01 - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  When Sigmar awoke it was approaching dawn, the stars invisible above him and a mournful howling coming from far away. No wolf this, but something far more dangerous and unnatural. He had not idea how long he had slept, but the fire was virtually dead and his limbs were frozen in place. He added some kindling to the fire and stretched his legs, massaging the tension from his thighs, and stretched his arms behind his head when the blaze caught.

  With his limbs loosened, Sigmar warmed his cloak over the fire and chewed a little cured meat he had brought with him. He drank from a leather waterskin, for he was unwilling to trust the dark streams that tumbled down the mountainside.

  “Time to be on my way,” he said, the mountain throwing back his voice in a mocking echo.

  Weak sunlight lit the clouds, casting a diffuse glow over the bleak and inhospitable peaks, and Sigmar’s spirits fell as he saw how little he had climbed. The low clouds obscured the full height of the mountains, but allowed him a perfect view of the lands below. The greens and golds of the fields and forests seemed to call out to Sigmar, and he ached for the feel of grass beneath his feet and the scent of flowers.

  Looking at the sweep of wondrous land below him, it was little wonder that the beasts that dwelled in these forsaken peaks desired to take them for themselves.

  For the rest of the day, Sigmar climbed higher and higher, pushing his body past the point where he knew he should turn back. Each time he came close to the edge of endurance, he heard his father’s voice in his ear.

  “It’s all about oaths, Sigmar,” whispered Bjorn from the Halls of Ulric. “Honour those you make and others will follow your example.”

  And so, Sigmar would climb onwards.

  As dawn broke in sheeting rain on the second day of his travels, Sigmar heaved his battered body through a jagged cleft of boulders, every breath like fire in his lungs. He slumped to his knees, breaking clusters of wood beneath him. He was grateful for the brief shelter from the thieving wind, and took a moment to rest before setting off once more.

  As his breathing returned to normal, he realised that the pile of splintered wood he knelt upon was in fact brittle, bleached bones. With the realisation came alertness, and Sigmar reached for the reassuring feel of Ghal-maraz. The haft of his warhammer was warm, and he could sense a smouldering anger burning within the weapon, as though some ancestral foe was close by.

  Keeping as still as possible, Sigmar took stock of his surroundings: a wide, lightning-blasted canyon formed from great slabs of glistening rock that had collided in ages past and formed a multi-layered plateau filled with an army’s worth of shattered bones and skulls.

  To Sigmar’s left, the side of the mountain fell away into a darkened abyss, its base lost to sight beneath swirling clouds of yellow vapour. Ahead was a yawning cave mouth with a dozen corpses scattered before it. Most were missing limbs, some were missing heads, but all had been partially devoured.

  A crackling energy filled the air, fizzing the rain, and Sigmar could see rippling lines of blue fire wreath the head of Ghal-maraz.

  He heard a heavy crunch of splintering rock and looked up to see a monstrous creature from his worst nightmares, emerging from the darkness of the cave: Skaranorak.

  ——

  Skaranorak

  A dragon ogre, one of the most ancient races of the world. Sigmar had heard the elders tell tales of the dragons of the deep mountains, and had once even seen the preserved corpse of a hulking warrior that a travelling showman had claimed was an ogre, but nothing had prepared him for the awesome sight of Skaranorak.

  It was a thing of flesh and blood, to be sure, but it seemed harder, older and more solid than the mountains it called home. A cloak of winter trailed it, and lightning crowned its head, but its body was a horror of warped, iron-hard flesh. Its lower body was the colour of rust, scaled and hugely muscled like a giant lizard, with powerful, reverse-jointed legs, gripping the rain-slick rocks with yellowed talons like sword blades.

  A serpentine tail slithered behind the beast, blue sparks leaping from the iron spikes hammered through its end. The dragon-like form of the beast’s lower half merged with the upper body of what resembled a massively swollen man, layered with muscles like forged iron, and pierced with rings and spikes. Great chains dangled from its thick wrists, and Sigmar could only wonder what manner of fool would try to keep such a dreadful beast captive.

  Tattoos of dark meaning slithered across its chest as though writhing beneath its skin, and a mane of matted fur, stiffened with blood, ran from the back of its bestial skull to the middle of its back.

  The monster’s head was horrifyingly human, its features grossly exaggerated and widely spaced across its face, yet altogether recognisable. Its nose was a squashed mass, and its lips were kept forever open by a jutting pair of bloodied tusks.

  Beneath a heavily ridged brow of thick bone, eyes of such infinite malice and age that Sigmar could scarce credit they belonged to a living thing surveyed its domain.

  With utter certainty, Sigmar knew that the monster was aware of him and was even now seeking him out, its flattened nose wrinkling as it sought to separate his scent from the myriad foetid odours before it.

  The monster reached down and lifted a massive, double-bladed axe from the ground next to it, and Sigmar felt a tremor of fear as he saw the enormous size of the blades. Such a weapon could fell an oak with one blow!

  “Ulric grant me strength,” he whispered, and regretted it immediately as he saw the beast’s head snap towards his hiding place, though it could surely not have heard him over the relentless hammering of the rain and distant booms of thunder.

  The dragon ogre let loose a deafening bellow that echoed from the canyon’s sides, and charged. It crashed over the rocks, its speed phenomenal for such a large creature, and Sigmar saw a raging fire in its eyes.

  He rose swiftly and leapt to the side as Skaranorak’s weapon smashed down onto the rocks, the force of the blow sundering boulders and cleaving rock. The axe swept to the side, and Sigmar pressed his body flat against the ground as it whistled over him, a hand’s span from splitting him from crown to groin.

  Sigmar rolled aside, and swung Ghal-maraz against Skaranorak’s exposed flank. The hammer rebounded from the beast’s iron hide. He scrambled to his feet and slammed his weapon into the paler flesh above the scaled skin of the dragon, but this blow was just as ineffective.

  The dragon ogre lashed out with its foreleg, and Sigmar was hurled through the air, landing on top of a mangled, half-eaten body. He rolled from the bloody corpse and shook his head free of the ringing dizziness that threatened to swamp him.

  Thunder boomed, and a jagged fork of lightning slammed into the ground, sending leaping blue flame spinning through the air. The rain beat the earth, and Sigmar swore he could hear hollow laughter in the wake of the thunder.

  The dragon ogre came at him once more, but Sigmar was ready for it this time. Again, he swayed aside at the last moment, letting the monster’s axe hammer the ground next to him. As the blade bit into the rock, Sigmar leapt towards Skaranorak, slamming his hammer into its chest and drawing a bellow of pain from it.

  He landed badly, and lost his footing on the slippery rocks, tumbling to the ground as Skaranorak’s axe slashed over him. Sigmar slithered over a jutting overhang, and dropped to a lower level of the plateau as the monster’s foot smashed down, leaving a clawed print hammered into the rock.

  Sigmar ran for the cover of a jumbled collection of rocky spires, gathered together like a forest of dark stalagmites in a cave. Perhaps here he could find some advantage, for out on the plateau he had none.

  He turned as he felt a gathering pressure in the air, and fell back as a colossal peal of thunder roared like the bellow of an angry god, and a spear of vivid lightning ripped the sky apart with its unimaginable brightness.

  The bolt struck the dragon ogre full in the chest, and Sigmar’s initial elation quickly turned to horror as he saw the creature swell with the terrible
energies. Its eyes blazed with power and fire writhed beneath its flesh, as though its very bones were formed from the fury of the storm.

  Skaranorak leapt down from the plateau, and the earth seemed to quake at its touch. Sigmar had never known a foe like this, and his every instinct was to flee before its terrible power, for surely no man could stand before such a creature and live.

  Sigmar, however, had never once fled before his enemies, and the very fear he felt gave him strength, for what was courage without fear?

  He stood straighter and hefted his warhammer as the great beast advanced towards him, its prowling pace deliberate, like a stalking wolf.

  Seeing he was standing unyielding before it, the dragon ogre roared and charged once more, its axe sweeping out and smashing one of the stalagmite towers to splintered rock. Sigmar backed away from the beast as it hacked again, splitting yet more of the rock to jagged shards.

  Sigmar risked a glance over his shoulder as he led Skaranorak deeper into the forest of stalagmites. He saw that the depthless chasm was close by, noxious yellow tendrils of smoke reaching up from below.

  He also saw that he was running out of room to withdraw.

  The monster’s roars drowned out the peals of thunder that were coming so rapidly that it was like some daemonic drummer hammering on the roof of the world. Flickering lightning lit the skies with an unceasing barrage, and the rain hammered the mountains as though an ocean had been upended from the realm of the gods.

  Sigmar gripped his hammer and knew that he would need to make his move soon, for his reserves of strength would only last for so long. The climb from the lands of the Brigundians had left him almost spent, and to fight this monster at the end of such exertion…

  The dragon ogre smashed through a pair of stalagmites with brute force, its axe raised high to strike him down. Sigmar vaulted towards a tumbled spire of rock as the axe swept down, and hurled himself towards the beast as the blades passed beneath him.

  Sigmar slammed into the beast’s chest, his free hand scrabbling for purchase and finding one of the iron rings piercing its flesh. Gripping the ring tightly, Sigmar braced his feet against the monster’s stomach and smashed Ghal-maraz into its face.

  Skaranorak’s howl of pain sheared avalanches of rock from the mountain, and it bucked furiously as it sought to throw off its attacker. Sigmar held fast to the iron ring and slammed his warhammer into the beast’s face again, drawing a fresh bellow of rage.

  Scalding blood spattered Sigmar, and he roared in triumph as he saw the terrible damage his weapon had wrought upon Skaranorak’s face. The flesh around its eyes was a gory mess, blood spilling like tears down the shattered bones of its skull. The monster reared up, and Sigmar hung on for dear life as its clawed forelegs tore at him.

  White-hot fire lanced through Sigmar as the monster’s talons ripped into his back. He fell from Skaranorak, and cried out in agony as blood flowed from him. The dragon ogre thrashed madly above him, its bulk toppling stalagmites, its howls deafening.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Sigmar pulled himself upright, swaying as his strength sought to desert him. The blind monster thrashed madly in its agony and rage. Sigmar turned to climb the nearest jagged spike of rock as his vision greyed around the edges. He climbed higher, the rain hammering him and the wind threatening to dislodge him at any second.

  A clawed hand slammed into the rock beside him, the talons gouging deep grooves in the stone, and Sigmar lost his grip. He spun madly in the air, hanging by one hand as the rock trembled at the impact.

  Skaranorak’s bloody face was inches from his, but he had no leverage to strike the monster. It clawed at him, and Sigmar swiftly clambered above its questing hands as they scored the rock in quest of his flesh. More lightning shattered the sky, but the bolts were slamming into the ground without direction, as though without the dragon ogre’s guidance they could avail it nothing.

  Sigmar hauled himself onto the flat top of the rock spire, and lay flat on his belly, the rumbling quakes of Skaranorak’s madness causing it to shake like a reed in the wind. Blue fire crackled around the head of Ghal-maraz, and Sigmar remembered the lightning that had struck it before he had killed the leader of the forest beasts all those years ago.

  The power had flowed through him, and he had felt the energies of the heavens surge in his bones, filling his muscles and masking the pain of his wounds.

  Below him, Skaranorak tore at the air with its claws, its blindness rendering its attacks haphazard and random. Sigmar felt no pity for the monster, for it was a creature of unnatural origin, its flesh a fusion of warped beasts that were utterly inimical to his kind.

  Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz and rose to his full height as thunder crashed from the sides of the canyon, and a fork of lightning spat from above.

  The howling dragon ogre below him was illuminated for the briefest second, its roaring face turned up towards him.

  With a roar of anger, Sigmar leapt from the rock, Ghal-maraz held high as Skaranorak’s axe struck the spire and smashed it apart. Sigmar landed on the beast’s shoulder, and swung his hammer two-handed against the side of its skull.

  Driven with all Sigmar’s strength and rage, the rune encrusted head of Ghal-maraz smashed through the thinner bone of Skaranorak’s temple and buried itself in the monster’s brain.

  The dragon ogre’s howl of agony died, stillborn, and its enormous bulk crashed through the few spires of rock that still stood. Sigmar gripped the matted hair at the beast’s spine as it careened forward, and its body registered the fact that it was dead.

  The monster crashed to the ground, the impact splitting the rock beneath it, and Sigmar was thrown clear, his body skidding through the shattered debris of their epic battle. Blood flowed in the rain from his many wounds, and Sigmar groaned in pain as the full weight of his victory settled upon him.

  The last breath sighed from the tusked jaws of the dragon ogre, and as it died, the rain and thunder died with it. As Sigmar lay battered and bruised amid the rubble of the rock spires, the rain ceased, and the dark, purple-lit clouds began to disperse.

  Sigmar rolled onto his front, groaning with the effort, and using the haft of Ghal-maraz to push himself to his knees. The body of the dragon ogre lay still, and despite the pain, Sigmar smiled. With the beast’s death, he had won another three tribes to his banner.

  “You were a worthy foe,” said Sigmar, honouring the spirit of so mighty a beast.

  The sun broke through the clouds and a shaft of golden light shone upon the mountains.

  Summer sun shone on rippling fields of corn, and Sigmar felt a deep sense of contentment as he rode along the stone road that led through the hills to Reikdorf. In the two months since his departure from his capital, the fields had grown fruitful and the land had returned the care his people had lavished upon it.

  Many farms and villages dotted the landscape as the sun warmed the backs of farmers with their faces to the earth. Sigmar was proud of all that he and his people had achieved, and though there were sure to be hard times ahead, the land was at peace for the moment, and Sigmar was content.

  He had returned to the ruined village of Krealheim to find Siggurd and his men camping forlornly by the side of the river. The Brigundian king had wept with joy at the sight of him and the trophies he dragged behind him. After resting on the mountains for a day to recover his strength, Sigmar had cut the great tusks from the dragon ogre’s jaw, and had taken his long hunting knife to skin the iron-hard hide from its flanks.

  “We thought you were dead,” said Siggurd when Sigmar had crossed the river.

  “I am a hard man to kill,” replied Sigmar, breathless from his trek down the mountain.

  Sigmar held out the bloody tusks and offered them to Siggurd, who took them and shook his head in amazement and regret.

  “Alone you have achieved what our best warriors could not,” said Siggurd. “The tales of your bravery and strength do you no justice.”

  Sigmar reached into a pocke
t sewn in his cloak, and removed something small and golden. He held it out to Siggurd and said, “I found this in the beast’s lair and thought it should be returned to you.”

  Siggurd looked at the object in Sigmar’s palm, and his face crumpled in anguish.

  “The ring of the Brigundian kings,” he said. “My son’s ring.”

  “I am sorry,” said Sigmar. “I too know the pain of losing a loved one.”

  “He was our best and bravest,” said Siggurd, fighting for composure before his warriors. The king took the ring from Sigmar and drew himself upright, squaring his shoulders and looking into the mountain as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

  “We Brigundians are a proud people, Sigmar,” said Siggurd at last, “but that is not always a good thing. When first you came before me, I saw an opportunity to be rid of you, for I had no wish to be drawn into what I believed to be your quest to enslave all the tribes with pretty words and high ideals. But when you accepted the task of slaying Skaranorak, I realised that you spoke true and that I had acted selfishly.”

  “It does not matter now,” said Sigmar. “I live and the beast is dead.”

  “No,” said Siggurd. “It does matter. I thought I had sent you to your doom, and I have waited here tormented by the guilt of that base deed.”

  Sigmar offered his hand to the Brigundian king and said, “Then our sword oath will mark a new beginning for the Unberogen and the tribes of the south-east. Let us measure our deeds from this point onwards as friends and allies.”

  Siggurd’s face was pained, but he smiled. “It shall be so.”

  They had left the shattered ruins of Krealheim and returned to Siggurdheim where the giant tusks of the slain dragon ogre were mounted on a great podium in recognition of Sigmar’s mighty victory. He had rested and recovered from his wounds, and a week after his return from the mountains, the kings of the furthest tribes had come to Siggurdheim.