Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Return to Darkness 26: Reunion at Last


I hurry down the cracked slope into the lush, low forest. My heavy boots crush the orange tubers and spores cloud around me, reducing my view of the battle to blurs. More spores envelop me from behind, turning the air nearly opaque. The rest of the runeknights—my runeknights—are forming up behind me. I turn to inspect and watch them make a neat wedge just as I ordered, with the strongest in the front and the weakest toward the middle. The orange fog diffuses the lanterns' light, making glows like semi-circle domes around the bearers.

"We march, quickly!" I order.

"Yes, honored runeknight!"

Again, I'm unnerved by how they follow me so readily. Does helping to slay one beast really qualify me, in their eyes? Or is it faith that drives them? They believe in my ability to create runes, and creation is utmost for us dwarves. Those who create are honored, those who destroy—the miners—are despised. And if simply copying the runes of the First Runeforger makes a dwarf into a runeknight, a member of the most honored class, how highly honored might a new runeforger be?

I'm probably overthinking things again. Whatever they believe about my runes—and I'm sure many still have their doubts—the fact is that I'm the strongest here and have knowledge of these caverns. Their most senior runeknights, Rtayor and Ugyot, have decided that I should lead, and the other guildmembers have no choice but to obey.

Nevertheless—will no one question me? Will no one come up with a better plan than what we're doing now?

They march behind in silence. It seems not. It seems like everyone's fate is under the protection of my armor.

Fungal growths are reduced to foul slime beneath my boots. I knock aside slender mushroom stalks, breaking them when I must, or simply when I feel like it. The sounds of battle become clear again. I think the other two guilds have reached the beleaguered defenders, for I can hear fresh war-cries. How they're faring, however, is impossible to see.

"Not yet?" asks Ugyot. He's gripping his spear like he's strangling it.

"Not yet," I say. "Not quite."

I stumble on something hard. Dark metal glints in the lantern light and I hold up a hand.

"Stop!" I order.

I kneel down. My mouth has gone dry. The dark metal is tungsten, tungsten armor, enruned with the runes of magma I myself formed. It's proven to be little protection against a blade of a dithyok, which cleaved the dwarf deep in the shoulder. I lift up the visor and am glad to see that it's no one I recognize. Not Guthah, not Hayhek, nor even one of those who used to come up to talk to me in my cell.

"Up the pace!" I command. "We charge soon. Ready your weapons!"

That last was redundant—who would not have their weapon ready in such a situation? But this thought is a fleeting one, replaced by imaginings of Hayhek slain, Guthah slain, all those poor bastards who've journeyed so far slaughtered so close to safety. Anger takes hold of me. My ruby begins to shiver against my skin.

"Charge!" I scream.

I didn't really mean to say that—but the runeknights respond with a battle-cry. My ruby burns. I have no choice but to commit to my order and so I throw myself forward, sprinting with the speed and power of an erupting magma-flow. Life-Ripper I hold with its single point out; Dithyoks wield four weapons each, so catching one would not help, and indeed would render me vulnerable. I will use quick stabs, in and out and in as rapidly as I can manage.

A four-armed terror looms out the orange haze. I aim directly at its back, but it hears me and turns. A face of nothing but mouth and razor teeth gapes. Four arms swing at me in quick succession. I block one, let my armor bear the other three blows. I'm knocked about, and deafened by the shock of successive impacts, yet my aim remains true—I jab Life-Ripper into the thing's chest with little resistance. Dark ichor spurts from its mouth, and it collapses backwards, twitching.

Either side of me, Ugyot and Rtayor find their own targets. Then the rest of the wedge crashes in and I'm forced into the seething mass of hissing chitin. I stab at whatever I can reach. Razor blows slash into me, yet my armor turns every one. Half a dozen kinds of fluid spray over me, and I drink in their intoxicatingly metallic aromas. My boots crunch and slide on wet chitin. It's hard to keep my balance, and I lurch from attack to attack, slaying anything and everything that finds its way into my path.

I begin to laugh—these monsters used to terrify me. But what are they compared to demons? What are they to iron troll chieftains, to the frozen corpse of an ancient surface beast, to the black dragon, or to cruel Nazak and Helzar? What are they compared to Vanerak? I slay these foes with ease, my armor giving every one of my movements terrible power. Life-Ripper is unstoppable, its true metal piercing bone like it's thin skin.

How are the rest faring? I glance back, but now I'm too deep into the combat to see. A massive thing like a bzathletic, but with a stinging tail instead of pincers, sprays poison at me. I cover my eyes with one hand and stab out with the other. Life-Ripper goes deep into its mouth and out the top of its head-section. The stinger falls limp. A dithyok pounces on me, knocking me down, but Life-Ripper is already penetrating. It falls, and I heave it off.

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More battle, more blood! I charge deeper, stabbing into whatever flesh there is. I can barely see anything, for the looming foes block out nearly all light. That does not matter. This battlefield is so thick with enemies that I barely need to aim.

Something glints and darts at my face. It's well-aimed, and I block. I riposte, and sparks fly off a shoulder-plate. They're white sparks, the bright sparks of tungsten. In front of me, I see a runeknight. He wields a spear too. One of his arms is more thickly armored than the other, with a poem of strength and speed written in yttrite script.

He stabs again—he seems even more blood-crazed than I am. I laugh, knock his spear down, and charge over him, barreling him down. We crash into a line of runeknights, their armor reflecting darkly the light of the smokey torches set behind them. I recognize a visor made to look like teeth, and close by that one, a heavily bejeweled harness.

"Zathar?" Hayhek says. "Zathar!"

"Yes!" I cry. "Now, let's charge and kill!"

I spin around and leap over Guthah, who is struggling to climb up from the slippery corpses. He's not in any danger, though: the dithyoks and other beasts are panicking now, their desperate hisses being drowned out by the war-cries of over a hundred runeknights. We're crushing them like a hammer flattens metal against the anvil.

Left and right I stab, slaying two small dithyoks scrambling to get away. Something spreads its wings and leaps, and I catch it in Life-Ripper's thorns. I drag it down and Ugyok runs it through.

A couple more slayings, blurs of blood and motion, and all falls quiet. Only the wailing of a few injured dwarves pierces the warm air's stillness—and also the wailing of what sounds like children.

For a few seconds I stand, still and quiet, feeling my breathing slow and the thrill of battle fade from my veins. My muscles begin to cramp. I grimace. I push up my visor, and see deep gouges and scratches on my arm-plates. It seems the dithyoks did more to me than I thought. I can feel hard bruises beginning to form where I must have taken some particularly violent blows. My ears are ringing slightly.

"Zathar?" someone says. They sound incredulous. "Is that really you?"

I look. It's Ithis: the leader of the rebellion in Vanerak's realm, the torturer. His teeth-like visor is pushed up to reveal a rather confused expression.

"Yes, it's me," I say. "You sound shocked."

"I told you he'd have survived," says Hayhek. "I knew he'd find a way."

Ithis slams his warhammer down onto the head of a twitching dithyok. It stops twitching. "I owe you a drink. You were right."

"You're not unharmed, though, it seems." Hayhek frowns. "What gave you that scar?"

"A Runethane. You can guess which one."

"Is he dead?" Guthah says. "Did you kill him, at least?"

I'm a little shocked by his tone. It's clipped and acrid, nothing like how the Guthah I trained back in Allabrast sounded. Yet, I suppose this change shouldn't surprise me.

"Nazak and Helzar I slew," I reply solemnly. "Vanerak and Halax live, though both are wounded."

"Why didn't you finish them off?"

I run a finger along my cheek-scar. "He nearly finished me off. Killing a Runethane is not such an easy task. But next time—"

I stop myself. I was about to swear to slay him, but Guthah knows well how badly I keep my promises. To make another one to him would just be an insult. He narrows his eyes, as if he guesses what I was about to say.

"You're what the beasts were after?" comes a voice from behind. We all look. It's Huirah, the guildmaster in sleek sliver. He sweeps his sword from left to right, and it seems to flow like water. "Just you?"

"You seem disappointed," Ithis says. "Are you?"

"I was promised a white jelly and its almergris. I wished for some fitting profit in both money and honor, considering the losses we've taken."

"Your guild has won plenty of honor," I say. I try not to scowl—is money all he cares for? "You have saved many lives."

"Of course, of course. Our Runethane is always keen for new citizens. I'm sure we'll get some fitting reward."

He glances back. The other guildmaster, heavily-built Rothok in his bronze, is making his way through the massed soldiers to us.

"I believe I reached the beasts first," Huirah says to him. "I'm not sure who was next. Where is Oludek?"

"Slain," says Rtayor, shaking his head. "Zathar Runeforger led us up here."

Huirah looks at me curiously. "Runeforger, is it now?"

"Yes," I answer, for why waste time denying it?

"I heard, but never quite believed."

"This runeknight speaks the truth," says Ithis, gesturing to Rtayor. "Zathar is the Runeforger. Our armor uses runes that he made. Perhaps not all down here believe—but they will soon come to."

"Time will tell."

Ithis makes to respond, but Hayhek lays a hand on his shoulder. "We can discuss this another time. We need to get to safety first, to the deep fort. Is it a long journey? We have little food, and many of us here are not runeknights. We have children with us, too."

"It's but a few short-hours down," I tell him. "Though it's not the fort you'll be headed to, but Brightdeep."

"Runethane Halmak will welcome you!" says guildmaster Rothok. "Especially miners and masons. He's looking to expand his domains far." He gestures around grandly. "And I think you have little more to worry about when it comes to beasts, unless we're unlucky enough to run into another one of those whippers. But I think even they will shy away from a force of more than two hundred."

Hayhek bows. "I thank you greatly, honored runeknight. Though I will be sorry to report to our new Runethane that we have no masons with us, and only a few miners."

No masons? I frown. I'll have to ask about that. But now—no, I cannot quite allow myself to feel happy. We still have several dangerous treks ahead of us. After that, though?

Ah, I cannot help myself. I smile. My friends are here. Dwarves I've talked to many times, those who gave me hope in the dreadful hell that was Vanerak's realm. Dwarves who value me, value my runes, and whom I can trust.

And Runethane Halmak will surely have a rich reward for me. Perhaps it will allow me to afford my gems, and a hefty stock of titanium for some new armor. Yes, I cannot help but feel happy, despite all the tragedy and death this journey has incurred. Friends, drinks, and forging. That's what my life for the next many long-hours is going to be, and I cannot wait.

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