Glancing around, he set off on the upward path.
Once in the hold, Drokki had no concern about encountering the enemy. This was the renegade Grimwrath Berzerker Brokkengird’s territory, and that made Drokki very nervous, more nervous than if he were facing a horde of pleasure-worshippers. Never mind that Drokki had come to find the Grimwrath; Brokkengird was insane.
Not the best of allies, but Drokki could see no other way. Only Brokkengird knew the safe route to Gaenagrik’s Realmgate.
Drokki followed his nose. The road continued upwards at an unvarying incline. A canyon, carved straight by duardin picks, opened up to his side. On the far side roads switched back and forth up the cliff, leading to the open mouths of mines. Lava glow came from the bottom of the crevasse, so faint it must have been hundreds of feet down. Strange sounds came out of the dark, louder and odder the further in he walked.
When Drokki reached the top of the canyon road, the smell of ur-gold had the back of his nose tickling. He held up his runic lantern, playing the bright yellow cone of light over a wide plaza, its walls carved with friezes showing the daily life of duardin centuries dead.
Something barged into Drokki’s back, sending him flying. He rolled over and over, coming to a halt face down over the precipice. His lamp flew from his hand, clattering from the canyon walls before spinning away. The light of it dwindled to nothing. He did not hear it hit the bottom.
A hard hand gripped him by the scruff of the neck and threw him backwards as if he weighed nothing. He flew across the plaza into the carved walls. Stone met his back, bruising his ribs and driving the wind from him, and he slid to the floor, gaping like a landed fish for breath as a figure advanced on him from the dark. He saw only the gold at first, glowing runes studded into skin in such numbers they should have torn the bearer apart with their magic. The smell of ur-gold was maddeningly strong, almost strong enough to overcome the powerful stink of unwashed duardin.
Brokkengird had found him.
‘Ur-gold for Brokkengird!’ said the duardin gleefully, aiming his axe at Drokki’s head. The runemaster rolled out of the way as he swung. Rock chips stung his cheek as the axe blade bit into the pavement.
Drokki kicked out in desperation, his feet meeting a body as yielding as rock. The priest wriggled back, but Brokkengird grabbed his ankle and yanked hard, dragging Drokki right towards him. The berzerker jumped onto the runemaster’s chest, laid his axe haft across his neck, and began to throttle.
‘Ur-gold! Ur-gold! Brokkengird kill, Brokkengird keep!’ He laughed madly.
Drokki pushed at the axe haft, but Brokkengird burned with the might of Grimnir, and his strength was terrifying.
‘Stop, stop!’ gasped out Drokki. ‘I can bring you more, much more.’
‘They all say that to Brokkengird when Brokkengird comes for them,’ said Brokkengird, and pressed down on his axe harder. The haft closed Drokki’s airway.
‘Pouch!’ he squeaked. ‘Ur-gold I brought for you! It’s… in… my… pouch…’ He flapped at his belt helplessly. A roaring filled his head. Blackness spotted with dancing colour crowded his vision.
Brokkengird removed his axe.
‘Ur-gold in pouch? No promise to go away and come back and never return? Many try to bribe Brokkengird, to keep their worthless beards.’
‘I have it, in truth!’
‘Then show Brokkengird.’
Drokki drew in a great wheezing breath and clutched at his neck.
‘Go on then,’ said Brokkengird. He grinned nastily. Even his teeth were made of ur-gold, haphazardly hammered into his gums. ‘Show me what you have.’
Drokki sat up. Still gasping, he undid the strings of his pouch and tipped out three new runes. ‘These are freshly forged,’ he croaked. ‘Warm from the forge and full of Grimnir’s might.’
Brokkengird reached out and took one of the runes reverently. He fingered it, and his face lit up with greed. ‘Good. Now Brokkengird will kill you.’
‘I can get you more!’ said Drokki hurriedly, holding out the other two.
‘How much more?’
‘Lots.’
‘You won’t come back, they never do,’ said Brokkengird. He stood up and lifted his axe. ‘No. Brokkengird kill you now, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘I will come back!’ protested Drokki. ‘I need to. I need you.’
Brokkengird lowered his axe a touch. ‘It’s a long time since anyone needed Brokkengird, longer since anyone wanted him. Why?’
‘I need a guide through Gaenagrik. I want to get to the Realmgate.’
‘Got a little message to deliver?’ said Brokkengird. ‘Going to see his mother?’
Drokki shook his head. He reached out for Brokkengird’s hand. Brokkengird looked at it, then back at Drokki’s face.
Drokki pulled his hand back, and got heavily to his feet. His chest burned, and his throat felt like it was clogged with hot rocks.
‘We’re leaving, to found a new lodge.’
‘Nowhere to go. Nothing to see. Only Chaos. Chaos everywhere,’ said Brokkengird. ‘Stay home, little priest.’
‘The end is coming,’ said Drokki. ‘And you can either kill me now and die with everyone who won’t leave, or you can take us to the Realmgate, be handsomely paid for it, and live.’
Brokkengird cocked his head on one side. His filthy, stinking crest flopped sideways. ‘Forty runes.’
‘Twenty.’
‘Thirty-five,’ said Brokkengird.
‘Twenty-seven…’ said Drokki.
‘Done,’ interrupted Brokkengird.
‘…and an oath,’ continued Drokki.
Brokkengird snarled. ‘No oaths!’
‘Brokkengird better swear not to harm me, and to lead the lodge to the Gaenagrik Realmgate, or Brokkengird won’t get anything,’ said Drokki. For one awful second he thought Brokkengird would strike him down, but the renegade berzerker let his axe head thump to the floor, and reached out one hand. He spat on it. His spittle sizzled in his palm.
‘Brokkengird swear.’
Drokki spat in his own hand and shook. ‘Be here in one week.’
‘Brokkengird here. Brokkengird swore!’ shouted Brokkengird.
Brokkengird retreated backwards. The last thing to vanish into the dark of the abandoned hold was his face. Drokki had a glimpse of gleaming eyes and gold, and then he was alone.
Drokki waited five minutes to make sure Brokkengird had gone before taking to his heels and running home as fast as he could.
Ulgathern-Grimnir gripped his new latchkey grandaxe tightly. The steel haft was still slippery with oils from the smithy. It smelled like home, and he felt a pang of regret. The doors of the Ulgahold were shut to him. The axe was taller than he was, toothed like a key. It would work as one too, once the lock had been crafted to fit it. For the time being there was no magma-vault for the meagre supply of ur-gold he had been apportioned, nowhere to hang his axe, nowhere to sleep. He had nothing.
And so I lead my people to beggary on the say-so of Drokki, he thought. Despite his disquiet, his heart told him he was doing the right thing. To say that to Drokki, however, was one effort too many, and he scowled at him instead.
The slot through the gates to Gaenagrik was a black, uninviting rectangle. Behind the short column of his people – those three hundred warriors, matrons, maidens and youngflames that had decided to come with him – was a tunnel with a collapsed roof open to the enemy, should they have the wit to look for it. They were vulnerable, front and back, and with nowhere to run to.
This was looking like a very bad idea.
‘Where is he?’ growled Ulgathern-Grimnir.
‘Um, well. He said he would be here,’ said Drokki.
‘Did he now? You know he’s a murderer?’ said Ulgavost. ‘Forty years ago Brokkengird was denied his eighteenth rune – more ur
-gold than any Fyreslayer in the Ulgahold has had hammered into his flesh for centuries. He was accused of the gold-greed, and did not take it well. Brokkengird cursed our father, fought his way out of the hold leaving several dead duardin behind. Since then he’s roamed the halls of Gaenagrik, killing whoever he comes across, and if they be duardin, taking their runes of power.’ Ulgavost grinned sadly. ‘If I’d have known what Drokki was about, I might have stayed. Brokkengird is a kinslayer, and insane.’
‘Loremaster Kaharagun said the same thing about Hulgar the Farseeing,’ said Drokki.
‘Now then, Drokki, doesn’t that tell you something when folks keep warning you about crazy people?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir testily. He shivered. His innate fire was a small warmth to hold on to in so grim a place. He sought out Amsaralka in the gloom behind him. She smiled at him nervously.
‘You came. Ulgavost came,’ said Drokki.
‘Aye. I did. I’m beginning to regret it,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. Ulgavost made a sour face.
‘He’ll be here. I made him swear. An oath will bind even a duardin as broke-minded as he.’
‘I’m willing to hope, but it’s far from a certainty, isn’t it? I prefer certainty. Hope is fool’s coin,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.
The gate jerked, and opened wider. Grit squealed in the bearings of the wheel on the bottom, setting up an unholy racket. Ulgathern-Grimnir’s hearthguard levelled their magmapikes.
‘Ah, yes. I think that’s him,’ said Drokki.
A filthy duardin emerged.
‘Brokkengird here,’ he said cheerily.
‘I am Ulgathern-Grimnir. You will show us the way?’ asked Ulgathern-Grimnir as haughtily as he could manage. He watched the Grimwrath Berzerker warily – the mad Fyreslayer had enough ur-gold runes punched into his skin that he could probably slaughter his way through the lot of them. He glittered with power. Ulgavost shifted the weight of his twin axes on his shoulders, readying them.
Brokkengird scowled. ‘Uppity young lord has Brokkengird’s ur-gold?’
‘Yes,’ sighed Ulgathern-Grimnir. He weighed a heavy pouch in his hand. ‘Twenty-seven runes, as you asked.’
Brokkengird took a step forward. Ulgathern-Grimnir snatched the pouch back, and stowed it in his pack. ‘You get us to the Realmgate first.’
‘Yes, little lordling,’ said Brokkengird with a smirk and a bow.
Ulgathern-Grimnir’s temper flared at his insolence. ‘Where,’ he asked Drokki, ‘do you find these people?’
‘Shhh!’ said Brokkengird, holding up a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet now. Enemy moving. They march on Ulgahold. Brokkengird has seen it! You are wise, crippled runemaster.’
‘The prophecy!’ said Drokki.
‘Right,’ said Ulgavost.
Ulgathern-Grimnir squinted at him in irritation. The door to Gaenagrik was open, and Brokkengird beckoned for them to follow.
‘I only hope you’re right, and this is no false gold hunt,’ muttered Ulgavost.
‘You know the way?’ called Ulgathern-Grimnir softly after Brokkengird.
‘Brokkengird know the way. Brokkengird want ur-gold. No gold for Brokkengird if not, eh? Not far now. Upper halls soon. Realmgate by the Thronecavern of the old fathers. This way! Quickly!’
Brokkengird hurried ahead and the column followed.
‘Madder than a grot trapped in a bottle with fireants, that one,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. He looked back down the column of duardin at the worried faces lit by dimmed runelamps. He couldn’t see Amsaralka, and his heart beat faster. He had to stop himself from hurrying back to find her. Three hundred souls, all his to protect, that was the reality of being a runefather. They looked tired, but they could not afford to rest. They pushed on deep into the abandoned hold. It was much bigger than the Ulgahold, and would take many hours to cross.
Suddenly, Drokki frowned. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘What?’ said Ulgavost.
‘Shh!’
Ulgathern-Grimnir held up his hand. With a lurch, the column came to a halt. True silence descended.
‘There!’ said Drokki. ‘Warhorns.’
They blew in the dark, back the way the duardin had come. A fearful chattering came after, the sound of wild laughter and wicked songs. It faded from hearing a moment, but Ulgathern-Grimnir knew it would only get louder.
‘Curse it all!’ he snarled. ‘They’ve found us.’
At the sound of the horns, Brokkengird increased the pace. The column found strength from their fear and began to jog. It was a slow but dogged pace that the thick legs of the duardin could sustain for days, if need be. The tunnels rumbled to the thumping of their feet and the jangle of gold and weapons.
But the servants of excess were lithe-limbed and quick. They were gaining, their horns soon becoming louder, their songs chasing after the fugitives.
‘Grimnir burn it! It’s not going to be fast enough,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We need a place to fight them off. Brokkengird!’ he shouted.
The Grimwrath Berzerker fell back to run beside the runefather.
‘This very bad,’ he said in his broken Grimnizh. ‘Brokkengird tell to stripling runemaster enemy move soon. They move now. You should have come earlier.’
‘We need to hold them back, to give Drokki time to open the Realmgate. Where can we make a stand?’
Brokkengird grinned. ‘Brokkengird not here for battle, Brokkengird paid to guide.’
‘I’ll give you more ur-gold, Grimnir roast you!’
‘Then this way, O lord of running duardin.’
Brokkengird took a sharp left, leading them onto a broad run of stairs that went up and up. The tunnel they occupied was high and finely made, although the vaulting of the ceiling was dangerously cracked, each piece held up only by the immense pressure exerted on it by the others.
Ulgathern-Grimnir’s lodge was sprinting now, the few beardless children with them wailing in terror. The older ones tried to be brave, but the fire in their eyes flickered uncertainly.
There were nine hundred steps. Ulgathern-Grimnir counted them, his axe bouncing hard on his back. His lungs burned and the column straggled out. He kept his eyes on his feet, not wanting to look up and see the task that lay ahead.
The last step flew away under his feet and he burst into a vast hall built into the side of Gaenagrik Mountain. Ruddy light shone through tall slot windows, and the high mullions separating the apertures from one another were thick and angled, reinforced against earthquake and covered with protective runes.
The magic was dead, and there was a lot of damage to the hall – almost all of it, to Ulgathern-Grimnir’s keen eye, down to the shiftings of the earth. There were signs of defacement to the statues and shrines in the alcoves along two walls, but otherwise it seemed that the forces of Chaos had moved on quickly after their victory a century ago, focusing their attentions on the living Fyreslayers of the Ulmount.
A huge dais dominated one end of the hall, with seats for the hold’s highest lodge-lords. As the hold’s heart, most of these had been smashed by the Slaaneshi, their pieces added to the scattering of rubble about the floor.
‘Gate that way!’ said Brokkengird, pointing to a round arch leading into another hall. ‘This Fifthstair, only way in. All others blocked.’ He pointed back down the way they had come. ‘No other way to get here. Well, one other. Brokkengird go there now!’ With that, the berzerker set off at a run none among Ulgathern-Grimnir’s duardin could match.
‘Make lines!’ called Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Hearthguard to the fore. Grokkenkir!’ he called. ‘Take the women and youngflames and go with Drokki to the gate! Can you get it open?’
Drokki swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes, that is the easy part.’
‘Good.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir gripped his axe and looked down the stairs. ‘We’ll hold them here. Hurry!’
Drokki ran after
Brokkengird through the huge round doorway into a second chamber. This was slightly smaller than the first. The run of windows continued along the mountainside there, and from this new position Drokki could see the peak of the Ulmount several miles away.
A road of cracked marble led down the length of the hall to another dais, this one crowned with a circular doorway that matched the first in form, but it was no ordinary portal.
‘The Realmgate!’ gasped Drokki.
The wall of the hall was visible twenty yards behind it. Unlike the door into the hall, which was fashioned from black granite blocks, the Realmgate was made of a dazzling white stone set with ur-gold runes that glowed with dormant magic.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Brokkengird. He had made the far side of the room, and stood beside an open stone door. ‘Best open it quick, or everyone die, and that make Brokkengird angry, because Brokkengird get no ur-gold. See you soon, cripple priest!’ he said, and dived through the doorway out of sight.
‘What are your orders?’ asked Grokkenkir. His Vulkite Berzerkers were restless behind him.
Drokki opened his mouth to answer.
‘What shall we do, runemaster?’ asked a maiden. This open show of fear set up a muttering among the duardin.
‘This was your idea!’ shouted an angry voice at the back. ‘We’re all going to die!’
The crowd surged forward around Drokki. All of a sudden they were shouting at him from every side.
‘Silence!’ bellowed a powerful female voice. ‘Shivering with fright will do us no good!’ Amsaralka pushed her way to the front of the knot. ‘I’d suggest you, Grokkenkir, get half your Vulkite Berzerkers down the end of the hall to stop the enemy coming in, and the other half by the gate to stop whatever might be on the other side killing us if it turns out not to be friendly. And stop glancing back through the door at the others. I know you’d rather be in the fight with your lord, but this is honourable duty, protecting the young and maidens and those others who don’t fight.’
Sacrosanct & Other Stories Page 40
