[Sigmar 03] - God King

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “Count Aldred of Marburg,” said Marius. “I am here to ask for your help, though Ulric knows, you’ve reason enough to turn me away.”

  “Aye, that I do, Jutone,” said Aldred, his tone icy as he drew Ulfshard. The fey-forged blade shone with a sapphire light in the wan afternoon sun, and Marika gasped as her brother stepped towards Marius. “It’s thanks to your tribe that we live on the edge of a marsh, afflicted by disease and cut off from our ancient lands. The spirits of my ancestors cry out for vengeance, so give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

  Marika was horrified at her brother’s reaction, but to his credit, Marius took Aldred’s anger in his stride. He nodded, as though he’d been expecting such an outburst.

  “Our tribes have never been friends, it’s true,” said Marius, “but I ask you to look past our shared enmity and give my people shelter. They have lost everything and have walked many miles to escape death. There is nothing left of Jutonsryk, the corpse army destroyed it all. Thousands of the living dead came in from the sea and killed most of my subjects. Fires burned out of control through the city and I had no choice but to lead the survivors from its burning gates. My castle is ruined and my walls toppled. Only the Namathir remains, and the dead now haunt its tunnels and catacombs. Deny me a place within your walls if you must, but do not punish those who have not earned your ire.”

  The count of the Jutones rose to his feet and Marika saw the anguish in his eyes, a genuine sorrow that she had never expected to see in him. Aldred still held the softly glowing blade of Ulfshard out before him, unwavering in his hatred. His anger had blinded him to what he was doing, and Marika decided to take matters into her own hands.

  “Marika! What are you doing?” hissed Aldred as she walked towards Marius.

  “What you should be doing, brother,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on the Jutone count.

  She extended her hands, and Marius took them, bending to kiss her palms. His lips were soft and he smiled at her as he stood straight.

  “You are a magnificent woman, my lady,” he said. “As radiant as the sun.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  Aldred stormed over to her side, but before he could speak she rounded upon him.

  “Do not say a word, Aldred,” she warned him. “I am the daughter of Marbad, and this is my city as much as yours. And you owe me, remember?”

  “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Is there any reason I should?” she hissed.

  “But he’s Jutone!” protested Aldred.

  “No, he is a man of the Empire,” said Marika. “As are you. Would you be known as a murderer or a man of mercy? A man of compassion and forgiveness or one who left thousands of innocents to die?”

  “Damn you, Marika,” said Aldred, though there was relief in his tone. “You are the better angel of my nature. I sometimes think it would be better if you ruled Marburg.”

  Aldred took a deep breath and sheathed his sword. He removed his helmet and met Marius’ gaze, his murderous anger dissipated, yet his hostility intact. It would take more than her simple, if heartfelt, words to quench his long-burning hatred of the Jutones.

  He extended his hand to Marius and said, “You and your people are welcome in Marburg, Count Marius. In the face of our enemies, we are one nation. Your enemies are my enemies.”

  Marika saw Marius was genuinely surprised and he nodded, accepting the truth of Aldred’s words in his heart.

  “Thank you, brother,” he said. “A small beginning, but a beginning nonetheless.”

  Aldred said, “Laredus will see that your people are given shelter and food.”

  “You have my thanks, and the thanks of my people,” said Marius.

  Aldred nodded stiffly and turned away, marching towards the gatehouse that led into the city of Marburg. A detachment of Raven Helms went with him, leaving Laredus and Marika with Count Marius.

  The Jutone count favoured her with a grateful smile.

  “You are an exceptional woman, Princess Marika,” he said.

  “In all kinds of ways,” she replied with a smile.

  Sigmar stared into the fire, more weary than he could ever remember. His horse was hobbled with the rest of the mounts, and three hundred Unberogen swordsmen huddled around their fires with their weapons within easy reach. They kept tired eyes averted from the flames, looking out into the darkness for their foes, but hoping not to see them. The night offered no respite from the armies of the dead, for they marched with hellish vigour and had no need to sleep, eat or rest.

  Count Krugar sat across the fire, drinking from a battered leather canteen. The Taleuten count had always been a powerful figure of a man, broad of shoulder and square of jaw, but these last weeks had strained even his formidable constitution. His left arm was in a sling, and his chest was bandaged from where a rusted spear had punctured his silver hauberk. Utensjarl was laid across his thighs, its scabbard torn and dented, yet the blade within as sharp and lethal as ever.

  Since the battle at Ostengard, the combined force of Taleutens, Cherusens and Unberogen had destroyed five more such hordes, yet it was an unending war. Each battle cost lives, but no matter how many of the dead they felled, more could always be brought back to hunt the living.

  This camp was within a cratered basin on the edge of the Howling Hills, which was Cherusen land, though the Unberogens were camped with two hundred riders of Krugar’s Red Scythes. Count Aloysis had led his warriors north to the Old Forest Road, where barrows clustered like blisters on the eastern foothills of the Middle Mountains had disgorged thousands of skeletal warriors to ravage the countryside. Dozens of villages had been destroyed, their victims dragged from death to serve in Nagash’s army.

  “You’re sure you won’t come with me to Taalahim?” asked Krugar.

  “I cannot,” said Sigmar. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  “My city is closer than Reikdorf,” persisted Krugar. “It will be safer.”

  “If the situation were reversed, would you ride to somewhere safer instead of your own homeland?” said Sigmar.

  “No,” admitted Krugar, “but I’m not the Emperor.”

  “Which makes it even more pressing that I return to Reikdorf.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t try to save your life,” said Krugar, passing the canteen over to Sigmar.

  “I’ll be sure it’s remembered,” said Sigmar, taking a drink, and not surprised to taste the fiery bite of harsh Taleuten corn spirit.

  “Ulric’s beard,” said Sigmar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a wonder you Taleutens are able to stay on the back of your horses drinking this stuff.”

  “Makes it easier to stay on if you’re a little looser in the saddle,” said Krugar, taking the canteen back with a smile. “Why do you think our horsemen invented stirrups?”

  They lapsed into a companionable silence, neither man wishing to break this moment of peace amid so dark a time. Count Krugar was preparing to ride to Taalahim and rally his people to defend their tribal heartland. Over the weeks of fighting, the army of the dead’s grand stratagem was becoming clear: isolate smaller villages in a black noose of corpses and choke them. No village could hold on its own, but gathered together in greater numbers the people of the Empire might be able to resist this terrible threat.

  “Any word from across the land?” asked Krugar.

  Sigmar shook his head. “Little, my friend. I have to assume the southern kings are under attack too. With Markus gone, Henroth and Siggurd are sure to be next to face Nagash’s wrath.”

  “If they haven’t already,” pointed out Krugar. “What about the west? Marius and Aldred?”

  “No,” said Sigmar. “And nothing from the north either. The dead are cutting us off from one another and denying us our greatest strength.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Our unity,” said Sigmar. “The strength that comes from knowing we are one people who can count on
our fellow men to honour their oaths of brotherhood. Nagash knows this; it’s why he’s forcing us to fight like this, as divided as we were before I founded the Empire. He’s drawing our forces into battle all across the Empire, trying to pick us off one by one and keeping us from gathering our strength.”

  “Then you definitely need to get back to Reikdorf,” said Krugar, setting down the canteen and drawing Utensjarl from its sheath. The blade shone like a sliver of gold in the firelight. “I swore on this blade that I would fight and die for the Empire, and I stand by that.”

  “Which is another reason for me to go home, for I’ll have no one dying needlessly. I’m the Emperor and I don’t know what’s happening in my own lands. If Nagash is half as cunning as the old legends make out, he won’t be attacking from just one direction, he’ll be pressing hard on all sides. We’ve done good work here, but it’s time for me to go.”

  “It’ll be a dangerous journey,” said Krugar. “Take a hundred of my Red Scythes with you.”

  “Thank you, my friend, but that’s not necessary,” said Sigmar.

  “Nonsense, they know this terrain better than anyone, better than the Cherusens even. They’ve raided these lands more than once over the years.”

  “I thought I told you that it was bandits, remember?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Krugar. “I forgot. So it was. Look, I’m not offering, they’re coming with you and that’s that.”

  “Very well,” smiled Sigmar, knowing it was pointless to argue. “I will be glad to have their blades.”

  “Damn right,” said Krugar, handing over the canteen once more. “It may be some time before I see you again.”

  “It may indeed,” agreed Sigmar.

  “Then drink with me as friends do around a fire. Let’s talk of happier times when the sun was golden, women were maidens, and old age something that happened to other men.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Sigmar, taking another swig.

  The gates of Reikdorf swung open as Wolfgart led two hundred of his finest warriors across the Sudenreik Bridge. He glanced at the panels carved into the inner faces of the bridge, heroic endeavours from the history of the Unberogen and its greatest heroes rendered by the woodcarver’s art. Master Holtwine had crafted the latest panels, depicting the heroic defence of Middenheim’s viaduct and the rout of the Norsii army from the base of the Fauschlag Rock. No panel depicted the desperate fighting in the tunnels beneath the rock, and Wolfgart was glad, only too happy to have that terror forgotten.

  To see the high walls of his home lifted his spirit in ways he could never describe. The blue and red flags fluttering from the towers and high buildings within were a shining light of hope in the long night. To see Reikdorf, it seemed impossible that darkness could ever truly hold sway.

  Though Reikdorf was a welcoming sight, his pleasure at seeing it again evaporated at the thought of returning to his empty home. Without Maedbh and Ulrike it was just a hollow structure of stone and timber, without life and warmth. He missed them terribly, but covered that loneliness by riding to war at every opportunity. And with the dead rising all across the Empire, there was no shortage of opportunities.

  This latest ride had seen them fighting on the edge of the Skaag Hills, where the dead had pressed north along the River Bogen. A number of mining settlements in the hills had sent word of the dead emerging from cairns in the high slopes, and Wolfgart led yet another band of warriors to fight them.

  They had destroyed the host, but with every ride, it seemed the dead were arising closer and closer to Reikdorf. How much longer would it be before they were clawing at the walls of Sigmar’s city? The Emperor was in the north, and though Alfgeir was more than up to the task of defending Unberogen lands, Sigmar’s presence was greatly missed.

  Not least by Wolfgart, for he had left Three Hills in order to fight alongside his friend.

  He and his warriors rode through the gate and into the streets, following a curving route that led towards the open square of the Oathstone. It never failed to amaze Wolfgart how the city had grown over the years. He remembered when it had been little more than a small settlement of timber structures, none taller than two storeys, huts of wattle and daub, and riverside lean-tos.

  Now most of the city was built of limestone and granite, the city’s masons learning how to shape stone with ever-greater skill from travelling craftsmen who came down from the fortified mountain holds of the dwarfs.

  Wenyld, one of Wolfgart’s battle captains, rode alongside him and said, “This isn’t the route to the stables.”

  “I know,” said Wolfgart. “I want to stop at the Oathstone.”

  “Any particular reason?” said Wenyld. “The horses are tired, and the men need rest.”

  Wolfgart wondered if he should even try to explain. Wenyld was only seven years younger than Wolfgart, but carried a weight of war upon his face. A wide scar split the left side of his jaw where a greenskin axe had smashed through his shield, and one eye was covered with a rough cloth patch. The claw of a ravening ghoul-creature had taken the eye on their last ride, and the wound had festered. Elswyth had done what she could, but Wenyld had lost the eye.

  “I want to touch the past,” said Wolfgart at last.

  “What?”

  Wolfgart sighed, knowing any explanation would sound foolish to the younger man. In truth, he didn’t understand his reasoning himself, he just knew he had to go there.

  “Take the men back to the stables then, I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

  Wenyld nodded and issued the orders to the armoured horsemen, who gratefully turned their mounts and rode towards the stables. Wolfgart saw they were exhausted after the long ride to the west and two major battles. It had been inconsiderate of him to put his own desires ahead of his warriors’ needs.

  He turned his horse and rode away, twisting in the saddle as he heard iron-shod hoof beats coming after him.

  “You should go with them,” he told Wenyld, as the man rode next to him.

  “A good battle captain never leaves his commander until the ride is over.”

  Wolfgart did not want company, but had not the energy to argue with the younger man.

  “Fair enough, though it’ll be longer until you get to your bed,” he said.

  Wenyld shrugged, a few torn links in his mail slipping from his corslet and falling to the ground. “It’s as far now, whichever way I go. I’ll ride with you.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Wolfgart, riding onwards in silence.

  The streets were quiet, the unnatural greyness of the world keeping people indoors, as though to see so grim a day would remind them of the gathering threat. Word of what was facing them had spread throughout the city, and though the temples were busy, little else had the power to tempt people from their homes. Every doorway was hung with talismans of Morr and every keyhole was plugged with dried fennel. Those men and women on the streets avoided eye contact and hurried into side streets and doorways as the armoured horsemen passed.

  “Some welcome home, eh?” said Wenyld. “Don’t they know we’re out there risking our lives to keep them safe?”

  “They know,” said Wolfgart, “but no one likes to be reminded of what we’re fighting. It’s bad luck to dwell on the dead, and only a fool wishes for more ill-fortune at times like this.”

  “I suppose,” replied Wenyld.

  Wolfgart turned his horse into the square of the Oathstone, the hard-packed earth almost as solid as stone. There had been talk of paving the square, but Sigmar had refused to allow this ground to be covered.

  “If we sever our links to the earth beneath us completely, then we are doomed. The Oathstone shares its bed with no other slab,” the Emperor had said, and the matter was closed.

  The square was empty save for a few wild dogs fighting over scraps stolen from a nearby butcher’s slops, and the sound of hoarse bellows roared from within Beorthyn’s forge. Wolfgart smiled. The old smith had been dead for twenty years or more, yet still the
name stuck. It belonged now to his apprentice, Master Govannon, a worker of metal considered by many to be a greater craftsman than Beorthyn had ever been.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” asked Wenyld, as a sooty black cloud billowed from the iron chimney stack and a thunderous bang echoed from the walls of nearby buildings. Even over that noise, Wolfgart could hear Govannon cursing.

  “Who knows? Something with that giant thunder bow Alfgeir and Cuthwin brought in, I expect.”

  “Is Cuthwin still in the city?”

  “I don’t know, maybe,” said Wolfgart. “Why?”

  “We were friends as youngsters,” answered Wenyld. “The years have taken us down different paths, but it would be pleasant to see him again.”

  “I vaguely remember the pair of you trying to get a look at my Blood Night, the evening before Sigmar rode to Astofen for the first time.”

  “You remember that night? I thought you were too drunk.”

  “Not so drunk I don’t remember you falling on your arse and running like the Olfhednar themselves were after your manhood.”

  “Aye, well it’s not every day you’re caught by the king’s son on his Blood Night.”

  “Sigmar and I tried it once, and we got the thrashing of our lives.”

  “Maybe you should have run as fast as I did.”

  Wolfgart smiled. “Maybe, lad, maybe.”

  He reined in his horse and dismounted before the Oathstone, the earth around it trod by a thousand people every day. He knelt beside the red stone, its rough surface warm and threaded with golden veins. Those veins were thinner than they had been when Sigmar had made them swear their oath to help him build the Empire, and he hoped that wasn’t an omen.

  “I miss you,” he whispered, thinking of Maedbh and Ulrike.

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he felt the Oathstone grow hot to the touch. He tried to pull his hand back, but it was stuck fast to the stone. Wolfgart gasped as he felt the heat travel up the length of his arm, his vision swimming as unknown power held him in its grasp.