Stifling her tears, she had taken the crone’s hand and been led deep into the marshes where she learned of the mighty wind of power that blew from the north. The long years had taught her much: the power of charms and curses, the means to read portents and omens and, perhaps most importantly, the hearts and minds of men.
“Though they will hate you for your powers, men will ever seek you out to cheat what the world has decreed should be their fate,” explained the crone, who had never told her a name.
“Then why should we help them?” she had asked.
“Because that is the role we play in this world.”
“But why?”
“I cannot answer you, child,” said the crone. “There has always been a hag woman dwelling in the Brackenwalsch, and there always will be. We are part of the world as much as the tribes of men and their towns. The power we tap into is dangerous; it can twist the hearts of even the noblest person, turning them into a creature of darkness. We use this power so others do not have to. It is a lonely life, yes, but the race of man is not meant to wield such powers, no matter what others might one day decide, for man is too weak to resist its temptations.”
“Then this is our fate?” she had asked. “To guide and protect while being feared and hated? To never know love or family?”
“Indeed,” agreed the crone. “This is our burden to bear. Now we will speak no more on it, for time is short, and already I can feel my doom approaching in the tramp of booted feet and the sharpening of cook’s knives.”
A year later, her teacher was dead, boiled alive in her own cauldron by orcs.
She had watched as the crone was killed, feeling no sadness or need to intervene. The crone had known of her death for decades, just as she too knew the day of her death, and the time she would seek out an unwilling child of power to become her successor.
A group of men had come upon the orcs in the midst of a terrible thunderstorm and destroyed them. The leader of these men had slaughtered the orcs with deadly sweeps of his two-bladed axe as the woman who travelled with them screamed in pain. As the battle drew to a close, the woman’s screams ended, and the screams of a newborn cleaved the air.
Anguished cries came from the men, who discovered that the woman was dead. She watched the grieving axeman lift a bloody baby from the ground as a roaring peal of thunder split the sky and a mighty comet lit the heavens with twin fiery tails.
“The Child of Thunder… born with the sound of battle in his ears and the feel of blood on his skin,” she hissed. “Yours will be a life of greatness, but one of war.”
Over the years, she had found her thoughts ever drawn to the child born beneath the sign of the twin-tailed comet, the currents of power that flowed around him, and the twisting fates he shaped simply by existing.
More and more, she knew that great powers had been unleashed with this child’s birth, but that they had left their work undone. To achieve his potential, much had yet to happen to him: joy, grief, anger, betrayal and a great love that would forever change the destiny of this land.
She allowed her spirit to fly free of her body, leaving behind her wasted, skeletal frame, and soaring on wings of the spirit, where all flesh was meaningless and strength of spirit was all. Invisible currents filled the air, stirred by the warlike hearts of mankind and myriad creatures of this world, and these currents blew strong, bathing the land in unseen thunderheads of roiling power.
The marshes of the Brackenwalsch seethed with ancient energies, the ground saturated in the raw power that bubbled up from the world’s centre. She could see the world laid out before her like a great map, the great mountains of the south and east, the mighty ocean of the west and the lands of the fey beyond it.
The great wind of power blew in variegated clouds from the north, a mixture of powerful reds and purples with only a few spots of white and gold amongst the ugly, warlike colours. The darker colours were growing stronger, and war was looming like a vast shadow covering the land with its promise of destruction, famine and widows.
Her sight swooped low over the world, seeing the lone, trudging figure she had been waiting for as he made his way carefully through the marsh. His green cloak was pulled tightly around his lean frame, and she was mildly irritated that he had reached the hill where she made her home without her becoming aware of him.
Swirling colours surrounded him, vivid reds, shocking pinks and lascivious purples. An instrument of the dark powers, to be sure, but one with a purpose that suited her own for now.
She returned swiftly to her flesh, groaning as the weight of her years settled upon her after the freedom of the spirit. When her kind died out, none would remember how to soar on the winds of power, and the thought saddened her as she heard wet footfalls beyond the mouth of her cave.
She blinked away the harsh smoke, and awaited the arrival of the young man with vengeance and betrayal on his mind.
He was startingly handsome, and his finely sculpted, slender physique stirred a longing in her that she had never before known. Handsome to the point of obscenity, his features were the perfect combination of hard masculinity and feminine softness.
Dark hair was gathered in a short ponytail, and a sword, sheathed in a black leather scabbard, was belted at his side.
“Welcome to my home, Gerreon of the Unberogen,” she said.
BOOK TWO
Forging the King
Mighty is Sigmar
He who saves a dwarf king
From dishonour
How can I reward him?
A hammer of war
A hammer of iron
Which fell from the sky
With two tongues of fire
From the forge of the gods
Worked by runesmiths
Ghal-maraz is its name
The Splitter of Skulls.
—
All our People
Firelight illuminated the faces of the warriors around him, and Sigmar nodded to Wolfgart and Pendrag as he saw the shadowy forms of Svein and Cuthwin making their way downhill through the thick undergrowth. Both moved in silence, their skill in blending with the landscape making them Sigmar’s most valued scouts.
“Here they come,” whispered Sigmar.
His sword-brothers peered through the twilight gloom. “You have keen eyes, brother,” said Wolfgart. “I can see nothing.”
Pendrag nodded towards a line of trees and said, “There. By the elms, I think.”
Wolfgart squinted, but shook his head. “Like ghosts they are,” he said.
“They’d be poor scouts if they let themselves be seen,” pointed out Pendrag.
The two scouts stepped from behind the trees they had been using as cover and Sigmar waved them over to the group of horsemen that lurked in the tangled bushes at the edge of the crater. The terrain here was steep and heavily wooded, the ground underfoot earthy and strewn with jagged, black rocks.
Legend said a piece of the moon had fallen here centuries ago and smashed a hole in the ground. Sigmar did not know if that was true, but the land around this place was barren, and nothing good grew here. The air had a foul reek to it and the trees were twisted as if in pain. The bushes that sprouted along the edges of the crater were wiry and barbed, the thorns weeping a greenish sap that impacted fever dreams to any man unlucky enough to be scratched.
The sound of muffled drams and guttural brays drifted over the rocky lip of the crater, accompanied by a dark tongue issuing from throats never meant to give voice to language.
Fifty warriors wrapped in wolfskin cloaks awaited the scouts, and Sigmar prayed that the ground was favourable, for he could feel the need for vengeance burning in every man’s heart. The butchery inflicted by the beasts on the settlements straddling the borders of the Unberogen and Asoborn lands had been unprecedented.
“What did you see?” he asked when the two scouts drew near enough to hear his whisper.
“Around sixty or seventy beasts,” replied Svein, “drunk and bloody.”<
br />
“Captives?”
Svein’s normally jovial face hardened and he nodded. “Aye, but none in a good way. The beasts have made sport of them.”
“And they have no idea we are here?” asked Wolfgart.
Cuthwin shook his head. “I brought us in downwind of their encampment. None of them are looking outwards, they are too… busy… with the captives.”
“You’re sure?” pressed Wolfgart.
“I’m sure,” snapped Cuthwin. “If they find us here it will be because of your bloody noise.”
Sigmar hid his smile from Wolfgart as he remembered the night when he had discovered Cuthwin sneaking towards the longhouse in the centre of Reikdorf, nearly six years ago. It had been the night before they had ridden to battle at Astofen Bridge, and Sigmar remembered the lad’s stealth and defiant courage, traits that served him well as one of Sigmar’s warriors.
Wolfgart bristled in anger at the young scout’s words, but kept his mouth shut.
“Pendrag,” said Sigmar, “take fifteen warriors and ride eastwards for three hundred paces. Wolfgart, you do the same to the west.”
“And you?” asked Wolfgart. “What will you be doing?”
“I’ll be riding over the ridge charging into the heart of the beasts’ encampment,” said Sigmar. “When they come at me, you pair will ride in from the flanks and crush them.”
“Sound plan,” said Wolfgart. “Nice and simple.”
Pendrag looked as though he was about to argue, but shrugged and turned his horse to gather his men. Sigmar nodded to Wolfgart, who followed Pendrag’s example and rode off to gather the warriors he would lead into battle.
Sigmar turned in his saddle to face the warrior behind him as the tempo of the drams from within the crater increased, and said, “Gerreon, are you ready?”
Trinovantes’ twin rode forward to join him, and grinned wolfishly “I am ready, brother.”
Sigmar and Gerreon had made their peace six years ago.
Sigmar had been sparring with Pendrag upon the Field of Swords at the base of Warrior’s Hill, practising with sword and spear, when Trinovantes’ brother had sought him out. The Field of Swords was the name given to a wide area of ground within Reikdorf’s walls where the veteran warriors of the ever-expanding town trained the younger men for battle.
Wolfgart had argued that it was bad luck to learn the skills of war before a place of the dead, but Sigmar had insisted, claiming that every warrior needed to know what was at stake if they faltered.
Scores of youngsters learned to fight with sword and spear under Alfgeir’s merciless tutelage, while Wolfgart instructed others in archery. Targets carved to resemble orcs had been set up, and the thwack of accurately loosed arrows and the clash of iron swords filled the air.
Every man in Reikdorf now owned an iron sword, and Pendrag and Alaric had travelled throughout the Unberogen lands over the years to ensure that every smith laboured in a forge equipped with a water-powered bellows capable of producing such weapons. Few warriors now wore bronze armour, and most riders were equipped with mail shirts of linked iron rings or hauberks of overlapping scales.
Emissaries from the Jutones, Cherusens and Taleutens had observed the great leaps the Unberogen were making, and King Bjorn relished the thought of his tribe’s strength being known far and wide throughout the land.
“Here comes trouble,” said Pendrag as Gerreon approached.
Sigmar lowered his sword and turned to face Ravenna’s brother, already tensing for harsh words and the handsome warrior’s outrage at his behaviour with his sister. It was no secret that he and Ravenna were becoming closer, and only a blind man could have missed their obvious feelings for one another.
He was just surprised it had taken Gerreon this long to approach him.
As always, Gerreon was immaculately dressed, his buckskin trews of the finest quality, his black jerkin stitched with silver thread and his boots crafted from soft leather.
His hand lightly gripped the hilt of his sword, a sword Sigmar had seen him wield with terrifying, dazzling skill in numerous practice bouts and battles.
Sigmar was a fine swordsman, but Gerreon was what the Roppsmenn of the east called a blademaster. He tensed, expecting furious indignation, and felt Pendrag move alongside him.
“Gerreon,” said Sigmar, “if this is about Ravenna…”
“No, Sigmar,” replied Gerreon. “This is not about my sister. It is about you and I.”
Surely Gerreon did not mean to challenge him to a combat? To challenge the king’s son was madness. Even if he won, the king’s guards would kill him.
“Then what is it about?”
Gerreon removed his hand from his sword hilt. “I have had time to think since Trinovantes’ death, and I am ashamed of the things I said and did when you returned from Astofen. He was your friend and you loved him dearly.”
“That I did, Gerreon,” said Sigmar.
“I just wanted you to know that I do not blame you for his death. As my sister said, it was an orcs that killed him, not you. If you will offer me your forgiveness, then I will offer you friendship as my brother once did.”
Gerreon smiled his dazzling smile and offered his hand to Sigmar, “And as my sister now does.”
Sigmar felt his face reddening as he took Gerreon’s hand. “You are Unberogen,” he said. “You do not need my forgiveness, but you have it anyway.”
“Thank you,” said Gerreon. “This means a lot to me, Sigmar. I did not know if I had forfeited any chance of friendship.”
“Never,” said Sigmar. “What kind of empire will I forge if there is division within the Unberogen? No, Gerreon, you are one of us and you always will be.”
They shook hands, and Gerreon smiled in relief.
* * * * *
Wolfgart and Pendrag had been suspicious of this sudden contrition, but in the years that followed, Sigmar’s trust had been vindicated, and Gerreon had earned their respect in dozens of desperate fights. At the Battle of the Barren Hills, Gerreon had saved Sigmar’s life, neatly beheading an orc’s war leader that had pinned him beneath the body of its slain wolf.
Against Teutogen raiders, Gerreon had also despatched an archer ready to loose a point-blank shaft into Sigmar’s unprotected back.
Time and time again, Gerreon had ridden into battle alongside them, and each time, Sigmar was thankful for the strength of character that had driven the warrior to seek forgiveness. Ravenna had been overjoyed, and Sigmar had spent many pleasant times with her and Gerreon, hunting, riding the forest trails or simply talking long into the night of his dream of uniting the tribes of man.
Now, with the darkness all around them and his sword-brothers riding away from him to circle around the crater, Sigmar was grateful for Gerreon’s presence. He counted a hundred heartbeats before urging his stallion forward, the twenty warriors who remained with him following swiftly behind.
The sound of the drums grew louder as the horses climbed the rocky slopes of the crater, and Sigmar twisted in the saddle to address the riders behind them. Each wore a mail shirt, and many sported iron breastplates and shoulder guards. Red cloaks flowed from their shoulders, and every rider carried a long spear and heavy sword.
“We hit them hard and fast,” said Sigmar. “Make lots of noise when you charge, I want them all looking at us.”
He could see in their faces that every man knew what to do. “Good hunting,” he said.
The ridge at the top of the crater drew nearer, limned in starlight, and the clouds above glowed orange from the fires below. A scream tore the night, and Sigmar felt his anger grow at the terror and unimaginable pain it conveyed.
“You realise the risk we’re taking,” said Gerreon.
“I do, but we cannot wait,” said Sigmar. “If we do not attack now, the beasts will vanish into the deep forest and we will lose any chance to avenge the dead. No, they die tonight.”
Gerreon nodded and slid his sword from its sheath.
Sigmar hefted a
heavy, iron-tipped spear from the quiver slung behind him.
“Unberogen!” he yelled, raking his heels along the stallion’s flanks. “Ride to vengeance!”
The stallion surged over the crater’s lip, and his riders followed him with a roaring war cry.
Below was a scene of bedlam. Flames roared skyward, and packs of monstrously twisted beasts filled the basin of the crater, carousing and drunk on slaughter and vile spirits.
Freakish monsters of fur and hide, the hideous creatures were the bastard gets of man and beast, shaggy goat heads atop muscular torsos and twisted, reverse jointed legs. Red-skinned creatures with horned skulls and whipping tails capered amid mounds of the dead, while lumbering beasts that resembled a dreadful fusion of horse and rider lurched drunkenly around the edges of the campsite.
A great black stone reared above the gathering at the crater’s centre, a spike of obsidian carved with hideous runes that spoke of slaughter and debauchery. A huge, bull-headed beast in a ragged black cloak tore the heart from a still-living captive as mad creatures of no easily identifiable heritage slithered and capered around the stone in lunatic adoration.
Their howls mingled with the drumbeats of huge, wolf-headed creatures that hammered their taloned paws on crude hide drums.
Bound men, women and children were spread throughout the camp, their bodies abused and beaten. Many were dead, and all had been tortured. Others had simply been eaten alive, and Sigmar’s anger, already white-hot, threatened to overwhelm him as he felt a red mist descend upon him.
Sigmar was no berserker, however, and he focused his rage into a burning spear of cold anger.
His stallion pounded down the slope, and a wordless cry of hatred burst form his lips. An Unberogen war horn sounded, the strident notes of each blast seeming to carry them towards their foe with greater speed.
The creatures were rousing themselves, though their debauched revelries had left them lethargic and unprepared. The bull-headed beast let loose a deafening bellow that echoed from the sides of the crater, and the relentless tattoo of the drums ceased.
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