Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Return to Darkness 21: Poverty and Opportunity


So, I settle down into my life, both in the fort below and Brightdeep above. For the first time in a long while, I feel relaxed. No threats hang over my head: the darkness is quiet, and to the best of my knowledge the beasts above have been driven back for the most part. Thus, I am free to live and free to forge.

Each long-hour, or there abouts, I wake when it suits me and find my way by touch and memory to the eating hall. I drink ale and chow down whatever Hirthik has prepared for us, the main of which is usually pork or gelthob made palatable by a generous helping of spices. It's often more complicated fare than I'm used too, with many side dishes of exotic ingredients, cooked in myriad ways. If Hirthik had been born in Allabrast, he might have become a chef rather than a runeknight.

If any of the dwarves of the deep are in the hall, I'll try to talk to them, but usually only Nthazes is keen to make conversation. The rest tend to be somewhat wary, though Hirthik is also happy to talk sometimes, just so long as I tell him plenty about the food and ale I've had in other realms.

Next, I usually head to the forge. I start work on the metal for my ears, start to beat and fold it into shape, trying to get used to the feel of titanium beneath the hammer and the peculiarities of Runethane Yurok's anvil. The whole room shudders each time I strike it, as if it's built into the very stone of the fort itself.

Heat, shivering clangs, the feel of sparks scattering across my body, the scent of burning: all are a comfort to me. More than anything, I appreciate the privacy. Sometimes I'll look up, expecting to see the angry eyes of Nazak upon my craft, or the calculating, curious stare of Halax, and see only the stone walls. Then, a great feeling of relief will come over me.

My only worry when I'm down in the fort is about Hayhek, Ithis, Guthah and the others. Where have they gone? Did they decide to head to Allabrast after all? I hope that is the reason they're not here. I hope they didn't run into an army of trolls—or some advance party of Runeking Uthrarzak's.

Those times I don't head to the forge, I go up to Brightdeep. My purpose is singular: make money. Yet this is proving harder than I anticipated. Much harder. Money, it seems, is not something earned quickly, even for a senior runeknight. In fact, being a senior runeknight seems to make the process more difficult.

Most of the jobs posted on the walls of the quest-halls—great long rooms papered all over with requests for slayings, guards, and other various tasks—are for runeknights of sixth degree or lower. A few are for fourth or fifth degrees, and they pay well, but there are none for second or third that I see.

Of course, I don't let a few words on bits of paper defeat me. I apply for these lower-ranking jobs anyway, just to try my luck, and am always met with the same lines:

"Honored runeknight! It would be far beneath you to go on this quest. Surely there is something more befitting to your level of skill?"

"A second degree, go on this humble outing? Honored runeknight, let us lessers have what scraps we can take, please!"

"We're honored by your concern, but we can manage this ourselves. And the rewards will be too small for such a great warrior as yourself. Surely there are better tests of your abilities, honored runeknight?"

The real reason for my being refused is made clear by the deep dwarf Polkud, who, on account of being a fairly recent recruit, knows more about these matters than most of Nthazes' folk:

"It's all about pay and status, honored runeknight," he tells me one mealtime over some bitter ale. "If you were to go along on one of these jobs, the runeknight in charge would be competing with you. They don't want competition, especially not one they can't win. They need the pride and recognition that comes from a force of their own defeating a foe. And there's the guild connection too—many won't take on dwarves that aren't from their guild or guilds they have good relations with."

"But what about the risks?" I protest. "A good few never return from their outings, even here."

"They're runeknights. Taking risks for great rewards is our job, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

"And don't forget pay—they suspect you'll demand more than they can afford, after the task is completed. A lot of runeknights like to do this."

"I wouldn't."

"No. But they don't know this, and you're intimidating. Anyway, keep trying your luck. I'm sure someone will take you on, on some more dangerous tasks."

This proves true: a few do end up being willing to hire me. Sometimes it's hunting down rumors of beasts, sometimes standing guard, sometimes scouting out the great unmapped web of caverns that surround the city. They're rarely dangerous tasks, though. No, there's a different reason why I'm accepted for them:

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"These runes on your armor: what do they mean?"

"Is it true that you can alter runes?"

"I heard a strange tale, that you were a runeforger reborn. Nonsense, I'm sure—or is it?"

"Runes of magma? How exactly do they work?"

"Did you defeat the dragon with them?"

Rumors about my abilities are flying freely around Brightdeep, it seems. One of the Red Anvil's members, or perhaps several, have been telling tales.

I keep my answers short and vague. Pellas died for my secrets. Guildmaster Wharoth did too, along with every other member of the Association except Guthah. I see no reason to speak about my powers freely. Those I trust can know them—no one else.

Eventually, when my reputation for secrecy overtakes and overwhelms the rumors about my runeforging, even these few jobs dry up. My income dwindles to zero, and now I am subsisting only on the generosity of the fort and its free food and ale, themselves gifts of Runethane Halmak.

And with no money, I have no materials. With no materials, I cannot forge what I need to. I am even running low on fuel for the furnace.

I may be free, yes—free to do nothing.

Then, finally, my luck breaks.

I hear the news while I'm sitting in the city square, feeling typically forlorn, penniless, out of place and not to mention worried sick about the fate of Hayhek and the others, of whom there has still not been even the faintest sign of.

Around me are happier dwarves. Groups of runeknights chat about their latest works and deeds. Masons compare small spheres that they've carved from various kinds of stone. Miners stumble about drunkenly—in Thanerzak's realm they would have done this at night, but of course there are no nights or days here. Children splash in the fountain. Gamblers dice and pass each other purses of clinking silver.

The sharp cry of a trumpet cuts through the babble like a steel blade. It comes from the direction of the castle, and I turn look, as does everyone else, even the ale-stupefied miners. The gates have opened, and a troop of twenty Red Anvil runeknights are marching out, preceded by several musicians blowing and beating for all they're worth. I stand up and squint. The lead runeknight, one of the guild elders, seems to be shouting something. Behind him, two junior runeknights are struggling to hold a great roll of paper. Behind them, others are carrying heavy timbers.

The group makes their way to the city square. Masons, miners, and runeknights alike scatter before them. I can finally hear what the elder is shouting:

"Martial law has been declared! There are disturbances in the caverns! Martial law has been declared!"

The troop stops before the fountain. I back away two dozen yards and watch as a tall scaffold is assembled. Wooden beams are fitted together quickly and expertly. The two juniors, in lighter armor than most, heave themselves up ladders and lay the roll of paper across the scaffold's top beams. It falls, unrolls, and runes—in one of the simplest scripts—are revealed. They proclaim that no one is to leave the city on any but the most urgent business until the state of martial law is lifted. This is written at the very top of the paper, in very large runes. Most of the rest, in a somewhat smaller lettering, outlines the penalties for failing to comply. The punishments range in severity from beating, to maiming, to execution.

Nowhere, however, is the exact nature of the emergency written. I approach the runeknights, wincing from the loud and repeated blares of the trumpets.

"Step away!" barks the elder.

"I only wish to know what's going on. What emergency?"

"Disturbances above! You can read the runes, surely."

"How far above?"

"Not very."

"Is it the hated Uthrarzak's forces?"

"That is none of your business. You will know further details when we decide to proclaim them."

"It's every dwarf's business. Don't you know who I am, elder? I may not be first degree like yourself, but Runethane Halmak has welcomed me here personally."

He scowls. "Zathar, was it?"

"The same."

"Fine—you are second degree, after all. I'll tell you this at least: we do not believe this has anything to do with Runeking Uthrarzak. More details will be made clear at a later hour."

"I wish to know them now."

"Our Runethane will have them made clear when he sees fit."

He's as stubborn as a blindboar. Why is he so reluctant?

"Elder, I am a resident of the fort below. I must relay this news to Guildmaster Nthazes, who must be made aware of any threat, regardless of if it's from below or above. If it is not Runeking Uthrarzak's forces, then what? A white jelly?"

The elder looks uncomfortable. I don't think the Runethane would be happy to hear he refused to have information relayed to the all-important fort against the darkness.

"All I can say is that the beasts above are in a frenzy."

"A white jelly, then."

"We can't say that either. As I have told you, repeatedly, more details will be proclaimed when we know them."

Ah, now I see why he's being so stubborn— he doesn't want to admit they don't know what's up there. It could well be Uthrarzak's forces, though I cannot imagine how they could come all the way here undetected. Better that it turns out to be a white jelly—I recall well our battle to slay it and take its precious almergris. Its extremely precious almergris, worth almost as much as any gemstone.

"You will need a great many powerful runeknights to fight through so many beasts," I say.

"Who goes is up to Runethane Halmak to decide. Suitable forces must also remain behind to defend the city."

"Of course."

Judging that I've outstayed my welcome, I walk away from the screeching trumpets and pace along the street. This is an opportunity. The opportunity to get my name out, to earn money, to do—something. I don't know what exactly I will get out of this, but it'll be something.

Yet how to grasp this opportunity? I can't exactly just walk over to the Runethane and demand he sends me up. And to head up myself, on my own, would be suicide.

Maybe I can petition him to let me go. Plead my case to him or one of his elders. I've got experience up there, after all. So, I head directly to the castle, ruby amulet shivering beneath my beard. There has to be a place for me. Danger threatens the city of Brightdeep: they cannot turn down a runeknight who has slain demons and fought toecap to toecap with a Runethane. Lives are on the line, not just money and status.

For this quest, I have to be accepted!

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