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Blood Gold – Gav Thorpe
About the Author
An Extract from ‘The Realmgate Wars: Volume 1’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Blood Gold
By Gav Thorpe
The foothills seethed with movement – like a crust of red and black constantly breaking and reforming, a mass of Bloodbound warriors poured over slopes and crests in a continuous wave.
Their goal stood before them. The dark flanks of the immense pinnacle known as Vostargi Mont. It was not so much a mountain as a cloud-piercing edifice that defied the eye to judge its height. Countless lifetimes of spewed molten rock had grown the volcano into a titan amongst its kind, and from a thousand calderas and fumaroles the flame-ridden forces at its heart continued to burst into the world.
But the mount was not a dead place. Its surface was covered in great battlements and walls, guarding gates reached by winding, tower-flanked roads.
Those gates protected a labyrinth of tunnels, caverns and mineworks so vast that it was impossible for a single mind to know them all; so complex and ancient that even the annals of their inhabitants covered but a fraction of their full extent. Vostargi Mont was the ancestral home of the fyreslayers, fierce descendants of the stout duardin race who had been forged in the bowels of the World-That-Was.
Before the Gate of Endless Defiance, one of the lesser portals into the lower runeholds, the rocks themselves seemed alive. As the hills moved with the teeming horde of the Blood God’s howling servants, so the ridged slope of the mountain was also home to an army.
They were unlike any other duardin, unique among the fyreslayers even. Their flesh was like solidifying lava, a dark grey-black that cracked as they moved, showing glimpses of red-and-yellow heat from within. Ten thousand eyes that gleamed with the flame of a volcano’s heart watched the approaching Bloodbound.
Like all of their kind, they wore little armour. Their helms were split at the scalp, allowing great crests of fire-like hair to jut through, sculpted in extravagant designs, hung with clasps and rune-beads. Their beards were likewise a fall of orange and yellow hair-fire, plaited and knotted in intricate patterns and ringed with pale gold.
The air shimmered with heat haze. Their sheer presence brought a crackle of flames, and a smog carried on their breath.
At the fore waited Ungrimmsson Drakkazak, runefather of the clan, descended in direct lineage from their earliest progenitors. Like all of his kin his appearance was of volcanic rage given flesh, bound with golden torques and high helm, his beard forked many times by complex knotwork. The axe he held in one hand was almost as tall as he was, save for the great bifurcated crests of his hair, its blade edge dancing with undulating blue flame. As with many fyreslayers, his flesh was hammered with runes of ur-gold – mystic shards believed to be the fragments of the duardin warrior-god Grimnir, whose immortal form had been showered across the realms. Sigils of fortitude, strength, courage and power gleamed with an inner light from where they nestled in bicep and thigh, pectoral and shoulder. From belt loops and bracelets hung amulets and keys denoting his many ranks and titles amongst the Zharrthagi clan.
His eyes glowed with flame as he gazed at the mass of rage-driven humanity that surged across the foothills. A movement to his left caught his eye and he saw one of the fyreslayers, a young vulkite berzerker, bending one knee. The youthful warrior rubbed his hand in the dirt and then curled his fingers about the haft of his pick as he rejoined the line of his kin.
‘One of my runesons teach you that?’ Ungrimmsson asked. ‘Better for grip, eh?’
The vulkite berzerker nodded, the single binding of his short beard clattering against a gorget he wore about his neck. He looked away, staring out at the horde that approached. His fingers flexed on the haft of his pick again and the fyreslayer darted another look towards his runefather before fixing his eyes on the Bloodbound once more.
‘Come here, Alvi,’ said the runefather, beckoning with his axe. He knew every one of his kin by name. The fyreslayer approached with quick strides.
‘Yes, lodge-sire?’
‘You seem agitated.’
‘I’m not afraid, lodge-sire!’ the warrior protested.
‘I didn’t say you were afraid, Alvi. Agitated. Something’s vexing you.’
‘It’s not important,’ the fyreslayer told him. ‘I shouldn’t be troubling you.’
The vulkite berzerker took a step back towards his companions, but Ungrimmsson stopped him with a disapproving grunt.
‘I’ll decide what’s troubling me. Spit it out, lad.’
‘When I came to my first battle you said you were going to tell me about the Zharrthagi curse, lodge-sire. But you never got around to it. I asked the others but they said I needed to hear the tale from you.’
‘Why is it bothering you now?’
‘If I die, I’d like to know first, is all,’ confessed the fyreslayer. He flexed his arm and the skin cracked, leaving a crease of fire in the crook of his elbow. ‘I’d like to know why we’re the way we are.’
‘Well, there’s a thing,’ said Ungrimmsson. ‘First off, you’ll not be dying today. I promise you that. Second, you’re right, I do owe you the tale. You’re of age now, you should know.’
Ungrimmsson cocked an eye towards the red-armoured barbarians and gave the youngster a wink. ‘I figure we’ve got a bit of time to kill and here’s as good a place as any. The Zharrthagi curse, the fire in our bodies, goes back a long time, to before the Red Feast when the Great Parch was gripped by the ravages of the Blood God unleashed by that lord of slaughter, Khorgos Khul. The runefather of the Angastaz Lodge, as the clan was known then, was one Brynnson Drakkazak. A prouder nor more stubborn runefather has yet to walk the halls of Vostargi Mont…’
Sigmar’s reign held relative peace over the lands of the Great Parch and a great many other regions over many realms. Even so, the children of Grimnir were not ones to be idle and we warred with orruks and ogors and even the humans on occasion. Their holds were raided by grotz, and even bands of aelves would occasionally seek to take their overland territories. Even so, there were also times when the lodges fell to conflict with each other, though only rarely did such disputes end in battle, even amongst hot-headed fyreslayers. Sometimes runesons and runefathers might duel each other to prove a point or settle an argument.
The Ironfists were more aggressive than most, spending years at a time on the surface seeking ur-gold while others delved deep into the spine of the mountain to find the shards of Grimnir. It was good that they did, for often disagreement followed when they returned to Vostargi Mont. The Ironfists were not the most numerous nor the wealthiest lodge, but Brynnson Drakkazak was determined that they would have great reputation all the same. In ferocity it was said there was nothing like an Ironfist, and it was joked that the fire of the world-salamander, Vulcatrix, had mixed with the blood of Grimnir to make them. Perhaps those jests contained more truth than mockery. Brynnson certainly did nothing to quell these chattermouths, and took some delight in the bloodthirsty tales told of his exploits, whether true or not.
Matters did not sit well with the councils and runefathers of the other lodges. It seemed to them that Brynnson’s bellicose nature courted disaster for all the people of Vostargi Mont and the Great Parch. He would likely lead his clan into war against one of the human powers like the Aridians, Aspirians or Bataari. Though the Fatherspire would be safe, such outright war between the fyreslayers and the pre-eminent empires of the humans would be disastrous for both, and would bite deep into the truce with Sigmar also.
‘Faint-hearts and fair-weather warriors!’ Brynnson called his peers when his presence was demanded at the High Temple. He did not like the summons one bit and the accusations of the other runefathers were wearisome in the extreme. ‘Grimnir would cover his eyes ’fore he’d look at the likes of you. Had he the guts of his lesser sons, Vulcatrix would have devoured him and the realms would burn eternal.’
But the other runefathers were not cowed by his venomous words and demanded of Brynnson an oath pledging the Ironfists to not raise arms against the civilisations of the humans, or risk being named ufdaz – less than duardin. The lodges were bound to one another by lineage and home, but Brynnson did not care for the tone of the other runefathers, nor the threat that his people would be dispossessed by their peers.
‘None put words upon my tongue, nor oaths upon my back,’ Brynnson roared at them. They had gathered by the Firewell in the heart of the eternal mountain, and before its flames Brynnson raised his fist and pledged his own pact. ‘Cross waste and mere, mountain and valley, sea and ice, I will not rest while there is ur-gold to be claimed. Our godlord demands it and thus I vow it!’
How the flames leapt at his words! The runefathers grumbled their disapproval and cut their ties with the Ironfists but there was no opprobrium or censure they could level that would pierce the armour of self-righteousness that guarded Brynnson’s purpose.
And despite the misgivings of the oldbeards, it seemed no ill came of the Ironfists’ exploits over the years that followed. For near a score of summers the prosperity of the lodges increased and the tribes and cities of humans grew in power and influence. Brynnson was a canny leader and though he held true to his oath, he was of enough sense to venture far from the Great Parch for much time, using the Realmgates to prosecute his hunts for the ur-gold across distant lands in Chamon, and even allied and warred with the wraith-aelves of Shyish.
But vows, once made, never break nor age. Brynnson did not forget the words he had spoken before the Firewell of Grimnir, and their echo would return long after their utterance.
Though they spent a great deal of time abroad on their wars and quests, on occasion the Ironfists returned to the halls of their lodge at Vostargi Mont and would melt down the ur-gold they had collected. Brynnson would meet with the council and boast of the gains he had made on his endeavours, mocking the other runefathers for the scarcity of their ur-gold. Never let it be said that Brynnson was a modest leader, but he never lied either and spoke as he saw. After returning during one particularly scorching season, Brynnson received word to attend to the council of the most senior runefathers. With no patience to weather further scorn or rebuke, he refused to heed their call. It was only when he learned that a stranger had come to Vostargi Mont demanding audience that he relented in his defiance and climbed the winding stairs and long passages from the lodges of the Ironfists to the High Temple, where the Vostarg and other clans would meet with this visitor.
The one that had come was a human, of slender build even for their kind, and garbed in fine robes of purple and grey. His head was bald and patterned with black ink in zigzag patterns. He wore rings through nose and brow and ears, the glint of the gold pleasing to the eyes of the runefathers, and more precious metals and gems adorned wrist and ankle.
‘I am Ologhor Sheng, dreamwalker of the southern plains,’ he introduced himself, bowing low before the council. ‘I have come before the renowned runefathers of the fyreslayers to offer a pact.’
Storbran, runefather of the Vostarg and head of the council, sat upon a granite throne with a broad Grimnir icon in gold above him. The other runefathers likewise were enthroned upon chairs of stone in a semicircle about their petitioner, while at the human’s back burned the unending flame of the Firewell.
‘It is uncommon for the children of Sigmar to call upon the sons of Grimnir in this way,’ said Storbran.
‘But not impossible,’ replied Sheng. ‘I know of the fyreslayers’ quest to recover the shards of their ancestor-god, and that their axes are willing to bite in return for it and many other treasures besides.’
‘You have travelled far for this pact,’ remarked the runefather of the Whitefire Lodge, Nordron-Grim. ‘The southlands lie distant to this peak and you have passed many other potential allies to come here. What is it the fyreslayers possess that these others did not?’
‘The will to do what must be done,’ replied Sheng. From his robes he produced a small nugget that he held out in his palm, the glint of the gold ruddy and lively in the light of the Firewell. ‘Ur-gold. And there will be more if we can find common ground.’
The lodgemasters gathered close while Storbran called for his auric runelord, the widely famed Augun-Skrandin. To their experienced eyes the claims of the human seemed true, but in the matter of ur-gold no duardin takes an assertion at face value. When Augun-Skrandin arrived, Sheng delivered to his hand the piece of metal.
Augun-Skrandin, wise in the ways of ore and seam, proceeded to assay the offering of Sheng. He rubbed a gnarled thumb upon its surface, listening to the sound. He smelt the gold and examined it through the lenses of his auric scrutineer. Holding the nugget between finger and thumb the auric runelord touched it with the tip of his tongue and closed his eyes, savouring and assessing the taste.
‘Seems right,’ he offered as summation of his appraisal, but held up his hand when Sheng made to retrieve his nugget. ‘There’s one more test and we’ll know for sure.’
Holding the alleged ur-gold on a calloused palm he approached Storbran. The runelord lifted his hand close to the rune of ur-gold hammered into the left arm of his liege and all eyes were set upon the small piece of golden metal. As it drew closer it started to shake upon his palm, twisting ever so slightly as iron is wont to do when close to the lodestone. Nearer still the runelord moved his palm and both flesh-runes and nugget began to gleam in sympathetic recognition. From the body of Storbran the ur-gold glowed with an orange hue. Upon the palm of Augun-Skrandin a darker red shone, flickering with tiny black filaments. The elder’s brow creased like the deep valleys of the Cynder Peaks.
‘Not ur-gold?’ whispered his runefather.
‘’Tis ur-gold, right enough,’ the runelord declared, tipping it back into the hand of Sheng. ‘Though of a nature I’ve never seen before.’
‘There is more,’ announced Sheng, as the lords of Vostargi Mont returned to their stone seats. ‘The land of my people is rich with these deposits.’
‘Be warned, Ologhor Sheng, that false promise is a crime punishable by death among the fyreslayers,’ growled Storbran, but Sheng showed no hesitation.
‘Payment will be made, in full.’
‘Payment you have offered yet you have not said for what task it will be exchanged.’
‘I wish the deaths of my enemies, and only the fyreslayers have the strength and the determination to end them.’ Sheng looked at all the gathered runefathers while his hand slipped the ur-gold back into its nestling place within his robe. ‘The tribes of the Flamescar Plateau are gathering for an ancient rite. The chieftains of those I wish dead will meet to choose one amongst their number to represent them at this celebration. To have so many leaders of my foes in one place is opportunity too ripe to waste, and so I call upon you to bring your blades with me and lay them upon my enemies at this tribal council, slaying them all at a stroke and scattering their people.’
‘It is bloody work indeed,’ said Storbran, but he rubbed his chin in contemplation. ‘Yet not a task beyond the Vostarg. Who are these people that have so earned the wrath of Ologhor Sheng?’
‘They are a powerful tribe who have encroached upon our lands for generation after generation without respite. They are called the Direbrands.’
A shared intake of breath greeted this revelation. The Direbrands were known well amongst the lodges, as a sizeable and powerful people of the Flamescar Plateau and, more importantly, as devout and favoured se
rvants of the thunder god, Sigmar.
‘To move against the Direbrands is to dare the wrath of Sigmar Himself,’ warned Storbran.
‘And yet I thought the fyreslayers only indebted themselves to the memory of Grimnir,’ retorted Sheng. ‘I did not know Sigmar had cowed the folk of Vostargi Mont so well.’
‘Ease your tongue, Ologhor Sheng, and do not think to shame us with words when the deed you ask of us risks war with an ally of our father-god.’ Storbran shook his head, the rings and finials of gold in his beard clanging against each other. ‘No, it will not be done. Even promise of ur-gold is not worth the shattering of the peace that has been forged here.’
Sheng nodded and shrugged, accepting this judgement with good grace. He said nothing but turned his gaze to the next runefather, Orskard-Nok of the Forgestorm. Orskard-Nok shook his head also.
And so it continued, from one runefather to the next. In turn each silently declined the contract that Sheng offered.
All but one.
‘Mithering soft-hearts,’ growled Brynnson Drakkazak. He stepped down from his chair and ran a hand through his fine crest, sparks of ur-fire gleaming from his fingers. ‘You’d let the shards of our mighty father-god lie in the chests of these mystics rather than bloody your axes?’
‘To move on the Direbrands–’ began Storbran, but Brynnson did not care for the argument.
‘Gold is gold,’ the runefather of the Ironfists declared. He pointed to the flames where he had pledged himself to the spirit of Grimnir. ‘And ur-gold belongs to us, wherever it has fallen. Would Grimnir have held his blade back? No! And neither shall the Ironfists!’
The condemnation of the others was like the breaking of a storm, but their words troubled Brynnson no more than the patter of rain on the flanks of Vostargi Mont. With Sheng at his side, he left the High Temple to seal the pact.
When Brynnson led his forgesons from the Ironfists’ halls it seemed as though the sky itself was a vast sea of embers. That erratic heavenly body that was called the Sky Crucible burned ruddily above, its wayward course taking it over the Flamescar Plateau as it slowly arced from the north. Its scarlet crescent met a swathe of storm clouds that had swept up from the south, as though the tempest had been following Sheng. The human mystic called the waxing orb above the Blood Moon and said its motions across the sky had guided him to Vostargi Mont.