The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘That we were, High Scholar of the Empire,’ replied Alfgeir, returning the favour. ‘We caught them at Astofen and trapped them against the river.’

  ‘Astofen?’ said Eoforth as Alfgeir walked his horse towards a water trough. ‘Strange how the greenskins always find their way back to Astofen. I wonder what draws them there?’

  ‘Does it matter? They come and we kill them.’

  ‘And the following year they will need killing again.’

  Alfgeir nodded and looked over towards the flag flying over the longhouse to the north of the city. ‘Any news of the Emperor?’ he asked.

  It had been nearly nine months since Sigmar had set off to the north. With ships requisitioned from Count Marius’s fleet at Jutonsryk, he’d taken the swords of the Empire across the frozen seas to the lands many were already calling Norsca. The Norsii were going to learn that there were consequences to attacking Sigmar’s realm.

  ‘There is indeed,’ said Eoforth. ‘Redwane sends word from the Fauschlag that Sigmar’s ships have put ashore in Udose lands at a place called Haugrvik.’

  ‘Do you think they found him?’

  ‘Gerreon? I doubt it,’ said Eoforth. ‘We would have heard.’

  Alfgeir nodded, having already suspected that would be the answer.

  ‘So when is Sigmar coming back to Reikdorf?’

  ‘Soon, I expect. If they’re done with the war across the sea, then they’re probably on their way now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Alfgeir. ‘It’s time he was back. We’re not an Empire without an Emperor.’

  Alfgeir had a point. In the year following the great victory against the Norsii, the Empire had weathered the storm of war in consolidation. Each of the counts had returned to their lands to regroup and refortify, but instead of returning to Reikdorf, Sigmar had gathered a force of warriors and crossed the sea to make war on the Norsii. No more would the banished tribes of the north dwell with impunity in their frozen homelands, believing themselves safe from attack. Yet without the Emperor, the people of the Unberogen grew restive, withdrawing behind their palisade walls and spears. Many traders now carried on up the coast to Marburg and Jutonsryk or headed east to Three Hills or south to Siggurdheim.

  The Unberogen needed their Emperor back.

  The horse lowered its head and Alfgeir patted its flanks as squires arrived from the stables to care for the knights’ mounts. These were beasts bred from Wolfgart’s stock, wide-chested, powerful and trained to fight. Bred for strength and musculature, not speed and height, the knights’ horses were squat and pugnacious beasts. Iron plates riveted to a boiled leather harness protected the horse’s flank, while segmented bands of iron and mail sheathed its neck and head.

  ‘Maybe the greenskins keep attacking Astofen due to its historical significance?’ suggested Eoforth, returning to their earlier discussion.

  ‘I still don’t see why it matters,’ said Alfgeir.

  ‘Perhaps if we knew why they came, we could do something about it,’ said Eoforth as Alfgeir’s squire led the horse away to be stripped of its armour, rubbed down, fed and watered. The care of a good warhorse was a thorough and expensive business.

  Alfgeir sat on a stone bench at the side of the street, and Eoforth saw how tired he was. It was a long ride from Astofen and as much as the Empire was far safer than it had been in Björn’s time, it still did not do to be away from the scattered pockets of civilisation for too long. Orcs were not the only dangers that lurked in the depths of the Empire’s forests.

  ‘Very well, I will indulge you, scholar, but what is there to do?’ said Alfgeir, tilting his head back to allow the breeze to cool his skin. ‘Orcs are savages, they are driven by their lust for blood. There is no force in this world that can change that.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Eoforth, sitting next to him. ‘It is a depressing thought.’

  ‘That I am right or that the orcs will never change?’

  Eoforth smiled. ‘I was referring to the orcs, my friend. Tell me, does the dwarf bridge still stand to the south of Astofen?’

  ‘It does,’ said Alfgeir. ‘And someone has erected a shrine on the north bank.’

  ‘Oh? Dedicated to which god?’

  ‘To no god. It is dedicated to Sigmar.’

  ‘To Sigmar?’ chuckled Eoforth. ‘An understandable gesture, but let us hope it is too small for the gods to notice and take offence.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Alfgeir, removing his helmet and pulling back the coif. He set the helmet next to him and ran a hand through his sweat-streaked hair. Eoforth noticed it was thinning at the crown, and there was more than a hint of grey to its hue.

  Alfgeir saw the look and said, ‘None of us are getting any younger, scholar.’

  He smiled as he said it, but Eoforth saw the horror of aging in the warrior’s eyes.

  He forced a smile. ‘There’s truth in that, my friend. Even I am starting to feel old.’

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the youngsters fussing around the knights, offering to carry their lances, lead their horses or polish their armour. The knights shooed them away with smiles or pantomime growls, and Eoforth watched the boys following behind them, wielding sticks like swords and miming the slaying of their enemies.

  ‘How goes the teaching?’ asked Alfgeir, nodding towards the books in Eoforth’s lap.

  ‘Slowly,’ admitted Eoforth. ‘As you see, the boys are more interested in learning to kill than to read poetry or count.’

  ‘We will always need warriors to defend us,’ pointed out Alfgeir.

  ‘And we will also need poets to inspire them, artists to commemorate them and tallymen to organise their armies.’

  ‘Young men don’t care for that,’ said Alfgeir. ‘They hunger for glory, not numbers and letters. Unberogen boys weren’t made for study. I mean no offence by that, the pursuit of wisdom is an honourable one.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ said Eoforth, ‘but it saddens me that we still need warriors at all. Wasn’t the foundation of the Empire supposed to be an end to wars?’

  ‘Even a rose needs thorns to defend it,’ said Alfgeir.

  Eoforth gave Alfgeir a sidelong look. ‘Poetry?’

  Alfgeir looked embarrassed. ‘I read that book you loaned me. The writings of the Brigundian saga poet, what was his name…?’

  ‘Sigenert,’ said Eoforth. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d read it.’

  ‘I read it,’ replied Alfgeir. ‘It just took me a while.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  Alfgeir shrugged. ‘A lot of it went over my head, but I liked his words.’

  Eoforth laughed and pushed himself to his feet. ‘That’s about all a poet can hope for, I suppose.’

  Three

  Flight and Fight

  Cuthwin loosed between breaths, his goose-feathered shaft thudding home at the base of the goblin’s skull. It toppled from the back of the wolf with a surprised squeal. He drew another arrow from the quiver at his shoulder and sent it through the throat of a wolf-riding goblin. One of the riderless beasts leapt onto the wagons, bloody saliva dripping from its jaws.

  It pounced onto one of the dwarfs armed with a thunder bow and bore him to the ground. Yellowed fangs fastened on the dwarf’s neck and blood fountained as the beast bit through his throat. Cuthwin’s next arrow punched though its eye socket, and the beast dropped next to its victim with a howl of agony.

  The goblins either didn’t realise they were under attack from a different direction or didn’t care. A flurry of ragged arrows flew from the goblin bows. Most thudded harmlessly into the timber sides of the wagons, but a dwarf fell with two shafts buried in his chest. The wolf-riding goblins were quick to take advantage of the situation, two of their number goading their mounts to leap onto the wagons.

  Swinging his bow around, Cuthwin’s arrow slashed into the flank of the first wolf, his next into the hindquarters of the other. The dwarfs fell upon the downed goblins and slew them with quick, economical b
lows from their axes. A shot rang out from the dwarf with the thunder bow and another goblin was punched from the saddle.

  Cuthwin exhausted his quiver, emptying another four saddles and killing three wolves. He set his bow upright against the tree next to him and drew his hunting knife, a foot of cold steel that had shed more than its fair share of greenskin blood. Two more dwarfs were down, one with an arrow protruding from his neck, another with a goblin blade buried in his guts. The thunder bow spoke again and a goblin died with half its head blown off.

  Cuthwin ran down to the road and leapt on the back of a wolf, plunging his blade into the goblin rider’s side. The creature shrieked in agony and he hurled its corpse to the ground. He rammed his bloody blade into the wolf’s back. It howled and rolled, trying to dislodge him. He landed lightly beside it and stabbed its throat as it scrambled to get upright.

  Another wolf landed on him, the claws of its front paws scoring his thigh and barrelling him to the ground. Cuthwin rolled as its fangs snapped for his throat. He threw up his knife arm and hammered its jaw with the pommel. Yellow teeth snapped beneath the Empire-forged iron and the stinking beast threw back its head and roared. One of the dwarfs dropped to the road and ran towards him, but a goblin with better aim or luck than most loosed a shaft that sliced home into his rescuer’s neck.

  The dwarf sank to his knees, blood pumping in a flood down his mail shirt. He pitched forward as the goblin turned its bow on Cuthwin. A thunderous boom echoed across the clearing and the last goblin fell from the back of its wolf with what passed for its brains mushrooming from its skull.

  Cuthwin rolled to his feet as the wolves, free of their cruel masters’ spurs and goads, fled into the forest, leaving the clearing silent save for the laboured wheezes of wounded beasts. Cuthwin’s leg ached, but the cuts were not deep. He scrambled over to the wagons, checking each of the dwarfs in turn. Only one still lived, the dwarf who’d fired the shot that had saved his life. An arrow was lodged in his chest, its shaft warped and crudely fletched with what looked like raven feathers.

  The dwarf’s beard was twisted into three heavy braids, each bound with an iron band at the end, and his cheeks were black with powder burns. The dwarf was bald, his heavy brow pulled down in pain. Blood flecked his spittle and his eyes were glassy and unfocussed.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ said Cuthwin. ‘Pretty badly, but if I can get you to Reikdorf you might live.’

  The dwarf looked at him in pained confusion and murmured something in a strange, angular language of harshly edged words. Cuthwin didn’t understand and shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re saying. Do you understand me?’

  The dwarf nodded slowly, grim faced and belligerent.

  ‘My fellows?’ he said.

  ‘They’re all dead.’

  The dwarf nodded and Cuthwin saw a depth of pain and anger that frightened him with its intensity. He had felt sorrow at the death of friends, but this was a different order of feeling entirely.

  ‘Were they your kin?’ he asked, helping the dwarf to sit upright.

  ‘All dwarfs are kin,’ hissed the dwarf, as though he was being wilfully dense.

  ‘Sorry I asked,’ replied Cuthwin. ‘Now hold still. I need to get that arrow out, and it’s going to hurt.’

  The dwarf looked down at the jutting shaft and said, ‘Don’t tell me it will hurt, manling, just do it before I die of old age.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Cuthwin. ‘I’m going to count to three, and then–’

  He jerked the arrow out in one swift motion. The dwarf roared in agony and swung his fist at Cuthwin’s head. He’d been expecting that and swayed back from the blow. Blood pumped from the wound and the dwarf’s eyes rolled back as the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘Stay with me, mountain man!’ said Cuthwin, holding the dwarf upright. ‘Come on, look at me! Listen to me, you have to stay awake or you’re as good as dead. There’s likely more of those goblins out there, and it won’t take them long to get here on those wolves. So you need to come with me if you want to get back beneath the mountains.’

  The dwarf gripped the edge of the wagon and it seemed as though his anger alone was sustaining him. Cuthwin turned to cut strips of cloth from one of the dead dwarfs’ cloaks to bind the wounds. The dwarf watched him and said, ‘What is your name, manling?’

  ‘I’m Cuthwin of the Unberogen,’ he said.

  ‘The Heldenhammer’s tribe…’ said the dwarf, the hard edges of his voice softening with blood loss and fatigue.

  ‘The very same,’ said Cuthwin, binding the dwarf’s wound as best he could. He would have preferred to lace the wound with healing poultices, but they were in his pack.

  ‘And you? What’s your name, mountain man?’

  ‘Deeplock,’ said the dwarf, his voice already sounding distant and faint. ‘Grindan Deeplock of Zhufbar, Engineer to the Guildmasters of Varn Drazh, Keeper of the–’

  The dwarf’s voice faded and the ragged howling of wolves from further south told Cuthwin it was time to move on. Slinging the dwarf’s arm over his shoulder, he set off towards where he’d set his bow and hoped he could put enough distance between him and the goblins before they were able to pick up his tracks.

  ‘Wait…’ said Deeplock. ‘Must bring…’

  ‘No time, mountain man,’ said Cuthwin, half carrying, half dragging the wounded dwarf into the shadows of the forest. Were it only the larger greenskins behind them, Cuthwin wouldn’t have been worried, they were strong but not too clever.

  But goblins were cunning and would find their tracks swiftly. On his own he could evade them without trouble, but with a wounded dwarf in tow…

  That was going to be a challenge.

  ‘Hand me the tongs, son,’ said Govannon, squinting in the smouldering orange light of the forge. His hand grasped air until Bysen placed the warm metal in his hands. The furnace was a blaze of light before him, the roar of its heat and the hiss of water droplets from the powered wheel that worked the bellows acting as a sounding guide for him as he thrust the tongs into the hot coals.

  Govannon felt the metal and clamped it hard, drawing it out and placing it upon the anvil.

  The stink of hot iron burned the air and its orange-yellow colour told him it was just right. His sight was all but destroyed, but his sense for the metal was just as strong.

  ‘Looks good, da,’ said Bysen. ‘Forging heat right enough.’

  ‘Aye, I can tell, lad,’ nodded Govannon, handing his son the tongs and feeling on the workbench for his fuller. Its curved, walnut grip slipped into his hand and he hefted it to get the weight right before bringing it down in a short, powerful arc onto the iron bar. He struck several blows, swiftly establishing a working rhythm as Bysen turned the bar and drew it out, gradually lengthening the metal. They’d done the hard work earlier, working with strikers and other apprentices to work the cold lump of iron into a long bar from which to shape the blade.

  It was to be the sword of the Empire’s Grand Knight, for Alfgeir had earned great accolades in his defence of the realm in the Emperor’s absence.

  ‘Turn it again,’ said Govannon. ‘Once with each strike.’

  ‘Aye, da,’ said Bysen. ‘Once each, aye, da. Like you say.’

  Govannon worked the fuller along the length of the iron, working by instinct and earned skill. The bar was a blurred outline of yellow gold before him, and he could only tell Bysen was turning the bar by the sound of the hot metal scraping on the anvil. Counting his strokes, he adjudged the iron to be the right length. He had taken Alfgeir’s measurements and tested the weight and balance of his currently favoured blade before laying a hammer to the metal. The Grand Knight of the Empire preferred a weapon with the weight slightly towards the tip, requiring a stronger arm to wield it, but delivering a more powerful blow when it landed. The ore that formed this sword had come from the mines of the Howling Hills, Cherusen land, which meant it was freer from impurities and should produce a blade of great brillia
nce.

  ‘Look long enough?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, da,’ said Bysen. ‘Just right, da.’

  Govannon wiped a meaty forearm across his brow, blinking away salty beads of sweat as they dripped into his eye. Just for a second, he could see the outline of his son clearly, a giant of a boy, nineteen summers old, but with the mind of a child.

  Grief and guilt welled in the smith’s heart.

  It had been at Black Fire when everything had changed.

  Govannon and Bysen had been fighting in the heart of the Unberogen lines, smashing greenskins down with powerful strokes of their iron-headed forge hammers. After hours of fighting, the day was almost won, and the warriors of the Emperor’s army were hot and close to exhaustion. Victory was so close, they could almost touch it, and that alone kept them fighting beyond the limits of endurance.

  A shadow fell over their sword band and an abominable stench rose up as a monstrous, rugose-skinned troll crashed into their flank. Taller than three men and growling with a throaty roar of idiot hunger, it swung a tree branch as thick as an oaken beam. Six men were bludgeoned to death with a single blow.

  Many ran from its horror, but Govannon and Bysen stood firm, their hammers feeling woefully inadequate to face such a towering mass of muscle and fury. Warriors rallied to their side, for they were men much respected amongst the Unberogen, and together they charged the hideous creature. Its leering grin split apart in a mass of broken teeth and half-chewed flesh, but it was not in anticipation of feeding. A burbling heave spasmed through its stomach, and a caustic flood of acidic bile spewed from its wide mouth.

  Govannon was one of the lucky ones. Leading the charge, he was spared the agony of being eaten alive by the deadly acid. His helmet took the brunt of the splash, but after three hours of fighting in the punishing heat, he’d pushed the visor up. Droplets of the viscous stomach bile dripped into his eyes, and the fiery agony as it burned into them was the worst pain in the world.