02 - Empire
Page 7
“As you wish, my lord,” said Laredus coldly.
The guest lodgings in Count Aldred’s royal apartments were functional and clean, though no fire had been set in the hearth in anticipation of their arrival. A meal of fish and steamed vegetables came quickly, though it took an hour for enough water to be heated to allow Sigmar to bathe. Such treatment broke all the rules of hospitality that existed between allies, but Sigmar kept his temper in check, for he could ill-afford two enemies in the west.
With the journey washed from his body, Sigmar followed Laredus and a handful of cloaked Endal warriors through the streets of Marburg towards the Raven Hall. Dressed in a robe of crimson and a long wolfskin cloak, Sigmar marched at the head of Wolfgart, Redwane and an honour guard of ten White Wolves. Though outwardly calm, their hands never strayed far from their weapons.
Sigmar’s crown glittered upon his brow, and he carried Ghal Maraz at his belt, holding the haft tight against his leg as he looked in horrified wonder at the dismal city surrounding him.
Water and human waste sluiced the streets of Marburg, and a sickly oily sheen coated the cobbles where it had seeped into the cracks. The rancid smell of spoiled meat and grain hung on the air, hemmed in by buildings that crowded together and loomed over the few wretched people abroad in the streets. A forsaken air hung over the city, as though its inhabitants had long ago fled its darkened thoroughfares for the lands left by the Bretonii.
The buildings were predominantly constructed from warped, sun-bleached timbers, with only the lower portions of each structure built from stone. Damp blotched the walls, and runnels of black water fell from leaking eaves. Windows and doors were shuttered, and through those that were ajar Sigmar heard little sign of life, only soft weeping and muttered prayers.
“Look,” said Wolfgart, nodding down a reeking alleyway to where another corpse-cart was pulling away from a thatched house. A black-robed priest of Morr painted a white cross upon the door as a hunched man wearing a grotesque mask with glass eyes and an elongated nose nailed a wooden board across it.
“Plague?” said Redwane. “They must have breathed the daemon air!”
“Be quiet,” hissed Sigmar, though he reached up to touch the talisman of Shallya that he wore around his neck.
“Redwane is right, the city is cursed,” said Wolfgart. “The carrion birds circle this place as if it were a fresh corpse. We should leave now.”
“Don’t be foolish,” replied Sigmar. “What manner of empire would I have forged if I turn my back on the suffering of my people? We stay and find the cause of this.”
“Very well,” shrugged Wolfgart, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re coughing up your lungs and drowning in your own blood.”
Sigmar put such concerns from his mind as the Raven Hall came into sight. The ancestral seat of the Endal rulers was a towering miracle: a majestic hall carved from a mighty spire of volcanic rock and hollowed out to form the rearing shape of a vast raven. Black pinions of glistening stone swept from the tower’s flanks, and a great balcony was formed within the jutting beak at its summit.
Sigmar caught a flash of movement on the balcony, and saw the slender form of a woman clad in a long black dress with shoulder-length hair of golden blonde. No sooner had he spotted her than she vanished inside the tower.
“Ulric’s bones,” said Redwane. “And here’s me thinking Siggurdheim was impressive.”
“Aye, they did something special here,” agreed Wolfgart. “You can see almost all the way to the hills around Astofen when the mists roll back.”
“It’s amazing,” said Sigmar, his anger with Aldred retreating in the face of this wondrous creation. Far to the north, the Fauschlag Rock dominated the landscape for miles around, but its towering form had been shaped by the fist of Ulric; The Raven Hall was the work of men. Countless years of toil and skill had gone into the Hall’s creation, and it was a thing of dark, majestic beauty.
Laredus led them into the tower through a gateway formed between two giant claws and guarded by more Raven Helms. Now that he was closer, Sigmar saw the intricate detail worked into the tower’s walls, the glassy stone carved with feathers that looked almost real.
The corridors within the tower were black, and torchlight rippled on the stonework like moonlight on water. Laredus led them deep into the heart of the tower, eventually reaching a carved stairway that led up into darkness. Sigmar wanted more time to explore this fabulous place, but Laredus lifted a torch from a sconce at the foot of the stairs and set off upwards.
Sigmar followed the Raven Helm, running his fingers over the smooth walls. The stone felt like polished glass, and was slightly warm to the touch, as though the fire of its vitrification still lingered deep in its heart. The stairs rose high into the tower, following the outward curve of its walls, and Sigmar’s legs were soon aching.
“Does this damn tower ever end?” asked Redwane. “It feels like it goes on forever.”
“You’ve been spoiled in Siggurdheim,” chuckled Wolfgart. “Too much soft living has made you weak. You youngsters might have the edge in years on a veteran like me, but you’ve no stamina.”
“That’s not what your wife says,” joked Redwane.
Even in the torchlight, Sigmar saw Wolfgart’s face darken with anger. Wolfgart gripped Redwane’s tunic and slammed him against the wall. His knife hissed from its leather sheath to rest against Redwane’s throat.
“Speak that way about Maedbh again and I’ll cut your heart out, you little bastard!” he said.
Fast as quicksilver, Sigmar’s hand shot out and gripped Wolfgart’s wrist, though he did not remove the blade from Redwane’s throat.
“Redwane, sometimes your stupidity surprises even me,” said Sigmar. “You insult the honour of a fine woman, wife to my sword-brother and shield maiden to a queen.”
“I’ll kill him,” snarled Wolfgart. “No man claims I wear the cuckold’s horns and lives!”
“You will not,” stated Sigmar. “Kill him and you will be a murderer. The boy’s words were foolish, but he did not mean them. Did you, Redwane?”
“No, of course not!” cried Redwane. “It was just a jest.”
“Make such jests at your peril,” hissed Wolfgart, putting up his knife and stepping away from the White Wolf. Though Redwane’s life was no longer in immediate danger, Sigmar knew that Wolfgart would never forget those poorly-chosen words. He glanced over to where Laredus had been standing, but the Raven Helm had already gone ahead. Sigmar knew Aldred would already know of this altercation, and he cursed.
“Pull yourselves together and follow me,” said Sigmar, setting off after Laredus. “And if either of you behaves like this again, I’ll have you flogged and stripped of those wolf cloaks you prize so dearly.”
Count Aldred’s hall was a great domed chamber at the very summit of the tower. It was lit by twin shafts of yellow light that speared in through windows that formed the eyes of the Raven Hall. From its position in relation to the windows, Sigmar guessed that a curtain of red velvet led to the balcony he had seen from the outside. Scented torches formed a processional route towards a dark throne, and Sigmar guessed that they were lit to disguise the stench of the city below as well as to provide illumination.
Count Aldred awaited them clad in his father’s armour, a bronze breastplate moulded to resemble a muscular physique and a tall helm with feathered wings of black that swept up from angular cheekplates. His long dark cloak spilled around a throne of polished ebony with armrests carved in the form of wings and legs shaped like black talons. The Raven Banner was set in a socket in the backrest of the throne, and Sigmar remembered the pride he had felt watching that same banner carried into battle at Black Fire Pass.
Laredus and Idris Gwylt stood behind Count Aldred, and two thrones of similar, but smaller design sat to either side of the Endal ruler. One of these thrones was empty, while upon the other sat the golden-haired girl that Sigmar had seen from beyond the tower. She was perhaps sixteen years
old and pretty in a thin kind of way, though her skin had an unhealthy pallor to it, much like everyone else Sigmar had seen in Marburg. She looked at Sigmar with a haughty expression for one so young, yet he saw the interest behind her veneer of indifference.
Sigmar marched towards Aldred’s throne, keeping his smouldering anger chained tightly within. He had come to the realm of the Endals to learn what lay in Aldred’s heart, but seeing the count told him all he needed to know. The scent of the torches caught in the back of Sigmar’s throat, and suddenly he knew what to say to Aldred.
“Count Aldred,” he said, “your lands are in disarray. Pestilence blights your city and a curse lies upon your people. I am here to help.”
Sigmar hid his amusement at Aldred’s surprise, and pressed on before the young count could reply, “King Marbad was as a brother to my father, and he saved my life upon the field of Black Fire Pass. I shed tears as we sent him to Ulric’s Hall, and I pledged to you that we would also be brothers. I have come to Marburg to make good on that pledge.”
“I do not understand,” said Aldred. “I asked for no aid.”
“When the lands of my counts are threatened, I do not wait for them to ask for my help. I bring a hundred of my finest warriors to your city to help in whatever way we can.”
Idris Gwylt leaned down to whisper something in Aldred’s ear, but Sigmar could not hear the words over the sound of the wind playing about the tower. Before Aldred could say anything in response to Gwylt’s counsel, Sigmar took a step towards the throne.
“Count Aldred, tell me what troubles your city,” said Sigmar. “As well as warriors, I bring my healer, Cradoc, a man who saved my life when I lay at Morr’s threshold. Let him try to ease your people’s suffering.”
Idris Gwylt stepped forward, and Sigmar breathed in his earthy aroma. Gwylt carried the smell of freshly turned soil and ripened crops, as though fresh from a field of sun-ripened corn. The feeling was intense, and Sigmar felt the power of the man, as though something vital coursed through him, a pulse of something old beyond imagining.
“The curse that afflicts us is beyond the power of your warriors to defeat, Emperor Sigmar,” said Gwylt. “The daemons of the mist grow strong once more and their evil flows from the depths of the marshes. It spreads through the earth and corrupts all that it touches. Disease strikes our people and the life drains from the land, washed into the ocean with all our hopes. Hundreds of our tribe are dead and even my noble count’s brother, the gallant Egil, has been struck down.”
“Then let Cradoc help him. There is little he does not know of the ways of sickness.”
“Egil is beyond the help of men,” said Idris Gwylt. “Only the healing power of the land can save him now, and it wanes as that of the daemons waxes. Only by offering the daemons our most valued treasure can Egil’s life be saved.”
“That is foolishness,” stormed Sigmar, addressing his words to Aldred. “This man speaks of offering tribute to daemons as though you are their vassals. Daemons are creatures of darkness and can only be defeated with courage and strong sword arms. What say you, Aldred? Rally the Raven Helms to your banner and join me in battle. Together, we can cleanse the marshes of their evil forever. My father and your father fought these creatures, so let us finish what they began!”
“Our fathers failed,” said the young girl seated beside Aldred. “The daemons drove them from the marshes and killed most of their warriors. What makes you think you can triumph where they could not?”
Sigmar lifted Ghal Maraz from his belt and held it out to her.
“I have never met a foe I could not defeat,” he said. “If I go into those marshes to fight, I will be victorious.” Her eyes blazed with anger.
“You are arrogant,” she said.
“Perhaps I am,” admitted Sigmar. “It is my right as Emperor. But you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I do not know you.”
“My name is Marika,” she snapped, “daughter of Marbad and sister to Aldred and Egil. You speak of battle as though it is the only way of ending our troubles, but not every curse can be lifted with killing. There are other ways.”
“Oh, like what?”
“It is not for me to say,” said Marika, the anger in her eyes replaced with sadness. Sigmar saw her glance towards Idris Gwylt.
“Then how would you end this curse, my lady?” asked Sigmar.
“By appeasing the daemons,” said Idris Gwylt.
“I was not asking you,” said Sigmar.
“Such daemons cannot be defeated by mortal men,” replied Gwylt, ignoring Sigmar’s displeasure. “The earth has been corrupted by the touch of the mist daemons, and we cannot restore its goodness with swords.”
“Does this man speak for you, Count Aldred?” demanded Sigmar. “I appointed you to rule these lands, not some old man who speaks of appeasement. Good gods, man, you do not invite the fox into the hen house, you root him out and kill him.”
“Gwylt enjoys my full confidence,” said Aldred. “We hold to the ways of our ancient forebears in Marburg, and it is in them that we will find salvation. Idris Gwylt is a priest of a power older than the gods, a servant of the land, who knows its ways and the means by which we may restore it. His words are wise beyond the understanding of most mortals, and he has done much to ease the suffering of my people. I trust him implicitly.”
“You may trust him, but I do not,” said Sigmar, understanding the source of Gwylt’s strange and powerful aura. “I thought the Old Faith died out a long time ago.”
“So long as the land bears fruit, it will endure,” said Gwylt.
Sigmar glared at the robed priest. “In Reikdorf we put our faith in the gods.”
“This is not Reikdorf,” replied the priest.
Sigmar and his warriors spent the next three days secluded in the royal apartments. Though they were free to roam the city and its environs as they pleased, the sickness that ravaged the population kept most of them indoors. Sigmar spent the first day walking the fog-shrouded streets of Marburg to see how its population fared, and when he returned to his chambers there was a shadow on his soul.
The city of the Endals was a grim and melancholy place, not at all like the vibrant, cosmopolitan coastal city its old king had once told raucous tales of. Noxious mists coiled in from the marshes to drain the city of colour, and its inhabitants moved through the streets like ghosts. Despair came on those mists, a smothering blanket of misery that coiled around the soul and leeched it of vitality. Immediately upon his return, Sigmar bade Cradoc do what he could for the population of Marburg.
The old healer appropriated two score of the White Wolves to be his orderlies, and day and night Cradoc did what he could for the sick. Those whom the sickness had touched were too often beyond the power of his remedies. Families were found dead in their homes, faces spattered with crusted mucus and eyes swollen and red as though filled with blood. Despite Cradoc’s best efforts, the priests of Morr led more and more corpse-carts on their sad journeys from the city.
It was thankless, heartbreaking work, but that did not stop Cradoc from trying to help those he could, and his poultices of lungwort and vinegar were freely distributed among the sick. It did little to halt the terrible pestilence, but until the source of the sickness was defeated it was all that could be done.
On the evening of the third night, frustrated at the lack of action from Count Aldred, Sigmar and Wolfgart sat outside their apartments on a high terrace overlooking the cliffs and marshes to the north of Marburg. They talked long into the night, drinking from a clay jug of southern wine and eating platters of salted fish. They told tales of battles won and friends in far of lands, enjoying a rare moment of companionship.
Though the talk was ribald and flowing, Sigmar sensed sadness in his friend that had little to do with too much wine. As Wolfgart finished telling the story of his fight against a particularly large greenskin in the opening moments of the battle at the crossing of the Aver, he sighed, his face melancholy.
“That it has,” said Wolfgart, raising his goblet. “Life gets busy as we get older, eh?”
“That it does, old friend, but come, say what’s on your mind. Tell me what troubles you.”
At first he thought Wolfgart would dismiss his invitation to speak, but his sword-brother surprised him.
“It’s what Redwane said when we were going to see Aldred,” he said.
“You didn’t take him seriously? The lad is young and foolish and he spoke out of turn, but you know Maedbh would never betray you like that.”
“I know that,” said Wolfgart, “but that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what is it?”
“I reacted to him like a stag in heat, as though he was a rival or something. I know he’s not, but I pounced on him as if I was going to kill him. I would have done if you hadn’t stopped me. I should have kept my temper in check, for I shamed you in front of Laredus.”
Sigmar shook his head and drained his goblet.
“Aye, we could have done without the Endals seeing us at each other’s throats,” he said, “but what’s done is done. I don’t hold it against you.”
“Maybe not, but I should have known better,” said Wolfgart. “I’ve been around you long enough to know that I need to think before I act, but when he said that about Maedbh… Well, you saw how it affected me.”
“I’m just glad Maedbh didn’t hear it,” said Sigmar with a smile.
Wolfgart laughed and said, “True enough. She’d be wearing Redwane’s balls for earrings by now.”
“You are a man of high emotion, Wolfgart, you always have been,” said Sigmar. “It is one of the reasons I love you. Pendrag is my conscience and my intellect; you are the voice of my passions and my joys. I must be an Emperor, but you are the man I would wish to be were I not. By all means think before you act in future, especially when I must be seen to be the master of the empire, but never lose your fire. I wouldn’t have you any other way, and you would not be Wolfgart without it.”