A handful of arrows slashed up at the beast, but every single one bounced from its dead hide. The war machine crews attempted to bring down the beast, but some hideous force protected it from their missiles. Unable to harm the dragon, the survivors of its attack turned their bows upon the dead spirits, loosing volley after volley at the glowing figures. Their arrows passed through the spirits’ forms, clattering on the cobbled streets and shattering as though they had been frozen in flight.
They might as well have been loosing arrows at clouds for all the effect they were having.
Undeterred, Marika pulled back her bowstring and loosed a shaft from the bow her father had given her on her fifteenth birthday. The bowstave was fashioned from a wood no Endal craftsman could name or work, its length inlaid with silver threads woven through the grain of the wood in swirling patterns that changed with the seasons.
Her arrow leapt from the bow, arcing up and slashing down through the spirits, and where its point struck, one of the forlorn revenants vanished in a flare of light.
“They can be slain,” she said, looking in amazement at her bow. The metallic threads shimmered with life and the wood grew warm to the touch. Her father had told her the bow had been crafted by the fey folk from across the ocean, but she hadn’t really believed him until now. She bent her bow and released over and over, freeing more of the damned spirits from their hellish servitude in shimmering twists of light.
But as many as she banished, there was no way she was going to destroy enough to save Aldred and the Raven Helms.
Aldred and Laredus stood back to back as the dead drew near. Ulfshard shimmered with a blue light, the blade brighter than Aldred had ever known it. The moans of the dead cut through the din of battle and the dry roar of the dragon and its screeching bats. The Raven Helms fought the dead coming in from the sea with desperate strokes, blocking ship’s axes and cutting down dead men who came at them with nothing but their clawed hands reaching to pluck the eyes from their heads.
The spirits of the dead enveloped them, swirling in a cloying mist of screams and tormented wailing. They tore at the Endals with insubstantial claws that passed through the thickest armour yet drew no blood. The merest touch of these damned spirits sucked the vitality from a warrior like a leech drawing blood from a wound. None came near Aldred, flinching from him as soon as he brought Ulfshard to bear. He swept his sword through the misty substance of the spirits, feeling their joy as the connection to the evil sorcery binding them to the world of the living was severed.
Yet it was not enough. The spirits shrieked and wailed as they were dissipated by Aldred’s blade, but there were too many of the fleshy undead to defeat. The ring of Raven Helms shrank as the ranks of the dead swelled still further. More ships were crashing into the shoreline to disgorge yet more of the doomed warriors of the dead.
Aldred heard a furious clamour from the citadel and saw a banner of bright colours borne through the melee, a flag no Endal would dream of bearing. It was a Jutone flag, ostentatiously colourful and garish, and beneath it rode a host of armoured lancers in pale blue cloaks fighting with curved sabres. Marius fought at their centre, cutting a dashing path through the dead with the elegant sweeps of a duellist. His blade was a golden streak of sunlight, and like Ulfshard, the dead feared it.
The Jutone cavalry smashed through the encircling dead, and Marius backhanded a reverse cut into the skull of a dead warrior, neatly removing the top of his head. Marius fought with fluid grace, as much a showman as a killer. His skill was undeniable, though Aldred saw he favoured his right side.
The charge of the Jutone horsemen was devastating, smashing the dead apart with ferocity Aldred had hitherto not suspected. The Endals had long believed the Jutones had gone soft in their city of merchants, preferring the luxuries gold could buy instead of living as warriors. Clearly he had underestimated Marius, and the thought disturbed rather than reassured him.
While the Raven Helms and Jutone lancers held the dead at bay, Marius reined in his horse beside Aldred, his face flushed with excitement and the thrill of battle.
“I think you should be getting out of here, yes?” said Marius.
“Where in Manann’s name did you come from?” demanded Aldred. “Weren’t you supposed to be holding the southern shore?”
“We were, but rather more monsters than we could handle came ashore and I had to fall back to the citadel to save my men,” said Marius. “We mounted up as soon as we saw your danger, and here we are.”
“You allowed us to be flanked!”
“Yes, my deepest apologies about that, but I did send a runner informing you of our withdrawal,” said Marius smoothly. “I suppose he must have been killed en route. That is a pity.”
“A pity!” stormed Aldred. “We were almost overrun.”
“And you still will be if you insist on having this ridiculous discussion now,” pointed out Marius. “Get up behind me if you want to live through this night.”
Marius held out his hand to Aldred, who bit back an angry retort as he hauled himself onto the back of the Jutone count’s horse. Though it went against everything he knew to be right, he held his sword out to Marius.
“The spirit creatures fear the magic of Ulfshard,” he said. “Use it to cut us a path.”
“No need, they fear mine also,” said Marius with a manic grin. “Now let’s be off.”
Marius kicked back his spurs with a wild yell, and his horse took off towards the citadel. The Jutone lancers fought alongside the Raven Helms as Marius forced the howling wraiths back with his enchanted blade. They rode back towards the citadel gates through the path the lancers had cut. Aldred heard cheers from the ramparts as they came within sight of the gates and laughed with joy. He saw his sister loosing arrows into the dead, and his relief fled as he saw the expression on her face. It was disappointment.
—
North, East and West
Redwane paced the firelit interior of the temple of Ulric, a pulsing vein throbbing at his temple as he listened to Myrsa’s pronouncement. Renweard stood at the count’s side, the sword of the Warrior Eternal held loosely over his shoulder, while Bordan sat on a block of dark stone yet to be hoisted to the temple walls. The flame of Ulric burned cold in the centre of the stone-flagged plaza, white and stark against walls that rose daily to enclose it as the temple neared completion.
Ar-Ulric and his wolves circled the flame, their black eyes reflecting its glow and regarding Redwane as a fox eyes a wounded hen. The temple had changed a great deal since Sigmar’s defeat of the daemon lord, all traces of the battle cleaned from the stonework and paved over with polished granite hewn from the quarries of the Middle Mountains. It had been a magnificent battle, yet no one wanted a reminder of that dread avatar of the northern gods to befoul a holy place of Ulric.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Redwane. “You’re really not going to march out?”
“I have made my judgement, Redwane,” said Myrsa. “And my decision is final.”
“But Sigmar needs us. You heard what Ar-Ulric said—the armies of Nagash are closing on Reikdorf. We have to ride south.”
“We need to keep Middenheim safe,” said Myrsa, clutching the hilt of the runefang tightly. The count of the northern marches walked towards Redwane and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “I know you and Sigmar are close, but the Emperor has entrusted me with the safety of Middenheim and I cannot let him down. If I ride south with my army then this city is doomed. Surely you must see that?”
“All I see is that we’re abandoning the Emperor when he needs us most.”
“You are not thinking straight, my friend,” said Myrsa, concern written across his features. “The deathly champion on the causeway wounded you deeper than you know.”
Redwane shrugged off Myrsa’s hand, angry at the other man’s pity. Two days had passed since Ar-Ulric’s arrival, and his strength was only now beginning to return. The icy numbness and frozen chill that had stilled his
heart still clung to his grey flesh. No heat warmed Redwane now, yet neither cold nor fear touched him anymore. His body was alive, yet he felt no sensations of life. Food was tasteless, beauty meaningless, and all that remained to him was the pain of his many scars.
He turned to Ar-Ulric, his tone accusing. “You agree with this? You crowned Sigmar, remember? You would cower in this mountain city and leave him to his fate? That is not Ulric’s way, or if it is, I’ll have no part of it.”
The wolves at Ar-Ulric’s side growled, baring fangs of ice and obsidian, their yellowed eyes boring into him with cunning beyond that of beasts. Redwane met their stare unflinchingly, daring them to gainsay him. Ar-Ulric crossed the temple towards him, his aura of frozen winters leaving Redwane untouched. Behind the great wolf-skull helm, Redwane saw piercing eyes like those of the wolves, one pale as a winter sky, the other blacker than a moonless night.
“You are soul-sick, Redwane of the Unberogen,” said Ar-Ulric, placing his glittering axe between them. Chill wisps of icy air wafted from the blade and haft, but Redwane felt nothing of the cold. “You do not see the passage of time as I do. I roam the wild places of this world, following the breath of Ulric to the forgotten sites of primal power. I seek to follow the wolf god’s path and instruct men in his ways of honour and courage.”
“Really?” said Redwane. “Then why do we never see you? It’s been over a decade since you’ve shown your damn face amongst the tribes. That doesn’t sound like you’re doing much in the way of instruction. That sounds a lot like hiding to me.”
“Redwane!” barked Myrsa. “Hold your tongue!”
Ar-Ulric held up his hand to silence Myrsa. “My days of wandering are over. From this day until the coming of the Red Eye, he who brings the End Times, Middenheim shall be my abode. But the Heldenhammer must face the dread Necromancer without the warriors of the north or he is not fit to be Emperor.”
“Why?” demanded Redwane. “Tell me why.”
“Because if the Flame of Ulric is ever extinguished, then the Empire dies with it. Do you understand that, Redwane of the Unberogen?”
“I understand it, but I do not accept it,” said Redwane. “And if that is the word of Ulric, then I spit on him and curse his name with my last breath!”
Gasps of horror spread through the temple at Redwane’s blasphemy, and more than one hand found its way to a weapon. Renweard swung the sword of the Warrior Eternal down, and Myrsa’s face flushed in anger.
“You dare speak such words in this place?” cried Myrsa.
“You’re damn right I do,” Redwane shouted back at him. “You’re deserting your Emperor and your friend because this madman who roams the wilderness on his own tells you to. For all you know he’s as mad as Torbrecan’s lunatics. Well I won’t abandon Sigmar, and if you won’t march to Reikdorf, I’ll go alone.”
“Then you’ll die,” said Myrsa.
“So be it,” said Redwane. “The gods don’t seem to care one way or another.”
He spun on his heel and marched towards an archway to the city beyond, feeling dead inside yet filled with fresh purpose and determination.
“Damn you, Redwane, I forbid you to go,” said Myrsa. “You are a warrior of the White Wolves! Sworn to the defence of Middenheim.”
Redwane turned and tore the wolf pelt from his shoulders. He dropped the cloak at his feet and unhooked the heavy warhammer from his belt. He let it slide from his grip, and it fell with a clatter of finality to the flagstones.
“Not anymore I’m not,” he said.
The streets of Middenheim were cold, colder than he remembered them, but it didn’t touch him. Redwane saw men and women huddled in doorways, pulling threadbare blankets around them as the breath misted before their mouths. Sunlight couldn’t penetrate the oppressive gloom that pressed down, and it seemed as though the warmth was being leeched from the world day by day. Once again, the city was filled with refugees, and Redwane wondered what manner of gods could leave their people to suffer such an endless parade of misery as the people of the Empire were forced to endure.
Redwane walked the streets at random, keeping to the shadows and losing himself in the maze of stone structures. Faces passed him, men in armour and men in rags. He no longer knew where he was going, and he no longer cared. Men he had trusted and called friend were turning their backs on Sigmar, the hero who had given them everything. Now Sigmar was in mortal danger and they did nothing to help him. The certainties of loyalty and honour upon which Redwane had built his life were crumbling, and all that was left was the coldness in his heart that knew there was only one path open to him.
He passed through the streets as a ghost, numb to the world around him and feeling the pain of his scars as if they reached down through his skin and into his bones. The wound in his chest throbbed like a second heartbeat, one that pumped ice around his body instead of blood. People were looking at him strangely, but he paid them no mind, walking ever onwards as he unbuckled plates of his armour, shedding iron as a serpent sheds its skin to be reborn.
His path became clearer with every plate that hit the ground, his steps surer and more certain. His head came up and he saw the world around him, bleached of colour and life, and knew that this was its true face. Love was a lie and struggling against the pain and misery that life threw up was pointless.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see a face he knew, but couldn’t place.
“What in Ulric’s name are you doing, you fool?” said the black-haired man clad in red armour and wrapped in a wolfskin cloak. Another man stood behind him, one with a sour face that made him look like he’d swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.
“I know you,” said Redwane.
“Of course you damn well do,” snapped the man. “It’s me, Leovulf.”
“Leovulf, yes,” nodded Redwane.
“We heard what happened at the temple of Ulric,” said Leovulf. “But what they’re saying’s wrong, isn’t it? You’re still a White Wolf, aren’t you?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” said the other man, lifting a discarded vambrace from the street.
“Shut up, Ustern,” said Leovulf.
Ustern, yes, that was it. Redwane turned away from them, making his way deeper into the city.
“Hey,” said Leovulf, taking hold of him once again. “Were they right about you saying you’re leaving for Reikdorf? To fight alongside the Emperor?”
“Yes, I’m going to Reikdorf,” said Redwane. “That’s what I told Myrsa, and that’s what I’m doing. The Emperor needs us and I’ll be damned if I don’t go to him.”
“And I’ll be damned if I let you go get yourself killed.”
“Don’t try and stop me,” said Redwane, clenching his fists.
“I’m not going to, but I meant what I said. I’m not going to let you get yourself killed, so if you’re set on marching to Reikdorf, then I suppose I’m going with you.”
“I’ll come too,” said Ustern. Redwane and Leovulf looked at him in surprise. Ustern shrugged. “A captain needs his banner bearer, else he’s not a captain is he?”
“Good point, lad,” said Leovulf. “Well?”
“Well what?” said Redwane.
“How are you planning to get to Reikdorf?” demanded Leovulf. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a host of the living dead surrounding this city. You’ll need a damned army to break through, and I don’t see Count Myrsa giving you his.”
“I know,” said Redwane, “but I know how we can get another one.”
Dawn was less than an hour away, but Maedbh knew the rising sun wouldn’t save them. She knelt beside a boulder at the edge of the river and dipped her cupped palms below its rippling surface. Splashing the cold water on her face sharpened her focus, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Her entire body ached and she rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes.
Even on campaign, when sleep was an elusive bedfellow, she hadn’t been this tired. In times of war she fought alongside warriors, men and women wh
o could look after themselves. This was very different.
Now she had people to protect who couldn’t defend themselves.
The entire population of Three Hills and its surrounding villages had agglomerated into one long column of frightened people, making their way west with whatever possessions they could load onto wagons or carry on their backs. Perhaps six hundred people rested in the shade of a low ridge of hills, old men and women, children and those too sick or injured to march with the queen. Garr’s sword band of Queen’s Eagles stood watch and she gave thanks that Freya had thought to leave these fearsome warriors at Three Hills. Only thirty of them marched with them, but their presence alone was helping to keep spirits high.
Maedbh turned away from thoughts of the queen, the guilt that she should have gone with her assuaged by the fact that she could still protect her own daughter and Freya’s sons. She clung to the hope that Freya might still live; after all, Master Alaric had said that some had escaped the massacre. If anyone could survive a battle with the living dead, it was Queen Freya.
This was their fifth day of march, and they had covered barely half the distance to the confluence of the great rivers. The oldest and youngest rode in the few wagons that hadn’t been taken by the queen’s army, but the rest walked. They were moving too slowly, and their pursuers did not need to stop to eat and rest as they must. Despite their stature, the dwarfs easily matched the pace of the Asoborns, moving ahead of the column and keeping watch on its vulnerable sides and rear. They took no rest, didn’t seem to eat or sleep, and were as indefatigable as the foe that pursued them.
Packs of dead wolves dogged their every step, darting in from the flanks to savage a straggling family or to pick off a child that wandered too far from the column. The dwarfs had saved as many as they could, but Maedbh sensed their frustration at the slow speed the Asoborns were making. The dead were right behind them, and every time her people rested, they got a little closer.
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