The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

‘Scouts just brought word of them,’ answered a nearby warrior, pointing over the wall. ‘Hundreds of them are coming south along the Middle Road.’

  Looking out over the walls, Sigmar saw a long column of people trudging towards Reikdorf. Hundreds of men and women in filthy, travel stained clothes wound their way from the forests to the north of Reikdorf. Many dragged wagons and litters, laden with canvas covered bundles, children and the elderly.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Look like Cherusens to me.’

  Sigmar transferred his gaze to the column of people as they marched warily up to the gate and the great, wolf-flanked statue of Ulric. He peered closer as he recognised a dark-haired woman walking beside the column. Supporting a woman with white hair, who carried a screaming child, Ravenna walked alongside these people, her long green dress stained with mud.

  ‘Open the gates,’ he said. ‘Now!’

  The warrior nodded and shouted orders to the guards stationed at the base of the wall. Sigmar returned to the ground as a handful of armoured warriors began pulling the mighty portals open.

  As soon as it was wide enough, Sigmar moved through the gate and made his way along the length of the column, feeling the weight of their pleading looks.

  Reaching Ravenna, he said, ‘What is this? Where have these people come from?’

  ‘Sigmar!’ cried Ravenna. ‘Thank the gods! We were finishing work in the high pastures when we saw them coming south.’

  ‘Who are they? They look like Cherusens.’

  Ravenna placed her hand on his arm, and Sigmar could see that she was exhausted. ‘They are survivors,’ she said simply.

  ‘Survivors of what?’

  Ravenna paused as though afraid to give voice to the terror that had driven these people from their homes.

  ‘The Norsii,’ she said. ‘The northmen are on the march.’

  The mood in King Björn’s longhouse was ugly, and Sigmar sensed a growing anger and need for retribution fill the hearts of every warrior present. He had felt the same anger when they had found the carnage the forest beasts had wreaked amongst the villages on the eastern borders of Unberogen lands.

  The Norsii…

  It had been years since the bloodthirsty tribes of the north had come south, bringing death, destruction and horror in their wake. The lands of the far north were a mystery to most of the southern tribes, few having had cause or desire to venture from their own lands, let alone travel beyond the Middle Mountains. Tales were told of great dragons that roamed the forests and flesh-eating tribes of ferocious warriors, who gave praise to dark gods of blood.

  Decades had passed since the Norsii had marched south, but the elders of Reikdorf still told tales of the foe they had once faced: brutal warriors in black armour and horned helms, with dread axes and kite shields taller than a normal man, towering horsemen on black steeds with burning red eyes that breathed fire.

  Masters of the fearsome Wolfships, Norsii raiders were the terror of the coastline, killers who left nothing but smoking ruins and corpses behind them. Few had faced them and lived.

  It was said that slavering hounds and twisted monsters fought in the armies of the northmen, and the elders whispered of foul necromancers, who could summon terrifying daemons from beyond the known realms and hurl spears of flame that could burn a host of armoured warriors to death.

  Sigmar had no doubt that many of these tales were exaggerated, but the threat of the northmen was taken seriously by every man in the lands west of the mountains.

  Nearly four hundred people had been brought within the walls of Reikdorf, with a further two hundred camped outside in makeshift tents and canvas shelters. Fortunately, the worst of the winter had passed and the nights were mild, so few were expected to perish without a roof over their heads.

  Alfgeir had raged at the guards for opening the gates, and had threatened to flog the skin from their backs until Sigmar had explained that he had ordered them opened.

  ‘And how will we feed these people?’ raged the Marshal of the Reik.

  ‘The grain stores are full,’ said Sigmar. ‘There is enough to go round if we are careful.’

  ‘You assume too much, young Sigmar,’ said Alfgeir, striding away.

  Within the hour, the warriors of the Unberogen had gathered in the longhouse to hear the words of two men who had come with the refugees, emissaries from King Krugar of the Taleutens and King Aloysis of the Cherusens.

  King Krugar’s man was a lean, hawk-faced warrior named Notker, who bore a curved cavalry sabre and wore his hair shaven save for a long scalp lock that hung down his back to his waist. His clothes and slightly bow-legged walk marked him as a horseman, and his every movement was quick and precise.

  The emissary from King Aloysis was named Ebrulf and was a giant of a man with powerfully muscled shoulders and an axe of such weight it seemed impossible it could ever be swung. Sigmar had instantly liked the man, for his bearing was noble and proud, but without arrogance.

  Sigmar stood beside his father, who sat on his oak throne, his face grim and regal as he heard the words of his brother kings’ emissaries. The news was not good.

  ‘How many of the Norsii are on the march?’ asked Björn.

  Notker answered first. ‘Nearly six thousand swords, my lord.’

  ‘Six thousand!’ said Alfgeir. ‘Impossible. The northmen could not possibly muster that many men.’

  ‘With respect to your champion,’ said Ebrulf. ‘It is not impossible. The lost tribes from across the seas march with them. Hundreds of Wolfships are drawn up on the shores of the northern coast and more arrive daily.’

  ‘The lost tribes?’ gasped Eoforth. ‘They return?’

  ‘They do indeed,’ said Notker. ‘Tall men on black steeds, with long lances and armour of brazen iron, who serve the forsaken gods, with shamans who call on the powers of those gods to slay their enemies with sorcerous fire.’

  A gasp of horror rippled around the longhouse at the mention of the lost tribes, terrifying, bloodthirsty men who had been fought in the earliest days of the land’s settlement. The hearthside stories told of brave heroes of old, who had driven these savages across the seas and into the haunted wastelands of the north hundreds of years ago.

  ‘It was said that the lost tribes had died in the desolate wastes,’ said Eoforth. ‘The land there was cursed by the gods in ages past and none can live there.’

  Ebrulf patted the haft of his axe, and said, ‘Trust me, old one, they live. Neckbiter here has taken more than a few of their heads in battle.’

  ‘I am assuming that you come to my longhouse as more than simply bearers of this news,’ said Björn. ‘Ask me what it is you have come to ask.’

  Notker and Ebrulf shared a glance, and the Cherusen gave a curt nod to the shaven-headed Taleuten, who stepped forward and bowed low before the king of the Unberogen.

  ‘Our kings have despatched us to offer you the chance to join a mighty host being mustered to face the northmen and drive them back to the sea,’ said Notker.

  Ebrulf continued. ‘King Aloysis draws fighting men to his banner in the shadow of the Middle Mountains, and King Krugar marshals his riders at the Farlic Hills. Our army numbers nearly four thousand swords, but if you were to add the strength of your warriors, we would meet the northmen on equal terms.’

  ‘An offer to join your host?’ snapped Alfgeir. ‘What you mean to say is that you face defeat and will be dead by winter unless we aid you.’

  Ebrulf glowered at Alfgeir. ‘You have a viper’s tongue, king’s man. Show me such disrespect again and my axe will bite at your neck!’

  Alfgeir took a step forward, his face flushed and his hand reaching for his sword.

  Björn waved Alfgeir back with an irritated wave of the hand. ‘Though Alfgeir speaks out of turn, he is right to say that this is a great thing your kings ask of me. To send so many warriors north would leave my lands virtually undefended.’

  Notker said, ‘King Krugar understands what it is he asks, b
ut offers you his Sword Oath if you ride north.’

  ‘King Aloysis makes the same pledge, my lord,’ said Ebrulf.

  Sigmar was amazed at such oaths, but his father seemed to have expected it, and nodded.

  ‘Truly the threat from the north must be great,’ said King Björn.

  ‘It is, my lord,’ promised Notker.

  The emissaries were thanked for their news and dismissed, taken by the king’s servants to lodgings befitting the messengers of kings for food and water. The Unberogen warriors were likewise dismissed, their mood dark and filled with thoughts of war.

  King Björn gathered Alfgeir and Eoforth to him, and Sigmar sat next to his father as they debated how the threat from the north should be met. The Marshal of the Reik was in a belligerent mood, his normal brevity ranked by the arrival of the refugees and the emissaries.

  ‘They are desperate,’ said Alfgeir. ‘They must be to have sent those two to beg for our help. To offer a Sword Oath… that is not a thing given lightly.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Eoforth, ‘but the northmen are not a threat to be taken lightly either.’

  ‘Pah, they are just men,’ said Alfgeir. ‘They bleed and die like any other.’

  ‘I have fought the Norsii once before,’ said Björn. ‘Yes, they bleed and die, but they are strong, ferocious warriors, and if the lost tribes indeed march with them…’

  ‘I always thought the lost tribes were a dark tale to frighten children,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘And so they are,’ said Alfgeir. ‘They are just trying to scare us into helping them.’

  ‘I do not believe so,’ said Eoforth. ‘Nor do I believe that either of those men were lying.’

  ‘They were not,’ said Björn. ‘Sigmar? You agree?’

  ‘Yes, father. I sensed no deceit in them. I believe they are speaking the truth and that we must march out to the aid of your brother kings. To have the Sword Oaths of two such powerful kings would greatly benefit us. Much of our northern border would be secure, and to have Taleuten cavalry and Cherusen wildmen as allies is no small thing.’

  ‘Spoken like a true king!’ laughed Björn. ‘We will, indeed march out. If the Cherusen and Taleuten are defeated then the Norsii will surely fall on us next.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Eoforth, ‘why Aloysis and Krugar have not turned to the Teutogens for help?’

  ‘They probably have,’ said Björn, ‘but Artur will think himself safe atop the Fauschlag, and no doubt plans to invade his neighbours’ lands when the Cherusens and Taleutens are defeated and the Norsii are weakened.’

  ‘Then it is even more imperative that we march now,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘What of our own lands?’ asked Alfgeir. ‘We will strip them bare of protection if we send that many warriors north. The beasts grow bolder each day, and the greenskins are always on the march with the spring.’

  ‘We will muster as many warriors as we can, but we shall not be leaving our lands undefended,’ said Björn. ‘I shall be leaving our greatest warrior to keep our homes safe.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Alfgeir, and Sigmar felt a leaden lump form in the pit of his stomach as he feared the answer his father would give.

  ‘Sigmar will defend our lands while our army marches north.’

  The moon was reflected in the Reik, and the sound of drunken revelry from the alehouses carried across the water to the dimly illuminated dwellings on the southern bank. Gerreon stood on the edge of the river, his thoughts in turmoil as he relived the incident on the Field of Swords.

  Accidents were not uncommon under Alfgeir’s harsh tutelage, but the blood spilled this evening had reminded him of a day he had almost forgotten. He closed his eyes as he pictured the smeared red handprint on Sigmar’s tunic, and the sudden clarity of memory as he heard the hag woman’s words echo in his head as though he had heard them only yesterday.

  When you see the sign of the red hand in the same breath as a wounded sword… that is the time for your vengeance. Seek out the water hemlock that grows in the marshes when no king rules in Reikdorf.

  He had left the hag woman’s cave in a daze, his thoughts wreathed in fog from the opiates that burned in her fire and the implications of what he desired. Gerreon remembered little of the journey back through the Brackenwalsch, save that his steps had carried him unerringly through the darkened fens, and that he had awoken in his bed the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth.

  As he lay there, the hag woman’s voice had whispered to him, and terror had kept him pinned to his bed as her words had flowed like honey in his ear.

  Be the peacemaker… hold to your vengeance, but cloak it with friendship. Remember, Gerreon of the Unberogen… the red hand and the wounded sword.

  He had risen from his bed, feeling as though he was walking through a dream as he made his way through Reikdorf. The sun shone and the sky was a wondrous shade of blue. He had stopped by the Oathstone in the centre of the settlement and felt a sick sense of unease as he made his way towards the Field of Swords.

  There he had found Sigmar and made his peace with the future king of the Unberogen, though the words had almost choked him. For six long years he had held his hate close to his heart, nurturing it with each passing day, and picking at the scab of it whenever it threatened to diminish.

  And yet…

  As each day passed and Gerreon became one of Sigmar’s friends, he found his grip on his hatred slipping as though the pain of his twin’s death were somehow lessening. One morning he had realised, to his horror, that he actually liked Sigmar. Even Wolfgart and Pendrag, men he had loathed in his teens, had become likeable, and he was forced to admit that, seen without the petulance of youth, there was much to like.

  He had soon slipped into the easy camaraderie of warriors who fought shoulder to shoulder and saved each other from death time and time again. As the years passed, he and Sigmar had become like brothers, and the future was golden, his hate vanishing like morning mist.

  And now this…

  Now he had seen the signs of which the hag woman had spoken, and the dark memory of Trinovantes’s death surged back into his mind like a swollen river over a broken dam, the venom and anger and hurt of Sigmar’s betrayal as strong as it had been the day they had brought Trinovantes’s body back.

  The wounded sword…

  He had not known what such a sign might be, but as he watched the bleeding boy on the Field of Swords it had suddenly become clear. The boy had said his name was Brant, an old name from the earliest days of the tribe’s migration from the east, a good name with a proud heritage.

  In the early tongue of the Unberogen the name Brant meant sword.

  And Reikdorf without a king? How such a thing might come to pass when the Unberogen were at the height of their power and influence seemed a far-fetched idea, but now King Björn had issued a call to arms

  Horsemen had been despatched throughout his lands, summoning all those who had sworn allegiance to him to make their way to Reikdorf within ten days. Each man was to bring a sword, a shield and mail armour, and was to be ready to march into the north for several months of campaigning.

  Sigmar would rule in his father’s absence…

  Leaving Reikdorf without a king.

  Dark thoughts of blood and the pleasure he would gain from avenging Trinovantes warred with the bonds of brotherhood he had formed over the last six years. He looked away from the water, and turned towards the grey silhouette of Warrior’s Hill where lay his twin.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ whispered Gerreon, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  For ten days, Reikdorf became a gathering place for warriors from all across Unberogen lands. Sword musters from settlements along the river and fertile valleys of the Reik made their way to the Unberogen capital, drawn there by their king’s command, and by ties of duty and honour that were stronger than dwarf-forged iron.

  Camps were set up in the fields to the east of the town, long rows of canvas tents gathered for the hundreds of men th
at arrived daily from all corners of the king’s lands. Grim-faced warriors with heavy axes, swords and lances marched over the Sudenreik Bridge, accompanied by lightly armoured archers with leather breastplates, bows of fine yew and quivers of arrows with shafts as straight as sunlight.

  Wolfgart set up makeshift paddocks to the north of the town for horsemen to stable their mounts as Sigmar organised the warriors into fighting groups. The host swelled with each passing day, and soon the task of keeping records of the gathering warriors fell to Pendrag.

  Traders had long used tally marks and simple script to keep track of their dealings, and with help from Eoforth, Pendrag borrowed ideas from the concept of dwarf runic language to develop a rudimentary form of written instruction. Quick to see the benefit of this, Sigmar commanded Pendrag to further refine this new form of communication and have it taught in the schoolhouses.

  When the time came to marshal the army to march, Pendrag’s head count indicated that King Björn would lead an army of just under three thousand swords, with each man and his village recorded faithfully by Pendrag.

  Between them, Sigmar, Wolfgart and Pendrag worked organisational wonders with the assembled army, readying it for march, and ensuring that it would leave Reikdorf with enough supplies to sustain it through the campaigning season. A long train of wagons, and the tradesmen necessary to keep the army ready to fight, was soon assembled and made ready to accompany the warriors.

  King Björn took little part in the organisation of the army, instead spending his days tirelessly with the men with whom he would ride into battle. Every day, Björn would tour the growing camp and pass a few words with as many of the men as he could manage in a day. Sometimes, Sigmar would accompany him, enjoying his father’s easy banter with the warriors, all the while trying to hide his disappointment that he would not be marching to war with them.

  He had made his way from the longhouse to Ravenna’s home, following his father’s pronouncement that he would be staying in Reikdorf, angry beyond words that he would be denied this chance to march out against an enemy of such power.