“About the Runeforger?”

“Yes.”

“I... Nothing, really. I thought no one even knew if there was one or many.”

“I can tell you that there was only one.”

“Then I heard that tens of thousands of years ago, he created the runes. Or she, I suppose. Or it.”

“Is that all you know?”

“I know that he vanished. But was there really only one? Just one dwarf created every rune there is? Every script?”

“Is that so hard to believe? Each of us lives for a long time. Yes, only one dwarf created every script.”

“I see.”

Runeking Ulrike pauses to think. Then he says: “What you have heard is more or less correct, but for one detail.”

“Oh?”

“The Runeforger did not vanish. He was slain.”

A shiver travels down my neck.

“Slain?”

“Yes. Slain and his body thrown into the magma sea.”

“By whom?”

“Other dwarves.”

“Runegods?”

“I don't know if there were any back then. Probably no one was that powerful.”

“Then how did they manage to slay the Runeforger?”

“He invented the runes. That doesn't mean he mastered then.” Runeking Ulrike shrugs. “Then again, maybe he and others had, and it was indeed the Runegods who slew him. No one knows. Everything happened too long ago. If it was written down, the texts have long since sunk into the magma.”

“Into the magma where the Runegods live.”

“Yes. If live is the correct word.”

“But why would they kill him? What was the point? Everyone can use runes, so why not let him make more?”

“Like Thanic Guardsdwarf Vanerak wants you for.”

“You know?” I say in surprise.

“I can guess.”

“Will you do anything about him?”

“I cannot. Despite my Eyes, I am not omniscient, and there is no proof of his intentions. No proof of any of the many misdeeds he's rumored to have carried out since his return to Allabrast.”

“Even so...”

“How would you like it if you were sentenced with no proof? No trial?”

I bow my head. “I see your point. My guildmaster said the same.”

“I am glad to hear that. Vanerak has done good also, I should add. Many refugees who otherwise would've perished on the way down are alive because of him.”

“I suppose he fought off Broderick's forces as well.”

“Indeed he did. But returning to the matter at hand: as for why the Runeforger was killed, I do not know.”

“Maybe the others were jealous.”

“I try not to waste time on speculation. Whatever the reason, the result was the same: no more new runes.”

“Until now? Though if mine aren't really new, as you say they aren't...”

The Runeking's stare hardens.

“Do you want them to be new? Do you wish for the power of the Runeforger?”

“I...”

Do I? No matter how much my power frightens me, it's still something that marks me out from other dwarves.

Marks me for destiny, perhaps! It's proof that I'm not simply a jumped-up miner. That I'm destined to rise up, just like my brother promised we would, many years ago.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

I feel slightly ashamed: hadn't I grown past such thoughts? My destiny now is to slay the black dragon or die in the attempt. Isn't that what I promised all those I hurt?

“I don't know,” I say. “But I need some kind of power if I'm to fulfill what I swore.”

“We all desire power. More and more, so that one day we may reach the Runegods.”

He gazes down, reverently. I feel as if his stare is piercing the hundreds of miles of rock between here and the magma sea.

“Do you think the sphere I saw has something to do with the Runeforger?”

“It seems likely, though I doubt it was any kind of memory. It seems symbolic to me.”

“Symbolic of what?”

“Of his power. Of what was inside his mind. You said there were three shadows?”

“Yes. One was mine. The other two weren't, but they were familiar. Like I'd met them before. Maybe they were his slayers?”

“Did they strike you as killers?”

“One did.”

“Interesting. Like I said though, there's no point in speculation. More knowledge may be revealed to you in time. Or maybe to others.”

“There are others like me?” I say, alarmed.

“Perhaps. Why not? Again, though: speculation is a waste of time.”

Silence falls again. The Runeking seems to be thinking hard as he stares into my eyes. My war-pick feels terribly heavy and unwieldy in my hands. Its bloodlust is suppressed almost to nothing. Whatever he decides to do with me, I have no way to defend myself.

I can no longer bear the suspense: “How long do you wish me to stay here, my Runeking?”

He blinks, shakes his head. “I have forging to do, so I'm afraid I can't have you here long. You may return now, in fact.”

“Oh.”

A dwarf in gold appears beside me. I notice that the crevasses are gone as well. They've left no trace on the smooth stone.

“Is this it, then? Will you call me back?”

“Do you wish to come back?”

“No. I mean... I was worried you'd want to keep me here, actually.”

He smirks slightly. “Making new runes for me?”

“Something like that.”

“Runeknight Zathar, a few more runes on top of the hundreds of thousands I already know would be of little use to me.”

Feeling rather stupid, I bow my head. “I apologize.”

He makes a dismissive gesture. “There's no need to apologize. You are still far less arrogant than most runeknights. Make no mistake, though: your power does interest me. I will be keeping my Eyes on you.”

I bow again. “If anything, I'm relieved to hear that.”

“Yes. While you stay in Allabrast you need not fear Vanerak. He'll be gone from here soon enough anyway.”

“Thank you most graciously, my Runeking.”

“You are welcome. Goodbye for now, Zathar.”

----------------------------------------

So, I return to the carriage. Guildmaster Wharoth looks relieved to see me, the other guild members less so. We don't speak on the journey back, but once we're at the guildhall, Wharoth calls me into his office—which looks uncannily similar to his old one—and demands a full recount of what happened.

When I finish, he leans back in his chair and folds his arms. He frowns at the ceiling. I wait for him to say something.

“Good to know you're being looked out for, at least.”

“Yes. But what do you think about my vision, guildmaster? Do you think it was something from the Runeforger himself?”

“Not a clue. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. Maybe too much forging simply addled your mind.”

“I doubt it. That poem was the greatest I ever wrote.”

“More to the point: what do you think, Zathar? Do you think your runes are new, like he said they weren't?”

“I think they are new.”

“Oh?”

I pause, nervous again all of a sudden. “I know I shouldn't be saying the Runeking is wrong. He knows a lot more than me about runes—”

Wharoth snorts. “That's quite the understatement.”

“Well, yes. But he hasn't used my power. He doesn't know it like I do, and I feel that my runes are original. Created by me, forged in my own mind. They're not pulled from somewhere else. Though, of course, I can't know any of this for sure.”

Wharoth nods. “Well, the only way we're ever going to find out is if you keep on forging.”

“Yes... You want my power just as much as Vanerak, don't you, guildmaster?”

He laughs. “Yes, I do. Who wouldn't? Even the merest possibility of new runes... If I were the Runeking, I'd never have let you leave the palace. I'd have apprenticed you and watched every moment of your forging.”

“I thought he'd be more interested too.”

“Well, like you said: he knows a lot more about runes than we do.”

I nod. “So what should I do now, do you think?”

“Stay here. Forge, write runic poems. Earn some gold. There's plenty of jobs for runeknights within the city. Plenty here at the guild too—I'm expecting a few initiates will want to join after your performance at the trial.”

“You want me to teach them?”

“It's probably best if you don't try to educate them about runes. You're a fair fighter though. You can teach them that.”

I grin. I begin to see the shape my life is going to take for the next few hundred long-hours. It's a simple one, of working, forging, and sleeping without the fear of death hanging over me.

“I'll be glad to,” I say.

----------------------------------------

Deep in night, the three judges wait in silent terror. They have failed Vanerak, and he will not be pleased. Even if he is so kind as to give them a second chance, there will still be some kind of punishment. Harsh punishment.

A second chance? How likely is that? Daztat nearly bursts out laughing at the thought. They are here to die. All they can hope for is that Vanerak is too busy to be bothered torturing them.

“We should have done more,” Daztat mutters under his breath. “Should have given him the wrong materials. Cut his money. Sabotaged his furnace. Anything!”

Neither Gerapek nor Caletek reply.

“This is your fault, Gerapek!”

“If we'd done any of that, the high justices—“

“They wouldn't have had us killed!”

“Yes, they would have.”

“Not in the way Vanerak's about to!”

“He may not,” Caletek whispers. “We may yet live—”

He slumps to the black chalk floor. Gerapek freezes, then a look of peace comes across his face. Then his head is rolling from his shoulders; it thuds on the floor.

Blood sprays over Daztat's armor. He yells, slams down his visor, backs away. He draws his sword.

The hammer-side of Vanerak's pollaxe shatters it in one blow. The last thing Daztat sees is the bright stars of night distorted in Vanerak's mirror-mask, an instant before the pollaxe's spike goes through his heart.

Vanerak pulls it out. He kicks the dead dwarf so hard the armor dents. Damn this! He hasn't been this irritated for centuries, not since Thanerzak over-ruled him about that fool idea to spare the dragons' lives.

The power of the runeforgers has slipped from his grasp! Maybe forever!

No, no. He breaths deep and calm returns. Not forever. For a while, yes. The Runeking has his Eyes on Zathar now, so while the young dwarf remains in Allabrast, Vanerak can do nothing, but he can't stay in Allabrast forever.

Vanerak will get him one day. He is certain of this.

TRAITOR'S TRIAL

END