The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Sigmar wanted to rebuke Redwane and Wolfgart, but there was little point, for there was no denying the pall of misery that hung over Marburg. The entire land of the Endals was soaked in despair.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sigmar. ‘I want to find out what’s at the heart of this.’

  They rode towards Marburg, the widening road laid with timbers to ease the passage of wagons and horses. The raven sculpted towers loomed above them, dark and threatening, and a chill travelled down Sigmar’s spine as he entered their shadow. The city gates were open, and Endal tribesmen in brown and black made way for the mud-spattered horsemen.

  Sigmar knew they made an impressive sight, for their horses were powerful beasts, the product of years of careful selective breeding on Wolfgart’s lands. Long ago, Wolfgart had promised to breed horses capable of wearing iron armour, and he had set to the challenge with as much determination as Sigmar had set about achieving his dream of an empire.

  As a result, Unberogen horses were the biggest in the land, grain-fed mounts of no less than sixteen hands, with wide chests, strong legs and straight backs. By any reckoning, Wolfgart was a wealthy man, for his stallions were much sought after by those whose coin was plentiful, and several had been requested by Sigmar’s counts upon seeing them at the gallop.

  The White Wolves were no less impressive: tough, capable men who were equally at home fighting from the back of a horse as they were on foot. Their armour was of the finest quality, though they eschewed the use of shield or helmet, and their red cloaks were arranged carefully over the rumps of their horses. There was no give in them, and their long hair and beards were deliberately wild and barbarous.

  Sigmar led the White Wolves through the gateway and into a cobbled courtyard. Warriors in black breastplates and helmets lined the courtyard, each carrying a long, bronze-tipped lance. Sigmar was instantly alert, for this was not the welcome an Emperor might expect. It felt more like the arrival of a tolerated enemy.

  A warrior in a black, full-faced helm and a man dressed in flowing robes of green wool stood in the centre of the courtyard. Sigmar angled his course towards them. The warrior was powerfully built, while the robed man was old, his beard reaching almost to his waist. A long, curved blade hung from a belt of woven reeds, and he carried a staff of pale wood, its length garlanded with mistletoe.

  ‘Why do I feel like there’s an arrow aimed between my shoulder blades?’ whispered Wolfgart.

  ‘Because there probably is,’ replied Redwane, nodding upwards.

  Sigmar saw warriors peering down from the raven towers and nodded, knowing there would indeed be archers above them with arrows nocked. Aldred would not be so foolish or bitter as to have him killed, but still his senses were warning him of danger.

  ‘Stay alert,’ he hissed, ‘but do nothing unless I do it first.’

  The warrior in the black helmet stepped forward and bowed curtly to Sigmar. He removed his helmet and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

  ‘Laredus,’ said Sigmar, recognising the warrior of the Raven Helms. ‘Where is Count Aldred? He cannot come to greet me himself?’

  ‘Emperor Sigmar,’ said Laredus, ‘you honour us with your presence in Marburg. Count Aldred sends his regrets, but the health of his brother deteriorates daily and he fears to leave his side.’

  ‘His brother is ill?’ asked Sigmar, dropping from his horse to stand next to Laredus. If archers were going to shoot, he would give them a choice of targets.

  ‘Indeed, my lord. The sickness from the marsh claims pauper and prince alike,’ said Laredus.

  ‘And who is this?’ asked Sigmar, indicating the robed man beside Laredus. ‘I do not know him.’

  ‘I am called Idris Gwylt,’ said the man with a short bow, his voice lilting and unfamiliar. His skin was the colour of aged oak and his hair was the pure white of freshly fallen snow. Pale green eyes regarded Sigmar with curiosity, and though there was no hostility in them, neither was there welcome.

  ‘You’ll address your Emperor as “my lord” in future,’ snapped Redwane.

  Sigmar waved Redwane back and said, ‘What is your role, Idris Gwylt? Are you a priest, a healer?’

  ‘A little of both, perhaps,’ said Idris, with a wry smile. ‘I am counsellor to Ki… Count Aldred on matters spiritual and worldly.’

  Sigmar turned from Idris Gwylt and addressed Laredus. ‘My men have travelled far and require food, lodgings and hot water. We shall also require stabling and grain for our mounts. When I have washed myself clean of mud, you will take me to Count Aldred, sick brother or not.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Laredus coldly.

  The guest lodgings in Count Aldred’s royal apartments were functional and clean, though no fire had been set in the hearth in anticipation of their arrival. A meal of fish and steamed vegetables came quickly, though it took an hour for enough water to be heated to allow Sigmar to bathe. Such treatment broke all the rules of hospitality that existed between allies, but Sigmar kept his temper in check, for he could ill-afford two enemies in the west.

  With the journey washed from his body, Sigmar followed Laredus and a handful of cloaked Endal warriors through the streets of Marburg towards the Raven Hall. Dressed in a robe of crimson and a long wolfskin cloak, Sigmar marched at the head of Wolfgart, Redwane and an honour guard of ten White Wolves. Though outwardly calm, their hands never strayed far from their weapons.

  Sigmar’s crown glittered upon his brow, and he carried Ghal-maraz at his belt, holding the haft tight against his leg as he looked in horrified wonder at the dismal city surrounding him.

  Water and human waste sluiced the streets of Marburg, and a sickly oily sheen coated the cobbles where it had seeped into the cracks. The rancid smell of spoiled meat and grain hung on the air, hemmed in by buildings that crowded together and loomed over the few wretched people abroad in the streets. A forsaken air hung over the city, as though its inhabitants had long ago fled its darkened thoroughfares for the lands left by the Bretonii.

  The buildings were predominantly constructed from warped, sun-bleached timbers, with only the lower portions of each structure built from stone. Damp blotched the walls, and runnels of black water fell from leaking eaves. Windows and doors were shuttered, and through those that were ajar Sigmar heard little sign of life, only soft weeping and muttered prayers.

  ‘Look,’ said Wolfgart, nodding down a reeking alleyway to where another corpse-cart was pulling away from a thatched house. A black-robed priest of Morr painted a white cross upon the door as a hunched man wearing a grotesque mask with glass eyes and an elongated nose nailed a wooden board across it.

  ‘Plague?’ said Redwane. ‘They must have breathed the daemon air!’

  ‘Be quiet,’ hissed Sigmar, though he reached up to touch the talisman of Shallya that he wore around his neck.

  ‘Redwane is right, the city is cursed,’ said Wolfgart. ‘The carrion birds circle this place as if it were a fresh corpse. We should leave now.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ replied Sigmar. ‘What manner of empire would I have forged if I turn my back on the suffering of my people? We stay and find the cause of this.’

  ‘Very well,’ shrugged Wolfgart, ‘but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re coughing up your lungs and drowning in your own blood.’

  Sigmar put such concerns from his mind as the Raven Hall came into sight. The ancestral seat of the Endal rulers was a towering miracle: a majestic hall carved from a mighty spire of volcanic rock and hollowed out to form the rearing shape of a vast raven. Black pinions of glistening stone swept from the tower’s flanks, and a great balcony was formed within the jutting beak at its summit.

  Sigmar caught a flash of movement on the balcony, and saw the slender form of a woman clad in a long black dress with shoulder-length hair of golden blonde. No sooner had he spotted her than she vanished inside the tower.

  ‘Ulric’s bones,’ said Redwane. ‘And here’s me thinking Siggurdheim was impressive.’

  �
�Aye, they did something special here,’ agreed Wolfgart. ‘You can see almost all the way to the hills around Astofen when the mists roll back.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Sigmar, his anger with Aldred retreating in the face of this wondrous creation. Far to the north, the Fauschlag Rock dominated the landscape for miles around, but its towering form had been shaped by the fist of Ulric; The Raven Hall was the work of men. Countless years of toil and skill had gone into the Hall’s creation, and it was a thing of dark, majestic beauty.

  Laredus led them into the tower through a gateway formed between two giant claws and guarded by more Raven Helms. Now that he was closer, Sigmar saw the intricate detail worked into the tower’s walls, the glassy stone carved with feathers that looked almost real.

  The corridors within the tower were black, and torchlight rippled on the stonework like moonlight on water. Laredus led them deep into the heart of the tower, eventually reaching a carved stairway that led up into darkness. Sigmar wanted more time to explore this fabulous place, but Laredus lifted a torch from a sconce at the foot of the stairs and set off upwards.

  Sigmar followed the Raven Helm, running his fingers over the smooth walls. The stone felt like polished glass, and was slightly warm to the touch, as though the fire of its vitrification still lingered deep in its heart. The stairs rose high into the tower, following the outward curve of its walls, and Sigmar’s legs were soon aching.

  ‘Does this damn tower ever end?’ asked Redwane. ‘It feels like it goes on forever.’

  ‘You’ve been spoiled in Siggurdheim,’ chuckled Wolfgart. ‘Too much soft living has made you weak. You youngsters might have the edge in years on a veteran like me, but you’ve no stamina.’

  ‘That’s not what your wife says,’ joked Redwane.

  Even in the torchlight, Sigmar saw Wolfgart’s face darken with anger. Wolfgart gripped Redwane’s tunic and slammed him against the wall. His knife hissed from its leather sheath to rest against Redwane’s throat.

  ‘Speak that way about Maedbh again and I’ll cut your heart out, you little bastard!’ he said.

  Fast as quicksilver, Sigmar’s hand shot out and gripped Wolfgart’s wrist, though he did not remove the blade from Redwane’s throat.

  ‘Redwane, sometimes your stupidity surprises even me,’ said Sigmar. ‘You insult the honour of a fine woman, wife to my sword-brother and shield maiden to a queen.’

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ snarled Wolfgart. ‘No man claims I wear the cuckold’s horns and lives!’

  ‘You will not,’ stated Sigmar. ‘Kill him and you will be a murderer. The boy’s words were foolish, but he did not mean them. Did you, Redwane?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ cried Redwane. ‘It was just a jest.’

  ‘Make such jests at your peril,’ hissed Wolfgart, putting up his knife and stepping away from the White Wolf. Though Redwane’s life was no longer in immediate danger, Sigmar knew that Wolfgart would never forget those poorly-chosen words. He glanced over to where Laredus had been standing, but the Raven Helm had already gone ahead. Sigmar knew Aldred would already know of this altercation, and he cursed.

  ‘Pull yourselves together and follow me,’ said Sigmar, setting off after Laredus. ‘And if either of you behaves like this again, I’ll have you flogged and stripped of those wolf cloaks you prize so dearly.’

  Count Aldred’s hall was a great domed chamber at the very summit of the tower. It was lit by twin shafts of yellow light that speared in through windows that formed the eyes of the Raven Hall. From its position in relation to the windows, Sigmar guessed that a curtain of red velvet led to the balcony he had seen from the outside. Scented torches formed a processional route towards a dark throne, and Sigmar guessed that they were lit to disguise the stench of the city below as well as to provide illumination.

  Count Aldred awaited them clad in his father’s armour, a bronze breastplate moulded to resemble a muscular physique and a tall helm with feathered wings of black that swept up from angular cheekplates. His long dark cloak spilled around a throne of polished ebony with armrests carved in the form of wings and legs shaped like black talons. The Raven Banner was set in a socket in the backrest of the throne, and Sigmar remembered the pride he had felt watching that same banner carried into battle at Black Fire Pass.

  Laredus and Idris Gwylt stood behind Count Aldred, and two thrones of similar, but smaller design sat to either side of the Endal ruler. One of these thrones was empty, while upon the other sat the golden-haired girl that Sigmar had seen from beyond the tower. She was perhaps sixteen years old and pretty in a thin kind of way, though her skin had an unhealthy pallor to it, much like everyone else Sigmar had seen in Marburg. She looked at Sigmar with a haughty expression for one so young, yet he saw the interest behind her veneer of indifference.

  Sigmar marched towards Aldred’s throne, keeping his smouldering anger chained tightly within. He had come to the realm of the Endals to learn what lay in Aldred’s heart, but seeing the count told him all he needed to know. The scent of the torches caught in the back of Sigmar’s throat, and suddenly he knew what to say to Aldred.

  ‘Count Aldred,’ he said, ‘your lands are in disarray. Pestilence blights your city and a curse lies upon your people. I am here to help.’

  Sigmar hid his amusement at Aldred’s surprise, and pressed on before the young count could reply, ‘King Marbad was as a brother to my father, and he saved my life upon the field of Black Fire Pass. I shed tears as we sent him to Ulric’s Hall, and I pledged to you that we would also be brothers. I have come to Marburg to make good on that pledge.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Aldred. ‘I asked for no aid.’

  ‘When the lands of my counts are threatened, I do not wait for them to ask for my help. I bring a hundred of my finest warriors to your city to help in whatever way we can.’

  Idris Gwylt leaned down to whisper something in Aldred’s ear, but Sigmar could not hear the words over the sound of the wind playing about the tower. Before Aldred could say anything in response to Gwylt’s counsel, Sigmar took a step towards the throne.

  ‘Count Aldred, tell me what troubles your city,’ said Sigmar. ‘As well as warriors, I bring my healer, Cradoc, a man who saved my life when I lay at Morr’s threshold. Let him try to ease your people’s suffering.’

  Idris Gwylt stepped forward, and Sigmar breathed in his earthy aroma. Gwylt carried the smell of freshly turned soil and ripened crops, as though fresh from a field of sun-ripened corn. The feeling was intense, and Sigmar felt the power of the man, as though something vital coursed through him, a pulse of something old beyond imagining.

  ‘The curse that afflicts us is beyond the power of your warriors to defeat, Emperor Sigmar,’ said Gwylt. ‘The daemons of the mist grow strong once more and their evil flows from the depths of the marshes. It spreads through the earth and corrupts all that it touches. Disease strikes our people and the life drains from the land, washed into the ocean with all our hopes. Hundreds of our tribe are dead and even my noble count’s brother, the gallant Egil, has been struck down.’

  ‘Then let Cradoc help him. There is little he does not know of the ways of sickness.’

  ‘Egil is beyond the help of men,’ said Idris Gwylt. ‘Only the healing power of the land can save him now, and it wanes as that of the daemons waxes. Only by offering the daemons our most valued treasure can Egil’s life be saved.’

  ‘That is foolishness,’ stormed Sigmar, addressing his words to Aldred. ‘This man speaks of offering tribute to daemons as though you are their vassals. Daemons are creatures of darkness and can only be defeated with courage and strong sword arms. What say you, Aldred? Rally the Raven Helms to your banner and join me in battle. Together, we can cleanse the marshes of their evil forever. My father and your father fought these creatures, so let us finish what they began!’

  ‘Our fathers failed,’ said the young girl seated beside Aldred. ‘The daemons drove them from the marshes and killed most of their warriors. Wha
t makes you think you can triumph where they could not?’

  Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz from his belt and held it out to her.

  ‘I have never met a foe I could not defeat,’ he said. ‘If I go into those marshes to fight, I will be victorious.’

  Her eyes blazed with anger.

  ‘You are arrogant,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ admitted Sigmar. ‘It is my right as Emperor. But you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I do not know you.’

  ‘My name is Marika,’ she snapped, ‘daughter of Marbad and sister to Aldred and Egil. You speak of battle as though it is the only way of ending our troubles, but not every curse can be lifted with killing. There are other ways.’

  ‘Oh, like what?’

  ‘It is not for me to say,’ said Marika, the anger in her eyes replaced with sadness. Sigmar saw her glance towards Idris Gwylt.

  ‘Then how would you end this curse, my lady?’ asked Sigmar.

  ‘By appeasing the daemons,’ said Idris Gwylt.

  ‘I was not asking you,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘Such daemons cannot be defeated by mortal men,’ replied Gwylt, ignoring Sigmar’s displeasure. ‘The earth has been corrupted by the touch of the mist daemons, and we cannot restore its goodness with swords.’

  ‘Does this man speak for you, Count Aldred?’ demanded Sigmar. ‘I appointed you to rule these lands, not some old man who speaks of appeasement. Good gods, man, you do not invite the fox into the hen house, you root him out and kill him.’

  ‘Gwylt enjoys my full confidence,’ said Aldred. ‘We hold to the ways of our ancient forebears in Marburg, and it is in them that we will find salvation. Idris Gwylt is a priest of a power older than the gods, a servant of the land, who knows its ways and the means by which we may restore it. His words are wise beyond the understanding of most mortals, and he has done much to ease the suffering of my people. I trust him implicitly.’

  ‘You may trust him, but I do not,’ said Sigmar, understanding the source of Gwylt’s strange and powerful aura. ‘I thought the Old Faith died out a long time ago.’