The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Sigmar shivered as he remembered the battle against the hulking orc. Every killing blow was turned aside, and each stroke of his enemy’s axe came within a hair’s breadth of ending his young life. Even six years later, he sometimes awoke in the night, bathed in sweat with the memory of that desperate struggle fresh in his mind.

  ‘So anyway, I runs to the warlord’s tent and I’m hunting high and low for my old friend, Ghal-maraz, but everything’s scattered and heaped all over the place. I found my armour, but nothing to fight with save a man’s sword, which—and no offence here—wasn’t much use since the blade was so poorly forged. So I’m looking for something useful, but I’m not finding anything, and every second I’m looking, Sigmar’s men are dying, and I can hear Vagraz’s laughter as him and his black orcs are set to kill us all.

  ‘Then I found Ghal-maraz. I was cursing the orcs with every swear known to dwarfkind when my hand closed upon sturdy stitching wound around cold steel. I knew what it was by touch alone, and I pulled it from the heap of loot.’

  Sigmar held out the mighty warhammer and Kurgan took it from him, running his hands along the length of the great weapon. The runes sparkled, though whether that was the light of the fires or the touch of its maker’s race, Sigmar knew not. King Kurgan’s eyes lit up at the touch of the warhammer, and he smiled ruefully as he held it out in front of him.

  ‘I hold out Ghal-maraz and I’m ready to charge into battle, even though I’m fit to drop with pain and exhaustion, but a dwarf never lies down when there’s battle to be done unless he’s dead. And even then he’d better be really, really dead or his ancestors will be having words with him when he gets to the other side! But even as I lifted the warhammer, I knew it wasn’t for me to carry it into battle. You see, the power in Ghal-maraz is ancient, even to us dwarfs, and it knows who is supposed to bear it. Truth be told, I think it’s always been your warhammer, Sigmar, even before you were born. I think it was waiting for you, down the long, lonely centuries. It was waiting for the moment you would be ready to wield it.

  ‘So instead of charging in, I throws Ghal-maraz to Sigmar, who’s on the back foot, with Vagraz about to take his young head off, and damned if he doesn’t catch it and meet the orc’s axe on the way down. Now the odds are even, and suddenly Vagraz doesn’t look quite so cocky, and starts running his mouth off, gnashing and wailing his big fangs. But young Sigmar here isn’t fooled, he can see the bastard’s worried and he lays into him with Ghal-maraz. Piece by piece, he takes the orc apart until he’s down on his knees and beaten.’

  Sigmar smiled at the memory, remembering the warmth and feeling of fulfilment that had enveloped him as he hefted the great warhammer and closed with the warlord to deliver the deathblow.

  ‘You remember what you said to it?’ asked Kurgan.

  ‘I said, “Is that really the best you’ve got?”,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘Aye,’ said Kurgan, ‘and then you smashed his skull to pieces with one blow. And I don’t think there’s many could have done that, even with a dwarf hammer. Now the battle’s turned. Orcs don’t like it when you kill their big boss, it breaks their courage like brittle iron, and they went to pieces when Vagraz died. When the battle was over, I remember you tried to give Ghal-maraz back, an honourable gesture for a man, I thought, but I looked into your eyes and I saw that they were smouldering with an energy like I’d never seen.’

  The light in the longhouse seemed to dim as the dwarf king closed in on the ending of his tale, as though the structure built by the craft of his kind sought to enhance the telling.

  ‘The rest of young Sigmar’s face was in darkness, and as the flames flickered in his eyes, I swear they took on an eerie light. Even the gaze of the greenskin warlord didn’t have the raw power of that stare. Right then I knew there was something special about this one. I could feel it as sure as I know stone and beer. I looked down at Ghal-maraz and knew that it was time for me to pass this great weapon, this heirloom of my family, to a man. Such a thing has never happened in all the annals of the dwarfs, but I think a gift such as Skull Splitter is worth the life of a dwarf king.’

  Kurgan marched across the dais and once again presented Ghal-maraz to Sigmar, bowing to the young prince before turning once again to the rapt audience.

  ‘I gave Sigmar this hammer for a reason. True enough, it is a weapon, a mighty weapon to be sure, but it is so much more than that. Ghal-maraz is a symbol of unity, a symbol of what can be achieved through unity. A hammer is force and dominance, an honourable weapon and one that, unlike most other weapons, has the power to create as well as destroy. A hammer can crush and kill, but it can shape metal, build homes and mend that which is broken. See this mighty gift for what it is, a weapon and a symbol of all that can be. Men of the lands west of the mountains, heed Sigmar’s words, for he speaks with the wisdom of the ancients.’

  King Kurgan stepped from the dais to thunderous applause, but the venerable dwarf raised his hands for silence, which duly followed after yet more cheering.

  ‘Now let us drink to the memory of King Björn and send him to his fathers in glory!’

  BOOK THREE

  Forging the Legend

  Then fame and renown

  Of Sigmar, hammer bearer

  Of the high king of the dwarfs

  Spread far and wide.

  Sigmar the chief mighty lord

  Of the Unberogen and other tribes

  Of mankind.

  Fourteen

  Vengeance

  Firelight from the burning ships lit the underside of the clouds with a glow like the hells the Norsii were said to believe in. Sigmar watched from the cliffs above the vast expanse of the ocean as thousands of men died before him, burned to death on their ships or dragged below the surface of the water by the weight of their armour.

  He felt nothing for the men he was killing; their barbarity rendering them less than nothing to Sigmar. Hundreds of ships filled the wide bay, the night as bright as day as Unberogen and Udose archers sent flaming arrows into their sails and hulls as they jostled to escape.

  ‘Great Ulric’s beard,’ whispered Pendrag. ‘Do you mean to kill them all?’

  Sigmar bit back a sharp retort and simply nodded.

  ‘They deserve no less,’ snarled King Wolfila. ‘The bloodgeld of my people demands vengeance upon the northmen.’

  ‘But this…’ said Pendrag. ‘This is murder.’

  Sigmar said nothing, for how could he make his sword-brother understand? The Norsii were not part of his vision and could never be part of it. The northern gods were avatars of slaughter, the Norsii culture one of barbarism and human sacrifice. Such a people had no place in Sigmar’s empire, and since they would not accept his rule, they must be destroyed.

  The firelight reflected on Sigmar’s face, throwing his handsome, craggy features into sharp relief, his differently coloured eyes hard as stone. Twenty-five summers had passed since his birth upon the hill of battle in the Brackenwalsch, and Sigmar had grown into as fine a figure of a man as any could have wished.

  The crown of the Unberogens sat upon his brow, his for the two years since his father had been laid to rest in his gilded tomb upon Warrior’s Hill, and a long cloak of bearskin billowed around his wide and powerful shoulders.

  Thousands of warriors lined the cliffs in wide blocks of swordsmen and spearmen. Udose clansmen cheered as they watched the Norsii die, while Taleuten, Cherusen and Unberogen warriors watched with awe as an entire tribal race died before them.

  No sooner had King Björn’s tomb been sealed and Sigmar crowned king of the Unberogen by the priest of Ulric than he had ordered a sword muster for the following spring. Pendrag, and even Wolfgart, had argued against a muster so soon, but Sigmar had been immoveable.

  ‘We have great work ahead of us to forge our empire,’ Sigmar had said, ‘and with every day that passes, our chance to realise it slips further away. No, with the break of the snows next year, we march on the Norsii.’

  And so they had.
Leaving enough warriors to defend the lands of the Unberogen, Sigmar had gathered three thousand fighting men and marched back into the north, calling upon the Sword Oaths sworn to his father by the Cherusen and Taleutens. Both Krugar and Aloysis were reluctant to honour their oaths so soon, but with three thousand warriors camped before the walls of their cities, they had little choice but to march out with the king of the Unberogen.

  As expected, King Artur of the Teutogens had refused to pledge any warriors to Sigmar’s cause, and so his army had continued north towards the beleaguered lands of the Udose tribe, a realm that suffered daily attacks from northern reavers.

  King Wolfila’s capital was a soaring granite castle atop a jagged promontory of the northern coastline, pounding waves booming far below. Sigmar had liked Wolfila from the moment he had seen him riding through the black gates of his fastness. With braided hair the colour of the setting sun and a plaited kilt, Wolfila carried a sword almost as big as Wolfgart’s and his face was scarred and painted with fierce tattoos.

  The northern king had been only too willing to join Sigmar’s campaign, and wild, kilted and painted men and women of the clans with great, basket-hilted swords were soon coming down from their isolated glens and hilltop forts to join the mighty host of warriors.

  The Norsii had fought hard to protect their lands as Sigmar had expected, but with eight thousand warriors marching on them, burning and destroying as they went, the northmen could do nothing to stop them.

  The weather battered the armies of the south, fearsome storms and barrages of lightning, smiting the heavens with leering faces and howling gales like the laughter of dark gods. The morale of the army suffered, but Sigmar was unrelenting in his care, ensuring that every warrior had food and water and understood how proud he was to lead them in battle.

  The final outcome of the war had never been in doubt, for the Norsii were outnumbered three to one, and their men were starving, and had seen their lives destroyed by the vengeance of their previous victims.

  Sigmar had been careful always to allow the Norsii to fall back to the northernmost coastline, where their ships were beached. Though the northmen were fierce warriors, they were also men who wanted to live.

  When they boarded their ships, Sigmar unleashed the newest weapon in his arsenal.

  From the cliffs around the bay, huge catapults unleashed great flaming missiles that arced through the air to smash onto the decks of the tinder-dry ships. Strong winds fanned the flames, and as yet more missiles rained down from the cliffs, the entire Norsii fleet was soon ablaze.

  Here and there, a few smouldering vessels limped clear of the inferno, but they were few and far between. In less time than it had taken to assemble the war-machines, an entire tribe of man had been almost entirely exterminated.

  Sigmar watched the slaughter below with satisfaction. The Norsii were ended as a threat to his empire, and he felt no remorse at the thousands dying below him.

  King Wolfila turned to Sigmar and offered him his hand. ‘My people thank you for this, King Sigmar. Tell me how I can repay you, for I’ll be in no man’s debt.’

  ‘I need no payment, Wolfila,’ said Sigmar, ‘just your oath that we will be brother kings, and that you and your warriors will march beside me as allies in the future.’

  ‘You have it, Sigmar,’ promised Wolfila. ‘From this day, the Udose and the Unberogen will be sword-brothers. If you want our blades, all you need do is ask.’

  The two kings shook hands, and Wolfila marched away to join his warriors, his sword and shield held high above him as the flames turned his hair the colour of blood.

  ‘They will not forget this,’ said Wolfgart as the king of the Udose departed. ‘The survivors, I mean. They will come back one day to punish us for this.’

  ‘That is a problem for another day,’ said Sigmar, turning from the carnage below.

  Pendrag gripped his arm, his eyes imploring and forcing Sigmar to face the blazing sea. ‘Is this how it is to be, my brother? Is this how you mean to forge your empire? In murder? If so, then I want nothing more to do with it!’

  ‘No, this is not how it is to be,’ said Sigmar, shrugging off his sword-brother’s arm. ‘But what would you have me do with the Norsii? Bargain with them? They are savages!’

  ‘What does this act make us?’

  ‘It makes us victorious,’ said Sigmar. ‘I listen to their screams, and I remember the people that died beneath their axes and swords. And I am glad we do this. I remember the women raped or carried into slavery, the children sacrificed on altars of blood, and I am glad we do this. I think of all the people who will live because of what we had to do today, and I am glad we do this. Do you understand me, Pendrag?’

  ‘I think I do, my brother,’ said Pendrag, turning away, ‘and it makes me sad.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Sigmar.

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Pendrag. ‘Away from this. I understand now why it was done, but I have no wish to listen to the screams of the dying as we burn them to death.’

  Pendrag walked down the cliff path through the ranks of armoured warriors, and Sigmar made to follow him, but Wolfgart stopped him.

  ‘Let him go, Sigmar. Trust me, he needs some time alone.’

  Sigmar nodded and said, ‘You understand we had to do this don’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Wolfgart. ‘I do, but only because I have not the heart Pendrag does. He’s a thinker, that one, and at times like this… well, that’s a curse. Don’t worry, he’ll come around.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Wolfgart.

  ‘Now we make offerings to Ulric and Morr. The end of battle brings duty to the dead.’

  ‘No, I mean for us. Are we going home now?’

  Sigmar shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I have one last thing to take care of in the north before we return to Reikdorf.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Artur,’ said Sigmar.

  The army of the Unberogens turned from the destruction of the Norsii to march along the northern flanks of the mountains, heading for the ancestral domain of the Teutogen. The journey through the forests north of the mountains had been fraught, and Sigmar had sensed inhuman eyes upon him as if an army of monsters watched from within the haunted depths.

  Finally traversing the roof of the world and emerging from the shadowed forests, Sigmar had seen the Fauschlag rock from which Artur ruled his people.

  Though yet a hundred miles distant, the great mountain stood alone and enormous, humbling the landscape as it reached into the sky. Its towering immensity defied belief, the great spire standing apart from the towering mountains that rose like grim sentinels to the east as though banished from the company of its fellow peaks. The presence of such a host of warriors had not gone unnoticed by the Teutogen, and Sigmar had felt the eyes of his enemies upon him with every step that brought them closer to the Fauschlag rock.

  A well-travelled road curled southwards into less threatening woodland and, at last, their route brought them to the base of the great northern fastness, the scale of its enormity hard to credit, even when standing before it.

  So great was the Fauschlag’s height that no sign of the settlement atop it could be seen from the ground, but curling plumes of smoke had guided them to the castle at its base.

  Towers of polished granite reared up to either side of a wide gateway of seasoned timber, banded with dark iron and studded with thick bolts. Scores of armoured warriors manned the walls, their spears gleaming in the sunlight, and blue and white banners fluttered in the wind.

  Heavy chains hung from the top of the Fauschlag, guided down the face of the immense drop by vertical lines of iron rings hammered into the rock. In the days since his army had arrived, Sigmar had seen enclosed carriages travel up and down the Fauschlag, transporting men and supplies between the ground and the summit.

  Sigmar had ridden towards the castle with Pendrag carrying his banner lowered as a sign of parle
y, and had announced his intention to call Artur to account for the Unberogen blood his warriors’ had spilled.

  Days had passed without answer, and Sigmar’s frustration had grown daily as he awaited word from King Artur. At last, as the sun set on the third day since they had arrived, a messenger rode from a concealed postern towards the Unberogen army.

  Sigmar rode out to meet the messenger, Wolfgart and Alfgeir beside him, and Pendrag, who had barely passed a word with him for a fortnight, carrying his crimson banner.

  The rider was a powerful warrior, his breastplate and shoulder guards painted the white of virgin snow, and his red hair thick and braided. A great wolfskin cloak hung from his shoulders, and a long-hafted hammer was slung across his horse’s shoulders, a great beast of some seventeen hands.

  ‘You are Sigmar?’ asked the warrior, his voice coarse and thickly accented.

  ‘King Sigmar,’ corrected Alfgeir, his hand sliding towards his sword hilt.

  ‘You bring word from your king?’ asked Sigmar.

  ‘I do,’ said the rider, ignoring Alfgeir’s angry glowering. ‘I am Myrsa, Warrior Eternal of King Artur of the Teutogens, and I am here to order you to leave these lands or face death.’

  Sigmar nodded, for he had expected such a response and could see that it sat ill with the warrior that Artur had not come himself.

  He leaned forward and said, ‘Marbad of the Endals once told me that Artur had grown arrogant atop his impregnable fastness, and having seen this lump of rock, I can well believe it, for who would not feel above all other men with such a mighty bastion to call his own?’