Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘To Tulgamar, twentieth son of Karadrakk, the same,’ said Tulkingafar, tossing the third plaque toward Karadrakk-Grimnir’s youngest son. Tulgamar caught it. ‘The lost halls of the Far Delvings are yours, if you can take them from the beasts that dwell there, Tulgamar-Grimnir.’

Tulgamar nodded once, fingering his token of office thoughtfully. His gift was a hard one.

One portion remained. The four other sons of Karadrakk waited with bated breath. Mangulnar’s hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Tulkingafar drew it out, surveying the eager runesons with a crafty look. Ulgathern thought he might explode. Or punch Tulkingafar in the face.

Tulkingafar’s round eyes swung to look upon him. ‘And lastly, Ulgathern, twelfth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. One sixteenth of the lodge ur-gold.’

The plaque clunked onto the floor at Ulgathern’s feet. He could not keep the grin off his face as he retrieved it. The three disinherited runesons glowered, their dreams of wealth and honour gone.

‘For you, Ulgathern-Grimnir, a choice is given. You are to aid whichever of your brothers you choose, and request of them a right to settle.’

The old sod, thought Ulgathern. His father had often berated him for forging his own path and not thinking of the future. It looked like he had one final lesson for his son; co-operation, or exile.

‘You are charged with these responsibilities on one condition,’ Tulkingfar went on. ‘That you forsake the leaving of the hold, and work with your kin to strengthen it against incursion. Keep the Ulgahold free of the servants of Slaanesh, and you shall forever be honoured in the records of all the Ulgaen lodges.’

Ulgathern accepted claps upon the back from his newly elevated brothers and returned them. Of the three who had received nothing, Grankak and Ulgavost gave grudging respect, though their faces were sunk deep into their beards. Mangulnar held himself apart. He watched from the side for a moment before losing his temper completely.

‘Outrage! Perfidy! I am eldest! I am runefather by right!’ He moved toward Ulgamaen. The new runefather’s auric hearthguard stepped forwards, crossed magmapikes barring his path.

‘You have no right to leadership, runeson,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Karadrakk-Grimnir’s last wishes have been read. They are inviolate.’

When Mangulnar spoke again, his breath shimmered on the air, and smoke curled from his nostrils. ‘You will all regret this. All of you!’ He stormed out, his few followers hot on his heels.

A shocked silence followed this grievous breach of tradition, until a few minutes later, when hogsheads of magmalt ale were brought in and breached. After the first dozen tankards, they forgot about Mangulnar’s outburst completely.

The Hall of Memory was unusually cool and peaceful. For those reasons, Drokki liked it there. The remembrance beads made long rows of gold that glimmered ruddily in the halls’ low light. So big was the library that a duardin could lose themselves there. Drokki wandered down the aisles between the books dangling on their iron frames. The smell of hot gold and an occasional clatter and hiss drifted over the racks from the die rooms at the rear, where battlesmiths cast new books. From a nearby aisle he could hear hushed conversation. When the battlesmiths were in training, the Hall of Memory was altogether noisier, each basso profundo duardin voice competing with the next in volume and complexity of rhythm as they recited the lodge’s history. But today it was quiet.

The remembrance bead books were arranged by reigning runefather and year. He knew he shouldn’t, but Drokki let his good hand trail lightly along the records, setting off tiny, leaden clacks as the beads swayed on their thongs and knocked one another. He loved the slippery, cool feel of the gold, the random snatches of knowledge he read as his fingers touched upon the books’ runes.

His other arm was small and stick-like and lacking strength. He had lost count of the number of times Tulkingafar had said he should have been cast into the magma at birth. Some had taken the defect as a mark of Chaos. The Matrons of the Kin-gather had stood their ground, insisting that it was nothing of the sort and that the fires of his spirit burned true. Drokki might have been allowed to live, but he was reminded daily that it was upon sufferance.

Drokki habitually kept his withered arm pressed against his side. It wasn’t the most comfortable position — that was to have it up against his chest. But when nestled into his chest his little claw of a hand adopted a form that made it look like it was about to dart forward and snatch at purses, or it gave him a sinister, calculating air, as if he were raking his bent fingers through his beard. The worst of it was that when he held it across his chest, everyone could see. So he had taught himself to hold it straight, and many hours of pain it had cost him. With it forced down by his side, Drokki half-convinced himself that no one noticed.

Everyone always noticed.

Friends did not care, that was the important thing. To them he had been Drokki, and now he was Runesmiter Drokki, not Drokki of the Withered Arm — or worse. He was becoming respected, in his own small way; he had to remind himself of that often. The truth was that twenty friendly faces could not counterbalance one hateful comment, not in his heart.

‘Drokki! What are you doing skulking about back there?’

Battlesmith Loremaster Kaharagun Whitebeard came huffing up an intersection in the aisles, a half-dozen heavy remembrance bead books looped over a soft cloth wrapped around one arm, a slender, hooked staff in the other. Whitebeard was stout, almost as broad as he was tall, with a belly to match.

Drokki darted him a shy look. He found it hard to hold the eyes of others, and he kept having to force his gaze to meet that of Kaharagun. ‘Oh, you know. Looking, um, reading. Are you not at the calling?’

‘No, I’m not. I have given Loremaster Garrik the honour of performing that duty. He’s still got the knees for all that bowing and scraping.’

Garrik was at most six months younger than Kaharagun. Drokki hid a smile.

The loremaster looked back down the way Drokki had come. The swaying of the beads was minute, but Kaharagun noticed. ‘You’ve been up to mischief, again! Have you been disturbing the lore?’

‘Er. Well, I have. Yes. Sorry,’ admitted Drokki.

Kaharagun huffed. ‘Drokki! You’re no youngflame now, you’re a runesmiter! I expect better of you. Eighty-nine and still poking the beads like a bare-faced child.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You know it wears the gold. What’s the first rule of the beads?’

‘Touch them for reading, otherwise never.’

‘Right. Now, can I help you?’ Kaharagun’s scolding was gentle. Still, Drokki found it hard to look him in the face.

‘Um, yes. I was looking for the records from Gaenagrik Hold.’

Kaharagun sucked at his beard and rearranged his belly. ‘Gaenagrik eh? What do you want the beads of the ur-lodge for?’

‘There’s something I need to check on,’ said Drokki. He dared not share his unease yet, not until he was sure. ‘The prophecies of Hulgar Farseeing.’

‘I’d leave all that alone, young one. He was regarded mad, you know.’

‘Yes. Yes, I did know,’ said Drokki softly.

The duardin looked at each other for a moment.

‘Can you show me?’ prompted Drokki. ‘The records from the old hold aren’t arranged the same way as the new, and there is something I need to check.’

‘They’re perfectly easy to negotiate if you know what you are doing,’ said Whitebeard sharply. ‘They’re this way. If you’ll keep me company while I return these books to the racks, I’ll show you.’ He jabbed out a gnarled finger. ‘But no more touching the beads!’