by Warhammer
But this place was something else again. A hidden smithy – or was it? Were they even in Excelsis any more? There were no windows, and he couldn’t hear the city; only the sounds of hammers striking metal, and voices murmuring in conversation. He caught snatches of those discussions drifting on the smoky air, and the strange accents of their participants. Deep, rough growls conversed with softer, silken tones, between the crash of metal on metal. Duardin voices, some of these, and human as well, but others were less identifiable.
Was this a temple of some sort? Or was it a school? Out of the corner of his eye, Volker caught sight of a clockwork shape scuttling into the dark, its gemstone eyes winking in the firelight. More shapes, arachnid and gleaming, scampered along the walls, their gears clicking softly. He gripped his rifle more tightly.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Volker cleared his throat, trying to catch the god’s attention. ‘Why am I here? Does it have something to do with my – with Oken?’
‘Oken is my servant. One of many.’ Grungni glanced at him. ‘Did you know that?’
‘I – no. No, he never said.’
‘And why would he?’ Grungni hooked his thumbs into his belt. ‘He served me loyally and well, for years without number. Not so long as some, but longer than others.’
‘But what does that have to do with me?’
Grungni stopped and fixed him with a level stare. ‘Oken is missing.’
He ran his hand through his smoky beard, tearing some of it loose. He held it out to Volker, who watched in awe as the smoke shaped itself into a face – battered and old. Oken. The duardin was like a lump of granite someone had chiselled a face onto as a joke. ‘He was searching for something, at my behest. I believe he found it.’
Volker looked up, and then away. He couldn’t bear to meet Grungni’s gaze for long. There was an awful weight to it, and a sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. Like the last fires of a dying city, or a beacon that would never be answered. ‘What – what was it?’
‘Something dangerous.’
Volker closed his eyes. ‘Is he alive?’
‘That is what I wish to know. That is what I called you here to find out.’
Volker frowned. ‘Why me?’
Grungni shrugged. ‘Why not you?’ He gestured. ‘I saw your face in the fire, lad, and heard your name in its crackling. It’s a fool who doesn’t listen when such things speak. Especially a god.’
Volker shook his head. ‘But–’
‘Enough. It is time to meet the others.’ Grungni gestured. A doorway rose out of the haze, sloping and squarish. It was not a duardin door, with precise angles and tidy corners. Instead, the frame was composed of three massive stone slabs, one balanced atop the other two. The slabs were all different sizes and the frame was sloped haphazardly. A rough-cured curtain of leather hung within the frame, runes marked on its folds with soot and ash.
Grungni swept the curtain aside and stepped within. Volker made to follow, but found that he had to duck to do so. Had their seeming magnitude been a trick of the light or had Grungni simply changed size? Nothing here was what it seemed.
Confused, he stepped into the chamber beyond. The air was different here, clean and thin. Cold as well. His breath plumed before him, despite the fire that crackled in the forge built into one wall. The fire cast its orange light over a small stone chamber, rough-hewn but clean, with thick furs covering the floor. A round table occupied the centre of the room, with eight chairs set up around it. Three of the chairs were in use.
The woman drew Volker’s eye immediately. She was tall and dark, with a mane of tightly bound serpentine black locks spilling across her shoulders and down her back. She wore battered war-plate the colour of tarnished gold over well-worn, if good quality, clothing. Leather gloves covered her hands, and vambraces made from hundreds of coins of all denominations protected her forearms. A golden helmet, wrought in the shape of a gryph-hound’s head, with a coif of bronze feathers, sat on the table in front of her.
She grinned widely as Grungni showed Volker to the table. ‘He’s very fancy,’ she said. She bent sideways and studied Volker’s feet. ‘Good boots, though. I respect a man who knows the value of good boots.’
‘Thank you?’ Volker said, uncertain as to the proper response.
‘Zana,’ she said, as she straightened up.
‘What?’
‘Zah-nah,’ she elaborated, sounding out the syllables. Her accent was fluid. The Chamonian dialect of the celestial tongue was a liquid thing, harsh in some places, soft in others. ‘Mathos. Zana Mathos.’
Volker blinked.
She peered at him for a moment, then looked at Grungni. ‘Is he addled?’
‘I’m not addled.’
‘Oh good, I was worried. We’re already well stocked with addle-pated lunatics. Isn’t that right, Roggen?’ She looked at the burly man sitting beside her.
He smiled genially. ‘You would know, Zana.’ He rose and extended his hand to Volker. His accent was coarse, as if he had only learned to speak Celestial a few days earlier. ‘I am Roggen, of the Ghyrwood March.’
Roggen was heavy with muscle beneath his armour, and his thick, tattooed arms were bare from shoulder to elbow, showing off numerous serpentine scars. A similar scar bisected his right eye, and vanished within his thick beard. His bronze-coloured war-plate was decorated with curling vine motifs and what might have been sylvan faces, which seemed to study Volker with cool disinterest. The ragged tabard he wore over his armour was the colour of tree moss, and a helm crafted in the shape of a stag’s head, complete with curved, thorn-like antlers, sat on the table.
As Volker took his hand, he realised that Roggen’s gauntlet wasn’t made of iron or bronze, but some sort of incredibly tough fibre. The big man noticed his look and chuckled. ‘Ironwood,’ he said. He knocked on his chest-plate. ‘Hard as metal, but it lives and breathes.’
‘And in the spring, it sheds leaves everywhere,’ Zana said. She leaned back in her chair, legs crossed on the tabletop. ‘Burns easy, too.’
Roggen shrugged. ‘At least I do not have to take it off when I fall in the water.’
‘Do you fall in the water a lot, then?’
‘Do you get set on fire often?’ Roggen retorted. Zana laughed.
‘Maybe we should ask him,’ she said, jerking her chin towards the third chair. ‘Though he hasn’t so much as told us his name since he arrived.’
The third chair was occupied by a scowling duardin. He was squat, thickly muscled and distractingly unclothed. His only concession to civilised sensibilities was a loincloth made from the black scales of some great beast, and a wide belt of the same, strapped tight about his midsection. He wore a helmet crafted in the shape of a rearing dragon, open at the top to allow a thick crest of crimson hair to spring forth. The plaits of his massive beard were bound in gold and capped by iron hooks that clattered dangerously with every turn of his head.
A fyreslayer, Volker realised. He’d never met one of the strange duardin before. He bowed low, as a gesture of respect. ‘Owain Volker,’ he said, simply.
‘Lugash, son of no runefather, scion of no lodge,’ the duardin growled, scratching at one of the many golden runes hammered into his flesh. An abundance of short-hafted fyresteel throwing axes were thrust through the rawhide loops of his belt, and a cruelly barbed war-iron sat on the table before him, alongside a hook-bladed axe. His thick fingers traced the sigils carved into the axe’s haft as he stared a hole in Volker. ‘Another manling,’ he said, finally, looking at Grungni somewhat accusingly.
‘Aye and what of it, nephew?’ Grungni chuckled. ‘Grand-nephew, rather. Many generations removed.’
‘You are not the god of manlings, Maker.’
‘Am I not? Do you own me then, child of my brother?’ Grungni’s deep voice was even, but Volker could hear the undercurrent of warning in his
words. ‘Who am I the god of, Lugash of the– ’
‘Do not say it,’ Lugash roared, heaving himself to his feet. His runes flared, and Volker backed away as heat bled off the duardin.
Grungni frowned and brought his hands together, almost gently. The glowing runes went cold and dark. Lugash staggered, as if all the strength had been wrenched from him.
‘Who are you to tell me what I can, or cannot, say? You are the blood of my brother, and so I am oathbound to show patience – and yes, kindness, even. But my patience extends only so far. Do not let my brother’s fire drive you to rashness, as it did him.’
Lugash fell back into his seat, his expression surly. Grungni shook his head. ‘Grimnir was much the same,’ he said, absently. ‘Always seeking offence where none was meant. He craved it, the way a drunkard craves ale. Insult was his milk and impatience was his meat. And now he is dead, and his children look to me.’ He sounded weary.
‘Dead, but not gone,’ Lugash said.
‘No. Not gone. And death is not the end.’ Grungni sighed. ‘But I did not bring you here to speak of my brother, fascinating as he was.’ He turned to the open forge and thrust his hand into the flames. He grasped a handful of hot coals and spilled them into the concave dip at the centre of the table. Fire roared up. Volker stared at it, seeing indistinct images in the crackling flames.
‘Sit, son of Azyr. My story is long, and you are tired.’
Volker suddenly realised that the god was right. He was tired, and had been for some time. Adrenaline and curiosity had kept him on his feet thus far, but it was fast wearing off. He took the empty seat and laid his long rifle on the table. Grungni nodded, pleased.
‘Four children, from four realms. Enough to make a start, I suppose.’ He stumped around the table, waving a hand over the head of each of them in turn. ‘Chamon, Ghyran, Aqshy and Azyr. Metal, Life, Fire and the Heavens. I’ve made better from worse, and no mistake.’
‘That almost sounds like an insult,’ Zana murmured.
Grungni smiled. ‘No insult intended, Zana. As you well know. How long have you served me, daughter of Chamon?’ He set his hand on the back of her chair. Zana straightened.
‘Years, my lord,’ she said, with no trace of her previous sarcasm.
‘You were a vagabond when you came to me. An exile, worth more dead than alive. And now…’ Grungni gestured. ‘Now you are something better.’
The god turned, trailing smoke from his beard and hair. It curled behind him, making strange shapes in the air. He traced his hand along the back of Roggen’s chair. ‘And you, son of Ghyran. How long have you fought under my banner?’
Roggen knocked on the table. ‘Six seasons, Maker, and proudly. I am a Knight of the Furrow, and such was my oath upon taking up the sword.’
Grungni nodded, and looked down at Lugash. ‘Lugash, blood of my brother. We know our bargain, don’t we? No more need be said of that.’
Lugash closed his eyes and muttered something. He looked as if he were praying.
At last, Grungni turned to Volker. ‘These others have served me for some time. Will you join their number?’
Volker hesitated. What was being asked of him here? His hands found the hammer-shaped amulet again. Grungni shook his head. ‘Fear not. I am not a greedy god, lad. I ask only your sweat, not your soul. Roggen’s first fealty is to the Lady of Leaves. Lugash serves the memory of my brother. And Zana…’ He paused. ‘Who do you worship, lass?’
Zana shrugged. Grungni laughed, and the room shook from his mirth. ‘Maybe it’s me, eh? No shame in it.’ He looked at Volker. ‘You see? Sigmar still has first claim on your spirit, but I need your steady hand and keen eye, gunmaster. And Oken does as well. What say you?’
Volker stuffed the amulet beneath his chest-plate and nodded. If Oken was in danger, there was no choice. The old duardin was a friend, and a Volker never turned their back on a friend. Whatever the consequences.
Grungni smiled. ‘Good.’ The god reached into his smock and retrieved a lump of black iron. It was streaked with raw, red veins and Volker thought he glimpsed what might have been a face on one facet. Grungni bounced it on his palm, and then tossed it into the fire at the centre of the table. There was a sound like tearing sailcloth, and something rose from the flames. It had no shape, but was of all shapes – as if it were a thing of potential, rather than certainty. Monstrous mouths screamed silently, as chains of embers held it trapped in the bowl. Its elemental shape convulsed, glaring in all directions at once.
‘What in the nine glorious ores is that?’ Zana hissed, making the sign of the hammer over her heart. Volker did the same, feeling the weight of his amulet around his neck.
‘A daemon,’ Lugash said, fingering his axe. ‘Or it was.’
‘It was a message,’ Grungni said. ‘Or a warning, though the sender did not intend it so. Look – see.’ He gestured, and the fiery entity writhed as polished facets of red glass blossomed from its semi-liquid shape. In the glass, Volker could see faces, movement, people and places. Grungni caught his questioning look and nodded. ‘A daemon is more than its form. It is sorcery itself, hammered and shaped by the summoner’s mind. Those drawn into these realms by mortal hands take on something of their master – a bond of memory binds them together. And in that bond are the seeds of intent and cause.’
He raised one wide hand, and the shape in the bowl stretched with agonising slowness. Volker could not hear the daemon’s screams, but he could feel them in his teeth and in his joints. As the entity stretched, more facets surfaced in its roiling substance. Images swam within them. Scenes of antediluvian destruction, as monstrous warriors battled among themselves across broken, bloody ground.
Volker heard the clash of weapons – not normal ones, these, but something else. A great, iron-banded mace, gripped by a slab-muscled giant, connected with a massive gate of bone and iron, and shattered it into a thousand flinders. Volker jerked back instinctively. He’d felt the resonance of the blow, somehow. ‘Sharduk, the Gate-Smasher. Forged from the remains of the last great gargant-kings of the Golden Peaks. No portcullis or doorway can stand against it, whatever its thickness or the magic warding it.’ Grungni’s voice came from somewhere behind him.
A second facet. An emaciated creature, covered in runic brands and scarification, swung and snapped a chain-whip. Men and women in amethyst armour died, their souls torn from the withering flesh by the barbed links. ‘Charu, the Soul-Lash. Each link crafted with a single, ruinous purpose. To hook the soul, and bind its strength to that of the one who wields the Lash.’
Lash and wielder faded, replaced by a brawling barbarian chieftain clad in furs and crude armour. A stiff crest of hair rose from his shaved pate, giving him a bestial appearance. The strange, ridged cestus gauntlet he wore only added to this impression. The gauntlet flexed, the hooked talons tipping each finger glowing with a savage heat. ‘Sunraker, the War-Claw. A crude thing, built by crude hands, but no less deadly than the others. The heat of its touch is enough to melt stone, or even the scales of a dragon.’
Another facet rose, replacing the barbarian and his fiery claw, revealing instead a shadowy warrior clad in armour made from some tarry substance. The warrior hefted a spear with a wide, leaf-shaped blade. Grungni’s voice became hard. ‘Gung. The Huntsman. The Spear of Shadows. But whisper a name or hurl it at a target and it shall seek them out, wherever they are, whatever the distance. Even the membrane between realms is no barrier to its murder-lust.’
Grungni reached over Volker’s shoulder and clasped the facet. He twisted the substance of it, the way a blacksmith might twist a length of hot iron, trapping the flickering image and making it larger. ‘These weapons, and four more like them, each equal in power and malevolence, were – are – called the Eight Lamentations. They were forged in the fires of Khorne’s wrath by his chosen forgemasters.’ The god growled as he spoke, and Volker sensed an abiding rage there.
One he was glad was not aimed at him.
‘Eight forgemasters, one for each of the mortal realms, crafted eight weapons from the raw stuff of Chaos, which infused existence. Eight weapons fit for a god, or the champion of a god. But these weapons were lost amid the madness of the Age of Blood, when the Dark Gods made war upon one another, and the Gates of Azyr were shut.’
Grungni continued to twist and mould the facet of daemon-substance, smoke rising from his hands as he worked. ‘Some were hidden by the Dark Gods themselves, for such weapons, in the right hands, could harm even them. Others were passed from vanquished to victor, until they were dropped on some nameless battlefield and forgotten. And a few were found by those who sought only to contain them – my children and my children’s children.’
The daemon essence squirmed in Grungni’s grip, bubbling like molten metal. But the god continued his work. ‘In those bleak final days, as the Khazalid empires crumbled, several of the Eight were found and hidden away where their creators might never find them.’ Grungni sighed. ‘But nothing lasts forever. The drums of the ur-war, the all-war, beat anew and those terrible tools stir in their slumber of ages. They call out to be wielded, and their calls will be answered.’
He held up the facet. It resembled nothing so much as a tiny city. Excelsis, Volker realised with a start. The god had shaped it in miniature, from the daemon’s boiling essence. ‘The foundations of Excelsis were old when this realm was young,’ Grungni said. He laid his smoking creation on the table, his eyes closed. ‘It was a ruin, even then. Some ancient cataclysm, perhaps. That was always Grimnir’s contention. I had my own theories.’
He looked at Volker. ‘The realms were born from the life blood of a dying universe. And in that blood were impurities. Things that should not, could not be, but somehow were.’ As he spoke, his voice grew distant and deep. The flickering light of the forge became star-motes, swirling in the black between worlds. Grungni’s form, so solid a moment ago, seemed to stretch and thin like smoke, until Volker found himself somehow standing in the palm of the god’s hand. He looked up, his heart thundering in his chest.
