Morgrim had no answer, though his mouth moved as if it wanted to give one. ‘I… I do not…’
As if snapping out of a trance, Ranuld’s expression changed. As fiery and curmudgeonly as he ever was, he barged past the two dwarfs and into the long gallery. The runelord was halfway down when Morgrim shouted after him, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘Didn’t find what I was looking for,’ Ranuld called back without turning. ‘Need to try somewhere else.’
Morgrim began to go after him. ‘It’s fortunate we found you, old one. Let us escort you back to the underway.’
‘Ha!’ Ranuld laughed. ‘You’re lost, aren’t you? Best help yourselves before you help me, werits. And find me, did you? Perhaps I found you? Ever consider that, beardling? And this is the underway, wazzock.’
‘No part of it I know.’
‘You know very little, like when it’s a good time to run, for instance,’ Ranuld replied, so distant his voice echoed.
‘Wha–’
A low rumble, heard deep under their feet, felt through their bones, stalled Morgrim and he looked up. Small chunks of grit were already falling from the ceiling in vast clouds of spewing dust. Cracks threaded the left side of the gallery wall, columns split in half.
Morgrim had spent enough time in his father’s mines to know what was about to happen.
‘Get back!’ He slammed into Snorri’s side, hurling the dwarf off his feet and barrelling them both back inside the temple.
The roof of the long gallery caved in a moment later, releasing a deluge of earth and rock. Thick slabs of stone, weighed down with centuries of smaller rock falls, speared through the roof from above and brought a rain of boulders with them. A huge pall of dirt billowed up from the sudden excavation.
Though he tried to see him, Ranuld was lost to Morgrim. It wasn’t that he was obscured by falling debris, rather that the runelord simply wasn’t there any more. He had vanished. It was as if the earth had swallowed him. As the storm of dust and grit rolled over them, Morgrim buried his head under his hands and prayed to Grungni they would survive.
Blackness became abject, sound smothered by an endless tide of debris. Stone chips, bladed flakes sheared from a much greater whole, cut Morgrim’s face despite his war helm. He snarled but kept his teeth clenched.
Tremors faded, dust clung to the air in a muggy veil. Light prevailed, from above where the ceiling had caved in. It limned the summit of a pile of rocks no dwarf could ever hope to squeeze through.
Snorri coughed, brought up a fat wad of dirty phlegm and shook age-old filth from his hair and beard. Clods of earth were jammed in his ears, and he dug them out with a finger.
‘Think most of Karak Krum just fell on top of us.’
‘At least we are both alive, cousin.’
Snorri grunted something before spitting up more dirt.
Morgrim wafted away some of the dust veiling the air. ‘What about Lord Silverthumb?’
‘That old coot won’t die to a cave-in, you can bet Grungni’s arse he won’t.’
Morgrim agreed. For some reason he didn’t fear for the runesmith. The old dwarf had known what was going to happen and left them to be buried. If anything, he was more annoyed than concerned.
Barring the mucky overspill from the cave-in, the temple was untouched. Its archway still stood, so too its ceiling and walls. Grungni sat still and silently at the back of the room, watching, appraising perhaps.
Morgrim touched the rune on his war helm and gave thanks to the ancestor.
Snorri was already up, pulling at the wall of rock that had gathered at the only entrance to the temple. It was almost sealed.
‘Did you also bring a pick and shovel when you picked up the lantern, cousin?’ he asked, heaving away a large chunk of rock only for an even larger one to slam down violently in its place. A low rumble returned, the faint suggestion of another tremor. Motes of dust spilling from the ceiling thickened into gritty swathes.
‘Leave it!’ Morgrim snapped, reaching out in a gesture for Snorri to stop what he was doing. ‘You’ll bring whole upper deep down on us. It’ll flood the chamber with earth.’
Snorri held up his palms.
‘Buried alive or left to rot in some forgotten tomb,’ he said, ‘neither choice is appealing, cousin. How do you suggest we get out?’
‘Use a secret door.’
‘Would that we had one, cou–’
Snorri stopped talking when he saw Morgrim hauling aside the statue of Grungni. Behind it was a shallow recess in the wall that delineated a door. It was open a crack and a rune stone had been left next to it that caught Morgrim’s attention. He pocketed it and gave the door another tug.
‘Get your back into it,’ Snorri chided.
‘How about yours?’ he replied, red-faced and flustered.
‘I’m wounded,’ said Snorri, showing off his half-hand.
Morgrim spoke through gritted teeth and flung spittle. ‘Get your chuffing arse over here and help me move this thing.’
Together, they dragged the door wide enough to slip through. Musky air rushed up to greet them, the scent of age and mildew strong enough to almost make them gag. A long, narrow darkness stretched before them. The gloom felt endless.
‘We can stand here,’ said Snorri, pulling out his axe, ‘or we can go forwards. I vote for the dark.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Morgrim, and drew his hammer.
They had gone only a few feet when Snorri asked, ‘What did he mean?’
‘About magic? Chuffed if I know.’
‘No, about my destiny. It being great and “lifting the doom of our race” and “he who will slay the drakk”? Those words were meant
