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Ashes of Grimnir – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Ashes of Grimnir

Michael J Hollows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Grimnir. Fire. Ur-gold…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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