The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘What about it?’ said Sigmar, seeing a number of confused expressions around the longhouse. The secret of what he had buried beneath the temple of Shallya was not widely known, and Sigmar would prefer it to stay that way. One look into Alessa’s eyes told Sigmar that wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘Nagash is obsessed with it. It’s the only thing he desires.’

  ‘We already know that,’ said Alfgeir. ‘The blood drinker told us that.’

  ‘But he would not have communicated how the great necromancer is consumed utterly by his desire, how his entire existence is bound to it in ways no mortal can understand. It is part of him, and without it he is less than nothing. To be close to the crown will drive all thoughts of restraint and reason from Nagash. It is his greatest strength and his most terrible weakness.’

  ‘Eoforth told you all that?’ said Wolfgart. ‘He always did use ten words when one would do. Not bad for a dying man.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t,’ said Alessa. ‘He simply said, “The crown, tell Sigmar it’s his Ravenna”.’

  ‘And you got all this talk of obsession and desire from that?’ said Alfgeir.

  ‘That and an understanding of what it means to be near the wretched thing,’ whispered Alessa. ‘You understand what I mean, don’t you, Emperor?’

  Sigmar nodded, only now seeing how pale Alessa was, how thin and undernourished. Her hollow cheeks and haunted eyes were a true testament to the insidious nature of Nagash’s crown, a pervasive evil that sapped the vitality of the living by degrees.

  ‘I do,’ said Sigmar. ‘And if we survive this coming battle, I swear I will hide this crown far from the lands of men, somewhere its evil will no longer wreak harm.’

  Wolfgart turned to him. ‘Do you know what Eoforth meant? Does it help us?’

  ‘He does,’ said Alessa, bowing her head and clasping her hands as tears flowed down her cheeks. ‘Shallya forgive me, but I should never have told you.’

  ‘What is she talking about, Sigmar?’ said Alfgeir, rising to his feet.

  Fear touched Sigmar as he understood the source of Alessa’s reluctance to speak of what Eoforth had told her. They had shut the crown away from the world for good reason. Mortals were not meant to wield such magic, for their hearts were too malleable and too easily seduced to be allowed near such temptations as eternal life and ultimate power.

  Sigmar had broken free from the malign effect of Nagash’s crown once before, but could he do it again?

  ‘There is only one way we can fight Nagash,’ said Sigmar. ‘Only one way I can face him with any hope of victory.’

  He stood at the end of the firepit and took a deep breath, loath to even say the words, let alone contemplate the reality of what it would mean for the Empire if he failed.

  ‘I have to wear Nagash’s crown again,’ said Sigmar.

  Eighteen

  The Dead of Reikdorf

  The host of Nagash arrived before the walls of Reikdorf on the leading edge of dark storm clouds. Winter cut the air and the cold winds that blew from the vast horde of the undead carried the stench of mankind’s corpse. Chain lightning flashed in the clouds and rumbles of thunder that seemed to roll out from distant lands echoed strangely from the walls of the city’s temples, taverns and dwellings.

  No sun rose on this day, the unnatural darkness covering the land in a bleak shadow from which it could nevermore be lifted, a gloom that entered every mortal heart and filled it with the sure and certain knowledge of the fate of all living things. Skeletons marched at the fore of the army, ancient warriors in serried ranks that stretched from one line of the horizon to the other. Cursed to serve Nagash for all eternity, they wore armour of long lost kingdoms, clutched weapons of strange design, and the grave dirt of far off lands clung to their bones. Heavily armoured champions in heavy hauberks of scale and corslets of iron marched at their head, exalted warriors of the dead whose skill with the executioners’ blades they carried was more terrifying than when they had been mortal.

  Where the warriors of bone resembled the army they had been in life, the thousands of bloody corpses dragged from shallow peasant graves or raised back from the dead in the wake of battle were a shambling mockery of life. Limping on twisted limbs and groaning with the torment of their existence, they were a stark reminder that even death in battle against this foe would be no escape from the horror. Hunched things in black robes moved through the shuffling horde of corpses, their fell sorcery directing its mindless hunger.

  The sky above Reikdorf blackened with the fluttering wings of bats and every rooftop was lined with black-winged carrion birds. Ravens cawed in anticipation of a feast of flesh, hopping agitatedly from clawed foot to clawed foot, impatient for the slaughter to begin.

  Hundreds of dark riders on skeletal steeds caparisoned in black and red and riding beneath banners of skulls and fanged maws took position at the centre and flanks of the army, the stillness of their mounts hideous and unnatural. These dread riders carried long black lances, their tips glittering with a loathsome green shimmer.

  Scraps of lambent light billowed like pyre smoke around the horde, wailing with the torments of the damned. Spectres and howling revenants dragged from death, but whose remains were no more, spun and twisted in ghostly wisps, their eyes bright with aching need for the warmth of mortal flesh. Their howling struck terror into all who heard them, and scores of terrified people took blades to their own necks rather than face such an enemy.

  Loping ahead of the host, a ragged line of corpse eaters moved on all fours, wretched and debased, with only their monstrous appetites to sustain them. These degenerate monstrosities had once been men, but they had fallen far from the nobility of their former race. Some clutched sharpened bone, others fragments of swords, but most only needed their long, gnarled claws to tear out an enemy’s throat. They gurgled and croaked as they skulked in the shadows, eager for the bloodletting to begin, but fearful to be the first into the fray.

  No trace of the land could be seen as the black host spread out before the city, a tide of rotten meat, bleached bone and unquiet spirits. This was an army to end the reign of mortals, to plunge the world into eternal night.

  Yet it was the figures at the head of this mighty army that drew the eye, a vanguard of three riders, one in silver plate, and the others in armour of black. Khaled al-Muntasir was easy to identify, but the two warriors alongside him were unknown to the defenders. Each clutched a flag so soaked in blood it was impossible to tell what heraldic devices it had once displayed.

  Yet even among such dreadful abominations, the master of this army was clear, a towering column of fuliginous chill that seemed to draw in what little light remained to the world only to snuff it out within his immortal form.

  This was Nagash, the Great Necromancer, the bane of life and undying corpse lord who had toppled empires and unleashed the curse of undeath upon the world. His dread form floated above the earth, and where he passed, the ground split apart, withered and destroyed as sable light was drawn upwards and coiled about his armoured and ragged-cloaked form. The creatures of the earth crept from the soil, crawling, buzzing and slithering away from the necromancer as his monstrous power sucked the vitality from everything around him.

  Through the roiling miasma of deathly energies that surrounded him, black segments of iron and bronze could be glimpsed, shimmering coils of green light suffusing each plate, rivet and fluted line of beaten metal. A grinning skull of ancient bone loomed from the darkness, massive and long since bereft of flesh, muscle and life.

  At Nagash’s side, a towering warrior of brazen iron and ferocity. Broader and taller than even the mightiest tribesmen, Krell bellowed a martial challenge that not even death could contain. The bloody champion of undeath and slaughter brandished his axe, raising it to point at the city before him, as though claiming it as his own.

  A wind from the depths of the earth sprang up around these fell lords of sorcery and battle, a chill breath of lifelessness and the withering pass
age of time. It roiled towards the city, billowing like a desert sandstorm. Where it struck the walls, the stonework cracked and spalled, aged a thousand years in a heartbeat. Wooden gates rotted and crumbled as though split apart by centuries of hoar frost. The cold wind blew through the city with a ghastly whisper heard by every man, woman and child.

  It was the Necromancer’s promise and threat all in one.

  Man is cattle…

  Yet Nagash was not the first to reach Reikdorf this day. As the fleeting light of dawn crested the eastern mountains before being smothered by the black canopy of the undead twilight, a ragged band of a hundred warriors limped towards the city’s southern gateway. Led by her sword maidens, Queen Freya returned to the lands of Men, having fought her way through the infested wilds of the southern Empire.

  These wounded, exhausted men and women were all that remained of the proud host she had led from Three Hills, warriors whose honour sought redemption by bringing the queen they had failed to safety. Death would be a release for them, should the enemy facing them grant such mercy. Maedbh was overjoyed to see Freya, as were the people of Reikdorf, for her survival was a lone beacon of hope in these grim times. That Freya could survive meant others could too. No sooner had she ridden through the gates than the Queen’s Eagles surrounded her, bringing her sons to her side for a tearful reunion.

  The joy that greeted Freya’s arrival was soon tempered by word that the dead were no more than an hour behind them. The gates were sealed and barred, and the warriors preparing to defend the city with their lives manned the walls, clutching swords and axes in hands slick with fear. Though still gravely wounded, Freya took her place with the Queen’s Eagles, and no words of admonition could shift Sigulf and Fridleifr from her side.

  There could be no bystanders in this battle for survival.

  All would fight, or all would die.

  The bell on the temple of Ulric chimed, and the dead came to Reikdorf.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ said Alfgeir, holding tightly to the reins of his horse as it tossed its head and snorted in fear. ‘This is madness and you know it.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ said Sigmar, ‘but it needs to be done.’

  ‘I am never one to back down from a foe, but I agree with your Reik Marshal,’ said Freya, riding alongside Garr and three of his Queen’s Eagles. As the only one of Sigmar’s counts present in Reikdorf, she had the right to ride out with him, but he found it hard to look at her without picturing the boys that carried his blood.

  They rode through the rotted remains of the Ostgate towards the enemy army. Since arriving at the walls of Reikdorf, the undead host had stood in silence, content to let fear worm its way into the hearts of those mortals who would soon be joining their ranks. The only movement had been when the three armoured warriors in the army’s vanguard had ridden forward beneath a lowered banner, the universal symbol of parley.

  ‘Why should we respect this parley?’ said Garr, one hand on his sword hilt. ‘We outnumber them and should cut them down while we have the chance.’

  Sigmar looked over at the man, irritated at his foolishness.

  ‘You could try, but these are blood drinkers, and they would kill you before you even drew that blade,’ said Sigmar.

  Garr swallowed hard and released his hold on his sword.

  ‘Damn, but what I wouldn’t give to be riding out to these bastards with Redwane and a century of his White Wolves about now,’ said Wolfgart.

  Sigmar smiled. ‘Aye, that would be most welcome, but Middenheim will have its own problems if I’m any judge.’

  Further conversation was halted as the air grew dense and cold. The blood drinkers were ahead of them, blocking the road and silhouetted on the crest of the slope ahead of them. Sigmar felt his skin crawl at their nearness, the very core of what made him a man rebelling at being so close to creatures that so obviously violated the natural order of the world. An aura of freezing air surrounded them, as though warmth was repelled by their very presence.

  Khaled al-Muntasir gave an elaborate bow from the back of his dark steed, smiling in welcome as though they were old friends and not mortal enemies. Sigmar’s horse balked at the proximity of the undead, its ears pressed flat against its skull and eyes wide with fear. He heard a jingle of trace and harness as the horses of his companions whinnied and sought to gallop back the way they had come.

  ‘Emperor,’ said the vampire, and Sigmar saw the gleam of razor-sharp fangs in the corner of the monster’s mouth. ‘It is a great pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘I cannot say the same,’ he replied.

  ‘No, I expect not,’ agreed the vampire, turning his attention to the Asoborn queen with a mocking glint in his eyes. ‘And Queen Freya, I am gratified to see you survived our previous encounter. I cannot promise you the same mercy I showed you at the river, but as you can see, many of your tribesmen now fight with me. Were you to join them, it would have a pleasing symmetry.’

  Freya seethed with fury and hurt, and Sigmar saw it was taking every scrap of her restraint not to hurl herself at the vampire. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  ‘You defeat my army, but you run from a host of old men and children,’ she said, each word a venomous barb. ‘You are nothing to be feared. You and your kind are leeches, not warriors. A true leader would have died with his army, not run like a gelded catamite.’

  Khaled al-Muntasir glared at her, but his angry expression turned to one of polite indifference, as if she had not spoken.

  ‘Death is meaningless to me,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir with a dismissive wave of a thin-boned hand. ‘None of your inferior race can strike down one of my kind. The blood of ancient queens runs in my veins, and I will simply rise from any wound a mortal can deal me.’

  Sigmar was studying Khaled al-Muntasir’s eyes as he spoke, and almost missed the lie, so glibly did it trip from the vampire’s mouth.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Sigmar, suddenly seeing a crack in the vampire’s self-perpetuated aura of invincibility. ‘You fear extinction like any mortal. More so. You’ve become so attached to the idea of immortality that just the thought of oblivion terrifies you.’

  The vampire turned his gaze on Sigmar, and he felt the full might of his will, a potent force that had sustained his existence for centuries and which had seduced hundreds with its promises of a life undying. Its promises were empty to Sigmar, for he had faced the temptations of a being far older and far more dangerous than a mere vampire.

  ‘I told you that you were not welcome in Reikdorf,’ said Sigmar, without breaking the vampire’s gaze and letting him know that the attempt to dominate him had failed. ‘I said that if you returned that you would be killed.’

  The vampire looked hurt at Sigmar’s harsh words and said, ‘You would not respect the sanctity of the parley? I had thought you a civilised man.’

  ‘What do you want, fiend?’ demanded Wolfgart.

  The vampire’s tongue flicked out, as though tasting the air like a serpent. He smiled and nodded toward Wolfgart. ‘You should keep yapping dogs on a leash, Sigmar. They might have their throats torn out to teach them a lesson.’

  ‘Now who’s not respecting the parley?’ said Alfgeir. ‘What is it you want? Speak your offer so we can spit on it and get back to our drinks.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir, more offended at Alfgeir’s disrespect than any notion of the parley being broken. ‘I came here to offer you one last chance to hand over my master’s crown. Ride out with it within a day and you will be…’

  ‘Spared?’ laughed Sigmar.

  ‘No,’ replied Khaled al-Muntasir. ‘Not spared, but you would become exalted champions of the dead, great kings among the host of the unliving. It is a great honour my master does you by even offering you this chance.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he come here himself to offer me this boon, ruler to ruler?’ said Sigmar.

  The vampire cocked his head to one side, as though trying to discern whether S
igmar was joking. Deciding he wasn’t, Khaled al-Muntasir shrugged.

  ‘My master does not lower himself to treat with lesser races,’ said the vampire. ‘Bring him his crown and your deaths will be swift, your rebirths glorious. Deny him and he will kill everyone in your ridiculous city, and bring your people back from the dead only after their corpses have been violated by the flesheaters. There will be no glorious resurrection for any of you, just mindless hunger and a craving for living meat that can never be sated.’

  ‘Tough choice,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Can we think about it?’

  Missing the sarcasm, the vampire said, ‘You have one day. When the twin moons rise, the end begins.’

  ‘Then we will fight you beneath their light,’ said Sigmar, turning his horse back towards Reikdorf. Before he could rake his spurs back, Khaled al-Muntasir had one last parting shot.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ said the vampire with mock embarrassment. ‘How rude of me not to introduce you to my new companions. My brothers, come greet our honourable foes.’

  The two warriors accompanying Khaled al-Muntasir rode level with the vampire and raised their visors. Sigmar’s heart lurched with a spasm of grief as he beheld the once-noble features of Counts Siggurd and Markus. Their faces were pale and bloodless, lined with spiderweb patterns of empty veins, and their eyes gleamed red with hunger. Sigmar counted these men as his dearest brothers, warrior kings who had marched into the jaws of death with him and emerged victorious.

  He had called them to his side time after time, and they had honoured their oaths to him without question. Now, when they had needed him, he had failed them. Their people were enslaved and their heroic lineage had been ended, each man cursed to an eternity of suffering and torment as a soulless blood drinker. They stared at Sigmar with undisguised thirst, fangs exposed and their bodies leaning forward, as though about to leap from their horses and bear him to the ground.

  ‘You must forgive them their ill-manners,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir with relish. ‘They are little more than children, still driven by their own selfish desires and hunger. They have yet to master their appetites when in civilised company.’