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Realmslayer: Legend of the Doomseeker – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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ONE

‘Khazuk!’ Broddur roared, hefting the icon of Grimnir Doomseeker aloft. In the shifting, golden choler of the lava sea it seemed to frown, as though condemning whoever was fool enough to breach the inner wards of the Unbak lodge to a fiery end. Broddur sucked in his belly and marched. Today, he would make his master proud.

Two hundred Fyreslayers of the Forn Fyrd, a sixth of the might of the Grand Fyrd, marched five abreast. The Salamander’s Spine was the oldest and hottest volcanic chain in the known lands of Aqshy. It was here that their god had fallen in titanic battle, and here that the first and largest of the Fyreslayer lodges had been founded. Karag Unbak had never been the greatest of those early lodges, but where they had fallen to abandonment and disrepair, the Unbak had endured through the long ages. The magma-vault was hewn from a basaltic isle in a volcanic sea known as the Caldur, deep under the ancient mountain. The Caldur Bridge extended across that seething ocean, jutting from one rocky atoll to the next, linking the disparate outer holdings of the Unbak to the main lodge before disappearing into the same haze of heat and cinders. Most were long abandoned: once cities in their own right, now little more than hunting lodges and ranger posts. Lava lapped sluggishly at their fortifications. The sky, such as could be seen beyond the shield of the volcano, was burnt and angry.

Many were the warbands abroad in the Salamander’s Spine Mountains of late, and few of those could resist the chance to test their mettle against that of the Unbak lodge before heading on to their war in Hammerhal Aqsha.

Riding over the bridge at the marching column’s head in a war-throne of pitted basalt, Forn beat his fists on his chest and roared. ‘Unbak! Broken, but unbowed!’

‘Unbowed!’ Broddur returned, with a thrust of his glowering icon.

‘Khazuk!’ the fyrd rumbled, as though the stone beneath them might split.

The runeson, Forn, was a champion in Grimnir’s mould. Not a warrior but a fighter. His chest was a barrel of muscle. His neck was so thick that it would take two duardin together to wrap their hands around it. His hands were like a runesmiter’s hammers, so heavy were they with golden runes. They simmered with a barely controlled power as the low-slung gait of the magmadroth he rode swayed him back and forth. The great reptile’s name was Yellowscale. Forn had stolen her as an egg and slain her mother. Her temperamental fury was a perfect match for his own.

The smouldering rock face that was her jaw split open for a roar that shook the entire bridge and left a thunderous ringing in Broddur’s ears. When his hearing returned, he heard Forn laughing.

‘I know that the lodge elders think me foolish and Aruk-Grimnir thinks me harmless.’ Forn turned in his high seat so that he was looking back on the golden-helmed and high-crested heads of the fyrd, raising his voice in a boisterous shout to address them all. ‘So what then does that say about the kinbands he’s given me to lead?’

The fyrd answered with affectionate cheers. Forn was the youngest of Aruk-Grimnir’s six sons and widely held as the most likely to burn too hot, too young, before ever threatening to succeed his father. While the lodge elders tutted and shook their heads at his recklessness, the kinbands loved him for it.

‘My father and brothers stand now with the Zharrgrim Hearthguard. Runemaster Krag Blackhammer nears completion of his life’s great work and whatever the foe waiting for us, the magma-vaults are to be defended at all costs.’ Yellowscale delivered another punishing bellow, spraying the exuberant front ranks with cinders. ‘It is a sign from Grimnir’s own mouth! While they all play at being Grungni, the Forn Fyrd will make war!’

‘Khazuk!’

Broddur felt a tingle run down his spine as he looked up at his friend. ‘Your father’d be proud, runeson.’

‘Hark at you,’ Forn mumbled, leaning over the arms of his throne so only Broddur could hear. ‘Runeson. Was a fyrd of ten-score and twelve all I needed for you to start showing me the respect I was due? Call me Forn, Broddur, lest I start calling you battlesmith.’

‘We’ll make them both proud.’

Forn’s fierce expression cracked for a moment. It was only ever for a moment. ‘I’ve only five brothers to surpass after all. We can at least be gold-mad enough to try.’

He drew a long spear from the stone quiver carved into the side of his throne and thrust it into the air with a roar. His warriors duly cheered.

‘Do you remember when we were flamelings, Broddur? When we would steal hammer moulds from Skorun’s forge and play berzerker in Az Skorn?’

Broddur smiled to consider the rare innocence of the memory. The realms were harsher and hotter than they had seemed then. ‘The Firebrand had me working his forge for six months with no rest to pay back what those moulds were worth.’

‘And now you’re a battlesmith yourself. His equal.’

Broddur scoffed. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

He looked up to the face at the top of his icon pole, regardless. It had been fashioned from ur-gold and fyresteel, finished with a beard of magmadroth-hide straps studded with rubies and yellow citrine. The eyes were grave and deep, little more than hollows in the metal. The expression was grim, as it should be grim. There were a hundred aspects of Grimnir. Few were the non-duardin who could tell them apart, but to a Fyreslayer they were as distinct as one form of gold was to another. Even amongst the Fyreslayers, however, only a lodge’s battlesmiths had earned the right to forge their likeness and tell their stories.

‘Grimnir the Doomseeker,’ said Forn, following his gaze. His voice was grave now, as was right. When considering the Shattered God, drunken despondency or earth-shattering fury were the only states that were acceptable. ‘He was always your favourite when we played.’ The runeson grumbled under his breath, but was unable to hold off the small smile that Broddur could see threatening. ‘You always made me be Vulcatrix.’

‘Someone had to be Vulcatrix.’

‘And me a runeson, too.’

Broddur sighed as he shook off their reverie and returned to the moment. ‘Something in this face always spoke to me.’

‘Well, it’s yours now. So show the Firebrand you’re handier with more than just a hammer and tongs.’

With a nod, Broddur raised the icon high. The jewelled straps flapped in the heat rising off the Caldur beneath them. His free hand fell to his belt, feeling out the marks in the story beads that he had himself cut from cubes of solid gold.

‘The earth did tremble!’ he roared, projecting his voice, as his master would, to address the marching fyrd entire. ‘The sky wept fire. Seven times did the axes of Grimnir carve the molten scales of Vulcatrix and seven times was he savaged by the ur-Salamander in turn. As Grimnir fought so his beard and crest did burst aflame, but hotter still burned the killing rage in his heart. And when Grimnir stood at last bestride the broken body of his foe, the earth did respond with a fury that turned mountains into plains and plains into oceans. But Vulcatrix, in her great spite, would suffer no god his victory.’

‘Dreng tromm.’

‘The ur-Salamander did turn her fire upon herself. Even in her death throes her breath was hotter even than that of the Great Drake Dracothion, the grandfather of all dragons, and with that last breath did she destroy herself and Grimnir with her.’

‘Dreng tromm!’

‘The peak of our ancestors did crumble and the High Star of Azyr showed its white face upon their halls. Much was the ur-gold that fell upon them and many were the magmadroths that hatched in the fires below. Karag Unbak did they rename it. The Broken Volcano. We are the children of Grimnir. We fight as Grimnir fought. His strength is now our strength.’ He yelled louder, his voice finding a strength that countless hours of practice in front of reflective plates in his private forge had not prepared him for. ‘We are the Unbak lodge. Broken, but unbowed.’

‘Unbowed!’ Forn bellowed.

‘Khazuk!’

‘Khazuk!’

‘Khazukan kazakit-ha!’

‘Maybe we’ll make both our masters proud after all,’ said Forn, as the cheers simmered down.

The Fyreslayers halted before the yellow-glowing, semi-molten gates of Az Skorn, at the end of the Caldur Bridge’s initial span. The isle was so named because, when viewed from the sundered caldera high above, its outline resembled that of an axe. When he was younger, Broddur had asked the Firebrand if it had been Grimnir’s axe. His tutor had laughed and told him no: Grimnir’s axe would be bigger. Ordinarily, the cluster of castles would be home to a kinband of scouts, a small trading post, and any number of truant flamelings depending on the time of day. Its gold walls wobbled with the heat. They were currently silent.

‘Weapons ready and hold,’ Forn barked, beating Yellowscale with the stick end of his javelin to get her to stop with the rest of the fyrd. ‘Hearthguard to me.’

The elite warriors of the lodge wore elaborate golden helms and tough magmadroth-scale kilts. They formed up around Yellowscale and presented a thicket of smouldering pikes.

‘See that?’ Forn jabbed his spear into the magmic haze.

Broddur squinted. ‘I see nothing.’

‘That’s because I spend my days hunting magmadroth while you spend yours squinting at klinkerhun and letting the Brew Matron’s pies come to you.’

Broddur gave his round belly a paternal pat. ‘She says I’m a proud figure of a duardin.’

‘You’re the proud figure of at least three duardin, and she’d have to say it since she made most of it.’

‘Wait up,’ said Broddur, silencing the Hearthguard’s chuckles and staring forwards.

The outline of something solid had appeared within the wandering haze. It appeared to be approaching from the gates.

‘Blood and gold!’ Forn snapped. ‘Show them fyresteel!’ There was a hiss, as of heated steel being drawn from an anvil, as the fyrd readied their weapons.

The squat, powerful-looking shape plodded out of the heat.

Broddur lowered his icon. He felt more than a little foolish. ‘It’s… it’s a duardin.’

Forn swore, practically throwing his javelin back into its quiver. ‘One chance to win honour and gold while my brothers are elsewhere. One! Do I ask too much?’

‘It must be a trader from one of the outer holdings,’ Broddur murmured.

‘I don’t care if he’s Grimnir’s favourite brewer. What’s he doing on the Caldur now?’

Broddur shrugged.

‘One measly duardin?’ Forn grumbled. ‘The whole fyrd mustered over one duardin. My brothers are going to love hearing about this. Bloody Blackhammer. Damn him, and his Master Rune. I’m going to take it while it’s still white from the anvil and shove it right up his grimaz.’ He clambered down from his war-throne as he scowled and complained, gave Yellowscale a kick in the ankle to indicate that she should stay, and then stomped off in the direction of the approaching duardin.

Broddur shared a look with the karl of the runeson’s Hearthguard. With Forn in this mood, he would as soon toss an unfortunate duardin merchant head first into the Caldur and then push on to the Great Ash Road as stop and ask questions. Together, they hefted up their heavy poles and hastened after him.

The figure that came stumbling out of the heat was indeed a duardin, but he was like no Fyreslayer Broddur had ever seen. His beard was a fiery orange, but it was not the living spirit of Grimnir that made it smoulder as it did Broddur’s and Forn’s. It was dyed. Brown hair was showing through at the roots. His hair, similarly, had been drawn into a flattened, slightly singed crest that was reminiscent of the Unbak style but without the war-helm that would usually hold it in its shape. And the duardin was big. Bigger even than Forn and thicker with muscle.

‘Grimwrath,’ Broddur muttered fearfully.

‘Rubbish,’ said Forn. ‘There’s not a single rune on him.’

That, Broddur decided, was the most unsettling thing.

Primitive-looking tattoos traversed the duardin’s flesh. His forearms were clapped in bracers of scuffed and blackened gold, steel chains that may once have been attached to weapons dragging their broken ends along the ground. Yet his body bore none of the ur-gold that lent a Fyreslayer the vigour and strength of his fallen god.

‘He looks meaner even than your father, Forn.’

Broddur could hear the clenching of the runeson’s fists over the rumbling of the Caldur. The rune embedded in his swelling bicep began to smoulder.

‘Some homeless scruff from one of the Dispossessed clans dressed up as a Fyreslayer. I have all the luck.’ He gesticulated angrily towards the seemingly senseless duardin. ‘Well? What’ve you to say for yourself, you witless wanaz?’

The duardin swayed on the spot as he turned to frown at the runeson and his Hearthguard. His eyes slowly uncrossed. Gobbets of lava hissed where they clung to his body.

‘Grimnir’s blood,’ Broddur muttered under his breath. ‘It’s as though he just climbed out of the volcano.’

‘Got drunk and fell in, more likely.’

The strange duardin glowered at the Fyreslayers as though something about their existence enraged him. ‘Daemon fire dwarfs and wingless runt dragons,’ he growled in a voice as cracked and sore as burnt skin. ‘Where in the far reaches of the Chaos Realm have I landed this time?’

‘The middle of a painful embarrassment is where this is.’ Forn closed the remaining distance between them and rammed his face into the other duardin’s. The smell of burnt hair made it to Broddur’s nostrils as their crests tangled. ‘Are you so block-headed you don’t realise Karag Unbak is at–’

Whatever question the runeson had intended to ask ended with a howl of pain as the confused intruder bit down on Forn’s nose. Cartilage crunched under his brown teeth, blood and snot spraying his scruffy beard as Forn issued a strangled roar. The other duardin shoved him off, spitting blood and skin back into the runeson’s face. His licked his lips as they split into a brutal, humourless grin.

‘Tastes like dwarf. A decent effort, daemon.’

‘I’m sixth son of Aruk-Grimnir,’ Forn shrieked, clutching at his mutilated nose with one hand, his rising fury causing the runes embedded in his body to ignite one by one. ‘I’ll kill you, you–’

The duardin punched Forn in the face.

The runeson staggered, blinked as though fighting to wake himself from some terrible dream, and then hit the ground in a clatter of fyresteel armour and magmadroth scale. Broddur looked down in shock at his unconscious friend. Say what you like about Forn Aruksson, but no one had ever denied his ability to take a blow to the head.

He felt his gaze drawn to the face at the top of his icon.

The duardin picked a scrap of skin from between his teeth and flicked it onto Forn’s body. ‘A blight and a ruin on the Dark Gods. Fight if you’re going to fight, or simper about your accursed bloodlines if you’d rather. But bear in mind that Gotrek Gurnisson will be doing the former.’

The duardin, apparently calling himself Gotrek, stumbled towards the rest of the Hearthguard like a punch-drunk pugilist.

‘Don’t make me choose between you now,’ he growled. ‘What kind of wimpish daemon breed are you?’

‘Defend the runeson!’ yelled Forn’s karl as the Hearthguard belatedly levelled their magmapikes. ‘Hearthguard! Bring him down.’

Blasts of molten rock slammed into Gotrek’s chest. He staggered through the impacts like a dazed beast, only to curse as he found one of his legs dragging him, the cooling magma hardening into rock and encrusting the foot to the ground.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Gotrek bellowed. ‘Rocks?’

The Hearthguard loosed another volley of magma from their pikes, and charged. Two veteran warriors threw themselves at the duardin, one at each shoulder, meaning to tackle Gotrek to the ground, but succeeded only in wrenching his foot up off the floor. Gotrek merely staggered and reset and cracked their skulls together. They dropped like two rolls of hide. The rest piled in, Gotrek and the four remaining Hearthguard yelling wordlessly as they grappled with one another.

‘How did he… get so… strong… without runes?’ Broddur heard one of the Hearthguard gasp.

With an infuriated roar, one of the struggling Hearthguard held underarm in a headlock, Gotrek barged his way through the scrum. ‘You look like dwarfs, but you fight like girly elves.’

Again, Broddur found his attention summoned by the face of the Doomseeker atop his icon pole.

Gotrek Gurnisson cackled, even as a punch from one of the Hearthguard sent a tooth flying from his mouth. A second was clubbing at his head, a third pulling on his beard. The warrior being crushed in his headlock was slamming his elbow furiously into Gotrek’s stomach. He was still raging, still cursing, as the rest of the Forn Fyrd, all two hundred strong, roared past Broddur to join in the fight.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2023.
This eBook edition published in 2023 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Anna Lakisova.

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