The two kings shook hands, and Wolfila marched away to join his warriors, his sword and shield held high above him as the flames turned his hair the colour of blood.
“They will not forget this,” said Wolfgart as the king of the Udose departed. “The survivors, I mean. They will come back one day to punish us for this.”
“That is a problem for another day,” said Sigmar, turning from the carnage below.
Pendrag gripped his arm, his eyes imploring and forcing Sigmar to face the blazing sea. “Is this how it is to be, my brother? Is this how you mean to forge your empire? In murder? If so, then I want nothing more to do with it!”
“No, this is not how it is to be,” said Sigmar, shrugging off his sword-brother’s arm. “But what would you have me do with the Norsii? Bargain with them? They are savages!”
“What does this act make us?”
“It makes us victorious,” said Sigmar. “I listen to their screams, and I remember the people that died beneath their axes and swords. And I am glad we do this. I remember the women raped or carried into slavery, the children sacrificed on altars of blood, and I am glad we do this. I think of all the people who will live because of what we had to do today, and I am glad we do this. Do you understand me, Pendrag?”
“I think I do, my brother,” said Pendrag, turning away, “and it makes me sad.”
“Where are you going?” asked Sigmar.
“I do not know,” replied Pendrag. “Away from this. I understand now why it was done, but I have no wish to listen to the screams of the dying as we burn them to death.”
Pendrag walked down the cliff path through the ranks of armoured warriors, and Sigmar made to follow him, but Wolfgart stopped him.
“Let him go, Sigmar. Trust me, he needs some time alone.”
Sigmar nodded and said, “You understand we had to do this don’t you?”
“Aye,” said Wolfgart. “I do, but only because I have not the heart Pendrag does. He’s a thinker, that one, and at times like this… well, that’s a curse. Don’t worry, he’ll come around.”
“I hope so,” said Sigmar.
“So what now?” asked Wolfgart.
“Now we make offerings to Ulric and Morr. The end of battle brings duty to the dead.”
“No, I mean for us. Are we going home now?”
Sigmar shook his head. “No, not yet. I have one last thing to take care of in the north before we return to Reikdorf.”
“And what’s that?”
“Artur,” said Sigmar.
The army of the Unberogens turned from the destruction of the Norsii to march along the northern flanks of the mountains, heading for the ancestral domain of the Teutogen. The journey through the forests north of the mountains had been fraught, and Sigmar had sensed inhuman eyes upon him as if an army of monsters watched from within the haunted depths.
Finally traversing the roof of the world and emerging from the shadowed forests, Sigmar had seen the Fauschlag rock from which Artur ruled his people.
Though yet a hundred miles distant, the great mountain stood alone and enormous, humbling the landscape as it reached into the sky. Its towering immensity defied belief, the great spire standing apart from the towering mountains that rose like grim sentinels to the east as though banished from the company of its fellow peaks. The presence of such a host of warriors had not gone unnoticed by the Teutogen, and Sigmar had felt the eyes of his enemies upon him with every step that brought them closer to the Fauschlag rock.
A well-travelled road curled southwards into less threatening woodland and, at last, their route brought them to the base of the great northern fastness, the scale of its enormity hard to credit, even when standing before it.
So great was the Fauschlag’s height that no sign of the settlement atop it could be seen from the ground, but curling plumes of smoke had guided them to the castle at its base.
Towers of polished granite reared up to either side of a wide gateway of seasoned timber, banded with dark iron and studded with thick bolts. Scores of armoured warriors manned the walls, their spears gleaming in the sunlight, and blue and white banners fluttered in the wind.
Heavy chains hung from the top of the Fauschlag, guided down the face of the immense drop by vertical lines of iron rings hammered into the rock. In the days since his army had arrived, Sigmar had seen enclosed carriages travel up and down the Fauschlag, transporting men and supplies between the ground and the summit.
Sigmar had ridden towards the castle with Pendrag carrying his banner lowered as a sign of parley, and had announced his intention to call Artur to account for the Unberogen blood his warriors’ had spilled.
Days had passed without answer, and Sigmar’s frustration had grown daily as he awaited word from King Artur. At last, as the sun set on the third day since they had arrived, a messenger rode from a concealed postern towards the Unberogen army.
Sigmar rode out to meet the messenger, Wolfgart and Alfgeir beside him, and Pendrag, who had barely passed a word with him for a fortnight, carrying his crimson banner.
The rider was a powerful warrior, his breastplate and shoulder guards painted the white of virgin snow, and his red hair thick and braided. A great wolfskin cloak hung from his shoulders, and a long-hafted hammer was slung across his horse’s shoulders, a great beast of some seventeen hands.
“You are Sigmar?” asked the warrior, his voice coarse and thickly accented.
“King Sigmar,” corrected Alfgeir, his hand sliding towards his sword hilt.
“You bring word from your king?” asked Sigmar.
“I do,” said the rider, ignoring Alfgeir’s angry glowering. “I am Myrsa, Warrior Eternal of King Artur of the Teutogens, and I am here to order you to leave these lands or face death.”
Sigmar nodded, for he had expected such a response and could see that it sat ill with the warrior that Artur had not come himself.
He leaned forward and said, “Marbad of the Endals once told me that Artur had grown arrogant atop his impregnable fastness, and having seen this lump of rock, I can well believe it, for who would not feel above all other men with such a mighty bastion to call his own?”
Myrsa’s face reddened at the insult to his king, but Sigmar pressed on. “A king who skulks behind walls grows fearful of leaving them, does he not?”
“These are Teutogen lands,” repeated Myrsa, keeping his voice level. “If you do not leave, your warriors will be broken against the Fauschlag. No army can breach its walls.”
“Walls of stone are all very well,” Sigmar pointed out, “but I have enough men to surround this rock, and I can seal Artur’s city until every man, woman and child has starved to death. I do not want to do that, for I wish the Teutogen to be our brothers and not enemies. Ask the Norsii what becomes of my enemies. Tell Artur that he has one more day to face me, or I will climb that damned rock and break his head open in front of all his people.”
Myrsa nodded stiffly and turned his horse, riding back towards the castle at the base of the Fauschlag. The main gates swung open and the Warrior Eternal disappeared within.
“You didn’t mean that did you?” asked Pendrag. “About starving the city out?”
“No, of course not,” said Sigmar, “but I needed him to think that I did.”
“Then what do you intend?” asked Alfgeir.
“Exactly what I told him,” replied Sigmar. “If Artur does not come out, I’m going to climb that rock and drag him out from wherever he is hiding.”
“Climb the Fauschlag?” asked Wolfgart, craning his neck to look up at the towering rock.
“Aye,” said Sigmar. “How hard can it be?”
With sweat stinging his eyes and his muscles burning with fire, Sigmar had cause to revise his earlier boast of the ease of climbing the Fauschlag rock. The forest stretched away below him in a great green swathe, the mountains of the east rearing from the trees in a series of white spikes, and the sea a distant glitter far on the horizon.
The exhilaration o
f seeing the world from this vantage point was offset by the terror of clinging to a rock face by his fingertips, knowing that one slip would send him tumbling thousands of feet to his death.
Powerful winds whipped around the Fauschlag, and, checking his handholds, Sigmar craned his neck upwards, but the top of the rock was still out of sight. Birds circled high above him, and he envied them the ease of flight.
His sword-brothers and Alfgeir had tried to talk him out of this foolhardy venture, but Sigmar knew he could not back down from this challenge. He had told Artur’s champion that he would climb the Fauschlag, and Sigmar’s word was iron.
Sigmar risked a glance down, swallowing hard as he saw his army spread out on the rocky haunches of the Fauschlag, little more than dots as they watched their king climb to glory or death.
“Still with me, Alfgeir?” asked Sigmar, shouting to be heard over the wind.
“Aye, my lord,” said Alfgeir from below, his voice strained and angry. “Still think this was a good idea?”
“I am beginning to think it might have been a little foolish, yes,” admitted Sigmar. “You want to climb back down?”
“And leave you here on your own?” spat Alfgeir. “Not bloody likely. I don’t think either of us is getting down unless we fall.”
“Don’t speak of falling,” said Sigmar, thinking of Wolfgart. “It is bad luck.”
Alfgeir said nothing more, and the two warriors continued their climb, dragging themselves up the rocky face of the Fauschlag, inch by inch. Hand and foot holds were plentiful, for the surface of the rock was not smooth, but the energy required to maintain his grip was fearsome, and Sigmar could feel his arms cramping painfully with the unfamiliar exertion of climbing.
Neither warrior was armoured, for to attempt such a climb in heavy mail would be even more suicidal than his warriors already believed it to be. Ghal-maraz hung from Sigmar’s belt, and Alfgeir’s sword was slung around his shoulders, for neither warrior desired to reach the summit of the Fauschlag without a weapon.
Several times during their climb, Sigmar had heard the clanking sound of metal on metal, and had looked over to see the wooden carriages being raised on their long chains. One such carriage was being lowered towards them, and Sigmar’s eyes narrowed as he considered the practicalities of such a means of transport.
“No amount of men could haul these carriages and that amount of iron the full height of the Fauschlag,” said Sigmar. “There must be some form of windlass mechanism at the top.”
“Fascinating,” gasped Alfgeir, “but what does it matter? Keep climbing. Don’t stop or I won’t be able to start again.”
Sigmar nodded, and ignored the carriage as it passed onwards towards the castle far below. Once more, the climbers set off, clambering up the rock face until Sigmar felt as though he could not move another inch.
He heard Alfgeir climbing beside him and took a deep breath, his lungs heaving and on fire with the effort. An age passed for Sigmar, and he cursed the pride that had sent him on this foolhardy errand.
Sigmar remembered a time when he had been a young boy and his father had first shown him how to set a cook-fire in the forest. He had wanted to build a great bonfire, but Bjorn had shown him that the art of setting a fire was one of balance. Too small a fire would not warm you, but too large a fire could easily get out of control and consume the forest.
Pride, Sigmar was learning, was like that, too little and a man would have no self-belief or confidence and would never achieve anything with his life. Too much… well, too much might see a man clinging to the side of a towering rock, inches from death.
Still, it would make a fine addition to his growing reputation, and might even warrant a panel on the Sudenreik Bridge. The thought made him smile, and he hauled himself upwards once again, methodically reaching for another handhold and forcing his tired body to keep going.
The wind threatened to tear him from his perch at every turn, but he kept himself pressed to the rock, holding tighter than any lover had held the object of his desire.
Lost in the pain and exhaustion of the climb, it took Sigmar a moment to realise that the angle of his climb had lessened, and that he was clambering up a slope rather than a sheer rock face.
He shook his head and blinked his eyes free of sweat to see that he had reached the top. From here, the ground rose in a gentle slope towards a low wall built around the perimeter of the Fauschlag’s summit.
Sigmar reached back to help Alfgeir, whose face was grey with effort, and who nodded in gratitude.
“We did it, my friend,” gasped Sigmar. “We are at the top.”
“Wonderful,” wheezed Alfgeir, looking up. “Now, we just have to fight our way in.”
Sigmar turned, and saw a line of Teutogen warriors in bronze hauberks appear at the wall, their swords bared and bowstrings drawn back.
Sigmar unhooked Ghal-maraz from his belt, and then helped Alfgeir to his feet. The two Unberogen warriors stood proudly before the armed Teutogens, exhausted, but defiant and exhilarated at the sheer impossibility of their incredible climb.
Myrsa, the Warrior Eternal, stood in the middle of the line of warriors, and Sigmar climbed towards him, expecting the line of bowmen to loose at any second. Alfgeir followed him and whispered, “Please tell me you have a plan.”
Sigmar shook his head. “Not really… I hadn’t expected us to survive the climb,” he said.
“Wonderful,” snapped Alfgeir. “I am glad to know you thought this through.”
Sigmar reached the wall and stood before Myrsa, looking him straight in the eye. He had expected Myrsa to be waiting for them, and hoped he had read the man’s heart correctly when they had spoken on the ground.
“Where is Artur?” asked Sigmar.
A tightening of the jaw line was the only sign of tension in Myrsa, but it spoke volumes of the conflict within the warrior.
“He prays to Ulric’s Fire,” said Myrsa. “He said you would fall.”
“He was wrong,” said Sigmar. “He has been wrong about a lot of things has he not?”
“Perhaps, but he is my king and I owe him my life.”
“If I were your king, I would be honoured to have a man like you in my service.”
“And I would be proud to offer it, but it is foolish to dream of that which cannot be.”
“We shall see,” said Sigmar. “Now, unless you plan on cutting me down, take me to Artur of the Teutogens.”
The buildings on the Fauschlag were as finely constructed as anything in Reikdorf, and Sigmar could only wonder at the dedication and determination it must have taken to get the materials to build them lifted to the summit. He saw the artifice of dwarf masons in some of the buildings, but the majority of the structures were crafted by the skill of men. Man’s ingenuity never ceased to amaze Sigmar, and he was more determined than ever to see his people united in purpose.
The walk through the settlement soon attracted a great following, with people emerging from their homes to see this strange king who had climbed the Fauschlag. Myrsa’s warriors ringed Sigmar and Alfgeir, and though they could be killed at any moment, Sigmar felt curiously lightheaded and confident.
Everything he had seen of these Teutogens spoke of a fierce, pragmatic pride, and his early notions of them as savage and murderous raiders vanished as he saw their ordered society. Children played in the streets, and women gathered them up as the swelling procession made its way towards the heart of the city.
The priests of Ulric claimed that the god of wolves and winter smote the mountain with his fist in ancient times, flattening the summit for his faithful to worship upon. It was said that a great flame burned at its centre, a fire that burned without peat or wood, and Sigmar felt a childlike excitement at the thought of seeing such a miraculous thing.
No words passed between the warriors as they made their way towards the centre of the city, and Sigmar felt a growing tension as they neared their destination.
At last, Sigmar, Alfgeir and their esc
ort emerged from between tall buildings of granite with clay roofs into a space cleared at the centre of the Fauschlag rock.
A great stone circle of menhirs had been erected in a wide ring, with flat lintel stones balanced precariously on top. Each stone was glossy and black, veined with lines of red gold, and in the centre of the circle a tall plume of white fire blazed from the ground, the light dazzling and pure.
The fire burned cold and was taller than a man. A warrior in a wondrously crafted suit of armour with a sword held point down before him knelt in its glare. He prayed with his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the pommel resting against his forehead, and Sigmar knew this must be Artur.
The plates protecting his back and shoulders shone like silver, and the bronze mail that fringed them was as finely crafted as any dwarf armour Sigmar had seen. A winged helm of bronze sat on the ground next to Artur, and as Sigmar approached, the king of the Teutogens rose smoothly to his feet and turned to face him.
Artur was handsome, his dark hair threaded with silver, but his weathered face was strong with the easy confidence of a warrior who had never known defeat. The king’s forked beard was braided, and his power obvious.
It was to Artur’s sword that Sigmar’s eyes were drawn, however: the Dragon Sword of Caledfwlch, the shimmering silver blade said to be able to cut the hardest iron or stone. The legends of the Teutogens spoke of a mysterious wise man from across the sea, a shaman of the ancient lore, who had fashioned the blade for Artur at his birth, using a captured shard of lightning, frozen by the breath of an ice dragon.
Looking at the long-bladed sword, Sigmar could well believe such tales, for a glittering hoar frost seemed to cling to the weapon’s edge.
“You are the king of the Unberogen?” said Artur as Sigmar entered the stone circle. Four dark-robed figures appeared at the cardinal points of the circle, and from their wolfskin cloaks and wolf tail talismans, Sigmar recognised them as priests of Ulric.
“I am,” confirmed Sigmar, “and you are King Artur.”
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