Cormac shielded his eyes against the glare of the pale sky, and saw a small boat bobbing helplessly in the swell of the surging waves. The tide was carrying it to shore, and the wind gusted uselessly through a torn and flapping sail. Such a boat was never meant to cross such an expanse of ocean, and Cormac was amazed that it had survived at all.
“Where does it come from?” he asked.
“From the south,” answered Kar Odacen.
The boat continued to approach the shore, and as it tipped forward on the crest of a wave, Cormac saw that there was a man sprawled in its bottom.
“Go,” ordered Kar Odacen, when the boat had closed enough to reach. “Fetch it in.”
Cormac shot the mystic a hostile glare, but waded into the sea nevertheless. The cold hit him like a blow, his legs numb within seconds. He waded in past his waist, already feeling the cold sap his strength with every passing moment.
The boat came near, and he grabbed the warped timbers of its gunwale, quickly turning and heading back to shore. He heard the man within the boat groan.
“Whoever you are,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “you had better be worth all this.”
Cormac struggled to shore, pulling the boat up onto the grey sands with difficulty. The cold was threatening to overcome him, but he saw that Kar Odacen had prepared a fire on the beach.
Had he been in the water so long?
Kar Odacen approached the boat, his face twisted with grotesque interest, and Cormac turned to the man in the boat as he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes.
Midnight dark hair spilled around his shoulders, and his face was gaunt. Though unshaven and malnourished, the man was startingly handsome. A scabbarded sword lay in the bottom of the boat, and as the man stirred, he reached for the weapon.
Cormac reached down and plucked the scabbard from the man’s weakened grip. He drew the blade from its scabbard, holding the weapon aimed at the man’s throat.
“Be careful,” warned Cormac. “It is a bad death to be killed by your own sword.”
As he held the sword out before him, Cormac admired the shining iron blade, its balance flawless, and its weight matched exactly to his reach and strength. Truly it was a magnificent weapon, and he had a sudden urge to lower the blade.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The man licked his lips and tried to speak, but his mouth was parched from unnumbered days at sea, and his voice was an inaudible croak. Kar Odacen passed him a waterskin, and the man drank greedily, gulping down great mouthfuls.
At last, the man lowered the waterskin and whispered, “I am called Gerreon.”
Kar Odacen shook his head. “No. That is the name of your past life. You shall have another name now, a name given to you in ages past by the gods of the north.”
“Tell me…” begged Gerreon.
“You shall be called Azazel.”
—
To be a King
Though they were nearly a mile away, the strident cries of the berserker king’s battle line could clearly be heard from the Unberogen camp. Sigmar felt the weight of all his twenty-six years upon him now, hating the fact that his enemies on this battlefield were a tribe of men and not the greenskins.
The sun was bright and the air chill, the last of the snows still clinging to the peaks of the mountains to the north and the winter winds blowing in from the western coast. Nearly twelve thousand Unberogen warriors were camped in the wilds of the lands of the Thuringians, ready to do battle with the painted warriors of King Otwin.
Since dawn, the lunatic howls of berserk warriors had echoed through the forest, and the Unberogen men made the sign of the horns to ward off the evil spirits that were said to gather in the forests and drive men to madness.
Hundreds of sword bands gathered around fires, and men exchanged raucous banter, sharpened already honed blades or offered prayers to Ulric that they would fight well. The smell of cooking meat and boiling oats hung in the air, though most warriors ate frugally, knowing that a full bladder and bowels were not desirable before going into battle.
White Wolves tended to their mounts, rubbing them down and tying their tails with cords in preparation for the charge. The steeds did not yet wear their armour, for they would need all their strength in the battle to come, and it would needlessly tire them to have it lifted onto their backs too early.
The army was mobilising for war, the leaders of each sword band rousing his men and dousing the fires with handfuls of earth. What had once been a mass of men gathered without semblance of order, swiftly transformed into a disciplined army of warriors, and Sigmar’s heart swelled with pride to see them.
He turned as he heard footsteps behind him, and saw Wolfgart, Pendrag and Alfgeir approaching. All were arrayed for battle, and Pendrag carried Sigmar’s crimson banner. The Marshal of the Reik’s face was grim, and even Wolfgart seemed uncomfortable at the nature of the battle they were about to fight.
“Good day for it,” said Wolfgart acidly. “The crows are already gathering.”
Sigmar nodded sadly, for the outcome of the battle was surely not in doubt. Barely six thousand warriors opposed the Unberogen, and Sigmar’s army had never known defeat.
“There is nothing good about this,” said Sigmar. “Many men will die today and for what?”
“For honour,” said Alfgeir.
“Honour?” repeated Sigmar, shaking his head. “Where is the honour in this? We outnumber Otwin’s warriors at least two to one. He cannot win here and he must know that.”
“It is not about winning, Sigmar,” said Pendrag. “Then what is it about?”
“Think on it, if our lands were invaded, would we not fight?” asked Pendrag. “No matter how badly we were outnumbered, we would still fight to defend our lands.”
“But we are not invaders,” protested Sigmar. “I have done everything in my power to avoid this war. I offered King Otwin my Sword Oath and a chance to join us, but every emissary I sent was turned away.”
Alfgeir shrugged, tightening the straps of his breastplate. “Otwin is canny; he knows he cannot win here, but he also knows that he would not remain king for long were he not to oppose us. When we defeat his army he will seek terms, for honour will have been satisfied.”
“Thousands will die to satisfy that honour,” said Sigmar. “It is madness.”
“Aye, perhaps,” agreed Alfgeir, “but I can’t help but admire him for it.”
Wolfgart dragged his mighty sword from his shoulder scabbard. “Ach, let’s just get this over with and go home.”
Sigmar smiled, guessing the cause of Wolfgart’s irritation, and grateful for a chance to change the subject. “Do not worry, brother. We’ll keep you safe and get you home for Maedbh.”
“Aye, she’d have our guts if we didn’t,” said Pendrag.
Despite the danger of travelling in the snow, Wolfgart had journeyed back into the east soon after their return from their mission to Queen Freya’s lands, and had spent the winter with the Asoborns. When he had returned in the spring, he had proudly sported a tattoo upon his arm, a sign of his betrothal to Maedbh. When this bloody business with the Thuringians had been concluded, he would be joined to the Asoborn woman over the Oathstone in Reikdorf.
Sigmar was happy for his friend and looked forward to the revelries that always followed a hand fastening ceremony, but melancholy touched him as his thoughts inevitably turned to Ravenna. Many years had passed since her death, but not a day went by without Sigmar thinking of her.
Even when he had lain with Freya, it had been Ravenna’s face he had pictured.
He shook off such thoughts, for it would attract ill-luck to think of the dead before battle.
The blare of Unberogen horns sounded, the army ready to march to battle, and Sigmar shook hands with each of his comrades.
“Fight well, my friends,” he said. “If we must fight this battle for honour, then let it be fought swiftly.”
Sigmar crashed his hammer into the chest of a Thuringian war
rior, spinning on his heel as he blocked a thrusting spear with the sword in his other hand. His elbow hammered the wielder’s face, and he leapt the falling body to shoulder charge the man behind him. A berserker’s axe had splintered his shield and he bled from a score of shallow wounds.
The sound of screaming warriors filled the air, thousands of battle-hardened tribesmen hacking at one another with axe and sword, or stabbing with spears and daggers. King Otwin’s army was disintegrating before the charge of the Unberogens, Alfgeir’s White Wolves smashing into the left flank and crushing the lightly armoured warriors there. Nimble outriders encircled the right flank, while unflinching spearmen and swordsmen met the furious charge of the berserkers in the centre.
Sigmar had waited with Pendrag and Wolfgart as the screaming Thuringians charged towards them. Most were naked and covered in colourfully painted spirals, their hair pulled into stiffened spikes with chalked mud. They swung enormous swords and axes, their eyes maddened and their mouths foaming.
A giant warrior came at Sigmar, his face pierced with spikes of metal and heavy rings. His body was enormous, packed with muscle and bleeding from deep, self-inflicted cuts. Sigmar ducked a whooshing sweep of the man’s axe, the blow hacking the warrior next to him in two. The return stroke was blindingly swift, and the edge of the axe caught Sigmar’s shoulder guard, and tore him from his feet.
Sigmar rolled in the mud, desperately trying to find his feet. A spear stabbed for him, and he deflected it with his forearm. The point hammered the ground, and Sigmar kicked out at the wielder, cracking his kneecap and driving him back. The ground slid beneath him, churned to mud by the battling warriors, and a sword slashed across his chest as he rose to his feet, the iron links parting beneath the powerful blow.
The padded undershirt he wore was cut, but the mail had robbed the blow of its strength. He headbutted the swordsman, and then slammed his hammer into his groin. The giant axeman swung at him again, and Sigmar threw up Ghal-maraz to block the blow. The ringing impact numbed his arm, but he spun around the warrior’s guard, and stabbed his sword into his gut.
The sword was torn from his hand, and the giant slammed the haft of his axe into Sigmar’s face. Blood sprayed from his burst lip, stars exploded behind his eyes and he reeled at the force of the strike.
Though dealt a mortal wound, the axeman came at him again, apparently untroubled by the sword in his belly. The man howled as he swung his axe, the madness of battle overcoming his pain. Sigmar ducked beneath a killing blow, stepping in to ram the head of his hammer against the hilt of his sword. The impact drove the blade further into the man’s flesh until the hand guard was pressed against his skin.
The warrior reached out and took hold of Sigmar’s hair, wrenching his head back to expose his neck. The axe rose, and Sigmar reached down. He took hold of the sword’s handle and planted his foot in the giant’s belly.
Sigmar twisted the sword and pulled. The blade slid free and Sigmar spun, chopping it down with all his strength on the side of the giant’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound, the squirting power of the crimson stream telling Sigmar that he had struck an artery.
The warrior staggered, and Sigmar swung his hammer in an upward arc, knocking the giant to the ground. The mail shirt was dripping rings to the ground, torn and useless, so, in the few moments of space he had created, Sigmar shrugged it off, leaving his upper body bare. His hair was unbound and wild, his face a mask of blood, and Sigmar hoped none of his warriors would mistake him for a Thuringian berserker.
A breathless Pendrag appeared at his side, his axe bloody and his mail shirt battered, but his grip on the banner still strong. “Gods, I thought that big bastard was never going down!”
“Aye,” gasped Sigmar. “He was a tough one all right.”
“Are you hurt?” asked Pendrag.
“Nothing serious,” said Sigmar, seeing a furious melee erupt deeper in the ranks of the Thuringians, beneath a banner bearing a design of silver swords against a black background.
“Come on,” said Sigmar. “I see Otwin’s banner!”
Pendrag nodded as Unberogen warriors formed a fighting wedge around their king and, without further words, Sigmar led his warriors towards the centre of the battlefield. Sigmar’s practiced eye could see that the Thuringian army was doomed. The White Wolves were crushing the flanks and pushing towards the centre, their dreaded hammers rising and falling bloody as they pounded a path towards the king’s banner.
The right flank had collapsed into isolated shieldwalls. Only the centre held firm against the Unberogen attack, and if the battle was to be ended, Sigmar must reach the king.
Blood-maddened berserkers threw themselves in front of the Unberogen king, and all died before his warhammer or sword. Gathered around their king, Sigmar’s warriors were unstoppable, fighting with stubborn courage and ferocity. Yard by yard, the Unberogen pushed through the screaming mass of Thuringians, hacking a bloody path and howling the name of Sigmar.
Sigmar saw Otwin fighting in the centre of his battle line and felt a shiver of superstitious dread seize him. The king of the Thuringians was a giant of a man, even bigger and more powerful than the axeman Sigmar had killed. Otwin’s naked body was festooned with tattoos and piercings, his crown a patchwork of golden spikes hammered through the flesh of his temple. Blood coated his body and he wielded an axe chained to his wrist with twin blades more monstrous than those of Sigmar’s father’s weapon.
A clutch of similarly fearsome warriors gathered around their king, their howling cries like a pack of rabid wolves. Sigmar saw Otwin register the fighting wedge of Unberogen warriors and turn to face them with a leering grin of insane fury.
One of the king’s champions leapt forward, unable to contain his battle lust, and Sigmar swung his hammer at the warrior. The warrior ducked and dived beneath the blow, rolling to his feet with his twin swords extended before him. Sigmar leapt above the thrusting blades and spun in the air, hammering his heel against the warrior’s chin.
The man’s neck snapped with a hideous crack and he fell as yet another warrior attacked. Sigmar raised his sword to strike, but hesitated as he saw that this champion was a beautiful woman with a whip-thin physique, golden hair and tawny eyes. Her body was powerful, but fast.
Sigmar’s hesitation almost cost him his life as the twin swords she bore slashed towards him in a blur of bloodstained bronze.
“I am Ulfdar!” screamed the warrior woman. “And I am your death!”
Sigmar parried one of Ulfdar’s swords as the other sliced across his shoulder in a line of fire. He deflected another blow with his blade, and rammed his forehead into Ulfdar’s face. She staggered and spat blood, laughing maniacally as her sword stabbed for his groin. Sigmar swayed aside as the blades of his warriors finally met those of the Thuringian king’s retinue.
The warrior woman’s second blade slashed towards his neck, and Sigmar stepped into the blow, her hand striking the iron torque at his neck. Sigmar heard her fingers snap, and the sword spun away from her. He swung his hammer towards her stomach, the heavy head driving the breath from her body. His knee drove up into her jaw, and he heard it crack as she fell to her knees before him. The berserk light was fading from her eyes as the pain of her wounds overcame the red mist upon her, yet still she glared up at him in defiance.
Sigmar knew he should kill her, as she would have killed him, but some unknown imperative stayed him from delivering the fatal blow. Instead, he hammered his fist against her cheek, knowing that were she to remain conscious she would only try to find another weapon and get herself killed.
The battle flowed around Sigmar like a living thing, the tide of screaming warriors a rising crescendo of pain and fury. He saw a knot of enemy warriors forging a path towards his crimson banner, and shook his head free of the combat he had just fought as the mighty berserker king bellowed his challenge to him in blood and courage.
Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz high for all his warriors to see, and answered with his own
challenge.
The two kings met in a clash of fire and fury, Otwin’s mighty axe cleaving the air in a bloody arc as Sigmar rolled beneath the blow to smash his hammer into his foe’s side. The king of the Thuringians grunted in pain, but did not fall, the haft of his axe hooking down, the blade stabbing into the muscle at Sigmar’s shoulder.
Sigmar cried out in pain and dropped his sword. Otwin thundered his fist against Sigmar’s face, and he fell back, feeling his cheekbone break. The Thuringian king pressed forwards, his axe slicing up to take Sigmar under the arm and drive into his heart. Sigmar spun away from the axe and let the momentum of his spin carry Ghal-maraz into Otwin’s hip, the powerful blow driving the Thuringian king to his knees.
Sigmar shook his eyes free of blood, and leapt to attack his foe once more. Otwin’s axe swept out, but Sigmar was ready, and hammered Ghal-maraz against the king’s wrist.
Hot sparks erupted from the chain that bound the axe to Otwin, and the links parted before the fury and craft of the great warhammer. Sundered links of chain flew through the air, and the enormous axe spun from Otwin’s grasp.
Sigmar closed the gap between them, and his hand closed on Otwin’s throat, crushing the breath from him. The berserker king’s eyes bulged and he struggled to rise, but Sigmar kept him on his knees, his grip like iron upon his neck. Otwin clawed at Sigmar’s arm, but the choking grip was unyielding. Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz above his head, the rune-forged hammer poised to split the Thuringian king’s skull.
All movement on the battlefield ceased as the warriors of both armies sensed the import of this clash of giants. The outcome of the battle was being decided in this one moment, and the clash of blades died as all eyes turned to the struggle at the centre of the field.
Sigmar lowered his warhammer and lifted Otwin from his knees, keeping his grip firm on his foe’s neck until he saw the light of battle-madness driven from his eyes. The berserker king drew a rasping breath into his lungs as Sigmar released his grip and met his gaze without fear or shame.
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