02 - Empire

by Graham McNeill

  “Come on, leave it. It’s not worth starting trouble tonight,” warned Pendrag, taking hold of his arm.

  Wolfgart nodded, more hurt than angry at being snubbed by Laredus.

  It made no sense. Brotherhood between warriors was a precious thing, a bond that those who had not risked death facing the enemy would never understand. To break such a bond was sure to anger the gods, and Wolfgart spat into the fire to ward off the bad luck that such a deed would attract.

  He shrugged off Pendrag’s arm.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. If Laredus won’t drink with us, then let’s go find someone who will.”

  “I’ll save you the hunt,” said a gruff, northern voice behind them. Wolfgart laughed, his ill-temper forgotten as he turned to face the Warrior Eternal of the Fauschlag Rock.

  “Myrsa! Gods, man, it’s grand to see you,” cried Wolfgart, sweeping his friend into a crushing bear hug. Myrsa was clad in his ubiquitous white plate armour, and hammered his palm against Wolfgart’s back. Wolfgart grunted at the strength of the man. He released Myrsa, who took Pendrag’s wrist in the warrior’s grip.

  “It’s grand indeed to see you too, my friends,” said Myrsa. “You fare well?”

  “We do all right,” said Wolfgart. “Nothing a good battle wouldn’t cure.”

  “Indeed we do,” put in Pendrag. “Reikdorf grows every day, our people have enough food and the land is at peace. We can ask for no more.”

  “Aye, there’s truth to what you both say,” agreed Myrsa, lifting a tankard of beer from a passing serving girl’s tray.

  The three friends took seats at a nearby table, and Wolfgart procured them a long platter of roast boar and steamed vegetables.

  “Pendrag’s getting soft in his old age,” said Wolfgart, chewing on a succulent rib. “Spends all his time with Eoforth in that storehouse of books and papers. He’s a scholar now, not a warrior.”

  “Is that right, Pendrag?” asked Myrsa. “You hung up that big axe of yours?”

  “Wolfgart exaggerates,” said Pendrag, helping himself to some cuts of meat. “But, yes, I have been spending a great deal of time gathering instructional texts and setting down all that the dwarfs taught us. After all, what use is peace if we do not make use of it to learn new things? How will we pass on that knowledge to future generations?”

  “Pendrag has convinced me, Wolfgart,” said Myrsa. “Perhaps we should all become men of learning?”

  “Would that the world would let us,” said Pendrag, slapping a hand on Myrsa’s pauldron, “but enough of this mockery. You played your part in Sigmar’s crowning well.”

  “Aye,” said Wolfgart. “When Ar-Ulric cut you over that cauldron I thought you were going to bleed ice water. Almost like a proper king, eh?”

  A shadow crossed Myrsa’s face.

  “Do not say that,” he answered. “I am no king and do not wish to be one. I am charged with leading the warriors of the Fauschlag, but am forced to delegate command more and more often as the business of running Middenheim consumes my every waking moment. It is a nightmare, my friends, a living nightmare. ‘I am a fighter, not a ruler!’”

  “Middenheim? Is that what they’re calling that mountain city of yours?” asked Wolfgart.

  Myrsa nodded. “Our scholars decided that it was time we had a proper name for the city, and they chose the name of the original settlement built around the Flame of Ulric. Supposedly, it comes from an old dwarf word, ‘watchtower in the middle place’ or something like that.”

  “Poetic,” grunted Wolfgart.

  “And you would know,” smiled Myrsa. “After all, ‘town by the Reik’ is a name of lyrical beauty.”

  Wolfgart was spared from thinking of a suitable response by the arrival of Redwane. The White Wolf was escorted by a statuesque woman in a long green dress, whose skin was pale where it was not decorated with colourful, winding tattoos. She was tall, with broad shoulders and blonde hair wound in a long ponytail that reached to the small of her back.

  She cuffed Redwane over the back of the head.

  “Maedbh, light of my life and queen of the bedchamber,” cried Wolfgart. He wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her tight, careful to avoid the new swelling of her belly.

  “Husband,” said Maedbh. “I am returning this lusty dog to you before some jealous warrior sticks a knife in his heart. If he has one, that is.”

  “Causing trouble again, Redwane?” asked Myrsa.

  “Me? No, just a slight misunderstanding,” protested the White Wolf. “Christa was feeling faint from the heat, and I was simply taking her outside for some fresh air. I can’t help it if Erek thought my intentions towards his woman were anything other than honourable!”

  “That rod of yours will get you in real trouble one day,” said Wolfgart, though he admired the youngster’s nerve in making a pass at the notoriously sharp-tongued Christa. “And my wife won’t be there to pull your arse out the fire when it does.”

  Redwane smiled and shrugged before sitting on the edge of the table and helping himself to some of Pendrag’s food.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” said Redwane, patting the worn, leather-wound grip of his hammer. “I can handle any trouble that comes my way.”

  “It’s not you we’re worried about, you dolt,” said Pendrag. “It’s any poor fool who dares challenge you. I don’t want you killing a man in an honour duel just because you fancied a tilt at his woman.”

  Redwane nodded, but Wolfgart saw that Pendrag’s words had made no impression on the volatile young warrior.

  “Ah, what’s the use?” hissed Pendrag. “You’ll hear no words I say. Only bitter experience will teach you the lesson you so badly need to learn.”

  “Always the teacher, eh, Pendrag?” said Wolfgart. “You see, Myrsa? I told you he was a scholar now.”

  Myrsa nodded and drank some more beer as the pipe music filling the hall was silenced and the chaotic hubbub of voices died down. Wolfgart looked towards the end of the longhouse. Sigmar had risen from his throne, and his iron gaze swept the assembled warriors.

  “What’s happening?” asked Redwane.

  “When a new king is crowned, it is traditional for him to dispense favours to those who supported him,” said Pendrag. “I assume it will be the same for the crowning of an emperor.”

  “Favours? What sort of favours?”

  “Land, title… That sort of thing.”

  “Ah, so lots of kings get more land and fancier titles,” said Redwane.

  “Something like that,” agreed Pendrag. “Don’t worry, lad, it won’t be anything that affects the likes of us.”

  ——

  Reckonings

  Sigmar closed the door to his bedchamber at the rear of the longhouse and sighed with exhaustion. Two of his White Wolves stood guard on the other side of the door, but if they saw any sign of his weariness, they did not show it. Alfgeir had trained them well. His three hounds lay on his bed in a lair of bearskins, basking in the sullen heat from the banked fire. Their heads bobbed up as he entered. Ortulf, the eldest of the three, bared his fangs, but bounded from the bed upon catching Sigmar’s scent. Lex and Kai quickly followed him, all three inordinately pleased to see their master once more.

  The hounds had been a gift from King Wolfila of the Udose in the aftermath of Black Fire Pass. Udose warhounds were vicious beasts, difficult to train and temperamental, but once their allegiance had been won, they were loyal to their master unto death. Much like the Udose themselves, reflected Sigmar.

  He knelt, ruffled their fur and threw them some strips of roast boar he had taken from the feast hall. They scrapped amongst themselves for the food, though Lex and Kai were careful to allow Ortulf the choicest cuts. As the hounds devoured the boar meat, Sigmar rubbed his eyes and yawned. It had been a long day and he wished for nothing more than a good night’s rest.

  Sigmar removed the wolfskin cloak around his neck and reached for the clasps securing his magni
ficent silver armour. Kurgan Ironbeard had presented him with the armour as a coronation gift, and, as Sigmar unbuckled each piece, it felt like he had worn it all his life. Each plate was worked with a skill and craftsmanship known only to the dwarfs, the burnished metal carved with runic script and flawlessly finished to a mirror sheen.

  The breastplate was lighter even than the lacquered leather chestguards the Taleuten horse archers wore, moulded to his physique and embossed with a twin-tailed comet of gold at its centre.

  No mortal man had ever worn so fine a suit of armour.

  He removed the armour quickly and hung each piece on a rack in the corner of the room. Clad only in his tunic and crown, he lifted Alaric’s gift from his brow. Like the armour, the crown was a thing of beauty, and Sigmar sensed the ancient power bound to it in the gold runes worked upon the metal.

  Sigmar placed the crown in a velvet-lined casket next to his bed and closed the lid. Ghal Maraz he set on an iron weapons rack alongside his leaf-bladed sword, an Asoborn hunting spear and his favourite Cherusen dagger. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the raucous celebrations from the great hall of the longhouse, knowing they would continue long into the night.

  Though hundreds of warriors were close by, Sigmar felt strangely alone, as though his elevation to Emperor had somehow isolated him from his fellows. He knew he was still the same man he had always been, but something fundamental had changed, though he could not yet fathom what it was.

  He thought back to his pronouncements in the longhouse, and the deafening cheers that greeted each one. In the weeks leading to his coronation, Sigmar had thought long and hard about what boons to grant those that had sworn loyalty to him. His allies were proud men and women, and would seek rewards for the blood their people had shed to make him Emperor.

  Sigmar’s first act had also been his grandest.

  He abolished the title of king, declaring that no one who called himself a king should be subject to another’s rule. Instead, each of the tribal kings would take the title of count, retaining all their lands and rights as rulers over their people. Their sword oaths still bound them to Sigmar, as his did to them.

  The land of each of the counts was entrusted to them for all time, and Sigmar swore on Ghal Maraz that they and their descendants would remain his honoured brethren for so long as they upheld the ideals by which their realms had been won and made safe.

  One land, one people, united under a single ruler, yet still able to retain their identities.

  With the biggest proclamation made and accepted, Sigmar had then turned to individual honours. He named Alfgeir Grand Knight of the Empire, and entrusted him with the protection of Reikdorf and its people. Sigmar presented the stunned Alfgeir with a glorious banner woven from white silk acquired at fabulous expense from the olive-skinned traders of the south. Depicting a black cross with a wreathed skull at its centre, Sigmar declared it would forever be borne by those who fought in defence of Reikdorf.

  Amid wild cheering, Sigmar had declared that Reikdorf would be the foremost city of the empire, his capital and seat of power. It would become a beacon of hope and learning for his people, a place where warriors and scholars would gather to further man’s knowledge of the world in which he lived.

  To this end, Sigmar announced the building of a great library, and named the venerable Eoforth as its first custodian. The canny Eoforth had served as Bjorn’s counsellor for more than forty years and, together with Pendrag, had amassed a vast collection of scrolls written by some of the wisest men in the empire.

  Eoforth would be entrusted with the gathering of knowledge from all across the lands of men, bringing it together under one roof so that any who sought wisdom might find it within the library’s walls. Sigmar placed the grey mantle of a scholar upon Eoforth, seeing Pendrag’s anticipation as he awaited a similar position within this new institution.

  But Sigmar had a greater destiny in mind for Pendrag.

  He smiled, picturing Pendrag’s face as he was appointed Count of Middenheim, entrusted with the rule of the empire’s northern marches. The shock on Pendrag’s face was mirrored by the relief on Myrsa’s, and Sigmar knew that the decision was the correct one.

  Warriors from all the tribes were honoured for their courage at Black Fire Pass, Maedbh of the Asoborns, Ulfdar of the Thuringians, Wenyld of the Unberogen, Vash of the Ostagoths and a score of others. The longhouse shook with the sounds of swords and axes banging on shields, and with his duty to his warriors fulfilled, Sigmar had left them to their revelries.

  Tired beyond measure, Sigmar slid beneath the bearskin covers of his bed, his three hounds curling together on the Brigundian rug at the centre of the room.

  He longed for sleep but, as the hours passed, slumber would not come.

  * * *

  The hearth-fire had burned low, casting a dull red glow around his chamber. Though the room was warm and his covers thick, Sigmar suddenly felt the lingering soul-chill of his near-drowning in the Cauldron of Woe.

  He shivered as fleeting glimpses of the things he had seen beneath the icy water returned to him. What did they mean and how should he interpret them? Were they visions of the future granted to him by Ulric or mere phantasms conjured by his air-starved mind to ease his passage into death? When the days of feasting were over and the counts had returned to their lands, Sigmar resolved to task Eoforth with researching the meaning behind his visions.

  Ortulf and Lex lifted their heads from the rug, growling softly at some unidentified threat, and Sigmar was instantly alert. Without appearing to move, he slid his hand beneath the covers for the punch dagger hidden in a secret pocket within the bearskin.

  Opening his eyes a fraction, Sigmar scanned the room for anything out of place. All three hounds were growling now, though he could hear their confusion. Something had alerted them, but they could not identify what.

  A shadow detached itself from the corner of the room, and Sigmar’s fist closed around the bronze hilt of the punch dagger.

  “Put down your weapon, Child of Thunder,” said a loathsome voice that Sigmar had hoped never to hear again. “I mean you no harm.”

  “I wondered when you would show your face,” said Sigmar, propping himself up and keeping his grip firm on the hilt of his dagger.

  “You sensed my presence?” said the Hag Woman, limping across the room. “I am impressed. Most men’s minds are too concerned with their desires to notice the truth of the world around them.”

  “I sensed a foulness on the air, but knew not what it was,” said Sigmar. “Now I do.”

  The Hag Woman chuckled mirthlessly and moved towards his bed using a staff of dark wood for support.

  “So that is to be the tone of our discussion,” she said. “Very well, I shall speak no words of friendship or congratulation.”

  Sigmar’s hounds bared their fangs, muscles tensed and hackles raised. The Hag Woman spat a curse in their direction, and the dogs whimpered in fear, slinking away to the furthest corner of the room.

  “The beasts fear me, even if men do not,” she said wistfully. “That is something at least.”

  She sat on the end of Sigmar’s bed, and he could see the weight of years upon the woman. Her skin was loathsomely wrinkled, like weathered leather, and what little remained of her white hair was lank and thin. For a moment, Sigmar was moved to pity. Then he remembered the misery she had allowed to enter his life and his heart hardened.

  “You truly knew I was in Reikdorf?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Sigmar. “And now I wish you gone. I am weary and I am not in the mood for words of doom.”

  The Hag Woman laughed, the sound like winter twigs snapping underfoot.

  “Alaric’s crown gives you perception,” she said. “Beware you do not seek to replace it.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “A piece of advice, nothing more,” said the Hag Woman. “But that is not why I am here. I come with a warning and a request.”

  “A re
quest?” said Sigmar. “Why should I grant you anything? All you have done is bring me misery.”

  A shadow of anger passed over the Hag Woman’s face, and Sigmar recoiled from her cold fury.

  “You hate me,” she said, “but if you knew all I had sacrificed to guide you, make you strong and prepare you for what is to come, you would drop to your knees and grant me my heart’s desire.”

  “Why should I believe you?” demanded Sigmar. “Your words bring only death.”

  “And yet you have your empire.”

  “Won by the courage of warriors,” said Sigmar, “not the wiles of your scheming.”

  “Won by your lust for death and glory,” snapped the Hag Woman. “Most men’s desires are simple and banal: food in their belly, a home to shelter from the cold, and a woman to bear their sons. But not you… No, Sigmar the Heldenhammer is a killer whose heart only sings when death is a hair’s-breadth away and his bloodstained hammer is crushing the skulls of his foes. Like all warriors, you have darkness in your heart that lusts for violence. It is what births the urge to kill and destroy in men, but yours will consume you without balance in your heart. Temper your darkness with compassion, mercy and love. Only then will you be the Emperor this land needs for it to survive. This is my warning to you, Child of Thunder.”

  The Hag Woman’s words cut like knives, but Sigmar could not deny the truth of them. The clamour of battle was when he felt truly alive, when his enemies were broken and driven from the field of battle in a tide of blood.

  “You call it darkness, but it allowed me to defeat my enemies,” said Sigmar. “I need it to defend my lands.”

  “It is ever my curse to be unappreciated,” sighed the Hag Woman, “but my time in this world is short, and I have only this one chance to pass on my knowledge of things to come.”

  “You have seen the future?” asked Sigmar, making the sign of the horns.