The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘You killed the first one here,’ said Alfgeir, miming the act of drawing a bowstring.

  Cuthwin nodded as Alfgeir wended his way through the fight, moving as though he fought it anew. At last he turned to face Cuthwin, his face betraying a grudging respect.

  ‘You took a big risk in helping these dwarfs, scout,’ said Alfgeir. ‘That took courage.’

  Cuthwin shrugged, uncomfortable with praise. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do. It’s what Sigmar did.’

  ‘And we all want to be like Sigmar,’ laughed Alfgeir. ‘Good lad. Now the wagons were over here, yes?’

  Cuthwin rose and smoothly made his way to join Alfgeir, carefully avoiding the earlier tracks and making sure to stick to the hardened ground to leave no trace of his own passing. The knights followed him, leading their horses and without the care he showed.

  He pointed to a disturbed area of ground at a bend in the road.

  ‘There,’ said Cuthwin. ‘That’s where the wagons were.’

  ‘So where are they now?’ asked Orvin.

  ‘Maybe the goblins took them,’ he said. ‘Maybe the forest beasts broke them up for firewood or weapons.’

  ‘Can’t you tell?’

  Cuthwin shook his head. ‘Maybe if your horses hadn’t trampled the ground I could have.’

  Alfgeir put a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘You do enjoy provoking people, scout.’

  ‘I reckon the goblins took the wagons,’ said Cuthwin, pointing back down the road. ‘There’s a stone path leads up into the mountains about a mile back. Could be they took them that way.’

  ‘Do you think they found what the dwarf buried?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Cuthwin. ‘Let me look.’

  He waved away the knights and dropped to his hands and knees, lowering his face to the earth, scanning left and right for any trace of something out of the ordinary. Moving like a bloodhound with the scent of its prey in its nose, Cuthwin ghosted over the ground as though listening to it. He ignored the chuckles of the knights. Let them laugh; they’d be choking on it when he found something.

  He moved over where the wagons had been circled, touching the ground and feeling the tension in the soil, brushing it with his fingertips. The earth here was looser, less densely packed, as though disturbed. Where the wagons had been pulled around and turned into makeshift barricades, the earth was hard-packed, but this patch in the middle was loose.

  Cuthwin rose to his feet, circling the area and searching for any other obvious signs of something buried. He brushed the ground with the sole of his boot, closing his eyes as he relied on senses honed in the wilderness over many years.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said, dropping to his knees. He drew his dagger and sketched a rough rectangle in the dirt, encompassing where he knew the dwarf had buried what Grindan had called the Thunder Bringer.

  Alfgeir knelt beside him. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘It’s here, trust me,’ said Cuthwin. ‘The mountain folk are masters of digging. If anyone can bury something they don’t want found, it’s them.

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough I suppose,’ agreed Alfgeir. He looked over to his knights. ‘Orvin, you and the others break out the shovels and start earning your pay.’

  ‘By digging?’ said Orvin, as though the notion was beneath him.

  ‘By digging,’ confirmed Alfgeir. ‘Get to it.’

  Orvin shook his head and, together with five other knights, began shovelling earth from the spot Cuthwin had indicated. They dug relentlessly and swiftly moved a large amount of soil. Cuthwin watched with Alfgeir as they dug down around four feet into the ground without finding anything.

  Just as he was beginning to entertain doubts that there was anything buried here, Orvin’s shovel clanged on something metallic. Orvin used the end of his shovel to clear away the black earth, using his hands when the shovel proved insufficient for the task. At length, he leaned back to allow those above him to see what he had uncovered.

  Cuthwin looked into the hole the knights had dug. He caught a gleam of tubular iron, like the funnels on Govannon’s forge, spars of splintered timbers and what looked like an iron-rimmed wheel.

  ‘What in Ulric’s name is that?’ said Alfgeir, tilting his head to the side.

  ‘The Thunder Bringer,’ said Cuthwin. ‘And we have to get it back to Reikdorf.’

  The ship was a long merchantman, sleek-hulled and coloured a garish blue and green with wide, dark eyes painted beneath its prow. An elaborate figurehead jutted provocatively from her forecastle, representing Myrmidia and Manann entwined in an embrace that Marius was sure the temple priests of Jutonsryk wouldn’t find in any of their holy books. Its flag was one Marius had seen before, but he couldn’t remember to which distant princeling it belonged. He saw so many ships in any given week, it was hard to keep track of them all.

  Hundreds of people bustled to and fro: sailors, tax collectors in blue robes, maritime enthusiasts, dwarf masons and shipwrights, rope-makers, labourers, hawkers, map-makers, whores and sell-swords. The taverns were doing a brisk trade, as a number of ships had just finished their unloading and their crews were eager to spend their wages.

  The air tasted of saltwater and hard work, and Marius felt his brow turn thunderous as he saw the crew of the impounded vessel pressing against the ring of armed lancers preventing them from leaving the quay. Olive-skinned sailors from the south, they waved their arms and jabbered in their foreign tongue, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were on Empire soil and ought to be speaking Reikspiel if they wanted to be understood.

  ‘To be fair, they do look rather unsettled,’ said Vergoossen.

  Marius waved away his aide’s comment. ‘Nonsense, these foreign types are always ludicrously animated when they converse. The way they talk to each other, they could be discussing the weather and you’d swear they were relating news of the End Times.’

  ‘But still,’ pressed Vergoossen, ‘what if they aren’t lying?’

  ‘Of course they’re lying,’ snapped Marius, rounding on his aide. ‘It’s the oldest trick in the book for fly-by-nights and thieves. Listen, Vergoossen, one of two things has happened here. Either they’ve stolen their master’s cargo and transferred it to another ship, which we’ll see in a few days with false papers of lading, or they have come here claiming they had to ditch their cargo to outrun some pirates so they don’t have to pay the berthing tax. Then they’ll miraculously find a hugely lucrative trade deal when they get ashore. Either way, I won’t stand for it. I’ll have them locked in the tower for trying to cheat Marius of Jutonsryk.’

  His lesson in tax evasion dispensed, Marius marched towards the merchantman, noting how high it was riding in the water. Its holds were empty, that was for sure, but he’d wager they’d been empty long before the sailors had come within spitting distance of the city.

  The Sergeant of Lancers turned as he heard Marius approach. He gave a formal salute and placed his clenched fist against his chest before bowing curtly.

  ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Alwin. We detained these men when the Master of Taxes informed us they refused to pay the berthing fee.’

  Marius scanned the sailors, a grimy bunch of men with colourful complexions and dark hair to a man. He counted around a hundred men on the quayside or clustering the rails of the ship. They looked desperate to get onto dry land, and many threw furtive glances over their shoulders out to sea.

  ‘Is this all of them?’ asked Marius.

  Alwin nodded. ‘A couple of them may have gotten into the city before we arrived, but looks like there’s more or less a full ship’s complement here.’

  That seemed about right, and Marius looked for the sailor in the least grubby clothes, the one that likely captained this vessel. His eyes immediately fixed on a man with skin like tanned leather and a mane of slick black hair. His manner was agitated, but from the looks the others were giving him, it was clear he was in command.

  ‘You,’ said Marius, beckoning the man
through the line of lancers. ‘You speak Reikspiel?’

  The man nodded and gratefully pushed through the lancers towards Marius. Two of his personal bodyguard quickly searched the man for weapons, taking a pair of daggers and a gunwale spike from his belt.

  ‘I am Count Marius of Jutonsryk, lord of this city. What is your name?’ said Marius, careful to enunciate each word carefully.

  ‘My name is Captain Leotas Raul, and I speak Reikspiel very well.’

  ‘Good, then we won’t have any misunderstandings,’ said Marius. ‘This is your ship, yes?’

  ‘It is,’ said Raul, his voice prideful and yet melancholy. ‘Myrmidia’s Spear, sole surviving ship of Magister Fiorento’s fleet.’

  ‘Yes, well I’m sure he will be overjoyed to hear that his last ship is soon to be impounded,’ said Marius.

  Before Raul could react to Marius’s dire pronouncement, the count of Jutonsryk said, ‘Tell me, Captain Raul, what do you think of my harbour? Is it adequate for your magnificent ship?’

  Raul looked confused, and Marius said, ‘Would you like me to repeat the question?’

  ‘No,’ said Raul, a hard look entering his eyes. ‘That will not be necessary.’

  ‘Well? Are my docks fit to berth your ship?’

  ‘These are very fine docks, Count Marius,’ answered Raul coldly.

  ‘Good, so why don’t you tell me why you’ve taken the liberty of berthing in my perfectly good harbour and yet refuse to pay the berthing fee.’

  ‘We have no cargo,’ replied Raul. ‘No cargo means nothing to tax.’

  ‘Oh there is always something to tax, Captain Raul,’ Marius assured him. ‘But if you have no cargo, then you have come a long way for nothing. Magister Fiorento must be a wealthy man indeed to despatch ships with no cargo all this way.’

  ‘We did not come here with empty holds, my lord,’ said Raul. ‘We were forced to abandon our cargo.’

  ‘So tell me, what manner of cargo were you carrying before you abandoned it?’

  ‘A thousand bales of embroidered cloth,’ answered Raul. ‘Dyes and oils from the warmer climates of the southern islands.’

  ‘I see, and you threw these overboard because…’

  ‘We were attacked by black ships with crimson sails of ragged cloth and crewed by dead men. Sailors from the depths of the ocean risen from the sea to hunt the living.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ commented Marius. ‘Of course, you realise I don’t believe a word of it?’

  ‘I speak no lies,’ hissed Raul, and Marius smiled at his conviction.

  ‘Then, please, elaborate,’ said Marius, knowing even a skilled liar would often trip themselves up in the details of an over-elaborate farrago.

  ‘As we rounded the Reik headland from the south a noxious fog arose from the sea and a host of crimson-sailed vessels moved to intercept us. Not a breath of wind stirred their sails, yet they came on at speed, as though all the fiends of the deep pulled their rotted hulks through the waters. More appeared around the northern headland, trapping us between them, two hundred vessels at least.’

  ‘Two hundred?’ laughed Marius. ‘Now I know you are lying. There are, I’ll grant you, a few corsairs who raid the shorelines of the far Reik, but none with so large a fleet.’

  ‘These were no corsairs,’ insisted Raul. ‘As their ships drew nearer we smelled the stench of rotten, waterlogged timbers and saw the decaying flesh of the skeletal crewmen aboard each vessel. We tried to outrun them, but they were too fast, and our sister ship, Shield of Glory, was overtaken. A hundred dead warriors swarmed her decks, and they tore the living apart to eat their flesh. Though our fellow brothers of the sea were being devoured, not a man aboard ship dared turn to help them. Golden Goddess tried to evade, but she was too heavy, and more of the ships of the damned cut her off. She too was lost with all souls.’

  ‘But you escaped,’ said Marius.

  ‘No sooner had I seen how many ships opposed us than I knew we were too heavily laden to escape. I ordered our cargo ditched, but even then we only barely made it through the line of mouldering hulks.’

  ‘These ships of the dead did not pursue you? How convenient.’

  ‘They did not,’ said Raul. ‘But they are still out there, this I swear on the life of my mother. They are out there and no more ships will come to your city. And while they lurk in the fog, none shall leave.’

  Marius had heard enough and shook his head. ‘A fanciful tale, Captain Raul, but one I am disinclined to believe.’

  He turned to Sergeant Alwin. ‘Impound the ship and lock these men up in the Old Town gaol. Vergoossen, draft a letter to Magister Fiorento and tell him that if he wants his ship and crew released then he’ll need to pay their fines and taxes. Be sure to inform him of the increasing levy of fines the longer he leaves them here.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Vergoossen.

  Marius turned and walked away as the lancers began rounding up the protesting sailors.

  ‘Dead corsairs, indeed,’ he said. ‘Ridiculous.’

  The five chariots thundered over the rugged flatlands to the south of Three Hills, the horses running at battle pace as Maedbh let them stretch their muscles. Asoborn beasts needed to have their head now and again. The training fields allowed the youngsters to get a feel for the beasts and how the chariot behaved, but there was nothing like riding tall at battle pace to get the heart pounding and the blood racing.

  Two chariots sped along either side of her, each with an Asoborn youth at the reins. Not one was over thirteen years of age, but they worked the reins like veterans. The ground here was dotted with thin copses, unexpected slopes and random patches of rocks, but so far they had steered around them without losing valuable speed. Ahead, the Worlds Edge Mountains soared to the sky and a black line of thunderheads rolled like a giant wave crashing over the distant peaks to the far south.

  Looking at those clouds gave Maedbh a shiver of dread, though they would be long back at Three Hills before any storm broke. She returned her attention to the ground before her chariot as they rolled over a rough patch of earth and the wheel spun in the air for a moment. The chariot wobbled, but Maedbh brought it back level without effort.

  ‘Careful, mother!’ squealed Ulrike with frightened delight.

  ‘Are you still secure?’ called Maedbh, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, mother! Of course I am!’

  Ulrike had her right ankle braced against the side armour, her left against an angled ridge of wood Wolfgart had crafted to compensate for her narrower stance. Her knees weren’t locked, her legs flexible and her posture loose; the perfect position for a charioteer spear-bearer. Maedbh smiled, seeing the same fierce determination in her young features she saw in herself. And, if she was honest, she saw in Wolfgart.

  Thinking of her estranged husband brought a lump to her throat. She missed him, and it rankled that she felt like that. An Asoborn woman needed no man to complete her, she was a fiery warrior princess with the winter fire of Ulric flowing in her veins. Maedbh knew all that was true, but she knew there was no shame in wanting to be part of a union that had created so beautiful a life as their daughter.

  She and Wolfgart were too alike, that was what she loved about him, and, perversely, was also the problem. Like two bulls in a pen, they locked horns every day to establish dominance, though surely there was no need. She regretted her harsh words to him, but like arrows of fire, they could not be taken back and had struck where they would do the most damage. Maedbh knew herself well enough to know that pride was but a facet of stubbornness, a quality both she and Wolfgart possessed in abundance.

  It wasn’t in her nature to back down, and yet Ulrike needed a father. She had cried when Maedbh told her that Wolfgart had returned to Reikdorf. Part of her hated him for leaving without saying goodbye, but she recognised that any such farewell would have resulted in a bitter quarrel, and couldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid such a confrontation.

  ‘Mother!�
� cried Ulrike, and Maedbh cursed as she wheeled the chariot away from a scattered tumble of rocks in a dry riverbed. Her attention wasn’t on what she was doing, and that was dangerous. Many a careless charioteer had run themselves into rocks or trees through their inattention, and such inglorious fates were amongst the most shameful among the Asoborns.

  She pushed Wolfgart from her mind and fixed her attention on her wild ride, weaving a deft path through a sparsely wooded forest in the shadow of a long ridge that ran from east to west. The chariots formed a line in her wake, smoothly changing formation in response to her manoeuvres, and she smiled at the youths’ deft touch on the reins.

  The horses were breathing hard, their flanks lathered with sweat and Maedbh drew them in, gradually slowing them until they were gently trotting. The horses came to a standstill and Maedbh coiled the reins through the loop of iron fixed to the chariot’s wooden frame. She was sweating, her limbs pleasurably sore from their ride.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ asked Ulrike. ‘I like going that fast!’

  ‘The horses need to rest, my dear,’ said Maedbh. ‘They’ve had a hard morning. Think how tired you are after you’ve run around the training ground five times. These horses have done that and more.’

  ‘They need to rest then.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, they do,’ said Maedbh. ‘We all do. See to the horses, and I’ll fix you some food once you’re finished.’

  ‘Can’t I have food first?’

  ‘No, always see to your horses as soon as you stop,’ instructed Maedbh. ‘You can go without food for a little while, but your horses may need to ride fast at a moment’s notice, so be sure they’re watered and rubbed down before you see to yourself.’

  Ulrike nodded reluctantly, but began expertly brushing the sweat from the horses’ heaving sides. The chariots had halted in such a way as to form a rough circle, a perfect defensive formation and one that allowed each rider to set off without fear of hitting another. Maedbh watched the others follow Ulrike’s lead, rubbing their horses down with handfuls of straw before allowing them to drink from a trickling stream of clear water.