“It’s true. Look at the world we live in,” said Wolfgart, leaning against the side of the longhouse to vomit down the dwarf stonework. Glistening ropes of matter drooled from his chin, and he wiped them clear with the back of his hand. “I mean, think about it. Everywhere a man looks there’s something trying to kill him: greenskins from the mountains, the beast-kin in the forests, or the other tribes: Asoborns, Thuringians or Teutogens. Plagues, starvation and sorcery: you name it, it’s bad luck. Proves that everything is bad luck, doesn’t it?”
“Someone had too much to drink again?” said an amused voice from the doorway to the longhouse.
“Ranald shrivel your staff, Pendrag!” roared Wolfgart, sinking to his haunches, and resting his forehead against the cool stone of the longhouse.
Sigmar looked up from Wolfgart to see two warriors emerge from the warmth and light of the longhouse. Both were of ages with him, and clad in fine hauberks and tunics of dark red. The taller of the pair had hair the colour of the setting sun, and wore a thick cloak of shimmering green scales that threw back the starlight with an iridescent sheen. His companion wore a long wolfskin cloak wrapped tightly around his thin frame, and bore a worried expression upon his face.
The tall warrior with the flame-red hair, addressed by Wolfgart, ignored the insult to his manhood, and said, “Is he going to be well enough to ride tomorrow?”
Sigmar nodded and said, “Aye Pendrag, it’s nothing a brew of valerian root won’t cure.”
Pendrag looked doubtful, but shrugged, and turned to his companion in the wolfskin cloak. “Trinovantes here thinks you should come inside, Sigmar.”
“Afraid I’ll catch cold, my friend?” asked Sigmar.
“He claims he’s seen an omen,” said Pendrag.
“An omen?” asked Sigmar. “What kind of omen?”
“A bad one,” spat Wolfgart. “What other kind is there? No one speaks of good omens now.”
“They did of Sigmar’s coming,” said Trinovantes.
“Aye, and look how well that went,” groaned Wolfgart. “Born into blood, and his mother dead at the hands of orcs. Good omens, my arse.”
Sigmar felt a stab of anger and sadness at the mention of his mother’s death, but he had never known her and had nothing but his father’s words to connect her to him. Wolfgart was right. Whatever omens had been spoken of his birth had come to naught but blood and death.
He leaned down, hooked an arm under Wolfgart’s shoulders, and hauled him to his feet. Wolfgart was heavy and his limbs loose, and Sigmar grunted under the weight. Trinovantes took Wolfgart’s other arm, and between them they half carried, half dragged their drunken friend towards the warmth of the longhouse.
Sigmar looked over at Trinovantes, the young man’s face earnest and aged before its time.
“Tell me,” said Sigmar, “what omen did you see?”
Trinovantes shook his head. “It was nothing, Sigmar.”
“Go on, tell him,” said Pendrag. “You can’t see an omen and then not tell him.”
“Very well,” said Trinovantes, taking a deep breath. “I saw a raven land on the roof of the king’s longhouse this morning.”
“And?” asked Sigmar, when Trinovantes did not go on.
“And nothing,” said Trinovantes. “That was it. A single raven is an omen of sorrow. Remember when one landed on Beithar’s home last year? He was dead within the week.”
“Beithar was nearly forty,” said Sigmar. “He was an old man.”
“You see,” laughed Pendrag. “Aren’t you glad we warned you, Sigmar? You must stay home and let us do the fighting. It’s clearly too dangerous for you to venture beyond the confines of Reikdorf.”
“You can laugh,” said Trinovantes, “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’ve an orcs arrow through your heart!”
“An orcs couldn’t skewer my heart if I stood right in front of it and let it take a free pull on its bow,” cried Pendrag. “In any case, if it’s the gods’ will that I die at the hands of an orcs then it will be with its axe buried in my chest and a ring of its dead friends around me. I won’t be slain by some poxy arrow!”
“Enough talk of death!” roared Wolfgart, finding new strength, and throwing off the supporting arms of his friends. “It’s bad luck to talk of death before a battle! I need a drink.”
Sigmar smiled as Wolfgart ran his hands through his unruly hair, and spat a glistening mouthful to the earth. No one could go from drunken stupor to demanding more ale as quickly as Wolfgart, and despite Pendrag’s worries, Sigmar knew that Wolfgart would ride as hard and skilfully as ever on the morrow.
“What are we all doing out here?” demanded Wolfgart. “Come on, there’s drinking yet to be done.”
Before any of them could answer, the howling of wolves split the night, a soaring chorus from the depths of the darkened forest that carried the primal joy of wild and ancient days as it echoed through Reikdorf. Yet more howls rose in answer as though every pack of wolves within the Great Forest had united in one great cry of challenge.
“You want an omen, my brothers,” said Wolfgart. “There’s your omen. Ulric is with us. Now, let’s get inside. This is our Blood Night after all and we’ve blood yet to offer him.”
Sparks flew from the cooking fire like a thousand fireflies as another hunk of wood was hurled into the deep pit at the centre of the great longhouse of the Unberogen tribe. Heat from the fire and the hundreds of warriors gathered in the great hall filled the longhouse, and laughter and song rose to the heavy beams that laced together overhead in complex patterns of support and dependency.
Dwarfs had built this longhouse for the king of the Unberogens in recognition of his son’s courage and the great service he had done their own king, Kurgan Ironbeard, by rescuing him from orcs. Sturdy stone walls that would endure beyond the lives of many kings enclosed the warriors as they gathered to offer praise and blood to Ulric and carouse on what, for many, would be their last night alive in Reikdorf.
Sigmar threaded his way through the crowded hall towards the raised podium at the far end of the longhouse, where his father sat on a carved, oak throne, two men standing at his sides. To his father’s right was Alfgeir, the Marshal of the Reik and king’s champion, while on his left was Eoforth, his trusted counsellor and oldest friend.
The sights, sounds and smells of the great hall overwhelmed Sigmar’s every sense: sweat, songs, blood, meat, ale and smoke. Three enormous boars turned on spits before a tall wooden statue of Taal, the hunter god, their flesh crackling and spitting fat into the fire. Though he had eaten enough to fill his belly for a week, the scent of roasting meat made his mouth water, and he smiled as a mug of beer was thrust into his hand.
Wolfgart immediately found more drink, and began an arm wrestling contest amongst his fellow warriors. Trinovantes fetched a plate of food and some water, watching Wolfgart with studied worry, while Pendrag sought out the squat, bearded dwarf sitting in the corner of the hall, who watched the revelries with unabashed relish.
The dwarf was known as Alaric, and had come down from the mountains with Kurgan Ironbeard in early spring with the cartloads of hewn stone for the new longhouse. When the construction work was complete, the dwarfs had left, but Alaric had remained, teaching the Unberogen smiths secrets of metalworking that had provided them with the finest weapons and armour of the western tribes.
Sigmar left his friends to their diversions, knowing that every man must face his Blood Night in his own way. Hands clapped him on his shoulders as he passed, and roaring warriors wished him well on the journey into battle, or boasted of how many orcs they would slay in his name.
He joined with their boasts, but his heart was heavy as he wondered how many would live to see another day like today. These were hard, sinewy warriors with the hunger of wolves, men who had fought beneath his father’s banner for years, but would now ride beneath his. He looked into their faces as he passed, hearing their words, but not the sense of them.
He knew and
loved these warriors as men, as husbands and as fathers, and every one of them would ride into battle by his command.
To lead such men was an honour, an honour he did not know if he was worthy to bear.
Sigmar put aside such melancholy thoughts as he emerged from the throng of armoured warriors to stand before his father. Raised up on his throne, King Bjorn of the Unberogen tribe sat between two carved statues of snarling wolves, and was as intimidating a figure as ever, despite his advancing years.
A crown of bronze sat upon his brow, and hair the colour of iron was bound in numerous braids that hung about his face and neck. Eyes of flint that had resolutely faced the many horrors of the world stared out with paternal affection at the warriors gathered before him as they offered praise to Ulric that he might grant them courage in the coming battles.
Though his father would not be riding to war with them, he wore a mail shirt fashioned by Alaric. The quality of the shirt was beyond the skill of any human smith, but had taken the dwarf less than a day to make. Across the king’s lap was his feared axe, Soultaker, its twin blades red in the firelight.
As Sigmar approached the throne, Alfgeir gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, his bronze armour gleaming gold, and his unsmiling face apparently carved from granite. Eoforth bowed to Sigmar, and took a step back, his long robes singular in a room full of armoured warriors, his sharp intellect making him one of the king’s most trusted advisors. His counsel was both noble and fair, and the Unberogens had many times benefited from his foresight and wisdom.
“My son,” said Bjorn, waving Sigmar to stand beside him. “Is everything well? You look troubled.”
“I am well,” said Sigmar, taking his place at his father’s right hand. “I’m simply impatient for dawn. I hunger to put the Bonecrusher to the sword and drive his army back into the mountains.”
“Curse his name,” said Bjorn. “That damn greenskin warlord has been the scourge of our people for years. The sooner his head is mounted above this throne the better.”
Sigmar followed his father’s gaze, feeling the weight of expectation upon him as he saw the many trophies mounted on the wall above the throne. Orcs, beasts and foul horrors with great fangs, curling horns and loathsome scaled skin were rammed onto iron spikes, the wall below stained with the blood of their deaths.
Here was the head of Skarskan Bloodheim, the orcs that had threatened to drive the Endals from their homelands, until Bjorn had ridden to the aid of King Marbad. There was the flayed hide of the great, nameless beast of the Howling Hills that had terrorised the Cherusens for years, until the king of the Unberogen had tracked it to its hideous lair and taken its head with one mighty blow of Soultaker.
A score of other trophies surrounded them, each one with an accompanying tale of heroism that had thrilled Sigmar as a youth, crouched at his father’s feet, and which had stirred mighty, heroic longings in his breast.
“Any word from the riders you sent south?” asked his father, and Sigmar put aside the thought of trying to equal his father’s deeds.
“Some,” said Sigmar, “and none of it good. The orcs have come down from the mountains in great numbers, but it seems they are not going back. Normally they come and they raid and kill, and then they go back to the highlands, but this Bonecrusher keeps them together, and with every slaughter more flock to his banner every day.”
“Then there is no time to waste,” said his father. “You will do the land a great service as you earn your shield. It is no small thing to reach manhood, boy, and as far as tests of courage go, this is a big one. It is only right that you should feel fear.”
Sigmar squared his shoulders before his father’s stem gaze, and said, “I am not afraid, father. I have killed greenskins before, and death holds no fear for me.”
King Bjorn leaned close and lowered his voice so that only Sigmar could hear him. “It is not fear of death that I speak. I already know that you have faced great peril and lived to tell of it. Any fool can swing a sword, but to lead men in battle, to hold their lives in your hands, to put yourself in a position to be judged by your fellow warriors and your king: it is right you should fear these things. The serpent of fear gnaws at your belly, my son. I know this, for it twisted in my gut when Redmane Dregor, your grandfather, sent me out to earn my shield.”
Sigmar looked into his father’s eyes, both a misty grey, and saw true understanding there and an empathy with what he felt. The knowledge that a warrior king as mighty as Bjorn of the Unberogen had once felt the same thing made him smile in relief.
“You always did know what I was thinking,” said Sigmar.
“You are my son,” said Bjorn simply.
“I am your only son. What if I should fail?”
“You will not, for the blood of your ancestors is strong. You will go on to do great things as chieftain of the Unberogen when the grass grows tall on my tomb. Fear is not something to turn away from, my son. Understand that its power over a man comes from his willingness to take the easy course of action, to run away, to hide, and you will defeat it. A true hero never runs when he can fight, never takes the easy course over what he knows is right. Remember that, and you will not falter.”
Sigmar nodded at his father’s words, staring out over the warriors, who filled the longhouse with song and raucous merrymaking.
As if sensing his scrutiny, Wolfgart leapt onto a trestle table groaning with mugs of beer and heaped with plates of meat and fruit. The table bent dangerously under his weight as he swept his mighty sword from its sheath and raised it high in one hand. The sword was aimed straight and unwavering towards the roof, an incredible feat of strength, for the weight of his weapon was enormous.
“Sigmar! Sigmar! Sigmar!” roared Wolfgart, and the chant was taken up by every warrior in the longhouse. The walls seemed to shake with the power of their voices, and Sigmar knew he would not let them down. Pendrag joined Wolfgart on the table, and even the normally quiet Trinovantes was caught up in the mood of adulation that swept the hall.
“You see,” said his father, “these men will be your battle-thanes on the morrow, and they are ready to fight and die by your command. They believe in you, so draw strength from that belief, and recognise your own worth.”
As the chant of his name continued around the hall, Sigmar watched as Wolfgart lowered his sword and drew the blade across his palm. Blood welled from the cut, and Wolfgart smeared it upon his cheeks.
“Ulric, god of battle, on this Blood Night, give me the strength to fight in your name!” he shouted.
Every warrior in the hall followed Wolfgart’s example, drawing blades across their skin, and offering blood to the harsh, unforgiving god of the winter wolves. Sigmar stepped forward to honour the blood of his warriors, drawing the long-bladed hunting knife from his belt, and slicing the blade across his bare forearm.
His warriors roared in approval, banging the handles of their swords and axes upon their chests. As the cheering continued, the table Wolfgart and Pendrag stood upon finally collapsed under their combined weight, and they were buried in splintered timbers and plates of boar meat, and drenched in beer. Roars of laughter pealed from the walls, and yet more mugs of beer were emptied over the fallen warriors, who took Trinovantes’ outstretched hands and struggled to their feet with bellows of mirth.
Sigmar laughed along with his warriors as his father said, “With such stout-hearted men beside you, how can you fail?”
“Wolfgart is a scoundrel,” said Sigmar, “but he has the strength of Ulric in his blood, and Pendrag has a scholar’s brain in that thick skull of his.”
“I know both men’s virtues and vices,” said his father, “just as you must learn the hearts of those who will seek to counsel you. Draw worthy men to you, and learn their strengths and their weaknesses. Keep only those who make you stronger, and cut away those who weaken you, for they will drag you down with them. When you find good men, honour them, value them and love them as your dearest brothers, for they will stand shoulder
to shoulder with you and hear the cry of the wolf in battle.”
“I will,” promised Sigmar.
“Together, men are strong, but divided we are weak. Draw your sword brothers close and stand together in all things. Swear this to me, Sigmar.”
“I swear it, father.”
“Now go and join them,” said his father, “and come back to me after the fighting is done, either with your shield or upon it.”
—
Astofen Bridge
Booming war drums beat the air with the raucous tattoo of the orcs horde as they hurled their bodies at the log walls of Astofen. A seething green mass of armoured bodies surrounded the river settlement, the reek of their unwashed flesh and the primal ferocity of their battle-cries filling the air with a terrifying sense of impending doom.
“They can’t hold much longer,” said Wolfgart, lying on his front beside Sigmar in the long grass of the gently sloping hill, a league to the east of the besieged town. “The gate’s already buckling.”
Sigmar nodded and said, “We have to wait for Trinovantes.”
“If we wait much longer there will be no town to save,” said Pendrag, all but invisible, swathed in his scaled green cloak.
“If we attack before he is in position then we are lost,” said Sigmar. “The orcs are too many for us to fight head on.”
“There’s no such thing as too many orcs,” snarled Wolfgart, his hands balled into angry fists. “We’ve ridden for days without sign of the greenskins, now here they are before us. I say we sound the war horns and Morr take the hindmost!”
“No,” said Sigmar. “To fight such a host on equal terms is to die, and I have no intention of returning to Reikdorf upon my shield.”
Despite his words to Wolfgart, Sigmar longed to ride with his banner unfurled, the wind in his hair and the clarion call of war horns in his ears, but he knew he must restrain his urge to slay greenskins for now.
Concealed behind the ridge of the eastern hills, the Unberogen horsemen had the element of surprise, for the orcs’ attention was firmly fixed on the embattled settlement before them, but surprise would not be enough to defeat this horde, for surely a thousand or more greenskins surrounded the town.
[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer Page 2
