The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Since arriving in Count Wolfila’s castle of Salzenhús from Middenheim a month ago, Cyfael had ridden the length of the northern coastline with his fiercest clansmen to bring word of that summons to the villages of the Udose.

  They were welcomed in the main, for Emperor Sigmar’s armies had saved the Udose from destruction at the hands of the Norsii many years ago, and highland memories were long. Honouring the blood debt to the Unberogen and the Emperor was a matter of pride, and none of the many Udose clans would bear the shame of not living up to that obligation.

  So far, Cyfael had mustered three hundred men, more than enough for this stretch of coastline, for it would not do to strip it completely of its warriors. The northern coasts of the empire were dangerous, and though Norsii raids were few and far between this far east, no one forgot the terror of the mighty Norsemen.

  That fact was made clear by the presence of the timber hill fort atop a low mound on the northern curve of the bay. Surrounded by a palisade wall of sharpened logs and a wide, water-filled ditch, Macarven’s fort was one of the largest Cyfael had seen in Udose lands. A tall watchtower rose from the walls, and, though the stronghold wasn’t a patch on the grand fortress of Middenheim, there was a barbarous splendour to its construction.

  The size of his hill fort was an indication that Macarven was a clan chief of some importance in the area, commanding respect from at least six other clans. The chieftain had been a generous host and had demanded Cyfael stay on for a few more days to sample Udose hospitality, which mainly involved flagon after flagon of strong drink and endless feasts of beef and fish.

  Cyfael pulled his cloak tighter about himself as a bitter squall whipped up from the sea, and a shiver of unease travelled the length of his spine. He made his way down the stony path to the shore, enjoying the wildness of the country around him. He called the Fauschlag Rock home and from its towering heights a man could see to the edges of the world. The view across the endless forests of the empire was something to be treasured, but here… Here a man could live in that landscape.

  The land of the Udose spread out before him like a great tapestry, rugged and harsh, but possessed of a haunting beauty that would never leave his soul. The ocean was an impossibly vast expanse of shimmering blue that stretched to the horizon and promised far off lands as yet unexplored. At least it would be, were it not for the thin morning mist that clung like fallen clouds to the surface of the water.

  Donaghal, one of Count Wolfila’s Hearth-Swords, waved at him from the shore, his near-naked body wrapped in a plaid cloak. The man was soaked from an early morning swim, and Cyfael saw the pale lines of scars criss-crossing his chest and arms. A long, basket-hilted claymore sat propped up against one of the longboats next to him. Donaghal was a fine warrior, a man whom other men looked up to.

  ‘How’s the water, Donaghal?’ shouted Cyfael.

  ‘Bracing. You should get yourself in and find out.’

  Cyfael shook his head and grinned.

  ‘I don’t think so, my friend,’ he said. ‘Us southern types don’t like the cold. I do not wish a fever before I return to Middenheim.

  ‘Cold? Ach, whisht, man, this isn’t cold, it’s like swimming in a hot spring.’

  ‘To you perhaps,’ said Cyfael. ‘You Udose have ice in your veins.’

  Donaghal started to reply, but his mouth snapped shut as a ringing bell echoed from above. Cyfael turned at the sound, shielding his eyes as he looked up towards the hill fort. A clansman at the top of the watchtower was ringing the warning bell and pointing to the ocean. Cyfael couldn’t make out what he was saying, but Donaghal clarified the nature of the threat with a single shouted word that was part warning, part curse.

  ‘Norsii!’

  Cyfael looked out to sea, and a trio of dark ships slid from the mist like phantoms. Tapered hulls angled upwards with wolf-headed prows arced towards the shore, driven by banks of oars that swept up and back in perfect unison.

  ‘Ulric save us…’ hissed Cyfael, wishing he’d thought to buckle his sword-belt on this morning. The Wolfships arced over the water, each vessel carrying at least thirty warriors in dark armour and horned helms, their swords and shields gleaming in the sun.

  ‘Go!’ shouted Donaghal. ‘Get the women and children to the stockade!’

  ‘I can help you,’ said Cyfael.

  ‘Don’t be daft, you have no weapon and this is my shore. Now go!’

  Though it tore at his heart to leave the clansman, Cyfael knew he would be little use without his sword.

  ‘Ulric bless you, my friend,’ he said. ‘Take as many of the bastards with you as you can!’

  Donaghal grinned, and said, ‘No bother.’

  Cyfael ran back to his lodgings, and quickly ducked inside to retrieve his sword, a fine Asoborn weapon with a leaf-shaped blade. Buckling on his sword-belt as he ran, he glanced back to the shoreline, and a cold lump of fear settled in his belly as he saw the three Wolfships driven up the shingle and Norsii warriors leaping over the side.

  Donaghal charged to meet them with an Udose war cry on his lips, and his sword smashed through the armour of the first warrior to land on the beach. He killed a second Norsii with a devastating overhead sweep, and another with a disembowelling cut that tore up through the Norseman’s mail shirt. His defiance couldn’t last, and Cyfael watched in horror as a giant warrior in midnight-black armour leapt to the shingle with a red-bladed axe that seemed to burn with an evil flame.

  Donaghal attacked the warrior, but his sword was batted aside with ease, and the burning blade swept back to cleave the clansman from neck to groin. The brave clansman fell to the bloody water, and Cyfael ran as Donaghal’s killer turned his baleful gaze towards the settlement.

  Cyfael sprinted through the village, passing homes that he had visited many times, and which would probably be burned to the ground before the day was out. In his short time here he had come to love this place, and the thought of its destruction at the hands of the Norsii filled him with a towering rage.

  Women carrying children were fleeing along the roadway of hard-packed earth that led to the stockade on the hill. Cyfael ran after them, but his pace faltered as he saw something amazing.

  Streaming from the forests around Haugrvik were at least two hundred warriors in patterned cloaks of red and green with heads shaven except for long braids at their ears. Each man was armoured in a mail vest and bore a small wooden buckler and a wide-bladed sword.

  Roppsmenn!

  The women of Haugrvik cried out in relief at the sight of the Roppsmenn, tribal warriors from the east who, while not sworn allies of the empire, were certainly more welcome than the Norsii.

  A swordsman in form-fitting silver armour, who bore twin blades of slender beauty, led the Roppsmenn, and Cyfael recognised a deadly killer in his every move. A dark suspicion formed in his mind as the warriors took up positions in the heart of the village on the road that led to the stockade.

  Cyfael shouted a warning, but it was already too late.

  The Roppsmenn fell upon the women with swords, and the screaming tore at Cyfael’s heart. He dragged his own weapon from its sheath and ran at the nearest of the Roppsmenn, plunging the blade into the man’s side. Even as he died, he lashed out at Cyfael, who leapt back to avoid a killing blow from the dying man’s weapon.

  A Roppsmenn warrior lunged at him, and Cyfael swept the man’s blade aside and spun around him, slashing his sword across the back of his foe’s knees. Hamstrung, the man collapsed with a foul scream, and Cyfael tore the man’s buckler from his arm. The Roppsmenn circled him, and Cyfael knew that he couldn’t hope to survive the fight.

  ‘Right, you bastards!’ he yelled. ‘Who’s next?’

  A shaven-headed Roppsmann with a scarred face raised his sword, but the silver-armoured swordsman shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘this one’s mine.’

  The warrior circled Cyfael, and his courage fled as he recognised the lithe footwork of an expert swordsman in the man
’s every move. Cyfael had once been privileged to witness a display of Ostagoth Droyaska, blademasters who elevated sword combat to an art-form. Next to this man’s fluid movement, they seemed like crippled simpletons.

  ‘You should be honoured,’ said the warrior. ‘You will be my first.’

  ‘First what?’

  ‘The first empire man I will kill.’

  ‘You are arrogant,’ said Cyfael, mustering the last shreds of his warrior spirit. ‘Perhaps I will kill you.’

  The man laughed and shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Already, fear is turning your bowels to water and you know you do not have the skill to defeat me.’

  ‘A fight is about more than just skill. There is luck and fate. You might slip, your sword might break or I could surprise you.’

  ‘No. You won’t.’

  The man removed his helm, and Cyfael’s jaw dropped at the sight of the wondrously handsome man before him. Lustrous dark hair was bound in a long scalp-lock, but it was the man’s face, sensuous and perfectly symmetrical that snared Cyfael’s attention.

  Handsome to the point of obscenity, the man’s features were clearly not those of the Norsii tribes. His curving cheekbones, full lips and softer jaw spoke of southern tribal ancestry. Cyfael was a lover of women, and had no interest in men beyond their comradeship, but he felt an undeniable attraction to this beautiful man.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispered Cyfael, his sword lowering.

  The swordsman’s blade lanced out in a gleaming blur, and a rush of blood poured onto Cyfael’s chest. He looked down, and saw that his throat had been opened, the blade that killed him so sharp he hadn’t even felt it cut his flesh.

  He dropped to his knees as his life poured out of him. The swordsman stood over him, and Cyfael was glad that his death had come at the hands of this perfect warrior and not some stinking, traitorous Roppsmann.

  ‘I am Azazel,’ said the swordsman, ‘but before that I was called Gerreon.’

  Cyfael tried to form a reply, but his mouth filled with blood and the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘I once called this land home,’ said Azazel, kneeling beside Cyfael and unsheathing a dagger. ‘But I was betrayed and driven out by a man who called me sword-brother. His name is Sigmar, and I have come home to kill him.’

  Azazel gripped Cyfael’s neck and held the glittering blade of his dagger a hair’s-breadth from his eye. As the last of his strength faded, Cyfael saw the swordsman’s face twist in anger, and what he had once thought beautiful was now hideous and terrifying.

  ‘I am going to put out your eyes and cut out your tongue,’ hissed Azazel with obvious relish. ‘You will walk blind and without voice in the void for all eternity. Your torment will be exquisite.’

  The dagger stabbed home, and Cyfael knew no more.

  Haugrvik burned. The stockade on the hill had fallen within the hour and its chieftain was nailed to its splintered gates. His wife and children were thrown, still living, onto the pyre of the dead. The elders and warriors were impaled on sharpened logs that had once encircled the hill fort, and the women too old to bear children were given to the blooded warriors for sport or taken by Azazel for torture.

  The young women were whipped and chained before being taken aboard the Wolfships as spoils of war. The settlement’s children were offered to Kharnath, the dark god of blood, and their skulls woven into trophy chains to be hung from the banner of Cormac Bloodaxe.

  Kar Odacen watched as the settlement burned, pleased at the victory and at the sense of ancient plans in motion that he felt all around him. The wizened, stoop-shouldered shaman sat on a fallen log, as Cormac stalked through the blazing village, his powerful form clad in blood-coloured armour taken from the lost tomb of Varag Skulltaker the previous year. The warrior’s axe, a dread blade into which Kar Odacen had bound a creature from the pit, was dark and lifeless, its hunger for slaughter sated for now.

  With eyes that saw the world beyond that of mortals, Kar Odacen perceived the red haze of anger that enveloped Cormac, and smiled. That anger had been a potent force in rebuilding the Norsii tribes, an anger that Kar Odacen had carefully fanned and built, ever since Cormac’s father had been killed and the Norsii driven from their homes by Sigmar Heldenhammer.

  Forever on the fringes of the southern lands, the Norsii had honoured the ancient gods of the world, and for this they had been hated and feared. The soft-bellied southern tribes knew nothing of the power of the northern gods, and so were prey to the Norsii. Then the hated Sigmar had united the tribes beneath his banner and made war on the chosen of the gods.

  Against such a powerful enemy, the Norsii had had no choice but to flee to the icy wastelands across the sea. Here they scraped a pitiful existence from the bleak landscape, dreaming of the day when they would sing the songs of war and sail the Wolfships south to bring death to their enemies.

  Alone of all the Norsii, Kar Odacen embraced his new home, for he had travelled these forsaken lands before in ages past. Centuries before Cormac’s birth, Kar Odacen had dared venture into the northern reaches of the world, where the very air seethed with power, and the land writhed with the breath of the gods. Unimaginable energies had poured into his body, the gods blessing him with extended life and the power to change the world. The elements bent to his will, daemons of the pit were his to command, and the myriad patterns of the future came to him in dreams and visions.

  Upon his return to the world of men, he walked amongst the Norsii for many lifetimes, shaping their destiny and ever working to bring about the End Times, the days of blood when the Dark Gods would finally claim this world as their own. Kar Odacen had held to the old ways, and with Cormac’s anger binding the Norsii together, they had rebuilt the tribes, gathering the survivors of Sigmar’s wrath and filling their hearts with hatred.

  With the coming of Azazel, that time was closer than ever before.

  Kar Odacen looked over the burning hill fort as the young warrior walked from its ruins. He stopped beside Cormac, and the two warriors made their way towards him. As they drew close, Kar Odacen studied them both.

  Cormac Bloodaxe was the greatest of the Norsii warlords, a warrior who had brought many of the disparate tribes of the north together under one banner and promised them revenge. A core of molten rage burned in his heart, and that anger would burn the empire to ashes.

  Azazel’s silver armour was drenched in blood, and lines of red streaked his cruelly handsome face. The man revelled in torture, and the burning fort was filled with the mutilated bodies of his victims. The swordsman had come a long way in the ten years since his arrival on their shores in a stolen boat, delirious and near death. The womenfolk nursed him back to health, and as soon as he had regained his strength, Kar Odacen took the warrior into the northern wastelands. Deep in the abode of the gods, Azazel fought creatures of nightmare and felt the blessings of the gods flow in his veins. The warrior had been reborn there and, like Cormac, Azazel had good reason to hate the empire.

  His thirst for vengeance was a sword aimed at the heart of its ruler.

  It had been hard for Cormac to accept the southlander as an equal, but in the years of battle since he had first come to their lands, Azazel had proved himself a warrior of superlative skill and ruthlessness. His cruelty and beauty were feared and beloved in equal measure, and he had willingly turned from the weak gods of the southern tribes to worship the hungry gods of the dark.

  ‘A grand day’s slaughter,’ said Kar Odacen as the two warriors reached him.

  ‘This?’ spat Cormac, removing his helm. ‘This was nothing.’

  Cormac Bloodaxe had the face of a fist fighter, his nose a flattened nub of gristle that had been broken many times, and his eyes were hooded and malicious. His hair was the colour of copper, and his skin was windblown from a life lived in the tundra of the northern realms.

  Cormac bore numerous tally scars on his cheeks, each one representing a great mound of skulls offered to his patron god. He looked over at the
line of impaled Udose prisoners. ‘There was barely a fighter among them, save the clansman I killed at the shore,’ he said. ‘The chieftain opened his gates after we slew the first of his women. A man like that does not deserve to be a leader.’

  ‘The men of the empire are sentimental,’ said Azazel. ‘It will be their undoing.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Kar Odacen. ‘They do not live a life of battle and blood like the Norsii. Comfort and peace makes women of their warriors.’

  ‘You were once one of them,’ pointed out Cormac, never passing up an opportunity to remind Azazel of his southern heritage. ‘I have yet to see your sentimental side.’

  Kar Odacen expected anger from Azazel, but the man simply shrugged.

  ‘I cast off such weakness when I killed my sister,’ he said. ‘I am no longer one of them. I am Norsii.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kar Odacen, ‘that you are. Tell me, Cormac, did the Roppsmenn fight well?’

  Cormac shrugged.

  ‘Well enough,’ he said. ‘They know what will happen to their womenfolk should they falter.’

  Kar Odacen smiled. With the breaking of the ice around the Norscan coastline, Cormac and Azazel had sailed the Wolfships across the ocean and plundered the towns and settlements of the Roppsmenn. They had taken the Roppsmenn’s women and tribal leaders hostage, and demanded a season’s servitude from the eastern tribe’s warriors in return for their safety.

  It was a bargain Kar Odacen had no intention of living up to. He sensed Azazel’s dark eyes boring into him.

  ‘The Roppsmenn must know you will not return their hostages,’ said Azazel. ‘You will burn them upon a great pyre to ensure the success of next year’s campaigning.’