Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

We make our way up the staircase. It is inside a very steep tunnel, open at the left side to a drop which grows more deadly with each step we ascend. Our climb would be nerve-wracking enough in the light—in the pitch black, with the stairs and wall seeming to undulate and shift with the ebb and flow of the sound of our footsteps, it is positively terrifying.

My fear does not abate when we make it to the second layer of the mushroom basket, also called the rooted layer, because it is dominated by the fossilized spreading roots of the gigantic stone fungus that pierces through all the layers of the mushroom basket but the farm. The roots begin at the ceiling and taper to points just before they hit the floor.

I hope we won’t be climbing up them.

Hothuk sniffs the air. “It smells lively down here,” he whispers. “Undergrowth stirred up. Lots of things moving about. We probably won’t have to head up any further.”

I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not. Not having to climb more sounds good; many things moving about does not.

“Yathak? What do you think?”

“You’re right,” says the rearguard dwarf. “I think there’s some gelthob trails over that way.”

Hothuk turns to the direction he indicates, then nods. “Well spotted. Let’s start the hunt. Normal formation. And silence from now on. No more muttering, Galar.”

“Understood,” Galar says politely but with the hint of a sneer.

Normal formation is a kind of reverse arrowhead, with a front rank of four, three behind them, then two, then one. Mathek and I are the row of two. We are spread out for easy passage between the stalks of the fungal trees, and we walk very slowly, for we do not want to alert our prey.

Moving slowly also means we make no sound to echo and tell us the shape of the terrain and the presence of any creatures. To solve this issue, Hothuk rings a special bell every few steps. It creates a clear, high note, undetectable by most animals here, to provide a stable view of our surroundings.

In between rings, there is nothing but vague shifting shapes, and to my mind the promise of stalking predators. If they are used to hunting dwarves, they will strike in one of the moments when the bell’s note has died away. I tighten my grip on Heartseeker for reassurance.

Step by step we advance. For me it feels terribly slow—I urge to chase something down and finish this hunt through the blackness. In between the rings of the bell I feel much like I did on my ten year wandering, surrounded by blank blackness.

For what feels like a very long time, nothing happens. Then Hothuk rings twice on the bell in quick succession with the second cut short. The signal for a halt. He’s detected our prey: a gelthob, an enormous slug-like creature. To my hearing-vision it’s just a large mound, similar in appearance to the large fungal bushes that dot this place. Unlike the bushes though, it is slowly moving, leaving a flat trail of bare dirt in its wake.

Hothuk raises his spear high to the left, then brings it to the right, drawing an arc with the tip. The signal for us to surround the beast. The row of three moves to the left, me, Mathek and Yathak from the rear go to the right. We creep at a snail’s pace so as not to alert it. Like everything down here our quarry is extremely sensitive to sound.

After what feels like an age, we are finally in a circle around the beast. The vague rumble from its mouthparts as it grinds up the vegetation with hundreds of stone teeth outlines the fungal trees and us dwarves surrounding it. Hothuk gives a new command—he points to the beast and we advance at glacial pace.

Every dwarf here is armed with a spear, the preferred weapon for hunting. Most are less well-crafted than Heartseeker, but several are exceptional. Hothuk’s is an ornate titanium lance with runes of sharpness, as well as a poem in a script I do not know that makes the blade ripple constantly for maximum damage. Galar’s has ichor-seeking runes to make it excellently adapted to slaying beasts like the gelthob.

We close in. The gelthob tenses.

There is no signal to attack—Hothuk simply charges and we follow, thundering through the undergrowth, crushing mushrooms to slime beneath our tread. My iron boots are heavy, pulling my feet down, anchoring me to the ground so that each movement is an effort. I am the slowest dwarf here by a good way.

Hothuk raises his spear high and sinks it in deep, rips it out in a spray of ichor. The gelthob quivers. The next dwarf to reach it stabs also, but his weapon does not go in quite so far.

Galar stabs next. His titanium spear of ichor-seeking pulls itself deeper into the gelthob than even Hothuk managed, then stops dead. He curses as he tries to yank it out, shifting and wrenching as hard as he can. Another dwarf stabs at the beast, but sparks flash and his attack rebounds off. The other dwarves slow their charge and don’t bother attacking. I don’t either.

We’ve been too slow. Gelthobs cannot flee from predators, so their defense is to sweat a sticky amber that congeals into a layer as tough as granite.

“Damn,” whispers Hothuk. “It heard us too early. Well, can’t be helped. Everyone to the left side.”

We gather at the creature’s left side—all but Galar, who is still trying to free his spear.

“Nearly got it!” he grunts. “Nearly!”

“Stop wasting time!” Yathak hisses. “You can pull it out once the thing’s dead.”

Muttering under his breath, Galar lets go of his weapon and walks around to join the rest of us. We lower our spears horizontally to the ground, then follow Hothuk in driving them between the earth of rotted fungal matter and the beasts underbelly.

“Heave,” Hothuk whispers.

We pull up the ends of our spears to lever the creature upward. I feel the aluminum of Heartseeker’s shaft bend slightly, and grit my teeth, hoping the bend won’t end up being permanent. Galar assists another dwarf. With much groaning and puffing of breath, we manage to lift up the gelthob by about a foot. Hothuk kneels, angles his spear upward to our prey’s unhardened underbelly, and stabs.

There’s a slopping sound and a disgusting smell fills the air. Hothuk stabs again a few times. The stench of fermenting fungus mixed with ichor strengthens. He goes to the front of the beast, stabs under it a few more times, goes to the back and stabs again. The stench intensifies. I want to vomit.

Hothuk points to the ground and we gently lower the beast back to the ground. I extract Heartseeker out from under its bulk and examine it, but the uneven metallic sound of rustling armor around me makes its shape shimmer and I can’t tell if it’s bent or not.

“Hammer, Yathek,” Hothuk whispers.

Yathek hefts a mallet strapped to his side—steel-capped lead with runes of impact—and smashes down onto the gelthob’s hide. The mallet bounces off so violently its momentum nearly topples him backwards.

“No use,” Yathek grumbles. “This was a healthy one. We’ll have to wait it out.”

Hothuk sighs, then raises his spear high to the right, then brings it to the left, drawing an arc with the tip in a reverse of the signal to surround. For a moment I’m confused: this is a sign I haven’t learned. But its meaning becomes obvious enough as the other dwarves form a circle around the beast pointing their spears outward. We are to guard the dying beast while its temporary protection slowly crumbles away.

I join the formation to the left of Mathek. We wait, and keep on waiting. I grow worried. The smell of ichor is sure to attract something. Otherwise why would everyone else be so stock still and totally alert? So stock still—are they frozen in fear? Perhaps this is just my imagination though, for the imperfection of my hearing makes body language impossible to determine.

More waiting. Hothuk’s bell rings out repeatedly. Every few hundred rings, Yathak has another go with his mallet, and each time it bounces off with an oddly muffled thud. I want to ask one of the dwarves beside me how long the gelthob’s barrier will take to crumble, but of course, no talking allowed.

Eventually, after hours of waiting with no movement in the forest, no noise, no nothing, I begin to relax a little. If no predators have appeared yet, likely they never will. Scared off by the amount of dwarves they detect.

“May I retrieve my spear?” Galar whispers very quietly.

“Make it quick,” says Hothuk.

“Thank you.”

He withdraws from the circle, takes hold of his spear to begin to work it outward. It's a tough job; he has to jerk it from left to right and up and down in order to crack the stony layer around it. He extracts it about three feet, then the back of the spearhead catches on the inside.

He begins to punch the hide violently to crack it. His steel-encased fist thuds loudly with each impact.

“Keep it down,” Yathak whispers. “You’ll draw attention.”

“The smell is already drawing attention,” Galar whispers back. "And the noise of your hammer."

"My mallet has runes of quietude. Your fist is twice as loud."

Galar ignores him and continues to batter the dead gelthob.

“Too loud,” Hothuk whispers. “Give it up, Galar.”

“I need my spear. I don’t want to stand here unarmed!”

“You can try again once the hide is softened further.”

“It’s nearly out though!”

“That’s an order, sixth degree. Get down from there.”

“Fine.”

He clambers down and rejoins the formation. We continue to wait. My emotions have passed from fear, to relief, and now to boredom.

A new signal rings out. Three chimes in quick succession: something has been spotted. My adrenaline spikes—I'm back to fear now. I turn my head quickly from right to left to get a full circular view of the area before the echoes of the bell die away—a useful technique Nthazes told me about—and spot the creature Hothuk has alerted us to. A tall shape with four long bladed arms facing the other side of the formation. My heart jumps in my chest.

A dithyok, a disemboweler. One of the more dangerous creatures that lurks down here. I detect its scent—sharp and vaguely rotten. It steps forward a few paces on its two double jointed legs—I don’t need a chime to detect this, because its bony exoskeleton scrapes and clacks as it moves. Unlike many predators down here, dithyoks do not need to rely on stealth. It doesn't care that we're aware of it.

“Calm,” Hothuk whispers to us. “Stay calm.”

I try to, and loosen my white-knuckled grip on Heartseeker slightly. Doubtless he has killed many of these beasts before, and besides, it is at the other side of the formation.

I keep my head turned to keep it in view. It leaps forward a few feet and strikes downward with one bladed arm. The dwarf it targets sidesteps, jabs at its midriff, but it instantly springs back out of range. It eases back a couple paces. Another dwarf lunges forward and stabs; it blocks the blow with its lower left arm. A clang rings out, and I make out some more detail—its face is eyeless, earless—all mouth.

It creeps back a few more paces, then starts to move leftward, circling around the formation, searching for a weak spot.