The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Myrsa’s face reddened at the insult to his king, but Sigmar pressed on. ‘A king who skulks behind walls grows fearful of leaving them, does he not?’

  ‘These are Teutogen lands,’ repeated Myrsa, keeping his voice level. ‘If you do not leave, your warriors will be broken against the Fauschlag. No army can breach its walls.’

  ‘Walls of stone are all very well,’ Sigmar pointed out, ‘but I have enough men to surround this rock, and I can seal Artur’s city until every man, woman and child has starved to death. I do not want to do that, for I wish the Teutogen to be our brothers and not enemies. Ask the Norsii what becomes of my enemies. Tell Artur that he has one more day to face me, or I will climb that damned rock and break his head open in front of all his people.’

  Myrsa nodded stiffly and turned his horse, riding back towards the castle at the base of the Fauschlag. The main gates swung open and the Warrior Eternal disappeared within.

  ‘You didn’t mean that did you?’ asked Pendrag. ‘About starving the city out?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Sigmar, ‘but I needed him to think that I did.’

  ‘Then what do you intend?’ asked Alfgeir.

  ‘Exactly what I told him,’ replied Sigmar. ‘If Artur does not come out, I’m going to climb that rock and drag him out from wherever he is hiding.’

  ‘Climb the Fauschlag?’ asked Wolfgart, craning his neck to look up at the towering rock.

  ‘Aye,’ said Sigmar. ‘How hard can it be?’

  With sweat stinging his eyes and his muscles burning with fire, Sigmar had cause to revise his earlier boast of the ease of climbing the Fauschlag rock. The forest stretched away below him in a great green swathe, the mountains of the east rearing from the trees in a series of white spikes, and the sea a distant glitter far on the horizon.

  The exhilaration of seeing the world from this vantage point was offset by the terror of clinging to a rock face by his fingertips, knowing that one slip would send him tumbling thousands of feet to his death.

  Powerful winds whipped around the Fauschlag, and, checking his handholds, Sigmar craned his neck upwards, but the top of the rock was still out of sight. Birds circled high above him, and he envied them the ease of flight.

  His sword-brothers and Alfgeir had tried to talk him out of this foolhardy venture, but Sigmar knew he could not back down from this challenge. He had told Artur’s champion that he would climb the Fauschlag, and Sigmar’s word was iron.

  Sigmar risked a glance down, swallowing hard as he saw his army spread out on the rocky haunches of the Fauschlag, little more than dots as they watched their king climb to glory or death.

  ‘Still with me, Alfgeir?’ asked Sigmar, shouting to be heard over the wind.

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said Alfgeir from below, his voice strained and angry. ‘Still think this was a good idea?’

  ‘I am beginning to think it might have been a little foolish, yes,’ admitted Sigmar. ‘You want to climb back down?’

  ‘And leave you here on your own?’ spat Alfgeir. ‘Not bloody likely. I don’t think either of us is getting down unless we fall.’

  ‘Don’t speak of falling,’ said Sigmar, thinking of Wolfgart. ‘It is bad luck.’

  Alfgeir said nothing more, and the two warriors continued their climb, dragging themselves up the rocky face of the Fauschlag, inch by inch. Hand and foot holds were plentiful, for the surface of the rock was not smooth, but the energy required to maintain his grip was fearsome, and Sigmar could feel his arms cramping painfully with the unfamiliar exertion of climbing.

  Neither warrior was armoured, for to attempt such a climb in heavy mail would be even more suicidal than his warriors already believed it to be. Ghal-maraz hung from Sigmar’s belt, and Alfgeir’s sword was slung around his shoulders, for neither warrior desired to reach the summit of the Fauschlag without a weapon.

  Several times during their climb, Sigmar had heard the clanking sound of metal on metal, and had looked over to see the wooden carriages being raised on their long chains. One such carriage was being lowered towards them, and Sigmar’s eyes narrowed as he considered the practicalities of such a means of transport.

  ‘No amount of men could haul these carriages and that amount of iron the full height of the Fauschlag,’ said Sigmar. ‘There must be some form of windlass mechanism at the top.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ gasped Alfgeir, ‘but what does it matter? Keep climbing. Don’t stop or I won’t be able to start again.’

  Sigmar nodded, and ignored the carriage as it passed onwards towards the castle far below. Once more, the climbers set off, clambering up the rock face until Sigmar felt as though he could not move another inch.

  He heard Alfgeir climbing beside him and took a deep breath, his lungs heaving and on fire with the effort. An age passed for Sigmar, and he cursed the pride that had sent him on this foolhardy errand.

  Sigmar remembered a time when he had been a young boy and his father had first shown him how to set a cook-fire in the forest. He had wanted to build a great bonfire, but Björn had shown him that the art of setting a fire was one of balance. Too small a fire would not warm you, but too large a fire could easily get out of control and consume the forest.

  Pride, Sigmar was learning, was like that, too little and a man would have no self-belief or confidence and would never achieve anything with his life. Too much… well, too much might see a man clinging to the side of a towering rock, inches from death.

  Still, it would make a fine addition to his growing reputation, and might even warrant a panel on the Sudenreik Bridge. The thought made him smile, and he hauled himself upwards once again, methodically reaching for another handhold and forcing his tired body to keep going.

  The wind threatened to tear him from his perch at every turn, but he kept himself pressed to the rock, holding tighter than any lover had held the object of his desire.

  Lost in the pain and exhaustion of the climb, it took Sigmar a moment to realise that the angle of his climb had lessened, and that he was clambering up a slope rather than a sheer rock face.

  He shook his head and blinked his eyes free of sweat to see that he had reached the top. From here, the ground rose in a gentle slope towards a low wall built around the perimeter of the Fauschlag’s summit.

  Sigmar reached back to help Alfgeir, whose face was grey with effort, and who nodded in gratitude.

  ‘We did it, my friend,’ gasped Sigmar. ‘We are at the top.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ wheezed Alfgeir, looking up. ‘Now, we just have to fight our way in.’

  Sigmar turned, and saw a line of Teutogen warriors in bronze hauberks appear at the wall, their swords bared and bowstrings drawn back.

  Sigmar unhooked Ghal-maraz from his belt, and then helped Alfgeir to his feet. The two Unberogen warriors stood proudly before the armed Teutogens, exhausted, but defiant and exhilarated at the sheer impossibility of their incredible climb.

  Myrsa, the Warrior Eternal, stood in the middle of the line of warriors, and Sigmar climbed towards him, expecting the line of bowmen to loose at any second. Alfgeir followed him and whispered, ‘Please tell me you have a plan.’

  Sigmar shook his head. ‘Not really… I hadn’t expected us to survive the climb,’ he said.

  ‘Wonderful,’ snapped Alfgeir. ‘I am glad to know you thought this through.’

  Sigmar reached the wall and stood before Myrsa, looking him straight in the eye. He had expected Myrsa to be waiting for them, and hoped he had read the man’s heart correctly when they had spoken on the ground.

  ‘Where is Artur?’ asked Sigmar.

  A tightening of the jaw line was the only sign of tension in Myrsa, but it spoke volumes of the conflict within the warrior.

  ‘He prays to Ulric’s Fire,’ said Myrsa. ‘He said you would fall.’

  ‘He was wrong,’ said Sigmar. ‘He has been wrong about a lot of things has he not?’

  ‘Perhaps, but he is my king and I owe him my life.’

  ‘If I wer
e your king, I would be honoured to have a man like you in my service.’

  ‘And I would be proud to offer it, but it is foolish to dream of that which cannot be.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Sigmar. ‘Now, unless you plan on cutting me down, take me to Artur of the Teutogens.’

  The buildings on the Fauschlag were as finely constructed as anything in Reikdorf, and Sigmar could only wonder at the dedication and determination it must have taken to get the materials to build them lifted to the summit. He saw the artifice of dwarf masons in some of the buildings, but the majority of the structures were crafted by the skill of men. Man’s ingenuity never ceased to amaze Sigmar, and he was more determined than ever to see his people united in purpose.

  The walk through the settlement soon attracted a great following, with people emerging from their homes to see this strange king who had climbed the Fauschlag. Myrsa’s warriors ringed Sigmar and Alfgeir, and though they could be killed at any moment, Sigmar felt curiously light-headed and confident.

  Everything he had seen of these Teutogens spoke of a fierce, pragmatic pride, and his early notions of them as savage and murderous raiders vanished as he saw their ordered society. Children played in the streets, and women gathered them up as the swelling procession made its way towards the heart of the city.

  The priests of Ulric claimed that the god of wolves and winter smote the mountain with his fist in ancient times, flattening the summit for his faithful to worship upon. It was said that a great flame burned at its centre, a fire that burned without peat or wood, and Sigmar felt a childlike excitement at the thought of seeing such a miraculous thing.

  No words passed between the warriors as they made their way towards the centre of the city, and Sigmar felt a growing tension as they neared their destination.

  At last, Sigmar, Alfgeir and their escort emerged from between tall buildings of granite with clay roofs into a space cleared at the centre of the Fauschlag rock.

  A great stone circle of menhirs had been erected in a wide ring, with flat lintel stones balanced precariously on top. Each stone was glossy and black, veined with lines of red gold, and in the centre of the circle a tall plume of white fire blazed from the ground, the light dazzling and pure.

  The fire burned cold and was taller than a man. A warrior in a wondrously crafted suit of armour with a sword held point down before him knelt in its glare. He prayed with his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the pommel resting against his forehead, and Sigmar knew this must be Artur.

  The plates protecting his back and shoulders shone like silver, and the bronze mail that fringed them was as finely crafted as any dwarf armour Sigmar had seen. A winged helm of bronze sat on the ground next to Artur, and as Sigmar approached, the king of the Teutogens rose smoothly to his feet and turned to face him.

  Artur was handsome, his dark hair threaded with silver, but his weathered face was strong with the easy confidence of a warrior who had never known defeat. The king’s forked beard was braided, and his power obvious.

  It was to Artur’s sword that Sigmar’s eyes were drawn, however: the Dragon Sword of Caledfwlch, the shimmering silver blade said to be able to cut the hardest iron or stone. The legends of the Teutogens spoke of a mysterious wise man from across the sea, a shaman of the ancient lore, who had fashioned the blade for Artur at his birth, using a captured shard of lightning, frozen by the breath of an ice dragon.

  Looking at the long-bladed sword, Sigmar could well believe such tales, for a glittering hoar frost seemed to cling to the weapon’s edge.

  ‘You are the king of the Unberogen?’ said Artur as Sigmar entered the stone circle. Four dark-robed figures appeared at the cardinal points of the circle, and from their wolfskin cloaks and wolf tail talismans, Sigmar recognised them as priests of Ulric.

  ‘I am,’ confirmed Sigmar, ‘and you are King Artur.’

  ‘I have that honour,’ said Artur, ‘and you are not welcome in my city.’

  ‘Whether I am welcome or not is unimportant,’ said Sigmar. ‘I am here to call you to account for the deaths of my people. While my father made war in the north, Teutogen raiders destroyed Unberogen villages and killed the innocents that lived there. You will answer for their deaths.’

  Artur shook his head. ‘You would have done the same, boy.’

  ‘You do not deny this?’ said Sigmar. ‘And, call me boy again and I will kill you.’

  ‘You are here to do that anyway are you not?’

  ‘I am,’ agreed Sigmar.

  ‘And you are here to challenge me to single combat I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Artur laughed, a rich baritone sound of genuine amusement. ‘You are truly the son of Björn, reckless and filled with ridiculous notions of honour. Tell me why I should not simply have Myrsa and his warriors cut you down?’

  ‘Because he would not obey such an order,’ said Sigmar, advancing towards Artur holding Ghal-maraz before him. ‘You may have forgotten the meaning of honour, but I do not believe he has. Besides, what manner of man would refuse a challenge before the eyes of the priests of Ulric? What manner of king could retain his authority were he to be proven a coward?’

  Artur’s eyes narrowed, and Sigmar saw a towering anger and arrogance behind his eyes.

  ‘You have just climbed an impossible climb, an impressive feat, but one which has drained you of your strength,’ hissed Artur. ‘You are at the very limits of your endurance and you think you can best me? You are nothing but a beardless boy, and I am a king.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ snapped Sigmar, raising his warhammer.

  ‘The Dragon Sword will cut your flesh like mist,’ said Artur, picking up his helmet and placing it upon his head. Sigmar did not reply, but simply circled towards Artur, studying his enemy and watching his movements. Artur was powerfully built, with the wide shoulders and narrow hips of a swordsman, but he had not given battle in many years.

  For all that, he moved well, smooth and unhurried, his balance and poise almost as perfect as Gerreon’s had been. The name of Sigmar’s betrayer appeared unbidden in his mind, and his step faltered at the memory.

  Artur saw the flicker in his eyes, and leapt forward, the Dragon Sword cleaving the air with a whisper of the winter wind following in its wake. Sigmar recovered in time to dodge the blow, but the chill of the blade passed within a finger’s breadth of taking his head with the first blow of the challenge.

  Sensing weakness, Artur attacked again, but Sigmar was ready for him, blocking with the head and haft of Ghal-maraz. Each block sent white sparks shivering through the air, and Sigmar felt the great warhammer grow colder with each blow he deflected.

  Artur’s reach was much greater than his, and only rarely could Sigmar close with the Teutogen king to attack. He spun around a thrust of the Dragon Sword, and Ghal-maraz slammed into Artur’s side. The clang of metal echoed from the ring of black stones, and Sigmar swayed aside to dodge Artur’s return stroke, amazed that his blow had not smashed the armour aside and splintered his enemy’s spine.

  Seeing his surprise, Artur laughed, and said. ‘You are not the only king to make allies of the mountain folk and make use of their craft.’

  Sigmar backed away, seeing the dwarf handiwork in the fluted scrollwork of the armour and the sheen of dwarf metal. The runic script on the haft of Ghal-maraz burned with an angry light as though displeased at being forced to inflict ruin upon another artefact of its creators.

  The two kings traded attacks back and forth in the shadow of the blazing plume of Ulric’s Fire, and Sigmar felt his strength fading with every passing moment. He had struck Artur several blows that would have killed a lesser warrior three times over, but the king of the Teutogens was unbowed.

  He saw the triumph in Artur’s eyes, and desperately brought Ghal-maraz up as another blow arced towards his chest. Once again, the weapons of power met in a ringing clash of metals unknown to Man, and Sigmar felt the impact numb his arms. Artur spun in and thundered h
is mailed fist against Sigmar’s chin.

  Sigmar stumbled away from the force of the blow as light exploded in his skull.

  He heard Alfgeir cry out, and looked up to see a roaring wall of white before him.

  Sigmar threw up his arms as he fell through the searing flame of Ulric’s Fire, the light filling his bones with blazing ice. He screamed as he fell, the aching cold of somewhere far distant and unknown to mortals like nothing he had ever known.

  Even the vast emptiness of the Grey Vaults seemed welcome compared to the harsh, pitiless power encapsulated in the fire. For the briefest instant, a moment that could have been a heartbeat or an eternity, that power turned its gaze upon him, and Sigmar felt his life’s worth judged in the blink of an eye.

  Then it was over, and he tumbled to the ground on the far side of Ulric’s Fire, rolling to his feet with fresh vigour and energy. Gasps of astonishment rippled around the circle, and Sigmar shared their amazement, for there was not a mark on him, and the flame had left him untouched.

  No, not quite untouched, for a fading cloak of shimmering wolfskin hung from his shoulders, and ghostly tendrils of mist clung to his body as though he had freshly emerged from the depths of the deepest glacier. White fire wreathed Ghal-maraz, and Sigmar felt a furious energy fill him, wild and untamed, as though he were the fiercest animal in the pack.

  Sigmar threw back his head, but instead of laughter, the triumphant howl of a wolf tore from his throat, the echoes of it racing around the circumference of the stone circle.

  White lightning flashed in Sigmar’s eyes, an endless winter’s landscape in their depths, and he saw the legendary deeds of the past and future spread before him. The heroes of the past and the leaders of the future surrounded him, their epic deeds and courage flowing together, filling his heart with the glory and honour of their lives.

  Without conscious thought, he raised Ghal-maraz, and felt the ringing blow of the Dragon Sword as it slammed into the warhammer’s haft. Sigmar dropped to his knees as though he moved in a dream, and Artur swung his ancient weapon once more.