Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

I am standing in a small dark stone chamber inside the arena building. I have been standing here for an hour at least, while the preparations are being made. My false armor is cold against my skin.

What are they bringing up to send against me? I will admit: this is one of the most frightening moments of my life. Well, a great many moments have been the most frightening of my life recently. Each worse than the last.

An abyssal salamander. That’s what they’ll make me fight, except I’ll do it alone this time. But what if it’s something worse?

The door to the chamber opens and torchlight floods in.

“It’s time,” says an examiner. He’s another one of the Runethane’s tungsten clad personal guard. Maybe one of those I met down in the corridors.

“I’m ready,” I reply. “What am I to fight first?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

He leads me from the chamber and down to the first floor corridors. Gravel crunches underfoot, bringing back memories of horror. My breath quickens when we go past the inner gates and into the small corridor where so many initiates were carved up and slaughtered just a few months ago. It hasn’t been cleaned—bloodstains and scorch marks paint the walls, reach up to the arched roof even. I look down and I think the gravel here is mixed with chips of bone.

“Mine won’t end up here,” I declare.

I’d meant to just think it, but it came out loud. The examiner turns to me.

“What?”

“I’m not going to die here today. Whatever you send against me, I’ll kill.”

He nods. “I hope so.”

“You do?” I can hear the incredulity in my voice.

“Of course. The Runethane needs powerful guards.”

“You know I want to join you? Are you one of those I met in the castle, then?”

He shakes his head. “No. But we all heard the story. You’re getting a reputation as one crazy young dwarf.”

I smile for the first time in weeks. “Thanks.”

“Doesn’t mean Vanerak’s going to go easy on you, though.”

That must be the insane head examiner's name.

“Of course. You really can’t tell me anything about what I’m going to face?”

“Sorry, I really can’t. I don’t know myself.”

I nod. “No problem. Like I said, whatever it is, I’ll kill it.”

He leaves me to face the main gates alone. I ready Heartseeker in case beyond the gates is already my first foe. The gates swing open, and I’m proven correct. On the gravel just before the five-hundred foot drop stand two giant salamanders. The ordinary kind, fortunately. Each is only three times my size.

Their eyes lock on to me, but I’m already charging out the gates to meet them, yelling wildly, Heartseeker outstretched before me. My golden armor is shining in the light, its rubies flashing bright scarlet. The crowd is applauding.

The salamander on the right reaches me first. It springs up, fire spraying from its jaws; it outstretches its front claws at my head.

I thrust! Heartseeker is true to its name and slices right into the sorry creature’s chest. I sidestep and rip my weapon free in one smooth motion, and the corpse crashes to the ground. A pool of blood rapidly expands around it. I turn to my second foe.

It hisses and slinks back. It’s slightly smaller than the last one, and I can see the fear in its eyes. It knows it’s no match for me. I almost feel sorry for it, but Heartseeker is straining and crowd is cheering, and most importantly from up on his platform the head examiner is watching me through his blank tungsten mask.

I charge. The salamander opens its mouth—a bolt of flame hits me but my golden armor is true enough that it washes over with no effect. The salamander makes to retreat but Heartseeker goes through its eye and into its brain. It spasms once and collapses. I rip bloody Heartseeker out and raise it over my head in both hands.

My scream of victory echoes around the arena and up into the stands. The crowd cheers. I can see my guildmates there, and they’re cheering the loudest, except for Guildmaster Wharoth, who is pale and furious.

My enthusiasm dies slightly at the sight of him. I bring Heartseeker back down and stand at military attention.

Vanerak holds up a hand for silence. He gets it instantly.

“An impressive performance for the warmup,” he states in his usual dispassionate tone. “However it was rather slow, and had several moments of hesitation. Well, that does not matter to us so much. It does not matter if a dwarf hesitates, so long as his armor can turn away the blow his enemy makes in that moment of opportunity. We will see if the candidate’s armor can turn the blows from his first real opponent.”

He returns to his seat. So my next opponent is going to come right away, is it? Part of me is relieved—if there was going to be some in-depth inspection of my armor carried out by runeknights of the upper degrees, I don’t know if my mimicry would have fooled them.

Most of me is scared, though. Last test, if I’d been forced to fight two salamanders like that, they’d have torn my armor and me to shreds. This examination is going to be five times tougher at least. An abyssal salamander is next, I’m sure of it. I point Heartseeker toward the now shut gates and brace.

The gates open. I can only make out a silhouette in the dimness of the corridor beyond, but it’s not the shape of a salamander. It’s upright and has two legs and two arms, and appears to be clutching some kind of weapon in one hand. It can’t be a dwarf, though, it’s too big. At least twice my height and four times my weight.

It shades its eyes from the brightness and roars a guttural roar, then it walks forward and meets my eyes with its own dark ones. I can see malice in those eyes, hatred—it blames me for being brought up here.

It’s a troll.

Its arms are long, its legs bow-legs, its head is a misshapen sphere with a jutting nose and too-small ears. Its skin is scales, but they aren’t lizard scales—more like thick flaps of fungus. A misshapen swollen belly thankfully sticks out enough to conceal whatever it’s got between its legs. Guttural grunts snort from its nose. It may walk upright, but it’s a dumb beast. Wielding that iron club takes all the brainpower it has.

I brace as it charges. Its bow-legs carry it faster than they should be able to, much faster—despite their deformity, they’re still twice as long as my own.

Heartseeker outranges its club, though. As soon as the troll’s within striking distance, five seconds after its fetid stench hits me, I stab its thigh. The steel cuts deep and brings out a fountain of blood—Heartseeker found an artery—yet the troll does not notice. Its club blurs toward my head.

I duck and hurry backward out of range. It’s slow to react, eyes not working so well in the relative brightness of city daytime, and I get in another hit, this time deep into its belly. When I rip Heartseeker free, a bit of severed intestine follows and hangs out the wound.

The troll does not feel it and strikes again. It misses, but my dodge back isn’t quite fast enough, and its second strike connects on my weak gauntlet. Even the glancing blow knocks me sideways. The false rubies’ weapon repelling field is far too weak to be effective.

I watch in horror as the bright shining gold of my gauntlet abruptly flickers matte gray, back to gold, to gray again, then back to gold, but now with half the luster of the rest of my armor.

The troll strikes again. I parry this time, a more dwarfish response than a dodge. The force sends me stumbling back, but I manage to draw Heartseeker’s blade down the troll’s fingers, severing two of them.

The troll, once again, doesn’t care. Its next blow is an upward arc that impacts my lower left side and sends me flying backward, rolling along the gravel.

Trolls don’t feel pain, I remember reading. They’re not conscious of their own injuries—why should they be? You can cut both arms off a troll and a month later it’ll have regrown them. They breed frighteningly fast too, can reproduce from a young age. This monster has probably fathered or mothered a hundred troll-spawn already. It’s expendable and acts like it.

I scramble to my feet. The audience members far above in the stands are whispering to each other. Vanerak’s head is tilted; he’s curious at something. I notice my left side plate the troll hit is orientated toward them—I glance and see it’s no longer golden, but dull yellow at best, and some of the false rubies are cracked.

Shit! I have to finish this now, now!

I unleash a flurry of stabs at the troll. Each one connects and rends deep, but the beast keeps on lumbering forward—slightly slower now, but its strikes carry just as much power. I turn one, another, slice off its ear, and its retaliation crashes into my shoulder. I cry out in pain as I’m sent to one knee. Its next strike glances the front of my helmet and tears my faceplate right away.

It skitters and bounces along the gravel and comes to a rest, and flickers from golden to as gray as the material it lies upon.

I’ve no time to watch the crowd’s reaction as the troll swings at me yet again, and again, and again, relentlessly. The look in its eyes has not changed—still bestial anger.

It’s mortal, though. Everything can die—dwarves, salamanders, dragons—all meet their fate. I just have to make sure I don’t meet mine today. I shift my grip on Heartseeker to a shorter one—duck under a brutal swing—thrust up into its flesh—Heartseeker’s runes guide it deeper, deeper, leftways into its heart.

The troll’s knee slams up into my breastplate. I feel it dent slightly, and I fall backwards. A massive weight crushes onto my legs, twists my hip at an awkward angle. I struggle out from under the dead troll, yelling in frustration, as the crowd boos. Once I’m up I extract Heartseeker with a violent yank and spray of crimson, and look up to the stands.

The crowd’s not merely booing—they’re shouting insults and throwing food in my direction. Most of them have their thumbs down, the universal gesture that means no mercy, kill him now. My guildmates are shocked into silence. Guildmaster Wharoth is furious, all but baring his teeth at me.

I look down at my breastplate. It's dented. It hasn’t quite totally reverted back to the color of steel, but the rubies are certainly revealed as fakes, and thin looping lines are clear to see across it, half-revealed runes of mimicry.

Vanerak stands up.