not touching a pick again. Not ever."

"Of course not, whoever heard of an initiate mining? Bouncer might be a good start once you have some armor. Before then... Ach, I'll pay you. Our janitor quit last month, that's why the place is so filthy."

“A cleaner?”

“It’s a step up from miner, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess it is. Sorry if I sound ungrateful.”

“Don’t sweat it. Any more questions?”

“Can I get my knife back? Or are you going to keep it?”

Wharoth folds his arms. “It’s your knife, you can have it back now if you want. Only, that rune bugs me. So I’d like to keep hold of it for a little while longer, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay. I don’t mind. Just... Don’t pull it apart.”

“Good grief, do I look that cruel?” He shakes his head. “Not everyone you meet is an asshole, boy.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just...”

He gestures dismissively. “I understand, I understand. Anyway, we’re done here. Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t spend a single coin of that silver on drink, you hear me?”

I nod solemnly. Then I gather the coins back into the purse, and begin my life as an initiate.

Fugthath, runeknight of the third degree, sits at the head table of one of his guild’s halls. Not the main guildhall, mind you. Little wannabe initiates aren't going to be judged on those golden floors. His guild isn’t some third-rate dump: it is situated not a hundred yards from Runethane Broderick’s palace—the Runethane’s sons and daughters themselves are members, not that they’ve ever deigned to give Fugthath more than a passing glance.

This is the premier guild this side of the city: Halat Hazhulam Ghalzh.

Inevitable Victory.

He looks over the line of hopefuls stretching down the hall, out the door, and down the street past the gates. Each clutches a craft of some kind, be it a weapon, amulet, or piece of armour. Most are only teenagers, with a few young men and women mixed in. Apart from one.

“Look at that one,” says the head judge. “Looks about fifty.”

“Ugly too,” Fugthath says, scratching the scar running through his lips. “Miner.”

The other applicants don’t think much of the old miner either; a few shove past him in line. He doesn’t seem to notice, almost like he’s sleepwalking. His craft is wrapped in leather and looks to be taller than he is.

The applications proceed. It’s dull work. The applicants don’t know this, but today is a ‘reject everyone’ day. There aren’t any places open now, but the guild lets the kids line up all the same, knowing that the more they reject, the higher their reputation as an organization of only the best of the best climbs.

“There’s a scratch here.”

“The handle’s off, only a millimetre, but these things matter, boy.”

“This rune isn’t neat enough.”

“Your beard’s dirty.”

The miner’s nearly at the front now. The applicant behind him, decked out in a full set of steel plate, tries to shove past. The miner finally wakes up, stomps on his foot, swears one of the dirtiest insults Fugthath’s ever heard, and strides up the stone steps to the judge’s table.

“Your overalls are stained,” the head judge drawls. “Rejected.”

The miner doesn’t seem to hear him. He slaps his craft down with a clang.

“Rejected!” the head judge snaps. “I shouldn’t have to say it twice.”

“Get out,” Fugthath says. He pats the warhammer at his waist. “Now.”

“Wait!” cries the third judge. “Look!”

Fugthath looks down at the leather bag—whatever’s within is shivering, flexing from the impact of being set down—and each time the blade touches against the leather, it slices like a razor.

The judges watch, hypnotized, as the blade cuts itself free of its own accord. They remain hypnotized. Exposed, it’s clear to them that the blade is a masterpiece any runeknight of even their rank would be proud to have forged.

“Rejected?” the miner says incredulously, arrogantly. He raises his eyebrows. “This?”

The blade is perfectly straight, its diamond cross-section perfectly formed too. It’s clear that the steel was of high quality to begin with, but now it has a bluish patina that can only come from expert quenching in winefruit oil, one of the trickier liquids to work with. The grip, while not the most elegant, is perfectly serviceable. Likely it fits the miner’s palms like the hands of a lover.

Slice and kill,

Slash-rend, pierce,

Draw-blood-from-the-wound;

Slice-like-through-paper and eviscerate,

Cut-skin, crimson,

Flow-like-river-from-neck.

Thus read the runes. A crude poem, with some rather suspect rhymes, but the ribboned leather is proof it gets the job done.

“What do we do?” Fugthath asks the head judge. “I mean...”

The head judge is still staring at the blade in amazement. “Did you steal this?” he asks the miner.

“Steal? Don’t you think if I tried to steal something like this the owner wouldn’t slice me in half with it? I made it, took me all night, it did. I’m no thief.” He grins at Fugthath—a yellow leer. “Hey, I’ve met you before.”

Fugthath frowns. “Yeah. Yeah, you were the guy who got stabbed by that kid, aren’t you?”

The miner pats his shoulder. “Still hurts a motherfucker. You get him in the end?”

“Yeah, we got him all right.”

“Great. So what’s it to be? Am I in?”

The head judge looks back down at the blade, then back up at the miner’s ugly mug.

“We’re not meant to let anyone in today, strictly speaking. But I guess we can make an exception.”

“Pretty great, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Fugthath agrees, in awe. He’ll have to revise his opinion of miners. “Damn great.”

“Amazing what you can do if you put your back into it, huh?” The miner spits into his callused palm. “Shake on it?”

“We don’t really do that here,” says the head judge. “But just this once, sure.” He shrugs. “She really is a great blade.”

Fugthath looks at the blade once more and frowns. There is something off about it, on second consideration. There is something odd about the way it's been constructed: the diamond cross-section is thicker than usual, and its tip is longer than necessary. The runes are more sharply defined than is proper. Perhaps just beginners inaccuracy, but then again, perhaps not. Perhaps something else. He opens his mouth to raise his concerns to the head judge, but him and the miner are already shaking hands.

Hardrick is now the newest member of Inevitable Victory.

He thinks he’ll do well here.