Rhunki

~][~

"Beardling!" roared the white-bearded Runelord, "come here!"

Imrak glanced up from his anvil, seeing the great and terrifying Urgrim Angazul, Master of the Runeforges, glaring directly at him. He saw Urgrim snap his fingers at the ancient and arcane anvil in front of him.

Urgrim wanted to speak with him.

Imrak gulped and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Putting down his tools and pulling off his apron, Imrak walked as confidently as he could muster up the long stairs to the high hearth – Urgrim's personal forge.

The runelord was not alone, beside the ancient dwarf stood Imrak's master, Storri Heavyhammer. Storri was a master runesmith in his own right, and Urgrim's direct apprentice. The two venerable dwarfs had faces' carved from stone, hard and cold.

Imrak stopped two steps from the huge, rune-engraved anvil and put his fist to heart, nodding his head first to Urgrim, "Gnollengrom," then to Storri, "Gnollengrom."

Runelord Urgrim glared at the young apprentice runesmith. He poked the rune-carved warhammer laying atop his anvil, "This your doing?" His voice rumbled out from the depths of his board chest.

"Yes, Lord," Imrak said proudly.

He had just finished it a few weeks prior. The design of the warhammer was simple, however the smithing was executed to perfection. The head was block-shaped a full dwarf hand-and-a-half long, one wide, and tapered slightly towards the faces. On one cheek was carved with a face of Grungni, god of smiths, and the other Valaya, goddess of hearth and hold. Powerful runes of striking decorated the neck of the head and down the length of the top. The handle was solid metal, wrapped in bands of red leather and pierced with bronze studs, each stud-head stamped with Grimnir's visage. The pommel was a big orb, with a short, thick spike.

Not his first rune-carved item, but his finest to date, and Imrak was proud of it. He hoped it'd pass as his journeyman piece.

Urgrim scowled and picked up the warhammer. He swung it around a few times, than with a fearsome yell he spun away, twisting and weaving the warhammer in a series of martial patterns. Urgrim moved with surprising spritelyness, considering he was wearing heavy iron-toed boots and had a great white beard that reached the ground, not to mention he was well over five hundred years old.

After he had finish he returned the hammer to the anvil with a loud clang.

He scowled silently at Imrak for a long, long time.

"Mediocre work, at best," the Runelord declared.

Imrak dropped his eyes to his feet, feeling his face flush with color.

After an age of uncomfortable silence Urgrim spoke to Storri, "His father was?"

"Dimzad," Storri said flatly.

Urgrim just grunted. He returned his disapproving glare to Imrak, "Eyes up, beardling. Your father was a fine smith, and a good dwarf. If you wish to honor his name, do better."

Imrak muttered.

"Speak up!" Urgrim roared.

"I will!" Imrak yelled back.

Urgrim shouted, "That so, beardling? I watched you this week. I saw you look up twice from your smithing to look at something across the hall. Twice!" He shoved two thick fingers at Imrak, "Twice! In a week! If you're not going to bother to concentrate, why show up at all!"

Imrak dropped his eyes again and kept his mouth shut.

Urgrim placed both hands on his anvil and growled out, "Get ye gone from my forge. Don't return here until you've learned something." With that, Urgrim turned and stomped away.

Imrak watched the retreating back of the venerable runelord and then glanced at his master. Storri Heavyhammer stared blankly at Imrak. When the young apprentice runesmith raised an eyebrow, Storri shook his head dismissively and walked past Imrak.

Imrak sighed. He stared at the runehammer for two hundred heartbeats, then turned and walked down the stairs.

Instead of returning to his anvil, he went to his sleeping room.

It was a tiny rectangle with barely enough room for a stone bed, small trunk, and a clothing rack with his spare clothes. A few candles in a small nook lit the room. Imrak plopped down on the bed. He stared at the only ornamentation in the room, on the wall hung a chain necklace with a small bronze disc hammered into the likeness of Valaya. A plate of half-eaten sausages sat on the trunk; he plucked one up, sniffed it suspiciously, and ate it anyways.

The forges of Runelord Urgrim Angazul were almost a realm unto themselves. Nearly two dozen runesmiths labored there and many hundreds more servants assisted them directly or indirectly in their labors. There was great honor in being selected to apprentice with one of the runemasters. But unlike the other guilds, the Guild of Runesmiths did little in the way of providing for their apprentices.

All of the apprentices lived in poverty and had few possessions of any quality. They labored every hour of everyday they were awake, save for the four feast days a year, and were treated harshly by the masters; for to become a runesmith was a grueling and grinding task. Most apprentices did not make the grade, failing to learn the ancient chants, or never mastering the arts of inscribing, empowering, and binding.

Fewer than one in a thousand succeeded in the learning rudimentary skills needed to earn a place in the Runeforge, and those that failed were traditionally forbidden from shaving their beards. Though the most talented fighters were invited to join the Brotherhood of Anvil Guards, most failed apprentices often put down their forge hammers and took up other trades all together.

Already Imrak had apprenticed for fifty years and still he was regarded lowly.

He stared at the wall and glowered.

"You left this," Master Storri said striding into the room as if he owned it. The old dwarf held up the dark metal runehammer.

Imrak glanced up and looked away, "It's mediocre work, at best."

"Is it now?" Storri held it up and admired it in the candlelight.

"That's what Lord Urgrim said. You heard him, you were right there."

Storri nodded, "I was there. I heard him say those words. You should be flushed with pride, not sulking in here."

Imrak muttered mediocre under his breath.

Storri roared and swung the warhammer hard at Imrak. The young runesmith only saw the swing at the last moment and flinched away and rolled onto the bed. Storri would have missed him anyways, but not by much. The runehammer slammed into the foot of the stone bed, pummeling rock and sending chips and chucks flying everywhere.

The master then jabbed the weapon at Imbak aggressively, he yelled, "Don't be a damned fool, Imrak Brightbeard. Lord Urgrim called your work mediocre. MEDIOCRE! At only fifty years an apprentice and you get high praise such as that! Pull your head from arse this very moment or I've cave it in, here and now."

"Grungni's beard, Master! Steady on!" Imrak shouted, pulling his legs up protectively.

Storri held the warhammer in a two-handed grip, high and to the side, his legs wide, braced – the hammer-fighters stance.

"Well," growled Storri, "what say you?"

"Yes, master! I'll pull my head from my arse! By Valaya's eyes, put that hammer down!"

Storri Heavyhammer nodded and lowered the runehammer, he set it down head-first, propping it up against the wall. "Good. Good. Now, as Urgrim said. Get ye gone."

Imrak nodded back grimly, "Fine. I'll be getting on my way then."

He climbed off the bed and stood before Storri. Imrak was only seventy-odd years old, and Storri nearing three-hundred, but the apprentice was taller and heavy with muscles. His beard was not yet long, reaching only to his chest, but was unusually thick and colored a brilliant copper – hence his namesake. His eyes were dark blue, like colored steel.

"Mediocre work, eh?" Imrak grunted.

Storri smiled. He had short and terrible temper, but he was a good dwarf, caring for the apprentices in his own way. It is thought that all Runesmiths are effectively one clan containing a few ancient families. Most runesmiths can trace their ancestral lines back generations, all of which ended with just a few old names. Imrak could, his clan were the Aldrhungrungron – the Old Rune Forgers, one of the most ancient names in all of Karaz Ankor. Any runesmiths who appeared to not follow the proscribed path, were thought to be heirs of sundered bloodlines lost to war and woe, or the bastard offspring of randy runesmiths. Imrak and Storri, and old Urgrim, and even the famously ill-tempered Runelord Kragg the Grim of Karaz-a-Karak were family of sorts.

The master said, "Aye. Mediocre."

~][~

Imrak arrived at the foyer of Temple of Valaya, a heavy pack on his back, and large bag hanging off over his shoulder. Between his bags, and clothing he wore, it was the sum of his worldly possessions.

He waved to a passing initiate and asked, "Pardon, is Petra available?"

The young female shrugged and said she'd try to find her.

Imrak found a bench and dropped his bags. He took a seat and watched the temple around him.

The temple was an impressive structure. The stand alone building was set with a large cavern, the surrounding stone left purposefully rough. The building itself was round with high, thick walls and was roofless. There were eight carved stone archways leading into the temple's central space. Between the archways were colorful stained glass windows. Glowing with light from within the temple each panel illustrated an important facet of Dwarf life: mining, brewing, gem cutting, smithing, stoneworking, trading, fighting and more. From where he sat Imrak could see into one of the archways and saw that the aisle lead through row after row of stone-carved pews to the circular dais, where a massively tall bronze statue of Valaya stood tall. In her outstretched hand blazed an eternal flame. The light of the fire made the cavern's ceiling dance with orange light. Three anvil-shaped alters were spaced around the stature. The temple was about half full.

"Imrak Brightbeard, as I live and breathe," said a tall, young woman, hands on her hips. She wore the purple robes of Valaya, with good dwarf boots and a thick brown belt. Her hair was braided into a fork and flashed the same copper color as Imrak's. He leapt up and crushed her to a hug. "Sister!" he shouted.

They found a table nearby and sat, Imrak hefting his bags along with him.

"I'm off," Imrak said, without hesitation. "But before I go, I wanted to give you something. I made you this," he said, pulling up the heavy shoulder bag and plonked it on the table. Petra smirked and hastily pulled the item from the bag.

It was a waraxe - the weapon had single heavy blade, with a sloping beard. The reverse had a long lethal spike. The handle was metal, wrapped in dark leather held in place with silver studs. Powerful runes were chiseled deeply into the weapon.

Petra stared at the weapon for a few moments, her eyes glittering, her lips moving into an excited grin.

"For me?" she said gleefully, snatching up the weapon and holding it high into the air. "For me!" She answered her own question.

Imrak leaned on his elbow, smiling at his sister's delight. It had taken him three attempts and six solid months of ceaseless work to craft that weapon. Six months to the day from when Urgrim and Storri told him to get gone.

But as with all thing, dwarfs don't rush. Not even their first steps into Journeymanship.

Petra swung the weapon around violently, laughing the whole time. Many heads looked in their direction. Imrak saw another initiate walking quickly towards them. She was dressed the same as his sister, and said, "Oy, Petra Kyasdotr, what's that you got there?"

Petra stopped swinging her runeaxe around and showed it to other initiate, "Cinnie, look at this! My brother made it for me," she smiled at Imrak. Cinnie took the weapon and stared with open-mouthed wonder.

"Beautiful," she whispered.

After running her hands over the runes she passed it back to Petra and looked at Imrak. Cinnie was shorter the Petra, who was tall for a female dwarf, and good-looking with a round, open face and dark hair and dark eyes. "So," she said slowly, appraising Imrak closely, "this is your brother. The Rhunki."

Petra sat down, and Cinnie sat next to her. Petra nodded and waved a hand at Imrak, "Oh, aye. My big brother, Imrak Brightbeard, son of Dimzad, of the Aldrhungrungron Clan."

"Very much at your service," Imrak said.

Cinnie smiled brightly, "I'm Cinnie Lenkasdotr, of the Ornora Clan. Petra, you didn't tell me he was so handsome."

Imrak blushed and looked away to cover his embarrassment.

Cinnie laughed and Petra gave her a friendly elbow.

"So," Cinnie said looking at his pack, "where you off to?"

Imrak recovered himself and said, "I'm off to find my way."

"To where?"

Imrak shrugged, and grinned, "Not sure, maybe Karak Hirn or Karaz-a-Karak I'm looking for another master."

"You've been atop Karak Kol before?" Cinnie asked with wonder in her voice. Many dwarfs spent large portions of their lives, if not the whole entirety of it, underground. Women especially.

Imrak smiled at her, "Oh aye. I've travelled out many times, and even spent two years working in a manling foundry. Sloppy workers, with little talent," he shook his head and continued, "I slept in a wooden house, above ground, everynight. Sometimes, even out under the stars."

Cinnie stared at him. The look in her eyes made him unable to resist boasting further, "I went with a hundred long wagon caravan to Barak Varr not ten years ago. Saw the Ironclads they build there; magnificent. And the ocean; and a mighty strange thing, oceans are. Big, endless miles of saltwater. I talked to some of Dawi sailors and they said the whole of the world is covered in that ocean, and that all the lands of Dawi and Umgi and Elgi are just islands. Large islands, but just that, islands. I think they're mad. To much time under the sun."

Cinnie shook her head in wonder. "Amazing." The way she was looking at Imrak, with a kind of hunger, the runesmith could not guess if she was referring to his story, or to himself.

A bell tolled from within the temple, first two dings, then one, then twice more. Cinnie looked back, "That's my shift. Shame, I like the sound of your voice, Imrak."

The runesmith blushed deeply again.

Cinnie walked away and Petra said to her brother, "You're a terrible flirt."

Imrak replied to his sister, "I'll be gone awhile," then he leaned over to watch Cinnie Lenkasdotr go, she looked over her shoulder and awarded Imrak with a brilliant half-smile. "Do me a favour, sister, and don't let that one get married to young, eh."

Petra laughed and laughed.

When Imrak had returned himself to a more dignified posture, Petra said, "You see mother yet?"

"I'll see her on the way out," he shrugged, "Don't want her making a scene."

His sister frown, "Don't be unkind."

Imrak shrugged and looked away before muttering, "Fine."

"Oy," Petra snapped, "she loves you, you ungrateful lump of coal."

"I know, I know, it's just that she's always in my business," he frowned.

"Like any good dawi mother should be," Petra gave him a hard stare, then reached across and patted his hand, "Relax brother. Her hurt was great when father was killed. You are their son, his heir, you are him in a way. She wants to protect you."

Imrak shrugged, "I don't need protecting."

"Idiot," Petra snapped sharply, but smiled to take the sting from the word. Her smile grew larger when she added, "Bring me back a story."

As it turned out Imrak did not see his mother before he left. He stopped by his mother's clan's dwellings, and she was not there. According to a neighbor, she was away. And had been so for a few weeks. Teaching pottery in another deep it seemed. Imrak shrugged. From his bag he pulled out three brightly polished copper pots with ring handles on the sides. He nested them inside each other a set them on the table. Taking up the small slate writing board near the stone-cold hearth, in white chalk he wrote:

Mother,
I'm going out. I may be awhile.
I made you some new pots.
Imrak

Without looking back he walked to the main gate of hold.

The great stone and iron doors were open, the smell of mountain air blow in. The gate-hall was a long, narrow room with a dozen tables set to each side. Merchants, mostly food and clothing, shouted out the quality of their wares from tidy booths. The ceiling, low compared to other holds was a mere ten dwarfs high, and it was slotted with sinister murder holes. Above the doors, forged in gromil was the great symbol of Karak Kol – the black mountain and inverted hammer. Karak Kol was a smallish Dwarf hold near the intersection of the Vaults, the Grey Mountains, and the Black Mountains, between the larger holds of Karak Izor of the Vaults and and Karak Hirn of the Black.

While not busy, the hall was not empty of foot traffic. Travelling merchants hauling carts to the sell in the commercial halls, runebearers from other holds with important messages, rangers returning from a scout or going off on one, patrols of guards entering and leaving. Imrak did not linger, he left Karak Kol, bright beard held high, and stepped out into Uptown.

~][~

The small town at the gate of the hold was mostly inhibited by dwarfs whose occupations kept them on the surface – the farmers and sheep-herders. Animal breeders as well; pigs and chickens don't fare well underground. Innkeepers and hostel owners. There were some manlings about the place, merchants and travelers, who could go no further into Karak Kol then the foyer-hall and conducted their business outside.

The runesmith knew where he wanted to go. There was a large tavern called the Grinding Wheel. It was there that most dwarfs who wanted to travel east met. Travelling alone was dangerous, and being a practical people dwarfs tended to band together to make the four day walk from Karak Kol to Karak Hirn.

The tavern was two stories of dwarf-build stone, L-shaped with a large stone paved patio with tables and chairs. The windows on the ground floor were thin and narrow, but the windows on the second were wider. Planters with bright mountain flowers hung from the walls near the door.

It was high summer and the patio was crowded with manlings and dwarfs sitting in the sun, drinking ale and devouring bread and meat. Imrak pushed his way into the tavern and found it mostly empty – the bulk of the clients outside.

The barman, a study dwarf with a fine brown beard with flecks of gray at the corners of his mouth, nodded to Imrak. He was pulling pints of dark ale and setting them on a tray for a server to take away.

The runesmith returned the gesture and dropped his much lighter bag on the floor at the bar. He said, "I'm looking to travel east. Anyone else headed that way?"

"Aye," the barman said, "outside there a merchant in a yellow shirt, he is headed out and was asking around for caravan-hands."

"Thanks," Imrak nodded. He put a few coppers on the table and asked, "Can I get one of those?"

The barman nodded, swiping the coins off the counter-top in a practised gesture. He put the big mug he had just filled down in front of Imrak, then turned back to pulling more pints.

Imrak took a long sip and went outside. To his left he saw a dwarf in a yellow jerkin sitting at a table, surrounded by half a dozen others.

Imrak approached and heard the dwarf in yellow saying, "Four days to Hirn, you'll get half a silver a day. No back talk, now. I'll pay for food, but not lodging. We'll be sleeping with the donkeys, so you'd best have your own bedding too. If you want on, make your mark here." The dwarf held up a thin stone tablet to the dwarf to his right. The dwarf took it, put it on the table and took up a writing chisel. He carved his name.

Each of the six dwarfs took the klinka and engraved their name.

Imrak pushed his way in and asked, "Room for one more?"

The merchant looked up at him, "Can you fight?"

Imrak nodded seriously.

"Then, yes," the merchant said, "I do have room for one more. Make your mark."

Imrak took the tablet and quickly carved his name. The merchant looked at it, nodding.

"I'm Norgun Rokrison, of the Rokrison Clan, at your clan's service. We leave at first light tomorrow." He put a few gold coins on the table very slowly, very precisely stacking them into one pillar. "I'll be leaving you these coins as a sign-on bonus. Eats and drinks on me tonight but if you're not here in the morning, you'll shame your clan and I'll swear a Grudge against you." He tapped the tablet, "And I know your names."

With that he stood, nodded, and went into the tavern.

The half dozen around that table met eyes and as one dropped down on the benches. Each scanned each other, all of them with the same agenda – to determine the youngest dwarf at the table.

One dwarf spoke up, "I'll go," he sighed, "I'm no doubt the shortest beard here." He was right, his beard wasn't much more than a hand's length long, and he could not have been more then twenty-five. A very young lad indeed to be out of the hold.

All the others grunted with relief. The beardling took the coins, said "Balgor Balgorson, at your clan's service," while tapping his chest and made his way into the tavern.

"Good lad," mumbled a black-bearded dwarf with three gold earrings and the dirty face of a miner. He looked around, "Breggi Bighands I'm called."

At that the other introduced themselves. Next to the miner was a big dwarf with a thick dark-brown beard down to this chest, a distinctively broken nose, and wearing a sleeveless jerkin, which showed off his brawny-arms dwarf, called Azgrim Tenstone. Next to him with an umber colored beard that was masses of tight curls was Madras Ironfingers. Further around the table was Elgrom Grunnurdson, his beard was blond, bright and well groomed. The last dwarf, Kraggrim Gorlharazad, had a beard the color of brick, braided and clipped in place with well-crafted gold beard clasps – he had a heavy, brooding face. At last Imrak introduced himself. When he was finished he asked the others, "What do you all do? And why travel?"

All of them were youngish for dwarfs, not one was over hundreds, and most not over eighty. Each of them would have trained in a tradecraft, except maybe Balgor Balgorson, who was too young yet. They went around the table again.

Breggi was a miner, off to visit his brother in Karak Hirn. Azgrim was an armourer, and he'd been invited to a work exchange with his extended clan. Madras was a locksmith, looking to start his own business someplace new. Elgrom a stonemason, hearing that Karak Hirn was repairing sections of the Ungdrin Ankor he was looking for work. Kraggrim, the oldest of them was a trained goldsmith, and his reasons for traveling were, as he stated sternly, his own business.

Imrak said, "I've been an apprentice Runesmith for over fifty years. I seek a new master."

Kraggrim looked over at him sharply, "A Rhunki?"

Runesmiths were greatly respected in Dawi society, often given the same inherent respect as priests. Some thought them priests.

Imrak nodded and the others gave him deep looks. Balgor, son of Balgor arrived with mugs of ale clasped tightly in each hand, he pushed his way between Imrak and Kraggrim and plunked them down. "Food'll be served shortly," he said. With all the mugs down, large, hairy hands shot out to grasp mugs and they held their drinks up. Imrak budged over to allow Balgor room to sit down.

The dwarfs looked to Kraggrim, as the oldest of them, and waited for him to pronounce the first toast. Kraggrim hesitated a moment and looked at Imrak. The goldsmith might have been older, but Imrak was a runesmith. There were conflicting levels of social precedence and occupational hierarchy.

Imrak gave Kraggrim a small nod, the goldsmith frowned slightly, but turned to the other and said, "Hail, Sons of Grungni! With this drink we honor our Ancestors, show appreciation to the skill that went into the brewing, and reaffirm our oaths to avenge the begrudged."

The last few words made Imrak frown in curiosity, but he banged his mug against the others and wished them good fortune by shouting, "Akrak!"