02 - Empire

by Graham McNeill

  A WARHAMMER “TIME OF LEGENDS” NOVEL

  EMPIRE

  Sigmar - 02

  Graham McNeill

  (An Undead Scan v1.1)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World lie the lands of men, ruled over by bickering tribal chieftains. It is a land divided. In the north, King Artur of the Teutogens surveys his rivals atop the mighty Fauschlag Rock, whilst the berserker kings of the Thuringians know only war and bloodshed. It is to the south that men must look for succour. At Reikdorf dwell the Unberogens, led by the mighty King Bjorn and his fated son, Sigmar. The Unberogens seek a vision, a vision of unity. The enemies of man are many and if men cannot overcome their differences and rally together, their demise is assured.

  To the frozen north, Norsii raiders, barbarians and worshippers of Dark Cods, burn, slay and pillage. Grim spectres haunt the marshlands and beasts gather in the forests. But it is in the east where dark forces are moving, and the greatest threat lies. Greenskins have ever plagued the land and now they march upon the race of man in their numberless hordes with a single purpose—to eradicate their foes forever.

  The human kings are not alone in their plight. The dwarfs of the mountains, great forge smiths and engineers, are allies in this fight. All must stand together, dwarf and man for their mutual survival depends on it.

  BOOK ONE

  Empire of Hope

  Then all chiefs made an oath

  To stand together, united as men,

  And a crown was fashioned

  By Alaric, runesmith of the dwarfs,

  Placed by Ulric, the priest,

  Upon noble Sigmar’s brow.

  ——

  The Last Days of Kings

  The shadows were long as the Hag Woman stepped from the misty hilltop overlooking the city of Reikdorf. She had walked many miles from her home in the Brackenwalsch, and her limbs were aching from the long journey. The poultices and tisanes of Spiderleaf and Valerian were no longer able to keep the crystals in her joints from causing her pain, and she rested for a moment upon a long staff fashioned from the wood of the rowan tree. The staff’s top was hung with talismans of protection and shrouding, for the Summer Solstice was a time when the eyes of the gods were turned on the world, and it did not do to attract unwanted attention.

  The Hag Woman set off down the hill towards the city that shone like a beacon in the gathering darkness. Torches had been set on the new walls of stone and light poured from the city, illuminating the landscape around it in a warm, safe glow.

  The Hag Woman knew that safety was illusory, for this was a dangerous world, an old world, where monstrous beasts lurked in the sprawling forests, and warlike greenskin tribes raided the lands of men from their mountain lairs. Nor were these the only dangers that pressed close to the light: things unknown and unseen gathered their strength in the darkness to assault mankind.

  A shiver travelled the length of the Hag Woman’s spine, and she felt the clammy embrace of the grave in its chill. Her time in this world was nearing an end, and there was still so much to do, so many courses yet to steer, and so many fates to thwart. The thought made her pick up her pace.

  The ground was soft underfoot, warm and still damp from earlier rain. Though a stone-flagged road wound its way towards the open southern gate of the city walls, the Hag Woman kept to the grass, preferring to feel the life of the world beneath her feet. To walk barefoot was to feel the power that dwelt in the earth, and to know that streams of uncorrupted energy still existed in the sacred places of the world.

  That such places were becoming ever fewer was a source of great sorrow to the Hag Woman. Every road, every hall of stone and every step taken on the path of civilisation took mankind further from his connection with the land that had birthed him. The advancements that allowed men to survive in this world were the very things divorcing them from their origins and their true strength.

  The city walls reared up before her, tall and strong, constructed from blocks of dark stone. They were at least thirty feet high, and she recognised the teachings of the mountain folk in the precisely cut blocks. A pair of stout towers flanked the open gateway, and she saw the gleam of firelight on armour behind their saw-toothed battlements.

  She reluctantly stepped onto the roadway and limped through the gateway, past rows of bearded Unberogen warriors armoured in fine hauberks of gleaming mail and bronze helmets with horsehair plumes.

  None of the warriors so much as glanced at the Hag Woman, and she smiled at how easily men were fooled by even the simplest of enchantments.

  Reikdorf opened up before her, and though it had been many years since she had come to Sigmar’s city, she was nevertheless shocked by how much it had changed. What had once been little more than a simple fishing village on the banks of the Reik had grown to something huge and sprawling. Despite herself, she was impressed by Sigmar’s achievements.

  Buildings of stone clustered tightly together in a warren of streets and alleys that reeked of life and unfettered growth. Granaries and storehouses loomed over her, and shouted oaths drifted from reeking taverns. Even this late in the day, metal clanged on metal from a nearby forge, and runners darted through the crowds carrying messages between merchants. The streets were thronged with people, though none save children and dogs spared her more than a glance. As she made her way through the city, men made the sign of the horns for no reason they could adequately explain, and women pulled suckling babes tighter to their breasts.

  She could see the longhouse of the Unberogen kings ahead, a magnificently constructed hall fashioned by dwarf hands in gratitude for the rescue of King Kurgan Ironbeard of Karaz-a-Karak from greenskin marauders. The heavy timber shutters were thrown open, and yellow light spilled from within, carried on the sounds of great mirth and raucous merrymaking.

  A host of banners was planted before the longhouse, a riot of colours and devices that had once signified division, but which now spoke of unity and shared purpose. She saw the raven of the Endals, the rearing stallion of the Taleutens, the Skull Banner of King Otwin of the Thuringians and many others. She frowned at the one notable absence, and shook her head as she made her way towards the longhouse, to where the lord of the Unberogen tribe and soon-to-be Emperor gathered his warriors.

  Wide doors of iron-banded timber led inside. Before them stood six warriors in thick wolfskin cloaks with heavy hammers of wrought iron. As before, none paid her any attention as she passed between them, fogging their minds and memories of her presence. The guards would go to their graves swearing on their children’s lives that not a single soul had passed them.

  The smell of sweat and free-flowing beer assailed her inside the longhouse, along with the vast heat of the fire pit at its centre. Sturdy tables ran the length of the building, and hundreds of warriors filled it with songs and laughter. Smoke from the fire gathered beneath the roof, and the rich aroma of roasting pork made her mouth water.

  Though she had passed unseen through the streets of Reikdorf, she kept to the shadows, for there were minds close by that were sharper than those of ordinary folk. Kings, queens and dwarfs had gathered in Reikdorf and would not be so easily fooled. She made her way to the rear of the longhouse, far from the empty throne at the other end of the hall that sat beneath a series of grisly battle honours.

  War banners hung from the rafters, and the Hag Woman was gratified to see tribesmen from across the Empire moving through the hall with an ease only shared by brothers-in-arms. These warriors had fought and bled at the Battle of Black Fire Pass, against the greatest horde of gr
eenskins the world had ever seen. That incredible victory and shared horror had forged a bond as unbreakable as it would be enduring.

  Endal pipers played martial tunes, and dwarf song-smiths told tales of ancient battles in time to the skirling music. The atmosphere was festive, the mood joyous, and the Hag Woman felt a moment of guilt for intruding on this day of celebration.

  She wished she could have brought the new Emperor a gift of joy on his coronation night, but that was not the way of the world.

  High above Reikdorf on Warrior Hill, Sigmar knelt before his father’s tomb, and scooped a handful of soil into the cup of his palm. The earth was dark, rich and loamy. It was good soil, nourished by the ancient dead. Looking at the great slab of rock that sealed King Bjorn’s tomb, Sigmar wished his father could see him now. He had achieved so much in his time as king, yet there was still much to do.

  “I miss you, father,” he said, letting the earth pour between his fingers. “I miss the strength you gave me and the earned wisdom you freely offered, though too often I heeded it not.”

  Sigmar lifted a foaming tankard of beer from the ground beside him and poured it onto the earth before the tomb. The smell of it stirred a thirst in Sigmar as he drew his hunting knife from its sheath at his belt. The weapon was a gift from Pendrag, and the workmanship was exquisite, the blade acid-etched with the image of a twin-tailed comet. Even King Kurgan had grunted that the blade was serviceable, which was about as close as a dwarf ever came to a compliment on the metalworking skills of other races.

  With one swift motion, Sigmar drew the blade across his forearm, allowing blood to well in the cut before turning his arm over to let the ruby droplets fall to the ground. The dark soil soaked up his blood, and he let it flow until he was satisfied that he had given enough.

  “This land is my one abiding love,” he said. “To this land and its people, I pledge my life and my strength. This I swear before all the gods and the spirits of my ancestors.”

  Sigmar stood and turned his gaze further down the hillside, where countless other tombs had been dug into the earth. Each contained a friend, a loved one or a sword-brother. The day’s last light caught on a pale stone lying flush against the hillside, its surface etched with long spirals and garlanded with wild honeysuckle.

  “Too many times have I sent my brothers into the hillside,” whispered Sigmar, remembering the climb to roll that boulder across the darkened sepulchre housing Trinovantes’ body. It seemed inconceivable that sixteen winters had passed since his friend’s death. So much had happened and so much had changed that it was as if the time when Trinovantes had lived belonged to some other life.

  Painful memories threatened to surface, but he forced them down, not wishing to tempt fate on the day his grand dream of empire was finally coming to fruition.

  A cold wind flayed the summit of the great Unberogen burial mount, but Sigmar did not feel its chill. A dark wolfskin cloak was pulled tightly about his shoulders and a padded woollen jerkin kept him warm. His blond hair was pulled tight in a short ponytail, his forelocks braided at his temples. Sigmar’s features were strong and noble, and his eyes, one a pale blue, the other a deep green, carried wisdom and pain beyond his thirty-one years.

  Sigmar stood and brushed his hands clean of earth. He took a deep breath, and looked out over the landscape as dusk cast its purple shadows eastwards. Reikdorf shone with torchlight below him, but it was possible to see spots of light in the far distance, each one a well-defended town with a strong body of armed men to protect it. Beyond the horizon of forest, hundreds more villages and towns were spread throughout his domain, all united under his rule and sworn to the cause of a united empire of man.

  The year since Black Fire Pass had been a bountiful one, the fields providing much needed grain to feed the returning warriors and their families. The winter had been mild, the summer balmy and peaceful, and the recent harvest had been among the most plentiful anyone could remember.

  Eoforth claimed it was a reward from the gods for the courage shown by the warriors of the empire, and Sigmar had been only too pleased to accept his venerable counsellor’s interpretation. The years preceding the battle had been lean and hard, the land ravaged by constant battle against the greenskins. Mankind had been on the verge of extinction, but the flickering candle-flame had survived the darkness, and, now, burned even brighter.

  “Winter coming soon,” said Alfgeir, standing a respectful distance behind him.

  “A fortune teller are you now, old friend?” asked Sigmar, gripping the handle of Ghal Maraz, the great warhammer presented to him by King Kurgan Ironbeard.

  “Don’t need to throw the bones to feel winter on this wind,” said Alfgeir. “And less of the ‘old’ thank you very much. I’m barely forty-four.”

  Sigmar turned to face the man who was both his Marshal of the Reik and personal bodyguard. Standing tall and proud in his gleaming bronze plate armour, Alfgeir was the very image of a proud Unberogen warrior. His face was scarred and craggy, yet Alfgeir wore his age with great dignity, and woe betide any young buck who sought to humble the old man during training on the Field of Swords. Once, his hair had been dark, but now it was streaked with silver.

  Like Sigmar, he wore a long wolfskin cloak, though his was white and had been a gift from King Aloysis of the Cherusens. A longsword of cold iron was belted at his waist, and his eyes constantly scanned the landscape for enemies.

  “There’s nothing out there,” said Sigmar, following Alfgeir’s wary looks.

  “You don’t know that,” replied Alfgeir. “Could be beasts, goblins, assassins. Anything.”

  “You’re being paranoid,” said Sigmar, setting off down the path towards his city. He pointed towards the tribal camps beyond the city walls to the west. “No one would try to kill me today, not with so many armed warriors around.”

  “It’s having so many warriors around that makes me nervous,” said Alfgeir, following Sigmar towards Reikdorf. “Any one of them might have lost a father, a brother or a son in the wars you fought to win their kings to your cause.”

  “True enough,” agreed Sigmar. “But do you really think any of the great kings has brought someone like that to my coronation?”

  “Probably not, but I do not like to take chances,” said Alfgeir. “I lost one king to an enemy blade. I’ll not lose an emperor to another.”

  King Bjorn had fallen in the wars to drive the Norsii from the lands of the Cherusens and Taleutens, and the shame of his failure to protect his liege lord had broken Alfgeir’s heart. When Sigmar became king of the Unberogen, he had all but destroyed the northern tribe in the following years, pushing their armies into the sea and burning their ships. His father had been avenged and the Norsii cast out from the empire, but Sigmar’s hatred remained strong.

  Sigmar stopped and placed his hand on Alfgeir’s shoulder.

  “Nor shall you, my friend,” he said.

  “I admire your certainty, my king,” said Alfgeir, 'but I think I’ll be happier keeping my guard up and my sword sharp.”

  “I would expect nothing less, but you are not a young man anymore,” said Sigmar with a grin that robbed the comment of malice. “You should let some of the younger White Wolves assist you. Perhaps Redwane?”

  “I don’t need that young pup hounding my heels,” snapped Alfgeir. “The lad is reckless and boastful. He irritates me. Besides, I told you, I am barely forty-four, younger than your father was when he took the fight to the north.”

  “Forty-four,” mused Sigmar. “I remember thinking such an age to be ancient when I was young. How anyone could let themselves grow old was beyond me.”

  “Believe me, I don’t recommend it,” said Alfgeir. “Your bones ache in winter, your back gets stiff and, worst of all, you get no respect from youngsters who ought to know better.”

  “I apologise, my friend,” chuckled Sigmar. “Now come on. We have honoured the dead, and now it is time to greet my fellow kings.”

  “Indeed, my Emperor,”
said Alfgeir with a theatrical bow. “You don’t want to be late for your own coronation, eh?”

  “You are drunk,” said Pendrag.

  “That I am,” agreed Wolfgart, happily taking a bite of roast boar. “I always said you were the clever one, Pendrag.”

  Wolfgart drained his tankard and wiped his arm over his mouth, smearing a line of beer and grease across his sleeve. Both men were dressed in their finest tunics, though Wolfgart had to admit that Pendrag’s had survived the preliminary festivities rather better than his.

  His sword-brother was dear to him, and they had shared adventures the likes of which would make great sagas to tell his son when he was born, but he did so love to nag. Pendrag was solid and immovable, the perfect build for an axeman, where Wolfgart had the wide shoulders and narrow hips of a swordsman.

  Pendrag’s flame-red hair was worked in elaborate braids, and his forked beard was stiffened with black resin. Wolfgart had eschewed such gaudy adornments, and simply restrained his wild dark hair with a copper circlet Maedbh had given him on the anniversary of their hand fastening.

  Serving girls threaded their way through the heaving mass of celebrating tribesmen, bearing platters stacked high with meat and tankards of foaming beer, while fending off the attentions of amorous drunks. Wolfgart reached out and swept a beaten copper ewer of beer from one of the girl’s trays and slurped a noisy mouthful without bothering to pour it into his tankard.

  Most of the foaming liquid went down his front, and Pendrag sighed.

  “You couldn’t stay sober tonight?” asked Pendrag. “Or at least not get so drunk?”

  “Come on, Pendrag! How often does our childhood friend get to be crowned Emperor over all the lands of men? I’ll be the first to admit, I thought he was mad as a Cherusen Wildman when he told us his plan, but Ulric roast my backside if he didn’t go and do it!”