The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Marbad’s pipers filled the hall with music, and though the strange, skirling wail was not to Sigmar’s taste, the warriors in the hall plainly disagreed with him, linking arms and swinging one another around a cleared space in the hall to its rapid tempo. Wolfgart danced like a madman, working his way along a line of young girls, who clapped and laughed at his antics.

  Sigmar laughed as Wolfgart and his latest partner spun into a serving girl, and sent a tray of roast boar flying through the air. Cooked meat rained down, and the king’s wolfhounds bounded into the mass of dancers to snatch up the tasty morsels. Laughing anarchy erupted as the barking hounds tripped dancers, and men and women helped each other to their feet.

  ‘He never was very light on his feet, was he?’ said Pendrag, taking a seat opposite Sigmar.

  Sigmar turned away from the chaos of the dance and said, ‘Aye, sometimes I wonder how he manages to swing that big sword of his and not take his own head off.’

  ‘Blind luck, I assume.’

  ‘There’s something to be said for luck,’ said Sigmar, draining the last of his beer, and banging his mug on the table for more.

  ‘I’d prefer not to rely on it just the same,’ said Pendrag. ‘She’s a fickle maiden, one minute by your side, the next deserting you for another.’

  ‘There’s truth in that,’ agreed Sigmar as a pretty, flaxen-haired serving girl refilled his mug and smiled seductively. As she moved away, Pendrag laughed, and said, ‘I don’t think you need worry about finding a bed to hop into tonight, Sigmar.’

  ‘She’s nice, but not my type,’ said Sigmar, taking a deep drink.

  ‘No,’ said Pendrag. ‘You prefer girls with dark hair, yes?’

  Sigmar felt his face redden, and said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, don’t play the fool with me, brother,’ said Pendrag. ‘I know you only have eyes for Ravenna, it’s as clear as day. Anyway, did you think I’d be so busy teaching old men how to make iron swords that I wouldn’t notice that golden cloak pin Alaric is making for you?’

  ‘Am I that obvious?’

  Pendrag frowned as though he was deep in thought. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My thoughts are filled with her,’ admitted Sigmar.

  ‘So talk to her,’ said Pendrag. ‘Just because her brother is a serpent is no reason to avoid her. I’ve seen how she looks at you.’

  ‘You have?’ asked Sigmar. ‘I mean, she does?’

  ‘Of course,’ laughed Pendrag. ‘If you weren’t so hung up on this vision of an empire, you’d see it too. She’s a fine lass is Ravenna, and you will need a queen someday.’

  ‘A queen?’ cried Sigmar. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead!’

  ‘Why not? She’s beautiful and when she took that shield from you, I think I even fell a little in love with her.’

  Sigmar said, ‘Oh really?’ and reached over the table and emptied the last of his beer over Pendrag, who spluttered in mock indignation and then returned the favour. The two friends laughed and clasped hands, and Sigmar felt a great weight lift from his shoulders.

  He sat back on the bench, and looked over to the head of the table, catching his father’s eye as the king beckoned him from across the room.

  ‘My father asks for me,’ he said, pushing to his feet, and running his hands through his beer-soaked hair. He looked down at his sodden jerkin. ‘Do I look presentable?’

  ‘Every inch the king’s son,’ affirmed Pendrag. ‘Now look, when Marbad asks you to tell the story of Astofen, remember to make my part in the battle sound exciting.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Sigmar, slapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and turning to make his way through the feasting warriors to join the two kings.

  ‘You know you’re supposed to drink the beer, not wear it, eh?’ said Marbad, laughing as he saw the state of Sigmar.

  ‘My son surrounds himself with rogues,’ said Björn.

  ‘A man should surround himself with rogues,’ nodded Marbad. ‘It keeps him honest, eh?’

  ‘Is that why I keep you around, old man?’ cried Björn.

  ‘Could be,’ agreed Marbad, ‘though I like to think it is because of my winning personality.’

  Sigmar took a seat beside Marbad, his eyes once again straying to the sword belted at the Endal king’s side. He longed to see the weapon of the ancient fey folk, wondering how such a weapon would differ from one crafted by the dwarfs.

  Marbad saw his glance, and swiftly drew the blade from its scabbard, offering it to Sigmar. The blue gem in the pommel winked in the firelight, and the reflected glow of the torches rippled as though trapped within the smooth face of the blade.

  ‘Take it,’ said Marbad.

  Sigmar took the proffered weapon, amazed at its lightness and balance. Compared to his sword, Ulfshard was a masterpiece of the weaponsmith’s craft, entirely different, yet filled with the same ferocious power as Ghal-maraz. The blade shimmered with its own internal light, and Sigmar knew that with such weapons nations could be forged.

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ he said. ‘I have never seen its like.’

  ‘Nor will you again,’ said Marbad. ‘The fey folk made Ulfshard before they passed from the lands of men, and unless they return, it will be the only one of its kind.’

  Sigmar handed the weapon back to King Marbad, his palm tingling from the powerful forces bound within the blade.

  ‘Your father has been telling me of your grand dreams for the future, young Sigmar,’ said Marbad, sheathing the sword in one smooth motion. ‘An empire of men. It has a ring to it, I’ll give you that, eh?’

  Sigmar nodded, and poured more beer from a copper ewer. ‘It is ambitious, I know that, but I believe it can be done. More than that, I believe it needs to be done.’

  ‘How will you begin?’ asked Marbad. ‘Most of the tribes hate each other. I have no love for the Jutones or the Teutogens, and your people have fought with the Merogens and Asoborns in recent years. The Norsii are friends to no man. Did you know they perform human sacrifices to the gods of the northern wastes?’

  ‘I had heard that,’ nodded Sigmar, ‘but the same thing was once said of the Thuringian berserkers, and that was just tall tales.’

  Sigmar’s father shook his head. ‘I have fought the Norsii, my son. I have seen the carnage left in the wake of their invasions, and Marbad speaks the truth. They are a barbarous people without honour.’

  ‘Then we will drive them from the lands of men,’ said Sigmar.

  Marbad laughed. ‘He’s got courage, I’ll give him that, Björn.’

  ‘It can be done,’ persisted Sigmar. ‘The Endals and the Unberogen are allies, and my father has ridden to war alongside the Cherusens and Taleutens. Such alliances are the beginnings of how I will bring the tribes together.’

  ‘What of the Teutogens and the Ostagoths?’ asked Björn, ‘and the Asoborns and the Brigundians, and all the others?’

  Sigmar took a long drink of his beer and said, ‘I do not know yet, father, but there is always a way. With swords or words, I will win the tribes to my side, and forge a land worthy of those who will come after us.’

  ‘You have great vision, my boy, great vision!’ cried King Marbad as he clapped a proud hand on Sigmar’s shoulder. ‘If the gods smile on you, I think you might be the greatest of us all. Now come on, eh? Tell me of Astofen Bridge.’

  Six

  Partings and Meetings

  King Marbad and his warriors stayed with the Unberogen for another week, enjoying the hospitality of King Björn and his people, and repaying it with tales of the west and their struggles against the Jutones and the Bretonii. The land around the Reik estuary was a place of battle, with three tribes of men squeezed into an area with only limited fertile land.

  ‘Why did Marius not stay to fight the Teutogens?’ Sigmar had asked one night as he and his father dined with Marbad.

  ‘Marius was humbled by Artur in their first battle,’ said Marbad, ‘and the king of the Jutones isn’t a man who lik
es to be humbled. Artur’s Teutogens are fierce warriors, but they’re also disciplined and have learned much from the dwarfs who helped them burrow up through that damned mountain of theirs.’

  ‘The Fauschlag Rock,’ said Sigmar. ‘It sounds incredible.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Björn. ‘To see it you’d think only gods would dare live up so high.’

  ‘You have seen it?’ asked Sigmar.

  ‘Once,’ nodded Björn. ‘It reaches the sky I think. The tallest thing I ever saw that wasn’t a mountain range, and even then it was a close run thing.’

  ‘Your father has the truth of it, young Sigmar,’ said Marbad, ‘but living up high on that big rock changes a man’s perspective. Artur was once a good man, a noble king, but looking down on the land he became greedy and wanted to be master of all he could see. He led his warriors west and smashed Marius’s army in a great battle on the coast, driving the Jutones south to the Reik estuary. Masons followed in the wake of this victory, and built towers of stone and high walls. Within a few years a dozen of these things were spread across what had once been Jutone land, and Artur’s warriors could attack at will across the forest. Much as I hate to admit it, Marius is a canny war leader, and the Jutone hunters are masters of the bow, but even they could not prevail against Artur’s stratagems. To survive they had to come further south.’

  ‘Into your lands,’ finished Sigmar.

  ‘Aye, into my lands, but we have the Raven Hall, and they’ll not soon take that from us. We still hold the lands north of the river’s mouth, and we’ll fight to hold the Jutones from taking any more ground for now, but they’ll keep coming. They don’t have a choice, for the coastal region is little more than a wasteland, and few things will grow there.’

  ‘You have our swords, brother,’ said Björn, reaching out to clasp Marbad’s hand.

  ‘Aye, and they are welcome,’ nodded Marbad. ‘And if ever you need to call on the Raven Helms, they will ride to your aid.’

  Sigmar had watched his father and Marbad offer their oath of aid, and knew that through such alliances might his grand vision of an empire be realised. It was with a heavy heart that he gathered with the rest of the Unberogen warriors to bid Marbad farewell from Reikdorf.

  The sun was high, and the spring morning was crisp and bright. The last of winter’s cold still hung in the air, but the promise of summer was in every breath. The Raven Helms in their dark armour rode through the gate, flanked by the tall pipers, and the king’s banner was borne proudly aloft.

  Marbad mounted his horse, grunting as his stiff limbs made the task arduous.

  ‘Ach, I’m not a young man, eh?’ he said, settling his cloak over the back of his horse and altering his sword belt to have Ulfshard sit more comfortably at his side.

  ‘None of us are anymore, Marbad,’ said Björn.

  ‘No, but ’tis the way of things, brother, the old must make way for the young, eh?’

  ‘That’s supposed to be the way of it, aye,’ said Björn, casting a curious glance at Sigmar.

  Marbad turned to Sigmar and leaned down to offer him his hand. ‘Fare thee well, Sigmar. I hope you achieve your empire some day, though I doubt I will be alive to see it.’

  ‘I hope you are, my lord,’ said Sigmar. ‘I can imagine no stauncher ally than the Endals.’

  ‘He’s a flatterer too, eh?’ laughed Marbad. ‘You will go far indeed. Any you cannot defeat with swords, you’ll win over with words.’

  The king of the Endals turned his horse, and rode through the gates to join the waiting Raven Helms. As they rode off, the cheers of the Unberogen, who had gathered to watch their departure, followed them as they began the long journey home.

  The riders crossed the Sudenreik Bridge, past groups of men building new homes and buildings on the other side of the river. Reikdorf was growing, and fresh walls were even now being raised to expand the town across the river.

  ‘I like Marbad,’ said Sigmar, turning to his father.

  ‘Aye, he is an easy man to like,’ agreed Björn. ‘Back in the day, he was a mighty warrior. In his prime he would have attacked the Jutones and driven them away. Perhaps it might have been better for the Endals had rulership passed to one of his sons, to someone with more thirst for battle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sigmar, walking back into the settlement with his father as the people of Reikdorf returned to their labours.

  Björn put his hand on Sigmar’s shoulder and said, ‘In a wolf pack, the leader is always the strongest, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Sigmar.

  ‘While it is strong and can fight off challenges from the younger wolves, it remains the leader,’ said Björn. ‘All the while, the other wolves know that one day the leader will get old, and they will tear out his throat. Sometimes the leader senses when it is his time, leaving the pack and heading into the wilds to die alone with dignity. It is a terrible thing when age makes us weak and we become vulnerable or a burden. Better to leave while there’s still some strength left to you than die uselessly with no legacy to call your own. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I do,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘It is a hard thing to do,’ said Björn. ‘A man will cleave to power as he will a beautiful woman, but sometimes it must be set aside when the time is right. Everything has its time in the sun, but a thing that goes on beyond its allotted span is a terrible thing, my son. It weakens everything around it and tarnishes the memory of what glory it once had.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Ravenna as Sigmar led her through the trees towards the sound of rushing water. Sigmar smiled at the nervous excitement he heard in her voice. She was scared being blindfolded this far from Reikdorf, but pleased to be here with him on this perfect spring morning.

  ‘Just a little further,’ he said. ‘Just down this slope. Careful, watch your step.’

  The day was bright, the sun not yet at its zenith, and the forest was filled with birdsong. A soft wind drifted through the trees, and the gurgling of the water over rocks was soothing.

  Spring had restored Ravenna’s spirits, and the energising optimism that filled Reikdorf in the months following the snows had helped lift her from melancholy. Once again, she smiled, and it had been like a ray of sunshine in his heart to hear her laughing with the other young girls of the tribe as they came in from the fields.

  Since the night he had told her of his grand dream, Sigmar had thought of little else other than Ravenna: her night-dark hair and the sway of her hips as she walked. As much as he had vision for greater things for his people, he was still a man, and Ravenna fired his blood.

  They had seen each other as often as time had allowed, but never enough for either of them, and only now, as the touch of summer began to warm the ground, had they found time to escape for an afternoon together.

  They had ridden along hunters’ paths deep into the woodland, through open clearings and along rutted tracks identified with marker stones. Eventually, Sigmar had led them from the path and into the forest, where they had dismounted and tethered the horses to the low branches of a sapling. Sigmar had taken a hide pack and cloth-wrapped bundle from his horse’s panniers and slung them over his shoulder before taking her hand and leading her onwards.

  ‘Come on, Sigmar,’ said Ravenna. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In the forest to the west of Reikdorf, about five miles out,’ he said, taking her hand and guiding her down the worn path that led to the river. With her eyes covered, he was free to look at her openly, taking in the curve of her jaw and the smoothness of her skin, so pale against the ochre yellow of her dress.

  Her hands were tough, the fingers callused, but the warmth in them sent a flush of excitement through him.

  ‘Five miles?’ she laughed, taking tentative steps. ‘So far!’

  Though they were well within the borders of Unberogen land, it was still not entirely safe to travel so far into the forests alone, but he did not want any worries for their safety to intrude on this day.

  ‘T
his?’ he said. ‘This is nothing, soon I will take you to see the open lands far to the south, and north to the ocean. Then you will have travelled far.’

  ‘You haven’t even seen those places yet,’ she pointed out.

  ‘True,’ said Sigmar, ‘but I will.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied, ‘when you’re building your empire.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Sigmar. ‘Right… we are here.’

  ‘I can feel the sun on my face,’ said Ravenna. ‘Are we in a clearing?’

  ‘Watch your eyes,’ he said. ‘I am going to take off your blindfold.’

  Sigmar moved around behind her, and undid the loose knot with which he had secured the strip of cloth across her eyes. She blinked as she adjusted to the light, but within moments her face lit up at the beauty of the sight before her.

  They stood on a grassy bank at the edge of a river, its waters crystal and foaming white as it gambolled over a series of smooth boulders buried in the shallows of the riverbed. Sunlight glittered on the fractured water and silver-skinned fish darted beneath the surface.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Ravenna, taking his hand and heading to the riverbank.

  Sigmar smiled as he revelled in her enjoyment, dropping the hide sack and cloth bundle to the grass, and happily allowed her to drag him behind her. Standing at the river’s edge, Ravenna took a deep breath, her eyes closed as she took in the unspoiled scents of the deep forest.

  Jasmine was heavy on the air, but Sigmar had no sense of the beauty around him, save that of the young woman beside him.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ she said. ‘How did you know of this place?’

  ‘This is the River Skein,’ said Sigmar, ‘where we met Blacktusk.’

  ‘The great boar?’ asked Ravenna.

  Sigmar nodded, gesturing to a point on the opposite bank of the river near one of the rounded boulders. ‘Yes, the great boar himself. He came out of the woods just there, and I remember Wolfgart nearly dropped dead of fright when he saw him.’

  ‘Wolfgart, afraid?’ laughed Ravenna, glancing nervously across the river. ‘Now that I would have liked to have seen. Is the boar still alive?’