The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Sigmar smiled grimly to himself. Within moments, not a single beast would remain alive.

  He slid from the back of his horse and patted its flanks.

  ‘Gods, that was a mighty leap, Greatheart!’ he cried, rubbing a hand down its neck and ruffling its mane.

  The horse whinnied in pleasure and tossed its mane, following him as he stooped to retrieve his warhammer. The lightning it had briefly carried within it had faded, though the runic script across the head still shone with power.

  ‘That was perhaps the most foolish thing I have ever seen you do,’ said Gerreon, riding up behind him.

  Sigmar turned to face the warrior. ‘What was?’

  ‘Throwing your hammer like that. You just disarmed yourself.’

  ‘I still had my sword,’ said Sigmar.

  Gerreon pointed to Sigmar’s waist, where a broken strap of leather was all that remained of his sword belt. Sigmar had not even felt the blow that had cut the leather, and felt suddenly foolish for hurling Ghal-maraz.

  ‘By Ulric!’ cried Wolfgart, jogging over to join them. ‘That was a throw, Sigmar! Amazing! Took the bastard’s head clean off!’

  Gerreon shook his head. ‘And here is me telling him what an idiot he was for throwing it.’

  ‘Not at all!’ said Wolfgart. ‘Didn’t you see? I’ve never seen anything like it. The lightning! The throw!’

  ‘What if you had missed? What then?’ asked Pendrag, riding to join the gathering.

  ‘I’d have beaten it to death,’ said Sigmar, assuming a fist-fighter’s pose.

  ‘Didn’t you see the size of it?’ laughed Pendrag. ‘It would have gored you before you could land a punch.’

  ‘Sigmar?’ said Wolfgart. ‘Never.’

  ‘Now if you had a hammer that came back to your hand once you’d thrown it,’ said Gerreon, ‘then I’d be impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Pendrag. ‘A hammer that came back after you threw it? How would you even make something like that?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Wolfgart. ‘But I’m sure Master Alaric could do it.’

  Pendrag shook his head, and said, ‘Leaving aside Gerreon and Wolfgart’s tenuous understanding of the world for the moment, we should get these bodies burned and leave this place. The blood will bring other predators, and we have our own wounded to deal with.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Sigmar, all levity forgotten. ‘Wolfgart, Gerreon, have your men gather up the dead beasts and build a pyre around that stone. I want them burned within the hour and us on our way. Pendrag, help me see to the wounded.’

  The journey back to Reikdorf took the riders six days through the forest, their route taking them past many scattered villages and settlements. Before reaching the inhabited areas of the forest, Sigmar led the survivors of the beasts’ raids back towards the shattered ruins of the three villages that had been attacked.

  The walls surrounding each were broken and ruined, hacked apart with heavy axes or simply torn down with bestial strength. When Sigmar’s riders had come upon the smoking charnel houses of the villages there had not been the time to attend to the duty to the dead and, together with the hollow-eyed, weeping survivors, they buried the corpses and sent them on their way to Morr’s kingdom.

  As Sigmar stood beside the graves, he felt a presence beside him, and looked up to see Wolfgart. His friend’s eyes were red-rimmed from the smoke of fires, and he looked weary beyond measure.

  ‘A grim day,’ said Sigmar.

  Wolfgart shrugged. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Then what troubles you?’

  ‘This,’ said Wolfgart, waving his hand at the graves they stood before. ‘This slaughter, and the men we lost avenging it.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘This village is in Asoborn lands and the people we brought back are Asoborns.’

  ‘So?’

  Wolfgart sighed and said, ‘They are not Unberogen, so why did we ride to their rescue? We lost five men and another three will not ride to battle again. So tell me why we did this. After all, Queen Freya would not have done so for our people, would she?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ admitted Sigmar, ‘but that does not matter. They are all our people: Asoborns, Unberogen, Teutogen… all of them. The night we swore that everything we would do would be in service of the empire of man… did that mean anything to you, Wolfgart?’

  ‘Of course it did!’ protested Wolfgart.

  ‘Then why the problem with aiding the Asoborns?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ shrugged Wolfgart. ‘I suppose because I assumed we’d be making this empire by conquering the other tribes in battle.’

  Sigmar put his hand on Wolfgart’s shoulder and turned him around to face the work going on in the village. Burial parties dragged dead bodies from ruined homes, while warriors worked alongside farmers as they gathered up the dead, their hands and faces bloody.

  ‘Look at these people,’ said Sigmar. ‘They are Asoborn and Unberogen. Can you tell which is which?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Wolfgart. ‘I have ridden with these warriors for six years. I know every man well.’

  ‘Assume you did not know them. Could you then tell Asoborn from Unberogen?’

  Wolfgart looked uncomfortable with the question, and Sigmar pressed on. ‘They say that all wolves are grey at night. You have heard that expression?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is the same with men,’ said Sigmar, pointing to a man with sadness imprinted onto his face as he carried a dead child in his arms. ‘Beneath the blood and grime we are all men. The distinctions we place on each other are meaningless. In the blood, we are all the same, and to our enemies, we are all the same. Do you think the beasts and orcs care whether they kill Asoborns or Unberogen? Or Taleuten or Cherusen? Or Ostagoth?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ admitted Wolfgart.

  ‘No,’ said Sigmar, suddenly angry with Wolfgart for his short-sightedness, ‘and neither should we. As for conquering the other tribes… I do not want to be a tyrant, my friend. Tyrants eventually fall, and their enemies tear down what they built. I want to build an empire that will last forever, something of worth that is built on justice and strong leadership.’

  ‘I think I understand, brother,’ said Wolfgart.

  ‘Good,’ said Sigmar, ‘for I need you with me, Wolfgart. These divisions are what keep us apart, and we have to grow beyond them.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Sigmar. ‘Be a better man.’

  Five days later, Sigmar watched from the walls of Reikdorf as yet another barge eased against the docks that had been built along the northern bank of the river. This one was a wide, deep-hulled craft with tall sides formed from hide-covered tower shields, and was marked with the Jutone heraldry of a skull emblazoned across two curved sabres.

  The upper deck of the barge was filled with barrels and timber crates, the lower hold no doubt filled with heavy canvas sacks and bundles of furs and dyes. The marshlands around Jutonsryk provided many ingredients for dyes, and merchants who could afford to pay warriors willing to venture into the haunted marshes could return with many vivid pigments that did not fade over time.

  He could see another ship further up the river, this one bearing the raven emblem of King Marbad. He made a mental note to remind the night guards to keep an eye on the alehouses beside the river, for wherever Endals and Jutones gathered there was sure to be violence.

  Sigmar’s gaze spread from the newly constructed docks to the buildings on the far side of the river. The Sudenreik Bridge was already one of the busiest thoroughfares in the town, and work had now begun on a third bridge across the river, for the second, a simple timber structure, was mostly used to transport building materials to the newer southern portion of the town.

  Taking what he had learned from Master Alaric, Pendrag had set up a schoolhouse in the new area where, twice a week, Unberogen children came to learn of the world beyond Reikdorf and of the means by which they lived in it.


  Many of the parents of these children had complained to King Björn of the time being wasted on schooling when there were crops to plant and chores to be done, but Sigmar had convinced his father that only by educating the people could they hope to better themselves, and the lessons had continued.

  With the clearing of the southern forests for crop fields and the establishment of new ranges for herd animals, a new granary and slaughterhouse had been built. More and more people had come to Reikdorf over the last few years, drawn by the promise of work and wealth, and the town was growing faster than anyone could have believed possible.

  New homes had been set up within the southern enclosure of the walls, and a multitude of tradesmen had followed soon after: cobblers, coopers, smiths, weavers, potters, ostlers and tavern keepers. A second market had also sprung up within a year of the completion of the tall timber walls protecting it from attack.

  Portions of the northern wall were already being improved, the logs uprooted and replaced with stone blocks dragged from the forest, and shaped by newly trained stonemasons under the watchful eye of Master Alaric.

  Many of the buildings in the centre of Reikdorf were already stone and as more quarries were opened in the surrounding hills, yet more were being constructed to ever more elaborate designs.

  Sigmar had not yet laid eyes on King Marbad’s Raven Hall or King Artur’s Fauschlag, but he doubted the settlements surrounding either were as populous as Reikdorf. The river and fertile lands surrounding the Reik had brought great prosperity to the Unberogen, and the time was fast approaching when they would need to make use of the great bounty the gods had bestowed upon them.

  The coffers were filled with gold from trade with the dwarfs and the other tribes, and the grain stores were swollen with the fruits of the fields. The morale of the warriors was high, and with every smith in the Unberogen lands labouring to equip them, each man had a shirt of iron mail, a moulded breastplate and pauldrons, shoulder guards, greaves, vambrace and gorget.

  To see the riders of the Unberogen on the march was to watch a host of glorious silver warriors glittering in the sun. Master Alaric had even suggested fashioning armoured plates for horses, but such protection had proven too heavy for all but the biggest steeds.

  Even now, Wolfgart was buying the heaviest, strongest workhorses and the most powerful warhorses in an attempt to breed a beast with enough strength and speed to wear such armour. Within a few years, he was convinced, he would have bred such a steed.

  Soon it would be time to take Sigmar’s dream of empire beyond the borders of the Unberogen lands.

  Sigmar’s twenty-first year was approaching, and as he looked out over the thriving town of Reikdorf, he smiled.

  ‘I will make this the greatest city of my empire,’ he said, turning from his vantage point on the walls, and making his way back down to the longhouse at the town’s centre.

  He crossed the main market square of Reikdorf as the sun set over the wall. Most of the traders had already broken down their wagons and hauled them away, leaving the square a mess of scraps and scavenging dogs. Sigmar made his way past Beorthyn’s forge, keeping to the centre of the street to avoid the muddy puddles that gathered at the buildings’ edges.

  Beyond the longhouse, he could see the armoured form of Alfgeir upon the Field of Swords, still training Unberogen men in swordplay despite the late hour. On a whim, Sigmar changed course and made his way towards the training ground.

  A dozen young men sparred on the field, and the evening sun reflected on Alfgeir’s bronze armour, making it shine like gold. Of all the Unberogen warriors, the king’s champion was the only one still to wear armour of bronze.

  Gerreon stood beside Alfgeir, for there was no better swordsman amongst the Unberogen and no better man to teach the next generation of warriors. Sigmar spared a glance to Trinovantes’s tomb on the overlooking Warriors’ Hill. Then he returned his attention to the training before him, relishing the clash of iron weapons as they struck sparks from one another.

  He watched as Alfgeir shouted at the furthest pair of his pupils, and gave one a clout around the ear. Sigmar winced in sympathy. King’s son or not, he had received a few such blows in his time learning upon the Field of Swords.

  Sigmar watched with the practiced eye of a warrior born, noting the boys who were quickest, the most dextrous and the most determined, and which of them had the look of heroes, a quality that Wolfgart had been the first to give a name to.

  ‘You can see it in their eyes,’ Wolfgart had said, ‘a perfect blend of honour and courage. It’s the same look I see in your eyes.’

  Sigmar had searched his sword-brother’s face for any sign of mockery, but Wolfgart had been deadly serious, and he had accepted the compliment for what it was. In truth, once given a name and an idea, he had seen the same look in the faces of every one of his friends, and he knew that he was truly blessed to be surrounded with such fine companions.

  Gerreon spotted him, and jogged over to join him at the edge of the field.

  ‘They are coming along well,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Gerreon. ‘They are good lads, Sigmar. Give it a few years and they will be as fine a body of warriors as you could wish for.’

  Sigmar nodded, and returned his attention to the sparring warriors as one of the boys gave a cry of pain and dropped his sword. Blood washed down his arm from a deep cut to his bicep, and he sank to his knees.

  Immediately, Gerreon and Sigmar set off across the field towards the boy as Alfgeir shouted, ‘Get the surgeon,’ his words clipped and curt.

  Sigmar knelt beside the wounded boy and examined the cut on his arm. The wound was deep, and had sliced cleanly through the muscle. Blood pulsed strongly from the cut, and the boy’s face was ashen.

  Sigmar said, ‘Look at me.’

  The boy turned his head from his bloody arm. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, but Sigmar saw his determination not to shed them before the king’s son.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Brant,’ gasped the boy, his breathing becoming shallower.

  ‘Don’t look at it,’ ordered Sigmar, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Look at me. You are Unberogen. You are descended from heroes, and heroes do not fear a little blood.’

  ‘It hurts,’ said Brant.

  ‘I know,’ said Sigmar, ‘but you are a warrior and pain is a warrior’s constant companion. This is your first wound, so remember this pain and any other wounds will be nothing compared to it. You understand me?’

  The boy nodded, his teeth gritted against the pain, but Sigmar could already see that the boy was drawing on his reserves to conquer it.

  ‘There is iron in you, Brant. I can see it plain as day,’ said Sigmar. ‘You will be a mighty warrior and a great hero.’

  ‘Thank you… my lord,’ said Brant as Cradoc the healer ran across the field with his medicine bag held before him.

  ‘You will earn a scar from this,’ said Sigmar. ‘Wear it well.’

  Sigmar wiped his hand on his tunic and picked up Brant’s sword as Cradoc squatted beside the boy. He tested the edge, not surprised to find it was razor sharp. He turned to Alfgeir and Gerreon.

  ‘You make them train with swords that are not blunted?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alfgeir, his tone challenging. ‘You make a mistake and get wounded, you will not make that mistake again.’

  ‘I never trained with sharpened weapons,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘It was my idea,’ said Gerreon. ‘I thought it would teach them the value of pain.’

  ‘And I agreed,’ said Alfgeir. ‘As does the king.’

  Sigmar handed Brant’s sword to Alfgeir. ‘You do not have to justify yourselves. I am not about to berate you for this. As a matter of fact, I agree with you. The training must be as hard and real as it can be. That way, when they face battle, they will know what to expect.’

  Alfgeir nodded and turned back to the other boys, who watched as their wounded compani
on was led from the Field of Swords.

  ‘No one said you could stop!’ he roared. ‘Training does not finish until I say so!’

  Sigmar turned from the king’s champion to face Gerreon.

  His friend’s face was as pale as Brant’s had been. ‘Gerreon? Is something wrong?’

  Gerreon was staring at him, and Sigmar looked down at his tunic to see a bloody handprint in the centre of his chest. Sigmar reached out to his friend, but Gerreon flinched.

  ‘What is it? It’s just a little blood.’

  ‘The red hand…’ whispered Gerreon, ‘And a wounded sword.’

  ‘You are not making sense, my friend,’ said Sigmar. ‘What is wrong?’

  Gerreon shook his head as if waking from a long slumber, and Sigmar saw a coldness enter the swordsman’s eyes.

  Before Sigmar could ask more, the urgent sound of warning bells sounded throughout the town, and he reached for Ghal-maraz.

  ‘Gather the warriors!’ he said, turning on his heel and sprinting for the walls.

  Eight

  Heralds of War

  Sigmar raced through the streets of Reikdorf, his hammer gripped tightly and his heart beating against his ribs. It had been years since the wall guards had felt the need to ring the alarm bells, and he wondered what manner of threat would have driven them to take such a measure.

  He skidded around the corner of the central grain store, his mad dash joined by Unberogen warriors pulling on mail shirts or hastily buckling sword belts around their waists. The flow of warriors increased as the sound of the bells continued.

  Sigmar ran to the ladders that led onto the ramparts. He slung Ghal-maraz to his belt and swiftly climbed the ladder. Curiously, he saw no urgency or fear in the men gathered on the ramparts. No bows were drawn and no spears were poised, ready to be hurled at an attacking enemy. Sigmar reached the rampart and made his way to the spiked logs of the battlements.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.