Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

The material the dig-company’s scouts found is called glasolite. It’s one of the eight reagents, and as its name might suggest, it’s transparent and brittle. Ordinarily deposits of reagents are found much further from the city, but the stuff here was caked over with limestone, which allowed it to remain undiscovered. Now it’s going to be smashed to bits, loaded up, and sold for ten silvers a gram to the material shops, who will then sell it for thirty silvers a gram or more to their runeknight customers.

Trouble is, when it gets smashed, limestone chips get mixed in. It would take far too long to pick them out manually, so the company hiring us has brought a special machine to unmix them. It’s a fat tube twenty feet tall, ten feet across, and with a scaffold set up around it with ramps for the miners to drag their sacks of rock up. The mixed glasolite and limestone chips go in the top, the limestone comes out the sides, and the glasolite pours out the bottom into waiting minecarts, which are then reeled up the tunnel to the caravan.

The machine is right near the tunnel entrance, away from any possible danger, so the worst equipped dwarf, me, gets the job of guarding it. But since it’s still an expensive piece of equipment, the boss wants someone reliable there too. He chose Kazhek, who was only too happy to take the easy job.

So for two days my life is thoroughly miserable.

“Hey, initiate, that miner dropped some of the glass. Put it in the minecart, will you? Yeah, that one—if you run you should be able to catch it.”

“Hey, initiate, I’m thirsty. Aren’t you? Go get us some water, will you? Good man.”

“Hey, initiate...”

“Hey, initiate...”

Is this any better than mining? Looking at the miners with us, I’m not sure. At least they’re allowed to drink away the dullness and frustration of their work.

The hours pass. The cavern turns from a white-curtained, crystal-pooled, pristine hall of stone to a mess of dust and gravel that stinks of miner sweat and beer. Kazhek’s requests become more and more inane, until thankfully he gets bored with my lack of reaction and gives up on them. Near the end of the last day, when there’s only a few more deposits to be carved out, he can’t even be bothered keeping an eye on the machine.

The machine grinds to a halt.

“Hey,” one of the miners shouts down from the top. “Hey, runeknights. One of the paddles is stuck. Can you take a look?”

“Go on, initiate,” Kazhek yawns. “Go up and take a look.”

“How am I meant to know how to fix it?” I protest. “You know more about runes than me. You ought to go.”

“It probably just needs a good prod. Go on, up you go.”

I sigh and head up the ramps.

“See?” the miner says, pointing to where one of the mixing paddles is jammed against a chunk of rock. “It won’t move.”

It’s easily within reach of his pick. Typical miner laziness and stupidity, just like I remember. I don’t want to risk him screwing it up and falling into the cauldron though, which I’ll certainly get blamed for, so I push past him and shove the rock down with the butt of my spear. The paddles start to spin again, bringing up clouds of dust and the smell of chalk.

“Cheers,” the miner says. He turns to pick up the next sack of rocks, puts his foot off the wooden ledge and falls into the churning rocks and spinning steel paddles.

He gets lucky. Instead of landing in the whirlpool of rocks and being immediately dragged down and turned to red paste, he hits one of the paddles. It’s thoroughly strained from two days of non-stop spinning, and further deteriorated from poor maintenance and old age, and snaps. A tinny alarm blares and the machine grinds to a halt once again.

This time it’s going to take a lot more than a firm prod to fix.

“What’s going on up there?” Kazhek shouts crossly.

I help the miner, who’s shivering in shock, up out the cauldron.

“The miner fell in,” I shout down. “He broke the paddle.”

“No I didn't!” the miner cries out suddenly, pulling himself free of my grasp. “He broke it when he was trying to fix it!”

For a moment I’m speechless at the ingratitude. Then I grab him by his dirty lapels and shout in his face:

“Liar! Maybe stop drinking on the job for once!”

“Get down here!” Kazhek orders me. “Right now!”

I drag the miner down with me.

“I fixed the damn machine,” I spit. “Then he goes and stumbles in.”

Kazhek rolls his eyes. “If he’d fallen in he’d be paste. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Like I said, he hit the paddle.”

“And I expect it just snapped like that, did it? Despite it being well-runed steel?”

“It’s rusted where it meets the center. Go up and see for yourself.”

“The boss will take a look. Don’t think he’ll be paying you very much after he sees the damage.”

“You heard the machine stop then start again, didn't you? I fixed it, then he fell in.”

“He’s lying,” says the miner. He reminds me of an older, smaller, uglier Hardrick. “He broke it.”

“What’s going on?” One of Kazhek’s guildmates approaches. “Why’s the machine stopped?”

It’s Polt.

“The initiate broke it,” says Kazhek. “He was trying to fix it, but managed to royally fuck it up.”

“Boss is going to be pissed. Why didn't you fix it yourself? Or the boss is a mechanic too, you realize.”

I make the mistake of thinking Polt’s on my side. “Yeah,” I say. “Aren’t you the one responsible for the machine?”

“Shut it,” Polt snaps. “You’re still the one who broke it.”

“The miner broke it!”

“Bullshit.” Kazhek looks properly angry. He really is meant to be the one responsible for the machine, after all. “No one who falls into one of these things gets out with all their limbs. Just admit you fucked up, initiate.”

“I don’t have anything to admit.”

Polt rolls his eyes. “Who cares which one broke it? We can dock their pay equally. They’re both miners, after all.”

My patience, steadily worn down after three days of running about doing pointless tasks at the whim of the most thoroughly unpleasant dwarf I’ve met since Hardrick, snaps. I stride up to Polt.

“Take that back—”

Polt shoves me. I fall backwards—the runes of stability on my boots are far inferior to those of strength winding around his wrists. I try to stand up but he slaps me back down.

“Stay there while I get the boss, initiate. Don’t speak back to either of us.”

I kick him in the ankle and he stumbles back a step. I catch a look of surprise on his face, which quickly turns to one of rage.

“Now you’ve done it,” he snaps.

I scramble up and swing a left hook at the side of his head. He doesn’t even bother to guard, just lets it collide with no effect. His counter, despite my blocking it, sends me sprawling sideways. Then he throws himself on me.

We grapple on the stone, and he’s faster, stronger, tougher. I’m flipped, rolled—he punches me again, denting my helmet badly. The impact rings in my ears. He picks me up and throws me down hard, body slams me in the next instant. My spear, which I’ve managed to hold on to, snaps in half beneath me.

In a spasm of fear and anger, I stab upward.

I feel something break in the gap just below his breastplate, then a soft sensation.

Polt clutches his side and rolls off me. I scramble up. Blood is running out his armor.

“Polt?” Kazhek says. “Polt, what’s wrong?”

He hurries to his friend. I stumble backwards. Whelt grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me away.

“Zathar, what did you just do? What the hell’s going on?”

The rest of the runeknights, and the miners too, have all gathered around. They look shocked.

“Shit!” Kazhek yells. “Shit, shit! Someone help me get his armor off!”

Three of his guildmates run forward and help him unstrap Polt’s breastplate. The wound in his side is a red hole; the blood pouring from it, pumping from it, is bright crimson. I must have hit an artery. One of the dwarves tries and fails to stem the bleeding with a rag.

I let my half-spear drop to the stone.

“Polt!” screams Kazhek, cradling his friend in his arms. “Polt, look at me. Look at me!”

Polt meets his eyes for a second. He opens his mouth to says something, then the last of his strength drains out the hole in his side and his eyes roll up. He flops back.

“Polt! Wake up!” Kazhek slaps his cheek, shakes him by the shoulder. “Polt! Polt! Wake up!”

Polt does not move. Kazhek continues to shake him and cry out his name for several minutes. Then he goes silent, stands, and turns to me. His eyes are red; tears are streaming down his face.

“You killed him!” he screams at me. “You fucking stabbed him!”

I back away. My entire body is shaking. “He attacked me!” I shout. “You saw, you all fucking saw! He attacked me!”

“He was just going to rough you up a bit. He wasn’t trying to kill you, you asshole!”

“How was I meant to know?” I howl.

“Because if he was trying to kill you, you’d have your skull fucking smashed in!”

“Felt like he was trying to do just fucking that! He half punched my helmet in already!”

“Your brains would be all over the ground if he’d been trying!”

“He started it!” I scream. “He started it!”

“I don’t fucking care!” Kazhek pulls his warhammer from his belt. “I’m going to kill you now.” He advances. “I’m going to kill you.”

I pick up the remains of my spear to defend myself. The cavern is spinning around me. My breath in my dented helm is sickly hot, but the rest of my body has gone cold. He’s getting closer, clutching his short, spiked weapon in both hands. It’s going to crush my head like an egg.

Someone—old Hayhek—rushes past me and attempts to shove him over. Kazhek just sidesteps and smacks him down with a strike to the shoulder.

“Hold it!” Whelt shouts. “There’s legal ways to do this.”

Kazhek is not listening. He raises the warhammer and leaps—

One of his guildmates flies at him, a bronze blur, and tackles him bodily to the ground. She yanks the warhammer from his grasp and tosses it aside. He screams in rage and unleashes a flurry of punches, but she’s faster, and her runes better quality. A well-aimed jab brings him crashing down to the stone.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jalat? Get out my way!”

“Look at Polt’s armor.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“The chainmail’s rusted through. Look.”

He looks. His sister is right, the bronze mail is a greenish color.

“And?” Kazhek demands, turning back in furiously. “He’s our guildmate.”

“He’s a runeknight of the seventh degree and he let his armor rust.”

“He was our friend.”

“Your friend, Kazhek. You were the only one who liked him very much.”

“You cold bitch. This brat killed our guildmate. He’s going to pay the price.”

“Polt attacked him first. I saw when I was walking over here. Then Polt got his armor breached, a runeknight, got his armor breached by an initiate.”

Some of the other members of the Troglodyte Slayers are nodding. Some are not.

“Just because his armor was rusted a bit doesn’t mean he deserves to die!”

“Deserves? Maybe not. But it was still his own fault. And I don’t want to start a feud with another guild.”

“They’re barely a guild.”

“Their master’s more dangerous than you know. And our master is keen on money, not feuds. So back the fuck away.”

“I won’t!”

“Enough!” The expedition boss, a tired looking runeknight of the fifth degree wearing a suit of platinum chain, steps forward. “I’m not having two deaths on my expedition. You want to fight, you can do it in the arenas. And the runeknight was the one who attacked first.”

“This is absurd,” spits Kazhek. “You’re both absurd. Heartless, is what you are. I’m going to kill him.”

“Kill him in the arenas then!” the boss snaps. “Not on my expedition.” Then he glares at the miner. “And you’re too drunk again. You’re meant to have one beer an hour, not three. Zero pay for you.” He looks at me with slightly more compassion. “Get up back to the caravan, sonny. And try not to stab anyone else today, yeah?”