The Legend of Sigmar

  Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped a hand across his brow as he approached the end of the run. He jogged to a halt beside Wolfgart, who looked barely touched by the exertion, and bent over to rest his hands on his thighs. Pendrag looked similarly untroubled, and Sigmar fought down the bitterness that rose within him.

  ‘You have to give your strength time to return,’ said Pendrag, guessing his mood.

  Sigmar looked up as his vision swam, and sank to his haunches, taking a series of deep breaths and stretching the muscles of his legs.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but it is galling… to know… I am not as fit… as I should be.’

  ‘Give it time,’ said Pendrag, offering him his hand. ‘Six weeks ago you were on the edge of death. It is arrogant to think you will be your old self so soon.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Wolfgart. ‘You’re a tough one, my friend, but even you are not that tough.’

  ‘Well, I should be,’ snapped Sigmar, ignoring Pendrag’s hand and rising to his feet. ‘If I am to be king, then a poor king I will be if I cannot exert myself without wheezing like a toothless old man!’

  He immediately regretted the words, but it was too late to take them back.

  Wolfgart shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. ‘Ulric preserve us, but you are in a foul mood today,’ he said.

  ‘I think I have cause to be,’ retorted Sigmar.

  ‘I am not saying you don’t, but why you have to take it out on us is beyond me. Gerreon, may the gods curse him, is gone,’ said Wolfgart, ‘and so is Ravenna.’

  ‘I know she is gone,’ said Sigmar, his tone hardening.

  ‘Then listen to me, brother,’ implored Wolfgart. ‘Ravenna is dead and I grieve for her, but you have to move on. Honour her memory, but move on. You will find another woman to be your queen.’

  ‘I do not want another woman for my queen!’ cried Sigmar. ‘It was always Ravenna.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Wolfgart. ‘A king needs a queen, and even if her brother had not killed her, Ravenna could never have been your wife.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Wolfgart ignored Pendrag’s warning look and pressed on. ‘The sister of a betrayer? The people would not have allowed it.’

  ‘Wolfgart,’ said Pendrag, seeing Sigmar’s face purple.

  ‘Think about it and you will see I am right,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Ravenna was a wonderful lass, but who would have accepted her as queen? People would have said your line was tainted with the blood of traitors, and don’t try telling me that isn’t bad luck.’

  ‘You need to watch your tongue, Wolfgart,’ said Sigmar, stepping close to his sword-brother, but Wolfgart was not backing down.

  ‘You want to hit me, Sigmar? Go ahead, but you know I am right,’ said Wolfgart.

  Sigmar felt his grief and anger coalesce into one searing surge of violence, and his fist slammed into Wolfgart’s jaw, sending his friend sprawling to the ground. No sooner had the blow landed than the shame of it overwhelmed him.

  ‘No!’ cried Sigmar, his thoughts flying back to childhood when he had smashed Wolfgart’s elbow with a hammer in a moment of rage. He had vowed not to forget the lesson of control he had learned that day, but here he was standing with his fists raised above the fallen body of a comrade.

  Sigmar’s hands unclenched from fists and the bitterness melted away.

  He knelt by his friend. ‘Gods, Wolfgart, I am so sorry!’

  Wolfgart gave him a sour look, rotating his lower jaw and pressing his hand against a flowering bruise.

  ‘I do not mean to lash out at you. I just…’ began Sigmar, trailing off as he found he had not the words to express the emotions simmering within him.

  Wolfgart nodded and turned to Pendrag. ‘Looks like we’ve still got our work cut out for us, Pendrag. He punches like a woman.’

  ‘It is just as well our sword-brother is not back to full strength or he would have taken your damn fool head off,’ said Pendrag, helping them both to their feet.

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ agreed Wolfgart, ‘but then I knew that.’

  Sigmar looked into the faces of his sword-brothers, and saw their fear for him and their acceptance of his grief-fuelled anger. Their forbearance humbled him.

  ‘I am sorry, my friends,’ he said. ‘These past few weeks have been the hardest I have lived through. I cannot tell you how hard, but knowing that you are always there gives me the greatest strength. I have treated you badly, and for that I apologise.’

  ‘You have suffered,’ said Pendrag, ‘but you do not need to apologise to us. We are your sword-brothers and we are here for you through happy times and evil ones.’

  ‘Pendrag has the truth of it, Sigmar,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Only true friends would stand for you being such a royal pain in the arse. Anyone else would have just walked away by now.’

  Sigmar smiled at Wolfgart’s earthy truth. ‘That is exactly why I do need to apologise to you, my friends. You are my brothers and my closest friends, and it is beneath me to treat you the way I have. Since Ravenna’s death… I have become closed off, creating a fortress for my soul. I have let none enter and have attacked those that tried, but those trapped in a fortress with a barred gate will eventually starve, and no man should remain apart from his brothers.’

  Sigmar felt new strength filling him as he spoke, and for the first time since his return from the Grey Vaults he smiled.

  ‘Will you forgive me?’ he asked.

  Pendrag nodded. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  ‘Welcome back, sword-brother,’ said Wolfgart.

  The following morning began with rain, and Sigmar drifted towards wakefulness in the king’s longhouse with the remains of a dream slipping from his mind. Its substance was already fading, but he clung to it like a gift from the gods.

  He had been walking alongside the river where he had faced the boar Blacktusk, the grass soft underfoot and the wind redolent with the scents of summer. His father had been standing at the riverbank, tall and powerful, and clad in his finest suit of iron mail. The bronze crown of the Unberogen gleamed upon his brow, the fiery metal catching the sunlight so that it shone like a band of fire around his head.

  Björn radiated power and confidence, and as he turned to face Sigmar, he lifted the crown from his head and offered it to Sigmar.

  With trembling hands, he accepted the crown. As his fingers touched the metal, his father had vanished, and he felt the weight of the crown upon his brow.

  Sigmar heard laughter and turned, smiling with joy as he saw Ravenna dancing on the grass with the wind catching her hair. She wore the emerald dress he liked and his mother’s cloak, which was secured by the golden pin Master Alaric had fashioned for him.

  Though he could not remember the substance of their words, they had spoken for an age and then made love, as they had done the first time Sigmar had taken her there.

  For the first time since Gerreon’s attack, he felt no sorrow, just love and an enormous feeling of thankfulness to have known such a beauty. Never would she grow old to him. Never would she become bitter or resentful as the years passed.

  She would be forever young and forever loved.

  Sigmar opened his eyes and felt more refreshed than he had in weeks, his eyes bright and clear, his limbs powerful and lean. He took a deep breath and ran through his morning stretches, pondering the meaning of the dream. To have dreamed of his father and Ravenna would normally have brought pain, but this had been different.

  Priests taught that dreams were gifts from Morr, visions allowing those blessed with them to glimpse beyond the fragile veil of existence and see the realm of the gods. To have such a vision was seen as an omen of great significance and an auspicious time for new beginnings.

  Was this dream a last gift from the gods before he was to embark upon the great work of forging the empire of man? If so, it could only mean one thing.

  Sigmar finished his stretches and dunked his head in the water barrel in the corner of the lon
ghouse, drying himself on a linen towel before pulling on his tunic and trews. He could hear the sound of shouting from beyond the walls of the longhouse, and knew what it must be.

  He lifted his mail shirt and pulled it over his head, rotating his shoulders until the armour lay properly. Then he ran his hands through his hair, and tied it back in a short scalp lock with a leather thong.

  More raised voices came from outside as Sigmar lifted his crimson banner from beside his throne in one hand and took up Ghal-maraz in the other. He marched towards the great oak doors of the longhouse, the king’s hounds padding after him, and Sigmar reflected that these beasts were now his.

  He pushed open the door to see a solemn procession of warriors marching towards him through the rain, carrying a body on a bier of shields. Hundreds of people surrounded the shield bearers, and on the hills around Reikdorf, Sigmar saw the Unberogen army watching their king’s last journey home.

  Alfgeir waited before the bier, his bronze armour dulled and dented. His head was downcast, but he looked up as the doors to the king’s longhouse opened.

  The Marshal of the Reik’s eyes told Sigmar what he already knew.

  Rain fell in misty sheets, dripping from Alfgeir’s armour and lank hair. The Marshal of the Reik dropped to one knee, and Sigmar had never seen a man look so wretched or ashamed.

  ‘My lord,’ said Alfgeir, drawing his sword and offering it to Sigmar, ‘your father is dead. He fell in battle against the northmen.’

  ‘I know, Alfgeir,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘You know? How?’

  ‘Much has changed since my father left to go to war,’ said Sigmar. ‘I am no longer the boy you knew, and you are no longer the man you were.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Alfgeir. ‘I failed in my duty, and the king is dead.’

  ‘You did not fail,’ said Sigmar, ‘and you should keep your sword, my friend. You will need it if you are to be my champion and Marshal of the Reik.’

  ‘Your champion?’ asked Alfgeir. ‘No… I cannot…’

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ stated Sigmar. ‘My father gave his life for me, and no skill at arms in this world could have saved him.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Nor do I entirely,’ confessed Sigmar, ‘but I would be honoured if you would serve me as you served him.’

  Alfgeir rose to his feet, the rain streaking his face like tears, and he sheathed his sword.

  ‘I will serve you faithfully,’ promised Alfgeir.

  ‘I know you will,’ said Sigmar, moving past his champion to the bier of shields. His father lay with Soultaker clasped to his breast, his armour bright and burnished. His noble features were at peace, the fierceness of the scar across his face somehow lessened now that his soul had departed.

  Sigmar stepped away from the bier and said, ‘Carry my father within his hall.’

  The procession of warriors marched through the mud and into the longhouse, and Sigmar turned to address the hundreds of mourning people gathered before him. He saw many friends among his people, and every face was a face he knew.

  These were his people now, the Unberogen.

  Sigmar planted his banner in the mud before the longhouse as a shaft of sunlight broke through the storm clouds and bathed it in light. The crimson fabric rippled in the wind, and Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz above his head as he shouted to the crowd, his voice carrying all the way to the thousands of warriors gathered on the hills beyond the town.

  ‘People of the Unberogen! King Björn has passed from the land, and now wields the great axe Soultaker in the Halls of Ulric with his brothers Redmane Dregor, Sweyn Oakheart and the mighty Berongundan. He died as he would have wished, in battle, with enemies all around him and his axe in his hand.’

  Sigmar lowered Ghal-maraz and cried, ‘I will send riders throughout the land and let it be known that at the rise of the next new moon my father will take his place on Warrior’s Hill!’

  Thirteen

  A Gathering of Kings

  With the return of the Unberogen warriors to Reikdorf, a great feast was held to honour their courage and the deeds of the dead. Saga poets filled the alehouses, and gathered at every corner to entrance audiences with blood drenched tales of the battles against the cruel Norsii and the glorious death of King Björn.

  As epic and lurid as such tales were, Sigmar knew they did not—could not—capture the nobility or sacrifice of his father’s final battle, when he had walked into the underworld to save his son.

  Sigmar felt no need to add to the legends being woven around his father’s deeds, knowing that the ages would want the desperate heroism and tragic inevitability of his death rather than the more intimate familial drama that had played out in the twilight realm of the Grey Vaults.

  The days following the return of the army were joyous, as wives and mothers were reunited with husbands and sons, but also heartbreaking, for many families had suffered the death of a loved one, and the loss of King Björn was a grievous blow to the Unberogen.

  The fallen were honoured with pyres upon the hills surrounding Reikdorf, and as the sun set the following day, a thousand fires banished the night. The northmen had been driven back to their frozen land, but Sigmar knew it would only be a matter of time before another warlord arose and fanned the smouldering coals in their warlike hearts.

  For all that, the mood of the Unberogen was not downcast, and Sigmar could feel the confidence his people had in him as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet. His skills in battle were well known, as was his honour and integrity. He could feel their pride in him, and knew that it was tempered by their sadness at the loss of Ravenna. No one dared mention Gerreon, his name unspoken and soon to be banished from memory.

  Everywhere Sigmar walked in Reikdorf, he was greeted with warm smiles and the easy friendship of people who knew and trusted him.

  He was ready to be king, and they were ready for his rule.

  The kings of the tribes arrived in Reikdorf the day before the new moon.

  King Marbad of the Endals was among the last to arrive, accompanied by his Raven Helms and bearing a banner dipped in blood in honour of the fallen Björn. With Pendrag by his side, Sigmar watched them arrive to the music of the pipers, and was once again impressed by the martial bearing of Marbad’s warriors.

  The last time Sigmar had seen these magnificent fighters was six years ago, when the ageing king had accompanied Wolfgart from his lands in the west to pay a visit to his brother king. Marbad had aged in the years since then, his hair now completely white and his spare frame painfully thin. Yet for all that, Marbad still carried himself proudly, and greeted Sigmar warmly and with strength.

  The Raven Helms were as fearsome as Sigmar remembered, and just as wary of their surroundings, though Sigmar allowed that this time they had reason to be wary. Across the river, a series of bronze-armoured warriors with feathered helmets and colourful pennants streaming from their lances watched the arrival of the Endals with undisguised hostility. These were the brightly clad warriors of the Jutone tribe, emissaries from King Marius, who had not deigned to travel to Reikdorf.

  Nor had King Artur of the Teutogens come, not even bothering to send an emissary to the funeral rites of his fellow king. Sigmar had not been surprised by this and, in truth, had been glad that no Teutogen would set foot in Reikdorf, fearing reprisals for the raid on Ubersreik and the other border villages and settlements on the edges of Unberogen lands.

  Both kings that had fought alongside his father against the Norsii had come in person, King Krugar of the Taleutens and King Aloysis of the Cherusens. Both were men of iron, and had impressed Sigmar with their sincere praise for his father.

  Queen Freya of the Asoborns had come in a whooping procession of chariots from the east, terrifying the people tilling the fields and sending a wave of panic towards Reikdorf until their intent was confirmed. Riding atop a bladed chariot of dark wood with inlaid gold flames, the beautiful copper-haired queen had presented herself before S
igmar with a wicked grin, and had planted her trident spear in the earth before him.

  ‘Queen Freya!’ she had announced. ‘Destroyer of the Redmaw Tribe, conqueror of the stunted thieves and slayer of the Great Fang! Lover of a thousand men and Mistress of the Eastern Plains, I come before you to pay homage to your father, and to sup from your strength to measure it against my own!’

  She had then snapped the trident spear and hurled it to Sigmar’s feet, before pulling him forward to kiss him hard on the lips while grabbing him between the legs. Pendrag and Alfgeir had been so surprised that neither one had time to react, but as they reached for their swords, the queen released Sigmar, throwing back her head and laughing.

  ‘The son of Björn has his father’s strength in his loins,’ said Freya. ‘I will enjoy making the beast with two backs with him!’

  With that, Freya and her Asoborn warriors, fierce women daubed in paints, who rode their chariots naked, had ridden from Reikdorf to make camp in the fallow eastern fields.

  ‘Gods above,’ said Sigmar later as they ate in the king’s longhouse. ‘The woman is mad!’

  ‘Well, at least she said you were strong,’ said Pendrag. ‘Imagine if she had not been impressed with your… strength.’

  ‘Aye,’ grinned Wolfgart. ‘If I were king, I wouldn’t mind a night alone with that one.’

  ‘It would certainly be an interesting experience,’ agreed Pendrag, ‘if you lived.’

  ‘You are both mad,’ said Sigmar. ‘I’d sooner take a rabid wolf to my bed than Freya.’

  ‘Don’t be such an old woman,’ said Wolfgart, clearly relishing Sigmar’s discomfort. ‘It would be an unforgettable night, and think of the battle scars you’d get.’

  Sigmar shook his head. ‘My father always said that a man should never bed a wench he couldn’t best in a fight. Do either of you think you could take Freya?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Wolfgart, ‘but it would be fun finding out.’