[Sigmar 02] - Empire

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “I won’t let you take the gold!” hissed Bastiaan. “It’s mine. All mine. You can’t have it!”

  “There is no gold,” whispered Marius, sagging to the ground, and leaning against the wall as his vision greyed. He heard the screams of the mercenaries as the beasts tore them apart, and the slaughter began.

  We failed, thought Marius, and this city will fall.

  ——

  The Last Days

  The city did not fall.

  On the eastern flank, the Udose were torn apart by the twin assaults from the beasts and their transformed comrades. Horrified warriors fled into the city, leaving the eastern approaches to the city wide open.

  The west fared little better, with the enraptured Jutones walking blindly towards non-existent treasures and illusory visions of their deepest desires. Most were torn apart by the beasts, but many more fell to their deaths as they chased phantoms of riches, women and lost loved ones over the edge of the cliff.

  Sigmar’s forces at the viaduct and Pendrag’s warriors to the north were cut off from one another as beasts and fires raged through the heart of the city. As Middenheim burned, its people prayed to Ulric and their prayers were answered as a frozen wind blew from the north, preventing the fires from spreading and saving their city from destruction.

  The flames were doused, but hungry beasts tore into the city’s inhabitants, killing and feeding in an orgy of slaughter. Blood ran in rivers through the streets of Middenheim, but its people were hardy northerners, and were not about to go down without a fight. Just as it seemed the city was doomed, aid came from two unlikely sources.

  The warriors that Sigmar had deemed too young or too old to stand on the front lines rose to the defence of their city, and an aged veteran named Magnus Anders rallied the warriors of the eastern districts to him. Already in his fiftieth year at the time of Black Fire Pass, the veteran Anders led his warriors in a series of brilliantly orchestrated guerrilla attacks that blunted the charge of the beasts, and led them into blind alleys where they could be butchered. Civilians and refugees followed his example and fell upon the beasts with axes, cleavers, clubs and pitchforks, driving the last of them into killing grounds of archers who had fallen back in the wake of the slaughter of Conn Carsten’s men.

  As the Jutone defence of the west was broken, rampaging packs of beasts flooded into the mercantile quarter of the city. The streets here were narrow, and the squat stone buildings bore the hallmarks of dwarf craftsmen. As the monsters surged into the city, the doors of these buildings burst open, and armoured wedges of stocky warriors in gleaming plates of burnished gromril smashed into the forest beasts.

  The Ironbreakers of Karaz-a-Karak cut a bloody path through the monsters, hammers and axes hewing warped flesh with grim, merciless skill. Alaric the Mad fought with an axe that shimmered with golden light, and his warriors were like a dam of iron before the tide of monsters. Blinking in the sunlight, Wolfgart fought at Alaric’s side, bloody and filthy, but unbroken and elated to be alive.

  The beasts broke upon the iron fortitude of the dwarf line again and again, until Alaric deemed the time was right and a double horn blast sounded the advance. The dwarfs marched through the streets of Middenheim, each separate host of warriors linking and forming an unstoppable wall of iron and blades. Roars of hunger and triumph turned to howls of fear as the beasts fell back before the inhuman killing power of the dwarfs.

  The beasts were pushed back to the western edge of Middenheim and driven from the cliffs without mercy. Here, Wolfgart found Marius of the Jutones among the fallen, still gripping his curved cavalry sabre. His rich tunic was soaked with blood, and though Wolfgart feared the worst, the stubborn Count of Jutonsryk still clung to life.

  At last, the sun sank below the horizon, and night fell. The first day of battle was over, and the city had not fallen.

  Night brought a much-needed respite from the battle, for both sides had exhausted themselves in the furious struggle. Warriors rested, having spent the day fighting, but Sigmar, Pendrag and Myrsa made a circuit of the defences, taking time to praise each sword band’s courage and assure them of victory. It was draining work, and the strain was telling by the time Sigmar gathered his counts in the Hall of Winter.

  The mighty longhouse at the heart of Middenheim had once been Artur’s great hall, but now it belonged to Pendrag. It had been a cold place of isolation and power, but Pendrag had transformed it into a place where all men were equal and free to speak their minds.

  A great fire burned in the hearth and the walls were hung with the pelts of legendary wolves that had hunted the Forest of Shadows. This was a place of warriors, and Sigmar had summoned his friends and allies to him as they faced a second day’s fighting. Normally, vast platters of roasted boar and flagons of northern ale would fuel such a gathering, but with no end in sight for the siege, the leaders of the empire ate sparingly, though they drank as fulsomely as ever.

  Alaric’s warriors had brought several casks of dwarf ale with them, for no force of Grungni’s chosen went into battle without the taste of beer in his beard.

  A single day had passed, yet Sigmar felt as weary as he had after a year of fighting at the siege of Jutonsryk. His limbs ached and his head thumped with the same dull pain that had been his constant companion since his destruction of the Norsii’s bloody altar. He was bone tired, but proud of all that his warriors had achieved.

  Though Sigmar was the Emperor, Pendrag sat at the head of the longhouse, as was only right and proper in his own city. Myrsa stood behind the count of Middenheim, and Alaric sat at Pendrag’s side, contentedly smoking a long ashwood pipe. The two warriors spoke with real pleasure at this unexpected meeting of old friends. Wolfgart and Redwane sat on the steps before Pendrag’s throne, resting their elbows on a flagon of ale from which they regularly refilled their tankards.

  Count Otwin sat by the fire, his body thick with bandages and his chained axe resting next to him. Similarly swathed, Count Marius lay on a padded couch next to the Thuringian count. His skin was an unhealthy grey, but he was lucky to be alive. Though Marius had been deeply wounded, the blade had not pierced his vital organs. The bewitched youth who stabbed him had been torn apart by the beasts, which was just as well, for Marius would have been sure to wreak a terrible vengeance.

  Conn Carsten sat staring into the fire, lost in thought, and Sigmar’s heart went out to the bluff clansman. In the face of disaster, Carsten had rallied enough of his warriors to fight his way clear of the beasts’ attack, and return to the fight alongside the aged warriors of Magnus Anders, but that did not change the fact that clansmen had run from a fight. The honour of the Udose had been slighted, and shame burned in every man’s heart.

  The atmosphere in the hall was subdued, for the day’s fighting had been hard, and the morrow promised to be harder still. Sigmar lifted his tankard of dwarf ale from the table and stood before Pendrag, bowing to the master of the hall before turning to face those gathered around him.

  “Ulric bless you, my friends,” he said. “This has been a day of blood that will never be forgotten. Our foes pressed us hard, but we are still rulers of Middenheim.”

  “Aye, but for how long?” asked Conn Carsten. “I lost two hundred men today. We won’t survive another attack like that.”

  “We can and we will,” promised Sigmar. “I swear this to you now. The first day of any siege is always the hardest. It is when enemies test one another and gain the measure of their foe. The attacker hopes to sweep the defenders away in one mighty storm, and those within hope to break the will of the besiegers with the strength of their resistance. Tomorrow will be hard, but it will be easier than today.”

  “You can’t know that,” said Carsten. “Pretty words might fool some men, but I have seen my share of battles and I know that’s just hot air. You know as well as I do that another attack like today will break us!”

  Sigmar moved around the fire to stand before Conn Carsten, and the clansman got to his feet,
as though expecting the emperor to attack him. He probably does, thought Sigmar, recognising the bellicose quality common to Udose tribesmen.

  “It will not,” said Sigmar, “and I will tell you why. We only need hold the Norsii here until our sword-brothers reach us. Cormac Bloodaxe has made a mistake coming to Middenheim, for even now armies are closing on him, and he knows he must finish us before they arrive. He surprised us with his skill before, but now he has no time for subtlety and must throw everything he has at the city.”

  “I’m no defeatist,” said Wolfgart, taking a long draught of ale, “but it strikes me that might be enough. We lost close to a thousand fighting men today, and the same again are too badly hurt to fight tomorrow. Like I said, we can hold the viaduct, but Middenheim’s a big place.”

  “Aye, it is,” agreed Sigmar, circling the fire and meeting the gaze of every one of his friends, “and we will defend every inch of it.”

  “How?” demanded Conn Carsten. “Where will you get the warriors to man the wall?”

  “Pull what strength you have in the tunnels back to the surface, manling,” said Alaric from the end of the hall. “My Ironbreakers will hold the secret ways into the city. We know them better than any of you.”

  “You see?” said Sigmar. “At every turn we are blessed by the gods. Fire took hold of the city and the people prayed for salvation. The wind and rain of Ulric answered those prayers and the city was saved.”

  “It rains every day in the north,” said Marius from his padded couch. “That is hardly a miracle, for the climate here is quite revolting. Must be bad for the lungs.”

  “If you don’t like the weather in the north, just wait an hour and it’ll change,” said Myrsa.

  Sigmar smiled, pleased to hear a note of levity from his commanders.

  “When it looked as though we would be overrun, the people drove back the invaders, and our allies from the mountains drove the beasts from the city,” he said. “The gods help those who help themselves, and Alaric brings some of the greatest fighters from his hold to fight alongside us. How many warriors make up your throng, Alaric?”

  “Five hundred stout fighters from honourable clans,” said the dwarf runesmith. “Warriors from the Grimlok goldsmiths, the Skrundok runesmiths of Morgrim, the Gnollengroms and the Grimargul veterans. But best of all, I bring Hammerers from King Kurgan’s personal guard and a hundred Ironbreakers to defend the tunnels.”

  “A hundred?” asked Carsten. “We had five times that number in the tunnels and they very nearly couldn’t hold back the vermin-beasts!”

  “Aye, and for every battle you have fought, manling, they have fought a dozen more. They’ve been fighting grobi and trolls and worse in the dark for longer than any of you have been alive.”

  Alaric leaned forward, blowing a puff of aromatic smoke from his pipe, and saying, “I warn you not to insult their honour by doubting their courage, manling.”

  “Conn Carsten meant no disrespect, Alaric,” said Sigmar.

  “No,” agreed Carsten, hurriedly. “None at all. I apologise, runesmith.”

  Alaric nodded and stepped down towards the fire as a dwarf in burnished armour of gold and silver marched from the edge of the hall bearing a long, slender case of dark wood.

  “I bring warriors, right enough,” said Alaric, “but I bring a mightier gift to aid the defence of this city.”

  The dwarf runesmith took the case from the warrior, and turned to hold it out to Sigmar. Alaric’s expression was hard to read beneath his thick beard, but it looked a lot like sadness, as though he were being forced to give up his most treasured possession.

  “I laboured long and hard crafting this in the greatest forge of Karaz-a-Karak,” he said. “Use it wisely, my friend.”

  Sigmar undid the golden clasp securing the case, and lifted the polished lid.

  Cold silver light spilled from the fur-lined interior, and the fierce beauty of the object within stole Sigmar’s breath away.

  It was a sword, but what a sword it was!

  Its blade shone like captured moonlight, its edge keen enough to cut the veil between worlds. Etched runes ran along its length, carved into the very heart of the blade. Sigmar had never seen a more perfectly forged weapon.

  “Is this…?” whispered Sigmar as those of his friends that could stand gathered around him.

  “Aye,” said Alaric. “The first of the runefangs. Take it.”

  Slowly and with reverent care, Sigmar reached out and lifted the sword from its case. Its hilt was silver, the handle wrapped in the softest leather, and the pommel stone a nugget of smooth gold. In the wake of Black Fire Pass, Kurgan Ironbeard had promised him a mighty blade for each of his kings, and Sigmar had never held a sword so fine. The runefang was light, yet perfectly balanced, the work of a master craftsman at the peak of his powers.

  The sense of connection he felt with the blade was incredible. It was akin to Ghal Maraz, but this was a weapon crafted for a man’s hand and forged for a spirit that endured for a fleeting moment compared to that of a dwarf.

  “Does it have a name?” he asked, turning the blade and letting it capture the firelight.

  “Not yet,” said Alaric. “It will earn one in battle, but that is for you to choose.”

  Sigmar spun the sword, feeling the blade cut the air like the sharpest razor, and shook his head. The sword was magnificent, a work of art so awesome that it seemed an insult to its perfection for his crude human hand to even touch it.

  “No,” said Sigmar, turning to face Pendrag. “This is not my sword to bear. We fight in defence of Middenheim, and its count is in need of a new weapon.”

  Sigmar reversed the blade and offered the handle to Pendrag, feeling the sword’s approval of his act. Pendrag looked from the runefang to Alaric. He too shook his head.

  “No, I can’t,” he said. “I am not worthy. You are the Emperor, it should be yours.”

  “I already have a weapon gifted to me by the king of the mountain folk,” said Sigmar, holding the magnificent blade out. “Take it, for it is yours to bear, my friend.”

  Pendrag took the runefang from Sigmar, and the light that flowed from the blade bathed him in pale luminescence, like the moon of a winter solstice. Sigmar turned to Conn Carsten, the normally sour-faced Udose war-leader smiling and full of wonder.

  “Still think we are doomed?” asked Sigmar.

  Conn Carsten shook his head, and said, “Not anymore.”

  The city did not fall on the first day, and it endured for the next twelve days.

  Every day, the Norsii attacked along the viaduct as beasts swarmed up the sides of the Fauschlag Rock. Unnatural storms battered the City of the White Wolf, heaving rainstorms and lightning strikes that levelled whole districts. Doomsayers cried that the gods had turned from the race of man, but as night fell on each day, the defences were rebuilt to face the next attack. After the first day’s fighting, there were no bystanders in the battle to save Middenheim. Every living soul within the city bent their efforts to resisting the siege, either as a warrior or in the infirmaries or granaries, or wherever help was needed.

  As well as warlike tribesmen, Cormac Bloodaxe sent hideous beasts into battle. Vile, slime-skinned trolls attacked alongside hulking ogres with horribly disfigured limbs and skin like hardened leather. Black wolves ran with the monsters, and red-furred hounds with spiked collars leapt the wall at the head of the viaduct to bite and tear at the defenders, before being cut down by hardened dwarf fighters.

  Flying beasts with wide wings swooped over the city, but the foresters of Middenland were deadly hunters, and brought dozens of the creatures down. Soon none dared fly too low for fear of a goose-feathered shaft between the ribs.

  The battle beneath the city was no less fierce, with every day bringing fresh attacks up through the tunnels and rocky galleries. Conn Carsten’s fears proved as unfounded as Alaric had promised, for the Ironbreakers of Karaz-a-Karak met and defeated every attack. They fought with more than just axes and s
words, for Alaric had brought three of the Guild of Engineers’ most prized weapons with him.

  Called Baragdrakk in the dwarf tongue, each was a bizarre mechanical contraption that sprayed great gouts of liquid flame, and burned the vermin creatures from their lairs in the rock. The fighting in the tunnels was near continuous, and only rarely were any of the Ironbreakers seen above ground.

  Sigmar had Alaric spread his remaining warriors around the city to bolster the defences where they were weakest and where the Norsii were sure to attack the hardest. With warriors from the Skrundok clan, the venerable runesmith made his way through the fighting to hammer arcane sigils into the very stones of Middenheim. He would not be drawn on the nature of these runes, but as the days passed, the lightning strikes that clawed at the city grew weaker and weaker until they ceased altogether. With the lifting of the storms, the hearts of the defenders grew lighter, and the oppressive gloom that hung over the city vanished with the brooding clouds.

  Sigmar fought in a different part of the city every day, strengthening the spirits of the warriors he joined with his great heart and enormous courage. Where Sigmar raised his hammer, men and dwarfs fought harder and with greater determination than ever before.

  Against Cradoc’s instructions, Count Otwin took to the field of battle, fighting alongside the King’s Blades, and his chained axe was red with blood that could never be cleaned from its edge. Marius also returned to the battle, though Sigmar was careful to position him where the fighting was less intense, for fear the Jutone count’s pride might see him killed.

  Conn Carsten’s Udose fought harder than ever, their broadswords cleaving through the beasts and monsters with a fury borne from the fear of dishonour. No fiercer foe was there than a wronged clansman.

  At Sigmar’s suggestion, Pendrag also fought in different parts of the city, letting his warriors see the magnificent blade crafted for him by Alaric. Fighting alongside Myrsa and the White Wolves, Pendrag became an inspirational leader of men, and all who witnessed him wield the mighty runefang in battle felt a measure of his power pass to them.