[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  The king stood and glared at Gerreon, but said nothing as he took his place beside his champion. Sigmar and Wolfgart now stepped forward to stand beside the boulder that would cover the entrance to her brother’s final resting place. Pendrag handed Sigmar’s banner to another warrior, and joined his sword-brothers.

  They placed their shoulders against the boulder and heaved, the muscles in their legs bunching as they strained against its weight. Ravenna thought they would not be able to move it, but it began to shift, slowly at first, and then with greater ease as its momentum built.

  At last, the boulder rolled across the entrance, and Ravenna closed her eyes as it slammed into place with a thud of rock and a dreadful finality.

  Dusk was drawing in as Bjorn sat on a rock staring at the tomb of Trinovantes, the sack containing the bull’s heart on the ground before him. He was impatient, and the small fire before the tomb did nothing to dispel the cold wind that stole the warmth from him like a thief. This part of the funeral rite always unsettled him, despite its necessity, but as king, it fell to him to perform it.

  He looked up at the slowly emerging stars as he waited for the other to arrive, seeing them as faint spots of light in the dusky sky. Eoforth said they were holes in the mortal world, beyond which lay the abode of the gods, from where they looked down on the race of man. Bjorn did not know if it were true, but it sounded good, and he was prepared to bow before the wisdom of his counsellor.

  He tore his gaze from the stars as he heard soft footfalls from the other side of the hill, and his hand stole towards Soultaker’s haft. He could see nothing in the gloom, but dusk was a time of shadows and phantoms, and his eyes were no longer as clear as they had been in his youth.

  “Be at peace, Bjorn,” chuckled a low, yet powerful voice. “I mean you no harm this night.”

  A hunched woman, swathed in black robes, emerged from behind the mound of the tomb, but Bjorn did not release his grip on the weapon as he saw her. She walked with the aid of a gnarled staff, and her hair was as white as a mist daemon’s hide.

  The comparison unnerved him, but he stood to face her, determined that he would show no emotion before the hag woman of the Brackenwalch.

  “You bring the offering for the god of the dead?” asked the woman. Her face was ancient and wrinkled, yet her eyes were like those of a maiden, bright and full of mischief.

  “I do,” replied Bjorn, bending to lift the sack from the ground.

  “Something unsettles you, Bjorn?” asked the woman.

  “Your kind always unsettles me,” he replied.

  “My kind?” sneered the old woman. “It was my kind that protected you when plague came to your lands. It was my kind that warned you of the great beast of the Howling Hills. Thanks to me, you have prospered, and the Unberogen are now numbered among the mightiest tribes of the west.”

  “All of that is true,” said Bjorn, “but it does not change the fact that I believe darkness clings to you like a cloak. You have powers beyond those of mortal men.”

  The hag woman laughed, a bitter, dry sound. “Does it bother you that my powers are beyond mortals or beyond men?”

  “Both,” admitted Bjorn.

  “Honest, at least,” said the hag woman, settling on her haunches before the tomb. “Quickly now, bring the heart.”

  Bjorn tossed the sack to the woman, who caught it before it landed, and upended it into the fire. The heart began to sizzle quickly, and the pungent aroma of burning flesh rose as it began to burn. The crackling organ spat fat and blood as it smoked, and Bjorn felt his mouth water at the scent.

  “The god of the dead is also the god of dreams,” said the hag woman. “He sends sleeping visions to those who guide the souls of the departed to his realm.”

  Bjorn did not reply, having no wish to bandy words with this conjurer of dead things.

  She looked up at him. “Do you wish to hear of my dreams?”

  “No,” said Bjorn. “What would you dream of that I would wish to know?”

  The hag woman shrugged, moving the heart around in the heat of the fire. Its surface was blackened and shrivelling as the flames consumed it.

  “Dreams are the gateway to the future,” she said. “Vanity, pride and courage are no shield against the lord of the dead, and all journey to his kingdom sooner or later.”

  “Is the ritual done yet?” demanded Bjorn, irritated by the hag woman’s prattling.

  “Nearly,” she said, “but you of all people should know better than to rush an offering to the gods.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Bjorn, looming over the hag woman. “Damn your riddles, speak plainly!”

  The hag woman looked up, and Bjorn felt an icy hand take hold of his heart as surely as the flames had taken the bull’s heart. Her eyes shone with reflected light from the fire, and the heat from the flames vanished utterly.

  The cold wind howled, and his cloak billowed around him like a living thing. He looked up to see that the sky was black and starless, and the light of the gods obscured. Bjorn had never felt so alone in all his life.

  “You stand on the brink of an abyss, King Bjorn,” hissed the hag woman, her voice cutting through the still of the night like a knife, “so listen well to what I say. The Child of Thunder is in danger, for the powers of darkness move against him, though he knows it not. If he lives, the race of man will rise to glory and mastery of the land, sea and sky, but should he falter the world will end in blood and fire.”

  “Child of Thunder?” asked Bjorn, tearing his gaze from the lifeless heavens. “What are you talking about?”

  “I speak of a time far from here, beyond the span of your life and mine.”

  “If I will be dead why should I care?”

  “You are a great warrior and a good man, King Bjorn, but he who will come after you will be the greatest warrior of the age.”

  “My son?” asked Bjorn. “You speak of Sigmar?”

  “Aye,” nodded the hag woman. “I speak of Sigmar. He stands poised at a threshold of Morr’s gateway, and the god of the dead knows his name.”

  Fear seized Bjorn’s heart. His wife had been taken from him on a night of blood, and hearing that he might outlive his son was to have his greatest fear realised.

  “Can you save him?” pleaded Bjorn.

  “No,” said the hag woman. “Only you can do that.”

  “How?”

  “By making a sacred vow to me when I ask it,” said the hag woman, taking his hand.

  “Ask it!” cried Bjorn. “I will swear whatever you ask.”

  The hag woman shook her head, and the wind lessened as the stars began to shine once more. “I do not ask it yet, Bjorn, but be ready when I do.”

  Bjorn nodded as he pulled away from the hag woman. He looked around the hillside, seeing that the sky had returned to its normal dusky colour. He let out an anguished breath, and turned back to Trinovantes’ tomb.

  The fire was extinguished, and the heart burned to ashes on the wind.

  The hag woman was gone.

  Sigmar watched the tiny flickering glow on Warrior’s Hill wink out, and hung his head, knowing that the last of the funeral rites for his friend was over. He could not make out his father on the hillside, but he knew that he would not neglect his duty to the dead.

  A shiver passed through Sigmar, and he looked into the west and the setting sun. Soon it would be dark, and he could already see wall sentries lighting the hooded braziers that illuminated the open ground before the walls of Reikdorf. Night was a time to be feared, and the monsters that lived in the forests and mountains claimed dominion over the land in its shadow.

  No more, thought Sigmar, for now is the time of men.

  “I will push back the darkness,” he whispered, placing his hand on a heavy square stone laid in the centre of the settlement. The rough surface of the stone was red and striated with thin golden lines, quite unlike anything west of the mountains.

  The last of the sun’s rays had heated its surfa
ce, and Sigmar felt a warm glow from the stone as if it approved of his sentiment. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching.

  Wolfgart and Pendrag, still clad in their bronze armour, strode through the town, their heads held high and proud. Sigmar smiled to see them, feeling a kinship with these brave souls who had fought and bled alongside him.

  “So what’s this all about?” asked Wolfgart. “There’s drinking to be done, and plenty of women who still want to welcome us back properly.”

  Sigmar rose from his haunches and said, “Thank you for coming, my friends.”

  “Is everything all right?” asked Pendrag, catching a measure of his tone.

  Sigmar nodded, squatting down next to the red stone. “You know what this is?”

  “Of course,” said Wolfgart, kneeling next to him.

  “It is the Oathstone,” said Pendrag.

  “Aye,” said Sigmar. “The Oathstone, carried from lands far to the east by the first chiefs of the Unberogen, and planted in the earth when they settled here.”

  “What of it?” asked Wolfgart.

  “The town of Reikdorf was built around this stone, and its people have flourished, the land opening up to us and returning our care tenfold,” said Sigmar, laying his hand on the stone. “When a man plights his troth to a woman, their hands are fastened here. When a new king swears to lead his people, his oath is taken here, and when warriors swear blood oaths, their blood falls upon this stone.”

  “Well,” began Pendrag, “you are not yet king, and I’m assuming you’re not planning on marrying either of us?”

  “He’d bloody better not be!” cried Wolfgart. “He’s too skinny for my tastes anyway.”

  Sigmar shook his head. “You’re right, Pendrag. I brought you to this place because I want what happens here to be remembered by both of you. We won a great victory at Astofen, but that is just the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?” asked Wolfgart.

  “Of us,” said Sigmar.

  “Maybe you were wrong, Pendrag,” said Wolfgart. “Maybe he does want to marry us.”

  “I mean ‘us’ as in the race of man,” said Sigmar. “Astofen was just the beginning, but I see something greater for us. All year, the beasts of the forest attack our settlements, and greenskins from the mountains plague us, yet still we fight each other. The Teutogens and Thuringians raid our northern lands and the Merogens our southern settlements. The Norsii and the Udoses are in a state of constant war, and the Jutones and the Endals have fought each other for longer than any man can remember.”

  Wolfgart shrugged. “It’s the way it’s always been.”

  Pendrag nodded and said, “Men will always fight one another. The strong take from the weak, and the powerful will always want more power.”

  “Not any more,” said Sigmar. “Here we make an oath to end the wars between the tribes. If we are ever to make more of ourselves, to do more than simply survive, then we must be united in common purpose.”

  Sigmar pulled Ghal-maraz from his belt and laid it across the Oathstone.

  “On my dooming day, I walked amongst the tombs of my forefathers and saw our land laid out before me. I saw the sprawling forests and scattered towns within it, like islands in a dark sea. I saw the strength of men, but I also saw frailty and fear as people huddled together behind high walls that separated them from one another. I felt the jealousy and mistrust that will forever be our undoing in the face of stronger enemies. I have a great vision of a mighty empire of men, a land ruled with justice and strength, but if we are ever to stand a chance of realising that vision, we must put such petty considerations behind us.”

  “A lofty goal,” said Pendrag.

  “But a worthy one.”

  “Worthy, yes,” said Wolfgart, “but an impossible one. The tribes live for war and fighting, they have always fought, and they always will.”

  Sigmar shook his head, and placed his hand on Wolfgart’s shoulder. “You are wrong, my friend. Together we can begin something magnificent.”

  “Together?” asked Wolfgart.

  “Aye, together,” said Sigmar, placing his hand on the head of his mighty warhammer. “I cannot do this alone; I need my sword-brothers with me. Swear with me, my friends. Swear that everything we do from this day forth will be in service of this vision of a united empire of man.”

  Wolfgart and Pendrag looked at each other as though thinking him mad, but Pendrag turned to him and smiled. “This oath, will it require blood? We’ve all shed enough these last few days.”

  “No, my friend,” said Sigmar. “Blood is for Ulric, your word will be enough.”

  “Then you have it,” nodded Pendrag, placing his hand on the haft of the warhammer.

  “Wolfgart?”

  His friend shook his head with a smile. “You’re both mad, but it is a grand madness, so count me in.”

  Wolfgart placed his hand on Ghal-maraz, and Sigmar said, “I swear by all the gods of the land and upon this mighty weapon that I will not rest until all the tribes of men are united and strong.”

  “I swear this also,” said Pendrag.

  “As do I,” said Wolfgart.

  Sigmar’s heart swelled with pride as he looked into the eyes of his sword-brothers and saw the strength of their faith in him. Wolfgart nodded and said, “Now what? You want the three of us to march out and conquer the world tonight? We’d have our work cut out for us.”

  “We three are just the beginning,” promised Sigmar, “but there will be more.”

  “Many will not want to walk this road with us,” warned Pendrag. “We will not forge this empire of yours without bloodshed.”

  “It will be a long, hard road,” agreed Sigmar, “but I believe that some things are worth fighting for.”

  Wolfgart looked up from the Oathstone, and said, “Aye, I think you might be right.”

  Sigmar followed his sword-brother’s glance, and his heart beat a little faster as he saw Ravenna standing at the edge of the square. She was wrapped in a green shawl, pulled tightly around her body, and her black hair lay unbound around her shoulders. Sigmar knew that he had never seen her look more beautiful.

  He turned back to his friends, torn between the solemnity of the oath they had sworn and the desire to go to Ravenna.

  “Go on,” said Pendrag. “You’d be a fool if you didn’t.”

  They walked to the river, and watched the sun as the last curve of its light slipped further beyond the horizon. Darkness was creeping in from the east, and only the metallic rustle of sentries’ armour and the splashing of the river broke the silence of the world.

  Ravenna had said nothing as he approached, and they had walked in companionable silence towards the river, the dark waters churning past like fast-flowing pitch. Sigmar felt awkward in his armour, his every footfall loud and ungainly next to the grace of her poise.

  They walked past the boats, pulled up onto the banks of the river and the drying racks, coming eventually to a small jetty where tall logs were driven into the river to shore up the banks. Ravenna stepped out onto the jetty, and walked to the end, staring out over the waters of the Reik as they flowed towards the coast far to the west.

  “Trinovantes used to love swimming in the river,” said Ravenna.

  “I remember,” said Sigmar. “He was the only one strong enough to swim to the other side. Everyone else got swept downstream, and had to walk back to Reikdorf.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me,” smiled Sigmar.

  “I miss him.”

  “We all miss him,” he said. “I wish there was something I could say that would lessen the pain of his death.”

  She shook her head. “No words could do that, Sigmar. Nor would I want them to.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Why hang onto pain?”

  “Because without it I might forget him,” she said. “Without the pain I might forget that it was war and men like you that saw him killed.”

  “You blame me for his d
eath,” said Sigmar.

  She turned away from him, and the dying rays of the sun shimmered in her hair like molten copper. “An orc drove that spear through my brother, not you. I do not blame you for his death, but I hate that we need men like you and my brother to protect us from the world. I hate that we have to build walls to hide behind and make swords to fight our enemies.”

  He reached out and touched her shoulder. “The world is a dark place, Ravenna, and without warriors and swords we would all be dead.”

  “I know,” she said. “I am not naive. I understand the necessity of warriors, but I do not have to like it, not when it takes my brother away from me, not when it might take you away from me.”

  Sigmar laughed. “I am not going anywhere.”

  Ravenna turned back to him, and the laughter died in his throat as he saw the tears springing from her eyes.

  “You are a warrior and the son of a king,” she said. “Your life is one of battle. You are unlikely to die as an old man in your bed.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her.

  She fell into his arms, and wept for her brother now that the rites were concluded. She had been strong for long enough. They stood together on the edge of the river as the sun sank beneath the horizon and the stars finally came out in all their glory. The night was cloudless, and Sigmar looked up at the star pictures, seeing the Great Wolf, the Myrmidion Spear and the Scales of Verena shining against the darkness.

  There were others, but he did not want to move and spoil this moment to look at them. Ravenna wept for her lost brother for many minutes, and Sigmar simply held her, knowing that to try to speak would be to intrude on her grief. At length, her tears stopped, and she looked up at him, her eyes puffy, but as strong as when she had taken Trinovantes’ shield from him on the Warrior’s Hill.

  “Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes on the edge of her shawl.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Mystified as to her meaning, he said nothing until she eventually pulled away, wrapping her arms around her body again.