Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

The familiar sensation of hot, paradoxically unburning magma floods around me; I am engulfed in a blazing heat that does not destroy. A second later comes the sphere—the force of its sudden presence shoves me back.

I take a moment to gather myself. What to create? And how to create it?

I have only the barest idea of what my poem is to be. To put connotations of death into each and every word—what words can I select for the task? Ideas hurry through my mind, and I reject one after another.

The sphere seems to shiver, as if impatient.

It must be a long poem, I know that much. This is one of the advantages of runic layering, some say the main advantage. The knife is in thirty pieces, which means I must write a full sixty stanzas, one on each side. That seems the simplest way to organize it. Though, the first and last few stanzas will have to be very short.

Well, does that not reflect life, in a way? A dwarf starts small, then shrinks and grays into old age. Not so for runeknights, however—some of us end in great ways, burning to death amidst the flames of an injured dragon, like Braztak, or slain bravely in the heat of combat against an impossible foe, like Guildmaster Wharoth.

Dust to dust then, and ash to ash. We begin as nothing and end as nothing—yet that does not work either. Some of us carry on in the hearts and minds of our friends.

The sphere shivers again; the magma around me begins to thin. The first hints of pain crackle on my skin.

I must start. Now! There is no reason I should start from birth, I decide. I am writing a script of death, not a script of life. There will be no duality as with light and dark, only painful transition and feelings of loss. This is to be a cruel script to destroy a cruel foe.

The moment of death—this is the theme I decide upon. The first line begins to form in my mind, and power floods over the sphere, which lances the heat right through me. I gasp up in the forge, I feel.

This hour, although there are healing chains on the shelves, I have no attendants to throw them over me. I don't want anyone to witness what I'm making, not yet. I don't quite know why, for I can trust my guild totally, yet all the same, I cannot even bring myself to tell them of my task, let alone the runes I'm going to use to accomplish it.

My soul shudders within the boiling stone and I struggle to regain focus. The first line, I must think of the first line, which will also be a stanza unto itself.

The first moment is what I focus on, the very first moment of the period of death. A knife enters the dwarf's breast and he feels the worst pain he will ever feel. This is what I imagine, and this is what I create.

I form a dwarf, dway, and into it I put connotations of mortality. We are things that die, and die quickly and easily, at that.

Once again, the sphere shivers. It seems to like this rune.

I drive away worries that bubble up like vaporized sulfur and move onto the next stanza, of growing pain and panic, working slowly, very slowly. The going is hard and uncertain. The ideas flow, but as for the actual wording—there are so many words I cannot use, that I can't find any way to connect with death.

After the moment comes a continuation of pain. The dwarf feels every aspect of his last experience with intensity and detail. The blade goes through each layer of his skin, into the muscle beneath, and scrapes against his ribs.

Nouns are not so challenging: blood shows death, flesh is mortal, steel brings about death. Actions, however, are inherently alive. They might move toward death eventually, I suppose, yet that feels like a weak connotation, an excuse.

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And detail is key. This is another challenge. With so much area to write upon, I must fill it. Every minute aspect of the dwarf's experience must be expounded on, and yet all this must also be relevant to the central theme—the moment of death.

The tip of the knife pushes into the chest-cavity. It pierces, and the rest begins to enter. The tip touches against the top right of the heart. The dwarf feels all of this acutely; the moment of his death is a mosaic of sensations put together with brilliant, cruel elegance. His heart-chamber swells with blood and meets the thrust of the knife. Metal parts the most vital flesh. Death has come, the dwarf knows in a sudden rush of terror. It has come for me. This is the end. The knife is fully through his heart now, and the arteries above are rent apart.

In the second half of the poem, I describe every sense. The yelling and the screams, fading. The fire and sword-flashing chaos, dimming. The scent of blood, rising in his mouth and nose. The taste of it. And the pain, of course. Death is pain, I believe. Pain for he who dies and pain for the bereaved, physical and mental both. It must fill every aspect of this poem.

All this creation goes slowly. I grow hot.

The knife is pulled out. The dwarf clutches at his breastplate, stained deep red, and falls to his knees. His opponent shouts in triumph, then looks away, the battle taking his attention elsewhere. The dying dwarf is now truly alone.

Are we all alone, when we die? I do not want to believe this. Braztak had his dedication to his comrades to keep him company in the flames. Xomhyrk, in his last moment, was looking at me—Elder Brezakh as well, for different reasons.

Some indeed die alone, though. Those who die upon this knife certainly shall. At its cut, they will understand that they have been forsaken. What other feeling could such a weapon as this confer? I cannot quite predict what properties these runes of death will give the weapon, just that it will be deadly.

The dwarf falls onto his back. All fades to dark. His body grows cold; a chill begins at the tips of his fingers and toes and spreads inward. Life, which in this script I can only write as what precedes death, is flooding from him. His mind begins to cloud. He forgets what he was fighting for, who he was fighting with and even against.

All diminishes to a single point. I do not write of how that too winks out, for the dwarf does not see this final moment of moments. How can one be aware of one's death? Death is where all ends. One cannot experience non-existence—this last rune is fearsomely empty.

Finished. The heat of the world fades, the sphere withdraws its lance. I reach out, willing the relative cool of the forge to come to me. It does, surprisingly easily, and I open my eyes to anvil and metal.

My skin feels flushed all over, but when I look at my arms, there is no sign of my skin having burned. No flames were dancing on me, this hour.

Why not? Is the poem I've made somehow weak? More to the point, are the runes? Even though I've created hundreds, I do not feel half the exhaustion I usually do after making but ten. Does this mean they are devoid of power?

I bite my lower lip and look down to inspect. Upon the anvil, writ in lines short and long in bright silver, are the runes of death, and, right now, they do not seem like much to look upon. While my runes in my other scripts glow with power like hot steel when made, these seem vaguely cold.

Frowning, through more with curiosity than concern, I reach out and pick up the first one, dway. It is shaped from lines that all seem a little too short, and not a single one is curved. I bring it closer to my face. Power glows from it, yet only a tiny amount.

I must have failed. That's the only explanation. Instead of wanting to kick the anvil, however, I want to leap up with joy. The runes of death are a failure—no longer do I need to worry myself about making them. I will have to pursue some other solution to the Runeking's task. A great weight has lifted from my heart.

But I don't quite celebrate just yet. Most runes' power comes through only when touched with reagent, and as these runes' creator, no matter how foul and distasteful I find them to be, I still must graft them. At least a few.

Very carefully, I retrieve my bowl of reagent and the first section of the dagger. With a small spoon, I scoop out a touch of the violet reagent onto the thin titanium. With a tiny brush, I move the grains into the shape of the death-rune.

On the rune goes, and the grains leap to it as if drawn magnetically. I freeze, heat beating loudly in my ears. My throat goes dry.

I've never seen reagent act with such enthusiasm before. The rune is attracting it, somehow. Attracting the salterite in the mixture, I would guess. Death is drawing death, as it so often does.

I must still graft. This is my duty, however much I wish it wasn't. From the back of the forge, I take the last tool I need for this task: a bucket, enruned and freezing to the touch. Within is ice, white and powdery, almost like snow. I reach in, and the frost seems to burn my skin even through my leather gloves.

From it, I withdraw a thin steel rod. Quickly I touch it to the runes.

Shadows blacken the forge.