Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

“Any luck?” I ask Nthazes the next chance I get to see him down at the forges.

“Not really.”

“How many have you spoken to?”

“Just two of mine so far. Vestok and Lothan. I know them well, and managed to ask plenty of questions, but neither said anything unusual. And they’re good upstanding dwarves.”

“Nothing suspicious at all about them?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. How about your four?”

“I’ve spoken to three, but yeah, no luck. They had nothing bad to say about him.”

“Honestly, Zathar, even if anyone does have something bad to say about him, I don’t think they will. I don’t know what it’s like up above, but down here we don’t really criticize the dead.”

“Neither do we. I’m not expecting it to be obvious. Something subtle.”

“What kind of thing, exactly?”

I sigh. “No idea.”

“Well, I’ll keep on trying anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s the titanium coming along?”

“Not bad. Faster now I’ve got the hang of it.”

“Good on you.” He inspects the toecaps and over-foot strips. “Yes, these are pretty well made. Very symmetrical too.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then?”

“Yes. We’ll talk again after I’ve spoken to Hirthik.”

“He’ll be a tricky one to get hold of, maybe. Not too sociable.”

“Yeah, you told me before.”

“Ah, I just remembered—he likes his food. Often takes kitchen jobs—so he can steal from the stores, according to a few. Though no one’s ever caught him.”

I nod. “Thanks for the information. I’ll see you around.”

“See you.”

He leaves the forging pit. Hirthik sounds more promising than the others: unsociable, and potentially already a criminal. I think I’ve worked with him in the kitchens before, actually. A large fellow, so it’s hard to imagine him sneaking up on anyone, but yes, a quiet one also. The sort who keeps his thoughts to himself. Perhaps they are dark ones.

No need to rush too fast, though. I’ll think of a way to squeeze information out of him later. For now, it’s time to get back to work on my boots.

They’re close to completion: all I have left to forge are the heel-protectors and the soles. The latter might prove difficult—most runeknights make theirs out of thick leather, cutting out a pattern to help them grip, but I have higher standards than that. The grip of my soles will be provided by runes.

Might as well get the tricky stuff out of the way first. I start to cut out a sole-shaped section of titanium very slowly and exactly. Everything about the soles I need to do exactly, since they are the parts all the others will be riveted to. Judging the correct length is tricky because I am going to bend it into waves. This will concentrate the power of the runes of friction, and also, with the power of some cleverly placed runes of softness in the dips of the waves, create flexible mobility, which titanium is perfectly suited too—it’s already lighter and more flexible than steel, and though not stronger, is more receptive to runic power that tries to alter its base physical properties.

Once I have the basic shape of the sole created, it’s time to shape the waves. I have to do this fairly cold because I don’t want to change the metal’s hardness just yet, so I heat it merely to red hot before placing it in a large vise. The usual glass-woven cloth separates the titanium from directly contacting the steel.

Titanium is flexible enough that I could use pliers to bend it into shape, I suppose, but the pliers down here have ridges for grip, which could leave imprints. Instead I use my hammer, very gently and accurately tapping the tip of the sole so it curves. Then I loosen the vise, move the metal up, so now a bit more is sticking out the top—I’m using the kind of vise where the tightening mechanism is at the side and not the bottom—then I tap in the other direction. Slowly and surely the titanium bends back, so that the cross-section of the length sticking out the vise becomes an S—a common shape in several runes relating to water, malleability, and slow power.

I pull it up a bit more, tap very gently in the original direction again to add another curve. I continue this process, reheating whenever the metal gets too stiff. After a very long time doing this, with utmost care, I place it on the anvil for examination and realize I’ve made a terrible error.

The curves are very even in size. There’s no problem there. No, the problem is that the back end of the sole ends on half a wave. There isn’t room to write all the runes I need on it, and it won’t fit my design for the heel-plate.

So now I need to remake the whole thing, because straightening out the waves then re-bending them in a slightly different configuration would weaken the titanium terribly.

I curse. More money—honor—wasted. The primitive equipment down here isn’t making things easy either. Up in Thanerzak's city you could buy a kind of ink that wouldn’t rust or react with most metals in any way, and with it mark where you wanted to make your cuts, bend your curves, socket your gems.

Down here I have to do things by eye and ear, though I can’t think of a way to use my ears usefully for this stage. Sighing, I start again.

This time, my mistake is not so terrible. I compensated for my last error by reducing the number of waves, but even so, the last one is a little short. I tap to bend it upwards, but now the back part of my sole won’t quite touch the ground, reducing my grip.

I curse hideously under my breath. I must remake it. That’s what any runeknight must do when he notices an imperfection in his craft. But I simply cannot afford the titanium. I have just about enough left for one more sole—if I have to make two new ones I won’t have enough for the heel-plates.

Patience, Nthazes would remind me. You’ll earn honor for more materials soon enough, he might say, though he wouldn’t use the word ‘soon’. I know time though, even if the others here don’t, and I say that if the killer—dwarf or darkness—is still loose, then he or it will strike again sooner rather than later. I must be prepared.

So I make the difficult decision to leave the sole as is, and create the other to be exactly like it.

Hopefully I won’t have cause to regret this.

Feeling rather dejected, I make my way back to my room to plan out how I’m going to get as much information as possible out of Hirthik. Several conversation starters occur to me, but I reject them. This is my best lead out of the four and I want to get as much out of him as I possibly can. Just asking a few surreptitious questions while we work in the kitchens together isn’t going to cut it.

No. Blackmail is my best option here—catch him stealing, then threaten to report him to the Runethane. A cowardly tactic, vicious and undwarvish, but it’s all in a good cause. If the information he gives me prevents more deaths, I’ll redeem myself a hundredfold.

Just the same as every other job, there’s no particular roster for kitchen duty. When there’s too little food prepared, Commander Cathez writes up a request for labor, and it’s usually quickly fulfilled. Compared to the other menial tasks, it’s paid better—I mean, it’s more honorable—since without good meals the fort would soon stop functioning. Us dwarves need fuel just as much as our furnaces do.

Hirthik is generally the first to volunteer. As soon as the next request for cooks is put out, I make sure to be the second. A few others join too, and so here I am in the smokey, fire-lit kitchen, ready to transform several hundred pounds of raw mushrooms, meat, and unidentifiables into six hundred ready-to-eat, slow-to-decompose meals.

Some dwarves despise cookery, since your creations, no matter how brilliant, are so ephemeral in nature. In fact, the greater your creation the quicker it is to get chewed up: the total opposite of good armor. I’m not one of these dwarves: I find that cooking has at least some of the creative satisfaction of forging with none of the pressure, making it an enjoyable distraction from more serious work.

The kitchen is just below the eating hall. Ten massive ovens are set into the walls, five at one side and five at the other. In the middle are long tables where the prep work is done, and at the back exit is another table where completed dishes are placed to be whisked up to the meal hall as quickly as possible.

I grab a sackful of mushrooms and lay them out on the prep table. I’ve chosen my place carefully so that Hirthik is in clear view, but not so close to him that I raise his suspicions. With a cloth I begin to scrub out the spores from my mushrooms—the ones in this variety are hard like sand—while I watch and listen to him at work.

It’s clear that he enjoys his job. His cleaver blurs as he works it over a particularly massive slab of meat, dismembering it into a hundred perfectly even cubes. He grabs a small pouch of imported seasoning, sifts it over, and mixes so that not a single cube is left uncoated. He places the meat into a large pot and pours over water, then mixes in three flagons of ale plus one more for luck. He proceeds to prepare some mushrooms—the same type I’m cutting.

His technique for removing the spores is far superior. With deft flicks of a small knife he’s scraping out the spores at least five times faster than I’m managing. Once he’s done, he picks up each mushroom one by one and puts his ear against them while tapping the tops with the flat of his knife. Only one fails to meet his standard—but with another deft flick of his knife he removes the few offending spores and puts it with the others.

He freezes. His eyes lock onto mine.

“What are you staring at?” he says in a low voice.

“Just hoping to learn,” I say. “I hear you’re a fine cook.”

“I’m not too bad. It’s rude to stare, though. You wouldn’t stare at someone in the forge, would you?”

“Of course not. But the kitchen isn’t the forge.”

“It’s nearly as important,” he snaps. “Don’t look at me while I work.”

“I was just trying to pick up some techniques. I’ve always had trouble getting the spores out—”

“Pick up? You mean steal, do you?”

“It’s only cooking. It’s not as if I’m copying down your runes.”

“Only? Only cooking?”

“Well—”

“Food is the lifeblood of the fort.” He scowls violently at me. “You should think higher of it.”

I open my mouth to try and salvage the conversation, but another dwarf taps me on the shoulder: “Just leave him alone, Zathar,” he whispers. “Best just to let him do as he wants here, and don’t get in his way.”

“I’m only trying to learn.”

“Maybe, but he doesn’t want to teach.”

I apologize to Hirthik and get back to cutting my own mushrooms. Getting snapped at wasn’t nice, but the fact he’s so keen to avoid others watching him as he cooks raises my suspicions further.

His figure certainly suggests that he’s eating more than his share: the amount he spends on metal for his armor must be at least half again as much as anyone else. I imagine he employs a good many runes of weight-reduction.

Since I can’t watch him, I’ll have to use my runic ears. I shut my eyes as I chop my mushrooms to prevent visual stimuli from distracting me.

He's already finished chopping the mushrooms and is now tossing them in an oiled pan. No stealing yet, as far as I can tell. Next he lifts the pot of water, ale and meat over to the nearest oven and turns up the heat to just a touch below the maximum. Though the ovens here are nowhere near as hot as a forge’s furnace, they are much hotter than any regular oven. The pot’s sides heat to a dull red and the mixture releases clouds of ale-scented steam.

It’s a very pleasant smell, but I can’t let it distract me. I keep a close ear on Hirthik’s hands as he picks up a massive iron spoon to stir the pot. He does it rapidly to keep the meat chunks moving fast so none come to a rest against the bottom—the metal gets so hot in these ovens that it’s very easy to burn things.

The volume of steam increases and the way it disrupts the air plays havoc on my hearing. The room seems to twist and spin. I remember on one of my first kitchen jobs the same thing happened, and I wondered why no one complained to the dwarf responsible—now I realize that it must have been Hirthik who was responsible, and no one complained because they didn't want to start a fight with him.

Surely this amount of steam is unnecessary?

An idea strikes me—suppose he's using it as cover for his theft? It seems very plausible. No one can make him out for the steam, not with their eyes nor their ears, and he can easily claim it’s a natural part of his cooking process. He’s too skilled for anyone to criticize him on that.

How to prove it though? Approaching him while he works would not only raise his ire, but maybe also raise the ire of the other dwarves here, since they’ve already warned me to leave him along.

I remind myself not to rush. There are still hundreds more dishes to prepare, so no one will be leaving the kitchens any time soon. Best bide my time.

Gradually the steam dissipates. Hirthik reaches into the mixture with his spoon and takes out a chunk of meat, and throws it into his mouth. He chews slowly, deliberately, so that everyone can see him.

“Well cooked,” he mutters, just loudly enough for everyone to hear.

A taste test. More plausible deniability. Yes, he snacks on his meals down here, but only to make sure they’re good to eat—that’s the message he’s sending. If anyone catches him in the act, he has his excuse set up and prepared.

He walks his pot over to the out-table by the back exit and sets it down. I approach it, ostensibly to grab a slab of meat from the prep table near it, and quickly glance in. It’s hard to tell in the flickering firelight, but there seems to be slightly less meat than he put in. Of course that could be explained by the meat cubes shrinking from being boiled, but even accounting for that...

I sense him looking at me and hurry back to my prep station.

Over the next ten or so hours of our kitchen shift, I take every opportunity I can to peek at his completed meals. Each is the same size as the other dwarves’ dishes, but I’ve also been keeping watch of the amount of ingredients he uses—and he uses just slightly more than everyone else. The difference when added up is significant. I estimate that he’s gobbled down a good two or three hearty meals worth of food while we’ve been working. No wonder he’s the size he is.

All this said, however, I still have a quandary: I have no evidence. I haven’t witnessed him stealing anything directly. And three meals worth gone out of six hundred is not significant a difference enough to be noticed.

I’m going to have to bluff him.