A bitterly cold mist rose from the water, like the breath of the great frost giants said to haunt the featureless ice tundra of the Northern Wastes. The horses whinnied, their eyes wide and their ears pressed tight to their skulls in fear. The wind passed over them, but it was not the deathly cold of the dead, but the cleansing chill of a good northern winter. Sigmar had felt that cold before, when he had passed through the flame at the heart of Middenheim, and he clung to the memory.
No sooner had it arisen than the mist dissipated, and cries of astonishment arose from the men and dwarfs as they saw what had become of the lake. The water had frozen solid, leaving a vast, shimmering plane of ice before them. From the surface to the deepest reaches of the crater, the lake had been transformed in an instant to solid ice.
‘Ulric’s blood!’ swore Cuthwin, turning to Bransùil. ‘Did you do that?’
The warlock shook his shaven, tattooed head, staring over the glacier lake with a curious expression. ‘No, young Cuthwin. I have a degree of mastery, aye, but such powerful elemental magics are beyond my ability to wield.’
Sigmar followed Bransùil’s gaze, and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a distant shape on the far side of the crater. Someone was standing directly opposite them by the shattered gap where the rock dam had once held back the mountain waters. Though it was dark and the shimmering moonlight was filtered through a haze of ice particles, Sigmar swore he could see a figure swathed in fur.
A wolf-clad man with but a single arm.
Even as Sigmar caught sight of the man, he vanished into the moonlight shadows. He watched the spot for a while longer, hoping he would show himself again.
But the man did not return, if he had been there at all…
Sigmar turned away from the lake. Krell lay entombed beneath millions of tons of ice, sealed in a magical tomb in the heart of an ice-locked city, and Sigmar allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
‘Will it hold?’ he asked Bransùil. ‘The crystal prison you created, will it hold?’
‘It will hold,’ replied the Norsii. ‘For a very long time, but it will not endure forever.’
Sigmar nodded, as though this was a fundamental truth of the world he had only now come to fully appreciate.
‘Nothing lasts forever,’ he said. ‘Nor should it.’
Sword Guardian
He was pushing the horse too hard, its flanks lathered and heaving with effort, but Sigmar knew he didn’t dare arrive in Reikdorf too late. The landscape thundered past him, flashing trees, rolling hills and evidence of habitation. Smoke from outlying settlements curled lazily into the sky from hearthfires that would long since have guttered and died but for his hammer.
Sigmar paid them no mind, intent on the road ahead, riding recklessly towards the city that sat at the centre of the Empire. It was foolish to ride like this; a rabbit hole or projecting root could trip his horse and break its leg. And as strong and brave as Taalhorsa was, that was a death sentence for any steed.
The others were far behind him: Wenyld, Cuthwin, Leodan, Teon and Bransùil the Aeslandeir. They knew this was a ride he had to make himself, and followed behind at a more measured pace. Their horses were weary and thin from the long ride into the Vaults and back, and though they had changed mounts often, these latest beasts had come a long way, and there would be little gained in breaking them this close to home.
Reikdorf lay just over the hills yonder, and the smell and sounds of the thriving city came to Sigmar, even from so great a distance.
‘I’m coming, Wolfgart,’ he said. ‘When one Sword Brother calls, the other answers.’
The rider had met them at a village whose name Sigmar could not remember, a growing collection of well-raised hearths at a ford on the Reik’s westernmost mountain-birthed spur. The man had chosen his location well, a place any riders returning to Reikdorf from the south would almost certainly pass through. His news had galvanised Sigmar like few things had since the defeat of the Great Necromancer’s army, and he had stripped his mount of every bit of loose weight before riding north with all the speed in Taalhorsa’s grain-fed limbs.
Ghal-maraz was a heavy weight at his shoulders, the rune-etched hammer strapped tight to his back. Leodan had urged him to leave it with his sword-brothers, that it was too great a weight to carry, but Sigmar would sooner hack off one of his own limbs than abandon the runehammer. Better to arrive too late than arrive ill-prepared. This was a time of great moment, and the gods did not look kindly on those who met such dangerous times without due reverence and care.
He had stood beside Wolfgart at such a time before, and the memory still had the power to bring tears to his eyes and a swelling sense of pride to his breast. Maedbh would never forgive him if he failed to honour his oath to her husband, but more importantly, he would never forgive himself. He had a duty that placed a grave burden upon his shoulders, a burden that could never be shirked, never be passed on and never, ever, be forgotten.
And Sigmar was not a man who gave his oath lightly.
The landscape fell away around him, the pollarded trees left behind as he rode out onto the scalped hilltop overlooking the city of his birth. Over the course of his life, it had changed almost beyond recognition, growing from a rough collection of huddled timber fish-houses to the largest city in the Empire. Stone walls girdled its heart, but vast swathes of building work were already pushing out beyond their protection, like grain spilling from a split seed-bag. People were coming in from the countryside in droves; in search of work, shelter and the opportunities such a huge place offered.
Ships from as far afield as the ice-locked ports of the northern coastline bobbed in the freshly-cut inlets through the muddy shorelines. The River Reik was a multi-stranded waterway of fens, channels and ever-widening streams, and work was already beginning to sink rocks into the water’s edge to build up a serviceable harbour to match the fey-built quays of Marburg. Sigmar took all this in with a glance, pushing Taalhorsa down the stone-flagged road towards the Sudenreik Bridge and the open Sudengate.
Warriors cloaked in bearksin and wolf pelts patrolled the ramparts, and the tips of their spears and the links of their mail shirts gleamed in the early morning sun. Sigmar had ridden through the grey of false dawn to reach Reikdorf in time, and a horn skirled from the saw-toothed walls as the keen-eyed wall guards saw him riding hard for the bridge.
He galloped over tended fields that were being worked by men, women and children that cheered as they saw him. They couldn’t know the urgency that drove him, and he had not the time to spare in acknowledgement of their devotion. His horse was staggering, blowing hard and he could hear its pain in every wheezing breath.
‘One last push, greatheart,’ said Sigmar as they galloped over the Sudenreik bridge, passing the frescoes and carvings of Unberogen heroes. The warriors at the gate waved him on with urgent cries as he reined in his exhausted horse. He leapt from the saddle and paused to rub his steed’s lathered face.
‘You are a horse fit for a god,’ he said, before handing the reins to a nearby warrior.
Sigmar turned and ran into the cobbled streets of the city, breathless and deathly afraid he might already be too late. As he crossed the open square on the river’s northern bank, he bent to touch the Oathstone at its heart, loosening the straps securing Ghal-maraz to his back. He swung the weapon around, running with the warhammer held across his chest. The magic bound to the ancient starmetal glittered in anticipation.
If the blood-wyf was right, he would have need of Ghal-maraz.
At last he came to Wolfgart’s home, a fine two-storey dwelling of dwarf-cut stone, timbers shaped by Master Holtwine himself and curling ironwork wrought by Govannon the smith. It was a fine home, one that had been blessed by great love and much laughter.
Sigmar heard screams from within, pain-filled and drawn out into silence.
The door opened and Wolfgart emerged, weeping and with his arms bloody to the elbows.
‘Am I too late?’ asked
Sigmar.
‘No, my lord,’ said Wolgart, choking the words out. ‘It has just ended.’
‘And…?’ said Sigmar, holding out Ghal-maraz. ‘Was the blood-wyf right?’
‘She was,’ replied Wolgart, his face splitting open with pride. ‘It’s a boy!’
About The Author
Hailing from Scotland, Graham McNeill worked for over six years as a Games Developer in Games Workshop’s Design Studio before taking the plunge to become a full-time writer. In addition to twenty novels for the Black Library, Graham’s written a host of SF and Fantasy stories and comics, as well as a number of side projects that keep him busy and (mostly) out of trouble. His Horus Heresy novel, A Thousand Sons, was a New York Times bestseller and his Time of Legends novel, Empire, won the 2010 David Gemmell Legend Award. Graham lives and works in Nottingham and you can keep up to date with where he’ll be and what he’s working on by visiting his website.
Join the ranks of the 4th Company at
www.graham-mcneill.com
Graham McNeill, The Legend of Sigmar
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