01 - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  Inch by bloody inch, they had driven up the slopes and pushed the Norsii back, but for each yard gained, a score of men had been lost. As the army of the southern kings finally took the top of the hill, the Norsii fought in smaller and smaller circles, defiant to the end and asking for no quarter.

  Truly, these men were iron foes.

  King Bjorn had fought like a man possessed, launching himself into the thick of the fighting from the outset, his mighty axe cleaving northmen dead with every stroke. The White Wolves had tried to keep up with him, but the king’s progress had been relentless.

  Alfgeir had seen where the king had been headed and tried desperately to follow, but a blood-maddened hound had leapt upon him with its fangs snapping shut on his gorget. He had killed the beast, but had been powerless to follow his king as the press of fighting bodies blocked all passage forward.

  Alfgeir closed his eyes as he remembered the glorious sight of his king standing before the red-armoured warlord of the enemy host. Never had he been prouder to serve Bjorn of the Unberogen than the moment he had seen his liege lord’s axe cut the head from the enemy leader. The dragon banner had fallen, and a cry of dismay and anger had arisen from the Norsii, their vengeful eyes turning to he who had toppled it.

  The Marshal of the Reik turned from his memories and approached the fire where the healers worked. Screams of the dying filled the air, piteous cries for wives and mothers tearing at the hearts of those who attempted to make their last hours more comfortable.

  Victory fires were even now being lit atop the hill, the mounds of dead northmen burning as offerings to Ulric, but the victory tasted of ashes to Alfgeir, for he had failed in his duty.

  King Bjorn lay on a hastily erected pallet bed, his armour in a bloody and torn pile beside him. The king’s flesh was grey, his body wrapped in bandages that covered the many sword blows and spear thrusts that he had suffered. Blood pooled beneath his body and dripped through the linen of the bed.

  No sooner had Bjorn slain the Norsii warlord than his dark-armoured champions had fallen upon the king to wreak their revenge. Alfgeir could recall every sword blow and spear thrust, feeling them as though they struck his own flesh.

  “Will he live?” asked Alfgeir.

  One of the healers looked up, his face streaked with tears.

  “We have stitched his wounds, my lord,” said the healer, “and we have administered bandages treated with faxtoryll and spiderleaf.”

  “But will he live?” demanded Alfgeir.

  The healer shook his head. “We have done all we can for him. It will be for the gods to decide whether he lives or dies.”

  Sigmar and Bjorn walked further through the Grey Vaults, the landscape remaining unchanged no matter how far they travelled. To Sigmar’s eyes, the mountains appeared to draw no closer, yet his father assured him they were on the right path.

  Though the scenery appeared unchanging, they were not without company on their journey. The dark shadows that had assaulted Sigmar flitted on the edge of perception, only ever seen from the corner of the eye, as though they escorted the travellers, yet were afraid of being seen directly by them.

  “What are they?” Sigmar asked, seeing another darting shape at the edge of his vision.

  “The souls of those damned forever,” said Bjorn with great sadness. “Eoforth said that the Grey Vaults are inhabited by the souls of the unquiet dead, those whose bodies are raised by necromancy and who cannot pass into Morr’s realm.”

  “So nothing that dwells here is truly dead?”

  “As good as,” said Bjorn. “Though those consigned here may have been virtuous while alive, here they have been twisted into terrible forms by their hatred for the living. Our warmth and light reminds them of what they once were and what they can never now have.”

  “So why aren’t they attacking?”

  “Be thankful they are not, Sigmar, for I do not think we have the strength to oppose them.”

  “All the more reason for them to attack.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Bjorn, “but I feel they are directing us to somewhere of their choosing.”

  “Where?”

  “I do not know, but we might as well enjoy the walk until we get there, eh?”

  “Enjoy the walk?” asked Sigmar. “Have you seen where we are? This is a terrible place.”

  “Aye, true enough, but we are getting to walk it together, father and son, and it has been too long since we spoke as men.”

  Sigmar nodded. “There’s truth in that. Very well, tell me of the war in the north?”

  Bjorn’s face darkened, and Sigmar sensed his father’s hesitation in answering. “Well enough, well enough. Your men fought like the Wolves of Ulric, and the Chemsens and Taleutens fought well too. We drove the Norsii from their lands and back to their own frozen kingdom. When you are king, you must do honour to Krugar and Aloysis, son. They are honourable kings and staunch allies of the Unberogen.”

  Sigmar could not help but notice the phrasing of his father’s answer, but swallowed the feelings growing within him. Instead he asked, “This gateway we are heading towards? Morr’s Gate? Why exactly do we want to get there?”

  “Ask me when we get there,” said his father, and Sigmar read the warning in his voice.

  They walked in silence for another indeterminate length of time, until Bjorn said, “I am proud of you, Sigmar. Your mother would have been proud of you too, had she lived.”

  Sigmar felt a tightness to his chest, and was about to reply when he saw that his father was looking at something ahead of them. He turned from his father, and the breath caught in his throat at the sight before him.

  Though the mountains had been as far away as ever the last time he had looked, they now towered overhead, monstrous black guardians of an undiscovered country beyond. As Sigmar watched, the flanks of the mountains seemed to shift and twist as though the power of a god was reshaping the rock into some new design.

  Entire cliffs shook themselves free of the mountains, grinding together to form terrifyingly huge pilasters. Towering ridgelines compressed with tectonic force, and splinters of rock and billowing clouds of dust rose from the mountains as a huge lintel took shape across the roof of the world.

  Within moments, a vast portal had formed in the side of the mountains, wide and tall enough to encompass the lands as far as the eye could see. A yawning blackness swirled between the pilasters, darkness so complete that nothing could ever return from its midnight embrace.

  An aching moan of desire arose from the landscape, and the shadows that had dogged their steps arose from the ground in a great swell. More of the dread wolves and daemon things appeared, accompanied by other beasts and creatures too terrible to imagine.

  Black beasts with wicked fangs and gleaming coals for eyes rose on pinions of darkness, slithering drakes with teeth like swords, and skeletal lizard things with axe-blade tails and hideous skulls for heads.

  Whatever these had been in life, they were monsters in death.

  The army of shadows drifted through the air, forming an unbroken line between them and the gateway in the mountains. A tall warrior stepped from among the ranks of monsters, he alone of the shadow creatures imbued with a hue beyond black.

  The warrior was tall and armoured in blood-red plate armour, his helmet carved in the shape of a snarling, horned daemon. A mighty two-handed sword was held out before him, the blade aimed at Sigmar’s heart.

  “You,” hissed Bjorn. “How can that be? I killed you.”

  “You think you are the only one able to bargain with ancient powers, old man?” asked the warrior, and Sigmar recoiled as he saw that the daemonic visage had not been wrought from iron, but was the warrior’s true face. “Service to the old gods does not end in death.”

  “Fine,” said Bjorn. “I can kill you again if that is what it takes.”

  “Father,” said Sigmar, “what is it talking about?”

  “Never mind that,” snapped Bjorn. “Arm yourself.”


  With a thought, Sigmar was armed once more, though not with the golden sword of before, but with the mighty form of Ghal-maraz.

  “The boy must pass,” said the red daemon. “It is his time.”

  “No,” said Bjorn, “it is not. I made a sacred vow!”

  The daemon laughed, the sound rich with ripe amusement. “To a hag that lives in a cave! You think a dabbler in the mysteries can stand before the will of the old gods?”

  “Why don’t you come over here and find out, you whoreson!”

  “Either give him to us, or we will take him from you,” said the daemon. “Either way, he dies. Give him to us and you can return to the world of flesh. You are not so old that the prospect of more life does not appeal.”

  “I have lived enough life for ten men, daemon,” roared Bjorn, “and no cur like you is going to take my son from me.”

  “You cannot stand before us, old man,” warned the daemon.

  As Sigmar looked up at his father, savage pride swelled in his breast, and though he did not fully understand the nature of this confrontation, he knew that a terrible bargain had been struck in an attempt to save him.

  The army of daemons advanced, wolves snapping their jaws, and the flying monsters taking to the air with bounding leaps. Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz and Bjorn readied Soultaker as the masters of the Unberogen prepared to face their doom.

  Sigmar felt the air thicken around him, and looked left and right as he felt the presence of uncounted others join him. To either side of him stood a pair of ghostly warriors in mail habergeons carrying a long-hafted axe each. Hundreds more filled the space behind them and around them, and Sigmar laughed as he saw the daemon’s face twist in disbelief.

  “Father,” gasped Sigmar as he recognised faces amongst the warriors.

  “I see them,” said Bjorn, tears of gratitude spilling down his cheeks. “They are the fallen warriors of the Unberogen. Not even death can keep them from their king’s side.”

  An army of daemons and an army of ghosts faced one another on the deathless plain of the Grey Vaults, and Sigmar could not have been prouder.

  “This is my last gift to you, my son,” said Bjorn. “We must break through their lines and reach that gate. When we do, you must obey me, no matter what. You understand?”

  “I do,” answered Sigmar.

  “Promise me,” warned Bjorn.

  “I promise.”

  Bjorn nodded, and turned a hostile gaze on the red daemon. “You want him? Come and take him!”

  With a deathly war cry, the red daemon raised its sword and charged.

  ——

  One Must Pass

  The daemons ran towards the Unberogen with screeching bellows and hoots, their attack without strategy or design, and their only thought to destroy their foes by the quickest means possible.

  “With me!” roared Bjorn, and charged headlong towards the daemons. The ghosts followed their king in silence, forming a deadly fighting wedge with Bjorn and Sigmar at its tip. When the armies met it was with a spectral clash of iron that sounded as though it came from a far distant place.

  The army of ghosts cleaved into the daemons, swords and axes cutting a swathe through their enemies as they fought to carry their king and prince towards Morr’s Gateway.

  Sigmar smashed a daemon apart with Ghal-maraz, the hammer of Kurgan Ironbeard more deadly than any sword. The power worked into the weapon by the dwarfs was as potent, if not more so, in this place as it was in the realm of the living. Every blow split a daemon’s essence apart, and even its presence seemed to cause them pain.

  Bjorn fought with all the skill of his years, the mighty Soultaker earning its battle name as it cleaved through the enemy ranks. The daemons were many, and though the wedge of Unberogens pushed deeper and deeper into the horde, their progress was slowing as the daemons began to surround them.

  For all its ferocity, however, this was no bloody battle. Each of the combatants disappeared when vanquished, the light or darkness of their existence winking out in a moment as a sword pierced them or fangs tore at them.

  The battle raged in the shadow of the great gateway, and Sigmar saw the darkness of the portal shimmer as though in expectation, its urgency growing with every passing second.

  Sigmar and Bjorn fought side by side, pushing the fighting wedge deeper into the daemon horde. As the turmoil between the mountainous pilasters of the gateway grew stronger, Sigmar saw a golden glow emanating from a pendant around his father’s neck.

  “I see you, Child of Thunder!” shouted the red daemon, cleaving a path towards him.

  Sigmar turned to face the daemon, transfixed by the abomination of its very existence.

  The daemon’s sword slashed towards him, and he overcame his horror at the last second to sway aside from its attack. The deadly blade came at him again and again, each time coming within a hand’s span of ending his life.

  In that moment, Sigmar knew he was hopelessly outclassed, and that this daemon warrior had spent centuries perfecting its fighting skills. In desperation, he knew he had only one chance to defeat it.

  The daemon launched another series of blistering attacks, and Sigmar fell back before them, appearing to stumble at the last as he desperately blocked a strike that would have removed his head.

  With a roar of triumph, the daemon leapt in to deliver the deathblow, but Sigmar righted himself, and spun on his heel to swing Ghal-maraz at his foe’s knee. The warhammer smashed against the armoured joint, and the daemon screamed as it collapsed to the ground.

  Sigmar reversed his grip on his weapon, and swung it in an upward stroke into the daemon’s howling face. The head of Ghal-maraz obliterated the daemon’s skull, and with a shriek of terror, it vanished into whatever hellish oblivion awaited it.

  With the death of their daemonic master, the shadow horde recoiled before Sigmar, and he pressed forward, the ghostly warriors of the Unberogen following behind him.

  Sigmar turned to see his father surrounded by a host of daemons, desperately fending them off with wide sweeps of his axe. Without thought, Sigmar launched into the fray, and struck left and right Daemons fell back before him, and together, he and his father fought their way clear of the monsters to rejoin the fighting ghosts of the Unberogen.

  The daemons were in disarray, their line broken and their numbers dwindling with every passing moment. Sensing victory, the Unberogen warriors pushed onwards into the daemon horde, and Sigmar and Bjorn once again took their places at the fighting point of the wedge.

  The combat was no less fierce, however, and at every turn both daemons and ghosts vanished from the field of battle. Nothing, however, could halt the inexorable advance of the Unberogen, and as Sigmar crushed a daemon wolfs skull with his hammer, he saw that no more enemies stood between him and the portal.

  “Father!” he shouted. “We are through!”

  Bjorn despatched a nightmare creature with dark wings and a barbed tail before risking a glance towards the mountain. The black portal rippled like boiling pitch and, for the briefest moment, Sigmar fancied he could make out the faint outline of an enormous, beckoning figure swathed in black robes, standing just beyond the gargantuan portal.

  Far from being a figure of fear, Sigmar sensed only serene wisdom from this giant apparition, a serenity born from the acceptance of death’s natural inevitability. He lowered Ghal-maraz, and knew now what had to happen.

  Sigmar stepped towards the towering gateway, knowing that the Hall of Ulric would be open to him, and that he would find peace there. A rough hand gripped his arm, and he turned to see his father standing before him, the army of ghosts at his back and the horde of daemons defeated.

  “I have to go,” said Sigmar. “I know now why I am here. In the world above I am dying.”

  “Yes,” said Bjorn, lifting the glowing pendant from around his neck, “but I made a sacred vow that you would not.”

  “Then you… you are… dead?” asked Sigmar.

  “If not now then s
oon, yes,” said Bjorn, holding up the pendant. Sigmar saw that it was a simple thing, a bronze image of the gateway they stood before, though this portal was barred.

  His father looped the pendant over Sigmar’s head. “This kept me here long enough to aid you,” said Bjorn, “but it is yours now. Keep it safe.”

  “Then this was supposed to be my time to die?”

  Bjorn nodded. “Servants of the Dark Gods conspired to make it so, but there are those who stand against them, and they are not without power.”

  “You offered your life for me,” whispered Sigmar.

  “I do not understand the truth of it, my son,” said Bjorn, “but the laws of the dead are not to be denied, not even by kings. One must pass the gateway.”

  “No!” cried Sigmar as he saw his father’s form growing faint, becoming like the ghostly Unberogen warriors that had fought at their side. “I cannot let you do this for me!”

  “It is already done,” said Bjorn. “A great destiny awaits you, my son, and no father could be prouder than I to know that your deeds will surpass even the greatest kings of ancient days.”

  “You have seen the future?”

  “I have, but do not ask me of it, for it is time you left this place and returned to the realm of life,” said Bjorn. “It will be hard for you, for you will know great pain and despair.”

  Even as his father spoke these last words, he and the army of ghosts were drawn towards Morr’s gateway.

  “But also glory and immortality,” said Bjorn with his last breath.

  Sigmar wept as his father and his faithful warriors made the journey from the realm of the living to that of the dead. No sooner had they passed beyond the gateway than it vanished as though it had never existed, leaving Sigmar alone in the empty wasteland of the Grey Vaults.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  And opened them again to searing agony.