Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Return to Darkness 53: Admission


For one moment after I remove my helm, all is dark, and then all is white. My mace is blinding—more than I ever expected it to be. I clap my hands over my eyes and back away. The light is piercing through the gaps between my fingers, so I turn my head.

I open my eyes and blink tears out of them. The shelves shine, the light reflecting from them burning into my pupils. I shut my eyes again, stumble around trying to find my helm. Once I do, I quickly put it on and slam down the visor.

It was stupid of me to think I could examine my craft with bare eyes. I have worked a great deal of almergris into it. Did I forget that material's malice? Of course it would try to burn me.

I pick up the mace and hold its head up to my face. It appears as plain blue in my echo-vision, though darker than black in the recesses. I try to read the runes, but have grafted them so well that they are barely raised in texture from the rest of the metal. I will need to find some other way to read them. Perhaps through a thin gauze.

Nthazes will know where I might find such cloth, so with mace in hand and helm on my head, I make my way down to the Shaft. Every other step, I tap my new weapon against the wall to stave off the blindness. This way, I have no trouble seeing—until, that is, I come to the hall of the Shaft itself.

I enter it and tap my weapon against the floor. The echo travels out, around, reflects off the stone walls a dozen times, showing them as vivid turquoise. The contraption above partly absorbs the sound, rendering its mechanisms in hollow black, so I cannot make out many details. But it is the Shaft itself where my vision fails the worst. It is like pool filled with liquid shadow. The echo doesn't travel down it. It's as if the sound that enters is erased, yet, the dwarves around are not tensed as they would be in combat. Just the distant influence of the shadow is enough to cause this effect.

I make my way downward, tapping with each step. The twenty figures around the pit become clearer to me. As expected, Nthazes is here, leading nine of his own guild. Ten reinforcements from the Runic League are present too, led by Rtayor.

No matter how close I get, the interior of the Shaft below a few meters becomes no clearer. The stone of its walls is hidden.

"Good hour, Nthazes," I say when I reach the last few steps.

My voice is soundless. It is echoes rendered subtly into light, but it's not as if those echoes form runes across my vision for me to read. Here is another weakness to these echo-eyes. I shut my eyes and raise my visor, sway slightly from vertigo before steadying myself.

"Zathar?" Nthazes says.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

"I said, that I see you have a weapon of light—are you to join us at our vigil?"

"Perhaps for a while. Though, my main purpose for coming down here was to ask you where I might find some gauze. I want to inspect the runes."

"There was none in the Runethane's stores?"

"Ah. I hadn't thought to look."

He laughs softly. "I think there might be some lying around. But it doesn't do to cover up a weapon when you inspect it."

"Maybe I should make some more normal runic ears too."

"For forging? That might be a good idea."

"I wish to make a shield first, though. One that eliminates silence."

"Eliminates silence?"

"Yes—to make the echoes clearer. My echo-eyes—that's what I call these ears of mine—they have some slight weaknesses."

"Oh? Well, every craft does."

"It's worse than most crafts' flaws. For one, since sound is rendered in light, I can't speak with you when my visor is down."

"Ah. So that is why you've pulled up your visor. It could indeed prove troublesome. But perhaps hand signals will serve us well in combat, as they do anyway."

"Well, quite. You have made new boots for yourself, I noticed."

"You did? They are only subtly different from the last pair. I wasn't able to improve them as much as I hoped."

"What kind of runes, if I may ask, is their poem written with?"

"Ah. I suppose you're hoping that I'll say your ones."

"Not at all."

"Well, they are not yours, I'm afraid. Just the old scripts."

"I see."

"It's not that yours are inferior, of course, my friend. But I'm just so used to our three scripts. I must learn yours, I know."

"Do they disappoint you?"

He shakes his head. "No, no."

My heart begins to pound. Am I really going to say it now? Here?

"But there is something not quite right about them."

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"I wouldn't say that. They're just hard for me to use."

"Does it feel as if they are missing something?"

"Perhaps," he admits.

"Nthazes, which dictionary did you receive from Ithis?"

"Which? The most advanced edition."

"The one for Runic League members' eyes only?"

He shakes his head. "Ithis never said anything about that."

"I see. Then... Ah, it's hard to say. Especially to you."

"What is hard to say, Zathar? You needn't hide anything from me. Nor from my guild."

I sense that the ears of all the Guardians Against Darkness are focused very intently on me.

I can't hide the truth from them. Not for a moment. I wasn't planning on telling them now, and yet, perhaps in some corner of my mind, there was that intention. I didn't really need Nthazes to tell me where to find gauze, after all. It was guilt, I think, that brought me down here. Guilt about not telling them for so long.

I should have gone to Nthazes sooner. Told him immediately. Told him in private, too. But I find that I cannot bring myself to hide it any longer.

"There are two halves—no, no. That's not the way to say it. Ah, let me put it another way. What kind of a saga have you written on your mace, Guildmaster Nthazes?"

"A saga of angles."

"Angles?"

"Yes. Of light reflecting in just the right way, with great precision, into the darkest places. I find that these sorts of poems are easy to calculate the runic flow for, since so much about the words is also mathematical."

"But in it, you talk about dark places, yes?"

"I do. We all do."

"And what runes do you use for those lines?"

"Runes of light negated. The few runes there are for darkness, or shadow, are not so strong in our scripts."

From across the Shaft, another member of the Guardians speaks. I recognize the voice as Melkor's.

"But your script is different, is it, Zathar? I see what you're hinting at. You've made both halves in your script—light and shadow."

Nthazes turns to me in surprise. "Runes of shadow?"

"I believe that one cannot exist without the other," I say, slowly. "When I'm down there, in the magma, creating, both sides form."

I sense fear and shock ripple through the Guardians. Rtayor leaps to my defense.

"Calm yourselves, deep dwarves! Our guildmaster is here to help you. The black runes are to be used only in poems discussing darkness's defeat."

"Why did you not tell us earlier?" Melkor demands. "You, Rtayor, and all of you! Why did you not tell us of this?"

"It did not seem right to, until Zathar arose from his forging to give the order."

"And why did you wait so long, Zathar?"

"I was too absorbed in my forging. My only thoughts were of metal."

"An excuse."

"It is true. But you're right. I'm sorry. That's not the only reason. I admit it: I was afraid—worried about how you would react. But I assure you that none of us are using these runes for ill. They are for contrast, to make the light next to them brighter."

"Good intentions can lead to dark paths," says Melkor. "We know now that the darkness below is not a simple force, but magic from a sorcerer. What if it turns the runes against you?"

"I've never heard of any magic that can do that," says Rtayor.

"But we cannot discount the possibility."

"And we shouldn't discount the possibility that light in contrast with shadow looks all the brighter!"

"Calm yourselves, please!" I say.

"Yes," Nthazes agrees. "This is a battlefield, not the eating hall. It is not a place for argument."

"They have brought runes of the dark into our fortress of light," says Melkor. "Without telling us."

"I understand your concern. But some of us do use the few runes describing shadows and darkness on our crafts, no?"

"Few of us, and each time, only a few of them."

"Then they are not new to the fort. And runes are not the darkness—the magic down there is not dwarven."

"Darkness is darkness."

"But they use them to speak of the defeat of darkness. And so far, the Runic Leagues' weapons have proven effective. Not quite as effective as our own, true. But that is mostly due to their inexperience with almergris, and the relative crudeness of their runic ears. Both of which will improve in time."

"It makes me uncomfortable, guildmaster. That is all. As does the witch—I suspect she is attempting to do the same as our friend here, and try to turn darkness against itself. Folly, in my opinion. True folly."

"That is unproven."

"For now, as those above might say."

"Enough, Melkor. Let us be grateful for allies. They use different tactics to our own, but that does not mean we cannot work with them."

"Very well, guildmaster." Melkor bows. "I will follow your judgment."

"Thank you," I say.

Does Nthazes really believe what he's saying, or does he just wish to avoid worsening relations? I wish I could see, be able to catch some hint through his posture or body-language about what he truly feels. Is he simply trying not to offend me and the rest of my guild? He needs us. But I can't help but suspect that he's rather more shocked at the truth behind my script than he lets on. I'll have to talk to him again at some point. Compose my thoughts and then explain myself better.

Melkor, however, doesn't seem to be finished: "A word of advice to the other guildmaster present, though: your mace is the brightest here, but its light is not so pure as that cast by Nthazes."

"What?" I say in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are not a deep dwarf, and you do not yet have the understanding of light that we have. Your weapon is strong, but like you've hinted at with your helm too, it is flawed."

I start to give an angry retort, halt myself. I won't rise to the bait, if that's what this is.

"Do you agree, Nthazes?" I ask.

"Melkor!" Nthazes says, with uncharacteristic force. "It is not polite to critique another's weapons in front of others. And for a lower degree to critique those of a higher is impertinent also."

"But he should know and know now, guildmaster. I wish only what's best for the fort: and whatever advice I give to Zathar Runeforger will cast its glow upon the crafts of his runeknights. And perhaps in a way that means they will no longer feel a need to use runes of shadow."

"Even so—you overstep yourself."

"No, no!" I say. "Thank you, Melkor." I force myself to laugh. "Perhaps I am the highest degree here, but I've never been one to pull rank. I am happy to learn from you all. My light is not pure, you say. Maybe I've mixed in too many metaphors. Mathematical purity, true light. That's what I should be writing about."

Nthazes shakes his head. "Your mace is powerful. I can tell without seeing. The darkness shrinks from it."

"Indeed. But it could be better." A deep sense of disappointment settles in me. My weapon feels somehow light in my hand, frail, weak under the brightness of Nthazes' own weapon. "It could be better."

I take one step back and up. "I will leave you to your vigil and think upon my next craft. Rtayor, relay Melkor's advice to others."

"Are you sure, guildmaster?"

"Yes. The Guardians Against Darkness know more of light than I do. We must learn from them. No matter how much it offends our pride."

"Very well."

I pull down my visor, see that every runeknight is facing me. I turn away. As the echoes of our voices die, blackness begins to rush around me. I slam my mace against the step to drive it off. The vibration in my hand feels hollow, somehow. Weakness travels up the haft. The metal is not flawed, but neither is it as strong as it should be. And it fits awkwardly in my hand.

I walk up and away, heart beating hard. By rejecting the shadow, I weakened my craft. But if I accept it—what might that lead to? To accept the thing that resides in the power, that both strengthens me and tries to destroy me—what might the consequences of such an act be?

The ruby warms up suddenly. My heart beats faster. I've already faced the consequences of accepting these powers, haven't I? I faced them on the dragonhunt. The consequence was madness and bloodshed, and death to my friends as well as my enemies.

Yet in the end, did we not defeat the black dragon?

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