Vrindum moved to the side, hacking through screaming reeds, so he could look past the runesons. Twenty paces ahead, Beregthor rode the magmadroth Krasnak, as high and proud in his throne as he had been the day the fyrds of the Drunbhor had left Sibilatus. Vrindum saw no doubt in the runefather’s posture, and no fatigue. The days in the Voidfire Plain had not worn him down. There was a leader who was sure of the path he had set for his lodge.
Vrindum glanced back at Frethnir. The runeson’s brow was still furrowed, his features still tortured by a decision he did not want to make. He faced forward once more, his posture rigid.
There could only be one choice so agonising. It was between two great loyalties: to the runefather, and to the lodge.
He thinks he might have to challenge the runefather, Vrindum thought.
Vrindum and Beregthor had grown up together. They had fought side by side their entire lives. The idea that the runefather might no longer be fit to bear the name Beregthor-Grimnir was a tragedy Vrindum refused to countenance.
Yet he could not ignore the accumulation of events that had pushed Frethnir to this point. Not just the endless march through the Voidfire Plain. The quest itself was driven by reasons even Vrindum found vague. We seek a gate where the wind is born, the runefather had declared. The lodge of our forefathers calls to us, he had said. A lodge never spoken of before. Beregthor led the Drunbhor toward a myth, to aid another myth. And there was the near-catastrophe at Sibilatus…
He looked again at the bearing of the runefather and felt better. There was a great warrior. He had not fallen, and Vrindum would follow him wherever he led.
But it was hard to look back and no longer see the towering bulk of Sibilatus.
II
Sibilatus: the howling mountain, magmahold of the Drunbhor lodge. Vrindum had dedicated his life to its defence, and it was a wonder worth defending. It shouldered high above its neighbouring peaks, a hulking, titanic skeleton turned to granite, crouched and brooding over the leagues before it. The skull took the full brunt of the wind that blew over the Evercry.
The night of the coming of the storm, Vrindum stood deep in the orbit of the skull’s left eye. He was a mote in the vast opening. The rounded roof was hundreds of feet above him. The wind hit him as it surged through the tunnel, roaring with all the strength built over the uncounted leagues from its legend-shrouded origin. It rushed in through the gaps in the ribs, and through the openings of porous bones. The entrances to the caves of Sibilatus numbered in the thousands. Where Vrindum stood, the voice of the wind was a deep, animal bass. Entwined with it were the higher notes of the ringing through tunnels long and short, wide and thin, straight and twisting. Sibilatus was a single great instrument, and the wind played it, creating a song of many harmonies. Vrindum revelled in the strength of the howling mountain. As he did every night, he rededicated his life to its defence. He spread his arms and welcomed the power of its booming, ever-changing hymn.
The songs of Sibilatus accompanied the retelling of sagas, the revels of feasts, and the thunder of war. He knew them all.
Then came the storm.
In a single moment, all variation ceased. The song became a simple one. It was an immense cry. A war horn bigger than worlds sounded three notes over and over. Vrindum staggered under its blow. Silver lightning exploded beyond the horizon. It streaked to earth as if the stars themselves were coming to wage war. This was lightning such as Vrindum had never seen before. The light was both more pure and more savage than that of any storm.
Such portents. Such omens. He stared. He could not fathom what he heard and saw.
A new thunder sounded beyond the portal to the cavern. It was the runefather’s voice, extraordinary in its power, as if it were drawing strength from the storm.
‘Bear witness, fellow Drunbhor!’ Beregthor called. ‘Look to the west, and see the hand of fate itself! See the workings of prophecy! Bear witness! Bear witness!’
The runefather’s command was taken up and passed through all the tunnels and chambers of Sibilatus. The Drunbhor climbed to the heights of the magmahold. In the socket of that vast eye, Vrindum was soon no longer alone. There were hundreds of Fyreslayers with him, and thousands more wherever there was an aperture giving on to the eruption of the heavens.
The horizon flashed with new war. The entire Drunbhor lodge bore witness.
All eyes looked west, and so they did not see the enemy.
III
The flamers danced, the grasses burned and clutched, and the forest drew near. Vrindum thought of it as a forest because there was no other word he could find for it. The silhouettes of the tall, swaying trunks were swollen with large, tumorous shapes. There was no foliage, though there appeared to be branches. They coiled and gestured, summoning the Drunbhor to their darkness. Over the three-note song of the wind came a rasping sound. Vrindum thought of the rubbing of rough, horned flesh. A scent like foul, piercing incense wafted over the fyrds.
Vrindum drew level with Krasnak. The magmadroth slashed at the hungry grasses before each step. The great beast bore the scars of burns. So did the runefather. He looked down from his throne and smiled at his old comrade. ‘Are my sons full of doubt?’
Vrindum nodded.
‘Will Frethnir challenge me?’
‘He wrestles with the decision. Why did you not answer him when he called to you?’
Beregthor laughed. ‘What need?’ He pointed the Keeper of Roads, his latchkey grandaxe, towards the tortured shapes ahead of them. ‘Is that a fit destination for our quest? My sons need more faith.’
‘Frethnir does not speak against you.’
‘Loyal but troubled, is he?’ Beregthor chuckled.
Vrindum saw little cause for amusement, but the runefather had been in high spirits since the first night of the storm. Even as the Voidfire gnawed at the ranks of the Drunbhor, Beregthor remained transported by the purpose of his quest.
A flamer twisted close, almost within reach, then moved away as throwing axes flew in its direction.
‘And what do you think, Vrindum?’ Beregthor asked.
‘That I march where you march.’
Beregthor laughed again. It was a great laugh, deep and strong. It shook Beregthor’s entire frame. ‘That much I can see, and I am grateful, as always, for your comradeship.’ He turned serious. ‘We are not alone in our purpose. Other lodges are on this journey.’
Vrindum frowned. ‘Have there been messages?’ He did not know how this was possible.
‘No.’ Beregthor rose in the throne once more as Krasnak took them through a burst of flame. ‘That is the prophecy. A new age dawns! It is full of change and war! Grimnir calls to all Fyreslayers, and we must answer!’
Vrindum wondered at this. Beregthor claimed his knowledge came from seeing a prophecy fulfilled, but it was a prophecy known only to him. Not even Runemaster Trumnir had heard of it before.
‘Tell me,’ said Beregthor, ‘do you believe in our journey? Do you believe in the reason we march?’
‘I believe that what happened at the magmahold had meaning, runefather.’
Of that, at least, he was certain.
IV
What happened at the magmahold…
They were all looking west, at the storm and the portents. They let their guard down. They were not looking inward. They did not see the enemy until almost too late.
With a cry of rage, Vrindum leapt from the gallery surrounding the Chamber of the Gate. He came down in the centre of the cave, on the very dais of the Drunbhor’s realmgate itself. He landed on the back of a raving priest, shattering his spine. He swung Darkbane in great arcs, left then right, its dual blades chopping down the corrupted warriors of the Changer of the Ways. The two long braids of his beard whipped about his head. Limbs and skulls flew. Blood fountained, drenching Vrindum in the death of the invaders.
Hearthguard berzer
kers stormed in through the four entrances of the chamber. They hacked their way deep into the horde. They brought brutal punishment to the foe that had dared trespass so deep into Sibilatus. None would escape alive.
But they should never have come this far.
Anger and shame battled in Vrindum’s breast. The chamber, deep in the heart of the magmahold, in the roots of the Whistling Mountain, was closely guarded, though it had not been used in centuries. He did not know how the invaders had learned of its existence, or of its location, or how they had reached it undetected. What mattered was that they had done so, and that they tainted the sacred ground of Sibilatus with their presence. The incursion dishonoured all the karls of the Drunbhor. If Vrindum killed all the wretches with his own hands, the fact that they had been here at all could never be forgotten, the taint never washed away.
Vrindum’s fury redoubled. He laid waste to the corrupted. He stood in the midst of a rising pile of corpses. If any of the attackers survived long enough to strike him, he did not feel the blows. He saw only their blood, and there was not enough of it. He would have more and more, until the foe was drowning in it.
The attacking force was a strong one. There were raving, self-mutilating worshippers of Tzeentch, eager to sacrifice themselves for their god. But with them were true champions, Chaos warriors in full armour, the plate distorted with twisting spikes and runes of madness. They fought hard against the Fyreslayers, and they fought well.
They died all the same. A towering warrior reared up before Vrindum, wielding a black, saw-toothed blade. Vrindum smashed the knight’s blow aside hard enough to shatter the sword. He brought his axe around and slammed it into the warrior’s helm, cleaving it and the skull beneath in two.
And there were daemons. Flamers of Tzeentch; hopping, twisting whirlwinds of flesh. Spellfire gouted from their snaking limbs. Vrindum’s anger had him on the edge of a killing frenzy, but he retained enough awareness to see there was strategy in the enemy’s assault. The debased mortals and the Chaos warriors formed a wedge around the daemons. They took the brunt of the Fyreslayers’ counter-attack. The broadaxes of the hearthguard berzerkers cut through the bodies of the cultists, then clashed against the armour and blades of the warriors. The glorious fire of duardin rage battered the darkness. Ancient armour shattered under the blows of the berzerkers. Their columns punched into the ranks of the Chaos warriors, but the hulking champions of ruin held the line, slowing the berzerkers with their own wrath and sacrifice. The flamers ignored the Drunbhor. All of their attention was focused on the gate. They trained their spectral flames on the stone pillars of its archway. The wards of the gate flashed, lashing out with purging lightning, reducing one of the daemons to ash. The others paid no notice. They continued their attack.
Sacred stone began to squirm. Portions softened, turning to flesh. A Chaos warrior hurled an axe at the flesh even as Vrindum brought him down, choosing to harm the gate rather than save himself. The thrown axe cut deep into the newly created muscle. The gate began to bleed.
The base of one of the pillars turned to glass.
Vrindum barrelled into yet another knight, sending the warrior flying out of his way. He roared at the flamer beyond – the one changing the pillar into crystalline brittleness – and plunged his greataxe into the daemon creature. The flamer would have shrugged off the blow of an ordinary weapon, but this was Darkbane, wielded by the grimwrath berzerker of the Drunbhor lodge. There was nothing ordinary about the blow. Stricken, the flamer unleashed a maddened, otherworldly howl. Vrindum’s ears bled at the sound. Darkbane was buried deep in the daemon’s core. He leaned on the shaft and the blade descended further, then the being exploded. Dissipating sorcery washed over him, and his flesh writhed in its wake, but he was stronger than the wave of change.
Two more knights rushed him as he turned to attack the next flamer, but it was too late. Glass shattered. Flesh tore. The pillars of the gate fell.
From the dying gate came a scream of sorcerous light that filled the chamber.
Many of the invaders were destroyed along with the gate. The few who survived were slaughtered by the wrathful Fyreslayers. The incursion was over, but it had served its purpose.
‘They did not seek to seize the gate,’ Vrindum told Beregthor as the runefather walked through the wreckage of the chamber. ‘They came to destroy it.’
Beregthor nodded absently, deep in thought. After several long moments, he said, ‘They had reason to destroy it. The storm has given them urgency. They would prevent us from fulfilling our duty. All they have done is ensure that we will.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Vrindum said.
Beregthor smiled.
Then, for the first time, he spoke of the other lodge.
In the days that followed, as preparations were made for the great march the runefather commanded, he said much about the lodge. How its magmahold had lain a long, but not impossible, journey beyond the other side of the lost gate. How in ages past, the Drunbhor had left that lodge to travel the realms and had come to Sibilatus. How the great storm portended a union of the two lodges in battle against Chaos. How the song of the wind, now unchanging, was the call to the Drunbhor, the call to march to that union. How the incursion had only made clear the necessity of this quest.
‘This prophecy…’ Runemaster Trumnir began when the council met.
‘Passes from runefather to runefather,’ Beregthor told him. ‘It is the memory of our lineage.’
‘But the gate is destroyed,’ Frethnir said. ‘Our way is closed.’
‘There is another gate,’ said Beregthor.
Again, Trumnir looked surprised. The runemaster’s beard and hair were streaked with lightning strokes of iron grey. He was older than Beregthor. That he had not known such secrets stunned him perhaps even more than the other Drunbhor.
Beregthor raised the grandaxe. ‘The gate is locked. It will open only to the Keeper of Roads. We must seek it where the wind is born. We march to the Typhornas Mountains.’
Mountains of lore. Mountains from the oldest stories of the Drunbhor.
A quest for a myth within myths. That was when Vrindum saw the first shadows of doubt and unease on Frethnir’s face.
‘How will we find them?’ the runeson asked.
‘By answering the call of the wind,’ said Beregthor. ‘It summons us to the west.’
Towards the storm.
V
The ground began to slope upwards where the Voidfire Plain ended at the forest of monsters. The smell of incense was overwhelming. It clawed at Vrindum’s lungs when he breathed. The Drunbhor left the grasses behind and passed between trunks swollen with bulbous growths. Their texture was patterns of shifting, spiralling whorls. Their colours varied from deep flesh-pink to the blue of bruises, and the shades changed from one moment to the next. To gaze on a single plant was to be confused by an ever-shifting pattern of colour and movement.
The limbs of the plants were long, thin and serpentine, reaching across the space between them to tangle with each other. It was impossible to tell where the branch of one plant ended and that of another began, as the limbs rubbed against one another, creating a susurrus of muttered truths and shapeless words. They seemed to gesture towards the Drunbhor, calling them deeper into the woods of madness.
‘Be vigilant, fyrds of the Drunbhor,’ Beregthor called.
Clusters of spines curled out from the trunks and branches. Their tips were sharp as blades.
The plants were as tall as fifty feet when they stood straight. Many were coiled like giant ferns or the tentacles of a sea leviathan. Like the flamers on the Voidfire Plain, they danced to the song of the wind. Though each monstrous plant had its own movement independent of all the others, the rhythms of each sway and bow and sinuosity were in time to the sounding of the three notes.
Short, long, short. The beats soft, strong, soft. The song never alteri
ng, the same notes since the first moment of the storm. The lightning had long since ceased, but the song remained, calling and calling.
‘The wind summons us!’ Beregthor said, as he had so many times since the coming of the storm. ‘It calls us to battle!’
The dance of the corrupted plants disturbed Vrindum. If the call was to the Drunbhor, why did these unclean growths respond to it?
Behind Vrindum, Frethnir said, ‘These creatures sense us.’ Shudders ran up the trunks and along the branches, as though a web had been disturbed. Vrindum eyed their movements carefully, even as he also watched the shadows between their trunks. There was no underbrush in the forest-that-was-not-a-forest, but the plants stood close to one another, and the light was dim.
There were no paths. The Fyreslayers were forced to wend their way between the trunks. The line of their march became twisted. When Vrindum looked back, he could see only the first couple of fyrds behind the runesons. On a column of more than a thousand Drunbhor, if something happened to the leaders or the rearguard, the other end of the host would not know it.
If the Voidfire Plain had been no proper place for a Fyreslayer, this was worse yet.
‘We are here!’ Vrindum shouted. Let the enemy come at last and meet the edge of his axe. ‘Know us and fear us!’
Laughter ahead. For a terrible moment, Vrindum thought it came from the runefather. Then he realized it emanated from a cluster of trunks a score of paces further on. As one, when the wind’s long note sounded, the growths on the trunks bulged, deep pink and shining. There was a wet tearing noise. The tumours grew arms and horns. They pulled away from the trunks, glistening with mucus. Newly born and ready for war, the pink horrors dropped to the ground. They were heavy, squat, horned things, some with three limbs, some four, some five. All had huge, gaping jaws. Their flesh was the colour of exposed muscle.
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