‘That day brought us together,’ said Sigmar, ‘all men joined in unity and fighting as one race. We stood before the largest army this world has ever seen. We proud few stood against that army, and we defeated it.’
Sigmar pointed to the huge orc skull that hung on the wall above his throne, that of the warlord who had led the greenskin horde at Black Fire Pass. Larger than the mightiest stallion’s, the skull boasted two enormous tusks that jutted from the lower jaw like those of the mythical beasts of the Southlands. Even in death, the fearsome power of the monster once known as Bloodfang was palpable.
‘The world will never see its like again, yet here we are, a year from that day and you squabble with a brother whose warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with you in the battle line. Sword Oaths were sworn in the years before Black Fire Pass and we renewed them by the flames of Marbad’s pyre. Or at least I thought we did.’
‘My Sword Oath is yours,’ said Aloysis immediately. ‘My life is yours.’
‘And mine also, Lord Sigmar,’ said Krugar, unwilling to be shown up before his rival. ‘I gave my oath to your father and I gave it again to you, freely.’
‘Aye, you both swore Sword Oaths with me,’ nodded Sigmar. ‘And swearing an oath with me is the same as swearing an oath with your brother counts. Aloysis, have you forgotten how you fought alongside Krugar and my father to drive the Norsii from your lands? And Krugar, can you not remember when the charge of the Cherusen Wildmen split apart the greenskin trap that encircled your riders at the Aver?’
‘An attack on one of you is an attack on me, remember?’ continued Sigmar, waving Eoforth forward. ‘Your lands are threatened, so I must ride to your aid. Each of you claims the other attacks you, but upon whom should I make war?’
Neither count answered as Eoforth handed the long roll of parchment to Sigmar. He undid the leather cord binding it, and unrolled a beautifully rendered map on one of the tables that ran the length of the great hall. Aloysis and Krugar gathered close to Sigmar, their enmity forgotten in the face of this incredible piece of cartography.
The forests, rivers and cities of the empire were picked out in coloured inks, each feature drawn with wondrous skill and precision. The territories of each tribal group were clearly marked, and golden lettering named the major settlements, rivers and mountain ranges.
Sigmar stabbed his finger into the centre of the map, where an exquisitely drawn castle in black ink represented Hochergig, the largest city of the Cherusens and seat of Count Aloysis.
‘Do I march north and fall upon the Cherusens, smiting them with my wrath for attacking my brother Krugar?’
Without waiting for an answer, Sigmar’s finger trailed downwards across the Taalbec River to where a great basin nestled in the eye of the forest. ‘Or do I ride to Taalaheim, smash down its gates with my war-machines, and slaughter the Taleutens for daring to attack my friend Aloysis? Tell me, brothers, what should I do?’
One after the other, Sigmar looked each of his counts in the eye, letting them see his deadly earnestness. Indecision warred in their souls, the need to save face against their rival vying with the desire to spare their lands and people from the Emperor’s wrath.
Sigmar did not want to march north, especially when his warriors were mustering for war against the Jutones, so he was prepared to offer each man a way out. He traced a line down the course of the Taalbec, which marked the border between the counts’ territories.
‘On the other hand, perhaps the reavers that plague your lands are simply brigands,’ said Sigmar, thoughtfully. ‘Mayhap there are several of these rootless sword bands with secret forest camps in both your lands. Instead of my army marching north, perhaps you might hunt them down and destroy those that skulk in your lands. That would resolve your difficulties and see an end to this matter would it not? Tell me your thoughts, my friends.’
Krugar saw the resolve in Sigmar’s eyes and nodded slowly.
‘I believe you may be right, my Emperor,’ he said. ‘Now that I look closer, these raids have all the hallmarks of banditry.’
The words were spoken without conviction, but that they were spoken at all was good enough for Sigmar. He looked over to Aloysis.
‘Indeed,’ agreed Aloysis, quick to seize the opportunity to save face that Sigmar had offered. ‘I have skilled trackers who should be able to locate such bands.’
‘That is great news, my friends,’ said Sigmar. ‘Then you will put an end to this dispute, and return to your lands as brothers. This is my command.’
‘It shall be as you say, my lord,’ said Aloysis with a bow.
‘I will return to Taalaheim immediately,’ said Krugar.
Aloysis turned to Krugar and the two counts embraced. The gesture was forced and awkward, but it was enough for now. Both men faced Sigmar, and bowed before withdrawing from the great hall. As the door shut behind them, Eoforth rolled up the map, and Alfgeir descended from the dais of the throne. The Grand Knight of the Empire sheathed his sword and sat on the edge of the table as Eoforth tied the leather cords around the map.
‘Do you think they will do as you say?’ asked Alfgeir. ‘Krugar and Aloysis, I mean.’
‘They had damn well better,’ said Sigmar. ‘Or else they will see what it means to incur my displeasure.’
‘You don’t really believe there are bandits in the forest, do you?’
‘There are always brigands,’ said Sigmar, ‘but not raiding Cherusen or Taleuten lands. Each of them was right, they were being attacked by their neighbour.’
‘Why? It makes no sense,’ said Alfgeir.
‘Human nature,’ replied Eoforth. ‘Without a common enemy, men will look for foes in the one place they can guarantee finding one: the past. The Cherusens and Taleutens have fought to control the fertile lands around the Taalbec for centuries. They only came together when King Björn forced them to join forces during the Winter of Beasts, you remember?’
‘Aye,’ said Alfgeir. ‘The vermin-beasts from beneath the Barren Hills, I remember it all too well. I had my first taste of battle and blood in the snows around Untergard.’
‘Long before I was born,’ said Sigmar with a wry smile.
‘Not that long,’ muttered Alfgeir.
‘The point is,’ continued Eoforth, ‘that powerful men with warriors to command will always look for someone to attack, and past grievances, unsettled wergelds and ancestral grudges are a good place to find them.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ asked Sigmar.
‘That we give our troublesome kings a better target for their warlike tendencies.’
The summer muster began early, with riders bearing letters, sealed with wax and imprinted with the twin-tailed comet emblem of Sigmar, despatched to the furthest tribal lands of the empire to rouse the counts to war.
The marching season had come, and it was time to call Marius of the Jutones to account.
As the days of spring warmed to summer, hundreds of warriors pitched their tents in the cleared fields around Sigmar’s capital, and over the next two moons, sword bands from the furthest corners of the empire arrived to join the Unberogen.
Autumn-hued Asoborns rode in on chariots of lacquered black and gold, provoking cheers and wolf-whistles from the richly-attired Brigundians who waved their spears and bared their many scars to the fierce warrior women.
Armoured warriors from the Fauschlag Rock marched to Reikdorf bearing news from Pendrag and Myrsa, and Sigmar smiled as he read of his friend’s tribulations in attempting to modernise a populace rooted in tradition. As difficult as Pendrag was finding the task, Sigmar could read between the lines well enough to know that he was relishing the challenge, and he was pleased at the optimistic tone of his friend’s words.
The southern kings had sent two hundred warriors each: grim-faced Merogens in their distinctive rust-coloured cloaks, and slender Menogoth swordsmen in shimmering greens and golds. Taleuten horse archers rode though the campsite, showing off their skills to any who cared to watch, a
nd competing with the shaven-headed Ostagoth bowmen for bragging rights in the coming march. Galin Veneva led the Ostagoths and he presented Wolfgart with a gilded bottle of koumiss and a promise of a drinking challenge at the end of this muster.
In addition to two hundred swordsmen, Count Krugar sent a company of his Red Scythes, armoured horsemen bearing glittering lances and wickedly curved sabres. Krugar did not attend the muster. Nor did the Cherusen count ride south, though the sending of five hundred tattooed warriors in earth-coloured cloaks and tunics was a grand gesture indeed. A hundred of the famed Cherusen Wildmen had also come to Reikdorf, their near-naked bodies crusted with coloured chalk and writhing tattoos.
By spring’s end, over nine thousand warriors had assembled beyond Reikdorf’s walls. The majority of these were Unberogen, though close to a third were men who called another land home. So great a host required feeding and watering, and since Sigmar had first begun to build the empire, the size of its armies had grown enormously. Consequently, the task of supplying them had grown ever more complex.
To make war so far from home, an army needed huge amounts of wagons, and thus Sigmar sent loggers out to chop down vast swathes of forest to enable carpenters to construct them. The lands around Reikdorf were squeezed of every last grain of corn, and the fletchers, bowyers and smiths of the city worked day and night to fashion thousands of arrows, swords and axes. Ropes, picks, levers, scaling ladders, saws, adzes and shovels were stockpiled alongside the heavy timbers of Sigmar’s disassembled catapults. Such was their weight that new yokes had to be designed to enable the oxen to pull them. Mobile forges were hauled onto the backs of reinforced wagons, and hundreds of craftsmen joined the muster in order to maintain its equipment ready for battle.
Tens of thousands of pounds of grain, flour and salt were stacked alongside hundreds of barrels of cured meat and fish, and enough food to feed the army for several months was quickly assembled. Eoforth and a virtual army of scribes and bookkeepers kept track of the supplies coming in from the country, and yet more wagons were set aside for the quartermaster’s records, for so large an army could not operate without a thorough understanding of the available resources.
As the sun rose on a glorious summer’s morning, Eoforth declared the army ready to march, and the priests of Ulric burned offerings to the god of battles on a great pyre atop Warrior Hill. Led by Alessa, the priestesses of Shallya moved through the host of warriors, blessing their hearts and asking the goddess of mercy and healing to watch over them.
Sigmar, Wolfgart and Redwane rode through Morr’s Gate at the head of two hundred White Wolves and took up their position at the front of the column. A great cheer echoed from the hills around Reikdorf as Redwane lifted the crimson banner of Sigmar high, and with the Emperor’s banner unfurled, a rippling flurry of tribal colours rose above the assembled host.
The White Wolves led the way along the paved western road as the army set off to war.
A week later, Sigmar’s army was joined by five hundred Endal warriors in dark armour at the river crossing of Astofen. A cavalry squadron of Raven Helms led by Count Aldred and Laredus met Sigmar in the centre of the bridge where Trinovantes had died, and Sigmar wished good fortune to the spirit of his old friend.
Swollen with these reinforcements, Sigmar’s army now numbered nearly ten thousand swords, with perhaps a thousand camp followers bringing up the rear. As the army halted each night, ostlers, craftsmen, drovers, healers, merchants and night maidens would make their way through the camp to ply their trade and maintain the army’s battle readiness.
Spirits were high, and each night Sigmar moved from campfire to campfire, speaking with his warriors and listening to their tales. All the men were looking forward to teaching the upstart Marius the price of cowardice and driving his warriors across the sea. Sigmar would remind them that the Jutones were still men and that it would be better to bring them into the empire than destroy them, though the words sounded hollow, even to him. Marius had deserted them in their hour of need. What manner of ally would such a man make?
The army turned northwards, and Sigmar led the march across the fertile flatlands that made up the northern reaches of the Endal lands, skirting the marshes and swampland around the Reik estuary. Though the vast expanse of marshland was still a treacherous mire of sucking bogs and stagnant pools of black water, the mists no longer clung to the earth, and sunlight bathed the landscape in warmth.
At the Great North Road, which had once marked the boundary between the lands of the Teutogens and Jutones, Sigmar’s army encountered a force of Thuringian warriors led by the giant Count Otwin. The berserker king had answered Sigmar’s call to arms with four hundred warriors, painted men and women in a riotous mix of plate armour, mail shirts and baked leather breastplates. Otwin’s warriors proudly bore the scars earned at Black Fire Pass, and Sigmar saw the berserker woman, Ulfdar, among the Thuringian host.
Otwin presented Sigmar with three prize bulls from his herd, and hundreds of Thuringian beef cows were slaughtered to feed the fighting men before they began the march to Jutonsryk. A grand feast was held on the Jutone border, with offerings made to Ulric, Taal and Shallya.
The following morning, with Otwin and Aldred at his side, Sigmar’s army crossed the Great North Road.
The war against the Jutones had begun.
Seven
The Namathir
The boulder sailed through the cold morning air, describing a graceful arc before slamming into the damaged walls of Jutonsryk with a distant crack of splintered stone. Heavy wooden thumps and the creak of ropes signalled the release of the other catapults, and two more missiles were hurled towards the walls of the Jutone capital.
Accompanied by a bodyguard of ten White Wolves, Sigmar watched the rocks slam into the walls with a grim nod of satisfaction. The impact cratered the repaired stonework and broke loose a tumbling avalanche of masonry from the promontory.
‘You knew your craft,’ whispered Sigmar, speaking of whoever had raised these formidable walls, ‘but I will break your work down, stone by stone if need be.’
The battlements were finally beginning to crumble, but Sigmar raged that he had allowed Marius so long to prepare his city’s defences, for it had taken nearly two years of siege to bring Jutonsryk to the edge of defeat. To have constructed walls this strong must have cost Marius dear, but wealth was clearly one thing that Jutonsryk had in abundance.
Situated in a sheltered, sandy bay of the Reik’s coastal estuary, Jutone settlers driven from their lands by the Teutogens had quickly recognised its worth as a natural harbour. They had built their settlement on a raised, leaf-shaped promontory known as the Namathir, and over the last twenty years Jutonsryk had developed into a thriving city of merchants. Traders arrived in Jutonsryk every day, their ships laden with exotic treasures from lands far to the south and, it was rumoured, from the mythical kingdoms beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains.
Dominating the coastline, Jutonsryk was an imposing city of formidable walls and solid towers. Snow shawled its battlements, and the machicolations worked into its towers were hung with icicles that looked like fangs of glass. Beyond the unbroken walls, the red clay roofs of the city huddled close together, and sails billowed from towers and flagpoles, proudly bearing the five-pointed crown of Manann.
Marius’s castle sat at the highest point of the Namathir, a citadel of pale stone, slender towers and large windows of coloured glass. The majority of the city was built on the promontory’s western slope, spilling haphazardly down to the harbour on the edge of the ocean’s dark waters. The city’s architecture reflected the maritime culture of the Jutones, and a great many of its buildings were constructed from the hulks of wrecked ships, or were hung with nets, ships wheels and brightly coloured figureheads.
A long wall of dark stone encircled the town, and solid drum towers topped with curving battlements shaped like the hulls of ships studded its length. A dozen warships sailed the wide estuary, blocking any passage down
the river towards Marburg or out to sea. In the opening days of the siege, Endal ships had attempted to blockade the city, but the Jutone fleet had sunk them all in a horribly one-sided battle.
A single mast jutting from the icy water was all that remained of the Endal ships, and Count Aldred had sworn vengeance for their drowned crews.
Since then, Sigmar’s army had battered itself bloody against the walls of Jutonsryk, and the first attempts to carry the walls by storm had taught them all a valuable lesson in underestimating their foe. Expecting the Jutones to be weak and cowardly, a tribe more suited to trading and commerce than battle, Sigmar’s warriors had charged the walls with scaling ladders and grappling hooks.
As the warriors came within bow-shot of the crenellated walls, a long line of warriors with swarthy skin had appeared at the embrasures, carrying strange weapons at their shoulders. Like a thick bow laid upon its side and mounted on a length of wood, the weapons were loosed, and hundreds of men were cut down as volley after volley of short, iron-tipped bolts punched through shields and mail shirts.
The attack faltered, but kept going under continuous hails of bolts. By the time the ladders were thrown against the walls there were too few warriors to pose a serious threat to the defenders. The hardy souls who survived to reach the wall-head were killed without a single warrior gaining the ramparts, and the survivors fell back in disarray. Jutone axemen had sallied out and captured the ladders, and the humiliation of the defeat had stung the pride of every man in Sigmar’s army.
Since then, the attack on Jutonsryk had proceeded at a more methodical pace, with retrenchments built on the ground before the main gate, cutting off the northern approaches to the city. Jutone sally parties hampered the work at every turn, and it was a full two months before the trenches and palisades were completed.
Sigmar’s catapults were assembled within reach of the walls and the bombardment had begun. The walls of Jutonsryk had been built against the slope of the promontory and were as solid as the rock they stood upon. Hundreds of rocks had been hurled at the walls over the next seven months, but no practicable breach had been made. A number of fresh assaults were launched, warriors moving forward under cover of wetted mantlets and darkness, but blazing bales of straw turned night into day, and the chopping blades of the Jutone fighters kept the battlements clear of attackers.
The Legend of Sigmar Page 47
