Kraka Drak heeds Ekrund's call

Written by awarnock

Many miles to the north, a message arrived at Karak Drakk, the news that the Goat King's Crown had been found and recovered was tempered by darker tidings.

Thane Brask Alpsbane, the Red Thane, had died in battle. The other clans were glad to hear that the Norscian dwarves had been given burials fit for heroes, and while they celebrated the triumph of the Dalazidrungak Drekaz, there was a somberness and anger simmering below the surface. Not all of Clan Alpsbane had left for the old hold of Ekrund with Brask. The following morning, not a single member of the clan was left within the hold, nor did they go alone. Warriors and runesmiths from many of the clans volunteered to go, and more than a few just went anyway.

A storm was coming from the north, cold and merciless.

===

Luca climbed to the top of the mountain. The urk and grobi were still about, though they were slowly being taken care of. That hadn't stopped some of the dawi from the other clans and even a few from her own from protesting her plan. She had ignored them all. She was not Brask's daughter for nothing, and even though she still grieved her father's death, she was not some helpless damsel, nor was she a noble who commanded from the rear lines. She was a dawi and she lead from the front. She would not ask of her clan something that she was not willing to do herself.

Her iron will had failed to convince some who thought that climbing to the top of the mountain with only a bare dozen retainers, none of them warriors, for company. Rather than browbeat their blessing from them, she simply decided that she and her assistants would leave in the quiet of the night. They moved quickly, but stealthily. They all knew that one false step could spell disaster. The clan's morale would be long in recovering from the loss of two thanes in as many months. Luca, though, had no intentions of dying in this place. She'd finish her father's work her in her own way.

They climbed for the next two days, arriving at the top of the mountain just as the sun was setting in the west, reflecting golden light off the water of the gulf. She knew that out on those waters was an urk hunted by a sea monster, but as soon as the thought came to mind, she pushed it away to focus on the task at hand. The air was hot and dry, even at this altitude. Soon, she hoped, that would change. Quickly, Luca and her assistants labored to ready everything before the sun had finished its descent below the horizon. Just as the sun disappeared, Luca and her twelve assistants, all of them dawi women, shed their cloaks revealing the white furs of wolves and bears that they wore beneath them and took their places in this ritual.

There was power in the old ways, power that was too often forgotten by even the elf and the dwarf. Luca had studied under her grandmother the ways of old. Many thought of her as a runesmith, and while correct, it was too simple an explanation. The new thane of Clan Alpsbane was a practitioner of a far more ancient and arcane art. She did not need to work in steel, silver, and gold, blood and stone served her just as well.

As the moon rose in the east, Luca carved the ancient dawi rune of vengeance in her left palm and the ancient rune for wrath in her right. Blood fell in fat drops that landed on the dusty peak of the mountain. The others followed her lead, marking their palms with obsidian daggers as they encircled Luca. All was quiet as they painted their arms with prayers for vengeance and strength on their arms with their own blood. The head of a great wardrum was marked with the runes for thunder, ice, snow, and storms. As the moon pulled fully above the eastern horizon, they pulled out great wind instruments and began to play. Luca danced, her blood dripping and tracing her steps as she moved about. The stone of the mountain began to shudder as the moon rose higher and higher. The horns chanted and the drum thrummed. The mountain shook and trembled. Stone cracked and around the peak rose eight standing stones, runes glowing on their faces as the moon reached its zenith and Luca stopped her dance, both of her arms thrust into the air as she breathed heavily from the exertion and stood in the midst of the rune her steps had traced on the peak.

The stones bore the names of the winds whose domains they faced. In the center of the ring was the rune that was the name of the north wind, the mightiest of the winds. Luca's blood began to flow and spread, though the first drops of it were hours old. It dyed the stone and shifted until the massive rune was made up of thousands of other runes, telling the tale of how the north wind came to be. Power thrummed in the stone now. It burned on the dawis' skin. It hummed in the air about them.

"Hear me, Bolgazhad, Mightiest of the Winds and King of the White Wilde. Come and be the harbinger of my wroth! Come and sow dread among the wretches that dare defile our ancient homes," she cried into the night, the air beginning to take a bitter chill.

"Come and be the blade of my fury and wrath!"

Clouds began to gather and Luca once again began to dance. Rime coated the stone and their breath began to steam. A wind began to blow, gently at first, but with ever growing hunger and power, from the north. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Luca's dancing and the music grew into an ever greater frenzy until the moon set and it stopped with terrible finality.

All that could be heard was the moaning of the wind, begging to be loosed upon the fools on the desert floor below. As Luca and the others stood there, their breath rising in clouds of steam, the first flakes of snow began to fall.

===

Some days later as a building blizzard was blowing in from the north, Clan Alpsbane welcomed the reinforcements from Karak Drakk. They marched to reclaim Bitterstone from the hated urk and grobi that had taken it from the few dawi that had stayed behind. Their eyes gleamed with barely restrained bloodlust and they longed to cleave greenskin skulls and sunder greenskin bones. They'd cover the ground with greenskin corpses and make them drown in their own blood. They would grieved for their lost hero, and now they would avenge him.

They marched out for the mines from Barak Ongazi, intent on slaughtering ever greenskin they could find. They would hold it and use its iron to rid the lands of urk and grobi filth. Anything less was unacceptable. The snow squall was not too far as they set out and as they approached, the flurries and cold howling wind hiding the column from the eyes of Bitterstones defenders. This time, there were no fancy tricks, no tactics to fool the half-wits, only a grim determination to grind all their foes into the snow and stain it red with their blood.

The hungry north wind howled, eager to feast on the greenskins that were doomed to die by dawi blades.