03 - God King

by Graham McNeill

  Though he carried a knife, Govannon wasn’t naive enough to believe that he could defend himself from an intruder. Still, his forge was his domain, and anyone who thought otherwise was going to get badly hurt before they cut him down.

  He counted twelve steps, made a turn to the right and then counted another ten. The heatwash from below was like nothing he had felt before, a rushing all-enveloping fire that burned hotter than any forge he had ever known.

  “Whoever you are, get out of my forge!” he bellowed, mustering as much of his warrior shout as he could. “I swear to Ulric, I’ve a knife I’ll stick in the neck of any bastard who tries to take me!”

  Govannon saw two shapes beside the forge, one tall and hunched over, the other short and squat and swinging what looked like a short-handled sledgehammer.

  White sparks flew, each like a firefly of light that cut through his blindness in staccato flashes of clarity. The knife dropped from his hands as he saw Bysen by the roaring maw of the forge, lifting a gleaming sword blade from the anvil, where one of the mountain folk stood back with a monstrously heavy-looking hammer casually slung over one shoulder.

  The sight faded with the white sparks and Govannon groaned as his vision became blurred and hazy once again. He heard Bysen’s voice over the roaring of the forge.

  “Da, you’re here!” said his son, closing the door to the firebox with an iron-reinforced boot heel. “I didn’t want to wake you, da. But the dwarf man said it didn’t matter none.”

  The heat in the forge dropped as the firebox door shut, though it was still hot enough to take the chill off the unnatural cold that filled Reikdorf. Refugees clamoured to take shelter in the lee of the forge, as it was one of the warmest places in the city.

  “Are you all right, da?” said Bysen. “You need to go back to sleep?”

  “I’m fine,” insisted Govannon, walking toward where he had seen the dwarf with the enormous hammer.

  “You are Govannon, the blind manling smith?” said a gruff voice, pitched somewhere between irritation and condescension.

  “I am,” he said. “Who are you and why are you in my forge?”

  “I am Master Alaric, Runesmith to King Kurgan Ironbeard of Karaz-a-Karak, and I am here to reclaim my property. You’re in a lot of trouble, manling.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re not making any damn sense,” said Govannon, before the identity of the dwarf hit him between the eyes. “Wait, Master Alaric?

  “You’re the smith who made the runefang. And Sigmar’s crown.”

  “Amongst other things,” grumbled Alaric in annoyance. “I do make things other than trinkets for manlings, you know.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Govannon, moving through the forge with the ease of one who had a perfect memory of its layout. “It’s a great honour to meet you. I’ve admired your work for years. I just wish I could have seen the Runefang Blodambana before I lost my eyes…”

  “Bloodbane,” said Alaric. “A good name well earned.”

  “Bysen, fetch our guest some beer, the good stuff,” said Govannon.

  “Aye, da. Right away, da,” said Bysen, moving past him. The sword blade he carried shone in the light, as clear to Govannon’s sight as if he looked upon it with Cuthwin’s keen eyes.

  “Wait,” said Govannon, putting his hand on Bysen’s arm. “What is that?”

  “It’s Master Alfgeir’s sword, da,” said Bysen. “The mountain man helped me finish it.”

  “He helped you…”

  “Finish it,” said Bysen happily. “Now all I need to do is take it to Master Holtwine and he can fit the handle he made for it.”

  Govannon had all but forgotten about Alfgeir’s sword, it had been so long since he had begun its forging. Though he had sworn to the Marshal of the Reik he would finish it before the snows, that had been an empty promise, for the work on the war machine had taken all his time and effort.

  “Show me,” he ordered.

  Bysen obligingly lowered the sword, and Govannon was amazed at the finished blade. Smooth beyond belief, the metal was pristine and etched with angular symbols along its centreline that sparkled with strange light. Though everything around him was as blurred as ever, the sword blade was sharp and clear, a vision of perfection that made Govannon’s eyes wet with tears.

  Gingerly, he tested its edges, not surprised to find that both were sharp beyond the ability of any human whetstone to grind.

  He turned to Alaric. “You did this?” he said, his voice choked.

  “I came for something else, but saw that the blade needed doing,” said the dwarf. “It’s nothing just some simple cutting and keenness runes.”

  “I can see them,” said Govannon in wonderment.

  “Some things are clearer than others, manling,” said the dwarf cryptically. “Now, as to the matter I came here for. The baragdonnaz.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” said Govannon, finding it hard to think of anything but this perfect sword blade.

  Alaric sighed, as though bored by his stupidity. “The war machine Grindan Deeplock was returning to Prince Uldrakk of Zhufbar. The one to which you have made alterations unsanctioned by the Guild.”

  “You mean the Thunder Bringer?” said Govannon, moving to the corner of the forge and removing the tarpaulin covering the war machine. Though he couldn’t see it clearly, he ran his hands over its warm metal barrels. Alaric joined him and prised his hands from the metal.

  “Is that what you call it?” said Alaric, shaking his head. “Trust you manlings to call it something so bloody literal.”

  “I fixed it,” said Govannon proudly. “It took a while, but I got the metal densities in the end, though it took a lot of trial and error.”

  “Fixed it? A bodge job if ever I’ve seen one. More errors than I’d expect from a hundred apprentices,” grunted Alaric, circling the war machine and tapping it with an iron-ringed knuckle. The dwarf listened to the sounds, grunting and harrumphing with each one, until he’d made a full circuit of the machine.

  “What’s he doing, da?” asked Bysen.

  “I don’t know,” said Govannon, angry that his finest work had been so slighted.

  “I’m listening to the metal, manlings,” said Alaric. “Which would be a damn sight easier if you two didn’t keep jabbering on so.”

  Govannon could contain himself no longer and declared, “I managed to repair it, damn it, and I’ll wager no other smith in the land could do what I’ve done. If I can just get the fire powder formula to work, then we might be able to shoot it.”

  “Shoot it?” gasped Alaric. “You want to shoot it?”

  “Of course, what else would we do with it?”

  “With an untested barrel made by manlings?” said Alaric, kicking the pile of iron shot stacked beside the war machine. “And irregular shot too. Grungni and Valaya save me from manlings with ideas above their station! Even if I let you shoot the baragdonnaz, you’d likely blow yourself and anyone nearby to a thousand tiny burned pieces.”

  “Now just wait a minute,” said Govannon. “A lone Unberogen scout saved the life of the dwarf who hid this machine. Unberogen warriors found it and brought it back here. And an Unberogen smith fixed the bloody thing. The least you could be is grateful.”

  “Grateful? For this?” snapped Alaric, squaring up to Govannon and planting his hands on his hips. “Imagine your finest sword was found by a greenskin and then broken in two. Then imagine that greenskin bolted it to a rock he’d just dug out of a troll’s dung pile and called it fixed. That’s what this is to me.”

  “Aye, well if I was surrounded by enemies I’d be grateful just to have a weapon in my hands,” snapped Govannon, weary of this dwarf’s constant harping. “In fact, I’d be damn glad of it.”

  Master Alaric seemed to consider this for a moment. At last he sighed in resignation.

  “You might have a point there, manling,” said Alaric. “Very well, tradition is one thing, but an enemy at our throat is quite anothe
r. This is what I’ll do, I’ll make you enough black powder for a couple of volleys, but that’s all. And you’re to tell no other dwarfs of this.”

  “So you’ll help us make it work?” cried Bysen.

  “I reckon I might,” said Alaric. “Just make sure I’m nowhere nearby when you fire it.”

  ——

  The Last Night

  As it always was, the air was fresh and cool on Warriors Hill. The stillness that surrounded the last resting place of the honoured dead of the Unberogen was a place of solitude, where a man could wander the tombs of his forefathers and reflect on all that had gone before him and all that had made him who he was. Sigmar remembered coming here on his Dooming Day, just after he’d broken Wolfgart’s arm with a smelting hammer.

  His father had sent him here to walk through the dead of the tribe and listen to the whispers of the ancestors. Entering the tomb of Redmane Dregor, he’d made offerings to Morr before being plunged into darkness. Trapped within the tomb, he had prayed to Ulric and the wolf god had given him the strength to free himself from his grandfather’s barrow.

  Sigmar circled higher on the hill, the flag-wrapped body of Eoforth held across his chest as he carried him uphill towards his resting place. The old scholar’s body weighed next to nothing, and Sigmar was ashamed he had asked so much of this man, who had already given more than enough to his tribe and his Emperor.

  The priests of Morr had spoken the words of warding over Eoforth’s body, but even they could not say for sure whether that would be enough to resist the sorcery of Nagash. The only sure way to keep Eoforth’s remains from rising again would be to burn them, but Sigmar had balked at the idea of cremation. Eoforth would be interred within Warriors Hill, with the other heroes who had served the Unberogen.

  Sigmar passed the tomb of Trinovantes and Pendrag, feeling his throat tighten and his eyes fill with tears as he thought of his lost friends. They had died in battle, and were drinking, feasting and hunting in the Halls of Ulric. No man could ask for more, yet Sigmar selfishly wished they were here beside him, fully armoured and standing ready to give battle against this dreadful foe.

  At last he reached the tree-covered summit of the hill and laid Eoforth’s body down on the stone slab at its centre. He unwrapped the flag exposing Eoforth’s face, and bent to kiss the old man’s forehead.

  “I will miss you, old friend,” said Sigmar. “You kept me honest and true.”

  Sigmar knelt and unhooked a small pouch from his belt, removing a bull’s heart he had cut from the animal himself. He placed it in a bronze bowl set into the rock and poured a flask of oil across the bloody organ. Sparks from his tinderbox ignited the oil and the heart began to burn, slowly at first, for the muscular meat was tough and leathery. Eventually it caught and the heart fizzed and spat as the fire consumed it. The smell of the cooking meat filled Sigmar’s nostrils.

  “Father Morr, guide this soul to his final rest and watch over him as he passes from the lands of the living into the realm of the dead. Light his path through the Grey Vaults and keep the shadow hunters from his back as he makes his way to the Halls of Ulric. Judge him worthy, for no truer son of the Unberogen has come before you. Eoforth was a warrior without a sword, but thanks to his actions the world is a safer place. His peace was won with words and wise counsel, not with blades and war. Would that we could all be so wise. Guide him to his last rest, Father Morr, and I will preserve his memory for as long as I shall live.”

  The heart hissed as it was consumed, the fire flickering with a purple light. The dancing flames lit Eoforth’s face, and Sigmar stood, placing a hand on his friend’s chest. A tomb had been dug on the eastern face of the hill, and with the offering to Morr complete, Sigmar bent to lift Eoforth’s body once again.

  Cold air brushed past him, carrying the whispers of ancient voices, fleeting sighs of long dead warriors and the murmur of ghostly war shouts. Sigmar looked down, seeing that the rune-etched haft of Ghal-Maraz glittered with power. The hairs on the back of Sigmar’s neck stood erect and he knew he was not alone. His hand slid down to his warhammer and he spun around, bringing the weapon up to his shoulder in one smooth motion.

  The hill thronged with ghostly warriors, scores of them drifting uphill from their tombs with axes and unsheathed swords. They converged on the summit, and Sigmar knew he could never fight his way through so many. Alfgeir and Wolfgart had counselled against climbing Warriors Hill alone, but Sigmar had denied any attempt to provide him with a protective escort. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, but now seemed foolish and arrogant.

  The spirits closed in, crowding the summit of the hill, and Sigmar took a deep breath, flexing his fingers on the textured grip of his hammer. The dead warriors were translucent, the wavering outline of trees visible through their immaterial forms. A fearsome Unberogen war cry died on Sigmar’s lips as three figures stepped from the ranks of the spirit warriors, limned in shimmering winter’s light.

  Armoured in the style of many years ago, some in bronze, some in iron, they wore Unberogen war helms, and carried long swords that glittered with frostlight. Wolfskin cloaks hung from their shoulders and though Sigmar knew he should be afraid, nothing of these phantoms sent any tremors of fear through him.

  The largest of the three snapped up the visor of his helm and Sigmar felt himself hurled back to his childhood as the stern features of his father were revealed. King Bjorn looked upon his son with loving, paternal affection, his lined and bearded face alight with pride.

  At his father’s right stood Pendrag, resplendent in the armour he had worn in the defence of Middenheim. Even the blade he bore was a shimmering likeness of the runefang Sigmar had commanded him to wield. On Bjorn’s left was a young man, barely old enough to ride to war, and Sigmar’s heart broke to see the youthful features of Trinovantes. Twenty-five years had passed since Trinovantes’ death at Astofen, the first battle they had ridden to after their Blood Night, and Sigmar was amazed to think he had ever been that young.

  Tears flowed freely at the sight of these heroic warriors, friends who had stood beside him in battle and the father who had set him on the path to becoming a man. Their legacy was the Empire and their role in shaping him into the man who would build it was immeasurable. Trinovantes—Ravenna’s brother and Gerreon’s twin—smiled at Sigmar, and though he wanted to say how much he missed them all, how much he had loved them, he simply couldn’t. The words choked him, loss and grief like a powerful hand around his throat.

  His father nodded, and he knew they understood.

  The spectral army moved past him and he felt their pride in his accomplishments. They watched over him from Ulric’s Halls and they were at peace, knowing the lives they had lost in defence of their homelands had not been given in vain. Sigmar lowered his hammer as the spirits of the dead Unberogen lifted Eoforth’s body from the rock and moved off down the hillside to his open tomb.

  Bjorn, Pendrag and Trinovantes turned away and began moving off again, their duty to Eoforth stronger than any dark sorcery that sought to break the chains of loyalty and duty that bound the Unberogen together. Sigmar had never been so humbled in all his life. To know that the blood of these great warriors flowed in his veins was the greatest honour Sigmar could imagine.

  One by one, the soul lights of the dead began to dim. Trinovantes faded back into the mists of memory, and Sigmar raised a hand in farewell. He thought he saw Trinovantes smile, but couldn’t be sure. Pendrag’s form grew more and more insubstantial, until he too had vanished.

  Eventually only Bjorn remained. He and Sigmar stood in silent communion, and of all the things that mattered in this world, his father’s pride was the most important. Bjorn looked down at Reikdorf, and Sigmar saw a wry smile tug at the corner of his mouth, feeling his proud amazement at the magnificent city that had arisen from the small settlement he had known in life. His father pointed towards the city, and turned back to Sigmar.

  Know them and understand them, for it will make
you mighty.

  The words were not spoken, but Sigmar heard them as clearly as though his father had been standing right next to him. King Bjorn nodded, knowing Sigmar had understood his message. He moved off into the darkness, and was soon lost to sight as his shade returned to the realms beyond the knowledge of mortals.

  Sigmar sank to his knees, overcome with emotion. Ghal-Maraz dropped to the ground and he buried his head in his hands. He wept as memories of his father and friends surged to the fore, but they were not tears shed in grief, but in remembrance of all the joy they had shared in life. At last his tears were spent, and Sigmar stood tall as he turned to look at the city below, heartened by the thousands of pinpricks of light that glittered in the darkness.

  In the last month, the population had quadrupled, with thousands coming in from the countryside ahead of the rising tide of undead. Warriors, farmers and craftsmen thronged the city’s streets, frightened and cold and hungry, but unwilling to give up.

  Though a black host of the dead waited beyond the city walls, this island of humanity still stood inviolate. That alone was cause for hope, and as his father’s last words echoed within his mind, he felt his gaze drawn up and out of his body, climbing into the sky and expanding to encompass the entirety of the Empire.

  His awareness of the land was complete, and he saw the vast swathes of forests, rivers and hills. Flatlands and coastline stretched from the towering mountains of the south and east to the cliffs of the western wastelands and the frozen, ice-locked shores of the north.

  Like a creeping sickness, the armies of Nagash spread throughout the Empire, hordes of the dead enslaved to the will of the ancient necromancer like war hounds on a fraying leash. Bound together by a web of dark sorcery with Nagash at its centre, the armies of the dead jealously strangled the life from the land of mortals. The southernmost reaches of the Empire were already enveloped in darkness, but across the Empire, scattered lights of resistance flared brightly against the encroaching shadow.