The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Satisfied the horses were being looked after, Maedbh stepped down from the chariot and sat on its base, untying a bundle of black bread and cheese from an internal pannier. She broke the bread and set out a portion for her and Ulrike, enjoying this chance to get out in the wilds. Any Asoborn warrior preferred the wind in their hair and the sight of open horizons to the feel of enclosing walls and buildings of stone. Though Three Hills was far from oppressive, Maedbh still relished the chance to explore the far reaches of Freya’s lands, to ride the wild woods and race along the open flatlands beyond the hills.

  ‘That was well done, my beauties,’ said Maedbh, as the others led their horses back to the chariots. They didn’t hobble the horses, but let them roam freely, knowing they would come with a whistle. They beamed at her pride, knowing that as charioteer to Queen Freya, her praise was not given lightly.

  As they gathered around her, Maedbh offered instructional tips, helpful pointers and the occasional admonishment to her charioteers. Each had performed well, but there was always room for improvement, and nobody could afford to rest on their laurels.

  ‘You’re leaning left when you crack the reins, Osgud,’ she said, angling her hand as she spoke. ‘It makes the horse pull away from the line, and you need to keep your spacing close when you’re riding in close to the enemy. And Daegal, follow through with your spear thrusts, but remember to twist the blade at the extent of your thrust, otherwise it will be torn from your grasp. Ulrike, you need to watch your balance, always keep your back foot braced or you’ll be thrown out if the wheels strike a rock or hit a dip in the ground.’

  They listened intently, and Maedbh was pleased with their progress. With their midday meal eaten, they broke into smaller groups, practising with their spears and posture. Ulrike ran to join them and Maedbh watched the young Asoborns with a fierce maternal affection. They were all her children, not just Ulrike.

  She rested her head on the side of the chariot, letting the sounds of the wilderness wash over her: the burble of the water, the sigh of the wind through the trees and the distant caw of a carrion bird over something dead. It had been a long day and she closed her eyes briefly, letting a warm lethargy sneak up on her.

  Again the carrion bird cawed, and Maedbh opened her eyes.

  The sound was closer than before, louder and more strident, which was strange, as food for crows didn’t normally move. She didn’t react, but let the sensations of the world come into sharper focus. The wind was coming from the north, the carrion bird was to the south and getting closer.

  Maedbh rose to her feet as the wind changed and the horses’ heads came up, their ears flat against their skulls and their eyes wide with fear. They snorted and tossed their manes, walking back towards the yokes of the chariots. A wolf howled to the south, and Maedbh tensed. Such a sound would normally be auspicious, but there was something wrong with this howl, it had a hollow, hungry edge to it that no animal servant of Ulric would possess. An answering howl answered the first, this time from the west. A wolf pack was circling them, and Maedbh fought down her rising fear.

  ‘Get the horses yoked back to the chariots,’ she shouted, authoritative, not frightened.

  The young Asoborns moved to obey, too slowly.

  ‘Get a move on!’ she cried. ‘If you were under attack, is this how fast you’d move?’

  Maedbh gathered the two horses of her own chariot and swiftly harnessed them to the yoke with quick tugs of the bronze buckles. A shadow flitted across the chariot’s frame and she looked up to see a flock of circling birds with black feathers. Eaters of the dead.

  ‘Hurry it up, for Ulric’s sake!’ she said, scooping up Ulrike and depositing her in the chariot. She unlimbered her bow from the side of the chariot and quickly bent it back to string it.

  ‘String yours too,’ she said to Ulrike. ‘And keep a wary eye out.’

  ‘What’s going on, mother?’ said Ulrike, sensing a measure of her mother’s unease.

  ‘Nothing, my dear,’ she said. ‘Just do it. Hurry.’

  She climbed onto her chariot seeing that the rest of her group were almost ready. The birds cawed again and another wolf howl echoed over the desolate wilderness. That one was unmistakably from the north, and as the wind changed again, Maedbh caught the reek of dead flesh, of mangy, maggot-ridden fur and stagnant, bloody saliva.

  Someone screamed and she looked up to see a line of huge timber wolves on the ridge above them. Their fur was rotted and patchy over yellowed bone and torn muscle. Vacant eye sockets glimmered with emerald light and drooling ropes of bloody saliva hung from their exposed fangs.

  Some dead things did move, it seemed.

  ‘Ride!’ shouted Maedbh.

  Eight

  The First to Die

  Though he had faced the horror of the living dead before, Sigmar’s soul rebelled at the sight before him. Once Ostengard had been a prosperous, well-populated logging village, home to two hundred Cherusen woodsmen and their families. Now it was a charnel house, a field of blood and death.

  ‘Ulric’s bones,’ swore Count Aloysis, his face pale and the tattoos that curled across his face bleached of colour. His shaven head was criss-crossed with scars and his long scalp lock was more silver than black, bound with circlets of cold iron. ‘Those were my people.’

  Aloysis’s scarlet cloak flapped in the cold wind and his hand twitched on the hook-bladed sword at his side. His eyes were wide with fear at what lay below them.

  ‘Not any more, they’re not,’ grunted Count Krugar, trying to mask his own fear. ‘Now they’re dead meat for hewing.’

  The Taleuten count was wide and powerful, clad in a shimmering hauberk of silver scale. He hefted Utensjarl from hand to hand. The ancient weapon of Talenbor was slender-bladed, but Sigmar had seen Krugar hew Norsii like saplings with its lethal edge. Despite Krugar’s bluster, Sigmar knew both counts were afraid. He didn’t blame them.

  ‘Krugar speaks the truth, Aloysis,’ said Sigmar. ‘These are not your people. Remember that.’

  ‘Aye, I know,’ said Aloysis. ‘That doesn’t make it any easier to take a blade to them.’

  Sigmar knew that only too well, having fought against dead things that had once been men of the Empire in the Middle Mountains. This would be hardest on Aloysis, but it would be a test every one of them would have to face soon, of that Sigmar was certain.

  A thousand warriors lined the hillside above Ostengard, a mix of Cherusen axemen and foresters, the Red Scythes of the Taleutens and Unberogen swordsmen. Though the Cherusens and Taleutens had almost gone to war a few years ago, their leaders had since become staunch allies, their bond forged by the nearness of their death at Sigmar’s hands when the dread crown of Morath had poisoned him with its evil.

  In the wake of Khaled al-Muntasir’s appearance in Reikdorf, Sigmar had gathered a sword host of five hundred warriors and ridden with all speed towards Taalahim, the great forest city of the Taleutens. If the dead were on the march, then it seemed their first move was in the north. Both counts had sent desperate missives asking for the Emperor’s troops to quell the rising dead, and Sigmar had answered their calls.

  The Unberogen had ridden hard, meeting the Cherusens and Taleutens in the rugged southern skirts of the Howling Hills. Too late to save the people of Ostengard, but not too late to avenge them.

  Clustered around a central thoroughfare that led to the river, Ostengard had been built in a horseshoe shape, with a grain store and carpentry building at its centre. Numerous dwellings were built around these structures, and an elaborate shrine to Taal stood at the riverside. Vast swathes of the forest had been cleared around the village, and much of that had been given over to cultivation, with fields of golden corn and barley waving in the gentle breeze.

  The village seethed with activity, unnatural activity. Pallid-skinned creatures with thin, wiry limbs and enlarged skulls feasted on the dead, loping from corpse to corpse to fight for the choicest shanks of meat. Shambling corpses in muddy rags gathered toget
her in moaning bands of rotting flesh, stumbling and dragging themselves towards the hillside where the warriors of the Empire watched.

  The dead had risen from the mulchy earth and devoured Ostengard, and a gathering darkness held sway over the day, though the sun was only just past its zenith. The horde of dead things, sensing the warm meat of the living, came for them in an inexorable march of dread patience and insatiable hunger.

  Sigmar guessed they faced at least five hundred living dead, a number that could normally be easily overcome, but this was a foe that fought with fear as their greatest weapon.

  ‘Aloysis, you and your axemen are with me. Krugar, split your horsemen and ride around the enemy to hit them from behind,’ said Sigmar. ‘Ride down to the village and come up through its main street.’

  ‘They won’t break and run,’ pointed out Krugar, mounting his horse, a powerful, grain-fed stallion of midnight black. ‘The dead don’t fear anything.’

  ‘They fear this,’ said Sigmar, lifting Ghal-maraz from his belt. The dwarf runes etched into its surface shimmered with silver light, and he could feel the weapon’s ancestral hatred of the living dead. ‘Somewhere down there is a will that is controlling this horde. Ghal-maraz will find it and I will destroy it. With its destruction this horde cannot exist.’

  ‘Then let me be the one to fell it,’ begged Aloysis. ‘My people demand their count’s vengeance.’

  Sigmar nodded. ‘So be it, but enough talk, it’s time to fight.’

  Krugar dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and said, ‘May Ulric give your arm strength, brothers.’

  The Taleuten count wheeled his horse and joined the Red Scythes. At a curt command, the horsemen split into two groups with the smooth ease of practiced warriors. They rode with incredible skill, crouched low over their mounts’ heads as they moved to encircle the host of the dead.

  Aloysis offered Sigmar his hand, and he shook it, feeling the clammy sweat coating the Cherusen count’s palm. The man was terrified, but he was facing that terror with iron courage. Sigmar had always respected Aloysis, but this was a level of courage beyond simple bravery.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ answered Aloysis honestly. ‘But let us fight together, my Emperor.’

  Sigmar took Ghal-maraz in a two-handed grip and raised his voice so that every warrior on the hillside could hear him.

  ‘Men of the Empire, you fight a terrible enemy today, but know this. The dead can die. Lay them low as you would slay any foe. Sword and axe will fell them as surely as any living man. Fight in Ulric’s name and we will prevail! For Ulric!’

  A ragged cheer erupted along the hillside and Sigmar led the warriors forward in two solid blocks, Sigmar in command of the left, Aloysis the right. They marched towards the enemy, and Sigmar felt the fear of the dead spread through the ranks.

  He raised Ghal-maraz and the man next to him hoisted the Imperial standard high, a magnificent banner of red, blue and white. A glorious beast of legend was picked out in gold, with a silver crown encircling its breast, and the sight of Sigmar’s new heraldry filled the hearts of all who saw it with fresh courage.

  Closer now, the dead were a truly horrific sight, a collection of all degradations time could wreak upon the frailty of human form. Decomposing flesh hung from the bones of those who had clawed their way from earthen graves, loose jawbones hanging like grotesque ornaments from splintered skulls. Those more recently dead were bloody and raw where grasping hands, grave-dirt claws and broken teeth had torn the meat from their bones.

  Worse than that, the dreadful aspect of their very existence sent cold spikes of unreasoning fear through every man who stood against them. A man could face another man with courage and know that he could prevail by the strength of his sword arm alone. To face the dead was another matter entirely, for to look into their eyes was to see your own death, to know that your existence in this world was fleeting. To face the dead was to face mortality itself.

  Sigmar increased his pace to a loping run, lifting Ghal-maraz over his shoulder and letting loose a fearsome Unberogen war-shout. His warriors echoed him, bellowing the name of Ulric and matching his pace. The Cherusens whooped and hollered, their painted faces recalling the days they had fought near-naked and chewing on wildroot and bane leaves.

  Where the Unberogen marched in close-packed ranks, the Cherusen fought as individuals, their mighty felling axes requiring space to swing without hitting a fellow warrior. Aloysis had his sword drawn, a long cavalry sabre more useful on the back of a horse, but a fine enough weapon to strike down the dead on foot.

  Less than twenty yards separated the living from the dead.

  Sigmar shouted, ‘For Ulric!’ and broke into a furious charge.

  The Unberogen and Cherusen came with him and they struck the dead with all the force and vitality the living could muster.

  Maedbh hauled the reins left as a savage beast with blood-red eyes leapt towards her, its taloned paws slashing. The feral wolf slammed into the side of the chariot with a heavy thump, its claws tearing down through the wooden sides. Ulrike screamed in terror and Maedbh risked a glance back to check her daughter was safe.

  Ulrike loosed a poorly aimed shaft. The arrowhead scored through the wolf’s fur and bounced from its skull. It howled and fell away from the chariot.

  ‘Keep them back!’ shouted Maedbh.

  Only three of the chariots had escaped the riverbed, breaking through the encircling packs of wolves. The horses yoked to Yustin and Kreo’s chariot were torn apart before they could get moving, and the youngsters were brought down moments later. A huge, black-furred wolf snapped its jaws on Yustin’s head, killing the youth instantly, while two wolves with bare skulls and exposed musculature tore Kreo’s arm off with brutal sweeps of their claws.

  Henia and Torqa got their chariot moving, but a pair of wolves leapt from the ridge straight onto them. Torqa skewered the first with her spear, but the second wolf bit her in two and smashed Henia’s spine with one slash of its claws.

  The rest of them had broken free and rode with all speed to the north.

  Maedbh looked around. The wolves were loping alongside them, their decayed bodies ravaged and wasted, yet powerful and untiring. Six followed them and another four ran on each flank, content to drive them into the path of wolves Maedbh knew were lying in wait somewhere up ahead. These were dead creatures, but they hunted like living ones.

  A steady stream of arrows flew from the backs of the chariots. Of all the youngsters, Ulrike had the best eye, and her arrows struck home more than anyone else’s. Already she had brought down two wolves. Even amid this desperate chase, Maedbh was proud of her.

  The wolves howled and closed in. A slavering beast loped in from the right, its eyes fixed on Maedbh’s throat. She pulled the reins in hard, almost tipping the chariot, and its right wheel came off the ground. The wolf hit the spinning wheel and its momentum carried it under the chariot. It gave a mournful howl before its bones were crushed and whatever animation empowered it was extinguished.

  Ulrike loosed an arrow at the creature behind it, the shaft punching through the beast’s eye socket, and its body writhed as the unnatural energies that bound it together faded and it dropped without a sound. The other creatures cared nothing for the deaths of their pack brothers, and drove the chariots onwards. Maedbh saw three wolves closing on Osgud’s chariot and steered around a patch of rocks to sweep in behind him.

  ‘Bloody fool never could keep his spacing,’ she hissed. The wolves saw her coming, but too late, and she drove over the rearmost creature, flattening it beneath her wheels. The second loped away, but the third was too fixated on its prey to pay her any mind.

  ‘Osgud! Hard right!’

  The terrified youth obeyed instantly, his training making the movement automatic. The two chariots slammed together, crushing the wolf between them. Ulrike screamed as she was jolted from her perch. Maedbh reached back and grabbed her daughter’s arm as she slid off the chariot.


  Ulrike flailed with her free arm, desperately clawing her way back on board. Spying a target of opportunity, a ravaged wolf with a spectral gleam in its eyes and a hollowed skull bounded towards her, stinking grave dirt spilling from its fang-filled jaws. It leapt towards Ulrike, claws outstretched.

  A heavy spear slammed into its side, punching through its ribs and skewering it in mid-air. The blade twisted and the wolf fell away, its bones dissolving and its fur rotting to ash in the wind. Daegal drew back his spear as another wolf leapt for the back of his chariot. The blade stabbed into its skull, and the wolf howled as it died anew.

  Maedbh hauled Ulrike back into the chariot, pleased at least one of her students had listened to her. She lashed her horses to greater speed, pulling in close to Osgud’s chariot and making sure Daegal’s was close by too.

  Eight wolves remained, but one of those was slain by a pair of arrows that pierced its chest and skull. Another died when it dared to come too close to Daegal’s chariot, and ended up beneath its wheels. Six left, and the ground was rising towards the hills where they would find sanctuary. She heard the howls of wolves from ahead, and knew that was just where the wolves were driving them.

  ‘Circle up!’ she cried, and the chariots rolled around, each moving in a smooth arc until they had formed an ad-hoc fortress with one another. The wolves surrounded them, wary at this change of strategy on the part of their prey. Ulrike dropped one wolf with an arrow to the head, and Daegal hurled his spear into the flank of another. Both yelped as their bodies crumbled away to stinking ash.

  Realising they could not afford to wait, the remaining wolves hurled themselves at the Asoborns. Freed from the need to control the chariot, Maedbh loosed a quick arrow that tore the throat from a leaping wolf. She threw her bow aside and drew her sword as the rest of the wolves attacked.