The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Morath chuckled, and a chill entered Sigmar’s heart.

  ‘You think you are here by your own design? Foolish, arrogant man,’ said Morath. ‘Even entombed beneath the world I sensed your power, and I knew I would need to draw you to me. One such as you will make a fine general for my army of the dead when I rebuild the glory of Mourkain.’

  Morath raised his hand, and Sigmar’s step faltered as the chains of duty that bound him to his people crushed him within their grip. To rule a united empire of man had been his dream since he had wandered the tombs of his ancestors on Warrior’s Hill as a young man, but he had not been prepared for the reality of the task.

  Smothered beneath the hideous weight of his undertaking, Sigmar’s arms fell to his sides. He knew this was Morath’s sorcery, but he was powerless to resist.

  Sigmar dropped to his knees.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ he whispered.

  Pendrag stood tall at his side, his chest heaving with effort as he clutched the Dragon Banner tightly to his breast.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s too much,’ said Sigmar.

  Pendrag caught his breath and looked over at Morath.

  ‘Fight him! Your warriors are buying us time to kill Morath with their lives!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Sigmar tearing off his helmet and hurling it away. Pendrag watched helplessly as the magnificently crafted helm fell through the opening in the floor, hearing it clatter down the steps as it fell to the bottom of the tower.

  ‘Stand and fight!’ demanded Pendrag, hauling on his arm.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ shouted Sigmar. ‘It’s too much for any one man. The empire… We will never be safe. Never. There will always be someone or something trying to destroy us, whether it’s greenskins from the mountains, Norsii or worse from across the seas, twisted forest beasts or necromancers. We can’t fight them all. We fight and we fight, but they keep coming. Eventually, one of them will drag us down, and drown this land in our blood. It’s inevitable, so why bother fighting to keep the flame alive when it’s eventually going to be extinguished?’

  Morath’s triumphant laughter swirled around him, and Sigmar saw the black form of the necromancer swell and billow, his robes spreading like the wings of a huge bat.

  Pendrag roared and hurled himself at the necromancer, but a flick of Morath’s shrivelled hand sent him sprawling, the banner torn from his silver grip. The standard skidded across the smooth stone before coming to rest at the edge of the tower, its bloody cloth flapping in the shrieking winds that circled the tower.

  Morath slid through the air to hover above Pendrag, his leering features twisted in ghoulish relish, his head cocked to one side, like a carrion bird deciding which eye of a freshly dead corpse to devour first.

  ‘I spoke words of your death, yet still you came,’ hissed the necromancer. ‘You will make a fine lieutenant for my new general.’

  A pale light built within Morath’s outstretched hand, and Pendrag cried out in pain, his face twisted in agony. His sword-brother’s skin grew pallid and leathery, the colour bleaching from his hair until it was utterly white.

  The life was being sucked out of him, yet Sigmar could no more lift himself from his knees than he could sprout wings and fly. One of his oldest and dearest friends was dying before his eyes, and he could do nothing to prevent it. Nothing.

  He closed his eyes as his dreams collapsed. His vision of a strong and united land fractured and died within him. Morath was right. No empire of mortals could ever really last, for such was the fate of all works of man. Empires grew and prospered, and then became fat and complacent. Before long, one of their many enemies would rise up and destroy them.

  It was as inevitable as nightfall.

  In Sigmar’s mind’s eye he saw a ruined city by a river, a once magnificent capital built around the mighty tomb of some ancient king. It had once covered a vast area and been home to thousands, but now only greenskins dwelled there. Its gilded plazas served as arenas for battling warlords, its sunken marble bathhouses as pens for wolves, boars and foul, cave-dwelling beasts that skulked in the shadows. Tomes and scrolls that had been gathered over thousands of years burned on campfires, and works of art that had stirred the hearts and minds of those who studied them were smashed for sport.

  Morath’s honeyed words sounded in his mind. This is the doom of your empire.

  Sigmar wept to see so fine a city despoiled, realising with a jolt that this was the same city he had seen recreated beneath the ice. Was this Mourkain? This was the city mourned by the necromancer, the dream he sought to rebuild from the ashes of Sigmar’s empire.

  The ruin of Mourkain faded from sight, and Sigmar was glad to see it go, for it spoke of ancient loss and the inevitable doom of dreams. Yet the achievements of its builders were no less impressive for its having fallen. They had built a great city and carved out a mighty empire, and that was something to be proud of. That it had eventually been brought to ruin did not lessen the wonder of that achievement.

  Yes, empires fell and men died, but that was the way of the world. To defy that was to go against the will of the gods, and no man dared stand before those awesome powers with such arrogance. His father had once told him of how the ageing leader of a wolf pack would leave and roam the mountains alone when his strength was fading and stronger wolves were ready to lead. For a thing to endure beyond its time was a sad and terrible thing, and to see what was once glorious and noble reduced to something wretched and pathetic was heartbreaking.

  Sigmar’s empire would one day fall, and when that time came, men would mourn its passing. Other empires would arise to take its place, but this was the time of his empire, and no necromancer was going to take it away from him!

  Sigmar lifted his head, and stared at Morath as he sucked the life from Pendrag.

  His heart hardened and growing strength filled his limbs. He forced himself to his feet, crying out as the chill touch of the necromancer fled his body in the face of his acceptance of the future’s inevitability. With every second that passed, the despair and hopelessness shrouding him diminished in the face of his determination to resist Morath’s dark power.

  ‘Empires rise and fall,’ snarled Sigmar as he stood tall, ‘but that matters not. All that matters is that they rose, and in their time men walked with honour and fought for what they believed. What matters is what we do with the time we have.’

  Morath turned at the sound of his voice, and the necromancer’s sunken eyes widened in surprise. His hands stretched out towards Sigmar, and streaming bolts of cold fire leapt from the necromancer’s fingers. Dancing sheets of icy flame erupted from the air around Sigmar, but he smiled as the runic script worked into his armour blazed in reply.

  Sigmar walked untouched through the inferno, Ghal-maraz ablaze with the white fire that Morath hurled.

  ‘You have no power over me,’ said Sigmar. ‘Your despair means nothing to me, for I have no fear for the future. That I shall die and all my achievements turn to dust does not make them pointless. Living forever and creating nothing of worth… that is pointless. You have no place in this world, necromancer. You should have died a long time ago, and I am here to send your soul into the next world and whatever torments await you.’

  Morath raised his arms, and Pendrag sagged to the stones of the tower. With every step Sigmar took, Morath took one away from him. Once more he stabbed his hands towards Sigmar, and the shrieking ghosts that swirled around the top of the tower gathered in a mass of howling spirits. Morath hurled them towards Sigmar, and they came at him in a mad, swirling pack of screaming skulls.

  They howled around him, snapping with fleshless claws and ethereal fangs. Sigmar ignored them, his towering self-belief carrying him through their hate unharmed. His heart was iron, his soul a stone, and the depraved spirits could not turn him from his path.

  ‘What manner of man are you?’ demanded Morath as Sigmar came closer. ‘No mortal can resist such power!’r />
  The necromancer’s staff blazed with dark light, but Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz, and the staff shattered into a thousand fragments, each one blowing away like ash in a storm. Morath fell to his knees, his hunched form now pitiful and contemptible. He reached out with reed-thin fingers, but Sigmar batted them away. The necromancer seemed to shrink within his robes, as though his form was diminishing, whatever power that had sustained him over the centuries withdrawing from his flesh.

  ‘No…’ hissed Morath, holding his withered hands up before his face. ‘You promised…’

  The roiling stormclouds above the tower began to break up as the dark energies that bound them dissipated. A fresh wind blew over the tower, carrying the scent of highland forests and fast-flowing rivers of cool water.

  Morath crumpled, his bony frame folding into itself with every second. His flesh was wasting away, and the golden crown he had worn with such arrogant pride fell from his brow. It landed with the heavy metallic ring of pure gold, and rolled across the tower before coming to rest at Sigmar’s feet.

  Sigmar wrapped his hand around Morath’s throat, feeling the frailty of his bones, and he knew that he could snap his neck with ease. There was no weight to him, and Sigmar looked upon the icy battlefield to see that the dead warriors no longer fought. Their bones crumbled to dust, and the city beneath the ice began to fade like a distant memory as he watched.

  His warriors cheered as they saw him atop the tower with the necromancer as his prisoner. They bayed for Morath’s death, and they were not the only ones. Half-heard moans of anger were carried on the wind, the freed spirits of the dead demanding vengeance.

  ‘I think there will be many souls awaiting your arrival in the next world,’ said Sigmar.

  Morath’s gnarled and ancient face stretched in fear, and he gibbered nonsensical pleas for mercy as he clawed at Sigmar’s arm. His struggles were feeble, and Sigmar quashed the flickering ember of pity that threatened to stay his hand.

  ‘You have existed for too long,’ said Sigmar, lifting Morath over the edge. ‘It is time for you to die.’

  He hurled Morath from the tower, and watched as his thin body tumbled downwards, spinning end over end until he smashed into the ice. Sigmar let out a long, exhausted exhalation and felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. Thousands of faces and names flashed through Sigmar’s mind, each one a soul freed from eternal damnation, and tears of joy spilled down his face as they passed on.

  Sigmar turned from the edge of the tower and felt something at his feet: the crown Morath had worn and which had granted him such power. He reached down and turned it around in his hands. The workmanship was incredible, easily the equal of any dwarf-forged metal, yet its design was unfamiliar. Worked in gold and set with jewels, it was a thing of beauty, and he felt the vast power bound to it, an ancient power beyond the ken of even the mountain folk to craft.

  For a fleeting moment, he beheld an ancient city of the desert, and a host of bejewelled armies marching across the scorched sands beneath great banners of blue and gold. Then it was gone and the incredible vista of the Middle Mountains returned to him. He saw Pendrag lying on his side at the edge of the tower, crawling towards the fallen Dragon Banner.

  Sigmar rushed towards his friend, his vision of the desert armies forgotten as he knelt at his side and turned him over. He tried to hide his shock, but Pendrag saw the horror in his eyes.

  ‘It’s that bad is it?’ whispered Pendrag, his voice little more than a parched croak.

  ‘No… It’s–’ began Sigmar, though he could not bring himself to lie.

  Pendrag’s face was sunken and hollow, the very image of Lukas Hauke, the creature that had been imprisoned beneath the Faushlag Rock. His eyes were rheumy with cataracts and his skin wrinkled like ancient parchment. What Morath had taken was Pendrag’s youth, for Sigmar cradled a man hundreds of years old.

  He wished he could save Pendrag. He wished he had not succumbed to Morath’s dark magic, that he could have broken the spell of his despair sooner. Tears fell from his eyes and landed on Pendrag’s face at the thought of his death, and Sigmar knew that all the power in the world was meaningless in the face of such loss.

  ‘Sigmar!’ cried Pendrag, and Sigmar opened his eyes as the crown grew hot in his hands.

  Golden heat flowed from the crown and into Sigmar. It filled him with light, and the weight of his burdens lifted in an instant. But the crown had not yet finished its work. Amber light flowed from Sigmar and passed into Pendrag, filling his body with light and undoing the necromancer’s hateful magic.

  Pendrag cried out as his hair thickened and the red that had drained from it returned more lustrous than ever. His flesh filled with life and the colour returned to his eyes. Old scars on his arms faded, and his chest rose and fell with powerful, deep breaths.

  Both men looked in astonishment at the golden crown. The light faded from the jewels, yet Sigmar could sense that its power was far from spent.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ cried Pendrag, climbing to his feet and examining every inch of his body as though afraid to believe in the miracle of his renewal. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound filled with renewed life and hope: the laughter of one who has faced death and come back stronger than ever.

  ‘The crown…’ said Sigmar. ‘I have never seen anything like this… It healed you. This is powerful magic indeed.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Pendrag, staring in joyous wonder at the magnificent artefact. ‘Magic used for evil by a necromancer.’

  Sigmar turned the crown in his hands, knowing that he held the key to making the empire stronger than ever before. With such power, he could defend his land and people, ruling with justice and strength. Morath had twisted the power of the crown, but Sigmar would use it to heal, not to kill. To govern with wisdom and compassion, not to enslave.

  He looked at Pendrag, and his sword-brother answered his unasked question with a nod.

  ‘Yes. It is yours now,’ said Pendrag.

  Sigmar lifted the golden crown and slipped it over his head. Though Morath’s skull had been thin and hairless, the crown was a perfect fit. He felt its power, and he took Pendrag’s hand in the warrior’s grip.

  He heard the sound of footsteps behind him and a group of battle-weary warriors poured onto the top of the tower. Redwane was at the forefront, his face streaked with blood and his armour hanging from him in torn links of mail and battered plate. In his hands he held Sigmar’s helmet, the metal dented and scraped from its fall down the length of the tower. Alaric’s crown still sat upon it, and a flicker of unease passed through Sigmar.

  Redwane held the helmet with an amused grin.

  ‘Must I always be picking up after you?’ he asked.

  Sigmar laughed. ‘Keep it,’ he said, sweeping past the White Wolf. ‘I have a new crown.’

  Unwilling to remain a moment longer within the valley of the necromancer, Sigmar’s warriors gathered their dead and wounded and marched through the darkness. The Dragon Banner was lowered and, as the moon traversed the clear night sky, Sigmar spoke to each man in his army, praising his courage and honouring the sacrifice of the dead.

  The wounded were carried on makeshift litters, and, as Sigmar took their hands, it seemed their suffering lessened. He sought out Myrsa, and was relieved beyond words to find that he still lived. No sooner had he laid his hand upon the Warrior Eternal’s brow, than the colour returned to the wounded man’s face and his breathing deepened.

  Forgetting his promise to bring Brass Keep down, stone by stone, Sigmar led his warriors from the mountains, taking a more direct westerly route through thickly forested valleys that would bring them out on the western flanks of the mountains.

  Four days later, the weary men of the empire emerged from the foothills of the Middle Mountains, following a curving path towards the forest road that led south to Middenheim. On the morning of the fifth day, scouts reported a large column of people and wagons coming from the north, and Sigmar went out to meet them with hi
s new crown glittering at his brow. Redwane and three White Wolves marched with him, and the invigorated Pendrag carried the Emperor’s crimson banner aloft.

  The first groups of people to emerge from the tree line marched in a long, weary column, and Sigmar swore softly under his breath at their wretched, sorry state. As more and more came into view, he saw that they came on foot, on rattling carts or on overflowing wagons. He had expected travelling merchants or a labourers heading to Middenheim to find work. What he had not expected was hundreds of refugees, for there could be no mistaking that these were people fleeing from some terror behind them.

  ‘Udose by the look of them,’ said Pendrag.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Redwane. ‘I see plaid, and some of the men have claymores.’

  ‘What in the name of Ulric happened to them?’ asked Sigmar, approaching a wagon with a ragged scrap of an Udose flag bearing the patchwork colours of Count Wolfila flapping on a makeshift banner pole. A pair of weary pack ponies pulled the wagon, and a one-armed man with wide shoulders and the face of a pugilist sat on the buckboard. A young woman with three children sat behind him, their faces pinched and fearful.

  ‘Ho there, fellow,’ said Sigmar, walking alongside the wagon. ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘Rolf,’ said the man. ‘Though most call me Oakfist on account of my left hook.’

  ‘I can see why,’ said Sigmar, seeing the meaty scale of the man’s remaining fist. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Salzenhús,’ said Rolf. ‘Or what’s left of it.’

  Sigmar felt a knot in his stomach at mention of Count Wolfila’s castle and said, ‘What do you mean? What has happened?’

  The old man glared at him and spat a single word, ‘Norsii.’

  ‘The Norsii? They did this?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the old man. ‘Them and their traitorous allies.’

  ‘Allies? Who?’

  ‘Bastard Roppsmenn,’ said Rolf. ‘Wolfships been raiding up and down the coast all season, but there’s been sword bands of Roppsmenn riding with ’em this year, killing and burning and driving people south.’