“Right, Morden, let’s try this again. My runemaster is here. What’s that mean?”
“Well he’s threatening my great smith.”
“Aye. So what are ye gonnae do about that?”
Morden let out a slow exhale. “I’m…I’m gonna move my smith…here?”
Rurak shook his head. “You can’t do that, that means your Vazgrimst is threatened by my forge.”
Morden returned his smith to its original position, furrowing his thick brows. “This game doesn’t even make sense. Why are the forges here? Isn’t this a battle?”
His father gave a single nod. “Aye.”
“So why are the forges on the battlefield?”
“Well, it’s important. How else are ye supposed to repair yer dhumbruziir?”
“Why is that even part of the game? Why do we have to care about the pieces’ equipment? That’s dumb, none of the other games make you do that.”
Rurak exhaled from his nostrils. “Morden, fharntaflbrak has been a part of our people’s culture for thousands of years. Ye’ve got to know how to play. It’s important for a dwarf.”
“You and grandad keep saying that but I don’t see how it’s important.”
“Aye, I used to think like you. I used to say ‘Fharntaflbrak? Why would I need to play that?’ Trust me. Ye won’t get very far without learning how to play fharntaflbrak.” The cleric tapped the board. “Make yer move.”
The young dwarf leant his face on his fist, studying the board. “So if I move my smith, your forge threatens my Vazgrimst. But I can’t leave my smith here, because your runemaster is threatenin’ him. So…I’ll move my foreman…here.”
“Very good, son, very good.” Rurak looked at the board for a moment, before speaking. “I win.”
“What? How?”
“Look at the board. Yer foreman was disrupting my supply lines and now that he’s moved, my mine cart can power my watchtowers and I win.”
Morden looked at the board arrayed in front of him, trying to make sense of all the pieces. He looked up at his father, eyes wide.
“There’s watchtowers?”
