[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  “I have that honour,” said Artur, “and you are not welcome in my city.”

  “Whether I am welcome or not is unimportant,” said Sigmar. “I am here to call you to account for the deaths of my people. While my father made war in the north, Teutogen raiders destroyed Unberogen villages and killed the innocents that lived there. You will answer for their deaths.”

  Artur shook his head. “You would have done the same, boy.”

  “You do not deny this?” said Sigmar. “And, call me boy again and I will kill you.”

  “You are here to do that anyway are you not?”

  “I am,” agreed Sigmar.

  “And you are here to challenge me to single combat I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  Artur laughed, a rich baritone sound of genuine amusement. “You are truly the son of Bjorn, reckless and filled with ridiculous notions of honour. Tell me why I should not simply have Myrsa and his warriors cut you down?”

  “Because he would not obey such an order,” said Sigmar, advancing towards Artur holding Ghal-maraz before him. “You may have forgotten the meaning of honour, but I do not believe he has. Besides, what manner of man would refuse a challenge before the eyes of the priests of Ulric? What manner of king could retain his authority were he to be proven a coward?”

  Artur’s eyes narrowed, and Sigmar saw a towering anger and arrogance behind his eyes.

  “You have just climbed an impossible climb, an impressive feat, but one which has drained you of your strength,” hissed Artur. “You are at the very limits of your endurance and you think you can best me? You are nothing but a beardless boy, and I am a king.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear,” snapped Sigmar, raising his warhammer.

  “The Dragon Sword will cut your flesh like mist,” said Artur, picking up his helmet and placing it upon his head. Sigmar did not reply, but simply circled towards Artur, studying his enemy and watching his movements. Artur was powerfully built, with the wide shoulders and narrow hips of a swordsman, but he had not given battle in many years.

  For all that, he moved well, smooth and unhurried, his balance and poise almost as perfect as Gerreon’s had been. The name of Sigmar’s betrayer appeared unbidden in his mind, and his step faltered at the memory.

  Artur saw the flicker in his eyes, and leapt forward, the Dragon Sword cleaving the air with a whisper of the winter wind following in its wake. Sigmar recovered in time to dodge the blow, but the chill of the blade passed within a finger’s breadth of taking his head with the first blow of the challenge.

  Sensing weakness, Artur attacked again, but Sigmar was ready for him, blocking with the head and haft of Ghal-maraz. Each block sent white sparks shivering through the air, and Sigmar felt the great warhammer grow colder with each blow he deflected.

  Artur’s reach was much greater than his, and only rarely could Sigmar close with the Teutogen king to attack. He spun around a thrust of the Dragon Sword, and Ghal-maraz slammed into Artur’s side. The clang of metal echoed from the ring of black stones, and Sigmar swayed aside to dodge Artur’s return stroke, amazed that his blow had not smashed the armour aside and splintered his enemy’s spine.

  Seeing his surprise, Artur laughed, and said, “You are not the only king to make allies of the mountain folk and make use of their craft.”

  Sigmar backed away, seeing the dwarf handiwork in the fluted scrollwork of the armour and the sheen of dwarf metal. The runic script on the haft of Ghal-maraz burned with an angry light as though displeased at being forced to inflict ruin upon another artefact of its creators.

  The two kings traded attacks back and forth in the shadow of the blazing plume of Ulric’s Fire, and Sigmar felt his strength fading with every passing moment. He had struck Artur several blows that would have killed a lesser warrior three times over, but the king of the Teutogens was unbowed.

  He saw the triumph in Artur’s eyes, and desperately brought Ghal-maraz up as another blow arced towards his chest. Once again, the weapons of power met in a ringing clash of metals unknown to Man, and Sigmar felt the impact numb his arms. Artur spun in and thundered his mailed fist against Sigmar’s chin.

  Sigmar stumbled away from the force of the blow as light exploded in his skull.

  He heard Alfgeir cry out, and looked up to see a roaring wall of white before him.

  Sigmar threw up his arms as he fell through the searing flame of Ulric’s Fire, the light filling his bones with blazing ice. He screamed as he fell, the aching cold of somewhere far distant and unknown to mortals like nothing he had ever known.

  Even the vast emptiness of the Grey Vaults seemed welcome compared to the harsh, pitiless power encapsulated in the fire. For the briefest instant, a moment that could have been a heartbeat or an eternity, that power turned its gaze upon him, and Sigmar felt his life’s worth judged in the blink of an eye.

  Then it was over, and he tumbled to the ground on the far side of Ulric’s Fire, rolling to his feet with fresh vigour and energy. Gasps of astonishment rippled around the circle, and Sigmar shared their amazement, for there was not a mark on him, and the flame had left him untouched.

  No, not quite untouched, for a fading cloak of shimmering wolfskin hung from his shoulders, and ghostly tendrils of mist clung to his body as though he had freshly emerged from the depths of the deepest glacier. White fire wreathed Ghal-maraz, and Sigmar felt a furious energy fill him, wild and untamed, as though he were the fiercest animal in the pack.

  Sigmar threw back his head, but instead of laughter, the triumphant howl of a wolf tore from his throat, the echoes of it racing around the circumference of the stone circle.

  White lightning flashed in Sigmar’s eyes, an endless winter’s landscape in their depths, and he saw the legendary deeds of the past and future spread before him. The heroes of the past and the leaders of the future surrounded him, their epic deeds and courage flowing together, filling his heart with the glory and honour of their lives.

  Without conscious thought, he raised Ghal-maraz, and felt the ringing blow of the Dragon Sword as it slammed into the warhammer’s haft. Sigmar dropped to his knees as though he moved in a dream, and Artur swung his ancient weapon once more.

  Sigmar raised his weapon, and the head of Ghal-maraz met the blade of the Dragon Sword in a cataclysmic explosion of force. Unimaginable energies exploded from the impact, and Artur’s blade shattered into a thousand fragments, the blade dying with a shriek of winter and the death of seasons.

  Artur fell back, blinded by the explosion, and Sigmar surged to his feet, Ghal-maraz swinging in a murderous arc towards the Teutogen king’s head.

  The ancestral heirloom of Kurgan Ironbeard slammed into Artur’s helmet, crumpling the metal and smashing the skull beneath to shards. Artur’s body flew through the air, landing in a crumpled heap before the blazing fire at the heart of the stone circle.

  Sigmar stood over the body, his chest heaving with the power that filled his veins and the exultation of victory. He saw the priests of Ulric bow their heads and drop to their knees. Not a breath of wind or a single voice disturbed the silence as Sigmar turned to face those who had borne witness to his defeat of Artur.

  “The king of the Teutogens is dead!” cried Sigmar, holding Ghal-maraz high. “You have a new king now. The lands of the Teutogen are mine by right of combat.”

  Even as he spoke the words, Sigmar could feel the lightness of them, the conviction that this was the will of the gods. He closed his eyes as he pictured the Unberogens and Teutogens going on to achieve great things. This was but the first step towards that goal. So vivid was this vision that Sigmar did not notice Myrsa approaching, until he spoke.

  “You claim rulership over the Teutogens?” asked the Warrior Eternal.

  Sigmar opened his eyes to see Myrsa standing before him with a dagger held to his throat. The Warrior Eternal’s eyes were as cold as Ulric’s Fire, and Sigmar knew that his life hung by a thread. His eyes flicked to the edge of the circle, where he saw Alfge
ir surrounded by armed warriors, his sword taken from him.

  “I do,” said Sigmar. “I have slain the king, and it is my right in blood.”

  “That it is,” nodded Myrsa sadly, “for Artur’s sons are dead and his wife is long gone to Morr’s kingdom, but here I am with a blade at the throat of the killer of my king.”

  “You said you would be proud to serve me if I were your king,” said Sigmar. “Does that no longer hold true?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On whether I believe you mean to make us slaves to the Unberogen,” said Myrsa.

  “Never,” promised Sigmar. “No man will be a slave of Sigmar. You will be my people, brothers to me, valued and honoured, as are all who hold true to the bonds of loyalty.”

  “You swear this before Ulric’s Fire?”

  “I swear it,” nodded Sigmar, “and I ask again, will you join me, Myrsa?”

  The Warrior Eternal lifted the dagger from Sigmar’s throat and dropped to his knees. Myrsa bowed his head, and said, “I will join you, my lord.”

  Sigmar placed his hand on Myrsa’s shoulder. “I need men of courage and honour beside me, Myrsa, and you are such a man.”

  “Then what would you have me do?”

  “The lands north of the mountains are infested with the dark beasts, and one day the Sea Wolves from across the ocean will return,” said Sigmar, offering his hand to his latest ally and hauling him to his feet. “As your king, I need you and your warriors to guard the northern marches and keep these lands safe.”

  Myrsa nodded, and glanced over to the dead body of the king he had once served as the priests of Ulric came forward to retrieve it.

  “Artur was a good man once,” said Myrsa.

  “I do not doubt it,” said Sigmar, “but he is dead now and we have work to do.”

  ——

  Union

  The path wound through the hills east of the River Stir, the earth rutted and obviously well travelled by wagons, and war chariots, Sigmar remembered, looking to the rolling green slopes around their caravan, and half expecting to see a host of Asoborn warriors descending upon them.

  Around Reikdorf, the roads were stone, formed from flat-faced boulders placed in shallow trenches, rendered level with sand and hard-packed earth. Before departing the lands of men to return to his king’s hold in the mountains, Master Alaric had helped Pendrag devise a means for constructing roads that could survive the rains and winter. As a result, Unberogen trade caravans travelled with greater ease and speed than those of any other land.

  Sigmar dearly wished for some of those Unberogen roads now, for the wagons he and Wolfgart had brought from Reikdorf were travelling slowly, and needed to be dragged from the sucking mud on a regular basis.

  A spring storm had flooded the land a week ago, and the eastern lands were still waterlogged and muddy. A journey that should have taken only a week had already taken nearly a month, and Sigmar’s patience was wearing thin. Behind him, a hundred warriors of Reikdorf, a mix of White Wolves and Great Hall Guard, marched in perfect formation, and another hundred riders surrounded the four carts of weapons and armour.

  Hunting dogs darted between the wagons and a string of six broad-chested horses and a dozen outriders roamed the countryside further out, alert for any danger to the travellers. Cuthwin and Svein moved ahead of the procession of warriors and carts, and Sigmar trusted them more than any other precaution to keep them safe.

  Alfgeir and Pendrag had reluctantly remained behind in Reikdorf to protect the king’s lands, while he was away on this mission to win the tribes to his banner. The column of warriors had only recently left the lands of the Taleutens, where Sigmar had renewed his oaths with King Krugar with four cartloads of weapons and armour, some of which were crafted from fine, dwarf-forged iron and beyond price.

  Now, Sigmar was travelling south to the land of the Asoborns to further strengthen the ties with the fierce warrior queen, Freya. The Asoborns and the Taleutens were allies, and had sworn Sword Oaths, but no such bond existed between Asoborn and Unberogen.

  With these gifts, Sigmar hoped to change that.

  Wolfgart rode alongside Sigmar, his chequered cloak and bronze armour dull and muddy.

  “We’ll never find their settlements, you know that?” said Wolfgart. “Even with Svein out front.”

  “We will find them,” said Sigmar. “Or, more likely, the Asoborn hunters will find us.”

  Wolfgart cast a nervous glance to the hills around them and the thin copses of trees that crowned their summits.

  “I don’t like these lands,” said Wolfgart. “Too open. Not enough trees.”

  “Good farmland though,” said Sigmar, “and the hills are rich in iron ores.”

  “I know, but I prefer Unberogen lands. This is altogether too close to the eastern mountains for my liking. Lots of orcs are on the move in them, and it’s bad luck to go looking for trouble.”

  “Is that what you think we are doing? Looking for trouble?”

  “Aren’t we?” countered Wolfgart, shifting the weight of his great sword on his back as water dripped from the pommel. “What else would you call riding into Asoborn lands without permission? Oh it all sounds wonderful, I grant you, a land full of buxom warrior women, but I’ve heard of the eunuchs they make of trespassers. I plan to hang on to my manhood, and to have many sons.”

  “Weren’t you the one who thought it would be fun to spend the night with an Asoborn woman? I seem to remember you being very amused when Queen Freya… handled me.”

  Wolfgart laughed. “Yes, that was priceless. The look on your face.”

  “She is a strong woman, right enough,” said Sigmar, wincing as he remembered the power of her grip.

  “All the more reason not to be here then, eh?”

  Sigmar shook his head and waved a hand at the wagons. “No, if we are to make allies of the Asoborns then they need to see that we are serious.”

  “Well, we are certainly giving away enough weapons for that,” said Wolfgart with a bitter shake of his head, “and the horses are some of my best stallions and strongest mares.”

  “It is not tribute, Wolfgart,” said Sigmar. “I thought you understood that.”

  “It feels wrong. With what we just handed the Taleutens, this is more than we can afford to give. Our own warriors could use these weapons and should be wearing this armour, and do we really want the Asoborns breeding stronger, faster horses?”

  Sigmar held the angry response he was forming. Even after all these years, Wolfgart could still not grasp the concept of all the tribes of men working together. The tribal rivalries were still strong, and Sigmar knew it would be many years before the race of men could truly break their small-minded associations of geography to come together as one.

  Without giving Wolfgart an answer, Sigmar rode to the vanguard of the column, passing his warriors and wagons to join the outriders. Lightly armoured in cured leather breastplates and hide-covered helmets of wood, these warriors were expert horsemen and carried short, recurved bows.

  The contours of these lands were dangerous, for an attacking force of hundreds could be hidden in the hollows and dead ground without them knowing it. Ahead, the path curved around a waterfall in full spate on the hillside, and numerous bushes and boulders were scattered around the edge of the track.

  It was open country, the sky somehow wider, and pressing down with grey clouds upon them. Rain was coming in from the mountains, and as Sigmar looked towards the vast wall of dark rock that reared up at the edge of the world, a shiver of premonition passed through him.

  Wolfgart was right, it was not good to be so close to the boundaries of the land, for terrible creatures lurked in the mountains, entire tribes of greenskin warriors, who just awaited the rise of a warlord to lead them down into the lands of men.

  All the more reason to make allies of the eastern tribes.

  Little was known of the Asoborns, save that their society was fiercely matr
iarchal, ruled over with passionate ferocity by Queen Freya. Of the tribes further east and south, the Brigundians, the Menogoths and the Merogens, even less was known.

  This journey into Asoborn land was dangerous, but it was necessary. Nothing provoked fear in people like the unknown, and, despite the danger, those other tribes would need to become known to Sigmar if his dream of empire was to become a reality.

  Satisfied that the outriders and scouts were as alert as they ought to be, Sigmar halted his horse to give the rest of the caravan time to catch up as the threatened rain began to fall.

  No sooner had Wolfgart and the caravan reached him than a great whooping yell arose from hundreds of throats, as the ground itself seemed to come alive with figures where none had been before.

  Naked and semi-naked warriors leapt from concealment, clad in cloaks pierced with ferns and tufts of grass, which had hidden them from sight amid the brush and boulders.

  “To arms!” shouted Sigmar as he heard a rumble of chariot wheels from beyond the curve in the track ahead. He lifted Ghal-maraz from his belt as his warriors splashed through the mud to form ranks in the road ahead of the caravan.

  Spears were thrust forward, and archers took up position to loose shafts over the heads of the spearmen. Sigmar spurred his steed along the line of Unberogen warriors, expecting a deadly volley of arrows from their ambushers at any second. Unberogen warriors drew back on their bowstrings, but as the Asoborn warriors made no move to attack, Sigmar knew that for them to loose would be folly of the worst kind.

  This was an ambush, but not one designed to kill.

  “Wait!” he cried. “Ease your bowstrings. Nobody loose!”

  Confusion spread at his order, but Sigmar repeated it again and again. The rain rendered everything grey and blurred, but Sigmar could see that the strange figures surrounding them were women, naked but for loincloths, iron torques and bronze wrist guards. Each carried two swords and was painted with fierce war-tattoos, their heads crowned with a mix of wild cockades and shaved scalps.