Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The vision faded. Thrumnor rose to his feet. He bowed his head before the image of Grimnir and gave thanks.

‘I know what we must do,’ he said.

Auric Runefather Dorvurn-Grimnir regarded his council. With him, along with Thrumnor and Rhulmok, were his seven runesons. All had climbed to the platform to witness the storm. Now, deep in the magmahold, they sat in a circle of stone chairs, carved to suggest the jagged peaks rising from the Earthwound ocean.

‘Our duty is clear,’ Thrumnor repeated. ‘Grimnir’s hammer calls us to the Great Weld. There, on blessed ground, there will be a great forging, and we will march in fire and conquest across the mainland.’

‘To where?’ Rhulmok shook his head. ‘The meaning of your vision is unclear to me. The scrolls of prophecy foretell a time of tribulation when Grimnir’s hammer strikes the Weld. I can well believe it. Something of enormous power is at work in the realm. Why should we respond by abandoning the magmahold?’ He brought a fist down on the arm of his chair. Stone chips flew. ‘Might the portent not herald a siege such as we have never encountered before? You saw the anvil shatter. This disturbs me. Should we not instead be preparing to defend?’

‘No,’ Thrumnor said. ‘My vision points the way.’

‘How? You saw lava. You saw terrible destruction. Is that not the foe heading our way?’

‘No. It is us.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Forvuld, the eldest of the runesons.

‘In my vision, the destruction was a necessary thing. What burned was unclean. The lava was our lodge, overwhelming our foe as we march across the realm in answer to the call of Grimnir. The call every one of us has now witnessed.’

Rhulmok’s heavy brow was wrinkled with doubt. ‘That interpretation is not enough to justify the risk to the magmahold.’

Dorvurn tried to remember the last time he had seen his runemaster and runesmiter so divided on an issue. He failed. Though Thrumnor was Rhulmok’s senior by more than a century, the bond between the two was a strong one, forged by the unity of bridge creation. He had seen them taunt each other in jest about whose mastery over the lava was the stronger, but on matters of import to the lodge, they had always spoken with one voice.

‘Runesmiter,’ Dorvurn said, ‘it is unlike you to express reluctance for battle.’

Rhulmok grunted, but did not take offence. Dorvurn had come close to calling him a coward, and the fact Rhulmok ignored the gibe was telling. The runesmiter’s concerns were deep ones.

‘I’m reluctant to engage in the wrong battle,’ Rhulmok said. ‘If we misinterpret what we see and march toward an illusion, leaving the magmahold open to the real menace, what then?’

‘There is no question of misinterpretation,’ Thrumnor said. He sounded more heated than the runesmiter. His bald scalp, marked with an intricate tracery of ur-gold, reddened with frustration. ‘I have seen our duty! To delay is to defy Grimnir! And there is also the matter of the oath.’

‘What oath?’ said Dorvurn.

‘The Oath to the Lost.’

There was a puzzled silence in the hall.

‘I’ve never heard of this oath,’ Homnir said. He was the youngest of the runesons, but it was clear none of the others knew any more than he did. Even Rhulmok looked confused.

Dorvurn felt a pang of guilt. Was it possible he had never spoken of the oath to his sons? Had he never passed on that portion of lore? He had been remiss. He could tell himself the Krelstrag tradition and history were so vast, it was impossible for anyone to remember every aspect, and some things would be forgotten. The tool that was never used would be abandoned over time, and the oath had never been invoked. Even its name had been altered, the form it now took revealing that something had been forgotten. Nevertheless, it existed. Thrumnor was right to invoke it. It seemed that the runemaster and Dorvurn, the oldest Fyreslayers of the Krelstrag lodge, were the only ones to remember. The runefather could not let that situation stand, especially since the oath’s relevance was clear to him now.

I had forgotten, he thought. Grimnir, forgive me.

‘The Oath to the Lost,’ Dorvurn said, ‘was made at the time before the Krelstrag came to Earthwound. It was made to another lodge, one bound to us by kin, as we set forth on the journey that would at last bring us here. It was an oath of mutual aid. Should the Fyreslayers of one lodge be attacked, the other would help them in their defence. Our foe is their foe, and their foe is ours.’

‘Another lodge?’ Homnir asked. He was stunned.

The passing of so many centuries in the Earthwound had isolated the Krelstrag. They had not had contact with another lodge in the living memory of even Dorvurn.

‘What is it called?’ Homnir continued.

‘We do not know,’ Thrumnor told him. ‘The name has been lost to us. We know we were kin. We know of the oath. We know the lodge lies somewhere beyond the Great Weld. All else has been forgotten.’

‘So we don’t even know if it still exists,’ said Rhulmok. ‘To reach the Weld will be a long journey. When have the Krelstrag ever sought to reach the mainland?’

‘Our foes have come to the Earthwound from there,’ Thrumnor snapped. ‘Are we lesser than they are?’

Rhulmok’s brow darkened, but his grip on his temper was more secure than the runemaster’s. ‘I did not say that. Nor did I mean it.’

‘No one questions our valour and might,’ Dorvurn intervened. ‘It is true that we do not know if the other lodge still exists. It matters not.’ He rose from his seat. ‘What matters is the oath. We made it, and we shall not break it. A great storm has come, an omen of tribulations for the Fyreslayers. The anvil of the Great Weld is struck. And Runemaster Thrumnor has a vision of our unstoppable sweep over our enemies.’ He raised his voice, and he raised his grandaxe. ‘Grimnir summons us to war, brothers! And we shall answer! We march! ’

‘The youngflame is unhappy,’ Rhulmok said.

He and Thrumnor stood a few paces away from where Dorvurn and Homnir spoke, surrounded by the other runesons. They were assembled on an enormous ledge, as big as a plateau, two-thirds of the way down the Forgecrag. Behind them were the main gates of the Krelstrag magmahold. The heavy iron doors were open, and in the great hall behind them, the massed ranks of the Krelstrag fyrds waited for the order to march. The thousands of vulkite berzerkers were a sea of red hair and beards. Thrumnor looked at them and saw the lava flood of his vision on the verge of being unleashed.

‘And what about his fellow youngflame?’ Thrumnor asked. ‘Is he reconciled to our quest?’ His question was serious. He wanted to know Rhulmok’s mind. It was important they were working well together again as they began the journey. How long would it be until they reached the other lodge? Weeks? Months? The lodge needed them, and it needed them acting as brothers. So he phrased his serious question using the frequent joke between them. Rhulmok was no youngflame. There were mountains younger than he. But Thrumnor was more ancient yet, and he still pretended to look upon the runesmiter as a youth.

He was glad when Rhulmok smiled. ‘This beardling has his concerns, but he will follow where the runefather leads, and be glad to do it.’ He turned serious. ‘And an oath is an oath.’ He looked out over the ocean, in the direction they were to take. The smaller volcanic islands blocked sight of the Great Weld, but the silver flashes of the greater storm were still visible.

‘The oath applies to us all,’ Homnir was arguing. ‘I too must fulfil it. How can I if I stay?’

‘You will fulfil your duty to the oath by staying,’ Dorvurn said. ‘I believe the runemaster is correct in his reading of the portents, but Rhulmok too is right: we cannot leave the magmahold undefended. You will defend our home, Homnir, and you will hold it against all enemies.’