Fyreslayers

by Various Authors

  ‘But some of his prophecies were right,’ said Ulgathern.

  ‘And a lot of them were wrong,’ said Marag-Or. ‘The war of a hundred and one years will come to an end, as lightning cleaves the sky, salvation comes late for those that see no sense, greed overcomes virtue and the lodge-line shall be broken,’ said Marag-Or. ‘That’s the one that’s got Drokki all in a lather, isn’t it?’ He leaned forward, the beads in his grey-shot orange beard clacking together. ‘Drokki, Drokki. What’s to be done?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Ulgathern-Grimnir?’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

  ‘That we head for the Broken Plains of Aqshy and the Volturung. They’re our ancestral kin. They will take us in.’

  ‘For the love of Grimnir,’ muttered Briknir-Grimnir. ‘We’ve not had any contact with them for a hundred years!’

  ‘We’ve not had contact with anyone for a hundred years,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We’ve been under siege for over a century. Qualar Vo is not–’

  ‘Do not utter that name in my throne hall!’ yelled Briknir-Grimnir. An uncomfortable silence fell. The new runefathers looked uneasily at one another.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir swallowed. ‘He is not going to give up. There are more of the Slaaneshi out there than ever. It’s only a matter of time. Volturung were always the strongest among our kin lodges. They’re the most likely to still be there.’

  ‘If you don’t die on the way, which you will,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Can you have a word with Drokki?’ said Briknir-Grimnir to Marag-Or. ‘Get this nonsense out of his head?’

  ‘I will, Runefather. As soon as we’re done here.’

  ‘He should never have been accepted into the temple,’ said Tulkingafar.

  Marag-Or turned his sole good eye on the younger runemaster. ‘Aye, but he was. By me. Drokki’s a good lad. Only the one arm, and he draws the cleanest runes out of the ur-gold I’ve seen for a long time. He’s better than you were when I trained you, runemaster. Bear that in mind when you’re badmouthing him.’

  Tulkingafar’s lips curled. Sparks sprang up in his eyes. He tried to hide it, but the fires of his heart were stoked by his hatred of Drokki.

  ‘That’s that then,’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

  ‘With all reverence, uncle, it is not!’ Ulgathern-Grimnir said.

  Briknir opened his mouth and shut it again, setting it firm. ‘What then?’

  ‘I have a very bad feeling about it, here, in my fires.’ He patted his stomach and hurried on before he could be interrupted. ‘Next week it’ll be one hundred and one years since the siege began. We’ve suffered some setbacks recently.’ He did not cite his father’s death. ‘There’s this storm… We should go.’

  ‘Lad, runefather,’ said Marag-or, ‘that prophecy could apply to anyone, anywhere in any realm at any time. How many hundred-year sieges have there been since Chaos came to the realms? It’s not one or two, let me tell you.’

  Briknir-Grimnir grumbled and his big orange beard shook. ‘Feelings now is it lad? That’s no way to run a lodge! Do your feelings know how to bypass the siege? Get down off the mountain into the Howling Waste? We can’t chance the Ulmount’s realmgate, I’ll tell you that much, nephew. That’s under my protection, and it will not be opened. It cannot be opened, not since that perfumed libertine out there did his business on it.’

  ‘I know it’s tainted,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘I’m not a fool, uncle.’

  ‘Well then, looks like you’re stuck here with us,’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

  ‘Drokki says he has an idea. He won’t tell me what it is until he’s sure it will work, you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Runefathers Tulgamar-Grimnir, Ulgamaen-Grimnir, Ranganak-Grimnir. What say you? You are the masters of your own lodges now, this concerns us all.’

  Ranganak-Grimnir shook his head. ‘I say we stay.’

  Tulgamar-Grimnir held up his hands and shrugged.

  ‘I’ll not be going. Unlike my brother, I’ll be obeying my father’s dying wish,’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir. ‘Ulgaen-ar’s home is here.’

  ‘Baharun, baharar!’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir’s hearthguard, clashing their wristbands together. Many were young, newly elevated from the lower ranks of Ulgaen-ar lodge, and greater in number than those sworn to the other runefathers.

  ‘There you are,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘I’m sorry, lad, we’ll not be abandoning the Ulgahold. It might’ve been your great-grandfather founded this place, but it was your father and me built it up from nothing. When the ur-lodge fell, we stood strong. Gaenagrik’s a ruin. Last time I looked we’re still here. We’ll not be leaving. Now stop this nonsense. One hundred and one years’ll come and go like every other anniversary. The Slaaneshi scum outside have been getting complacent of late, we’ll see them off.’

  ‘This is a time for celebration, and you scaremonger,’ said Tulkingafar coldly.

  ‘No one agrees with me?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

  ‘No lad,’ said Briknir. ‘I thought I made that quite clear.’

  Ulgathern-Grimnir looked around the semi-circle of Ulgaen-zumar’s seated elders. Their faces were hostile. He looked to Marag-Or, but he shook his head. His brothers would not meet his eyes, all but Tulgamar-Grimnir, who mouthed an apology.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir sighed. ‘Then firstly I appoint Drokki of the Withered Arm to be my runemaster, with all the rights and responsibilities thereunto.’

  ‘He’s not ready!’ snapped Tulkingafar.

  ‘Quiet!’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir from the corner of his mouth. ‘Let my brother have his moment of infamy. If he’s going to cut off his own head with his axe, let’s not help him.’

  ‘Is he ready?’ asked Briknir-Grimnir.

  ‘In some ways, yes, in others, no,’ said Marag-Or. ‘He’s got the rune gift, and he can sniff out ur-gold better than most. But he’s yet to gain wisdom.’

  ‘Can’t teach that, Marag-Or.’

  ‘No, got to earn it,’ said Marag-Or. ‘Being runemaster will do that, or he’ll die.’

  ‘Alright then, Marag-Or releases Drokki from his service.’

  ‘He has his permission to found his own temple,’ said Marag-Or.

  ‘And good luck to him,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Will that stop all this crazy talk?’

  ‘No.’ Ulgathern spread his hands. ‘I invoke the right of far-wandering. I will take my people with me, and I will go. We shall found a new hold of our own, somewhere safe, for our lodge to occupy.’

  ‘The stipulation on your runefatherhood was that you stay,’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

  ‘It’s not binding. It was my father’s wish, but it can’t be a command. The right of a runeson gifted with ur-gold as runefather to found his own hold is paramount.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir swallowed his guilt. ‘I checked.’

  Briknir-Grimnir’s face hardened. ‘There’s a reason your father didn’t tap you for the runefatherhood of Ulgaen-ar. Too full of bloody stupid ideas, that head of yours is. Leave us? You’ll be stripping our defence mighty thin, lad. Your father wanted you to open up the old halls, strengthen the Ulgahold from the inside out, not tear it apart.’

  ‘My father is dead!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘And I am a runefather in my own right. It is my command that my portion of the folk of Ulgaen-ar leave.’ He choked on his own words, and became quiet. ‘Before it is too late.’

  Briknir-Grimnir’s lips thinned. ‘You’re strong-headed. I have to respect that. I can’t stop you. It’s your right to go if you want it. But you’ve a touch too much fire in your brain if you reckon on this being a good idea.’

  ‘Thank you, uncle.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir bowed.

  ‘Two things, nephew. You don’t have to bow to me any more, you’re a runefather now.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ulgathern.

  ‘And the other is this, you try to take any of my folk with you, or tell them what you told
me to get their bellows pumping and the iron in them soft enough that you can beat your daft ideas into them, then I’ll take that as an act against me, and I won’t hold back.’

  Ulgavost stepped forward from the throng of Ulgaen-ar’s representatives. ‘I’ll come with you brother, more for the adventure than anything else. There’s not much here for me now.’

  Ulgathern-Grimnir nodded at Ulgavost gratefully. Encouraged, he looked to the others. They looked away.

  ‘Tulgamar?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘I know you’re torn. Come with me. Your magmadroth would be mighty handy.’

  ‘I…’ said Tulgamar. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Your brother can make up his own mind!’ snapped Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Now get gone if you’re going. I won’t wish you luck, because you’ll need more than there is in all this realm. I only hope you don’t get us all killed and that your ur-gold isn’t lost for all time.’

  ‘Ur-gold is never lost, Runefather,’ said Marag-Or.

  ‘So you keep saying,’ Briknir-Grimnir slumped into his throne. ‘But if this kahuz-bahan has his way, some will be. Go on Ulgathern-Grimnir. Audience is over. Get out.’

  Drokki emerged from a hidden door low down the Ulmount. The underway between the ruined hold of Gaenagrik and the Ulgahold was blocked for a way, and he was forced to venture over ground. He consulted the map in his hand, an ancient artefact made of etched brass. It showed the many ways that had once existed to Gaenagrik. Only one existed now.

  Gaenagrik would be dangerous, unstable after so many years uninhabited. The moulding runes that held its stone together would have failed, leaving it at the mercy of the Hornteeth Mountains’ rumblings. He could find his way to the city easily enough, but he did not know the safe way through to the hold’s realmgate. In point of fact, he did not know if the gate were still accessible. He needed a guide, and it was to look for one that he ventured outside the safety of the duardin city.

  Drokki followed a path along the cliffs over the Hardgate. He looked down often onto the Chaos camp, nervous he would be seen. Cries of ecstasy and agony drifted up from the town and wild music played from many quarters, clashing discordantly. Under the harsh, acrid smell of ash and burning rock, there was the cloying stink of daemonic perfume. Bat-winged creatures sported in the sky over the camp, showering it with their excrement and fluids. It was these that Drokki feared the most. If they spotted him, they would be on him in moments, and would tear him to pieces. But they were absorbed with their games and they did not see him. Luckily, he did not have far to go.

  A black hole opened in the mountainside. Drokki scrambled gratefully toward it, steadying himself with his good arm as he skidded down the loose material into the welcome dark.

  The angry red sky was reduced to a ragged patch that flickered with distant lightning. He was back in the underway to Gaenagrik, and he hurried down out of sight.

  A few hundred steps from the opening, the tunnel broadened. The raw rubble of rockfalls was replaced by carefully laid blocks of granite. Smooth setts, so artfully laid that the joins were almost invisible, paved the floor. He held up his lantern and ignited it with a word.

  The old road to Gaenagrik stretched ahead into the black.

  This is it then, he thought, and set off at a hurried pace.

  Signs of war were visible here and there – the bones of an overlooked duardin, or shattered remnants of enemy armour. The underway was otherwise free of debris and in good condition. The realms were filled with ruins, but ‘duardin-made, eternally stays’ went the old saying, and here that was evident.

  The underway sloped downward. Gaenagrik Mountain was lower than the Ulmount. He went as fast as he dared, trying to make his footfalls as light as possible, painfully aware that this was the route his own ancestors had fled along when Gaenagrik had fallen, and that to all objective sense he was heading the wrong way.

  He went unchallenged. Bones were the only things he saw.

  After a time a pair of richly carved gates materialised in his lantern light. They were ajar, the gap between them an impenetrable black. The drafts of the tunnel were forced into sighing winds by the narrowness of the gap, and Drokki smelled slow decay.

  He squeezed between them, and came into the outskirts of Gaenagrik. The road split, half going upward, half down. Doorways to deserted guardrooms showed as dark holes. Nervously he sniffed the air, his zharrgrim-trained nose searching for ur-gold. The smell of ur-gold was like no other, a tingle at the back of the sinuses, like before a good sneeze. It didn’t take him long to find it. That would help him find the duardin he sought. Doing so would either save his life, or end it. He patted the pouch of fresh ur-gold runes at his belt, hoping that they would be enough.

  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 upward 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-gol
d 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.’