“Beyond that, what?” asked Bjorn, suddenly curious. Alfgeir claimed not to be concerned about death, but the coming battle had loosened his tongue in a way nothing before had. Even as he formed the thought, he knew that it was not his champion’s tongue that was loosened, but his own.
“Beyond that… I do not know,” said Alfgeir. “I have always been your champion and protector.”
“And when I am dead you will be Sigmar’s,” finished Bjorn, his mouth suddenly dry as he realised that his desire to talk and connect with another human being was born of the need to ensure that his people would be safe after his death.
“You are in a dark mood, my lord,” said Alfgeir. “Is there something wrong?”
It was a simple question, but one to which Bjorn found he had no answer.
He had woken in the middle of the night, his keen sense for danger awakening him to a presence within his tent. How such a thing could have been possible with Alfgeir and the White Wolves maintaining a vigil around it he did not know, but his hand quickly found the haft of Soultaker.
He opened his eyes, and felt a chill enter his heart as he saw a silver mist creeping across the floor of his tent, and a hooded shape swathed in black hunched in the corner.
Bjorn swung his legs from his cot bed and raised his axe. The ground was cold, and tendrils of mist clawed at him as the dark figure drew itself to its full height.
“Who are you?” roared Bjorn. “Show yourself!”
“Be at peace, King Bjorn,” said a sibilant voice that he knew all too well. “It is but a traveller from your own lands, come to claim what is hers.”
“You,” whispered Bjorn as the dark figure pulled back its hood to reveal the wrinkled face of the hag woman of the Brackenwalsch. Her hair shone with the same silver light as the mist, and a cold dread seized Bjorn’s heart as he knew what she had come for.
“How can you be here?” he asked.
“I am not here, King Bjorn,” said the hag woman, “I am but a shadow in the deeper darkness, an agent of powers beyond your comprehension. None here have seen me and nor shall they. I am here for you and you alone.”
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want,” said the hag woman, coming closer.
“Get away from me!” cried Bjorn.
“You would see your son dead and the land destroyed?” hissed the hag woman. “For that is what is at stake here.”
“Sigmar is in danger?”
The hag woman nodded. “Even now a trusted friend plots to destroy him. By this time tomorrow your son will have passed through the gateway to Morr’s kingdom.”
Bjorn felt his legs turn to water, and he collapsed back onto his cot bed, terror filling him at the thought of having to see Sigmar’s body pass into a tomb upon Warrior’s Hill.
“What can I do?” asked Bjorn. “I am too far away to help him.”
“No,” said the hag woman, “you are not.”
“But you… you are still in the Brackenwalsch, yes? And this is a vision you are sending me?”
“That is correct, King Bjorn.”
“Then if you know who plots against Sigmar, why can you not save him?” demanded Bjorn. “You have command of the mysteries. You can save him!”
“No, for it was I who set the assassin upon his course.”
Bjorn surged to his feet, Soultaker sweeping out and cleaving through the hag woman, but the blade hit nothing, her form no more substantial than fog.
“Why?” demanded Bjorn. “Why would you do such a thing? Why set his murderer in motion only to attempt to prevent it?”
The hag woman drifted closer to Bjorn, and he saw that her eyes were filled with dark knowledge, with things that would damn him forever were he to know them. He turned from her gaze.
“A man is the sum of his experiences, Bjorn,” said the hag woman. “All his loves, fears, joys and pain combine like the metals in a good sword. In some men these qualities are in balance and they become servants of the light, while in others they are out of balance and they fall to darkness. To become the man he needs to be, your son must suffer pain and loss like no other.”
“I thought you said I had to save him?”
“And so you shall. When we met upon the hill of tombs I told you I would ask you for a sacred vow. You remember?”
“I remember,” said Bjorn, a bleak dread settling upon him.
“I now ask for that vow,” said the hag woman.
“Very well,” said Bjorn. “Ask me.”
“When battle is joined on the morn, seek out the red warlord who leads the army of the northmen and face him in battle.”
Bjorn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it? No riddles or nonsense? That makes me uneasy.”
“Simply that,” answered the hag woman.
“Then I give you my oath as king of the Unberogen,” said Bjorn, “I shall face this Norsii bastard and cut his damned head from his shoulders.”
The hag woman smiled and nodded. “I believe you will,” she said.
The mist had thickened, and Bjorn had awoken with the morning sunlight prising his eyelids open. He sat up, the substance of his encounter with the hag woman etched on his memories with terrible clarity.
Bjorn opened his fist, and found he clutched a bronze pendant on a leather thong. Turning it over in his palm, he saw that it was a simple piece carved in the shape of a closed gateway. His first thought was to hurl it over a cliff or into a fast-flowing river, but instead he looped it over his head and tucked it beneath his woollen jerkin.
Now, sitting before the enemy army, the pendant felt like an anvil around his neck, its weight threatening to drag him to his doom.
Alfgeir pointed to the ridgeline. “There’s the bastard now.”
Bjorn looked up. The warlord of the enemy host was riding at the front of the Norsii army, his armour a lustrous crimson, his dragon banner proudly held aloft. The warlord’s dark steed reared up, and sunlight shimmered on the warrior’s mighty sword as he held it aloft.
Drums and skirling trumpet blasts sounded, and the army of the southern kings began to march forward, thousands of swordsmen, axe bearers and spear hosts ready to drive the Norsii from these lands.
A wolf howled in the distance, and Bjorn smiled sadly.
“A good omen do you think?” he asked.
“Ulric is with us,” said Alfgeir, extending his hand.
Bjorn took his champion’s hand in the warrior’s grip. “May he grant you strength, Alfgeir.”
“And you also, my king,” responded Alfgeir.
King Bjorn of the Unberogen looked up towards the red-armoured warlord, and gripped the haft of Soultaker as the ravens began to gather.
Sigmar arose refreshed and alert, the last remnants of a dream of his father clinging to him, but hovering just beyond recall. He took a deep breath, and looked at the sleeping form of Ravenna beside him. Her shoulder was bare, the fur blanket slipped away in the night, and he leaned down to kiss her tanned skin.
She smiled, but did not wake, and he slid from the bed to gather his clothes.
Sigmar lifted pieces of cut chicken from a plate on the table before the hearth, suddenly realising how hungry he was. He and Ravenna had prepared some food, but when Gerreon had left them alone, their thoughts had turned to other appetites that needed satisfying, and the food had gone uneaten.
He sat at the table and broke his fast, pouring himself some water and swilling it around his mouth. Ravenna stirred, and Sigmar smiled contentedly.
His mind was less filled with thoughts of war and the worries for his people, but the business of ruling a land did not cease for any man, king’s son or not. Briefly, he wished for the simpler times of his youth, when all he had dreamed of was fighting dragons and being like his father.
Such dreams of childhood had been put away, however, and replaced with grander dreams where his people lived in peace with good men to lead them and justice for all. He shook his head free of such grandiose thoughts, content for n
ow to simply be a man freshly risen from sleep with a beautiful woman and a full belly.
Ravenna turned over, propping her head on an elbow, her dark hair wild and looking like some berserker’s mane. The thought made him smile, and she returned it, pulling back the covers and padding, naked, across the room to pick up her emerald cloak.
“Good morning, my love,” said Sigmar.
“Good morning indeed,” replied Ravenna. “Are you rested?”
“I am refreshed,” nodded Sigmar, “though Ulric alone knows how, you didn’t let me get much sleep, woman!”
“Fine,” smiled Ravenna. “I shall leave you alone next time you share my bed.”
“Ah, now that’s not what I meant.”
“Good.”
Sigmar pushed away the plate of chicken scraps as Ravenna said, “I feel like a swim. You should join me.”
“I can’t swim,” said Sigmar, “and, unfortunately, I have things to attend to today.”
“I’ll teach you,” said Ravenna, pulling open her cloak to flaunt her nakedness, “and if the future king cannot take time for himself then who can? Come on, I know a pool to the north where a tributary of the Reik runs through a secluded little glen. You’ll love it.”
“Very well,” said Sigmar, spreading his hands in defeat. “For you, anything.”
They dressed swiftly and gathered up some bread, chicken and fruit in a basket. Sigmar strapped on his sword belt, having left Ghal-maraz in the king’s long-house, and the pair of them set off, hand in hand, through Reikdorf.
Sigmar waved at Wolfgart and Pendrag, who were training warriors on the Field of Swords, as they made their way towards the north gate. The guards nodded as they passed through the gate, making way for trade wagons pulled by long-haired Ostagoth ponies and travelling merchants from the Brigundian tribes.
The roads into Reikdorf were well travelled, and the warriors at the walls had their hands full inspecting those who desired entry into the king’s town.
A wolf howled in the distance, and Sigmar felt a shiver down the length of his spine.
Sigmar and Ravenna soon passed from the road and sight of Reikdorf, moving into the forest towards the sound of falling water. Ravenna’s steps were assured as she led them into a secluded valley, where a slender ribbon of silver water spilled from the slopes around Reikdorf towards the mighty Reik.
The trees were widely spaced here, though they were still out of sight of the road, and a screen of rocks jutted from the ground like ancient teeth before a wide pool that sat at the base of a small waterfall.
The pool was deep, and Ravenna slipped out of her dress and dived in, cutting a knife-sharp path along the surface of the water. She surfaced and shook her head clear, treading water as she pushed her hair from her eyes.
“Come on!” she cried. “Get in the water.”
“It looks cold,” said Sigmar.
“It’s bracing,” said Ravenna, swimming the length of the pool with strong, lithe strokes. “It will wake you up.”
Sigmar set the food basket down at the edge of the clearing. “I am already awake.”
“What’s this?” laughed Ravenna. “The mighty Sigmar afraid of a little cold water?”
He shook his head and unbuckled his sword belt, dropping it beside the food as he pulled off his boots and removed the rest of his clothing. He stood and walked to the edge of the water, enjoying the sensation of misting water from the small waterfall as it speckled his skin.
A raven sat on the branch of a tree opposite Sigmar, and he nodded towards the bird of omen as it appeared to regard him with silent interest.
“Trinovantes saw a raven the night before you all left for Astofen,” said a voice behind him. Sigmar reached for his sword before realising he had left it with the food. He turned and relaxed as he saw Gerreon standing at the edge of the clearing.
Immediately, Sigmar saw that something was wrong.
Gerreon’s clothes were muddy and stained black. His boots were ruined, and his leather jerkin was torn and ragged. Ravenna’s brother’s face was pale, dark rings hooded his eyes and his black hair—normally so carefully combed—was loose, and hung around his face in matted ropes.
“Gerreon?” he said, suddenly conscious he was naked. “What happened?”
“A raven,” repeated Gerreon. “Appropriate don’t you think?”
“Appropriate for what?” asked Sigmar, confused at the hostile tone in Gerreon’s voice.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ravenna swimming back towards the bank, and took a step towards Gerreon.
His unease grew as Gerreon moved to stand between him and his sword.
“That you should both see ravens before you die.”
“What are you talking about, Gerreon?” demanded Sigmar. “I grow tired of this foolishness.”
“You killed him!” screamed Gerreon, drawing his sword.
“Killed who?” asked Sigmar. “You are not making any sense.”
“You know who,” wept Gerreon, “Trinovantes. You killed my twin brother, and now I am going to kill you.”
Sigmar knew that he should back away, simply leap into the water and make his way downstream with Ravenna, but his was the blood of kings, and kings did not run from battle, even ones they knew they could not win.
Gerreon was a master swordsman, and Sigmar was unarmed and naked. Against any other opponent, Sigmar knew he might have closed the distance without suffering a mortal wound, but against a warrior as skilled and viper-fast as Gerreon, there was no chance.
“Gerreon!” cried Ravenna from the edge of the pool. “What are you doing?”
“Stay in the water,” warned Sigmar, taking slow steps towards Gerreon. His route curved to the left, but Gerreon was too clever to fall for such an obvious ploy, and remained between him and his sword.
“You sent him to his death and did not even care that he would die for you,” said Gerreon.
“That is not true,” said Sigmar, keeping his voice low and soothing as he approached.
“Of course it is!”
“Then you are a damned coward,” snapped Sigmar, hoping to goad Gerreon into a reckless mistake. “If your blood cried out for vengeance, you should have come for me long ago. Instead you wait to catch me unawares. I thought you as courageous as Trinovantes, but you are not half the man he was. He is cursing you from Ulric’s hall even now!”
“Do not speak his name!” screamed Gerreon.
Sigmar saw the intent to strike in Gerreon’s eyes, and leapt aside as the swordsman lunged for him. The point of Gerreon’s blade flashed past him, and Sigmar spun on his heel, his fist swinging in a deadly right cross.
Gerreon swayed aside from the blow, and Sigmar stumbled. Off balance, he felt a line of white fire score across his side as Gerreon’s blade slashed across his hip and up over his ribs. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and Sigmar blinked away stars of pain that bloomed behind his eyes.
He spun, and ducked back as Gerreon’s sword came at him again. The blade passed within a finger’s breadth of spilling his innards to the ground, and as he fought for breath, a sudden dizziness drove him to his knees.
Ravenna began climbing from the water, screaming her brother’s name, and Sigmar forced himself to his feet as he fought for breath. Gerreon bounced lightly from foot to foot, one arm raised behind him, his sword arm extended before him.
Sigmar balled his hands into fists and advanced towards the swordsman, his breath coming in short, gasping heaves.
What was happening to him?
His vision swam for an instant, and the world seemed to spin crazily. Sigmar felt a tremor begin in his hand, a palsied jitter like that which plagued some unfortunate elders of Reikdorf.
Gerreon laughed, and Sigmar’s eyes narrowed as he saw an oily yellow coating on the swordsman’s blade. He looked down and saw some of the same substance mixed with the blood on his ribs.
“Can you feel the poison working on you, Sigmar?” asked Gerreon. “You shou
ld. I smeared my blade with enough to kill a warhorse.”
“Poison…” wheezed Sigmar, his chest feeling as if it were clamped in Master Alaric’s giant vice. “I… said… you were… a coward.”
“I let myself get angry at you earlier, but I will not make that mistake again.”
The tremors in Sigmar’s hands spread to his arms and he could barely hold them still. He could feel a terrible lethargy stealing over him, and he staggered towards Gerreon, his fury giving him strength.
“What have you done?” screamed Ravenna, running at her brother.
Gerreon turned, and casually backhanded her to the grass with his free hand.
“Do not talk to me,” snapped Gerreon. “Sigmar killed Trinovantes and you whore with him? You are nothing to me. I should kill you too for dishonouring our brother.”
Sigmar dropped to his knees again as the tremors became more violent and his legs would no longer support him. He tried to speak, but the enormous pressure in his chest was too great and his lungs were filled with fire.
Ravenna rolled to her feet, her face a mask of fury, and threw herself at her brother.
Gerreon’s instincts as a swordsman took over, and he easily evaded her attack.
“Gods, no!” screamed Sigmar as Gerreon’s sword plunged into her stomach.
The blade stabbed through Ravenna and she fell, tearing the sword from her brother’s grip. Sigmar surged to his feet, pain, anger and loss obliterating all thoughts save vengeance on Gerreon.
The red mist of the berserker descended on Sigmar and, where before he had resisted its siren song, he now surrendered to it completely. The pain in his side vanished, and the fire in his lungs dimmed as he threw himself at Ravenna’s killer.
His hands closed around Gerreon’s neck and he squeezed with all his strength.
“You killed her!” he spat.
He forced Gerreon to his knees, feeling his strength flooding from his body, but knowing he still had enough to kill this worthless traitor. He looked into Gerreon’s eyes, seeking some sign of remorse for what he had done, but there was nothing, only…
Sigmar saw the crying boy who had wept for his lost brother, and a screaming soul being dragged into a terrible abyss. He saw the razored claws of a monstrous power that had found a purchase in Gerreon’s heart, and the desperate struggle fought within his tortured soul.
[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer Page 16
