Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Return to Darkness 31: Burgeoning Greed


We finish our meal, or in my case, water, and then I tell Ithis that I'm going to leave the getting of permission and all the related legal work to him, for I have no head for that kind of stuff. I know runes. They are going to be my contribution—the main contribution.

So, my first order of business is the creation of a dictionary. I head back down to the fort, make my way through the cold darkness to the forge. I gather papers, stand over the anvil. I fold my arms.

How to begin? Ithis said we'd make separate volumes—but I don't know how I'm going to separate everything. To me, runes are always linked, always in the context of a poem. Especially my own runes, which I've never seen in a dictionary, only in the blazing depths where I create them, or else upon my armor and weapons.

I suppose I can start with getting the poems down, at least. I strip off my armor and lay it out next to the anvil. Then, I take up my looping finger-plates and place them next to my papers. My eyes rove over the runes, drinking in the power.

I pick up a writing-stick and diligently begin to copy out the poems, leaving wide spaces between the runes for annotations. Rather quickly, I become bored—this is dull work. I have already written these poems, in the boiling depths before the sphere, and to scratch them out with ink cannot at all compare to the terrifying exhilaration of their first creation. My eyes keep flicking over to the furnace. I yearn to start it up, to feel the heat, to take hammer to metal and witness sparks whirling around me.

But not yet. I don't even have the money to buy more fuel. And the only way to get more money is to follow Ithis' plan.

I continue to copy down the runes. First those on my gauntlets, then on my arms, my sabatons, greaves, thigh-plates. My hand moves automatically. There is no creation here. Soon my mind begins to wander again, and to worry.

Can I really trust Ithis? I barely know him. He wasn't even one of those who came up to ask me about my runes. He appeared more or less from nowhere to wreak havoc on Vanerak's realm with his schemes, and he was utterly merciless about it. I should be thankful for that—but I also feel that I must be careful. He is dangerous. He reminds me, very slightly, of Fjalar. Clever and with a penchant for ruthless violence.

This clause he wants to put in about duels could lead to trouble. In fact, now I think on it, he wants it to lead to trouble. He wants us to get mixed up in a fight. He wants to send the message that we're not to be belittled, that we're powerful enough to take on any of the older, more established guilds here in Brightdeep.

We're not warring realms, I remind myself. All the guilds are loyal to the Runethane, and moreover to Runeking Ulrike. Yet we do compete—and competition of any kind has the potential to erupt out of control.

Civil war? It's happened before, though rarely. Surely nothing will go that far, though. If conflict begins to flare up, I'll cool it down. Or no—best leave that to Hayhek.

If someone did try to steal from me, I don't know how I'd react. Would I be able to control my anger, or would things end up like they did upon the surface snow?

My ruby shivers at a dream of violence, however far off the possibility may be.

I decide to leave the cataloging of my runes to the others. They'll be able to come up with some strategy, I'm sure, to entice runeknights to purchase volume after volume.

This leaves me at something of a loss for what to do. I can't really forge, and I've left the final guild work to Ithis. I'd take on a job, but it seems likely that I'll soon be called on to sign something to formally establish the guild. And then we'll have to throw a feast, naturally.

My runes of light—that's what I can work on. Of course, with no true metal, or even the requisite craft to extract the true metal, I can't properly start on my weapon. But just like I did with magma, and with ice before that, I can study the material.

I will head up to Brightdeep for this. I need somewhere that's, well, bright. I must flood my eyes with light of all shades, hues, and tones. I must understand how it's produced, how it's absorbed, and how it's reflected.

Reflection will be an advantage my script has over the First Runeforger's. His did not mention those words much: words for mirrors, that is, how a ray can be bent backwards and have its direction totally reversed.

Why did he not write these runes, I wonder? Probably he did, and they have just been lost to the ages.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

I walk down the black corridor until I detect by the feel of the air and wall that I'm at the stairs. I start to walk up them. Ahead of me, the faintest hint of white appears, though dark gray might be a more accurate term. I focus, watching carefully how its hue intensifies as I ascend.

Light—it is all around us. We may have other senses, but our ability to sense light is the most important by a long way. It's not quite as important as it is for humans up on the sun-bathed surface, I suppose, but it's vital all the same.

The glow intensifies. I am now only a few turns beneath the exit into Brightdeep, but I stop to observe the light here more closely. Dim light is easier to observe in detail than bright light is.

I see how it is laid onto the stone, how it gives the material its shape, its color, its very being as observed by me. It is a giving power, light. A kindness that strips blindness from the world.

I pass my hand through the vague ray, and observe how the shadow cuts out everything. Quickly, I draw my hand back. Shadow: the absence of light. Down here it is our enemy, our foe that in many ages past the fort was mined out to protect.

It is utterly opposed to the kindness of light. If it succeeds, all will vanish. A sense of fear and great responsibility settles on my shoulders. My scripts of magma and ice simply described the properties of those materials, and gave me ways to imbue my crafts with their respective essences. This script, however, will be combative. By making it, I set myself in opposition to the dark force below.

I step into the city proper and look around at the lights and the shadows they cast. All the light here is set in constant motion: from the slight flicker of flames, from the reflections of bustling runeknights' armor, from the shadows fading in and out.

I wander the corridor-streets, moving in no particular direction toward no particular goal. My head is tilted upward to better observe the braziers set at regular intervals. Heat and color are emitted from them, yet I begin to feel that these are impurities. What the First Runeforger distilled, and what is further distilled and focused by almergris, is fulsome light. It has no color—for it reveals the color of all it touches. And when it touches blackness, that is revealed as nothing, an empty lack, and it is filled and thus eliminated.

For several hours I walk like this, maybe more. Eventually my neck begins to ache. My thoughts begin to slow. My eyes start to sting, and they become hard somehow hard, like swollen stones. I circle around to the fountain in the main square and sit on one of the tastefully carved benches beside it. I splash some cool water into my eyes and rub the stinging sensation away.

"...that's him," I hear someone say.

I blink the water out my eyes and look up. A group of three runeknights in steel, of about eighth or ninth degree, are staring at me from a dozen or so yards away. Two of them draw back at my gaze, but the one in the middle takes a brave step forward.

"You're that Zathar, aren't you?"

"I am," I call out.

"Get something in your eye?"

"You could say that."

He draws closer. His two companions follow reluctantly.

"I've never seen that script before," he says, gesturing to my breastplate. "What's it called?"

"Zathar's script of magma."

The two behind laugh nervously.

"Really?" says the one on the left.

"Yes."

"Some are saying you're mad, you know."

I shrug. "They'll learn I'm not in time."

"They're saying he's going to make a guild," the one on his right says. "I heard from one of the seniors."

"Is that true?" says the one in the middle.

"It is," I say. Then I give him a smile. "Why don't you join?"

The two behind flinch back. Is my smile really that disturbing? But their leading comrade takes one more step forward.

"If we join, will we learn that script?"

"You will."

"How about learning to runeforge?" jokes the one on his left. "Will we do that, too? Come on, Lekudr. Let's get out of here."

"How about learning to forge first?" I snap, feeling a touch irritated. "Your armor is poor. It doesn't have to be, if you learn how. And if you have the money."

"You'll pay us for being in your guild?" says the one in the center. "First guild to do so, if you do."

"You'll get the best jobs. We'll make sure of that." I stand up and set Life-Ripper in front of me. "Wielding weapons with my runes, and wearing armor with the same, no one will dare turn you down. My runes are easy to work with, you know. No more struggling with a lack of the words you need. I have all the words."

"Let's get out of here," the one of the left repeats. "He is mad."

Lekudr tilts his steel-covered head a little, then steps back. "We'll see, Zathar. We'll see how it all turns out."

I grin. "You know you need them. You can see my power—if you join, I'll allow you to use it. It's my gift to the realm."

The three leave. I sit back down, frowning and wondering what just got into me. Why did I say all that to them? Until now, I've been so secretive about my abilities, reluctant to share the merest knowledge of even their existence. What's changed? It's certainly not because I've forgotten my fear of Vanerak. Not an hour goes by that I don't recall some part of my torment in his realm.

But I realize that somewhere within me, buried desires have awoken. Why?

I reflect. I've been many things in my short life: miner, soldier, traitor, investigator, hunter. There was a progression there, of sorts, but then, the moment after my greatest victory, I was thrown down into servitude, forced into slavery. The lowest I had been yet.

Now, suddenly, I have gone from one extreme to the other. From prisoner to guildmaster—from slave to commander. With this change in status will surely be benefits I never dreamed of down in Vanerak's forge-dungeon.

A kind of greed has awoken in me. I was trampled, but now I might become the trampler. Power was wielded over me, yet now I have the opportunity to wield it over others.

For others, I remind myself! I'm doing this for Nthazes and the deep dwarves, for Hayhek and the refugees. I will use my abilities for good alone. Still, despite this commitment, grand imaginings are beginning to take hold. I am to be guildmaster! I am to be rich, and I am to be powerful!

No longer must I obey those I hate.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.


Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter