Sigmar saw the palisade forts of the Udose besieged by corpses of ragged flesh, while other clans were pushed into bleak highland valleys where they fought desperate battles for survival. Conn Carsten gave battle from the parapets of Wolfila’s rebuilt castle, his army a patchwork of warriors from a dozen different clans. Welded together by the common foe, they fought as brothers, though they scrapped like bitter foes in times of peace.
In the east, Count Adelhard led daring hit and run attacks against the dead, riding at the head of glorious winged lancers, whooping with excitement as they charged hither and thither through the ranks of the dead with wild abandon. The Ostagoths did not build cities, their people living in settlements that could be broken down at a moment’s notice and loaded onto wagons for transport. The dead had no focus for their assault, and the Ostagoth cavalry armies encircled and destroyed their enemies piecemeal.
The Cherusens and Taleutens took refuge behind the walls of their great cities. Krugar fought heroically on the spiked walls of Taalahim, the great crater city that nestled like a giant eye in the enormous expanse of the great forest. Always where the fighting was thickest, Krugar hewed the undead with glittering sweeps of Utensjarl.
Further west, Aloysis defended Hochergig with all the wild fury for which his kinsmen were famed. Forced to fight with every weapon available, many of the Cherusens chewed wildroot and drove themselves into bloody frenzies.
Atop the spire of the Fauschlag Rock, Myrsa and his warriors hurled the dead from the walls of their soaring city. The cliff-like sides of the rock writhed with climbing horrors, yet the city still held. Myrsa’s runefang shone with simple purity, and where it smote, the dead could not resist its power.
Count Otwin’s lands were near empty, his people scattered by the sudden invasion of the dead from the wastelands to the north-west. Long shunned by the living, these lands had vomited forth a ravening tide of the dead that had driven the Thuringians from their lands. Many now fought in Middenheim, or had since fled to Marburg.
Jutonsryk was a city of the dead, its streets empty of life and infested with degenerate cannibal creatures. Even if this war against Nagash could be won, Jutonsryk would forever be a forsaken and damned place, where no soul would seek to live again. Its great buildings and stone walls would fall into disrepair and within the span of a lifetime, no one would know that men had once lived there.
Further south in Marburg, the dead hurled themselves at the walls of a great citadel, but the defenders here were resolute and filled with determination to hold. Here, the power of the undead seemed weakest, as though a turning point in the battle for Marburg had been reached, and mortals now had the upper hand. Sigmar scanned the walls of the citadel for Count Aldred, but could not see the ruler of the Endals. Princess Marika and Count Marius fought side by side and when Sigmar saw the shimmering blue blade of Ulfshard in the Jutone count’s hand, he knew with heavy heart that Aldred was dead.
Setting aside his grief, Sigmar’s awareness of the Empire shrank until he found himself staring at Reikdorf once more. Despite everything that had been lost, Reikdorf remained. Enemies of the most terrible aspect stood poised to destroy it, but there was still hope.
Some people called hope a weakness, claiming it was foolish to trust in the world’s inherent natural justice. Sigmar knew better. Hope was strength. Hope could drive men and women to the most incredible feats of heroism, from the everyday kindnesses between friends to the epic, world-changing feats of kings and warriors.
Sigmar smiled to himself, understanding that most world-changing events came about not through the actions of so called great leaders, but ordinary men and women driven to extraordinary heights of courage.
And as he had seen his land, so too he saw his people.
Sigmar’s sight travelled the streets of Reikdorf, seeing the strength that resided in every man and woman taking shelter within the city’s walls. Though his body knelt atop Warriors Hill, Sigmar roamed freely through the city, flying over its thatched roofs and along its cobbled streets as though transformed into an invisible observer of life. He saw acts of tiny kindness between people who had never ventured further than the outskirts of their villages and who had been brought up to fear and mistrust outsiders; these people now shared what little food they had with those they would have fought only a few years before.
Here, an Asoborn woman offered bread to Brigundian children orphaned by the fighting, there an Unberogen family sheltered Taleutens and Endals within their home. In a silent, firelit dwelling in the northern quarter of the city, Orvin handed down his father’s helmet to his son, Teon. The lad took the helmet, and even as he slid it over his head, Sigmar saw the shame that he had not been kinder to his old teacher. For his part, Orvin wished he could tell Teon how proud he was, but he didn’t know how to begin. He loved his son, but a warrior’s duty without a wife at his side had made them strangers. Instead, they simply sat and sharpened their swords and polished their armour in strained silence. Though there was no affection between them, both Teon and Orvin would fight for the Empire, and both would die if need be.
Sigmar passed onwards, seeing Freya coupling with Garr, the commander of the Queen’s Eagles. This was the Asoborn queen’s way, using sex as a means of wringing each moment dry of sensation and taking advantage of all that life had to offer. She was a passionate woman, and lived without compromise. Sigmar admired her for that, but knew she could never be his Empress. Freya would never be any one man’s woman.
He did not linger on her lovemaking, but smiled as he saw Sigulf and Fridleifr practising swordplay in the other room. His heart ached to see these boys and not to know them, but to tear them from their old life for one they didn’t know and wouldn’t want would be a cruelty he could not inflict. These boys knew him as the Emperor, and would never know him as a father. Though it cut deeper than the sharpest sword, Sigmar knew it was the only thing that could be done.
Moving on, he saw Govannon the smith and his son, Bysen, with Master Alaric. They rolled the war machine they had been working on for weeks on end towards the eastern gates of the city. Elswyth was right, the blind smith would never willingly give up working, knowing all that would be left to him was a slow decline into death. To continue working gave him purpose, and that purpose kept him alive. Bysen was a hulking giant of a warrior, his mind left in tatters after Black Fire Pass. Both men had given so much in service of the Empire, but each was still willing to give more. Master Alaric had once again come to the aid of Sigmar’s people, which spoke volumes of his character, for a dwarf’s friendship was never given lightly. Sigmar was thankful every day that the irascible runesmith had seen fit to be his friend.
Alfgeir sat in the longhouse with his knights as they told bawdy tales and made proud boasts. Captain Leodan’s Red Scythes drank here too. These men were eager for the coming fight, painting fire masks on their helms and images of the sun on their shields. If they were to fight in twilight, then they would bring their own light.
Leodan drank with his men, the barriers of rank broken down on this last night, but Alfgeir sat apart from his knights. He drank sparingly, bound to these fine Unberogen men, but apart from them. Thirty years separated him from the next oldest of his warriors, and where their thoughts were fixed on the battle to come, Alfgeir’s were turned inwards, looking back over a life lived with honour and courage, but, ultimately, alone. In that respect, Sigmar felt more kinship with Alfgeir than any other man in Reikdorf. The Marshal of the Reik missed Eoforth, yet another thread linking him to his glorious youth cut away like a fraying rope that was on the verge of snapping. Where most men pushed thoughts of falling in battle aside, Alfgeir brooded on them—knowing his death was almost certain on the morrow.
Saddened, Sigmar flew on, passing Cuthwin and Wenyld as they drank and remembered happier times. Sigmar remembered catching the pair of them sneaking across the marketplace to spy on the Blood Night before the ride to Astofen. Neither lad had been old enough to fight, and to see t
hem as grown men was a stark reminder of how much time had passed since then. Though it had been many years since Cuthwin and Wenyld had seen one another, they picked up where they had left off, as though it had been only a few days. Such friendships were rare, and Sigmar dearly hoped they would survive tomorrow’s bloodshed.
Lastly, he moved to the large house in the south of Reikdorf where Wolfgart and Maedbh lived. Once again its walls were warm and its welcome complete. Wolfgart and Maedbh and Ulrike lay curled up together on their bed, sleeping in each other’s arms and content to pass this time together. Joy touched Sigmar at this sight, a man and his wife and their child together, all pretence and antagonism forgotten as the depth of their love for one another drove out all pettiness or recriminations. This had been Sigmar’s dream before the Hag Woman had cruelly disabused him of the notion that he could ever aspire to such a life.
Knowing he could never have the simple pleasures of hearth and home, wife and child, Sigmar had made his peace with knowing that the Empire was his bride. He had sworn to love it and no other, and he had kept his faith with that, sacrificing his desire for love and companionship to be the man he needed to be in order to rule. Seeing Wolfgart and Maedbh, with Ulrike nestled in the protective embrace of her father, made that sacrifice worth every moment spent alone and without Ravenna by his side.
In that moment, Sigmar vowed that when this world was done with him, when he was ready to act upon his father’s words, he would honour his promise to Ravenna. When the Empire was strong enough not to need him, he would walk the wolf’s road he had been promised in Ulric’s fire so long ago it felt like it belonged to the story of another man’s life.
Sigmar flew up and over Reikdorf, understanding that the strength in every person came from the life each one treasured. That it could be snatched away at any moment made it all the sweeter, driving men and women to chase their dreams and make them real. The dead had no dreams, no ambition and no forward momentum. If Nagash defeated Sigmar and covered the world in shadow, then it would stagnate, becoming a barren rock bereft of life and light. To cheat death and achieve immortality was one thing, but to rule over a world of grey, ashen wastelands, populated only by the shuffling, mindless dead, was no life at all. What could any man want with such a prize?
High upon Warriors Hill, Sigmar opened his eyes, feeling a swelling sense of humility as he looked down on Reikdorf with his mortal eyes once more. He rose to his feet and walked back down the hill towards his long-house. Beyond the city was darkness, an uninterrupted sea of shadow and death. Curiously uplifted by that, Sigmar found his fear of the dead had completely vanished.
The outcome of tomorrow’s battle was unimportant.
That he fought in defiance of Nagash’s lifeless, empty future was enough.
Sigmar would ride out and give battle, but he would fight with all the Empire at his back.
Thousands had gathered to hear the Emperor speak, filling the square at the centre of Reikdorf with a press of bodies like the crowd at an execution. Sigmar looked up to see the twin moons slung low in the sky, as though eager to witness this moment. His closest warriors gathered around him and people hung from windows and gathered on rooftops, eager to hear what the Emperor had to say as the time of battle drew near.
Freya and her Queen’s Eagles formed a ring around Sigmar, who sat atop his horse beside the Oathstone. His mount was a dappled grey gelding with a bright red caparison and a mane pleated with silver cord. Armoured in his dwarf-forged plate, Sigmar was a single source of brightness in the darkness, his armour gathering all the moonlight and magnifying it tenfold. Sigmar’s head was bare, his long hair unbound and spilling around his shoulders. His pale blue and green eyes swept over the thousands waiting to hear him speak, and he felt their belief in him wash over him like a tide.
People of all tribes were gathered before him. They had asked much of Sigmar over the years, and now it was his turn to ask something of them. He knew they would not refuse him.
Sigmar lifted Ghal-Maraz, and the ancient heirloom of King Kurgan glimmered with runic traceries as it sensed it would soon be set loose amongst the unliving.
“People of the Empire, we are besieged by an army of the dead,” began Sigmar. “A dread necromancer from the dawn of time has invaded our lands, murdering our people and enslaving those he kills to march in his dread legions. He comes not for plunder or any reason conquerors give, but simply to drain the land of life. He comes to our city to retrieve a powerful crown, forged by his own hand in an age forgotten by all save Nagash himself. He must not succeed, for the crown has the power to enslave all the lands of the living. I cannot stand by and let this happen, and nor will you.”
Sigmar’s voice grew in power as he spoke and saw the effect his words were having. They believed him, really believed him. They trusted him to deliver them from this terrible foe, but this was not a battle that would be won by one man, it would need to be won by all the people of the Empire.
He saw they were afraid, and Sigmar remembered what his father had said before he rode to Astofen. He recognised the universal truth of these words as he said them anew, like a father passing age-won wisdom down to his son.
“I know the fear that consumes your innards like a snake, but have courage, for we are living folk of flesh and blood! Feel your heart pumping that blood around your body; it is hot and vibrant, filled with all the passions of the living. Love, hate, joy, anger, fear, sorrow, happiness, exultation! Feel them all and you will know you are alive, that your soul is free and you are a slave to no one.”
Sigmar jabbed Ghal-Maraz towards the east and shouted his last demand. “It is the dead beyond our walls that shuffle and wail, crawl and cower under the spell of their dark master who should fear us! Though the sun is shrouded by shadow, I call upon you to take up your weapons and sally forth with me to meet this foul army.”
Thousands of swords were drawn from scabbards and raised high. Axes waved and spears stabbed the air as the people gathered in Reikdorf screamed Sigmar’s name. The walls shook with the deafening volume and the carrion birds perched on the roofs and garrets of the city took to the air with raucous caws of fear. The swelling roar spread through the city, taken up by every living soul in Reikdorf, even those too far away to hear Sigmar’s words.
“Together we will defeat the legion of Nagash,” shouted Sigmar. “We will send him screaming to the underworld that waits to consume him. Rally, people of the Empire! Rally to me and fight!”
Sigmar led the way through the streets of Reikdorf towards the splintered wreckage of the Ostgate. Behind him marched a column of tribesmen, thousands upon thousands of warriors, men and women, old men and young, mothers, daughters, fathers and sons. Those without swords carried iron-tipped cudgels, butcher’s hooks, felling axes or clubs formed from broken furniture. Sigmar’s army was everyone in Reikdorf, peasant and noble-born alike. They came with him, chanting his name like a mantra or a prayer, their belief in him like a force of nature or some divine mandate stolen from the gods themselves.
His boon companions rode at his side, and though this could very well be the last day of the Empire, Sigmar faced it with pride and courage.
High Priestess Alessa was waiting for him at the Ostgate, surrounded by a hundred warriors with their heavy broadswords drawn. She carried a heavy iron box, banded with silver and secured by a lock of the same metal. Dark earth clung to the box, as though it had only recently been dug from the ground. Sigmar could feel the dark power bound to the dread artefact within, remembering the foul deeds it had driven him to before.
“You are sure about this?” said Alessa, tears streaming down her face.
“I am,” said Sigmar. “There is no other way to face Nagash and live.”
Alessa nodded, as though she had been expecting this.
“You will need to be strong, Sigmar Heldenhammer,” she said. “It will tempt you with all the secret things you hold deep in your heart.”
Sigmar shook his head with a
derisive sneer. “It offered me my heart’s desire once before and I rejected it. There is nothing else it can show me.”
“I hope you are right,” said Alessa, opening the box. “Or else it will not be Nagash who destroys the lands of men. It will be you.”
—
The Battle of the River Reik
The army of mortals poured from the rained gates of the city, forming a great mass of flesh and blood in the land between the two forks of the river that converged within its walls. Khaled al-Muntasir saw Sigmar at the heart of this force, a figure in shining armour to match his own. A twinge of unease flickered in the vampire’s chest, as though he were watching some magnificent Nehekharan host arrayed for ritual battle instead of a pathetic, desperate horde of mortals.
Sigmar took his place at the head of maybe three hundred horsemen, each atop a powerful, armoured steed, and each bearing a mix of swords, axes and spears. As more of the Emperor’s subjects marched from Reikdorf, a shape began to form of Sigmar’s plan, and Khaled al-Muntasir laughed as his unease was replaced by relief.
Another block of cavalry formed up beside Sigmar’s, and great wedges of infantry formed up to either side of the horsemen. Some of these were disciplined and marched like they’d been given some training, but others were little better than ragged mobs. Give them a taste of blood and death and they’d run easily enough. Yet more cavalry rode onto the northern flank of the army, their armour red-painted and bedecked with suns. A handful of chariots and painted warriors took position by the southern fork of the river, and the vampire smiled as he recognised Freya’s barely-armoured form.
“Some mortals just never learn,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Siggurd.
“They think they can win,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “Even after all that’s happened, they still think they can win. Hope has undone them. Hope has sent them out here to die ingloriously instead of accepting the inevitable and prospering.”
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