02 - Empire

by Graham McNeill

  “And how do you plan to do that?” asked Wolfgart. “They outnumber us by several thousand now.”

  “We will retreat to Middenheim,” said Sigmar. “It is the greatest fastness in the empire and it has never fallen.”

  “It has never been attacked,” pointed out Wolfgart. “A city on a mountain? You’d have to be mad to attack it. Why would they not just ignore us and push on to Reikdorf? Or any other city that won’t be as impossible to take.”

  “Their leaders are thinking like us, and they will know they cannot simply ignore Middenheim,” said Sigmar. “To push further into the empire while leaving an army at their backs would be madness. They will have no choice but to come at us.”

  “Then let us hope you are right about the other counts,” said Otwin. “If they do not heed your summons then Middenheim will be our grave.”

  Pyres burned, pyramids of skulls were built long into the night, and Cormac watched the bloody torture of the prisoners. Their screams were prayers to the Dark Gods, and the forests echoed to the chants and prayers of the Norsii. Drunk on slaughter and victory, thousands of men filled the shallow valley where they had faced the might of Sigmar and prevailed.

  Cormac could still hardly believe they had won.

  Watching the army of Sigmar upon the hillside, his mouth had been dry and his guts twisted in apprehension. The Emperor had never been defeated, and the men of the empire fully expected to crush the invaders in one great battle.

  Though he hated to admit it, Kar Odacen’s plans and the training regime of Azazel, who had spent the last two seasons teaching the Norsii the empire way of war, had borne fruit. Cormac relished the sense of panic that seized their foes when they had seen the Norsii fighting as a disciplined whole. Kar Odacen’s host of shamans had worked their sorceries to bring the heavens down upon the enemy, and their doom was assured.

  The slaughter had been mighty, and he had given an equal share of the living plunder to each of his vassal warlords. The Kul had ritually disembowelled their captives, and hunchbacked shamans with gibbering shadows at their shoulders had eaten the entrails. Groups of Wei-Tu riders attached ropes to the limbs of prisoners and rode off in different directions to tear them apart, while Khazag strongmen pummelled their prisoners to death with their fists.

  Cormac had fought and killed two dozen warriors in a hastily-dug battle pit ringed with swords. With bare hands and naked ferocity, he had beaten each prisoner down, and drunk their blood as it gushed from necks torn open with his teeth.

  The Hung had violated their captives in every way imaginable, and then given their broken, abused bodies to the slaves as playthings. Of all the fates suffered by the prisoners of the empire, this was the one that had offended Cormac the most. Every warrior, even an enemy, was entitled to a death of blood, his skull offered to the brass throne of Kharnath.

  Kar Odacen placated him by speaking of the myriad aspects of the Dark Gods and how each was honoured differently. Were not the reeking plague pits of Onogal a means to serve the gods of the north? Though they took no skulls in battle, the shamans who ventured into the madness of the far north and returned twisted and insane with power were just as devoted to the old gods. The pleasure cults of the Hung were no less honourable, elaborated Kar Odacen, though they seemed so to Cormac’s eyes.

  Besides, as Azazel had pointed out, Cormac could ill-afford to invite dissent into his army by keeping the Hung from their sport. Its unity was a fragile thing at best, and to single out the worshippers of Shomaal would start a rot that would see the army break up within days.

  Cormac threaded his way through the camp, pausing every now and then to watch a particularly amusing or grotesque sacrifice at a makeshift altar. His skin was hot and red from the pyres, for there was plenty of wood to burn. In rime, the empire would be one gigantic pyre, with the skull of its Emperor mounted on a great pyramid of bone and ash.

  As he reached the head of the valley, he saw Kar Odacen and Azazel. His mood soured, for he could not look upon them without thinking that they plotted behind his back. A shaman and a traitor to his own kind. Such lieutenants he had!

  A brutalised corpse lay at the shaman’s feet, and from the hideous mutilations wrought upon its flesh, Cormac knew that Azazel had indulged his lust for torture. The corpse’s belly was opened, and Kar Odacen’s hands were buried in its intestines. With a wet, sucking sound, Kar Odacen removed a glistening liver and turned it over in his red hands.

  “What do the entrails say?” asked Cormac and Azazel only reluctantly tore his eyes from the ruptured corpse. Cormac was about to ask again when Kar Odacen held up a hand.

  “Be silent,” said the shaman. “The art of the haruspex requires concentration.”

  Cormac fought the urge to take his axe and bury it in the shaman’s head for such disrespect, releasing the iron grip on his weapon. He hadn’t been aware he was holding it.

  “It was a good victory,” said Azazel, gazing rapturously at his own image in the gleaming metal of his sword blade. “Hard fought and well won.”

  Cormac nodded, unsure whether Azazel was talking to him or the reflection. He forced himself to answer without anger.

  “Aye, it was that,” he said. “Many skulls taken and fresh trophy rings for every champion.”

  “It is a shame you did not capitalise on it,” said Kar Odacen without looking up from his reading of the dead man’s meat. “Discipline broke down at the end and our enemies escaped us. Now we will need to fight those men again.”

  “Then we will fight them again,” hissed Cormac, “and we will defeat them again.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Azazel. “We beat Sigmar’s men because they were not ready for us to fight like them, but they will learn from that mistake.”

  Cormac tried not to look at Azazel, and waited for the shaman to speak.

  “Did you hear me?” asked Azazel.

  “I heard you,” snapped Cormac, finally meeting the swordsman’s gaze. As much as he detested the rites of Shomaal, the dark prince’s powers must surely have shaped Azazel’s features. To raise his voice in anger to such a specimen of perfection seemed abhorrent.

  He forced himself to look past Azazel’s glamours to the corruption beneath.

  “I thought your training made us their equals in battle?” he said.

  Azazel laughed, and such was its beguiling quality that Cormac felt his anger melting in the face of such a wondrous sound.

  “Hardly,” said Azazel, flashing him a smile. “We have trained for little more than two seasons. Sigmar’s men have trained and fought together for years.”

  “Your army outnumbers Sigmar’s,” said Kar Odacen, “and the power of the Dark Gods makes us invincible.”

  “No, it makes us vulnerable,” said Cormac.

  “That makes no sense,” hissed Kar Odacen. “My power has never been greater.”

  “It is a mistake to think yourself invincible, shaman. Over-confidence will see us defeated. Think like that and we will make mistakes, leave openings for the enemy to exploit. We must assume nothing, and expert that our enemies will come back from this defeat stronger and more prepared. The master of the empire is no fool and will surely learn from his humbling.”

  “Then what do you think Sigmar will do next?” asked Azazel.

  “He will fall back to Middenheim,” said Cormac. “It is his only option.”

  Azazel nodded and said, “I will climb to the heavens and tear him from his lofty perch.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Cormac. “At least, not yet.”

  Azazel’s expression hardened and his eyes grew cold.

  “What?” he said. “Our enemy is within reach, why do we not strike for his throat?”

  “Because that is what he will expert us to do,” explained Cormac. “Sigmar must win time for his forces to gather. He will do so by drawing us onto the walls of an impregnable city.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” hissed Azazel. “My blades ache for Si
gmar’s body.”

  “That we do not dance to his tune. We ignore Middenheim and push eastwards. Burn the forests and villages of the empire, and seek out the forces answering Sigmar’s call for aid. Destroy them one by one, and soon tales of our victories will draw more of our kin across the sea. Within a season, we will see the empire in flames.”

  “No,” said Kar Odacen, rising from the corpse and holding the liver out for them to see. Its hard, fibrous interior was yellow with sickness. “You are mistaken. That will not happen.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Cormac.

  Kar Odacen stroked the liver, stringy ropes of rancid pus dripping from his fingers.

  “We follow Sigmar to Middenheim,” said the shaman.

  “That is a mistake,” said Cormac. “We can destroy the empire without facing the Emperor in battle until we have taken everything from him.”

  “You think this is about the empire?” snapped Kar Odacen, his bitter gaze sweeping over Cormac and Azazel. “It is not. It is about Sigmar. You think you fight for lost lands, for revenge? No, this war is the first of many, and all others will hang upon it.”

  “Though I dislike the thought of leaving Sigmar in his mountain city, Cormac’s plan has merit,” said Azazel, and Cormac was surprised at the swordsman’s support.

  “Cormac’s plan?” hissed Kar Odacen. “Since when do the tribes of the north heed the word of a mortal man? He is warlord and champion of this host by the will of the gods, and when they speak he must obey!”

  “Then what is the will of the gods?” asked Cormac, fighting down his killing urge.

  The shaman’s eyes took on a glazed, faraway look, and his voice seemed to echo from a place or rime far distant.

  “The Flame of Ulric must be extinguished and Sigmar must die,” he said. “I have seen ages beyond this time of legends to a place where darkness closes in on the world, and the forces of the old gods stand poised to bring ruin upon the world. The final triumph of Chaos is at hand, but one name holds back the darkness, one name of power that gives hope to men and bolsters the courage of all who hear it. That name is Sigmar, and if we do not destroy him here and now, then his name will echo down the centuries as a symbol for our enemies to rally behind.”

  Cormac felt a shiver of dark premonition travel the length of his spine as the forests around his army trembled with motion. His first thought was that Sigmar’s army had returned in the night to fall upon them as they gave thanks for their victory, but that thought died as he saw what emerged from the tree line.

  Thousands of beasts that walked, crawled and flew stood illuminated in the firelight, completely encircling the north-em army. Blessed by the warping power of the Dark Gods, no two were alike, a glorious meld of man and animal. Armed with crude axes, rusted swords or studded clubs, they had come at the shaman’s call, a host of monsters with the snarling heads of wolves, bears, bulls and a myriad other forms that defied easy identification.

  As one, they split the night with their howls, brays and shrieks, and Cormac’s sense of might and power as master of this army retreated in the face of such atavistic devotion to the old gods. Primal and devoid of any urges save to destroy and revenge themselves on a race that hated and feared them, the beasts were ready to tear the throat from the empire.

  “These are days of great power,” said Kar Odacen. “The tribes of the north, the beasts of the forest, and a great prince of Kharnath will fall upon Middenheim, and we will baptise this world in blood!”

  Night was falling, but still they kept coming.

  Like a living sea of fur, flesh and iron, the host of the north swirled and flowed around the base of the Fauschlag Rock without end. Sigmar stood at the edge of the city with the wind billowing his wolfskin cloak behind him, while his fellow warriors stood a more prudent distance from the sheer drop.

  The last time so many of them had been gathered together was at Sigmar’s coronation, nine years ago. So much had happened since then that Sigmar barely remembered the promise and hope of that day.

  Some of those hopes had been fulfilled, some had been dashed.

  Friendships had been forged and strengthened. Others had been soured.

  The coming war would test which would endure.

  Conn Carsten of the Udose stood with his hands resting on the pommel of a wide-bladed broadsword, while Marius of the Jutones simply watched the gathering enemy impassively. Against all advice, Otwin had joined them, held upright by Ulfdar and a Thuringian warrior whom Sigmar didn’t know. The Berserker King’s vast axe was freshly chained to his wrist and would only be parted from him in victory or death.

  Myrsa and Pendrag were on his left, with Redwane and Wolfgart at his right. His greatest friends and allies stood with him, and their continued faith and friendship was humbling. Despite everything he had put them through over the years, they remained steadfastly loyal.

  “They came,” said Wolfgart. “Just like you said.”

  “Aye,” agreed Redwane. “Lucky us, eh?”

  “I didn’t think they would,” said Pendrag. “They must know they cannot take this city.”

  “I do not think they would have come if they did not expect to defeat us,” said Sigmar.

  “They won’t get up the chain lifts, so the only other way in is the viaduct,” said Wolfgart. “With the warriors we have, we can hold that until the end of days.”

  Sigmar read their faces. High on this rock, they believed themselves secure and invincible. They would learn soon enough the folly of that belief.

  “If the viaduct was the only way into the city I might agree with you,” said Sigmar, “but it is not. Is it, Myrsa?”

  The Warrior Eternal shook his head, looking as though he were being forced to reveal an uncomfortable secret.

  “No,” he said. “It is not. How did you know?”

  “I am the Emperor, it is my duty to know such things,” he said. He smiled, and then tapped the rune-inscribed circlet of gold and ivory at his brow. “Alaric told me how his miners and engineers helped Artur reach the summit of the Fauschlag Rock. He told me that the rock beneath us is honeycombed with tunnels and caves. Some carved by the dwarfs, others made by hands that are a mystery to even the mountain folk.”

  “It’s true,” said Myrsa. “We have a few maps, but they are mostly incomplete and, truth be told, I don’t think anyone really knows exactly what’s beneath us.”

  “There is another way in to my city and I do not know of it?” asked Pendrag. “You should have told me of this, Myrsa.”

  “The city’s defence is my domain,” said Myrsa. “Long ago it was decided that the fewer people knew of the tunnels the better. In any case, our enemies cannot know of them.”

  “They will,” said Sigmar. “They will find them and we must defend them.”

  They watched the assembling forces of the Norsii in silence for a while, each trying to guess how many enemies they faced, for Cormac Bloodaxe’s force was far larger than before. Inhuman beasts had swelled its ranks, and the sight of so vast a gathering of monsters was horrifying.

  “The forests have emptied,” said Otwin. “I never dreamed there were so many beasts.”

  “There will be fewer by the end of this,” snarled Conn Carsten.

  Though Sigmar could claim no fondness for the Udose clan-chief, he silently thanked him for his defiant words as he saw resolve imparted to his fellow warriors. He returned his gaze to the enemy army, his keen eyes picking out the banner of Cormac Bloodaxe.

  Beneath the banner, a towering warrior in black armour and horned helm looked up at the mountain city. Though great distance separated him from his foe, Sigmar felt as though Cormac was right in front of him. If he whispered, his enemy would hear what he had to say.

  “You will not take my empire from me,” he said.

  Two figures attended the Norsii warlord, a hunched form that reeked of sorcery, and the lithe warrior in silver armour who bore twin swords. The swordsman’s hair was dark, his skin pale, and as
he drew one of his blades Sigmar felt a tremor of recognition.

  It was impossible. The distance was too great, and though the warrior’s face was little more than a tiny white dot amid a sea of warlike faces, Sigmar was certain he knew him.

  “The swordsman,” he said, “next to Cormac Bloodaxe.”

  Wolfgart squinted in the crepuscular gloom. “Aye, the skinny looking runt. What of him?”

  “I know him,” he said.

  “What?” hissed Wolfgart. “How can you know him? Who is he?”

  “It is Gerreon,” said Sigmar. Wolfgart sighed.

  “This just gets better and better,” he said.

  ——

  The Empire at Bay

  The army of Cormac Bloodaxe began the assault on Middenheim at dawn the following day, after a night of braying howls, echoing war-horns, sacrificial pyres and blood offerings. Their chants and songs of war drifted up to the defenders, promising death and rich with the primal urges of the gathered Norsii tribes.

  Where the men of the empire craved peace and the warmth of hearth and home, the Norsii craved battle and conquest. Where progress and development were the watchwords of the empire, slaughter and the lust for domination drove the northern tribes. The gods of the south watched over their people in return for worship, but the baleful gods of Chaos demanded worship, and offered only battle and death to those that venerated them.

  Eight thousand empire warriors stood ready to defend the city, around half the number opposing them. More than just men were poised to attack: bull-headed monsters, winged bat-creatures, and twisted abominations so far removed from any known beast that their origins could never be known. They bellowed alongside packs of slavering, black-furred wolves, and towering troll-creatures lumbered through the host with clubs that were simply trees ripped from the earth.

  Sigmar had long since planned the defence of Middenheim, knowing the Flame of Ulric would draw the followers of the Dark Gods like moths to a lantern. The bulk of the enemy would surely come at them up the viaduct, and despite the best efforts of Middenheim’s engineers, the stonework connecting it with the city could not be dislodged. The skill of its dwarfen builders was such that not a single stone could be removed. To compound this problem, the citadel and towers designed to defend the top of the viaduct had yet to be completed. The barbican walls were barely the height of a tall man, and the towers were hollow and without ramparts. Blocks of stone intended to raise the wall to a height of fifty feet were even now being used to plug the unfinished gateway or hauled into position to form a fighting step for the men behind it.