‘Right,’ whispered Redwane, ‘I think I’ll lie down now.’
Sigmar caught the youth as he fell, and laid him down gently before lifting the torn mail from his body. The skin was ashen and slick with blood, three parallel scars running from Redwane’s ribs to his pelvis.
‘I need water!’ shouted Sigmar,
‘Damn, but that stings,’ hissed Redwane. ‘The bitch was quicker than she looked.’
‘These?’ asked Sigmar. ‘Ach, they’re nothing, lad. I’ve had bigger scars from the bites of Ortulf’s fleas.’
‘That old dog must have some damn big fleas,’ said Redwane, gritting his teeth against the pain. ‘Perhaps Wolfgart should throw saddles on them and we’ll fly into battle.’
Sigmar smiled and looked uphill to where Wolfgart and the White Wolves stood triumphant with Laredus and the Raven Helms amid a field of corpses. Daemons and men lay scattered across the hillside, for it had been a battle won with the blood of heroes. The dead would be mourned in time, but for now, the victory belonged to the living.
‘Here,’ said a voice at Sigmar’s side. ‘Water.’
Sigmar looked up into Aldred’s battle-weary face. The Count of the Endals and his sister stood over Sigmar. Aldred held out a leather canteen. Sigmar took it and poured clear liquid over Redwane’s wounds.
‘Will he live?’ asked Marika, dropping to her knees beside Redwane.
‘His wounds are wide, but shallow,’ said Sigmar, trying not to think of the filth encrusted on the daemon-queen’s claws. ‘So long as the wounds do not fester, I believe he will live.’
‘That’s good to know,’ hissed Redwane.
‘He will receive the best care in Marburg, my emperor,’ said Aldred.
‘I will nurse him myself,’ promised Marika.
Aldred offered Sigmar his hand and said, ‘I have been a fool, my friend. I doubted your vision, and my father’s death blinded me to its truth. Idris Gwylt fanned the flames of that doubt and his dark faith almost cost me the life of my sister.’
‘He promised my sacrifice would save our people,’ said Marika, and Sigmar was impressed at how quickly she had recovered her composure after so close a brush with death. Clearly Endal women were as hardy as those of the Unberogen. ‘His lies had me convinced that only I could save us, that I should walk into the marsh and let that… thing devour me.’
‘Aye, and for that he will pay with his life,’ said Aldred. ‘I will curse his soul to eternal torment with a thrice death in the waters of the marsh.’
‘It is no more than he deserves,’ said Sigmar.
Marika rose from Redwane’s side and Aldred took her by the hand, holding it as though he meant to never let go.
‘The mists are lifting,’ said Aldred. ‘I think the journey out of the marshes will be happier than the journey in.’
‘Indeed it will,’ agreed Sigmar, ‘but we should move quickly. It will be dark soon.’
Aldred nodded and led Marika away as Wolfgart came over to help him with Redwane.
‘Well, lad,’ said Wolfgart. ‘You have fought daemons now. Was it all you hoped for?’
‘Oh yes,’ snapped Redwane. ‘I’ve always wanted to be mauled by a fat daemon bitch.’
Wolfgart grinned, tearing strips from the lining of his cloak to use as bandages.
As Wolfgart bound Redwane’s wounds, Sigmar looked over at the mouldering corpse of the daemon-queen, picturing how the creature had recoiled from its intended victim.
‘There is one thing I don’t understand,’ said Sigmar. ‘Why did the beast not kill Marika? I thought daemons hungered for the blood of virgins.’
‘Trust me,’ said Redwane with a sly grimace. ‘That lass is no virgin.’
Six
Troublesome Kings
Count Aldred renewed the Sword Oath of his father in the main square before the Raven Hall, dropping to one knee and lifting Ulfshard for the Emperor to take. Cheers echoed from one end of Marburg to the other as Sigmar took the ancient blade and then handed it back to Aldred, thus sealing their pact of confraternity.
Dawn had been lighting the eastern horizon when the battle-weary but elated warriors emerged from the marsh. They bore their dead but, after the noxious reek of the swamps, the sweet smell of clean, sea air banished any thoughts of grief.
All through the journey back to Marburg, bodies had floated to the surface of the swamp, as though the defeat of the daemons had freed them to return to the world above. The unique properties of the bog water had preserved the bodies remarkably, and in time they too would be recovered and sent into the next world with honour.
Within days of Sigmar’s return, Cradoc reported a marked drop in new cases of lung rot, and soon it was clear that the worst had passed. The number of corpse-carts leaving the city dwindled, and those that had fled to the country to avoid the pestilence now returned to their homes. The city came back to life, and the oppressive gloom that had hung over it for so long was banished as light and wonder returned. The indefatigable human spirit, which had been on the verge of being snuffed out, had held on, and now bloomed stronger than ever.
Sigmar and his warriors remained in Marburg for another week, hailed as saviours and showered with gifts from a grateful populace. As she had promised, Princess Marika nursed the wounded Redwane personally, but Sigmar ensured that Cradoc was never far away. When Redwane complained about such a prudish chaperone, Wolfgart settled the matter by pointing out that Redwane would need to keep his hands to himself or take Marika as his wife, for Aldred would be well within his rights to kill him if he ever found out that his sister had been taken advantage of. Having heard the gruesome details of Idris Gwylt’s execution, Redwane was in no mood to count on Aldred’s forgiveness, and his complaints ceased.
Gwylt had suffered the hideous fate of a thrice death, and even Sigmar had blanched when he heard the details. The priest had been fed a broth laced with poisonous white mistletoe berries, and then led in chains to the edge of the marsh. A slaughterman then broke his crudely-shaven skull open with three precisely measured blows from an iron-tipped cudgel. Barely alive, Gwylt was dragged into the sucking bogs of the swamp, where Aldred slashed Ulfshard across his throat. Poisoned, dying from numerous skull fractures and with his lifeblood pouring from his neck, Laredus completed the execution by holding Gwylt beneath the marsh water until his feeble struggles ceased.
With so many ‘deaths’ inflicted upon the priest in quick succession, his soul would not know when to flee the body until it was too late. Gwylt’s flesh would never decay in the depths of the swamp, and his soul would remain trapped in the corpse for all time.
The priests of Morr had protested at such a harsh punishment, for to deny a soul its final journey went against the sacred tenets of their faith. Their pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears, for the Endals had practised this form of execution for centuries, and no one could deny that such a painful death was richly deserved.
The Unberogen left Marburg in high spirits, despite bringing nine mounts back home without their riders. They travelled through a realm that was coming to life once more, the last remnants of the mist daemons’ curse lifting as the strength of the land emerged resurgent from its imprisonment.
Two months to the day after setting out for the city of the Endals, Sigmar led his warriors back across the Sudenreik Bridge and into Reikdorf.
Sigmar pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and sipped the herbal infusion Cradoc had prepared for him. His head hurt, though he had suffered no injury to make it ache. Rather, it was the incessant demands on his time that caused this headache. Uniting the tribes of men had, it turned out, been the easy part of forging the empire.
He sat in his private chambers, reclining on his bed with Ortulf, Kai and Lex curled at his feet. A freshly banked fire crackled in the hearth and the soothing aroma of wood smoke helped ease the pain behind his eyes. Since returning from Marburg, the business of gathering his warriors for an expedition to Jutonsryk h
ad occupied his every waking moment, though there had been some good news to lighten Sigmar’s days.
As spring’s goodness blessed the land with warmth and life, Maedbh of the Asoborns gave birth to Ulrike, who came into the world with a lusty war cry on her lips. The joyous Wolfgart paraded his daughter through the city streets with tears of wonder spilling down his cheeks, and the people of Reikdorf had showered them both with handfuls of grain, earth and water.
Wolfgart and Maedbh honoured Sigmar by asking him to be Ulrike’s sword-guardian, a role traditionally filled by the closest friend of the parents. Sigmar accepted the great responsibility and solemnly swore to protect the child should they die.
At the child’s birthing ritual, held on a hillside to the east of Reikdorf, a priestess of Shallya named Alessa lit a fire and anointed Ulrike’s head with three drops of water taken from a nearby spring. As each droplet fell, she recited the Blessing of Welcome. ‘A little drop of the sky on thy little forehead, beloved one. A little drop of the land on thy little forehead, beloved one. A little drop of the sea on thy little forehead, beloved one.’
Alessa then placed a heart-shaped locket of silver around Ulrike’s neck and said, ‘The heart of Shallya to shield thee from the fey, to guard thee from the host, to cloak thee from the wicked, to ward thee from the spectre, to surround thee and to fill thee with grace.’
With Ulrike protected against dark sorcery, Alessa then immersed her in the cold spring with a silver and gold coin in each hand to honour the powers of the moon and sun. Wolfgart held the crying child in the fast-flowing water as the priestess filled her palm with earth and rubbed it over the child’s belly, arms and legs while singing a prayer of protection and health.
With the father’s duties complete, Wolfgart handed Ulrike to Maedbh, who completed the ritual by taking Ulrike and touching her forehead to the ground as she recited a prayer to Morr. This last act was to ask the god of the dead to seal the gate between the previous world and this one, for no others should cross the threshold of life.
With the correct rites observed, Ulrike was handed to Sigmar, who lifted her towards the sky, for to move a child downwards would forever doom it to remaining lowly in the world, never able to rise to distinction or wealth.
This had been a rare moment of joy in a spring that brought ill news to Reikdorf every week. A haphazard pile of rolled parchments sat on a table beside Sigmar, each one a letter from his counts that bore news of their lands and people.
They made for grim reading.
In the north, Pendrag and Wolfila sent word of increasing raids by Norsii Wolfships, the dark-armoured Norsemen marauding settlements many miles inland as well as those on the coast. The Norsii were attacking with ever more frequency, and the cunning of their leaders was all too apparent in their choice of targets. Most of the raids had come at a time when the majority of the menfolk were gathering for sword musters in distant towns, and Sigmar sensed more than simple luck in the Norsii’s timing of their attacks.
Survivors of the raids carried south the names of two warlords, names that spoke of the naked brutality of the Norsii. Cormac Bloodaxe was said to be a towering warrior in black armour, who fought in a frenzy with a mighty twin-bladed axe of red fire, while Azazel was a lithe swordsman with dark hair, who delighted in cutting his opponents apart a piece at a time.
So far, the raids had been confined to the northern coastline, though Pendrag warned that it would not be long before the Norsii grew bolder.
That was a problem for another day, for the greenskins on the eastern mountains were once again daring to venture from their mountain lairs to raid and kill. Amid the tall tales of her sons’ achievements, Freya of the Asoborns warned that a growing number of settlements in the foothills of the Worlds Edge Mountains were being raided by orcs. Scouts who had ventured into the mountains found no sign of any greenskin forces of any great size, though Sigmar knew it was only a matter of time before a powerful leader emerged and sought to weld the tribes together once more.
Further west, progress on the stone roads linking Reikdorf with Middenheim and Siggurdheim had slowed considerably. Attacks from forest beasts were an almost daily occurrence. Sigmar had tasked more men to patrol the roads and protect the work gangs, as well as increasing their pay to tempt others to volunteer for the roads’ construction. Alfgeir had urged him to put those who broke the law to work, but Sigmar was loath to use such labour. He wanted men to work with pride, and to feel that they had participated in something worthwhile. Men forced to work under the lash would never build something worthwhile, and Sigmar did not want his empire to be built on the backs of criminals.
In the south, Count Markus spoke of his people’s attempts to reclaim their tribal domains, for the orcs, trolls and twisted vermin-beasts from beneath the mountains had grown bold of late. During the wars against the greenskins, many of the Menogoth hill forts had been destroyed, and their people slaughtered or taken beyond the eastern peaks as slaves. The Menogoths had been on the verge of extinction, and taking back their ancestral lands with so few warriors was no small challenge. Markus was a canny leader of men, and the Menogoths a hardy, pragmatic tribe, and not even dark rumours of the dead rising from their mountain tombs dissuaded them from the task.
Sigmar sighed, sipping his herbal infusion and wondering if the world would ever allow him to be free from protecting his people. No matter how many warriors he could call upon, there was always a threat building somewhere, if not from beyond his lands then from within them. Sigmar’s thoughts darkened as he thought of the audience with Krugar and Aloysis earlier that afternoon.
With the looming threat of extinction lifted, the counts of the empire were free to turn their gazes on ancient grudges and long-standing feuds with neighbouring tribes. Both Krugar and Aloysis had sent bleating letters, once again claiming the other was sending masked raiders across their borders to harass their people’s settlements, burning crops, killing livestock and stealing grain. Of course, both counts denied they were doing any such thing, citing years of border disputes and blaming the other for their woes.
In the end, Sigmar had summoned both counts to Reikdorf to put an end to the matter.
The atmosphere in the longhouse was tense, the crackle of the fire and the distant noise of the city beyond the only sounds to disturb the brooding silence. Sigmar sat upon his throne at the far end of the hall, his crown glittering upon his brows and Ghal-maraz laid across his lap. A wolfskin cloak spilled around his shoulders, and the foulness of the emperor’s mood was obvious.
Alfgeir stood behind Sigmar, his bronze-bladed sword unsheathed and held with its point resting on the floor. Eoforth sat to Sigmar’s left, with a long, rolled-up length of hide parchment laid across his lap. Neither man looked at the counts, and disappointment was etched into both their faces.
Aloysis, lean and immaculately presented, was a hawkish man with a closely trimmed beard and hooded eyes. The Cherusen count was precise in movement and thought, the very antithesis of his people, who were wild and rough foresters proficient with axe and bow. His robes of crimson and emerald were richly appointed, and a golden chain with a silver eagle at its centre hung around his neck. A vivid yellow cloak was thrown rakishly over one shoulder, and a long Cherusen dagger with a beautifully inlaid scabbard of mother-of-pearl was sheathed at his hip.
Across from Aloysis was the grim-eyed count of the Taleutens. Krugar was a wild-bearded giant of a man in gleaming scale armour, formed from intricately carved leaves of silvered iron. Sheathed in a plain scabbard of dark leather was Utensjarl, a curved cavalry sabre said to have been forged by Talenbor, the first king of the Taleutens. Krugar had the bow-legged stance of a seasoned horseman, and when the Taleutens made war, he rode with the Red Scythes, the lancers who had broken the orc line at the Aver. Krugar’s cheeks and neck were tattooed with jagged lines of red and gold, and his gaze smouldered with long-burning anger.
Neither count deigned to look at the other, and Sigmar knew this di
spute would not be settled without angry words. Sigmar nodded towards Aloysis, and the count of the Cherusens did not hesitate to speak.
‘This situation is intolerable, my emperor,’ began Aloysis. ‘Taleuten riders regularly cross the Taalbec river and spread terror and destruction amongst my people. Already nine Cherusen villages have suffered at their hands, losing grain and precious supplies for the winter.’
‘Pah,’ sneered Krugar. ‘If my riders were crossing into your territory to raid, your people would not have food to last them a week. Taleutens know how to pick the land clean.’
‘You see?’ cried Aloysis. ‘The braggart admits his crimes before you! I demand justice!’
‘I admit nothing, you fool,’ roared Krugar, gripping the hilt of his sabre. ‘It is you who sends axemen across the river! Your logging gangs hack down trees from land that is not theirs and float them down-river to Cherusen lumber yards in the Howling Hills.’
‘A fool, am I?’ roared Aloysis, the veins standing out on his neck as his hand flashed to the engraved hilt of his dagger. His eyes bulged, making him look like one of the painted Wildmen of his tribe. ‘I’ll not suffer your lies and insults any longer, Krugar.’
‘Lies? You are the one poisoning the air with falsehoods!’
‘Enough!’ roared Sigmar, rising from his throne. The two counts ceased their bickering as he strode towards them. He glared first at Aloysis and then at Krugar, his expression softening in regret.
‘It saddens me how soon you forget the brotherhood we forged in blood,’ said Sigmar. ‘Can you not remember how your souls soared at the Pass when the orcs broke and ran? Has the golden memory of that shared victory faded from your thoughts?’
‘Never, my lord!’ said Aloysis. ‘I will take the glory of that bloody day to my grave.’
Krugar drew his sword and held it before Sigmar. The silver blade was etched with the dwarf rune for Black Fire Pass. ‘Each time I unsheathe Utensjarl, I am reminded of that great battle!’