Ulgathern did not like or trust Tulkingafar. He was too invested in politicking, always seeking to exert his temple’s pre-eminence in the hold over that of Magar-Or’s, and he was the worst of Drokki’s persecutors. Too often the intention of Tulkingafar’s actions appeared not to be to increase reverence of Grimnir, but to consolidate his own power. To have risen to so lofty a rank within the zharrgrim at such a young age spoke of a certain ruthlessness.
Behind Ulgathern were his six brothers, gathered before the great statue of Grimnir in their coats of gold. Behind them were the guildmasters of both lodges. The stout matrons and males of the Mining and Gleaning Fellowships, the Kin-gather Matrons, the battlesmiths and loremasters and brewmistresses and a dozen others. The leadership of each lodge occupied the chequered floor on either side of the temple’s central aisle in strict orders of hierarchy, in most respects mirror images of each other, save one.
Ulgathern’s uncle, Briknir-Grimnir Ulgaen, stood at the head of his lodge. The space Ulgathern’s father should have occupied was empty. By the time Tulkingafar stopped blowing hot air, it would be occupied again.
‘A number of you have been chosen for honour,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Only one was deemed worthy by Karadrakk-Grimnir to assume leadership of Lodge Ulgaen-ar.’ The runemaster gestured. A chest was brought from an alcove to the side by his acolytes, and placed at his feet. The venerable battlesmith Loremaster Garrik came forth with an elaborate key, and fitted it to the lock.
‘The legacy chest of Karadrakk-Grimnir. Within is his truth,’ intoned Garrik.
The chest was opened. Tulkingafar’s acolytes took out plaques stamped with the names of those Karadrakk-Grimnir deemed worthy, and handed them to the runemaster. The number caused the brothers to shift. Four were to be chosen, a high number. They waited tensely for their fates.
Tulkingafar played it out as long as he could. The bastard, thought Ulgathern.
‘Ulgamaen, ninth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. You are to be runefather of the lodge of Ulgaen-ar.’ He tossed the plaque at Ulgamaen’s feet. Ulgamaen looked serious as he retrieved it, but that was him through and through. Probably why Father chose him, thought Ulgathern. Anyone who could crack a smile of delight at landing that role isn’t up to the job.
‘Come forward, Ulgamaen-Grimnir Ulgaen!’ sang Tulkingafar. He took Karadrakk’s latchkey grandaxe from an attendant and presented it to the new runefather. ‘By your father’s command, you are to unlock the great vault of Ulgaen-ar, and take out three-sixteenths of the lodge ur-gold.’
‘Yes, runemaster,’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir. ‘I shall instruct the hoardtalliers that it be done immediately.’
Mangulnar shot his brother Ulgamaen a poisonous look. He was furious – his beard bristled and face glowed red. The heat of his anger was palpable to Ulgathern.
‘Ranganak! Fourteenth son of Karadrakk.’ The runemaster tossed the second plaque at Ranganak’s feet. ‘You are to receive one of these sixteenths. The quiet halls of the Sunward Deeps are yours, Ranganak-Grimnir. You have leave to forge your latchkey, construct a vault of your own, and establish a new lodge there, for the protection and betterment of all within the Ulmount.’
‘Thank you, runemaster, thank you,’ said Ranganak-Grimnir with a hasty bow, and retrieved his own plaque. He looked at it lovingly.
‘To Tulgamar, twentieth son of Karadrakk, the same,’ said Tulkingafar, tossing the third plaque toward Karadrakk-Grimnir’s youngest son. Tulgamar caught it. ‘The lost halls of the Far Delvings are yours, if you can take them from the beasts that dwell there, Tulgamar-Grimnir.’
Tulgamar nodded once, fingering his token of office thoughtfully. His gift was a hard one.
One portion remained. The four other sons of Karadrakk waited with bated breath. Mangulnar’s hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
Tulkingafar drew it out, surveying the eager runesons with a crafty look. Ulgathern thought he might explode. Or punch Tulkingafar in the face.
Tulkingafar’s round eyes swung to look upon him. ‘And lastly, Ulgathern, twelfth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. One sixteenth of the lodge ur-gold.’
The plaque clunked onto the floor at Ulgathern’s feet. He could not keep the grin off his face as he retrieved it. The three disinherited runesons glowered, their dreams of wealth and honour gone.
‘For you, Ulgathern-Grimnir, a choice is given. You are to aid whichever of your brothers you choose, and request of them a right to settle.’
The old sod, thought Ulgathern. His father had often berated him for forging his own path and not thinking of the future. It looked like he had one final lesson for his son; cooperation, or exile.
‘You are charged with these responsibilities on one condition,’ Tulkingfar went on. ‘That you forsake the leaving of the hold, and work with your kin to strengthen it against incursion. Keep the Ulgahold free of the servants of Slaanesh, and you shall forever be honoured in the records of all the Ulgaen lodges.’
Ulgathern accepted claps upon the back from his newly elevated brothers and returned them. Of the three who had received nothing, Grankak and Ulgavost gave grudging respect, though their faces were sunk deep into their beards. Mangulnar held himself apart. He watched from the side for a moment before losing his temper completely.
‘Outrage! Perfidy! I am eldest! I am runefather by right!’ He moved toward Ulgamaen. The new runefather’s auric hearthguard stepped forwards, crossed magmapikes barring his path.
‘You have no right to leadership, runeson,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Karadrakk-Grimnir’s last wishes have been read. They are inviolate.’
When Mangulnar spoke again, his breath shimmered on the air, and smoke curled from his nostrils. ‘You will all regret this. All of you!’ He stormed out, his few followers hot on his heels.
A shocked silence followed this grievous breach of tradition, until a few minutes later, when hogsheads of magmalt ale were brought in and breached. After the first dozen tankards, they forgot about Mangulnar’s outburst completely.
The Hall of Memory was unusually cool and peaceful. For those reasons, Drokki liked it there. The remembrance beads made long rows of gold that glimmered ruddily in the hall’s low light. So big was the library that a duardin could lose themselves there. Drokki wandered down the aisles between the books dangling on their iron frames. The smell of hot gold and an occasional clatter and hiss drifted over the racks from the die rooms at the rear, where battlesmiths cast new books. From a nearby aisle he could hear hushed conversation. When the battlesmiths were in training, the Hall of Memory was altogether noisier, each basso profundo duardin voice competing with the next in volume and complexity of rhythm as they recited the lodge’s history. But today it was quiet.
The remembrance bead books were arranged by reigning runefather and year. He knew he shouldn’t, but Drokki let his good hand trail lightly along the records, setting off tiny, leaden clacks as the beads swayed on their thongs and knocked one another. He loved the slippery, cool feel of the gold, the random snatches of knowledge he read as his fingers touched upon the books’ runes.
His other arm was small and stick-like and lacking strength. He had lost count of the number of times Tulkingafar had said he should have been cast into the magma at birth. Some had taken the defect as a mark of Chaos. The Matrons of the Kin-gather had stood their ground, insisting that it was nothing of the sort and that the fires of his spirit burned true. Drokki might have been allowed to live, but he was reminded daily that it was upon sufferance.
Drokki habitually kept his withered arm pressed against his side. It wasn’t the most comfortable position – that was to have it up against his chest. But when nestled into his chest his little claw of a hand adopted a form that made it look like it was about to dart forward and snatch at purses, or it gave him a sinister, calculating air, as if he were raking his bent fingers through his beard. The worst of it was that when he held it a
cross his chest, everyone could see. So he had taught himself to hold it straight, and many hours of pain it had cost him. With it forced down by his side, Drokki half-convinced himself that no one noticed.
Everyone always noticed.
Friends did not care, that was the important thing. To them he had been Drokki, and now he was Runesmiter Drokki, not Drokki of the Withered Arm – or worse. He was becoming respected, in his own small way; he had to remind himself of that often. The truth was that twenty friendly faces could not counterbalance one hateful comment, not in his heart.
‘Drokki! What are you doing skulking about back there?’
Battlesmith Loremaster Kaharagun Whitebeard came huffing up an intersection in the aisles, a half-dozen heavy remembrance bead books looped over a soft cloth wrapped around one arm, a slender, hooked staff in the other. Whitebeard was stout, almost as broad as he was tall, with a belly to match.
Drokki darted him a shy look. He found it hard to hold the eyes of others, and he kept having to force his gaze to meet that of Kaharagun. ‘Oh, you know. Looking, um, reading. Are you not at the calling?’
‘No, I’m not. I have given Loremaster Garrik the honour of performing that duty. He’s still got the knees for all that bowing and scraping.’
Garrik was at most six months younger than Kaharagun. Drokki hid a smile.
The loremaster looked back down the way Drokki had come. The swaying of the beads was minute, but Kaharagun noticed. ‘You’ve been up to mischief, again! Have you been disturbing the lore?’
‘Er. Well, I have. Yes. Sorry,’ admitted Drokki.
Kaharagun huffed. ‘Drokki! You’re no youngflame now, you’re a runesmiter! I expect better of you. Eighty-nine and still poking the beads like a bare-faced child.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You know it wears the gold. What’s the first rule of the beads?’
‘Touch them for reading, otherwise never.’
‘Right. Now, can I help you?’ Kaharagun’s scolding was gentle. Still, Drokki found it hard to look him in the face.
‘Um, yes. I was looking for the records from Gaenagrik Hold.’
Kaharagun sucked at his beard and rearranged his belly. ‘Gaenagrik eh? What do you want the beads of the ur-lodge for?’
‘There’s something I need to check on,’ said Drokki. He dared not share his unease yet, not until he was sure. ‘The prophecies of Hulgar Farseeing.’
‘I’d leave all that alone, young one. He was regarded mad, you know.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did know,’ said Drokki softly.
The duardin looked at each other for a moment.
‘Can you show me?’ prompted Drokki. ‘The records from the old hold aren’t arranged the same way as the new, and there is something I need to check.’
‘They’re perfectly easy to negotiate if you know what you are doing,’ said Whitebeard sharply. ‘They’re this way. If you’ll keep me company while I return these books to the racks, I’ll show you.’ He jabbed out a gnarled finger. ‘But no more touching the beads!’
Drokki followed the old loresmith down the lanes of cast gold. Each book was made up of triangular beads threaded onto orruk hide thongs. They were written in the high runes, three to a face, ideograms depicting entire words or discrete concepts. Not many could read them, partly because the information they conveyed was dependent on context and fiendishly dense.
‘I lived in Gaenagrik when I was a lad,’ Kaharagun said as they walked. ‘Fine hold. I was ten years old when Marthung-Grimnir Ulgaen, Grimnir warm his soul, set this place up. Ten! Can you imagine?’
Drokki could not. Kaharagun was already ancient when Drokki was born.
They stopped at a space in the rack. Kaharagun carried on talking as he unwound a bead book from his arm. ‘I’d never have thought I’d end up living here. Funny how life turns out.’ His face set. ‘Not that there was anything funny about the ur-lodge falling. Five thousand years the hold stood, and in two nights it was gone. Half the Ulgaen lodges wiped out.’ He fitted the book’s loop onto the hook on the end of his staff, using it to reach up to the top of the racks and put it back onto its numbered hook on the racks. The book swayed as he replaced it. There were eight strands of beads to it, six feet long when hung. ‘It’s a wonder we survived.’
They passed towards the very far end of the hall. Kaharagun replaced his last book, folded up the cloth on his arm, kissed it reverently, and stowed it under his robe. ‘Right then. This way. Past here are the Gaenagrik records, what we saved of them.’
He led Drokki further in. The torches in the sconces at the end of the racks were unlit and it was dark there. The careful ordering of the younger Ulgahold records gave way to a more chaotic system, if there was any system at all. The books were very old, the gold dark with age and the runes round-edged with touch-reading.
Kaharagun passed a fire iron to Drokki. Drokki spoke to the device, and the runes on it glowed then the end shone with heat. He pressed it to two torches, the pitch spluttering as it ignited. Drokki smelled burning dust. No one had been down there for a long time.
‘Hulgar, Hulgar, Hulgar…’ muttered Kaharagun. He ran his fingers along the beads. ‘Aha! Here we are. What was it you were after?’
‘His Telling of Great Omens.’
Kaharagun snorted. ‘Child’s stories.’ He unhooked a book of six strands with his staff, inspected it briefly and passed it to Drokki. ‘Volume one. Careful with it. The hide is brittle. I keep meaning to get the thongs replaced, but there’s been a shortage of orruks about since the siege began. Some might say troggoth or ogor hide works just as well, but I won’t use anything else. Can’t take the weight.’
Drokki took the book. He draped it over one shoulder rather than over his arm in the proper manner. Kaharagun frowned, but it was the only way he could read it. Drokki ran the beads through the fingers of his good hand. It was an introduction, written in Hulgar’s portentous manner. The first half of the string was a long list of thanks to various patrons.
The beads ran out. A knot had been tied in the thong to keep them from falling off, the end of it scorched hard.
‘Is there any more?’
‘Of that volume? No. Melted. There’s twenty more volumes though.’
‘I need to see them. All of them.’
‘Very well,’ grumbled Kaharagun.
Drokki and Kaharagun spent the next hour reading. There was a good deal missing from the book. One volume had come apart and been threaded back together without care for its content, and was unreadable without checking the tiny order numbers stamped into the base of each bead. Two more stopped abruptly, another started in the middle of a passage.
Volume number twelve, string four, had what Drokki needed, and what he had dreaded. His heart beat faster as he read. It was all there. Everything. The lightning, the siege, the death of the runefather. It was all there in solid gold, not a half-remembered rhyme, but a real prophecy.
Kaharagun leaned in, his old face creased in concern at the look on Drokki’s face.
‘Drokki?’ he asked. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘I very much need to borrow this,’ said Drokki.
Ulgathern-Grimnir returned to his chambers lost in thought. He was a runefather now, something he had wanted all his life, but now he had it, he felt strangely hollow inside. All that responsibility, all those people relying on him – if he could convince them to join his lodge in the first place. The plates of his robe caught on his muscles as he struggled out of it, and with relief he tossed it onto his bed. There was so much to do! He needed to appoint a runemaster, and he needed to marry…
He was so preoccupied he did not notice his visitor until she gave out a gentle cough. ‘A runefather’s greed’s worth of gold, and you toss it on the bed.’
‘Amsaralka?’
‘I should think so,’ she scolded. ‘I hope
there aren’t any other maidens frequenting your chambers.’
Amsaralka stepped forward fully into the runelight. At the sight of her Ulgathern forgot the events of the last two days. Amsaralka was breathtakingly beautiful. He took in her massive shoulders, her strong, heavy miner’s arms. Her feet were delightfully huge, and he suspected the toes (he often dreamt of her toes, when life was slow) hidden behind her steel toecaps to be exquisitely blunt. Her hair was gathered into two tresses, thick as an ogor’s golden torcs, and as lustrous. Her face was wide and square, her eyes attractively far apart. She had a broad mouth and full lips, behind which hid white teeth as evenly placed as bricks.
‘What are you mooning at?’ she said, and embraced him, then stood back and gripped his upper arms. Her hands were vices on his biceps. ‘What did they say? What is Karadrakk-Grimnir’s legacy, who will be the next runefather of Ulgaen-ar?’
Ulgathern reached up a broad finger and gently traced the downy hair on Amsaralka’s jawline. Fine hair, softer than spun gold.
‘Not I,’ he said.
She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. ‘Oh, Ulgathern.’
‘Such a pretty nose,’ he murmured. ‘Like a rock chip.’
She punched his arm. ‘This is important!’ she said. ‘Ulgathern, I don’t know what to say. You were your father’s favourite.’
‘I was his favoured,’ said Ulgathern. ‘Not favourite to lead Ulgaen-ar. He always thought me a little too frivolous.’ He toyed with the end of her tress.
She slapped his hand. ‘Leave that alone! We’re not married. And if you’re not runefather we won’t ever be,’ she said glumly. She pushed herself away from him.
‘A runeson’s not good enough for your darling mother?’
‘Runesons end up dead. You know what she says. I’m the daughter of the Chief of the Mining Fellowship, mother won’t let me.’
Sacrosanct & Other Stories Page 38
