ALL TURNS TO ASH

An unnatural chill swept through the magmahold of the Ulrung lodge. Those that dwelt within the carven halls were not just duardin – stout-willed and dismissive of superstition – they were Fyreslayers. As stubborn and bold as their patron deity, Grimnir, the fiery god of battle, the spike-haired warrior race scoffed at the suggestion that anyone could penetrate their defences. Over the long ages, many foes had battered upon the Ulfort’s gates, but always to no avail. Until today, no uninvited guest had ever stepped foot within the hold.

How the spectral creatures had done it was unknown, but they had. In the heart of the magmahold – behind the protective gates and axes of barrel-chested guardians – phantasmal creatures had drifted out of the bedrock and begun a terrific slaughter. There were but a few of these horrors, but before the Hearthguard Berzerkers could track them down, the fiends had wrought unspeakable calamity. Patrols were sent to each of the magmahold’s gates in an attempt to ascertain how the menace had breached their sanctum.

‘I thought all entrances bore runes to ward off the dead,’ growled one of the warriors as they strode towards the east gates to check the perimeter. As they approached the outer portcullis, all eyes turned to Grumthar, the lodge’s foremost Runesmiter.

‘Aye,’ he replied, impatiently waiting for the iron bars to rise. ‘Defences of stone and iron mean naught to spectral forms, but every gate bears the Runes of Uzk-Kalin. They should have barred entrance to such beings.’

Encounters with the undead were not unusual for those of the Ulrung lodge; over the long years since their founding they had weathered many supernatural phenomena. The lodge took part in the Ghoul Wars, survived the decade long Wailing Storm and stood firm against the Vampire alliance. Such was life in the Realm of Death.

Settled late in the Age of Myth, the Ulrung lodge had followed a trail of ur-gold into Shyish. There, they founded their hold beneath the highest peaks of the Greyspears, a volcanic range of mountains in Athanasia. Since those distant days they had expanded their underhalls and filled their Grand Vault with ur-gold. In all those years, the hold had been attacked many times, but the Fyreslayers took great pride in their mastery of defences.

Grumthar gazed out from the hold. A gloom hung heavy over the lands, growing deeper upon the horizon. Mournful howls could be heard on the rising wind. A storm was coming, and it was not a natural one.

Turning his attention to the runes that adorned the gate, Grumthar ran his calloused hands over the symbols chiseled into the iron-reinforced stone. His fingers traced the filigree of ur-gold that lined the carved ancestral marks.

‘Grown cold!’ Grumthar muttered as he probed further.

As a Runesmiter, Grumthar was a member of the Zharrgrim priesthood. It was his task to go to battle with the warriors and to call forth the power of Grimnir. By his chants did the ur-gold runes pounded into the flesh of his fellow Fyreslayers glow with the energies of the duardin god of war, granting strength and fighting prowess to the faithful. But no amount of chanting could bring these protective wards back to life – they were Uzkulrhun – runes whose power had died.

It was part of the Zharrgrim’s duty to ensure the lodge’s defensive runes were kept fiery, lit by the flame of Grimnir and linked to the eternal fires that burned within the great forge of the magmahold – and this was a duty they never shirked.

Scratching his head, Grumthar found no flaw within the runes that would explain how they had turned so cold. He felt his anger rising, but there was no foe upon which to vent his growing frustration. Here was a mystery, and Grumthar didn’t like any problem he could not solve with an axe. Haghnar needed to know of the gate’s failing. None understood the runic arts as he did, for he was Runemaster, the duardin who forged them. Haghnar would be found in the innermost sanctum of the Ulfort, in the Temple of Fire. It was there that Grumthar headed.

With every step towards the Temple of Fire, Grumthar’s apprehension grew. So vast was the immense furnace – the Great Gungron – that he should have been able to feel its heat radiating through the passageways as he drew near. Yet it was not so. Instead it grew colder as he neared the heart of the hold.

Grumthar arrived within the Temple of Fire to find the doors flung wide and the rest of the Zharrgrim priesthood gathered around Runemaster Haghnar. He saw with trepidation that the great furnace was not lit. Since the Age of Myth, when it had first been fanned to flames by sparks from Brokkfoor, the father of all forges, the Great Gungron of the Ulfort had burned hot. Now, its flames were extinguished.

Runemaster Haghnar was standing before the furnace, concentration furrowing the old duardin’s face, every muscle of this thick frame straining. Far below ground, stone shifted with deep rumbles as the Runemaster called forth magma from the realm’s core.

‘Nok Zharr Grimnir Rhynok Azamar!’ called Haghnar. ‘Let the flames of Grimnir rage forever!’

With that, molten rock burst up and flames licked the forge, yet still the furnace would not light; seemingly not even the Runemaster’s powers could rekindle it. A sinister chill descended over the chamber.

In that moment of despair, Grumthar felt his fighting spirit rising. His voice boomed, ‘Kinfolk of Ulrung – the eternal fire has turned to ash. Our defences are down. We must prepare for an assault by the dead.’

Even as he began the chant that would light the ragefires of battle within his brethren, Grumthar found the words dying in his throat.

A glow had begun in the forge, but it was not the blaze of Grimnir’s flames. It was a cold, amethyst light.

‘We cannot prepare to defend against them,’ said Haghnar, all vitality drained from his voice. ‘The foe is already here.’

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