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I

II

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I

They always came for the Hardgate.

To one side of the volcano, its flanks sloped more gently, allowing the Slaaneshi to gather in larger numbers than elsewhere. After one hundred years of siege, the ground was a mess of bones and old armour, the remains of men and titanic monsters tangled with the broken remnants of great siege engines. Time after time, the forces of the daemon prince Qualar Vo threw themselves at the gates with ecstatic abandon. They laughed as they died, revelling in the sensation of death. Time after time, the Fyreslayers of the Ulgaen lodges cast them back.

Today was different. When the Slaaneshi assailed the gate, they broke into the hold from below.

‘Stop them!’ roared Ulgathern, twelfth runeson of the lord of Ulgaen-ar. ‘Kill the breaching worms!’

Hideous, pallid things thrashed as vulkite berzerkers buried their axes in rubbery flesh. Petal mouths gaped and snapped, but the duardin were too swift. Their ur-gold runes lent them speed and strength, and the worms could not land a blow. Other Fyreslayers battled with the human tribesmen coming up the tunnels that had been chewed through the rock by their monsters. The south passage was a disorienting racket of clashing arms and screams.

Ulgathern sliced through the body of a worm behind its head. The creatures were massively thick, and it took several blows to sever its head completely. The body did not cease thrashing, but yanked back into the tunnel keening shrilly, leaving a slick of clear blood on the floor.

The sounds of battle receded. All around the tunnel were heaped the bodies of Slaaneshi marauders. Their gaudily coloured skins were smeared with blood. The last fell with a defiant yell.

‘Ha! Chaos filth!’ roared Mangulnar, third and oldest surviving runeson of Karadrakk-Grimnir. He slapped Ulgathern hard on the shoulder and flicked the gore from his moustaches with a grin. Both of them were covered in the stinking fluids of the worms. ‘When I’m Runefather, little brother, we’ll run out after them and kill the lot, not skulk in these caverns waiting to die.’

Ulgathern looked sidelong at his elder sibling. Sometimes, Mangulnar enjoyed fighting a little too much.

‘That would be the best way to lose the war,’ he said.

‘You sound like Father. Where’s your hunger for the fight? There’s pleasure in war, and we should embrace it. Fear brings no ur-gold to our lodge.’

‘Be careful what you wish for. The thirst for pleasure is what drives our enemies at us.’

Mangulnar spat. ‘Their pleasure makes them weak. Battle joy makes us strong, it’s completely different.’

‘These are not their best warriors. I sense a ruse. Their attacks are getting bolder, more inventive. The worms are new. It is nearly one hundred and one years since the siege began. Storms fill the skies, and we should be wary.’

‘Are you talking about that bloody prophecy of Drokki’s again?’ said Mangulnar harshly. ‘You should be careful whose words you heed. As withered in mind as he is in arm, that friend of yours. Listening to the likes of him is why you’ll never be a Runefather, but if you’re fortunate, I might let you serve me when I am lord of Ulgaen-ar.’ Mangulnar stalked away, looking for something else to kill.

Ulgathern stared after his brother. Mangulnar and he rarely saw eye to eye.

‘You there!’ shouted Ulgathern to one of his warriors. ‘Report back to my father that the third deeping is clear.’ The warrior nodded and ran off. Ulgathern looked to the holes. The walls of the burrows were slick with the worms’ secretions. ‘And get a building team here, plug these up. I don’t want anything else coming through.’

‘Are you to join your father, my lord?’ asked Grokkenkir, Ulgathern’s favoured karl and leader of his vulkite berzerkers.

‘The runefather ordered me to the Hardgate once done. My brothers and father will stop the other breaches soon enough without my help, you can be sure of that.’

Ulgathern took the steps up to the gate parapet three at a time, his muscles hot with Grimnir’s power. Well before the thin daylight penetrated the gloom of the stairwell, he heard the enemy: a frenzied roaring as repetitive as the booming of the sea. On the wallwalk over the gate stood the auric hearthguard, firing their magmapikes into the packed hordes a hundred feet below. Ulgavost, thirteenth runeson of Karadrakk-Grimnir, watched the enemy die from a step behind the battlement. Ulgathern went to join his brother, and looked out over the mountain slope.

The Hornteeth Mountains were in Ghur, but they might well have been in the Realm of Fire: a long chain of sharp-peaked volcanoes stretching sunward and nightward across the continent, dividing the prairies from the Darkdeep Ocean. The mountains were all black ash and young rock, cut through by chasms that often filled with torrents of lava. Precious little grew around the Ulmount. The skies were choked with clouds of dust that glowed orange when the mountains spoke to one another. Blue skies were a rarity; more so recently, for strange storms raged daily.

The Slaaneshi tribesmen had occupied the lands below the Hardgate for so long they had constructed their own town there. Ulgathern looked over the screaming masses to the fortress occupying the settlement’s middle. It was a hideous thing, the blocks hewn from the side of Ulmount itself and carved with repulsive images.

Around the fortress was a sea of tents. Darkness ruled down there, away from the ember-glows of the volcano, and the bright silk banners of the Chaos worshippers appeared muddy in the shadows.

Most of the horde must have marched out from their twisted township, for they were arrayed before the Hardgate in numberless multitude. A pair of gargants with striped blue skin battered at the gates. Endless ranks of warriors and tribesmen surged around them, roaring out praises to their unclean deity.

‘If they think they’re getting in here, they’re going to be disappointed,’ said Ulgavost. ‘Nobody’s coming to open the gates for them today.’

‘You sealed your breach?’

Ulgavost sniffed. His perpetually dour expression lifted a moment in a display of modesty. ‘Nothing to it, there were only a hundred or so of them.’

‘I don’t like the look of this. There are more of them all the time,’ said Ulgathern.

‘Think they’d just give up and leave us be? Chaos won’t be done here until we’re all dead. It’s just a matter of time,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Aye,’ said Ulgathern. ‘I fear that time is coming soon.’

‘Have you been talking to Drokki again?’ said Ulgavost. ‘That rhyme he’s always trotting out has the runefather dead before the hold falls, if I recall, and I don’t see our father laying down his life just yet.’

‘There are the storms, Ulgavost. How do you explain them?’

‘It’s just a rhyme, Ulgathern.’

They stopped talking as hissing streams of molten rock poured out of the statues lining the wall below the crenellations. The heat of it hit them like a blow, but they were unperturbed; fire ran in their blood.

The gargants were not impervious. The lava hit them both, crushing them with its weight and setting them ablaze. They bellowed in pain and died quickly. The smell of roasting meat wafted up over the battlement and the horde bowed back.

‘See? We’re not going anywhere,’ said Ulgavost. He looked to the sky, where storms had played for over a month. For the moment, they flickered with occasional lightning, but banks of black clouds were building to the sunset horizon. ‘Looks like it’s going to rain again. That usually has them leaving off for a while.’

Ulgathern watched the clouds gather. ‘I still don’t like this.’

Just then the sound of running feet echoed up the stair to the parapet. A puffing runner burst from the darkness. Ulgathern grinned in relief, certain the messenger was about to deliver news of their imminent victory, but the runner’s expression quickly wiped the smile from his face.

‘My lords, you must come swiftly,’ he said. ‘Runefather Karadrakk-Grimnir is dead.’

Upon the Isle of Arrak, deep under the Ulmount, two brother lodges stood. The duardin of Ulgaen-ar stood to the left of the island, while those of Ulgaen-zumar stood on the right, and each lodge was arranged around the end of the bridge leading to its respective delving.

The wrights and the warriors, matrons and maidens faced the Cages of Loss in respectful silence. Youngflames had their heads bowed, their youthful boisterousness doused by sorrow. The twin magma streams that made the rock an island ran dim and ruby. The very mountain mourned the passing of its mightiest son.

Over the Fyreslayers’ heads the Ulmount opened its throat. Five hundred feet high and more, the uneven sides of the central chimney had been crafted into a straight, octagonal shaft by the duardin. Four-foot high ur-gold runes spiralled up the walls, their magic stabilising the volcano and holding back its eruptions. At the top the stern faces of Grimnir looked down. In the centre of their leaning heads the shaft opened at the base of the caldera, and the sky could be seen. The storm had broken and thrashed the heavens, flashing lightning the like of which none had seen before. The thunder was so loud it was as if Grimnir waged war upon Vulcatrix once again. The rain that fell on the Ulmount’s cupped peak was gathered by cunning channels and sent deep into the hold. Smiths and artisans teased out its load of dissolved elements, before sending it on to water crops and the duardin themselves. The rain that fell into the vent could not be caught, and dropped down into the centre of the mountain. The water heated rapidly as it fell, and the duardin under the opening steamed.

Karadrakk-Grimnir lay in one of twenty funerary cages. These were wrought of fyresteel fixed to the brink of the cliff, and mounted upon axles. Two burly hearthguard stood at the wheels, ready to send their lord to his final rest. The runefather was swaddled tightly from head to foot in broad strips of troggoth leather, leaving only his face exposed and hiding the places where his body had been stripped of its ur-gold runes. His magnificent orange beard and crest had been washed free of blood, combed and laid carefully upon his wrappings. The deep gash in the side of his skull was covered over with a plate of gold that could not quite hide the lividity of his flesh. Gold coins stamped with the image of Grimnir-in-sorrow covered his eyes, while between Karadrakk-Grimnir’s broad teeth was clamped an ingot of fyresteel, carefully crafted to fit his mouth perfectly – the gold because he was the master of gold and ur-gold, the steel because he was a warrior.

Karadrakk-Grimnir did not sleep alone. Twelve other cages on the Ulgaen-ar side cradled their own sad burdens, each attended by pairs of auric hearthguard. Ulgaen-zumar’s funeral apparatus was set on the cliff opposite, the cages equal in number, though not so many were occupied. The fallen of Ulgaen-zumar lodge may have been fewer in number, but the blow to the hearts of all the Fyreslayers by the loss of Karadrakk-Grimnir was grievous.

A clank of gold pendants and the soft tread of many duardin feet came from the far side of the bridge arching over the lava to Ulgaen-ar’s deepings. A low, rumbling song struck up, audible between the bangs and booms of the storms above. Runemaster Tulkingafar came over the bridge. His staff was visible first, burning hot with the borrowed fires of Ulgaen-ar’s sacred forge. Then his crest, then his face, grim with the duty he must carry out, and painted white with the bone ashes of mourning. His hair was dark red, his upper lip shaved. Ten runesmiters walked in his train, eyes downcast as they sang, their skin coloured charcoal black.

The Ulgaen-ar lodge parted silently to let the zharrgrim priesthood through, and the procession came slowly to the centre of the Isle of Arrak, where it halted in the rain. From the other side, where the bridge to Ulgaen-zumar was situated, came a similar song, and another procession of the priests of the zharrgrim wended its sorrowful way forward, headed by Runemaster Marag-Or the Golden Eye.

Marag-Or, older, scarred, one eye replaced by a featureless orb of gold, came to a halt before Tulkingafar.

‘Runemaster,’ he said.

‘Runemaster,’ responded Tulkingafar. The hot water streaming down their faces made their mourning colours run.

They turned sharply, leading their processions out from under the volcano’s vent to their respective lodge’s cages. Tulkingafar had the graver duty today and so would begin. Marag-Or took his followers to the side of Runefather Briknir-Grimnir, Karadrakk’s brother.

Marag-Or looked sidelong at Briknir. The runefather’s expression was set hard as a mountain’s, no indication of what he thought or felt, but that he mourned his brother was clear to one as wise as Marag-Or. Briknir-Grimnir’s beard showed fresh strands of grey within its fiery bunches, and his eyes were hollow as cave mouths.

Tulkingafar left his runesmiters and went to the side of his master’s last resting place. He rested his broad hands on the fyresteel a moment, and looked at the dead lord and his funeral goods.

‘Our runefather is slain!’ he said. His voice was loud, and carried well over the constant rumbling of the twin lava rivers and the crackling boom of the storm. ‘For three hundred years he led us. No longer!’ He stared over the heads of his congregation, speaking directly to the heart of the mountain. ‘He and twenty other good duardin were slain as they drove the enemy out of our hold.’ He dropped his gaze to meet the eyes of his fellows. ‘The runefather was not fond of long speeches.’ There was scattered laughter at this. ‘Who needs talk? He was brave! He refused defeat each time it was so generously offered to him by our besiegers. He was noble! He was the most generous of ring-givers.’ He paused. ‘And he was my friend.’

More than a few voices rumbled aye to that. Karadrakk-Grimnir had been well loved.

‘We will not be broken. Burukaz Ulgaen-ar!’ called Tulkingafar.

‘Ulgaen-ar burukaz!’ the others responded.

Tulkingafar nodded at the hearthguard manning the cage machinery. They turned the wheels reverently, the ratchets on the axle clacking one tooth at a time.

‘From fire we were born, to fire we return,’ Tulkingafar intoned. ‘Burn brightly in the furnaces of Grimnir, Karadrakk-Grimnir Ulgaen, and be forged anew. May the heat of your soul never cool, and its flames never dim.’

The cage reached a near-vertical position and the hearthguard ceased their turning. One pulled a lever. A gate opened at the foot of the cage, and Karadrakk-Grimnir slid from its confines and fell into the Ulgaen-ar magma river. A bright flash of fire marked his passage from one world to the next, lighting up the faces of the mourning lodge members, showing many tugging at their beards with sorrow.

The mountain rumbled. The cracking of stone sounded deep in the ground. Short-lived geysers in the rivers sent shadows leaping across the craggy stone, and teased starbursts from the veins of minerals in the rock. The cavern returned to its sombre ruby.

‘The Ulmount mourns the loss of a good master,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Grimnir has taken him to his forge.’

A battlesmith went to the empty cradle. In a droning chant he began to recount the many deeds of Karadrakk’s long life as Marag-Or and Tulkingafar went down the row of occupied cages and immolated their dead.

However, one priest-smith present had his mind on other things. Drokki of the Withered Arm looked up the tall chimney of the Ulmount’s throat. The faces of Grimnir looked down at him reproachfully at this stinting of duty, but he was not interested in their disapproval. He stared at the lightning flashing across the sky, and he worried.

‘In a week’s time, the Ulgahold will have been under siege for one hundred and one years. We come here to discuss the wishes of Karadrakk-Grimnir Ulgaen, and who among you, the seven surviving sons of Karadrakk-Grimnir, will assume the heavy burden of responsibility for leadership of Lodge Ulgaen-ar.’

Tulkingafar gave the seven sons a steely look. They stared back with varying amounts of defiance, hope, sorrow and fear.

Get on with it, you pompous ass, thought Ulgathern. He bridled at Tulkingafar’s superior manner, his ponderous delivery. Ulgathern was eager to be done; he itched to avenge his father, and he needed to talk to Drokki. At first he had dismissed Drokki’s talk of the Great Omen, but since the storms he had come to half-believe him. And now this…

The auric regalia he had to wear was heavy, a wide poncho of gold plates sewn to thick leather, and a huge, ceremonial helm. Fyreslayers as a rule rarely wore much. Their holds were warmed by the blood of the earth, while their own Grimnir-given fires kept them heated in the most inhospitable of environments. To wear too many clothes or, Grimnir forfend, too much armour, was an affront to their shattered god. Ulgathern found the gear uncomfortable. The zharrgrim temple was nigh to the forge, where streams of lava were harvested for their metals and channelled into the fyresteel foundry. The grumbling of hot stone bottled up behind its sluices was as oppressive as the heat. But borne the heat must be, and he stood there sweltering and stiff with all the stoicism expected of a duardin.

Ulgathern did not like or trust Tulkingafar. He was too invested in politicking, always seeking to exert his temple’s pre-eminence in the hold over that of Magar-Or’s, and he was the worst of Drokki’s persecutors. Too often the intention of Tulkingafar’s actions appeared not to be to increase reverence of Grimnir, but to consolidate his own power. To have risen to so lofty a rank within the zharrgrim at such a young age spoke of a certain ruthlessness.

Behind Ulgathern were his six brothers, gathered before the great statue of Grimnir in their coats of gold. Behind them were the guildmasters of both lodges. The stout matrons and males of the Mining and Gleaning Fellowships, the Kin-gather Matrons, the battlesmiths and loremasters and brewmistresses and a dozen others. The leadership of each lodge occupied the chequered floor on either side of the temple’s central aisle in strict orders of hierarchy, in most respects mirror images of each other, save one.

Ulgathern’s uncle, Briknir-Grimnir Ulgaen, stood at the head of his lodge. The space Ulgathern’s father should have occupied was empty. By the time Tulkingafar stopped blowing hot air, it would be occupied again.

‘A number of you have been chosen for honour,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Only one was deemed worthy by Karadrakk-Grimnir to assume leadership of Lodge Ulgaen-ar.’ The runemaster gestured. A chest was brought from an alcove to the side by his acolytes, and placed at his feet. The venerable battlesmith Loremaster Garrik came forth with an elaborate key, and fitted it to the lock.

‘The legacy chest of Karadrakk-Grimnir. Within is his truth,’ intoned Garrik.

The chest was opened. Tulkingafar’s acolytes took out plaques stamped with the names of those Karadrakk-Grimnir deemed worthy, and handed them to the runemaster. The number caused the brothers to shift. Four were to be chosen, a high number. They waited tensely for their fates.

Tulkingafar played it out as long as he could. The bastard, thought Ulgathern.

‘Ulgamaen, ninth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. You are to be runefather of the lodge of Ulgaen-ar.’ He tossed the plaque at Ulgamaen’s feet. Ulgamaen looked serious as he retrieved it, but that was him through and through. Probably why Father chose him, thought Ulgathern. Anyone who could crack a smile of delight at landing that role isn’t up to the job.

‘Come forward, Ulgamaen-Grimnir Ulgaen!’ sang Tulkingafar. He took Karadrakk’s latchkey grandaxe from an attendant and presented it to the new runefather. ‘By your father’s command, you are to unlock the great vault of Ulgaen-ar, and take out three-sixteenths of the lodge ur-gold.’

‘Yes, runemaster,’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir. ‘I shall instruct the hoardtalliers that it be done immediately.’

Mangulnar shot his brother Ulgamaen a poisonous look. He was furious – his beard bristled and face glowed red. The heat of his anger was palpable to Ulgathern.

‘Ranganak! Fourteenth son of Karadrakk.’ The runemaster tossed the second plaque at Ranganak’s feet. ‘You are to receive one of these sixteenths. The quiet halls of the Sunward Deeps are yours, Ranganak-Grimnir. You have leave to forge your latchkey, construct a vault of your own, and establish a new lodge there, for the protection and betterment of all within the Ulmount.’

‘Thank you, runemaster, thank you,’ said Ranganak-Grimnir with a hasty bow, and retrieved his own plaque. He looked at it lovingly.

‘To Tulgamar, twentieth son of Karadrakk, the same,’ said Tulkingafar, tossing the third plaque toward Karadrakk-Grimnir’s youngest son. Tulgamar caught it. ‘The lost halls of the Far Delvings are yours, if you can take them from the beasts that dwell there, Tulgamar-Grimnir.’

Tulgamar nodded once, fingering his token of office thoughtfully. His gift was a hard one.

One portion remained. The four other sons of Karadrakk waited with bated breath. Mangulnar’s hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Tulkingafar drew it out, surveying the eager runesons with a crafty look. Ulgathern thought he might explode. Or punch Tulkingafar in the face.

Tulkingafar’s round eyes swung to look upon him. ‘And lastly, Ulgathern, twelfth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. One sixteenth of the lodge ur-gold.’

The plaque clunked onto the floor at Ulgathern’s feet. He could not keep the grin off his face as he retrieved it. The three disinherited runesons glowered, their dreams of wealth and honour gone.

‘For you, Ulgathern-Grimnir, a choice is given. You are to aid whichever of your brothers you choose, and request of them a right to settle.’

The old sod, thought Ulgathern. His father had often berated him for forging his own path and not thinking of the future. It looked like he had one final lesson for his son; co-operation, or exile.

‘You are charged with these responsibilities on one condition,’ Tulkingfar went on. ‘That you forsake the leaving of the hold, and work with your kin to strengthen it against incursion. Keep the Ulgahold free of the servants of Slaanesh, and you shall forever be honoured in the records of all the Ulgaen lodges.’

Ulgathern accepted claps upon the back from his newly elevated brothers and returned them. Of the three who had received nothing, Grankak and Ulgavost gave grudging respect, though their faces were sunk deep into their beards. Mangulnar held himself apart. He watched from the side for a moment before losing his temper completely.

‘Outrage! Perfidy! I am eldest! I am runefather by right!’ He moved toward Ulgamaen. The new runefather’s auric hearthguard stepped forwards, crossed magmapikes barring his path.

‘You have no right to leadership, runeson,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Karadrakk-Grimnir’s last wishes have been read. They are inviolate.’

When Mangulnar spoke again, his breath shimmered on the air, and smoke curled from his nostrils. ‘You will all regret this. All of you!’ He stormed out, his few followers hot on his heels.

A shocked silence followed this grievous breach of tradition, until a few minutes later, when hogsheads of magmalt ale were brought in and breached. After the first dozen tankards, they forgot about Mangulnar’s outburst completely.

The Hall of Memory was unusually cool and peaceful. For those reasons, Drokki liked it there. The remembrance beads made long rows of gold that glimmered ruddily in the halls’ low light. So big was the library that a duardin could lose themselves there. Drokki wandered down the aisles between the books dangling on their iron frames. The smell of hot gold and an occasional clatter and hiss drifted over the racks from the die rooms at the rear, where battlesmiths cast new books. From a nearby aisle he could hear hushed conversation. When the battlesmiths were in training, the Hall of Memory was altogether noisier, each basso profundo duardin voice competing with the next in volume and complexity of rhythm as they recited the lodge’s history. But today it was quiet.

The remembrance bead books were arranged by reigning runefather and year. He knew he shouldn’t, but Drokki let his good hand trail lightly along the records, setting off tiny, leaden clacks as the beads swayed on their thongs and knocked one another. He loved the slippery, cool feel of the gold, the random snatches of knowledge he read as his fingers touched upon the books’ runes.

His other arm was small and stick-like and lacking strength. He had lost count of the number of times Tulkingafar had said he should have been cast into the magma at birth. Some had taken the defect as a mark of Chaos. The Matrons of the Kin-gather had stood their ground, insisting that it was nothing of the sort and that the fires of his spirit burned true. Drokki might have been allowed to live, but he was reminded daily that it was upon sufferance.

Drokki habitually kept his withered arm pressed against his side. It wasn’t the most comfortable position – that was to have it up against his chest. But when nestled into his chest his little claw of a hand adopted a form that made it look like it was about to dart forward and snatch at purses, or it gave him a sinister, calculating air, as if he were raking his bent fingers through his beard. The worst of it was that when he held it across his chest, everyone could see. So he had taught himself to hold it straight, and many hours of pain it had cost him. With it forced down by his side, Drokki half-convinced himself that no one noticed.

Everyone always noticed.

Friends did not care, that was the important thing. To them he had been Drokki, and now he was Runesmiter Drokki, not Drokki of the Withered Arm – or worse. He was becoming respected, in his own small way; he had to remind himself of that often. The truth was that twenty friendly faces could not counterbalance one hateful comment, not in his heart.

‘Drokki! What are you doing skulking about back there?’

Battlesmith Loremaster Kaharagun Whitebeard came huffing up an intersection in the aisles, a half-dozen heavy remembrance bead books looped over a soft cloth wrapped around one arm, a slender, hooked staff in the other. Whitebeard was stout, almost as broad as he was tall, with a belly to match.

Drokki darted him a shy look. He found it hard to hold the eyes of others, and he kept having to force his gaze to meet that of Kaharagun. ‘Oh, you know. Looking, um, reading. Are you not at the calling?’

‘No, I’m not. I have given Loremaster Garrik the honour of performing that duty. He’s still got the knees for all that bowing and scraping.’

Garrik was at most six months younger than Kaharagun. Drokki hid a smile.

The loremaster looked back down the way Drokki had come. The swaying of the beads was minute, but Kaharagun noticed. ‘You’ve been up to mischief, again! Have you been disturbing the lore?’

‘Er. Well, I have. Yes. Sorry,’ admitted Drokki.

Kaharagun huffed. ‘Drokki! You’re no youngflame now, you’re a runesmiter! I expect better of you. Eighty-nine and still poking the beads like a bare-faced child.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You know it wears the gold. What’s the first rule of the beads?’

‘Touch them for reading, otherwise never.’

‘Right. Now, can I help you?’ Kaharagun’s scolding was gentle. Still, Drokki found it hard to look him in the face.

‘Um, yes. I was looking for the records from Gaenagrik Hold.’

Kaharagun sucked at his beard and rearranged his belly. ‘Gaenagrik eh? What do you want the beads of the ur-lodge for?’

‘There’s something I need to check on,’ said Drokki. He dared not share his unease yet, not until he was sure. ‘The prophecies of Hulgar Farseeing.’

‘I’d leave all that alone, young one. He was regarded mad, you know.’

‘Yes. Yes, I did know,’ said Drokki softly.

The duardin looked at each other for a moment.

‘Can you show me?’ prompted Drokki. ‘The records from the old hold aren’t arranged the same way as the new, and there is something I need to check.’

‘They’re perfectly easy to negotiate if you know what you are doing,’ said Whitebeard sharply. ‘They’re this way. If you’ll keep me company while I return these books to the racks, I’ll show you.’ He jabbed out a gnarled finger. ‘But no more touching the beads!’

Drokki followed the old loresmith down the lanes of cast gold. Each book was made up of triangular beads threaded onto orruk hide thongs. They were written in the high runes, three to a face, ideograms depicting entire words or discrete concepts. Not many could read them, partly because the information they conveyed was dependent on context and fiendishly dense.

‘I lived in Gaenagrik when I was a lad,’ Kaharagun said as they walked. ‘Fine hold. I was ten years old when Marthung-Grimnir Ulgaen, Grimnir warm his soul, set this place up. Ten! Can you imagine?’

Drokki could not. Kaharagun was already ancient when Drokki was born.

They stopped at a space in the rack. Kaharagun carried on talking as he unwound a bead book from his arm. ‘I’d never have thought I’d end up living here. Funny how life turns out.’ His face set. ‘Not that there was anything funny about the ur-lodge falling. Five thousand years the hold stood, and in two nights it was gone. Half the Ulgaen lodges wiped out.’ He fitted the book’s loop onto the hook on the end of his staff, using it to reach up to the top of the racks and put it back onto its numbered hook on the racks. The book swayed as he replaced it. There were eight strands of beads to it, six feet long when hung. ‘It’s a wonder we survived.’

They passed towards the very far end of the hall. Kaharagun replaced his last book, folded up the cloth on his arm, kissed it reverently, and stowed it under his robe. ‘Right then. This way. Past here are the Gaenagrik records, what we saved of them.’

He led Drokki further in. The torches in the sconces at the end of the racks were unlit and it was dark there. The careful ordering of the younger Ulgahold records gave way to a more chaotic system, if there was any system at all. The books were very old, the gold dark with age and the runes round-edged with touch-reading.

Kaharagun passed a fire iron to Drokki. Drokki spoke to the device, and the runes on it glowed then the end shone with heat. He pressed it to two torches, the pitch spluttering as it ignited. Drokki smelled burning dust. No one had been down there for a long time.

‘Hulgar, Hulgar, Hulgar…’ muttered Kaharagun. He ran his fingers along the beads. ‘Aha! Here we are. What was it you were after?’

‘His Telling of Great Omens.’

Kaharagun snorted. ‘Child’s stories.’ He unhooked a book of six strands with his staff, inspected it briefly and passed it to Drokki. ‘Volume one. Careful with it. The hide is brittle. I keep meaning to get the thongs replaced, but there’s been a shortage of orruks about since the siege began. Some might say troggoth or ogor hide works just as well, but I won’t use anything else. Can’t take the weight.’

Drokki took the book. He draped it over one shoulder rather than over his arm in the proper manner. Kaharagun frowned, but it was the only way he could read it. Drokki ran the beads through the fingers of his good hand. It was an introduction, written in Hulgar’s portentous manner. The first half of the string was a long list of thanks to various patrons.

The beads ran out. A knot had been tied in the thong to keep them from falling off, the end of it scorched hard.

‘Is there any more?’

‘Of that volume? No. Melted. There’s twenty more volumes though.’

‘I need to see them. All of them.’

‘Very well,’ grumbled Kaharagun.

Drokki and Kaharagun spent the next hour reading. There was a good deal missing from the book. One volume had come apart and been threaded back together without care for its content, and was unreadable without checking the tiny order numbers stamped into the base of each bead. Two more stopped abruptly, another started in the middle of a passage.

Volume number twelve, string four, had what Drokki needed, and what he had dreaded. His heart beat faster as he read. It was all there. Everything. The lightning, the siege, the death of the runefather. It was all there in solid gold, not a half-remembered rhyme, but a real prophecy.

Kaharagun leaned in, his old face creased in concern at the look on Drokki’s face.

‘Drokki?’ he asked. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘I very much need to borrow this,’ said Drokki.

Ulgathern-Grimnir returned to his chambers lost in thought. He was a runefather now, something he had wanted all his life, but now he had it, he felt strangely hollow inside. All that responsibility, all those people relying on him – if he could convince them to join his lodge in the first place. The plates of his robe caught on his muscles as he struggled out of it, and with relief he tossed it onto his bed. There was so much to do! He needed to appoint a runemaster, and he needed to marry…

He was so preoccupied he did not notice his visitor until she gave out a gentle cough. ‘A runefather’s greed’s worth of gold, and you toss it on the bed.’

‘Amsaralka?’

‘I should think so,’ she scolded. ‘I hope there aren’t any other maidens frequenting your chambers.’

Amsaralka stepped forward fully into the runelight. At the sight of her Ulgathern forgot the events of the last two days. Amsaralka was breathtakingly beautiful. He took in her massive shoulders, her strong, heavy miner’s arms. Her feet were delightfully huge, and he suspected the toes (he often dreamt of her toes, when life was slow) hidden behind her steel toecaps to be exquisitely blunt. Her hair was gathered into two tresses, thick as an ogor’s golden torcs, and as lustrous. Her face was wide and square, her eyes attractively far apart. She had a broad mouth and full lips, behind which hid white teeth as evenly placed as bricks.

‘What are you mooning at?’ she said, and embraced him, then stood back and gripped his upper arms. Her hands were vices on his biceps. ‘What did they say? What is Karadrakk-Grimnir’s legacy, who will be the next Runefather of Ulgaen-ar?’

Ulgathern reached up a broad finger and gently traced the downy hair on Amsaralka’s jawline. Fine hair, softer than spun gold.

‘Not I,’ he said.

She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. ‘Oh, Ulgathern.’

‘Such a pretty nose,’ he murmured. ‘Like a rock chip.’

She punched his arm. ‘This is important!’ she said. ‘Ulgathern, I don’t know what to say. You were your father’s favourite.’

‘I was his favoured,’ said Ulgathern. ‘Not favourite to lead Ulgaen-ar. He always thought me a little too frivolous.’ He toyed with the end of her tress.

She slapped his hand. ‘Leave that alone! We’re not married. And if you’re not Runefather we won’t ever be,’ she said glumly. She pushed herself away from him.

‘A runeson’s not good enough for your darling mother?’

‘Runesons end up dead. You know what she says. I’m the daughter of the Chief of the Mining Fellowship, mother won’t let me.’

‘Who says I’m a runeson?’

A brief moment of confusion flitted across her face. When her smile broke through, it was like the sun bursting out of the clouds.

‘You mean..?’

‘Yes! Father divided up the ur-gold. Ulgamaen is to be the new Runefather of Ulgean-ar. Tulgamar, Ranganak and I have been given portions. We’re to establish our own lodges in the old halls.’

Amsaralka clapped her hands. ‘We can marry!’

‘Perhaps,’ he said worriedly. He couldn’t get Drokki’s blathering out of his mind. He shook it away and said wolfishly, ‘maybe I should have a look at those toes first?’

They both glanced down at her heavy boots.

‘Not before our wedding night!’ she said sternly, then smiled, ‘which will be soon, Ulgathern-Grimnir.’ She added the honorific to his name with delight. ‘Grimnir put much fire into my belly, Ulgathern. I promise to bear you many fine sons.’

‘If you’re half as good a mother as a miner, I’d expect at least a score,’ he said.

They closed their eyes and touched noses. They held each other, happy for a moment, all the concerns of the outside world shut out.

‘Oh good, you’re in,’ Drokki said.

Ulgathern turned round to see the Runesmiter in the doorway, his withered arm held rigidly by his side.

‘Ring the bloody gong next time, Drokki!’ said Ulgathern, his face flushing crimson. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy here?’

‘Ah yes, right. Uh, hello, Amsaralka,’ said Drokki absentmindedly. ‘What I’ve got to show you is important. Er, congratulations by the way. I suppose I have to call you Ulgathern-Grimnir now, or, or my lord?’

‘Go away, Drokki. Whatever it is can wait until morning. We’ve got a wedding to plan.’ He grinned at Amsaralka, and reached for her hand, but she slipped away.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said quietly. She left with her eyes downcast.

Ulgathern narrowed his eyes at his friend. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

‘Er, what have I done?’

‘Don’t you have any sense of common decency? You’ve shamed her, you catching us cuddling like that! Think of the gossip.’

‘I’m sorry. But, but you have to listen, or it’s not going to matter. Records. You’re not going to want to see, but you have to.’

‘Drokki, I am not going tramping down to the Hall of Memory with you at this hour.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Drokki whistled. Two strapping young battlesmiths trooped in, carrying a rack dangling dozens of records strings. The gold clacked and slapped as they trotted in. ‘It was important enough that Kaharagun let me take the book. Put it there,’ said Drokki.

‘Don’t! Stop!’ said Ulgathern. But it was too late, the young duardin had put the rack down and were bowing their way backwards out of the door.

‘Really. Sorry, I am, I mean. But you have to read this.’

Ulgathern sighed and pulled at his moustache. ‘Clearly you’re not leaving. What is it?’

Drokki bared his teeth nervously. ‘The end, the end of everything. Ulgathern, we have to abandon the Ulmount.’

‘What?’

‘Hulgar’s The Great Omen! I know! You keep saying it is another of his bad prophecies, that it’s just a rhyme. But I know you’re worried too. When we were at the funeral I was watching the storm, and I got thinking. It’s happening, Ulgathern. Next week is the one hundred and first anniversary of the beginning of the siege. The Runefather is dead ‘by stealth and surprise’ just like in Hulgar’s poem. The storm is not like anything we’ve seen before, it’s…’

‘Salvation and disaster, the end of a hold, where once was two is now one, but even that will be undone?’ quoted Ulgathern. ‘Grimnir’s fires, Drokki, you can’t put any faith in that doggerel. Hulgar was a fat fool.’

Drokki held up the beads. ‘The original is more detailed. It’s all here! Hulgar was certain of it. Look!’

‘You know I don’t read the high runes.’

Drokki blinked. His face was white and sweaty in a way unnatural for a Fyreslayer. ‘You have to believe me, Ulgathern. The Ulgahold, it’s going to fall.’

Ulgathern sighed through his teeth. ‘All right. Show me.’

‘You expect me to believe this, nephew?’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

‘Drokki says it’s all there in plain gold,’ said Ulgathern. Ulgathern-Grimnir, he had to keep reminding himself. He tried to stand taller in his uncle’s imperious stare. He really should, now he was a runefather himself, but the older Fyreslayer intimidated him. A sixteenth share of Ulgaen-ar’s ur-gold seemed nothing when he stood before so great a lord. ‘I didn’t want to believe him either but–’

‘Drokki of the Withered Arm!’ sneered Tulkingafar. ‘A know-nothing fool.’

Ulgamaen-Grimnir held up his hand and gave Tulkingafar a nervous look, unsure as yet of his authority over his father’s runemaster. Tulkingafar snorted and fell silent.

‘Well,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Well!’ He slapped the golden arms of his high throne. The duardin of Ulgaen-ar and the three new, as-yet-unnamed lodges were guests of Ulgaen-zumar and met in their High Seat. The Ulgahold was a modest place compared to some, but even its throne halls were vast and lofty, the ceilings of gleaming stone so tall that the eight-foot high runes around the frieze at the top looked no bigger than a babe’s fingernails.

‘It is Hulgar, isn’t it?’ said Marag-Or of the Golden Eye. He sat in his runemaster’s chair, dwarfed by the huge carvings of Grimnir surrounding him. ‘It is said he caused a lot of trouble in Gaenagrik in the old days, predicting this and that. It is also a matter of history that his record of accuracy was somewhat patchy.’

‘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-gold in pouch? No promise to go away and come back and never return? Many try to bribe Brokkengird, to keep their worthless beards.’

‘I have it, in truth!’

‘Then show Brokkengird.’

Drokki drew in a great wheezing breath and clutched at his neck.

‘Go on then,’ said Brokkengird. He grinned nastily. Even his teeth were made of ur-gold, haphazardly hammered into his gums. ‘Show me what you have.’

Drokki sat up. Still gasping, he undid the strings of his pouch and tipped out three new runes. ‘These are freshly forged,’ he croaked. ‘Warm from the forge and full of Grimnir’s might.’

Brokkengird reached out and took one of the runes reverently. He fingered it, and his face lit up with greed. ‘Good. Now Brokkengird will kill you.’

‘I can get you more!’ said Drokki hurriedly, holding out the other two.

‘How much more?’

‘Lots.’

‘You won’t come back, they never do,’ said Brokkengird. He stood up and lifted his axe. ‘No. Brokkengird kill you now, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘I will come back!’ protested Drokki. ‘I need to. I need you.’

Brokkengird lowered his axe a touch. ‘It’s a long time since anyone needed Brokkengird, longer since anyone wanted him. Why?’

‘I need a guide through Gaenagrik. I want to get to the realmgate.’

‘Got a little message to deliver?’ said Brokkengird. ‘Going to see his mother?’

Drokki shook his head. He reached out for Brokkengird’s hand. Brokkengird looked at it, then back at Drokki’s face.

Drokki pulled his hand back, and got heavily to his feet. His chest burned, and his throat felt like it was clogged with hot rocks.

‘We’re leaving, to found a new lodge.’

‘Nowhere to go. Nothing to see. Only Chaos. Chaos everywhere,’ said Brokkengird. ‘Stay home, little priest.’

‘The end is coming,’ said Drokki. ‘And you can either kill me now and die with everyone who won’t leave, or you can take us to the realmgate, be handsomely paid for it, and live.’

Brokkengird cocked his head on one side. His filthy, stinking crest flopped sideways. ‘Forty runes.’

‘Twenty.’

‘Thirty-five,’ said Brokkengird.

‘Twenty-seven…’ said Drokki.

‘Done,’ interrupted Brokkengird.

‘…and an oath,’ continued Drokki.

Brokkengird snarled. ‘No oaths!’

‘Brokkengird better swear not to harm me, and to lead the lodge to the Gaenagrik realmgate, or Brokkengird won’t get anything,’ said Drokki. For one awful second he thought Brokkengird would strike him down, but the renegade berzerker let his axe head thump to the floor, and reached out one hand. He spat on it. His spittle sizzled in his palm.

‘Brokkengird swear.’

Drokki spat in his own hand and shook. ‘Be here in one week.’

‘Brokkengird here. Brokkengird swore!’ shouted Brokkengird.

Brokkengird retreated backwards. The last thing to vanish into the dark of the abandoned hold was his face. Drokki had a glimpse of gleaming eyes and gold, and then he was alone.

Drokki waited five minutes to make sure Brokkengird had gone before taking to his heels and running home as fast as he could.

Ulgathern-Grimnir gripped his new latchkey grandaxe tightly. The steel haft was still slippery with oils from the smithy. It smelled like home, and he felt a pang of regret. The doors of the Ulgahold were shut to him. The axe was taller than he was, toothed like a key. It would work as one too, once the lock had been crafted to fit it. For the time being there was no magma-vault for the meagre supply of ur-gold he had been apportioned, nowhere to hang his axe, nowhere to sleep. He had nothing.

And so I lead my people to beggary on the say-so of Drokki, he thought. Despite his disquiet, his heart told him he was doing the right thing. To say that to Drokki, however, was one effort too many, and he scowled at him instead.

The slot through the gates to Gaenagrik was a black, uninviting rectangle. Behind the short column of his people – those three hundred warriors, matrons, maidens and youngflames that had decided to come with him – was a tunnel with a collapsed roof open to the enemy, should they have the wit to look for it. They were vulnerable, front and back, and with nowhere to run to.

This was looking like a very bad idea.

‘Where is he?’ growled Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Um, well. He said he would be here,’ said Drokki.

‘Did he now? You know he’s a murderer?’ said Ulgavost. ‘Forty years ago Brokkengird was denied his eighteenth rune – more ur-gold than any Fyreslayer in the Ulgahold has had hammered into his flesh for centuries. He was accused of the gold-greed, and did not take it well. Brokkengird cursed our father, fought his way out of the hold leaving several dead duardin behind. Since then he’s roamed the halls of Gaenagrik, killing whoever he comes across, and if they be duardin, taking their runes of power.’ Ulgavost grinned sadly. ‘If I’d have known what Drokki was about, I might have stayed. Brokkengird is a kinslayer, and insane.’

‘Loremaster Kaharagun said the same thing about Hulgar the Farseeing,’ said Drokki.

‘Now then, Drokki, doesn’t that tell you something when folks keep warning you about crazy people?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir testily. He shivered. His innate fire was a small warmth to hold on to in so grim a place. He sought out Amsaralka in the gloom behind him. She smiled at him nervously.

‘You came. Ulgavost came,’ said Drokki.

‘Aye. I did. I’m beginning to regret it,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. Ulgavost made a sour face.

‘He’ll be here. I made him swear. An oath will bind even a duardin as broke-minded as he.’

‘I’m willing to hope, but it’s far from a certainty, isn’t it? I prefer certainty. Hope is fool’s coin,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The gate jerked, and opened wider. Grit squealed in the bearings of the wheel on the bottom, setting up an unholy racket. Ulgathern-Grimnir’s hearthguard levelled their magmapikes.

‘Ah, yes. I think that’s him,’ said Drokki.

A filthy duardin emerged.

‘Brokkengird here,’ he said cheerily.

‘I am Ulgathern-Grimnir. You will show us the way?’ asked Ulgathern-Grimnir as haughtily as he could manage. He watched the grimwrath berzerker warily – the mad Fyreslayer had enough ur-gold runes punched into his skin that he could probably slaughter his way through the lot of them. He glittered with power. Ulgavost shifted the weight of his twin axes on his shoulders, readying them.

Brokkengird scowled. ‘Uppity young lord has Brokkengird’s ur-gold?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Ulgathern-Grimnir. He weighed a heavy pouch in his hand. ‘Twenty-seven runes, as you asked.’

Brokkengird took a step forward. Ulgathern-Grimnir snatched the pouch back, and stowed it in his pack. ‘You get us to the realmgate first.’

‘Yes, little lordling,’ said Brokkengird with a smirk and a bow.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s temper flared at his insolence. ‘Where,’ he asked Drokki, ‘do you find these people?’

‘Shhh!’ said Brokkengird, holding up a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet now. Enemy moving. They march on Ulgahold. Brokkengird has seen it! You are wise, crippled runemaster.’

‘The prophecy!’ said Drokki.

‘Right,’ said Ulgavost.

Ulgathern-Grimnir squinted at him in irritation. The door to Gaenagrik was open, and Brokkengird beckoned for them to follow.

‘I only hope you’re right, and this is no false gold hunt,’ muttered Ulgavost.

‘You know the way?’ called Ulgathern-Grimnir softly after Brokkengird.

‘Brokkengird know the way. Brokkengird want ur-gold. No gold for Brokkengird if not, eh? Not far now. Upper halls soon. Realmgate by the Thronecavern of the old fathers. This way! Quickly!’

Brokkengird hurried ahead and the column followed.

‘Madder than a grot trapped in a bottle with fireants, that one,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. He looked back down the column of duardin at the worried faces lit by dimmed runelamps. He couldn’t see Amsaralka, and his heart beat faster. He had to stop himself from hurrying back to find her. Three hundred souls, all his to protect, that was the reality of being a runefather. They looked tired, but they could not afford to rest. They pushed on deep into the abandoned hold. It was much bigger than the Ulgahold, and would take many hours to cross.

Suddenly, Drokki frowned. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘What?’ said Ulgavost.

‘Shh!’

Ulgathern-Grimnir held up his hand. With a lurch, the column came to a halt. True silence descended.

‘There!’ said Drokki. ‘Warhorns.’

They blew in the dark, back the way the duardin had come. A fearful chattering came after, the sound of wild laughter and wicked songs. It faded from hearing a moment, but Ulgathern-Grimnir knew it would only get louder.

‘Curse it all!’ he snarled. ‘They’ve found us.’

At the sound of the horns, Brokkengird increased the pace. The column found strength from their fear and began to jog. It was a slow but dogged pace that the thick legs of the duardin could sustain for days, if need be. The tunnels rumbled to the thumping of their feet and the jangle of gold and weapons.

But the servants of excess were lithe-limbed and quick. They were gaining, their horns soon becoming louder, their songs chasing after the fugitives.

‘Grimnir burn it! It’s not going to be fast enough,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We need a place to fight them off. Brokkengird!’ he shouted.

The grimwrath berzerker fell back to run beside the runefather.

‘This very bad,’ he said in his broken Grimnizh. ‘Brokkengird tell to stripling runemaster enemy move soon. They move now. You should have come earlier.’

‘We need to hold them back, to give Drokki time to open the realmgate. Where can we make a stand?’

Brokkengird grinned. ‘Brokkengird not here for battle, Brokkengird paid to guide.’

‘I’ll give you more ur-gold, Grimnir roast you!’

‘Then this way, O lord of running duardin.’

Brokkengird took a sharp left, leading them onto a broad run of stairs that went up and up. The tunnel they occupied was high and finely made, although the vaulting of the ceiling was dangerously cracked, each piece held up only by the immense pressure exerted on it by the others.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s lodge was sprinting now, the few beardless children with them wailing in terror. The older ones tried to be brave, but the fire in their eyes flickered uncertainly.

There were nine hundred steps. Ulgathern-Grimnir counted them, his axe bouncing hard on his back. His lungs burned and the column straggled out. He kept his eyes on his feet, not wanting to look up and see the task that lay ahead.

The last step flew away under his feet and he burst into a vast hall built into the side of Gaenagrik Mountain. Ruddy light shone through tall slot windows, and the high mullions separating the apertures from one another were thick and angled, reinforced against earthquake and covered with protective runes.

The magic was dead, and there was a lot of damage to the hall – almost all of it, to Ulgathern-Grimnir’s keen eye, down to the shiftings of the earth. There were signs of defacement to the statues and shrines in the alcoves along two walls, but otherwise it seemed that the forces of Chaos had moved on quickly after their victory a century ago, focusing their attentions on the living Fyreslayers of the Ulmount.

A huge dais dominated one end of the hall, with seats for the hold’s highest lodge-lords. As the hold’s heart, most of these had been smashed by the Slaaneshi, their pieces added to the scattering of rubble about the floor.

‘Gate that way!’ said Brokkengird, pointing to a round arch leading into another hall. ‘This Fifthstair, only way in. All others blocked.’ He pointed back down the way they had come. ‘No other way to get here. Well, one other. Brokkengird go there now!’ With that, the berzerker set off at a run none among Ulgathern-Grimnir’s duardin could match.

‘Make lines!’ called Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Hearthguard to the fore. Grokkenkir!’ he called. ‘Take the women and youngflames and go with Drokki to the gate! Can you get it open?’

Drokki swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes, that is the easy part.’

‘Good.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir gripped his axe and looked down the stairs. ‘We’ll hold them here. Hurry!’

Drokki ran after Brokkengird through the huge round doorway into a second chamber. This was slightly smaller than the first. The run of windows continued along the mountainside there, and from this new position Drokki could see the peak of the Ulmount several miles away.

A road of cracked marble led down the length of the hall to another dais, this one crowned with a circular doorway that matched the first in form, but it was no ordinary portal.

‘The realmgate!’ gasped Drokki.

The wall of the hall was visible twenty yards behind it. Unlike the door into the hall, which was fashioned from black granite blocks, the realmgate was made of a dazzling white stone set with ur-gold runes that glowed with dormant magic.

‘Aye, aye,’ said Brokkengird. He had made the far side of the room, and stood beside an open stone door. ‘Best open it quick, or everyone die, and that make Brokkengird angry, because Brokkengird get no ur-gold. See you soon, cripple priest!’ he said, and dived through the doorway out of sight.

‘What are your orders?’ asked Grokkenkir. His vulkite berzerkers were restless behind him.

Drokki opened his mouth to answer.

‘What shall we do, runemaster?’ asked a maiden. This open show of fear set up a muttering among the duardin.

‘This was your idea!’ shouted an angry voice at the back. ‘We’re all going to die!’

The crowd surged forward around Drokki. All of a sudden they were shouting at him from every side.

‘Silence!’ bellowed a powerful female voice. ‘Shivering with fright will do us no good!’ Amsaralka pushed her way to the front of the knot. ‘I’d suggest you, Grokkenkir, get half your vulkite berzerkers down the end of the hall to stop the enemy coming in, and the other half by the gate to stop whatever might be on the other side killing us if it turns out not to be friendly. And stop glancing back through the door at the others. I know you’d rather be in the fight with your lord, but this is honourable duty, protecting the young and maidens and those others who don’t fight.’

‘Of, of course,’ stammered Grokkenkir, his cheeks colouring.

‘Go on then, get to it!’ barked Amsaralka.

Grokkenkir hastily bowed and began dividing his fighters. Amsaralka grinned at Drokki. He stared back. ‘What? I’m going to be a queen. Don’t see why I should sit at the back being quiet. Now you get about opening that door! I mean, runemaster.’

Drokki sketched a bow to her before trotting up to the realmgate dais. Brokkengird was nowhere to be seen. He’s probably waiting to rob our corpses of ur-gold once this has all died down, thought Drokki glumly.

He approached the gate. The runes inscribed onto the stones responded to his presence, calling out to him in voices only he could hear. Looking around guiltily, he unwound a bead book he had stolen from the Ulgahold from around his waist.

He began to read aloud, the beads clacking through his fingers.

Much to his relief, the first rune on the gate’s array ignited with a fiery orange light. Encouraged, he read faster.

‘Here they come!’ roared Ulgathern-Grimnir, setting his stance firmly at the top of the stair and readying his grandaxe. ‘None shall pass!’

A wall of pale-fleshed things came rushing up out of the gloom. Some were recognisable as human, others were so monstrous little trace of humanity remained.

They wore scanty clothing, most of it tight and made from soft leathers of terrible origin. The few iridescent plates of armour they bore were impractical, hooked directly into their skin. The servants of Slaanesh would endure any agony in pursuit of fresh sensation, and the range of horrible mutilations they had inflicted on themselves was dazzling in its variety.

Strong-smelling musk rolled up the stairs before them, making Ulgathern-Grimnir light-headed.

‘Give fire!’ he roared.

Rune-empowered magmapikes sang, conjuring gobbets of molten stone into their flared mouths, and spitting them forward with great force. A wave of invigorating heat engulfed the front rank of Fyreslayers. They clashed their weapons on their slingshields and roared at the oncoming horde. The lava bombs smashed into the packed mass of enemy warriors, igniting several and splashing many others with searing molten stone. The Slaaneshi screamed in ecstasy at the pain. Besides the heat of the bombs, the mass of the rock did plenty of damage, knocking them back down the steep stairs where they tangled with their fellows, creating bottlenecks that the duardin were quick to exploit. Axes flashed out, felling dozens of daemons as they scrambled over their wounded fellows. The smell of burning flesh and molten rock drove away the sickening musk of the Chaos horde.

There was time for one more round from the magmapikes, and then the Slaaneshi were into the main duardin line.

Initially the Fyreslayers had the superior position. They swept their massive axes back and forth, hewing down the Slaaneshi methodically. The hearthguard retreated behind the front line, angled their weapons upward, and continued to lob burning stone down upon the Chaos reavers. The stair’s width clogged with butchered tribesmen and cooling rock. Perfumed blood ran down the steps, making them treacherous underfoot.

Ulgathern-Grimnir threw off a lilac-furred thing that grappled with him. It landed on all fours, displayed itself lewdly at him and scampered away. Ulgathern-Grimnir grunted in satisfaction as a glob of lava caught it square in the side as it ran, killing it instantly and setting the corpse ablaze.

‘We might win this yet lads!’ he shouted. ‘Grimnir! Ulgahold! Barakaz-dur!’

The Chaos worshippers retreated down the steps. ‘Yeah, go on, run off back to your silky pavilions! All mouth, the lot of you!’ His crowing faltered. From the corners of his eyes he became aware of the blood of his kin. Fyreslayers kicked the corpses of their foes down the stairs. Their eyes glowed with ragefire. Cinders puffed from the mouths of the angriest.

Ulgavost came to his side from the left flank. ‘Brother, we should retreat while we can, get back to the gate.’ He paused a moment. ‘Were I runefather, that is what I would do.’

‘Aye, well, you’re not runefather, are you,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Fine,’ said Ulgavost coldly. ‘We don’t have enough left to weather another assault like that.’

‘I’m sorry, brother,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We’re better off here, that is all. They’ve a steep climb, and nowhere to organise. It’s the best position.’

‘That’s your decision, I suppose,’ said Ulgavost, and some of the tension left him.

Drumbeats came from the depths of the stairs, the heavy tread of armoured feet behind them.

‘Looks like they’re not done with us yet,’ said Ulgavost. ‘I’ll get back to the left.’

‘Good luck, brother,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘You too, runefather,’ said Ulgavost.

The reavers had gone. The Slaaneshi elite came in their stead. Huge armoured figures trod the stair, their helmets blank and armour a riot of gaudy, metallic colours. As they came within a hundred steps, they locked tall shields together, and began to chant.

‘Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo!’

‘Let them have it!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Magma pelted down onto the warriors, booming from shields and dripping onto the steps. The warriors came on unaffected, resetting their shields after every strike. They were the champions of Slaanesh, the lost and the damned, and they would not die easily.

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. The 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.

‘Send Brokkengird to the back,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘I don’t want him coming out with anything regrettable.’

Brokkengird farted loudly. Beaming at himself, he turned about and marched away to the column’s rear.

They were close now. Outside the hold the plain had been flattened and a town constructed. The buildings were all duardin-built, but sized for a mixture of peoples, as far as Ulgathern-Grimnir could tell. The place was ruinous, the buildings tumbledown, its defensive wall so full of breaches that the few parts still at full height resembled rough pillars.

‘The Voltdrang seems inviolable at distance,’ Ulgavost said beneath his breath, so that only Ulgathern-Grimnir would hear. ‘These ruins tell a different story.’

‘Their hold stands still,’ Ulgathern-Grimnir replied. ‘That is all that matters.’

It was there, in the central plaza of the ruins, that the Volturung Fyreslayers greeted them.

A great lord approached them, born aloft on a litter of gold and steel made in the form of a stylised magmadroth. Eight warriors carried it, their biceps studded with runes of strength. The lord wore more ur-gold than Ulgathern-Grimnir had ever seen on one duardin. His hair was easily four feet high, framed by an elaborate helm and crest of gold and jewels. He rode the litter standing, his hands clasped on the top of a double-headed rune-axe. Behind him marched four hundred hearthguard, all heavy with gold and ur-gold.

Horns blared one more time and the litter came to a halt on the other side of the square to the Ulgaen lodges.

Ulgathern-Grimnir nodded to Drokki. He stepped forward and bowed so low his crest brushed the roadway.

‘O high and mighty lords of Volturung! We, the people of the Ulgaen lodges, have travelled many long days to meet with you. We humbly beseech you for aid. Our home is–’

‘You’re a sorry lot, and no mistake,’ interrupted the Volturung lord.

Drokki stopped talking. His confidence evaporated.

‘Runefather!’ he began again, more weakly. ‘We ask only–’

‘Do you hear that? Runefather!’ The Volturung delegation laughed loudly. ‘Voltus-Grimnir wouldn’t rouse himself to greet a bunch of vagabonds like you. I am his fifteenth son, Golgunnir. I suppose I must look like a runefather to you, paupers that you are.’

Golgunnir was old enough and richly decorated enough to be a runefather. Gold pendants hung around his neck in layers. His skin was studded with ur-gold runes. One or two more and he’d be a grimwrath berzerker, but Ulgathern-Grimnir was having none of his poor bearing, gold or not.

‘Right then, runeson. I am a runefather, and I invoke the right of hospitality, and the rights of seniority.’

‘You do, do you?’

‘Yes. So shut up and do me the courtesy of listening. We come here to ask for sanctuary. Our hold was destroyed. Our people are homeless. Volturung is the great-great-great grandsire of our lodge. We return to our homeland and ask for aid.’

Golgunnir rudely looked away until Ulgathern-Grimnir had finished.

‘What happened to your hold?’

‘His brother opened a tainted realmgate and let the hordes of Chaos come flooding in!’ shouted Brokkengird.

‘I thought he’d gone to the back,’ muttered Ulgavost.

Ulgathern-Grimnir closed his eyes. His temper roared hot. ‘We are your kin!’

‘Ulgaen, you say? Never heard of you. Do you know how many lodges Volturung is father to?’ said Golgunnir. ‘Do you? Scores. There are nearly a dozen that claim the name Volturung in their title alone. We can’t take every failing branch back. We’re full, sonny.’

‘You will address him as runefather!’ said Ulgavost angrily. ‘He and Tulgamar-Grimnir both.’

‘I’m twice the age of your runefather. I’ve five times more warriors to command, and I’m reckoned the fourth senior of Voltus-Grimnir’s sons. Now, my father is runefather, highest lord of all the Volturung kin-lodges, which I suppose includes you. Do you see what I’m saying? Your lot, you’re a stripling lodge looking for a handout. That is not the Fyreslayer way. If you’ve got ur-gold to pay us to fight, then fine. If you have something to offer us for our mutual profit, we can talk. But you’re not moving in no matter what, not if you brought me Grimnir’s golden big toe and dropped it at my feet.’

‘Do you think you might show me a little respect, young one?’ Marag-Or came forward. ‘I’m older than you by far.’

Golgunnir’s attitude changed a little. He bowed. ‘One as old as you, runemaster, is worthy of respect wherever he goes. I am sure space can be found, should you wish it.’

The gold beads woven into Marag-Or’s beard clacked as he shook his head. ‘I’m sticking with family. They may not have much in the way of gold, but at least they have manners.’

Golgunnir’s followers laughed again. The runeson gave them an angry look. A junior-looking runesmiter came to his side, and began to whisper in his ear, a concerned look on his face, he gestured at the Ulgaen. Golgunnir listened a moment, his face souring.

‘He’s getting an ear-burning,’ said Ulgavost out of the side of his mouth. ‘The bastard’s been playing with us.’

Golgunnir nodded exasperatedly then flapped the priest away.

‘My noble priest, Runesmiter Keskilgirn, reminds me of my father’s offer.’

‘There’s an offer?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Yes, runefather,’ he said disparagingly. ‘There is room for you to settle, in a mountain three days to sunward. The Steelspike we call it, good ore land there. Nothing fancy: iron and lead and your other essentials, and you’ll have to dig deep to get to the earthblood, but there’s plenty for a duardin with a strong back and a will to bend it. It is outside of our current borders, but it’s better than nothing. You are welcome to it in exchange for your fealty, and a pledge to maintain order in the valleys and hills around it. The contract’s in the book.’ He waved his hand at a richly bound tome, made with pages of pressed tin. This was brought forward to the Ulgaen. Drokki flicked through it and nodded.

A sense of relief radiated over the column. Ulgathern-Grimnir smiled broadly.

‘Tell you father that w–’

Golgunnir held up a heavily ringed hand. A sly smile stole across his lips. ‘Before you get too effusive in your thanks, there is one other thing you need to know.’

‘Here we go,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Steelspike is infested with skaven. You want it, you drive them out.’

Golgunnir shouted out orders, and the horns of the Volturung rang. The Volturung Fyreslayers turned about, the gates of the Voltdrang commenced their slow opening, and Golgunnir’s bearers began the delicate process of turning the litter around.

‘Wait! We can’t go now!’ protested Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Stop! You sully the customs of hospitality.’

‘Oh, yes. Forgot. You can camp here,’ said Golgunnir as the litter trundled round. ‘You’ll be quite safe. Chaos has grown tired of defeat before our gates. No doubt my father will send out food and ale.’ He said this as if he thought it a poor idea.

‘What if we fall in battle?’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. The litter was facing back toward the gates.

‘Then your womenfolk, youngflames and such will be accepted into the lodge under the terms of bondage. They will have to earn their right to call themselves Volturung.’

‘That is unacceptable!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. The column was passing back through the gates of the Voltdrang.

Golgunnir laughed. ‘It’s all you’ve got.’

The litter passed through last. The gates clanged shut behind it, leaving the Ulgaen out in the rapidly cooling desert.

‘The thin-bearded weasling,’ said Ulgavost. ‘We throw our lives away fighting their battles, and our wives and children go into servitude for who knows how long.’

‘We’ll sort them out, won’t we, Grakki-grakkov?’ crooned Tulgamar-Grimnir to his magmadroth.

‘Little brother, Grakki-grakkov apart, I have no idea why father picked you as a Runefather,’ said Ulgavost, leaving the sentiment ‘instead of me’ unvoiced but heavily implied. ‘If it’s such a small matter why don’t they clear it out themselves? It’s a convenient way to get rid of us and keep their honour. Times are hard, but still.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ grumbled Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The gate horns sounded again. Smaller, subsidiary gates around the main opened and a stream of handcarts came out, marshalled by shouting victuallers.

‘Well, at least they weren’t lying about the ale,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir cheerfully. ‘The day is looking up.’

Ulgavost shook his head and spat on the ground. ‘A pot of ale and a hero’s death. That’s poor hospitality, and a poorer way to increase the weight of one’s purse.’

The mountains around the Voltdrang were home to numerous holds. The Ulgaen’s passage along the highways linking them brought a variety of reactions. Some among the Volturung lodges were sympathetic to their plight, while others were openly hostile, telling them their domain was full and that the Ulgaen should seek some other place to settle.

Ulgathern-Grimnir honoured those expressions of fellowship with small gifts of gold, and stoically bore the opprobrium of the rest.

As they proceeded, the mountains reduced in magnificence. The smattering of volcanoes became none at all. The Fyreslayers’ affinity to the earth’s heat told the Ulgaen that the earthblood retreated far underground there, almost out of notice. The last holds they passed were little more than outposts, modest in size and means. Nubby hills covered in sandy terraced fields replaced the soaring ridges and peaks. Farmers watched them from under their wide-brimmed hats, or ignored them as they drove their plough-goats to score the earth.

Two giant watchtowers closing the mouth of a shallow valley marked the end of the Volturung kin-lodges’ territory. Ulgaen-Grimnir and his brothers stopped to confer with the karl of the watch there, and were directed onwards.

‘Be careful,’ said the karl, a gruff but kindly duardin. ‘Out there, the ratkin are thick. You might not see them, but they will see you.’

The road continued out into wild country. The valleys fractured into a wilderness of gullies. In response, the road climbed up to run along the ridges where the ground was easier. Behind them were the Firespikes, and ahead the hills became rounder and smaller, dropping down to reveal the Broken Plains once more. The desert conditions had softened, and the rocks jutted out now not from sand but from a heavy scrub of thorny trees.

One last mountain remained, looking over the plain: a small, sleeping volcano, as thin as a spear point. The outline of it was broken up by rickety-looking gantries and platforms, delicate against the far horizon. The smoke of industry rose from its flanks.

‘Brokkengird smell rat-things,’ said the grimwrath berzerker testily.

‘There’s nothing here, you maniac,’ said Ulgavost. ‘You can’t possibly smell them at this distance.’

‘Hey now, brother, best be careful, eh,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

Brokkengird sniffed at the air and scrambled off.

‘Now look what you’ve done. Come back!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. Brokkengird paid him no heed and vanished around a boulder.

‘Bah, he’ll be back. If not, good riddance. Looks like they’ve been busy over there,’ said Ulgavost. ‘How many do you reckon there are?’

‘Thousands,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

‘Tens of thousands,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Grakki-grakkov growled.

‘There’d be no shame in giving up, going somewhere else. It’d be better to swallow our pride than stir that lot into action,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Tulgamar?’ asked Ulgathern.

‘I’ll do whatever you think best,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir. ‘But Ulgavost does have a point.’

‘N-no,’ said Drokki. ‘We have to stay here. What else can we do? Wander the world homeless? We can take it.’

‘There are worse things than being a wandering lodge,’ said Ulgavost. ‘Assaulting the gates of that place being one of them.’

‘Who said anything about a full frontal assault?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Are we not duardin?’ He winked at Drokki. ‘We go under it.’

‘Lordling full of good ideas!’ said Brokkengird, returning to the road. He threw a headless skaven corpse down at Ulgathern-Grimnir’s feet. ‘There’ll be less of these to fight head on if we go underground. Clever little lordling.’

‘Shhh!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

At his command, the Mining Fellowship ceased work, muffled picks stilled at mid-stroke.

‘Douse the lamps!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The two runelamps in the tunnel went out. Sparks of fire glinted in the eyes of the duardin. They stayed stock-still for several minutes.

A quietly tapped code gave the all clear.

‘Alright,’ Ulgathern-Grimnir whispered. ‘Continue.’

The Ulgaen Mining Fellowship set to work again, timing their blows to the pulsing of machinery that resonated through the rock.

For three hours they toiled, the Ulgaen warriors keeping watch. Some of them thought they should use the runesmiters’ magic to melt their way through the rock, though none dared say it. But Ulgathern-Grimnir needed the zharrgrim to save their strength for the task ahead, and he did not want to give the skaven advance warning of their approach. Magma tunnelling was anything but quiet.

‘All change!’ said Amsaralka. The Mining Fellowship stepped back from the rockface, rotating their arms and stretching their muscles out. A fresh band came forward and took up their tools.

‘Let me help,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Amsaralka smiled at him. ‘Mining is not a leader’s work. What would your warriors say?’

‘They’d say there is a runefather who gets his hands dirty with his people,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. They touched noses briefly.

‘No, runefather,’ she said. ‘I’ll not have you hacking away at the rock. One more day and we’ll be through into the cavern. One wrong blow could bring the wall down before we’re ready.’

Ulgathern-Grimnir took a step back. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

‘Soon we’ll be done,’ she said.

‘Then the real work begins,’ said Ulgathern.

Brokkengird strode along the rough road toward the Steelspike. His onyx greataxe was already slick with skaven blood. He sang a very loud, very rude song as he approached. Some three hundred yards in front of the main gate, he stopped and planted his feet firmly apart.

‘Oi, oi, oi! Furry little thieves! Brokkengird is here! Brokkengird wants your mountain! Come out and give it to him, and maybe you keep your worthless heads!’

A small, sharp crack answered his challenge. There came the musical passage of a bullet through the air. It exploded into fragments ten feet in front of the berzerker.

‘And Brokkengird knows how far silly ratguns fire!’ He laughed uproariously at nothing in particular. ‘Come out if you want Brokkengird. He is not going anywhere.’

A dozen gun reports rippled across the mountain. The bullets came a fraction of a second later. Most reached no further than the first, kicking up a storm of stony splinters from the road. One buzzed toward Brokkengird, but he leaned out of its way contemptuously.

‘Brokkengird better shot with rancid old grot head!’ he shouted.

The gunfire stopped. The ramshackle gate creaked wide. A moment later, a regiment of tall black-furred skaven marched out.

‘Oh good, you send your best out first. It is very boring when you do it the other way.’

The stormvermin broke into a clattering scamper. As they neared Brokkengird they levelled their halberds.

Brokkengird grinned widely. The ur-gold hammered into his muscles glowed. He waited until he could see the beady black eyes of the skaven warriors. Only then did he roar, ‘Grimnir!’ and throw himself forward.

Brokkengird exploded into the regiment. Ratmen flew everywhere. He tore through the middle toward the leader, hunched at the back. Their captain levelled a pistol at Brokkengird, but he cut the ratkin in half before its finger could pull the trigger. Bellowing incoherently, Brokkengird slew every last one of them. In short seconds, there were nothing but corpses littering the road, the sole survivor fleeing as quickly as it could back towards the gates. Someone shot the ratman down, then the guns turned again upon the grimwrath berzerker.

Bullets smacked into the corpses. Brokkengird did a little jig, dancing around their impacts. Waving his axe, he walked backwards until he was once more out of range.

Gongs and bells rang. More ratmen came out of the gates, hundreds of them this time, forming up in blocks with a discipline belied by their ragged appearance. They arrayed themselves in a curved battle line along the base of the mountain. They waited for their signal, filthy banners flapping in the breeze.

Then, with a clamour of gongs, the skaven swarmed forwards. Brokkengird howled with delight.

Brassy horns trumpeted out a belligerent march. Behind Brokkengird, Tulgamar-Grimnir’s magmadroth roared. Two hundred Ulgaen warriors climbed out from their hiding places in the valley that the road ran through, and marched out to join Brokkengird.

The battle for the Steelspike had begun.

Drokki took Marag-Or’s arm, although whether it was to steady the old longbeard or himself he was not sure. This was it, the final action. He sent a mental prayer to Grimnir.

‘Now!’ yelled Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Fifteen pickaxes, stripped of muffling rags, swung together at the wall. A hole opened up. A draft of stale air came through.

‘Again!’ ordered Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The Mining Fellowship hewed once more. This time the thin shell between their tunnel and the burrowings of the skaven gave way. Stone spilled into a broad, tubular corridor. The duardin flooded after it.

The tunnel was on an incline, curved in a way that suggested it to be a spiral. Chittering came from both directions. That from above sounded angry, that from below insane.

Ulgathern-Grimnir dragged his grandaxe through the hole. The tunnel was fifteen feet wide, broad enough to wield his weapon effectively. Days before, Drokki had hammered fresh runes into his muscles. Once again the grandaxe was light and easy for him to brandish.

A foul wind blew from the bottom of the spiral. The stench was indescribable. Drokki gagged on it.

‘We’ll hold the way here,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘You do what you must, Drokki.’

‘The stench is stronger that way, it must be the right direction,’ he said breathing through his mouth.

‘That will be where the skaven mothers are,’ said Marag-Or, seemingly unaffected by the stink. He frowned at the young runemaster. ‘Come now, Drokki, it’s only a bit of rat smell. Show some backbone, my boy.’

Drokki nodded so hard his beard flapped, holding his breath just the same. The runemasters’ escort of auric hearthguard and vulkite berzerkers fell in around them, led by Grokkenkir. They left Ulgathern to form up his warriors. The sound of tramping duardin feet echoed down the tunnel as the runefather led his war party further up the spiral.

A minute later the clash of arms rang out behind and above them.

‘For good or for ill, we come to our greatest test,’ said Marag-Or.

The corridor continued down and down, the battle noise growing fainter. The horrendous cacophony of squealings from the bottom became louder.

Drokki counted the revolutions of the spiral – five, ten, twenty. When he got to thirty-nine, it began to level out and ran straight. The stench had become so great it filled Drokki’s body from the toes of his boots to the tips of his crest. Marag-Or stumped on, unperturbed, but the vulkite berzerkers and hearthguard swore and coughed. The smell was as thick as smoke.

Copper pipes emerged from holes to run along the wall. Water dribbled from the joins. Steam hissed out through imperfect patching. There was a sharp, dry odour beneath the overwhelming rat stench. It was similar to the sensation ur-gold brought, but far less clean. Drokki’s spine tingled; he smelled warpstone, and it came from the water pattering onto the floor.

‘It’ll take forever to purify this mountain,’ said Drokki.

‘One thing at a time, lad,’ said Marag-Or. ‘We’ve got to take it first.’

The tunnel opened up. A vast lava chamber, empty of earthblood, loomed large. A ramp led up the side to catwalks criss-crossing the void. Strange machines and thick pipes were dotted around the place. Brass troughs full of blood gruel, overhung with filthy spouts closed by spinwheel valves, were placed at regular intervals around the chamber.

These were the feeding stations of the skaven mothers. There were dozens of them, crowded around the troughs, packed together for warmth. Long, hairless abominations, they lay on their sides, useless limbs clutching at the air in pain and madness. Their bellies heaved with unborn young and their multiple dugs were thick with unclean milk. The naked, blind bodies of infant skaven squirmed over each other all around them, fighting for nutriment. Death hung heavily over the mothers. The crushed corpses of luckless ratlings lay about the floor, many half devoured. The skaven mothers’ anaemic skin was streaked with dried blood and their own filth. From their gaping, razor-toothed maws came that endless, deafening squealing.

‘Grimnir’s holy fires,’ breathed Drokki. The stink was so thick he thought he would choke on it.

‘About there should do it,’ said Marag-Or, pointing to the centre of the room. ‘Auric hearthguard, remain by the entrance. Grokkenkir, clear us a way.’

‘Yes, runemaster,’ said the karl. He and a half dozen of his warriors moved forwards and set to work, slaying the skaven mothers and stamping their pink young underfoot. They were merciless in what they did. The skaven were the ancestral enemies of all duardin, Fyreslayer or otherwise.

The mothers screamed louder, and thrashed about, trying to bring their snapping mouths into reach of their assailants. They did little but crush their own children. Grokkenkir hacked the head from one sickly monstrosity, then another, until a path of bloated, pale corpses carpeted the way to the middle of the room.

‘Come on, we’ll follow. Perhaps you should lend a hand?’ said Marag-Or. Drokki hefted his axe in his good hand and nodded. He wanted very much for the squealing to stop.

Shouts came from behind them, and the runemasters turned back to see the hearthguard guarding the tunnel point to the rickety catwalks leading down from other tunnel mouths high overhead. There was movement up there, burly skaven beastmasters squeaking with rage at the duardin’s trespass.

Marag-Or ordered the rest of the warriors that accompanied the runemasters to block the bottom of the catwalk. Then he readied his own axe.

‘They’ll hold them off, young one. This won’t take long.’

Drokki buried his axe in the head of a skaven mother. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his arm and blinked.

Marag-Or nodded. ‘That’s the spirit.’

A skaven warlord screeched shrilly as Ulgathern-Grimnir drove his grandaxe’s haft into its chest, crushing its ribs. It went down thrashing, bloody froth at its lips.

‘Shoddy craftsmanship, that armour,’ he said.

The clanrats of the warlord wavered, but held. Then another half dozen fell to Ulgathern-Grimnir’s hearthguard berzerkers, and their nerve went. The Ulgaen surged forward as the skaven fled. The braziers attached to the hearthguard’s axes whirled around on their chains, touching off fires on the ratkin’s clothes and fur. The creatures fled, spreading flames among their fleeing fellows.

‘Hold!’ roared the runefather. Brass horns blared, conveying his orders. The duardin halted. The tunnel floor was carpeted with warm ratkin bodies.

‘We’ve a moment, move these back down the line. Stop them using their dead as cover. Halvir’s fyrd, come up front, let Brangar’s lot take a rest.’

The duardin moved smoothly past one another. Footing became better as the corpses were passed down the line from hand to hand. The few Fyreslayers who had been wounded were helped back to the break-in tunnel, where the Mining Fellowship waited to tend their hurts.

Drums and gongs rang down the corridor. Typical skaven tactics, thought Ulgathern. They were seeking to exhaust his folk with repeated waves, uncaring of the lives of their own warriors.

But then, there were always so very many of them.

This time they came with firethrowers, four weapons teams skulking behind the front ranks of a skaven regiment.

‘Ware!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Warpfire!’

He plucked a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it. His rune-empowered might sent it smashing right through the body of a skaven, but the first death took its impetus, and it bounced harmlessly from the shield of the warrior behind. Auric hearthguard with magmapikes hurried to his side from the back ranks and set up a bombardment. The skaven squealed as they were set ablaze and crushed by molten stone. One firethrower gunner was battered down by a hail of lava bombs, while his ammunition bearer became tangled by the tubes and harness connecting them, and he was crushed underfoot by the mass of skaven pushing from behind. Another exploded with a dull crump, immolating a score of ratmen. Ulgathern-Grimnir grinned, but when the fire blew out, the skaven were still coming.

By now the tunnel was thick with acrid smoke. Skaven burned everywhere. Still his hearthguard did not relent, pummelling the lead elements of the second wave with their magical weapons.

Then the firethrowers came into range.

Gouts of green-tinged fire burst outward. Skaven engineers played the jets back and forth, forcing the Fyreslayers to fall back, shields up. Several were caught, their screams turning to bubbling moans as their flesh sloughed away from their bodies in shrivelling sheets.

Ulgathern-Grimnir was at the heart of it. Warpfire, hotter than any natural heat, burst over his skin as the twin streams were directed at him. The pain was immense, but he refused to move. Grimnir’s fire answered the flames of the skaven. His eyes blazed. His ur-gold runes burned with protective magic. Setting his shoulders directly into the jets, he marched forward. The pressure of the burning liquid was great and he struggled against it. His runes fizzed with energy. One gave out with a bang, overcome by the ferocity of the skaven weapons. The molten metal streamed down his arm, but Ulgathern-Grimnir refused to die.

He made it to the skaven line with a wild grin on his face. Skaven blinked and cowered, unsure what to do. The engineers shut the fire off before it was reflected back onto themselves.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s crest of hair had lost a good foot in height, and smoked vigorously. His skin was blistered and red, his wargear blackened. He lifted his arms to show that he was not seriously hurt, and laughed in their faces.

‘I am Ulgathern-Grimnir, a runefather of the Ulgaen lodges. I was born of fire, forged in fire, and empowered by fire. Your little candle can’t hurt me.’

He swung his grandaxe the full width of the corridor, its razor-sharp head felling a swathe of the ratmen.

With a roar the Fyreslayers charged up to their lord’s side. This time, they did not stop, but advanced a step for every skaven they killed.

The ground rumbled. A hot wind blew from the depths. The Fyreslayers cheered.

‘About time too,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir as the skaven were driven back. ‘Get on lads, drive them up and out, we don’t want to be in here when the mountain blows!’

‘Aid me, Drokki!’ called Marag-Or. His eyes glowed with yellow firelight. Ash sifted down from his mouth with every word. He slammed his staff into the ground. ‘I call on the mountain! Bring forth your earthblood! Fill the hollow chamber of your heart! Purify yourself!’

The beastmasters of the birthing chamber fought ferociously against the Fyreslayers. They were bigger than normal skaven, incensed by the slaughter of the mothers, and took a heavy toll on the duardin. Drokki watched as a vulkite berzerker threw his bladed shield at a fresh party of skaven entering the hall by a secret tunnel, decapitating one and piercing another through the heart. The warrior gripped his axe and charged into the gap opened up by his shield, but was quickly swamped.

‘Drokki!’ called Marag-Or again. ‘To me!’

Drokki hurried over to the ancient runemaster. The fires of his own runic iron flared bright in sympathy with Marag-Or’s magic as he snatched it from its belt loop. He waited for Marag-Or’s next beat, then joined in, pounding on the rock in time with his old master.

‘I call on the mountain! Bring forth your earthblood! Fill the hollow chamber of your heart! Purify yourself!’ they shouted together.

The ground shifted. A crack opened in the rock. Superheated steam roared out, cooking mewling skaven young by the score.

‘Yes! Yes!’ shouted Marag-Or. ‘You can feel it, can you not, Drokki? The power of the earthblood. Feel it rise!’

‘I call on the mountain! Bring forth your earthblood! Fill the hollow chamber of your heart! Purify yourself!’ they shouted again. Their staffs slammed into the rock. Cracks ran out from their feet. The chamber quaked. The cracks widened into crevasses, the ruddy light of sluggish magma shining upward from deep underground.

The skaven’s sensitive noses twitched at the smell of burning rock. When another earthquake sent some of their feeding gear tumbling into the fires of the earth, they gave up their struggle, turned tail and ran.

‘Everyone out!’ shouted Marag-Or. He grabbed Drokki’s arm. ‘No more now, lad, we don’t want this place to go the way of the Ulgahold. Enough to burn the vermin out, no more.’

Grokkenkir’s warriors ran for the tunnel they had arrived by, dragging their wounded with them. The mountain no longer needed the runemasters’ encouragement and set up a terrific shaking all on its own. Molten rock oozed from the crevices in the floor, pooling in depressions. The cavern became as hot as a furnace. Skaven mothers, living and dead alike, burst into flame.

Drokki led Marag-Or over the broken cavern floor as best he could, helping him over the wider cracks, kicking skaven dead and boulders out of the way. Grokkenkir beckoned to them from the tunnel mouth, his eyes straying over Drokki’s shoulder at the rising tide of lava.

‘Come on, runemasters! Just a little way further!’ he cried.

Drokki stepped up the lip of the tunnel, and reached out a hand for the older runemaster. Lava filled most of the cavern floor and was creeping up the walls.

Marag-Or took his hand.

A shot rang out. Marag-Or’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘Skaven sharpshooters!’ bellowed Grokkenkir and pointed to where a number of jezzail teams were lining up on the catwalks.

Marag-Or looked down at his chest. A wisp of smoke rose from beneath his war harness. Blood welled after. ‘I’m done. You best get on, eh, lad?’ said Marag-Or. He let go of Drokki’s hand and fell back into the molten rock. His eyes closed as he sank into it, his skin blackened, and the fire took him.

‘Runemaster!’ said Drokki.

‘We have to head to the surface!’ said Grokkenkir, physically hauling Drokki back before he could jump into the lava after his mentor. A shot ricocheted off the wall and another shattered on the stone near their feet. ‘Now!’

Brokkengird sang as he cut down skaven by the score. Try as they might, they could not harm him. What few scratches he took only enraged him. He drove into them, a one-duardin army.

Tulgamar-Grimnir rode his magmadroth deep into the horde, the great ur-salamander spitting fire into the ratkin masses and igniting them by the dozen. Fyreslayers fought in disciplined ranks around the magmadroth’s feet, their axes cutting skaven down wherever they fell.

And yet still they were outnumbered, and the battle would have been lost, if two things had not occurred. Firstly, the ground’s booming and rumbling turned into a fully fledged earthquake so violent that skaven went sprawling. Smoke belched from the mountain’s summit.

Secondly, confusion took hold of the skaven still pouring from their lair. They began to falter, then to look behind themselves.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s fyrd burst from the gates, smoke belching after them, slaying skaven as they came. The Runefather had lost many warriors, but those remaining fought ferociously and their arrival sent panic rippling through the skaven ranks.

‘Forward! To my brother!’ yelled Tulgamar-Grimnir. Grakki-grakkov reared high, pounding clanrats flat with its feet when it came down. Roaring, it broke into a lumbering canter, smashing ratmen aside as it ran for the gate. The Fyreslayers began to sing triumphantly. With trumpets blowing, they followed.

The skaven at the edge of the battle began to melt away. A few cowardly souls at first, then in great numbers.

The mountain boomed. Its smokes thickened. The Steelspike slept no more.

Brokkengird laughed. Today was a good day to kill.

The mass pyres of the skaven dead were still burning a week later when the rest of Ulgathern’s people came to join the hold from their camp at the Voltdrang.

The Fyreslayers refashioning the gates downed tools and ran out to meet the column as it appeared from the valley approach to the Steelspike. Families were reunited before the new hold. Ulgathern-Grimnir and his brothers were glad to see a sizeable force had been sent to escort them by the Volturung, and that they were well fed, clean and happy.

They were less pleased to see Runeson Golgunnir.

The runeson came on foot this time, and was garbed for war. Still far too ostentatiously for Ulgathern-Grimnir’s tastes, but at least he was dressed with fighting in mind.

‘Looks like I underestimated you,’ said Golgunnir. He looked around at the heaps of skaven bodies and gear. ‘You did a good job. You reawoke the mountain. Crafty.’

‘You thought we wouldn’t win.’

Golgunnir shrugged. ‘True. But my father thought you were in with a chance, or he would never have sent you. He’s an honourable sort, my father.’

‘You disapprove?’

Golgunnir nodded as he surveyed the mountain, the piles of scrapped machinery, the scaffolding around the gates where statues of Grimnir were already being roughed out in the rock. ‘I do. I’ll never be a runefather because of that. I’ve no faith in other folk. Still, at least I know my limits. Are there any tunnels left open?’

‘A few,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We’ve flooded the deepest with earthblood, set warding runes all about those higher in the mountain. I don’t want to plug them all, else how would we take the war to them?’

‘That’s what I hoped you’d say,’ said Golgunnir. ‘If I might have your permission, runefather, I will take my men hunting. The ratkin have regarded this land as theirs for too long.’

‘I grant it gladly.’

Golgunnir gave a brief nod, hitched up his belt, and held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the domain of the Volturung. Welcome home.’

Ulgathern-Grimnir clasped Golgunnir’s wrist. ‘If it’s all the same, we’ll be keeping the Ulgaen name. We are the last of our lodge-kin. Henceforth, we shall be Ulgaen-dumar lodge and Ulgaen-kumar lodge of Steelspike Hold.’

‘Whatever you like. You keep your side of the bargain, we’ll keep ours.’ Golgunnir sniffed. ‘There’s something else too.’

‘Oh?’

‘An ambassador. He should be here, about… now.’

Golgunnir looked skywards and took three steps back.

With a rush of wings, a huge warrior in gleaming gold armour slammed into the ground before Ulgathern, as shocking as a lightning strike. Wings of brilliant white light dazzled the Runefather, then were extinguished, the mechanisms that had projected them folding upon the warrior’s back.

A stern-faced war-mask looked down on him. Ulgathern-Grimnir was sure this was a human male. He had never seen one so big who was not in the service of the four powers, but the energy that crackled around him was not of Chaos, he was sure of that.

‘Hail, Runefather! I am Seldor, Knight-Azyros of the Hammers of Sigmar. I come to you with tidings of hope,’ said the angelic warrior. ‘The gates to Azyr are reopened. The stormhosts march. Sigmar returns to free the realms from the tyranny of the Dark Gods.

‘The war against Chaos has begun, and we seek allies.’

About the Author

Guy Haley is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Pharos, the Primarchs novel Perturabo: The Hammer of Olympia and the Warhammer 40,000 novels Dante, Baneblade, Shadowsword, Valedor and Death of Integrity. He has also written Throneworld and The Beheading for The Beast Arises series. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in War Storm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

The duardin god Grungni assembles a group of brave adventurers to retrieve dangerous Chaos-forged weapons from across the Mortal Realms. The quest begins!

A Black Library Publication

First published in Legends of the Age of Sigmar: Fyreslayers in Great Britain in 2016.
This eBook edition published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Lius Lasahido.

The Volturung Road © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. The Volturung Road, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-818-1

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