philtucker
patreon
Throne Hunters Book 2, Chapter 35
🕑 Added 2024-08-09 13:00:07 +0000 UTCKársek returned to the ancient garden shed once their conversation in the kitchen was finished. He had worked hard and happily at converting it into a new soulkeep, embracing both how it would undoubtedly be a temporary vehicle for his wandering spirit yet also a necessary creation for his peace of mind.
The previous gardener, Mickle, had taken good care of the small building and its tools. The shelves were sturdily built, the floor planks carefully set, and the tools hung from pegs in a pleasingly ordered manner. Time had worked its inevitable ruin, but that very decay had given Kársek purpose, and for days on end he’d patiently sat and removed rust, sharpened edges, and oiled mechanisms until everything was restored.
He’d washed the small glass panes, had replaced the boards that had warped too much, and chosen to leave the thick ivy that had encompassed the shed from outside, only trimming back enough so that light could pour in through the three windows. He’d swept, waxed, and varnished until the interior gleamed, while also devoting long hours to the garden outside, where he’d trimmed, cut, sawed, and pruned.
There was honor in honest work. Pleasure in cultivating order from chaos. Tidying a garden wasn’t as rewarding as crafting with metal and stone, for nature could and would not remain within set boundaries, but if one could find satisfaction in the act of ordering, as his mother had once told him, then delight could be found even in shaping the currents of a stream.
All of which was to say, Kársek had been distracting himself from the horror of his life by fixating on ritual and hyperfocused tasks.
But turning the shed into an actual gnomon two nights ago had exhausted the ways in which he could keep himself busy. Once the shed was as close to perfect as he could make it, he’d sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and attuned it to the Earthblood, far, far below.
And the Earthblood had responded to his call.
The power of the deeps had risen up to infuse the small shed, changing it visibly not at all but creating within its walls a shelter for Kársek’s soul. A place where the old pain of banishment from Dumrûn and the hallowed depths was muted, and his yearning for clan and purpose softened.
A soulkeep, a place of respite and solace in a world that shunned him from birth.
Kársek slipped into the shed, removed his boots by the door, and padded to the back where a single cushion lay. There he sat, stiff-backed, and closed his eyes, resting his callused hands on his knees as he finally allowed himself to truly exhale.
The soulkeep eased the pain. Whether it was a caravan, a temporary cabin, or even in emergencies a simple cave, Tinker Dwarves always created one where they could to save themselves from the buffeting pain of loss.
A spiritual loss that linked them like a leash to the long halls of their ancestors, halls that Kársek had never visited, but lamented all the same.
He exhaled steadily.
Much had finally been revealed to him.
He’d grasped aspects, elements, pieces of the whole, but refrained from guessing, from leaping to conclusions.
But now he understood.
Reaching down, he increased the upwell of Earthblood so that the soulkeep grew saturated with power. To the outside eye, nothing would appear different, but to Kársek the inside of the shed was now redolent with raw power.
For dwarves needed that power to become malleable and consider change. Without it, they remained stoic and single-minded, hewing to their habits and beliefs. It took a surfeit of Earthblood to render them open to new opportunities, new possibilities, to accepting change.
Kársek allowed the Earthblood to wash over him. This being an established soulkeep, the power came far more quickly and in greater quantities than if he’d attempted the same outside in the garden.
He felt his soul grow molten, felt his stiffness, his dedication to his pursuits, grow flexible.
Only then, when he thought himself at his most mercurial, did he turn his mind to what he’d been told, and try to decide what to do.
Harald Darrowdelve, his tharkûn, was in turn beholden to Vorakhar, a greater gathul who had saved Harald from death. Thus, indirectly, Vorakhar would become Kársek’s tharkûn.
Kársek sat with that, a light frown marring his brow.
To have a gathul as a tharkûn was, in the epics, a fate worse than death.
Yet Harald was wrestling against his debt, respected not his tharkûn, and sought independence.
Not respecting your tharkûn was the height of dishonor.
Kársek’s frown deepened.
If he was to remain with Harald, then he would both be ultimately accepting Vorakhar as his tharkûn, but pledging his life to a human with no honor.
His own honor bid him assist Harald in whatever endeavor he undertook. But was it honorable to assist another in a dishonorable pursuit?
Or should it be considered dishonorable to defy a gathul, even if that being had saved one’s life? Did not the gathul’s nature make it worthy of defiance?
Kársek forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. Earthblood flowed around him, keeping his mind pliant and supple. Normally Kársek sought immediate answers, comparing outcomes to his current mindset and accepting or discarding them instantly. But here in his soulkeep, malleable, he was able to remain in a state of continued uncertainty, the discomfort minimal.
His choice was simple: remain true to his tharkûn, or kill himself. He could not spurn Harald for dishonor if that meant he himself dishonored Harald in turn. Thus the option was simple. Aid Harald, or buy back the life debt by killing himself.
Kársek was young, only some sixty-five summers old, but even he, an irresponsible and flighty Tinker Dwarf, knew the weight of responsibility. His grandfather had angrily asserted time and time again that Tinker Dwarves were more honorable than the Deep Dwarves, because they had no reason to be, and thus every honorable act was twice as golden.
It wasn’t true, but Kársek had always understood the sentiment.
Could honor be found in following Harald’s dishonorable pursuit? Only if Harald repaid his life debt to Vorakhar, but that seemed unlikely given the gathul’s ambitions. Or he could convince the tharkûn to discharge it voluntarily by various means, which, in Harald’s case, seemed to revolve becoming a sufficient foe or source of aggravation that the gathul decided to be done with him.
Which would no doubt lead to the gathul killing Harald, but that was fine, as it would meet the criteria for restoring honor.
But if Vorakhar slew Harald before Kársek could discharge his life debt, than Kársek would have to avenge his own tharkûn by killing Vorakhar, something he was woefully, impossibly disqualified from doing.
Only a Forge Father or a Dreadthane might hope to destroy a greater gathul. Kársek was as nothing compared to such legendary figures.
But he had never until this point wished to be.
Until this point he had been content to be a simple Earth Mover. To forge and direct the Earthblood when and if he saw fit, and nothing more.
If he was to assist Harald, then he would need to become something capable of killing a gathul.
He would need to become something far more dangerous.
Kársek inhaled deeply. He had, it felt, reached a decision. He would hew to his own honor by continuing to support Harald, but with the understanding that the dishonor this created would be wiped clean when Harald was slain by his own tharkûn. Kársek would then seek to destroy the gathul in turn, no doubt failing, but his own personal honor would be redeemed by the amount of damage he was able to deliver before being slain.
Yes.
That felt right.
Unorthodox, and his grandfather would have been furious, but the honor of Tinker Dwarves was not the fixed and obdurate honor of the Deep Dwarves. It could be crafted into its own weapon, and wielded toward fitting ends.
Very well.
Then it was time to reforge himself. He could only begin the process here, in his soulkeep, but in time, as they pressed deeper into the dungeon, he would find places of power, places where the Earthblood was so concentrated that he would be able to continue his evolution.
His need was great. His task impossible. He accepted the inevitability of his death, and the great power he would need to vindicate his temporary sacrifice of his honor.
This opened to him Class possibilities that he had never considered before.
The Earthblood began to rage around him as he drew ever more. Sweat prickled his brow and his stomach curdled with strain as he drew more and more of the great power from the depths.
Dwarves from miles around would no doubt sense the disturbance, and intuit that a great need was being assuaged.
Karsek felt his own Earth Mover Class become insubstantial, melting like a wax cast placed inside an oven. It grew indistinct, its contours and angles rounding away as it became a molten blob, and then he pushed for the greatest Class he could think of.
DreadRune.
Kársek sat with that possibility.
Weighed it in his mind.
Considered how it would change him, mold him in its image.
Much as Harald’s Demon Seed was affecting him.
But his freedom of self-determination had been much curtailed when Harald had saved his life.
So, yes. He would change.
His honor demanded nothing less.
Kársek opened himself up to the Earthblood completely, turning his palms upward, and allowed his spirit to resonate to the magic’s deepest registers. He soaked it in until he felt himself at one with the essence, and then he imprinted upon himself the angular and severe outline of the new Class.
His being warped, strained, grew thin.
DreadRune was a terrible Class, a Class of pure necessity, a Class of great sacrifice and power.
Kársek wasn’t confident he could encompass it, but he felt no fear. If he died here in the attempt, then that was an honorable escape from his life debt.
His thoughts began to grow rigid, aligning themselves with the concerns and focal points of his new Class. He became other than what he had been. Still Kársek, but no longer Kársek the Earth Mover.
Over the course of many long hours, he became Kársek the DreadRune.
His soul shuddered and creaked. Fissures opened and sealed as it sought to encapsulate what would be needed of it.
A Rune.
His first.
Manifested through the course of deliberate epiphany.
And then, finally, deep into the night, Kársek opened his eyes.
It was done.
He had his first Rune.
He raised his hand and allowed himself to marvel at it for only a few moments. To allow the old Kársek to marvel at the new.
Within him floated the potentiality for weaponizing Earthblood to its greatest extreme. His first Rune was a hazy afterimage that hung superimposed over the soulkeep before him.
All he need do was infuse it with Earthblood and it would activate, changing the world according to its fell design.
Not something that he would idly attempt out of curiosity.
He sighed, took out a cloth, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Gazed around at the tools that he had so painstakingly restored. Thought on the garden that he had labored so diligently to cultivate.
None of that interested him any longer.
That was all beneath him now.
He rose to his feet, dusted himself off, and considered his smudged and worn clothing. He would need better.
Kársek left the shed and returned to the main house. Entering through the patio door, he saw light coming from the first parlor. He approached and saw Harald seated in one of the overstuffed armchairs before the fireplace, his expression solemn, thoughtful.
“Master Darrowdelve,” said Kársek, announcing himself as he stepped into the room. Even his voice had changed, deepened in register and grown more dignified. “I have given our situation the appropriate amount of thought, and reached a decision.”
Harald blinked, glanced at Kársek, then sat up straight. No doubt his tharkûn intuited on some instinctual level that change that had overcome his charge.
“You have? That’s good. What did you decide?”
“I have changed my Class from Earth Mover to DreadRune.” Kársek said this with no pride. “This shall allow me to accomplish what needs doing in the times to come.”
“You what?” Harald’s surprise was predictable. “You can do that? Just change your Class?”
“All dwarves can, if circumstances demand it.”
“Oh.” Harald frowned. “That’s… that’s great. DreadRune? Sounds… formidable.”
“It is. My kind rarely has need of such power. Only when our homes are threatened by overwhelming forces, or our armies march against superior foes where victory is far from assured. It is a weighty responsibility, but I feel it an appropriate one.”
“Oh,” said Harald again, clearly mystified and intrigued. “Why, ah, couldn’t you just, I don’t know, take on that Class from the get-go? Wouldn’t it have helped you gain power and wealth with greater ease?”
“A DreadRune is not concerned with political power or wealth,” said Kársek. “A DreadRune thinks only of the battles to come. And I did not become one before because I had no need of it.”
“All right.” Harald didn’t understand. “But you were almost dying in the dungeon when I met you.”
“One’s death, if honorable, is not sufficient cause to change one’s Class,” answered Kársek.
“Oh. But our situation with Vorakhar is?”
“You owe Vorakhar a life debt, yet you have chosen to defy him. This is dishonorable, if understandable, given that he is gathul. I have a life debt to you, and thus your dishonor passes on to me. My choice therefore was either to kill myself or find a means to help you turn your dishonor into honor. Your defiance will assuredly result in the gathul slaying you when he realizes your betrayal. I then will salvage my temporary dishonor by attempting to kill him in turn. That death will redeem my spirit, but only if I do my best to slay the gathul, a deed that is beyond any Earth Mover, or most other dwarven Classes. Only a DreadRune might have a chance, and that only if I have sufficient time to grow into my power.”
Harald just stared at him.
“With my change now accomplished, I must go into Flutic to acquire equipment and clothing appropriate to my new station.” Kársek inclined his head. “Thus I shall take my leave of you for now, Master Darrowdelve, and be ready to train and delve in the morning.”
“Right,” said Harald softly. “Do you need… do you need funds for these purchases?”
“I do not. The other dwarves will recognize my station and understand that what I request is owed to me. I merely need collect my new possessions.”
“They’ll just… give it all to you?”
“Yes,” said Kársek, smiling grimly. “They will. I am a DreadRune. None shall gainsay me. Until tomorrow morning, Master Darrowdelve.”
Kársek bowed and departed the manor.
His Rune floated before him, ethereal, potent, eternally in potential.
There was a dwarven quarter in Flutic. Kársek and Freyka had avoided it, given the nature of their flight from their home clan.
But now Kársek made his way stolidly toward the Deepforge Quarter, not rushing. He enjoyed the midnight walk, and ignored the curious stares from city guards and the other night folk.
Something about his bearing, however, dissuaded any of them from bothering him.
Arriving in the Deepforge Quarter, he slowed and intuited where he should go. Much of the quarter would be underground, quarried and excavated over the centuries. The quarter was unimpressive aboveground; mostly solid squares of neatly joined stone blocks with restrained pattern work over the door lintels and windows. So cunningly wrought where these homes and structures that it was quietly understood amongst dwarven kind that long after the rest of Flutic had collapsed into disarray and ruin, these buildings would still stand, as enduring as the mountains.
The streets of Deepforge were empty. Kársek found the closest stairwell down, housed within a stone gazebo set in one corner of a square, and there passed the twin sentries.
The old Kársek would have bowed deeply to both dwarves, whose Classes would have been more august than his meager Earth Mover.
Tonight, however, Kársek frowned at them as he strode by.
Both sentries, unofficial keepers of the peace in Deepforge and the eyes of the quarter’s Forge Master, frowned back, momentarily confused, and then their eyes widened as they sensed the Earthblood within him.
They bowed, but Kársek was already descending. A staircase spiraled down into the depths, flanked on the outside by a smooth ramp. Down he went, heavy with intent, and emerged onto the first subterranean level, a good thirty feet underground.
The quarter came alive here, the broad halls illuminated by Earthblood lanterns, the ground chiseled into a tessellated geometric pattern. Archways led to commercial clusters, clan repositories, communal spaces, and drinking halls. The air was rich with the tang of heated metal, artificially created to simulate the atmosphere of a forge by heated ingots placed in sconces every dozen yards. Kársek heard the guttural conversation of dwarves all about him, and in the distance, a solemn concert was being played on chasmpipes and drums.
The dwarves here were a mixture of visitors and residents, both easily distinguished by their garb and bearing. All were fastidiously and soberly dressed, the quality of their clothing reflecting their station and the elevation of their Class.
His progress was noticed, and everywhere disdain became wonder and wary speculation as he strode down the center of the hall. Only the most important dwarves could claim the centerline; the lower your Class, the closer to the walls you had to walk.
Kársek, hands linked behind his back, proceeded with inexorable dignity in search of the right establishment, but saw approaching up ahead a venerable dwarf, white-bearded and clad in mithril and sable cloth, his dignity impeccable, his bearing stately.
They met in the center of the hall.
The elder dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow as he appraised Kársek. Around them, the other dwarves slowed their passage, clearly curious by the confrontation, but none daring to be so gauche as to actually stop and stare.
The elder was potent with power, and stared at Kársek not with anger, but with surprise. “Well met in the heart of the Deepforge, young master. I do not recognize your face, nor does your lineage or clan come to mind, but your steps echo with purpose, and your bearing would do an Anvil King proud. Who might you be, that walks the centerline of our hallowed halls?”
Kársek inclined his head politely. “I was a Tinker Dwarf of no account until tonight. Now I am Kársek, a DreadRune, and have come for that which is already mine.”
The elder’s eyebrows rose and his mouth fell open. He quickly gathered his wits, however, and ran his wrinkled hand down his ivory beard before bowing his head low. “Be welcome in the Deepforge. I am Thane Brogar Ironheart, a Chasm Caller of no small repute. But I bow to your purpose, and must ask: what peril has demanded this evolution, and does it concern our quarter?”
“Well met, Thane Ironheart.” Kársek felt a brief burst of delight, but it was vestigial, and unbecoming of his new station. It passed. “The peril I face is a personal affair, but involves forces that may one day endanger not only Deepforge but Flutic itself. I shall advise you should the time come that it concerns our brethren.”
Thane Ironheart’s natural dignity returned to him, and he considered, lips pursed, bobbing his head. Then, turning about, he moved to stand beside Kársek, ceding the centerline, and gestured for them to proceed.
“Then let me accompany you on your visit to Deepforge. May I guide you to the best craftsmen?”
Kársek inclined his head. “I would be honored.”
“No, no, it is you who does us honor.” The thane linked his hands behind his back in similar manner to Kársek, and together they continued down the hall, their approach heralded by whispers and alarm. “If there is anything Deepforge can do to assist you in your responsibilities, only let us know, and we shall spring into action.”
“Thank you, Thane.” Kársek considered how swiftly his situation had changed, but then, instead of pride, felt only loss. His life as an Earth Mover had been a good one, full of simple pleasures and little responsibility. He knew the weaker parts of himself would only come to miss it more as the challenges arose to confront him. “Your hospitality does you and Deepforge great honor.”
“Then come,” said the thane. “Let us outfit you in a manner becoming of a DreadRune. Our resources here are meager, but we shall do our best.”
And together, the elder dwarf and the younger proceeded into the heart of the Deepforge.
Comments
SAB
> Harald felt his own Earth Mover Class become insubstantial, melting like a wax cast placed inside an oven. Harald?
ShivaMcTimber
TYFTC! Someone tell Tormund that the Big Woman is still here
You fool, Warren is dead!
Yeah. If your counselor was She-Hulk
John Cerefice
Awesome chapter! Like where this introspection and development is going and just wanna say as a person in recovery this conversation felt much like being in a 12-step meeting dealing with a lot of the same topics as Harald is dealing with.
