Fyreslayers

by Various Authors

  They broke into a run at the last few steps and crashed into the duardin with such might the Fyreslayers were forced back. The advantage the duardin possessed was quickly gone, then reversed, for the Chaos warriors were so tall they struck down at the shorter warriors once they were on level ground.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir swung his axe, cutting a purple-armoured warrior in two. To an untrained eye the grandaxe might have seemed unwieldy, too massive to be of much use, but the runes in Ulgathern-Grimnir’s body gave him great strength, and he moved the weapon as easily as if it were a willow switch. He stove in breastplates with the heavy knob on the end of the haft, cut heads from shoulders with the broad key-head, and caught sword and axe blades in its slots and broke them into pieces with hard twists. None could stand against the young runefather, and the fire in his eyes was terrible to behold.

  In spite of Ulgathern-Grimnir’s best efforts, the Fyreslayers were pushed backwards, past the throne dais, towards the doorway where the vulnerable members of their lodge waited for Drokki to open the gate. Grokkenkir’s warriors barred the entrance, but there were too few of them to hold the Chaos warriors back for long should Ulgathern-Grimnir fall.

  ‘Come on, Drokki! Get that gate open,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir through gritted teeth.

  The Chaos warriors chanted louder.

  ‘Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo!’

  ‘I am here, my children!’ hissed a feminine voice. Quiet, as intimate as a lover’s whisper, it nevertheless cut through the tumult of battle.

  A daemon of Chaos stepped into the hall from the stairway. As tall as a gargant, its head was that of a cow, supporting a broad spread of blood-red horns. It had powder-blue skin, four arms, and carried three swords and a long black leather whip. Its hoofed feet were encased in shining boots tipped with steel. The chainmail harness it wore was immodest. Useless as protection, it accentuated the features of the daemon’s mixed gender. Ulgathern found himself entranced by its sinuous movements. A heavy smell of unwashed bodies and cloying perfume filled the hall. A dark passion rose in Ulgathern-Grimnir in response, distasteful and intoxicating. He fought it down, but even as he brought it under control he knew that everything that brought him pleasure in future would be tainted by this experience.

  ‘I am Qualar Vo, the Unredeemed.’ It pointed a long, painted fingernail at Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Little duardin, so stubborn, so strong-willed, so boring. Let your passions flow, and join with me. Such things I will show you.’

  The Chaos warriors backed away as the daemon strode forward, hips swaying provocatively. The smell of it intensified, causing some of the Fyreslayers to moan, others to retch. A headache pounded in Ulgathern-Grimnir’s head. The creature stood over him, its loincloth flapping inches from his face, and the stink of it made him dizzy.

  ‘So fierce! You should enjoy the finer things in life more. Pleasure is a generous master.’

  ‘Pleasure in depravity, in carving the flesh from your own body because your sensations have become so dulled? No, thank you,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir, and he was horrified at how weak his voice sounded.

  ‘I know you yearn to embrace me, to feel my tender caresses.’ A long, prehensile tongue slipped from the daemon’s mouth. ‘You are young to be a runefather.’ The daemon surveyed Ulgathern-Grimnir’s small band of warriors. ‘Another doomed offshoot of your race, sent off to grub about in the dirt for fragments of your god. It’s simply tragic.’

  ‘You will not bend me to your will,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

  ‘No? Your brother submitted himself quite willingly.’

  ‘You lie!’

  ‘Then who opened the realmgate into the Ulgahold, if it were not Mangulnar? Even now your kinsfolk die thanks to his treachery.’

  Something snapped in Ulgathern-Grimnir. The fires of his heart were damped down by the thing’s musk no more, but flared up, burning the fog from his mind. He swung his axe at the daemon, but it laughed condescendingly and moved lightly out of reach.

  ‘How predictable. You little ones have always been so very dull, whichever world you burrow through.’

  Qualar Vo raised an arm, and the Chaos warriors came surging back. From the stairs poured a horde of twisted tribesmen, flooding around the circle of duardin, a portion of them running for the door and Grokkenkir’s berzerkers holding it.

  ‘I loathe dullness,’ said Qualar Vo. ‘My aim is to remove its stain from the world. Dance the bloody dance. Let slip your passions, my children!’

  The Chaos warriors attacked, and Ulgathern-Grimnir found himself in the fight of his life. The daemon musk slowed his warriors, but invigorated the enemy. Ulgathern-Grimnir held his breath as he swung his latchkey grandaxe, swatting away the warriors. He was fixed on the daemon, but always it moved away from him, directing its endless swarm of decadent worshippers to attack Ulgathern-Grimnir in its stead. He hewed and hewed until his runes burned so hot they singed his flesh. Even with this magic, however, he tired, and his axe became heavier. He did not relent, ploughing on toward the daemon, but it was hopeless. His warriors fell, but the Chaos ranks did not diminish no matter how many he hacked down, and the daemon would not come within reach.

  Nightmare creatures crowded him, their weapons and writhing appendages reaching out to attack.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir’s runes fizzled, the magic starting to fade.

  ‘Ah! Grimnir cannot help you now!’ said the daemon, and it presented its weapons and advanced on him. ‘It is time we danced.’

  ‘Only now that I am reduced to my mortal strength do you come at me? You are a coward!’

  ‘What need of honour have I? None. Another tedious mortal conceit. I would enjoy killing you as much whether you were a hero or an old woman.’

  Qualar Vo leapt at Ulgathern-Grimnir. It brought two of its three swords down hard. The runefather lifted his axe over his head. It was cripplingly heavy without Grimnir’s magic to sustain him. The swords slammed into the metal haft, driving him to his knees.

  ‘Pathetic,’ said the daemon. It raised its sword to strike again. ‘Now you die.’

  The trumpeting roar of a magmadroth boomed from the stairwell, followed by a wash of fire.

  ‘Then again, maybe not,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

  Brokkengird bounded out of the stairwell, framed by a blazing ball of ur-salamander bile. Ulgathern-Grimnir marvelled at how high he leapt, his legs lent incredible strength by his ur-gold. The runes burned all over him with unfettered fire. His eyes and mouth shone as brightly as a forge’s heart. The air wavered around him.

  Brokkengird came down swinging. His axe was a blur, taking one of the daemon’s arms off at the elbow. Stinking black blood jetted from the stump, but though it roared in outrage, the daemon responded immediately with its own weapons. Brokkengird moved so quickly his body was streaked with glowing trails of fire magic. He and the daemon traded blows furiously.

  The sneer on the daemon’s face shrank and vanished as it was forced back by Brokkengird’s relentless attack. It lashed its whip round and round, seeking to keep Brokkengird away. The grimwrath berzerker grabbed it, and yanked hard. His muscles were so saturated in magic he had the might to challenge a Keeper of Secrets. Qualar Vo stumbled, falling to one knee. With a triumphant ululation, Brokkengird spun on the spot, sweeping his mighty axe around and down. The daemon’s head tumbled to the stone, the black fluid that served it for blood spraying forth.

  From the stairwell emerged a magmadroth, huge and furious. The black and red striping of its hide was instantly recognisable to Ulgathern-Grimnir; Grakki-grakkov, Tulgamar-Grimnir’s mount.

  ‘Tulgamar!’ he called. ‘Tulgamar!’

  Ulgavost looked up at the name and saw for the first time the arrival of their brother. He shot Ulgathern-Grimnir a grin and charged into the tribesmen between their position and Tulgamar-Grimnir. Fyreslayers came in Tulgamar’s wake, slaughtering all before them. T
he magmadroth stamped around itself, crushing the Slaaneshi under its giant clawed feet. It half-turned, its tail sweeping a dozen men from the ground and sending them crashing to their deaths against the wall. It drew back its head, its chest swelled, and it spat out thick bile that ignited on contact with the air, spattering a swathe of the enemy with fire.

  ‘Grimnir! Grimnir!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. His exhausted duardin had fought free of their knot. Most of the Chaos warriors were dead. What had been a fight for survival had turned in their favour and become an extermination. They cut down the remaining daemon-lovers without mercy.

  Soon enough, Ulgathern-Grimnir found himself standing before Tulgamar.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, grinning with relief. ‘I thought you weren’t going to come!’

  ‘You know I considered it.’ Tulgamar slapped the steaming hide of his mount. ‘The choice was presented to me again, and this time in your favour, when Mangulnar opened the forbidden gate. Daemons and worse poured into the middle deeps, and at the same time they attacked the Hardgate, sending great beasts against it. Drokki was right. The hold has fallen, Ulgathern-Grimnir. We barely got out alive. We followed your trail, fearful of the daemonkin and of Brokkengird.’

  The grimwrath berzerker gave them a cheery wave at the mention of his name.

  ‘But then he brought us here, and, well. You know the rest.’

  ‘What happened to Mangulnar?’

  Tulgamar shrugged. ‘I can only pray to Grimnir he found the reward he deserved.’

  ‘Ranganak? Ulgamaen? Briknir? The others…?’

  ‘All of them dead, or soon to be,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir sorrowfully. ‘We have Marag-Or, and I have maybe three hundred warriors with me, double that of the folk from all the lodges.’

  The ground shook, a sign of an impending eruption. The whole of Gaenagrik shuddered.

  ‘The runemasters have called upon the Ulmount. They’re bringing it down,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

  ‘We have to go,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘This way.’ The three of them ran into the gate hall, hundreds of duardin streaming after them.

  The realmgate’s aperture glowed bright. On the other side was the peaceful scene of a ruined city being reclaimed by forest; a hot, humid day bright with sunshine filtered through dissipating mist.

  ‘Drokki! You did it!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

  ‘Yes, yes I did,’ said Drokki, sounding somewhat surprised.

  ‘Where does it lead?’ said Ulgavost.

  ‘The city of Vharrashee.’

  ‘Mannish?’ said Ulgavost.

  Drokki nodded. ‘It was. No longer. This was Gaenagrik’s main trading partner in the Mordash lowlands. That is why this gate went there. The Volturung hold is some way from there.’

  Through the great windows of the hall they could see the Ulmount erupting. Lava fountained skyward, the amount of it and height it attained lending it the illusion of slowness. Orange tongues of fire ran down the mountainside. The ground shook.

  ‘The mountain sings its songs of fury,’ said Ulgavost softly.

  Gaenagrik shook again. Rubble crashed down at the far end of the hall.

  ‘It won’t save them. It will kill us too, if we do not go through the gate,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir urgently.

  Ulgavost nodded. Without another word, he stepped through the gate. On the other side he looked around, inspecting the ruins. Tulgamar-Grimnir barked orders that sent a large regiment of his own, fresher warriors after his brother to protect him.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir roused his own weary people. ‘Get them up. We need to leave. Now.’

  ‘What kind of land is it, through there?’ asked Tulgamar-Grimnir of Drokki.

  ‘I can tell you… Well, I can tell you what kind of land it was, but what kind it is now? That we will have to see.’

  ‘Are you sure Volturung still stands?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir. ‘Oh well.’ He stamped down on the thick scales of his mount. ‘Huphup, Grakki-grakkov! Into the woods! You’re going home to the lands of fire!’

  The great ur-salamander rumbled happily, and plodded through the realmgate.

  Drokki and Ulgathern-Grimnir remained on the Ghur side of the gate, shepherding their relatives and followers through. Marag-Or came last.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir grabbed his arm before he could pass through the shimmering skin of magic dividing one realm from the next. ‘Tell me. If I had done as my father asked, and not listened to Drokki, would the hold have fallen?’

  ‘Prophecies are tricky things, Ulgathern-Grimnir,’ said Marag-Or. ‘Often they contain the seed of their own fulfilment. Who can tell?’ He pulled his arm free, and passed through the realmgate.

  Drokki went next, leaving Ulgathern-Grimnir alone in the shaking halls of Gaenagrik.

  He took one last look at the burning Ulmount before stepping through to another world.

  He never set eyes upon his home again.

  II

  Eight days after coming into the realm of Aqshy, the Ulgaen lodges came weary and footsore down mountain paths to the Broken Plains. Through beastman-infested swamps and into the arid Firespike Mountains they had travelled. The mood of the lodges was mixed. In Aqshy they found much to delight them, and being in their ancestral realm lifted their spirits. In the swamps the air was as warm and thick as that of a forge, and pleasingly sharp in the mountains. But their thoughts strayed often to their lost kin. They had little food, and were alone in a hostile land.

  So it was that when the plains opened up before them their hearts lifted. They were as broken as their name suggested, a country-sized lava flow that had been cracked by the movements of the earth into giant broken plates of stone, all tilted at thirty degrees, their raised sides pointing away from the mountains. They were all of a size – an endless sharp-edged landscape of black teeth salted with white sand. The plains were featureless, but for a duardin causeway running down the middle of the plain parallel to the mountain range. The road was obvious from on high, but as they reached the plains it disappeared between the jagged stone teeth, leaving the Fyreslayers to negotiate a labyrinth that taxed even their finely honed sense of direction.

  The sun beat down mercilessly. In the crevices between the rocks there was not a breath of wind. It was hot enough to bake bread, and it made them sweat, fire-born though they were.

  Though the journey to the road from the mountains was but a short part of their trek, by the time they reached it they were more exhausted than ever before, and coated with dust.

  Ulgathern-Grimnir clambered onto the causeway. In one direction the road stretched away to the vanishing point, disappearing into the shimmering heat haze of the plains. In the other direction, where the mountains thrust themselves out into the desert, lay the Voltdrang of the Volturung lodges. It was many miles away yet, but so vast in scale that they could easily see it from their new vantage.

  A whole mountainside had been refashioned into the roaring face of Grimnir-at-war. His curled beard cascaded down the rocks to merge with those of the plains. His craggy brows made a stepped series of battlements. His eyes were giant windows, also fortified, between a hooked nose topped with a rampart. The lower jaw of his roaring mouth disappeared under the stone. A huge throat went into the cliff. At the bottom of it was a massive pair of stone gates whose fyresteel reinforcements glinted in the sun.

  Tulgamar-Grimnir’s magmadroth clambered onto the road after Ulgathern. Ulgavost followed him. The three siblings stared at their goal.

  ‘That’s an impressive sight,’ said Ulgavost.

  ‘Aye,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

  ‘What do we do? March up and knock?’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir. Grakki-grakkov rumbled and yawned.

  ‘I don’t have a better idea,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Get everyone up on the road. It
’ll be quicker going, and better if they can see us coming.’

  It took far longer to get their people out of the baking crevasses than Ulgathern-Grimnir would have liked. By the time all eleven hundred of them were on the road, the sun was going down and a strong wind was coming out of the desert.

  ‘Get a move on!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We can’t be stuck out here at night!’ He turned to his brothers. ‘Get the best we have up front. Let’s look presentable. I want us to arrive as lords, not beggars.’

  Arranged with as much dignity as they could muster, they continued on the last leg of their journey.

  As they neared the hold, cairns appeared atop the rocks, singly or in twos and threes at first, then with increasing frequency until every tilted stone tooth was capped.

  ‘Armour, and arms,’ said Ulgavost.

  ‘Um, yes,’ said Drokki. ‘They build them from the many enemies who have come against their fortress and failed.’

  ‘I know that!’ said Ulgavost. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘His point is, the stories are true,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

  ‘They’re not just true,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir, taking in the endless heaps of bones and armour, and the massive face growing steadily before the column. Already it was big enough to swallow the sky, and they weren’t even halfway there. ‘They don’t tell the half of it.’

  They walked on into evening. The mountain reared higher and higher, Grimnir’s face appearing titanically huge.

  The Fyreslayers were already feeling daunted when a tremendous peal of trumpets blasted out from the Voltdrang. They blared across the silent desert. With no other noise to challenge them, they seemed to go on forever.

  ‘The gates! They’re opening!’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

  A muted cheer went up from the column.

  The rattling of the gate mechanism came to them cleanly, again for the lack of any other noise to compete. Shouting and the sound of marching feet echoed around the wide throat of Grimnir, followed by more trumpets.