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Ashes of Grimnir – Michael J Hollows

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Gotrek & Felix: The First Omnibus’

A Black Library Publication

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Ashes of Grimnir

Michael J Hollows

They were surrounded by death. Death clouded the heavens in ash. Death stalked them at every turn. The duardin of the Ealrung lodge knew death, and they were not afraid.

Runesmiter Thorrok held aloft an urn, cast in the Temple of Fire itself, and uttered an oath. He tipped the golden vessel and dust landed on his runemaster’s brow. It coated Orrag-un’s beard and arms, giving his unarmoured skin the sickly pallor of the dead. Around him, the bass tones of the duardin joined together in a chant. Now that the binding of ash had begun, Orrag-un led them, uttering the sacred words. He allowed his eyes to droop shut.

There was fire. It bathed his skin in its warmth, a comforting embrace. The heat haze was familiar, homely, but something was wrong. The fires raged in the forge, angry and vengeful. He stepped forward on cautious limbs, leaving the magmahold behind in spirit. Battle raged across the Ealfort, as it had done many times before. Its song called to him, and he felt the warrior essence of Grimnir stir within. This time the battle was different, wrong. Spectres flashed around the fort, passing through walls. The duardin couldn’t pin down their attackers. Fyresteel rose and descended, axes cutting into the dead as they attacked, but it was not enough. Duardin fell where they fought. Scores of the undead battered at the gates with broken and rusting weapons. Ancient war machines, makeshift and rotting, catapulted lumps of fiery rock over the walls. A boulder smashed into his path, splintering into pieces, forcing him back.

The essence of a fyreslayer rushed past him, bare feet slapping on the stone pathway, and jumped axe first into a group of enemy revenants. Fyresteel swung with fury, hacking into the dead, before they outnumbered the berzerker, cutting him down. Ealgrum-Grimnir bellowed and led the charge. The runefather swung his latchkey greataxe with practised ease from atop the lodge’s last remaining magmadroth, Whiteflank. A spectral general on a decaying horse attacked the duardin with a tarnished greatsword, before an enormous aethereal scythe manifested and swept the runefather aside, and he disappeared from view.

Orrag-un descended another staircase. They were going to be overrun and the Ealfort would fall if they could not change their fate. A creature, skeletal equine head leering beneath a dark cowl, lunged at him with a long and rusting glaive. He raised his runic iron to parry, but the stalker was quicker than its bulk would have suggested. He felt the blade pierce flesh and roared in despair.

His roar filled the magmahold as his essence was pulled back into the chamber. It had not been the vision he had been searching for. The Ealrung were used to relentless attack, and even in this rare respite they all dreamed of the next battle. However, Orrag-un had been searching for something else, not a warning but hope of salvation. Sweat broke out on his brow, but not from the heat of the forge at his back. He had seen the fall of the lodge, doomed to be overrun by the dead. He kept his eyes closed, breathing deeply, and resumed the chant. After a few seconds Orrag-un smelled that telltale scent.

He walked the ashen path, the ancient road that led from the Ealfort back to the Ealrung’s ancestral homeland. None had walked the path and returned. The landscape was covered in a thick fog, but through it he could feel the essence he was searching for. It called to him, a vibration, a siren song, a part of himself. He was Grimnir the wanderer, drawn towards a great barrow built atop a mountain. It called to him; as Grimnir, he was led to their salvation, a way to save the Ealrung. He climbed, the might of Grimnir lending his muscles strength. The essence called him on. He would not falter. This time he would not fail.

Orrag-un opened his eyes. He was back in the Temple of Fire, the lava bathing the chamber in an orange glow. With the light of the forge at his back, his body cast a long shadow across the assembled duardin, but the Ealrung had learnt not to trust in shadows. The magma was a part of them, and would one day turn all their bodies to ash, but the shadows would bring only death. When he had first become runemaster the chamber had been full, but they had lost too many since then. His eyelids drooped again.

There was ur-gold nearby. The smell was thick in his nostrils. Grimnir had climbed the mountain, had sought out his prize. Only a thin light of flame fought back the darkness of the barrow, but he did not need light to find his way. The ur-gold sang to him, the essence of Grimnir the warrior. He who was Grimnir and also not Grimnir. Wanderer and warrior both.

The skeletons of a long-dead mountain hold stared back at him, accusing whispers on the wind. He did not know how they had died. He could not save them now. They were beyond help, but he could save the Ealrung. There was a faint crack in the darkness, a volcano fire. It called to him as the ur-gold did, the light of a forge waiting to be given new life. It revealed its secret to him in the fires of the mountain. There was hope here, when there had been no hope before.

Orrag-un wrenched open his eyes, casting off the vision. The feeling of strength in his muscles died down to an ember as the essence of Grimnir left him. Yet still he felt strong. He felt hope.

Thorrok leant over to him. ‘What did you see, runemaster?’ he asked, eager.

‘Grimnir. Fire. Ur-gold…’

‘We must recover the ur-gold.’ Ealgrum-Grimnir spoke from atop his obsidian throne. Varga moved through the others to gain a better view. Every duardin in the lodge joined the binding of ash. It was an important ritual passed down from their ancestors in the Ulrung lodge. Usually she would stand at the back observing quietly, but today she would take her rightful place. The runefather’s beard, daubed in a streak of white ash, was the longest in the room, and the Ealrung’s latchkey greataxe lay across his lap. Braziers flickered and fire filled the forge. There was a crash as the runesmiter’s apprentice, Ongrad, struck the gong. As it vibrated, the light of the forge reflected and shifted around the room, pulling at the shadows.

The binding of ash was over, and now they would decide what to do. It would be the runefather’s decision, but Varga would make sure she played her part. She felt the lines of the fyresteel war-picks that hung at her side. They were perfectly weighted, a fine example of duardin craftsmanship. Soon she would wield them again; the dead would return and they would all have to fight. She longed to take the battle to the enemy, and whatever happened she would be ready. She would fight for their future.

Torgrum, first runeson, turned to speak. ‘At what cost?’ he asked his father. ‘Nagash’s legions wish to draw us out and away from the safety of the Ealfort. We cannot divide our forces like this.’

The runefather’s laugh was hollow. ‘For too long have we sat within the walls of our lodge, my son. If there is ur-gold to be found, we must recover it.’ Though he spoke only to Torgrum, his voice travelled for all to hear.

‘They will attack as soon as we have left the lodge. What of the flamelings? Without the fyrds they’ll be defenceless.’ Torgrum pulled at his long beard with one hand, its length almost equalling the runefather’s. It was about time that Torgrum set out to make his own forge. He should lead the expedition, but Varga knew he would never leave the Ealfort.

‘Then we must send only what we can afford to lose. For the good of all Ealrung.’

‘You are suggesting we march to our deaths? Give up our lives for the scant promise of more ur-gold? Who would lead such a quest?’

Ealgrum-Grimnir nodded in the direction of the runemaster, signalling him to speak. Orrag-un stood on the dais, daubed in the ashes of the dead. The white powder covered his lined face, his hair and his fists. ‘Which of you will swear an oath and honour the lodge in finding the ur-gold?’ he called. His voice was deep, the groan of ancient wood.

Varga barrelled her way through the assembled duardin, feeling their anger at her slight. Her usual place was at the back, but this time she would not be forgotten. ‘I will swear the oath!’ she bellowed. ‘I will find the ur-gold.’ Once sworn, a duardin would never break an oath except in death, and even then they wouldn’t do it lightly. She could feel the glimmerlust rising. The essence of Grimnir called to her, as it called to all fyreslayers. They all felt the need for ur-gold, even those with many runes. Some said that only made the glimmerlust worse.

‘You?’ The runefather’s laughter was like thunder, rolling through the magmahold. ‘Why you, my daughter, when I have many sons?’ He waved the slab of his hand in the direction of the twelve duardin by his side.

‘She has earned the right, runefather.’ Groggni stepped forward to stand alongside Varga. From a flameling her uncle had always been more like a father to her. She had longed to be a part of his fyrd. ‘She has trained with fyresteel and throwing axe. And I will lend my fyrd to her quest.’

‘You have always been too sentimental, brother,’ the runefather replied, a light chuckle on his voice. ‘And I know that even if I tried you would not heed my warning. You will lead your fyrd from my gates whether I give you my permission or not.’

‘Grimnir has given us a sign,’ Varga interjected, hoping that invoking the name of their god would give her request the power it needed. ‘I will do this.’

Ealgrum-Grimnir stroked his long beard and looked between the runemaster and his sons. It was the runefather’s decision and they knew better than to argue. They would all be needed when the nighthaunt attacked again. Varga had offered them a way to maintain their defence and to find the ur-gold. She would not let them down.

‘Very well then, runedaughter. Bring us news of the ur-gold, or take a toll in souls.’ He looked at the runesons assembled beside him, and their beards bristled in dishonour. ‘Go and succeed where your brothers have failed.’

Varga turned and stepped from the magmahold, leaving the shouts of her objecting brothers behind her. She had her oath-quest, and now she would need to prepare.

The great brass doors of the Ealfort banged shut behind Varga, the sound of hammer on anvil. A bas-relief of their god, Grimnir, looked out upon Shyish, a warning to their enemies. It was some time since the western gates had last opened, and time would pass before they were opened again.

As she walked onto the path, a large duardin was waiting for her. He was a head taller than Varga, and could have passed for a young manling, if not for the heavy beard that hung down to his waist and the thick shoulders of a duardin.

‘Ardvig,’ she greeted him.

‘Runedaughter,’ he said, in a growl. ‘Ardvig’s been waiting for you.’

Ardvig had so many ur-gold runes it was a wonder that they didn’t drive him mad with glimmerlust. He was more ur-gold than skin, and even if they had more, she wondered where it would go. It was only due to the fact that the grimwrath berzerker was such a fearsome warrior that he had been afforded so much ur-gold.

‘You need Ardvig’s axe,’ Ardvig continued. ‘Soulbane will stop anything that attacks us.’

He lifted the double-headed fyresteel axe as if to emphasise his point. He would be a potent force no matter what weapon he wielded, but she was thankful all the same.

‘You honour me, Ardvig. I welcome your strength.’

‘There’s no honour in waiting here to die. Ardvig pledges his axe to you, runedaughter. Give Ardvig something to fight and kill. Ardvig will not die in there!’

He pointed his large hand toward the Ealfort, roughly in the direction of the mausoleum chamber. Varga nodded, agreeing, and clasped his arm in a warrior’s grip. It was as good as an oath between them. He would be a welcome addition to the group of ageing and forgotten duardin she had assembled for the oath-quest. He was the best fighter the Ealrung had, and her brothers would not be happy that he had defied the runefather to join them. She glanced back at the gate. ‘Good,’ she said, as she joined the others on the path. ‘We will need you.’

As they walked, the sun was obscured by the thick cloud of ash that hung in the air like a funereal shroud. It cast a purple hue across the landscape, adding to the shade of the sands at their feet. It was impossible to tell the time of day, or for how long they had been on the path.

‘Best not to look up, flameling,’ Groggni said, trudging past. Even though she had long come of age, he had not stopped calling her that. Other fyreslayers mocked him for failing to found his own lodge, but Varga was close to her uncle. Having him nearby was reassuring, even when the rest of her family had abandoned her to this fate. She tried to push the bitterness down inside. Let it fuel the fire at her heart, and give her strength for the coming battle. She had been given command, and for the first time in her life she had warriors at her back. She would not let them down, even if they were a disparate and pathetic group. With Groggni, Ongrad the apprentice runesmiter, and Ardvig, they might just stand a chance of fulfilling their oath.

They followed the ashen path, the ancient road that had led the first Ealrung away from the Ulrung lodge. It had been some time since one of the Ealrung had walked this path. Her brother Grumgan had left years ago, searching for ur-gold. Like all fyreslayers he had wanted to find glory of his own, but he had never returned. His fate had only made the Ealrung more cautious, wary of the lands outside their fort. Varga hoped she would break that curse, that she would return with the ur-gold, victorious. They would rebuild the Ealfort, replenish the fyrds and fight back the enemy once and for all.

Her bare feet trudged along the stone and shingle path. No matter how careful she was, it was impossible to be silent. She stopped by a line of trees to check their way, and the fyreslayers behind her ground to a halt. The duardin that carried the heavy metal chests for storing the ur-gold placed them by their feet and stretched their back muscles.

‘Which way, Ongrad?’ she asked, looking back over her shoulder. The young runesmiter seemed confused by the question. He glanced around as if to see who she was speaking to. He was a poor excuse for a duardin, just as expendable to the lodge as she was. In the eyes of the Ealrung he had failed as a runesmiter when Grimnir had shown him nothing during the binding of ash. In this moment she could understand why the others had not believed in Ongrad. His frame was small, his skin sickly grey even without the ash that covered it.

‘We follow the ashen path,’ he said, beady eyes searching ahead. ‘And then… Then the way will become clear. I can already sense the ur-gold from here.’

‘You can?’

He nodded eagerly. Varga looked over at Ardvig. The big grimwrath was staring off into the distance, eyes glazed. His nostrils flared like a trapped animal; he could smell something too. Perhaps the runesmiter wasn’t so useless after all.

‘I think we’re going the right way,’ she said, striding off. The others followed her in a loose formation, watching their surroundings. They walked for some time, the path rocky and broken. The sands, like fine shards of glass, cut into the fyreslayers’ bare feet as they walked. The further they went, the wilder the landscape became. Near the Ealfort the trees had been burnt and removed, so that their enemies couldn’t hide, but here they grew as they pleased. Their ashen-grey bark flaked and fell to the ground as the wind blew amongst the thin trunks. If Varga didn’t know better, she would have assumed they were dead, like everything else in this realm. But they had a strange life to them, never blossoming, but never quite withering away.

When she glanced at the woods, Varga was certain she saw shadows moving amongst the boughs, following them. But when she looked they were gone. It was only the faint breeze blowing around the leaves and bark. Even the wind quietened down when she looked. Every so often a carrion bird, with glossy black feathers and watchful eyes, landed on top of a branch and observed their progress. They were waiting for something to happen, and so was Varga. Her muscles tensed and she swung her shoulders to loosen the joints. The war-picks no longer hung at her sides. She wouldn’t let them leave her hands. ‘I don’t like the look of those woods,’ she said, looking back over her shoulder. ‘There are fell beasts in there.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’ Groggni didn’t even turn to look.

‘No?’ she asked, wondering why he looked so smug.

‘No. You want to worry about that.’ He pointed ahead of them and for the first time Varga saw the mountain they had been seeking. The fog swirled around its peak in a vortex resembling a single baleful eye. From the caves that dotted the surrounding hills, it looked as if it had previously been mined. It was the perfect home for duardin, a place where they could see their enemies for miles around. With some fortifications it could be easily defensible. It was less open than the Ealfort, and with luck it would also have a fire at its heart. She wondered why her people had not settled here when first they came to this realm.

‘Ongrad?’ The runesmiter jumped at the sound of his name. ‘Is this the place we seek?’

‘I… think so.’ She had been following him, but now realised that he hadn’t been leading them at all. ‘My senses are confused, I can’t tell for sure.’

Ardvig had already pushed ahead, leaving the ashen path behind. The young runesmiter followed the grimwrath, not wanting to be too far away from the safety of the big duardin. Varga shrugged at Groggni and followed them up the incline.

When they came above the treeline, there was a whisper on the breeze, threatening and malicious. It called to Varga, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. The sound of chains interrupted the trudging of the duardin. At times it blended into the chink of their armour; at other times the sound reverberated as if coming from some forgotten tomb. It taunted their every step. They were supposed to fear it, to flee, but the fyreslayers would not be discouraged. They were fire and they brought death.

The breeze stopped whipping around them. It dropped suddenly, as if they were in the eye of the storm. The day grew ever darker, the purple sky resembling an angry bruise. The whispers became louder, almost-words appearing in Varga’s mind.

A shout came from behind and Varga turned. A thick wall of cloud was making its way inexorably up the mountainside. It shifted and warped, changing shape as it came, threatening to materialise.

‘Hold firm!’ Varga called, as the first spirit coalesced from the storm. It was a whirl of rusted blades and tarnished chain. ‘Khazuk!’ she cried. The nearest fyreslayer was hacked down by a savage attack before he was able to raise his weapon, duardin blood spilling onto the sands.

‘Shield wall!’ Groggni was trying to arrange his fyrd into a line, but the dead had caught them by surprise. Another duardin fell to a wicked blade before they could link their slingshields. Some of the fyreslayers preferred to fight with dual axes. They sought the cover of the shield wall as the spirits rushed around them. Others threw their slingshields with a war cry, but the spectres simply ignored them. A ghost sped for Varga. She swung her war-picks in an arc around her, having practised the move time and time again. The hooks would catch the enemy before the following hammerhead shattered their bones. Only, the spectre had no bones. Fyresteel disappeared through the thing as if it were mist. It screeched at her and lunged. Varga crossed her war-picks to parry the blow. It dissipated, passing right through her body. For a second she could see its real, dead face, a mess of rotting flesh, thick maggots crawling under the flaking skin. Varga felt a wave of extreme coldness as the thing cooled her inner fire. In that moment she saw her own death. She was numb, as if her heart had stopped.

‘Not yet!’ she screamed, and attacked. Even if she couldn’t hurt it, she could push it back into the waiting fyreslayers. ‘For Grimnir!’

Chains clinked behind her. Varga turned, but too slow. Thick metal loops passed from the ghost’s neck to its arms, ending in a round metal ball. The entire visage was transparent, until the chain hooked over Varga’s neck and pulled. In that moment it had substance. Varga choked as the metal squeezed against her throat. She kicked out, but met no resistance. Stars flashed around her vision. She pulled the chain over her shoulder, but the spectre simply floated above her. Underneath its ghostly white cowl, a long-dead jaw laughed at her.

Hooking her pick in a loop of chain, she pulled. The links grew tighter around her throat, but her attacker came closer. She attacked with her other war-pick, aiming at the ghost’s head. It hit home, smashing its skull apart. Now solid, it couldn’t avoid the fyresteel. Soundlessly, it burst into black ectoplasm, covering Varga’s arms.

She had only a brief moment to feel the soreness around her neck before the fight pulled her back in. Ardvig’s skin blazed with light as his ur-gold runes burned in anger. The ghosts that got too close were either deflected by the blaze, or swept up in the grimwrath’s fury. Soulbane whipped around in a blur, destroying a spirit, before bisecting a spectre behind. The axe appeared to be the most effective weapon against the dead, and they focused their attacks on him. Varga tried to hook a wraith with her war-picks as it swept by, but it was futile.

The shield wall backed up the slope, each step orchestrated by a shout from Groggni. The cloud closed in around them, obscuring their escape. Varga saw a spirit ahead of them on the hill, the image of a human female, tall and lithe. A Guardian of Souls. Its black cowl was tattered and frayed, and the rest of its body blended with the mist. A blackened, steel death mask hid its features in a mockery of life. Varga could feel some unseen link between it and the other spirits. It carried a lantern, illuminated with spectral light, and a sword that was flecked with ice.

Two wraiths swept past Varga, and she felt chilled to her core. The fire in her belly dimmed, as if quenched by the icy touch of death. Two zharr berzerkers, twin brothers, swung their brazierflails around in synchronised arcs. Every ghost the auric fire touched disappeared in a haze. The weapons were effective, but their numbers were limited. Varga’s own weapons were almost useless against the spirits. The fyresteel would force them back, but it wasn’t enough to destroy them. She would need to do something else.

‘The witch!’ she shouted, over the din and crash of battle. Varga plucked a throwing axe from her belt and flung it at the Guardian of Souls. It tipped end over end, and thudded into a rock nearby. The spectre hissed in response and raised its lantern, amethyst energy spilling from its globe. Another wave of ghosts pulled themselves out of the stone surrounding the fyreslayers.

Varga hacked at one with a war-pick. It split around the steel, unharmed, and went to attack another duardin. ‘The witch!’ Varga shouted again. ‘Destroy their leader!’

‘Trying!’ Bezran, one of the twins, said through gritted teeth. He swung his brazierflail back and forward like a whip. A wraith that had been about to attack Varga burst into flames.

‘With me!’ she shouted, running up the hill. ‘Ardvig, with me!’

Ardvig roared and charged, overtaking her easily with his long stride. There was glimmerlust in his eyes. They were glazed over like the unseeing eyes of the dead. It would be hard to stop him now. The big fyreslayer smashed a path of his own to the Guardian of Souls as the dead swirled out of his way. The ur-gold in his flesh glowed as he drew on the essence of Grimnir. Rusted weapons sliced at his flanks. He ignored them, blood dripping from his skin, congealing with the ash. He pushed on, raising his axe to strike. As the blade neared, the spectre leapt into the air, dodging and screeching.

The sound almost deafened Varga, but did not stop her charge. It was not expecting her attack, and the fyresteel was enough to force it back. The spectre wheeled to face Varga, raising its sword. The eye-slits in its mask glowed with amethyst power as it screamed at her. ‘Soooon, you will be one of us.’

‘I’ve met your kind before,’ Varga said, crossing the war-picks in front of her. ‘And I don’t fear you!’

Ardvig attacked from behind, Soulbane’s brazier burning with fury as it swung through the air. Obsidian blade met ethereal essence. Varga didn’t wait to see what happened. She hammered at the spectre as Ardvig sliced from neck to centre. Varga spun on her heel, weapons striking out. The Guardian of Souls’ death mask clattered to the floor as the body disappeared into mist. All that remained was a blackened stain in the sand.

With their leader gone, the other spirits began to lose their grip on the realm. Without her power they were more vulnerable to fyresteel, and the duardin dispatched them with angry strikes from their axes.

Groggni trudged up to Varga, checking his axe. ‘You fought well, Ealgrum’s daughter,’ he said. ‘Like a true berzerker. A flameling no more.’

‘We lost too many,’ she said, ignoring his comment. ‘Fyrgun, Durgi and the others will never see the Ealfort again. And we still have an oath to fulfil.’ She watched as the fyrd dealt with their own dead, their axes turned against their own. It was a gruesome but necessary task; the dead were no longer their kin – they were their enemy.

The mountain loomed above them, the renewed wind whipping at the low cloud as it swirled around the summit in a vortex. The purple glow of the sun made the peak look like a jagged, rotting tooth, each cave opening resembling a decaying cavity. A chunk of stone had been carved out of its side, avalanching down to leave a debris of boulders and revealing more caves. Varga could imagine Grimnir himself fighting on the mountain, carving away at the stone as he battled some other god. The wind was a chill on her skin, flecks of ash flying away on the air like the embers of a burning fire. She continued up the hill without calling to the others. Even if they owed no loyalty to her, she knew they would follow. The oath to return the ur-gold meant just as much to them as it did to Varga.

Groggni remained at her side, the fyrd following close behind. It was best to stay together rather than risk getting lost in the fog, but Ardvig pushed ahead, grunting. ‘Grimnir calls Ardvig,’ he said to no one in particular.

They entered the first cave mouth they found, eager to reach their goal. It would have been low for a human but the duardin easily walked upright, and there was plenty of room for them to walk side by side. The wind died down to a faint whimper. Inside, the cave smelled of damp, rot and mould. Water dripped down the walls in streams of green limescale. The darkness was almost complete. Varga would not have known the cave extended any further if not for the faint breeze that rose from the depths. They lit brands to guide their way, the flickering light adding to the braziers of their weapons and casting varying shadows on the walls.

‘There are marks here,’ Ongrad said from beside her. His voice was low, almost reverent, as he ran a hand along the stone. Runes and other symbols were scratched into the walls, hard to read in the gloom. Some told tales of past lives, while others were meaningless notches. They tailed off the further they went along the corridor, becoming illegible scribbles.

Ongrad fell back as they moved along, a silhouette in the light cast from his brand. They headed for the core of the mountain, where Varga knew her prize awaited. The cave ceiling grew higher as they descended into the mountain. Deep grooves ran through the stone, cuts from pickaxes as whoever had mined here had expanded the cavern.

‘What happened here?’ Varga whispered.

A crack reverberated around the depths as she stepped on something. A bleached bone lay in the rubble at her feet, abandoned.

‘I guess that answers your question, flameling.’ Even though Varga couldn’t see her uncle’s face clearly, she could hear the chuckle in his words. ‘Now we know what happened.’

‘Ardvig cares not.’ The grimwrath’s voice was a rumble as he pressed ahead. ‘Give him an enemy to fight, runedaughter.’

They passed the skeletal remains of humans, duardin and even some that looked aelven. Long forgotten, they lay where they had fallen, staring at her as if pleading for help. There was nothing she could do for them now. Some of them were incomplete, skulls separated from the body and bones caved in by blade or hammer. Further along, there was a faint crackle in the darkness, a volcano fire. Its light pulled her forward through the mountain, promising so much. The ur-gold must be nearby; she could almost sense it. The fires of her heart were drawing her on, showing her their prize. The duardin relied less and less on the brands as they went.

Ahead, the cave network split into two archways. The larger of the two had runic inscriptions carved into the smooth stone that ran around its threshold, while the other was roughly hewn and bare. Both offered Varga a tantalising view of the orange glow at the centre of the mountain.

‘Runesmiter?’ she called, her voice echoing in the cave network like a thousand voices speaking, overlapping with one another. She thought she heard a voice call back to her, but it could only have been an echo. Ongrad appeared at her side, the brand he carried casting him in shadow. He turned back and forth as if he were trying to catch an unruly bat.

‘Which way?’ Varga asked. ‘Which way leads us to the ur-gold?’

‘Either way will do,’ he replied, before lifting a pale finger and pointing. ‘But that way is quickest.’

‘Then Ardvig goes that way.’ The big grimwrath shrugged and pushed past the rest of the fyreslayers. He lifted his axe and stepped through the smaller of the two archways, disappearing around a corner. The others hurried to keep up. The air became staler as they descended, and the smell of damp grew stronger. They were closer to the ur-gold now, hidden within the depths of the mountain.

‘Something is wrong,’ Ongrad said, whispering so as not to be overheard. The runesmiter had been walking beside Varga, but suddenly he stopped dead. He looked at the edges of the cave. The tassels holding his beard were coming loose as he worried at them. ‘The ur-gold is all around us.’

There was a snap in the darkness, a sound like breaking branches. The skeletons they had passed began to move. Skulls cracked on dry joints, and empty eye sockets stared their way. She should have known better than to trust the dead.

‘Uzkular!’ she yelled, the sound multiplying as the fyrd called out. She crossed her war-picks in a guard, waiting for the attack. The first of the dead stood, joints clicking in protest. It grinned liplessly at Varga as its companions woke. It had no weapons, but reached for her with clawlike finger bones. It towered over her, leering with an unseeing gaze. She lashed out with her war-picks, catching ancient bones between hammer heads. A second swing smashed its skull, flinging it across the cave to dash against the wall. The rest of it clattered to the floor. Ongrad set about the undead with his hammer. Surprisingly fierce, he used his low centre of gravity to his advantage. Deadwalkers filled the cavern. Some had leathery skin, but the rest were nothing but bone, as if the winds had scoured them dry. One, the size of a duardin, reached for Varga with a rusting axe blade. Green light spilled from its sightless eyes. Apparently some of her people had died here, but she would not hold back. She would grant them the rest they’d earned.

It swung the axe at her, its jaw distended in a soundless roar. She blocked with a war-pick, but the blow forced her back. It was astonishingly strong for a skeleton. Whatever magic gave it life was powerful. It hacked again, and she barely had time to evade the attack. The rusting blade nicked her shoulder and she cried out in anger. They might be easier to hit than the spirits outside, but the undead outnumbered the fyreslayers greatly. Varga pushed forward, smashing one hammer blow down, then another. The skeleton’s skull caved in and it fell to the floor. Varga was already moving on. Her war-picks crashed into the waist of an undead human and it disintegrated in fragments of bone.

Other creatures rose from the dead. They tried to claw at her, or lunge with weapons that now hung loosely in atrophied limbs. The fyreslayers destroyed them with fyresteel and fury, but still they came. A small group of the dead shambled forward from an unseen gap in the wall. Their silver gromril armour was blackened with age and coated with flecks of rust, entire pieces crumbling away. Varga could see through the small gaps in their armour, revealing glimpses of bone, the flesh upon it rotting. A few of them held tarnished bronze guns clumsily in gauntlets – irondrakes. There was a roar of alchemical fury as the nearest fyreslayer was engulfed. The berzerker flailed wildly at the dead irondrake before falling to the dirt.

Varga hacked at the nearest, smashing through gun and wrist. The rusted metal crumbled into dust. It clawed at her with its remaining arm. It was cold to the touch, but it failed to make purchase. She attacked with her other war-pick, caving a deep hole in its faceplate. She saw no eyes beneath that gromril, yet the creature behaved as if blinded, its clumsy limb trying to find her in the darkness. She let Grimnir’s fury course through her and knocked it down with another hammer blow, destroying its armour piece by piece until it moved no longer.

More dead attacked the fyreslayers. They walked forward, less unsure. Sickly-pale flesh was visible for their lack of armour. Orange crests of hair and long beards had fallen out in great clumps. Varga hadn’t expected to see other fyreslayers here, especially not amongst the dead. They guarded the end of the cavern, blocking her from the volcano heart of the mountain, and the ur-gold they sought.

Their leader stood amongst the loose formation of dead warriors, twin fyresteel axes held arrogantly at its sides. Dead eyes locked with hers. There was recognition there. Somehow it retained some form of memory. It grinned a deathly grin, decaying lips peeling back to show broken and neglected teeth.

‘Brother,’ she breathed. The sound disappeared into darkness. Even though the face was pockmarked and rotting, she knew it. She had been a flameling when Grumgan had left the Ealfort. He had never returned. Now she knew what had become of him. His skin was pale, but not from the binding. Blood had leaked from his body, leaving a husk of his former self. She could no longer think of him as her brother.

She lifted one pick over her shoulder. ‘Khazuk!’ she roared as she charged the reanimated corpse. Fyresteel met fyresteel. Her brother disappeared in the melee. The nearest deadwalker parried her attack with an ancestral axe. Its blade was tarnished, but the strength in the duardin’s limbs had not yet atrophied. It blocked her blows, one after the other, rocking back on its feet. But she was faster. There was no way it could keep up with her. She stepped back, feinting, and allowed the creature to press forward. The axe flew over her head as she ducked and forced her shoulder up into the deadwalker. It didn’t budge, but she was already bringing her pick around. The fyresteel crashed into its head, causing a splatter of foul blood as it went down. Varga made sure it was dead with a pick to the brain.

Their small fyrd was vastly outnumbered. The fyreslayers fought like Grimnir himself, but it wasn’t enough. Blood poured from various cuts on Varga’s body, some of which she hadn’t even noticed. The war-picks felt heavy in her hands. She pushed herself on; she would never break her oath.

Across the chamber, Ardvig, a blur of golden rune-power, exchanged blows with what had been her brother. The dead runeson didn’t seem to care about his wounds; it seemed pain no longer affected him. Varga worked her way towards them, cutting down skeleton and deadwalker alike. It was like trying to climb a cliff. Each fight slowed her and added to her wounds. As she looked on, Grumgan landed an axe blow to Ardvig’s stomach. The grimwrath doubled over in pain, clutching at the wound.

‘Ardvig!’ she called, reaching out for the big grimwrath. With a flourish the runeson sliced Ardvig’s neck with his other axe, almost removing the grimwrath’s head. Ardvig fell. Her brother grinned that cold grin in her direction, then stepped across the body.

Groggni rushed to her side, swinging his axes at the deadwalkers that surrounded them. The twin salamanders cast on his helmet blazed with golden energy as he attacked. They fought their way to the grimwrath as the fyrd formed a protective shield wall around them. When Varga reached Ardvig he was already dead. She stood over his corpse, for some reason wishing to protect it from the deadwalkers. As with her, sweat had washed the ash from his body, and all that was left was blood. They would miss his strength. The runes on his arms were still glowing, but the golden hue was fading. She closed her eyes, even as the battle still raged around them. She already regretted what she was about to do, but she had little choice. ‘Ongrad?’ she called, before reaching out and gripping hold of Ardvig’s rune of strength. Her fingers curved around the metal, pushing into his still-warm flesh. The ur-gold burned her hand, but she didn’t care. She pulled. At first the rune resisted, but then it came away with a flash of light.

‘Ongrad? Now!’ she shouted again, passing the rune to the blood-spattered duardin who’d appeared at her shoulder. He looked at the ur-gold as if it were a newborn flameling. The dead crashed into the shield wall. They were running out of time.

‘No! I can’t.’ His eyes darted around them, searching for another solution. ‘I’m no runemaster!’

‘Do it, Ongrad. I believe in you. Quick, or this battle is over!’ She checked to see if the shield wall surrounding them was still intact, then placed the haft of her pick in her mouth, biting down on the grip. She knew the agony would come at any second.

Ongrad hesitated, then slapped the rune against Varga’s arm. The pain was intense, burning her flesh, but she felt its power. The runesmiter’s hammer fell with the clink of metal on metal. There was a flash of bright orange light, and Ardvig’s rune became a part of Varga. She would never forget the grimwrath. Hooking the war-picks at her waist, she picked up Soulbane. She could feel the rune’s power flowing through her.

She moved into the fray and sliced to her left, gutting the nearest deadwalker. The axe was lighter than it looked, the power of Grimnir flowing through its haft. A skeleton shattered into a thousand pieces. The blade led her to the dead, as if the weapon itself were sentient, willing her to fight. And she answered its call. An undead duardin cackled in some approximation of pain as she annihilated its body with a heavy blow. It clawed at her ankles as she moved on and she crushed its head with the flat of her blade. Breaking the link with whatever dark power animated them was the only way to truly stop the dead.

As the press parted, she came face-to-face with what once had been her brother. His face was peeling, like molten wax. His body bore wounds from the fight with Ardvig, but it had not been enough to stop him.

‘Enough,’ she ordered, knowing it would have no effect. He raised his axes and swung at her with an agility she didn’t remember him having in life. Soulbane took the blow and she kicked out at Grumgan. He stumbled back as her new-found strength flowed through her. The rune blazed with golden fire. He lunged again, but she used the curve of her blade to hook the axe. It flew out of his hands, clattering to the ground a few yards away. With his guard down, she brought the greataxe up, hammering the brazier at its core into his chest. The dead runeson caught fire, but still tried to return the blow. Her backward swing cut through flesh and the other axe fell to the ground, a dead hand still clutching its haft. Grumgan leered at her, trying to bite with blackened teeth. Varga pulled Soulbane back, gore dripping from its blade. She swung, letting the weight take it. With one motion, the blade severed head from neck.

This time she didn’t need to catch her breath; Grimnir was with her. She set to work killing the other deadwalkers. Without their leader, they were no longer coordinated. Groggni appeared alongside what remained of his shield wall. They were covered in the gore and viscera of battle, but still they fought, pushing the dead back. The dark power was waning and some of the skeletons simply collapsed to the floor in pieces. The fyreslayers hacked apart the remaining dead as their numbers dwindled.

‘Is this the ur-gold we came for?’ Varga asked Groggni. ‘It belongs to the dead.’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We can’t have come all that way for this.’

They had no other choice but to take the ur-gold from the dead. They would no longer need it, and it would help them live on through Grimnir. It would be melted down in their forge and made anew, as it had always been. The fyrd set about the grim task, filling their cases with the runes of the dead. Others searched the cave for any useful materials they might employ in the defence of the Ealfort.

As before, Varga was drawn to the end of the cave. Light filtered through the cracks in the stone, golden beams that warmed Varga even in the darkness. It pulled her on, stronger now than it had been before. The curse that had clouded the essence had lifted when its undead fyreslayer guardians had fallen. With Ongrad at her side Varga stepped forward. She hung Soulbane at her back and grabbed a pick from her waist. With sure hands she hacked at the stone, opening up the seams, light spilling out. ‘Help me,’ she called over her shoulder. Ongrad and a few of the others pulled at the rock, clearing it away. The light was almost blinding, but within minutes they had cleared enough space for Varga to climb through, followed by Ongrad and Groggni.

The gap led to a vast cavern, bigger even than the magmahold of the Ealfort. Lava spilled from a fissure, collecting in runnels that filtered off into other caverns either side of them. The walls were a mosaic of different minerals, spotted in gold that shined as the fyreslayers came nearer. The distant ceiling glowed like stars in the night sky. Varga pulled a piece of the gold free, selecting one that looked different from the others. She could feel the essence of Grimnir through it, his strength adding to the rune she had already gained, but she had to be sure. ‘Ur-gold?‘ she asked, handing the lump to the runesmiter. He sniffed at it, then licked it, his pale tongue darting out like a reptile.

‘Ur-gold,’ Ongrad agreed, hesitating before he returned it.

There was more ur-gold than Varga had ever seen. Even had each of the duardin brought a chest, rather than the two the fyrd carried between them, it was more than they could carry. The Ealrung lodge would be rich beyond their wildest dreams, filled with the essence of Grimnir. They could use the lava to return their dead to fight at Grimnir’s side, cremating their bodies in the fury of the fires. Ongrad would give the ceremony that fyreslayer tradition demanded before they returned to the Ealfort. Not for the first time, Varga was glad Ongrad had joined her.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Grab what you can, and let’s get home.’

The journey home was harsh; the ashen path seemed to go on forever. The fires of battle had dimmed in the fyreslayers and their losses weighed heavy on Varga’s shoulders. She longed to get the ur-gold home, to fulfil their oath and bring hope to the lodge. She didn’t know how long they had been away, as Shyish’s purple sun never faltered. It stared down on them, always watching, doing Nagash’s bidding. Winds harried them all the way, pushing against them, but the dead left the fyreslayers alone. Varga hoped they’d learnt from their last defeat, but she knew that was unlikely. You could never trust the dead; in Shyish they would always return. The whispers that had called to Varga since she had left the Ealfort haunted her, but she would not listen. They had only lies to tell her.

A keening sound pierced the air, soon followed by other voices, low and threatening, a hum of angry souls. Varga lifted Soulbane in her hands and worked her shoulders loose; she had known war would come again. Their fyrd was smaller now, but she would not be cowed. As they reached the treeline, the Ealfort came into view. As usual, smoke rose from the active volcano at the heart of the mountain, but something was wrong. Angry barks of thunder and lightning shot across the peak as if it were about to erupt. The smoke blackened as the fires raged at its core. The mountain was angry.

Varga had returned, but she was too late. She had spent too long on her quest and in her absence the Ealfort had burned. Nagash’s legions had attacked, as Torgrum had warned. Dead spectres swarmed across the fortress like hunting bats, destroying everything in their path. They should have listened to his warning. Groggni’s fyrd could have aided in the defence, along with Ardvig’s axe. Now, the fortress was crumbling as the undead smashed everything they had against the stone. Varga had abandoned her kin to their fate, and now they were lost. She had failed them.

Varga moved, about to break into a run, but Groggni placed a hand on her arm. It wasn’t a strong grip, but it was enough to make her think twice about getting closer. ‘There’s nothing we can do for them now,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She relaxed, allowing Groggni’s hand to drop. The sounds of battle still raged in the distance.

‘We have to do something,’ she said, gesturing at the fort. ‘They’re our kin.’

A huge roar of defiance spilled from the Ealfort, reverberating down the valley. Only a duardin could make that sound, but then it was silenced, gone. If her father were still alive he would be first on the battlements, riding atop Whiteflank, but he was nowhere to be seen. She could imagine that roar coming from his throat, a final cry of despair as his lodge fell around him.

‘There is no one left. We’re too late.’ Groggni refused to look at the Ealfort, but instead stared into Varga’s eyes, imploring. If Ealgrum-Grimnir was gone, then her brothers would be next.

‘There may be some,’ she said.

‘And what good could our little group do them? Do you want to add our bodies to that funeral pyre? We’ve already lost enough.’

Varga had never seen Groggni like this – there was a look in his eyes that she didn’t like, the look of a flameling, wary and frightened. ‘There’s nothing we can do to save the Ealfort from that horde. All we can do is take the ur-gold and live to save the Ealrung name.’

Varga looked between Groggni and the ancient home of the Ealrung. Flames licked at the battlements and there wasn’t a single duardin to be seen. They were all gone, her father, her brothers, even Runemaster Orrag-Un and Runesmiter Thorrok. She had not yet fulfilled her oath, but they would have no use for the ur-gold now. Undead beasts prowled amongst the corpses, feasting. Soon they would come for Varga and her fyrd.

‘We will forge another lodge,’ she said, looking around at the group of duardin. Most of the fyrd was old and past their prime, but she knew now that they would fight for her. They would honour Grimnir till the end. ‘And we will find more duardin to help us. One day I will return to avenge our kin. I swear that oath to you, in Grimnir’s name. Until we return with ur-gold and rebuild the Ealfort, our oaths still stand.’ She hefted Soulbane and started to trudge away from their home, not looking back. The fyrd followed in her wake as they set out on the ashen path once again, not knowing where they were heading. One day Varga would return, but before then she would need to find an army to fight at her side. Grimnir would provide.

About the Author

Michael J Hollows is a writer, lecturer and student from London. He has written in various genres, but has always loved science fiction and fantasy. He fell in love with Warhammer 40,000 when he was young, and when not writing tries to work out how time might be stretched so that he can paint that ever-increasing pile of models. He studies writing, lectures audio engineering, and lives in Liverpool.

An extract from Gotrek & Felix: The First Omnibus.

Damn all manling coach drivers and all manling women,’ Gotrek Gurnisson muttered, adding a curse in dwarfish.

‘You did have to insult the lady Isolde, didn’t you?’ Felix Jaeger said peevishly. ‘As things are, we’re lucky they didn’t just shoot us. If you can call it “lucky” to be dumped in the Reikwald on Geheimnisnacht Eve.’

‘We paid for our passage. We were just as entitled to sit inside as her. The drivers were unmanly cowards,’ Gotrek grumbled. ‘They refused to meet me hand to hand. I would not have minded being spitted on steel, but being blasted with buckshot is no death for a Trollslayer.’

Felix shook his head. He could see that one of his companion’s black moods was coming on. There would be no arguing with him and Felix had plenty of other things to worry about. The sun was setting, giving the mist-covered forest a ruddy hue.

Long shadows danced eerily and brought to mind too many frightening tales of the horrors to be found under the canopy of trees.

He wiped his nose with the edge of his cloak, then pulled the Sudenland wool tight about him. He sniffed and looked at the sky where Morrslieb and Mannslieb, the lesser and greater moons, were already visible. Morrslieb seemed to be giving off a faint greenish glow. It wasn’t a good sign.

‘I think I have a fever coming on,’ Felix said. The Trollslayer looked up at him and chuckled contemptuously. In the last rays of the dying sun, his nose-chain was a bloody arc running from nostril to earlobe.

‘Yours is a weak race,’ Gotrek said. ‘The only fever I feel this eve is the battle-fever. It sings in my head.’

He turned and glared out into the darkness of the woods. ‘Come out, little beastmen!’ he bellowed. ‘I have a gift for you.’

He laughed loudly and ran his thumb along the edge of the blade of his great two-handed axe. Felix saw that it drew blood. Gotrek began to suck his thumb.

‘Sigmar preserve us, be quiet!’ Felix hissed. ‘Who knows what lurks out there on a night like this?’

Gotrek glared at him. Felix could see the glint of insane violence appear in his eyes. Instinctively Felix’s hand strayed nearer to the pommel of his sword.

‘Give me no orders, manling! I am of the Elder Race and am beholden only to the Kings Under the Mountain, exile though I be.’

Felix bowed formally. He was well schooled in the use of the sword. The scars on his face showed that he had fought several duels in his student days. He had once killed a man and so ended a promising academic career. But still he did not relish the thought of fighting the Trollslayer. The tip of Gotrek’s crested hair came only to the level of Felix’s chest, but the dwarf outweighed him and his bulk was all muscle. And Felix had seen Gotrek use that axe.

The dwarf took the bow as an apology and turned once more to the darkness. ‘Come out!’ he shouted. ‘I care not if all the powers of evil walk the woods this night. I will face any challenger.’

The dwarf was working himself up to a pitch of fury. During the time of their acquaintance Felix had noticed that the Trollslayer’s long periods of brooding were often followed by brief explosions of rage. It was one of the things about his companion that fascinated Felix. He knew that Gotrek had become a Trollslayer to atone for some crime. He was sworn to seek death in unequal combat with fearsome monsters. He seemed bitter to the point of madness – yet he kept to his oath.

Perhaps, thought Felix, I too would go mad if I had been driven into exile among strangers not even of my own race. He felt some sympathy for the crazed dwarf. Felix knew what it was like to be driven from home under a cloud. The duel with Wolfgang Krassner had caused quite a scandal.

At that moment, however, the dwarf seemed bent on getting them both killed, and he wanted no part of it. Felix continued to plod along the road, casting an occasional worried glance at the bright full moons. Behind him the ranting continued.

‘Are there no warriors among you? Come feel my axe. She thirsts!’

Only a madman would so tempt fate and the dark powers on Geheimnisnacht, Night of Mystery, in the darkest reaches of the forest, Felix decided.

He could make out chanting in the flinty, guttural tongue of the Mountain Dwarfs, then once more in Reikspiel, he heard: ‘Send me a champion!’

For a second there was silence. Condensation from the clammy mist ran down his brow. Then – from far, far off – the sound of galloping horses rang out in the quiet night.

What has that maniac done, Felix thought, has he offended one of the Old Powers? Have they sent their daemon riders to carry us off?

Felix stepped off the road. He shuddered as wet leaves fondled his face. They felt like dead men’s fingers. The thunder of hooves came closer, moving with hellish speed along the forest road. Surely only a supernatural being could keep such breakneck pace on the winding forest road? He felt his hand shake as he unsheathed his sword.

I was foolish to follow Gotrek, he thought. Now I’ll never get the poem finished. He could hear the loud neighing of horses, the cracking of a whip and mighty wheels turning.

‘Good!’ Gotrek roared. His voice drifted from the trail behind. ‘Good!’

There was a loud bellowing and four immense jet black horses drawing an equally black coach hurtled past. Felix saw the wheels bounce as they hit a rut in the road. He could just make out a black-cloaked driver. He shrank back into the bushes.

He heard the sound of feet coming closer. The bushes were pulled aside. Before him stood Gotrek, looking madder and wilder than ever. His crest was matted, brown mud was smeared over his tattooed body and his studded leather jerkin was ripped and torn.

‘The snotling-fondlers tried to run me over!’ he yelled. ‘Let’s get after them!’

He turned and headed up the muddy road at a fast trot. Felix noted that Gotrek was singing happily in Khazalid.

Further down the Bogenhafen road the pair found the Standing Stones Inn. The windows were shuttered and no lights showed. They could hear a neighing from the stables but when they checked there was no coach, black or otherwise, only some skittish ponies and a peddler’s cart.

‘We’ve lost the coach. Might as well get a bed for the night,’ Felix suggested. He looked warily at the smaller moon, Morrslieb. The sickly green glow was stronger. ‘I do not like being abroad under this evil light.’

‘You are feeble, manling. Cowardly too.’

‘They’ll have ale.’

‘On the other hand, some of your suggestions are not without merit. Watery though human beer is, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Felix said. Gotrek failed to spot the note of irony in his voice.

The inn was not fortified but the walls were thick, and when they tried the door they found it was barred. Gotrek began to bang it with the butt of his axe-shaft. There was no response.

‘I can smell humans within,’ Gotrek said. Felix wondered how he could smell anything over his own stench. Gotrek never washed and his hair was matted with animal fat to keep his red-dyed crest in place.

‘They’ll have locked themselves in. Nobody goes abroad on Geheimnisnacht. Unless they’re witches or daemon-lovers.’

‘The black coach was abroad,’ Gotrek said.

‘Its occupants were up to no good. The windows were curtained and the coach bore no crest of arms.’

‘My throat is too dry to discuss such details. Come on, open up in there or I’ll take my axe to the door!’

Felix thought he heard movement within. He pressed an ear to the door. He could make out the mutter of voices and what sounded like weeping.

‘Unless you want me to chop through your head, manling, I suggest you stand aside,’ Gotrek said to Felix.

Click here to buy Gotrek & Felix: The First Omnibus.

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