The Legend of Sigmar

  Sigmar neither knew nor cared how many orcs he had slain, but no matter how grand a total, he knew it would never be enough. Even with the courage and fire his warriors were displaying in this magnificent charge it could never be enough. Sigmar was leaving his warriors far behind, their war cries swallowed by the baying of the orcs.

  The press of bodies from the rear of the orc army prevented many from escaping his wrath, and he slew them without mercy, corpses building around him in a vast mound of the dead.

  Ghal-maraz shone like a beacon of faith in the centre of the battlefield, and the orcs quailed before it. The warriors of the twelve tribes fought like heroes, and as yet more orcs fled before its might, Sigmar felt the first stirrings of hope in his breast.

  Then a dark shadow fell upon the battlefield like a slick of oil across water.

  Sigmar looked up and saw great emerald wings and a roaring maw as the wyvern struck like a thunderbolt from the sky.

  The wyvern’s jaws snapped at Sigmar, and he dived to the side, tumbling down the slope of orc dead and falling to the ground amid a rain of split heads and broken corpses. He rolled to his feet as the wyvern landed atop the bodies of the greenskins that Sigmar had slain. Its horned head was massive, thrice as big as the largest bullock, and its jaws were filled with teeth like Cherusen daggers.

  Its monstrous body was scaled and leathery, rippling with muscle and bony scales that ran the length of its back to a slashing tail that dripped hissing black venom. Two enormous wings stretched out behind it as its thick, serpentine neck pushed its head forward.

  The black soulless orbs of its eyes fixed Sigmar with a stare of brutal cunning.

  Atop the wyvern’s back sat the largest orc that Sigmar had ever seen. Its skin was coal dark, and its armour was composed of heavy plates of iron hammered into its flesh with spikes. Tusks as large as those of the beast it rode jutted from its jaw, and its red eyes burned with all the hatred of its race.

  Not even the eyes of Vagraz Head-Stomper had held such malice within them. This warlord was the purest incarnation of orc rage and cunning combined.

  Ghal-maraz burned in Sigmar’s hand, and he felt its recognition of this warlord: Urgluk Bloodfang.

  Green fire rippled around the warlord’s axe, a weapon of immense power and evil. The blade was smooth obsidian, and no orc craft had fashioned so deadly a weapon. Twisted variants of the runes that blazed on Ghal-maraz were worked along the length of its haft, and Sigmar felt their evil clawing at his soul.

  Currents of power flowed around the two masters of the battlefield, and the fate of the world rested upon this combat. Man and orc faced one another, and the souls of both armies were carried within them. His own warriors were still far behind Sigmar, and, though orcs surrounded him, none dared intervene in this titanic duel.

  ‘Come ahead and die!’ shouted Sigmar, holding Ghal-maraz before him. The ancient hammer blazed with power, its urge to wreak death upon its enemies an almost physical force.

  The wyvern launched itself at Sigmar, its wings flaring as its jaws snapped for him. Sigmar sidestepped, and swung his hammer in a short arc that slammed into the side of the beast’s head. Roaring in pain, the wyvern staggered, but did not fall.

  A powerful sweep of the wyvern’s thick tail caught his shoulder and hurled him from his feet. He landed badly and felt something break inside him, but he managed to scramble to his feet as the monster lunged forward. He dived beneath the snapping jaws and rolled beneath the creature’s neck, snatching up a fallen sword as he went.

  With every ounce of his strength, Sigmar thrust the sword into the wyvern’s chest. The blade sank into the beast’s flesh, but before Sigmar could drive it home, the creature took to the air, clawing at him with its rear legs.

  Talons like swords sliced down Sigmar’s chest and he roared in agony. He brought his warhammer up and battered the wyvern’s legs away before its claws could disembowel him. Gasping in pain, he rose to his feet in time to see the beast diving towards him once more.

  Sigmar dived to the side, blood flowing freely from the wounds on his chest and a dozen others. He let the pain fuel his anger, and rose to his full height, a blood-soaked king of men with the mightiest of hearts.

  ‘Come down and face me!’ he shouted to Bloodfang.

  If the warlord understood or cared, it gave no sign, but it hauled on the beast’s chains and grunted as it pointed at Sigmar. The wyvern’s jaws opened wide enough to swallow Sigmar whole, and it gave a terrifying roar. Its head snapped forward, and Sigmar vaulted over its jaws as he smashed Ghal-maraz down on its skull.

  The beast shuddered and once again it reared up in pain.

  Sigmar dropped close to the wyvern and swung his warhammer with two hands towards the sword that still jutted from the monster’s chest. Ghal-maraz slammed into the sword’s pommel, thrusting the weapon deep within the wyvern and piercing its heart.

  With a strangled bellow, the wyvern crashed to the ground, its wings crumpling like torn sails as the life went out of it.

  Sigmar rushed forward, hoping to catch Bloodfang struggling beneath his fallen mount, but the warlord was already on his feet and waiting for him. The black axe sang for Sigmar’s neck, and he hurled himself to the side. Green fire scorched Sigmar’s skin as the blade came within a hair’s breadth of taking his head.

  Bloodfang arose from the death of his mount, a towering giant of enormous proportions and endless hate. The warlord’s muscles bulged and pressed at the armour plates nailed to his flesh. A warlike chant built amongst the orcs surrounding Sigmar, and Bloodfang seemed to stand taller as the brutal vitality of his race surged through him.

  For long seconds, neither combatant moved. Then Sigmar leapt to attack, his warhammer swinging in a deadly arc for Bloodfang’s head. The axe flickered up to block the strike, and the warlord pistoned a fist into Sigmar’s jaw.

  Sigmar had seen the blow coming at the last second, and rolled with the punch, but the force behind it was phenomenal, and he staggered away, desperate to put some space between him and his foe. The black axe slashed towards him, and Sigmar dropped, slamming the head of Ghal-maraz into Bloodfang’s stomach.

  The warhammer howled as it struck the enormous orc, unleashing potent energies as it found the perfect target for its rage. Bloodfang staggered away from Sigmar, a newfound respect in the glowing embers of his eyes.

  Both warriors attacked again, axe and hammer clashing in explosions of green and blue fire. Though Bloodfang had the advantage of strength, Sigmar was faster and landed more blows against the orc.

  As the battle went on, Sigmar knew that he was reaching the end of his endurance, while Bloodfang had just begun to fight. The orc chanting was growing louder, but so too were the war cries of Sigmar’s army.

  His warriors were battling to reach him and their courage gave him the strength to fight on.

  The axe came at him again, and Sigmar slammed his warhammer into the obsidian blade, leaping closer to the immense orc. He spun low, and brought Ghal-maraz up in a crushing underarm strike, the head connecting solidly with Bloodfang’s jaw.

  The warlord’s skull snapped back, but before Sigmar could back away, the orc’s fist closed on his shoulder, and he screamed as bones ground beneath his skin. Bloodfang fell back with a heavy crash, and Sigmar was dragged with him, fighting to free himself from the warlord’s grip.

  Bloodfang released his axe and took hold of Sigmar’s head.

  Sigmar dropped Ghal-maraz and wrapped his hand around Bloodfang’s wrists, the muscles in his arms bulging as he strained against the enormous strength that threatened to crush his skull.

  Veins writhed in his arms and his face purpled with the effort of trying to pull Bloodfang’s hands from his head.

  Their faces were less than a hand’s span apart, and Sigmar locked his gaze with the powerful warlord, his twin-coloured eyes meeting the blazing red of Bloodfang’s without fear.

  ‘You. Will. Never. Win,’ snarled Sigmar as the power of a win
ter storm surged through his body with cold, unforgiving fury.

  Inch by inch, he prised Bloodfang’s hands from his head, relishing the look of surprise and fear in the warlord’s eyes. That fear drove Sigmar onward, and with growing strength he pulled the warlord’s hands even further apart.

  Sigmar grinned in triumph and rammed his forehead into the warlord’s face. Blood burst from the orc’s pig-like nose and it roared in frustration. Realising that he could not simply crush Sigmar with brute strength, Bloodfang ripped a hand clear and reached for his axe.

  It was all the opening that Sigmar needed.

  He swept up Ghal-maraz and brought the ancestral heirloom of the dwarfs down upon Bloodfang’s face with all his might.

  The warlord’s skull exploded into fragments of bone and flesh and brain matter. A flare of white light burst from the warhammer, and Sigmar was hurled clear as Bloodfang’s body was entirely unmade by the most powerful energies of the dwarfs’ ancient weapon.

  Blinking away the afterimages of Urgluk Bloodfang’s death, Sigmar saw the shock and awe on the faces of the orcs that surrounded him. They still carried sharp swords, and he saw the fires of vengeance and opportunity in their eyes.

  Sigmar tried to stand, but his strength was gone, his blood-covered limbs trembling in the aftermath of channelling such mighty power. He sank to his haunches and reached for a weapon of some description to fight these orcs, but only broken sword blades and snapped spear hafts lay next to him.

  A broad-shouldered orc with a helmet of dark iron reached for the fallen warlord’s axe, and a white-shafted arrow punched through the visor of its helmet to bury its iron point in the beast’s brain. Another followed and within seconds a flurry of arrows thudded into the orc ranks, followed by a swelling roar of triumph.

  Sigmar lifted his gaze to the blue sky, and wept in gratitude as the warriors of his army swept past him and into the stunned orcs. Asoborn warrior women shrieked as they tore into the orcs alongside Unberogen, Cherusens, Taleutens and Merogens. Thuringian berserkers, led by King Otwin, rushed headlong into the orc lines, followed by Menogoth spearmen. Thundering Raven Helm cavalry, hungry to avenge Marbad’s death, smashed into the greenskins, and Brigundian archers harried the orcs with deadly accurate shafts.

  King Wolfila cleaved a bloody swathe through the orcs with his enormous, basket-hilted broadsword, and his howling clansmen followed him into the orcs with furious howls.

  The orcs’ courage and resolve, teetering on a knife edge at the incredible death of their leader, broke in the face of this new attack, and within moments they were a panicked, fleeing mob.

  A horse drew up next to Sigmar and he looked up into Alfgeir’s scowling face.

  ‘By all the gods, Sigmar!’ snapped the Marshal of the Reik. ‘That was the most insane thing I have ever seen.’

  Darkness was falling by the time the last of the greenskins had been driven from the field. With the death of Urgluk Bloodfang, the awesome power that had dominated and bound the orc tribes together was gone, and they had fractured like poorly forged steel. Without the warlord’s force of will, old jealousies erupted and, even amid the slaughter of the rout, the orcs had turned on one another with bloody axes and swords.

  The exhausted warriors of Sigmar’s army had pursued the orcs as long as they were able, vengeful cavalry riding down thousands as they quit the pass and fled for the desolation of the east. Only darkness and exhaustion had prevented further pursuit, and the sun was low in the west when the riders returned in triumph, their horses windblown and lathered.

  It had taken some time for the enormity of the victory to sink in, for so many had died to win it, and so many would yet die upon the surgeon’s tables, but as the horsemen rode back to camp, the laughter and songs had begun, and the relief of those who lived surged to the fore.

  Wagons of ale threaded through the camp, and Sigmar watched the spirits of men soar like sparks from a fire. Men and dwarfs shared this night of victory, talking and drinking as brothers, sharing tales of courage and the deeds of heroes.

  The dead would be mourned, but tonight was for the living.

  The warriors that lived drew air that was fresher than any they had previously breathed into their lungs, drank ale that tasted finer than any brew supped before, and sat with friends that would become dearer than any they had ever known.

  Moonlight bathed the battlefield of Black Fire Pass, and Sigmar smiled as he felt the breath of the world sigh through the mountains, filling him with the promise of life. The lands of men would endure, and the first great challenge had been met and overcome, though he knew there were still battles to fight and enemies to overcome. He wondered where the next enemy would arise as a cold wind blew from the north.

  The orc dead were dragged away and left for the crows, while the fallen of Sigmar’s army were carried to great funeral pyres built in the shadow of the ruined dwarf watchtower. A warrior from each of the tribes stepped forward to light the pyres, and as the flames caught and sent the dead to Ulric’s hall, the pass echoed with the howls of mountain wolves.

  With the warriors of the army honoured, the kings of men marched in solemn procession towards the last remaining pyre, bearing the body of King Marbad upon a bier of golden shields.

  The king of the Endals was borne by Otwin of the Thuringians, Krugar of the Taleutens, Aloysis of the Cherusens, Siggurd of the Brigundians, Freya of the Asoborns and Marbad’s son, Aldred.

  Sigmar followed behind the fallen king with Wolfila of the Udose, Henroth of the Merogens, Adelhard of the Ostagoths and Markus of the Menogoths. Each of these kings carried a golden shield, and no words were spoken as they followed the body of their brother king to his final rest.

  Kurgan Ironbeard of the dwarfs stood at the watchtower, resplendent in his silver armour and a flowing cloak of golden mail. Beside him stood Master Alaric, his head bowed in sorrow, and Sigmar favoured his friends with a nod of respect.

  A priest of Ulric awaited the bearers of the dead beside the pyre, swathed in a cloak of wolf pelts and carrying a flaming brand. Thousands of warriors surrounded the procession of kings, but not a breath of wind or a single whisper broke the silence.

  The kings bearing Marbad brought him to the pyre and laid his body upon it. Even in death, the aged king of the Endals was a striking figure, and Sigmar knew he would be greatly missed.

  His black cloak was folded around his body, and the kings of the lands west of the mountains stepped back as the priest of Ulric thrust the flaming brand deep into the oil-soaked wood.

  The pyre roared to life, and as Marbad burned, Sigmar stood before Aldred. The young man had his father’s lean physique, and carried Ulfshard sheathed at his waist. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and Sigmar placed a hand on Aldred’s shoulder.

  ‘This was your father’s,’ said Sigmar, handing a golden shield to Aldred. ‘You are now king of the Endals, my friend. Your father was a brother to me. I hope you will be too.’

  Aldred said nothing, but nodded stiffly and turned his eyes to the pyre once more.

  Sigmar left Aldred to his grief, and moved to stand beside King Kurgan as the kings of men raised their golden shields in salute of their fallen brother.

  ‘Nice shields,’ noted Kurgan. ‘Do I see Alaric’s influence in their craft?’

  ‘You do indeed,’ agreed Sigmar. ‘Master Alaric is a fine teacher.’

  Alaric bowed at the compliment as Kurgan continued. ‘Young Pendrag told me what you said when you gave them those shields. Fine words, lad, fine words.’

  ‘True words,’ said Sigmar. ‘We are the defenders of the land.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Kurgan, ‘but a warrior needs a weapon as well as a shield to defend his home. What say I have Alaric here fashion you some swords to go with those shields?’

  ‘I would be honoured.’

  ‘Well, Alaric, you up for making some swords for Sigmar’s fellow kings?’

  Alaric seemed taken aback by Kurgan’s offer, and hesi
tated before answering. ‘I… well, it will be difficult and–’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Kurgan, patting Alaric on the shoulder. ‘Then it’s settled. I give you my oath that the kings of men will have the finest blades forged by dwarf craft, or my name’s not Kurgan Ironbeard.’

  Sigmar bowed to the king of the dwarfs, overwhelmed by the generosity of Kurgan’s offer. As he straightened, and turned back to Marbad’s pyre, he saw his brother kings gathered before him. Each carried the shield he had given them at their side, and each bore an expression of loyalty that made Sigmar’s heart soar.

  Siggurd stepped forward and said, ‘We have been talking of what comes next.’

  ‘What comes next?’ asked Sigmar.

  ‘Aye,’ said Siggurd. ‘The lands of men have been saved, and you have your empire.’

  The king of the Brigundians nodded and as one, the assembled kings dropped to their knees with their heads bowed. Behind them, the hosts of man followed the example of their kings, and soon every warrior in the pass knelt before Sigmar.

  ‘And an empire needs an emperor,’ said Siggurd.

  Glossary

  Adelhard—King of the Ostagoths.

  Alaric—Dwarf Runesmith of Karaz-a-Karak.

  Aldred—Son of Marbad of the Endals.

  Alfgeir—King Björn’s Champion and Marshal of the Reik.

  Aloysis—King of the Cherusens.

  Artur—King of the Teutogens.

  Asoborns—Tribe of warrior women famed as chariot riders.

  Black Fire Pass—Great pass through the Worlds Edge Mountains and site of the great battle between the armies of Sigmar and the orc warlord Urgluk Bloodfang.

  Blacktusk—A great boar, the mightiest of its kind, encountered by Sigmar and his friends.