‘Are you sure they were Roppsmenn?’ asked Sigmar, feeling a throbbing pulse of fury at his temple as the full weight of what he had been told sank in. ‘They hated the Norsii as much as any tribe ever did.’
‘Damn right I’m sure,’ snarled Rolf, rage and sadness choking his voice. ‘I seen them with my own eyes. Shaven heads and curved swords they had. Burned Wolfila’s castle to the ground and cut him into pieces for dogs to eat. Killed his family too. Wife and child butchered and crucified on the only tower left standing.’
Sigmar felt the knot in his stomach unravel with a dreadful sickness at this news, and the fiery pulse at his temple grew stronger. He remembered Wolfila at his coronation, the garrulous northern count introducing his wife to Sigmar during the feasting days. Her name was Petra, and she had been pregnant with their first child. Sigmar had sent a silver drinking chalice to Salzenhús upon the birth of the child, a boy they had named Theodulf. The boy would have been around six or seven years old, but if what Rolf was saying was true, the line of the Udose chieftains had ended.
‘Wolfila killed?’ Sigmar said, still unable to believe that one of his counts was dead.
‘Aye,’ said Rolf, ‘and all the men able to hold a sword. Boys and old men. Bastards only left me alive since I ain’t got no sword arm. I’d have fought though, but they laughed at me, and I had my daughter and her young ’uns to look after. I thought they’d take ’em, but they let us go, like we weren’t worth bothering with.’
Sigmar heard the shame in Rolf’s voice, knowing the man would have died with his chieftain but for the need to protect his family. Such things were at the heart of what made a man proud, and to have that taken away by an enemy was a bitter blow indeed.
Sigmar stepped away as Rolf shucked the reins and the wagon moved on. His fists clenched and he turned his furious gaze northwards, as though he could see his enemies through the forest.
When he had driven the Norsii from the empire, the Roppsmenn had claimed their territory, largely because no one else had wanted it. Barren and said to be haunted by the ghosts of those their shamans had burned on sacrificial pyres, the land of the Norsii was bleak and lashed by freezing winds from the north.
In his quest to unite the tribes of men, Sigmar had not sought the Sword Oaths of the Roppsmenn chieftains, because they lived so far to the east that they were for all intents and purposes a tribe of a different land. It had been an arrangement of convenience, for he had been reluctant to wage war or pursue diplomacy so far from Reikdorf.
‘Damn me,’ said Redwane, shaking his head as yet more frightened people passed. ‘Roppsmenn? Who’d have thought it? They’ve never raided south into the empire. Why would they do such a thing, and why now?’
‘It does not matter,’ said Sigmar, his fists bunched at his side. ‘They have allied with the Norsii and that makes them my enemy.’
Sigmar turned to his friends, his face scarred with hostility.
‘Pendrag, raise the Dragon Banner,’ he said. ‘I have need of it again.’
‘The Dragon Banner?’ asked Pendrag in alarm. ‘Why?’
Sigmar squared his shoulders before his sword-brother, as though daring him to gainsay his words.
‘Because I am going to gather an army and march east,’ he said, his voice all fury and hurt. ‘I am going to avenge the death of my friend. The Roppsmenn are going to learn the fate of those who make war on my people.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Pendrag.
‘It means their lands will burn!’ roared Sigmar.
Fourteen
Sigmar’s Justice
Normally the Brackenwalsch Marsh was a gloomy place of mist and shadow, but this day was glorious, the sun shining upon the waters like glittering shards of crystal. A cool breeze kept the temperature pleasant, and the aroma of late-blooming flowers and fragrant reeds perfumed the air with myriad pleasing scents.
The Hag Woman sat upon a fallen tree trunk, its mouldy bark alive with insects and thick with moss. Where others would recoil at such things or find them repulsive, she enjoyed the rich cycle of death and rebirth. As one thing died, it became a home to some creatures, a hatchery for others and food for yet more.
‘All things have their time,’ she said to no one in particular, watching as a raven settled on the low branch of a nearby tree. The bird cawed, the sound echoing over the deep pools and hidden pathways of the marshes.
‘What do you have to say this fine morning, bird of prophecy?’ she asked with a smile.
The bird regarded her with its onyx eyes, and hopped from foot to foot as it cawed again.
‘What am I to make of that?’ she asked. ‘I can no longer see the future, so I hoped you might spare me a shred of your knowledge.’
The bird cawed once more before taking flight. The Hag Woman watched it until she could no longer pick its form out in the sky. She shrugged and pushed herself upright with the help of her rowan staff. Her joints were stiff, and popped with the sound of snapping twigs. She winced, knowing that her forced levity masked the fear that had been gnawing at her ever since her powers had begun to fade.
The awakening of the necromancer in the Middle Mountains had heralded the decline of her power. She had fled from a terrible nightmare of a towering, monstrous evil arising from the desert, and had felt the spread of dark magic in the north like a growing cancer.
The malice of the dread sorcerer seeped into the earth like a poison, tainting the energies that flowed along its rivers and saturated the very air. Ever since that night, it took longer and longer for her spirit to unchain itself from her flesh, and soar on the winds of magic that drifted like oracle smoke from the earth. In her youth, she merely had to lie back and close her eyes, but now her spirit could not fly at all, no matter how hard she tried.
Without that freedom, she felt the ravages of time upon her physical form more than ever.
Worse was to come, for no sooner was her spirit confined to her body than the brimming vistas of possible futures that crowded her thoughts drifted away like guests from a feast, until she was utterly alone. Despite living a solitary existence in the Brackenwalsch, she had witnessed the great dramas of the world and had helped to shape their course.
Until now, that had been enough.
Before her powers vanished, she had followed the progress of young Sigmar as his empire grew and flourished. She saw his rescue of Princess Marika, and smiled at the naivety of men. Despite what they called the swamp creatures they fought, she knew well that they were not daemons; the immortal servants of the Dark Gods were far more terrifying.
She watched the siege of Jutonsryk, and her heart despaired as she saw Sigmar raise his hammer to kill the rebellious King Marius. But for the intervention of the Berserker King, the lord of the Jutones would have died, and the doom of the empire would have begun.
Though she could not see it, she felt the death of the necromancer. Yet a dark miasma of ancient evil still polluted the healing energies of the world, as if his power still lingered. It cast a pall over the world and the promise of her ending hung over every day. That was why she cherished this day, a beautiful time of gold, blue and vivid green.
Bereft of her powers and unable to perceive the world beyond what her failing eyes could see, the Hag Woman felt lonely for the first time in her life. Out here, with nothing but the birds and marsh creatures for company, she felt divorced from the race of man, as though she were no longer part of it.
The Hag-Mother had confessed similar feelings in the days leading up to her death at the hands of the greenskins. Was this then her time to leave this world? Was this day a last gift to her before she completed her journey through life? She had lived many years, and death held no terror for her, but it was not death that quickened her steps as she made her way back to her cave along paths only she knew.
She skirted a rippling pool of clear water, seeing a tall plant growing at its edge, its stems dotted with white flowers in flat-topped clusters. A sickly smell wafted from
the plant, and she frowned at the sight of the water hemlock. She had not seen such a plant for many years, and the sight of it stirred uncomfortable memories.
The Hag Woman’s steps faltered. She looked up as a shadow crossed her eyes, and she felt a shiver of dread. The sky was clear and bright and empty. The sun hung low and fat above the horizon, and a black-feathered bird circled above her. She hurried her steps, not yet ready to be a meal for a hopeful carrion bird.
That age should undo her rather than the wiles of her enemies was no bad way to end a life that had been lived for the good of others. Her steps had taken her along some dark roads, and she had done much that she was not proud of, but the race of man endured, and she would not second-guess the choices she had made for the greater good.
The image of a young woman with dark hair leapt to her mind, but she quashed the thought before it could fully form. That had been a necessary sacrifice, a death required to set Sigmar on the path to the birth of the empire. Had Ravenna lived, the greenskins would now rule this land of men, and all that she had fought to save would have come to ruin.
Is that how you sleep at night?
The thought took her by surprise, for she had long since come to terms with Ravenna’s death. More and more, she found her thoughts skipping randomly around her mind, revisiting memories and past regrets thought long buried.
She was an innocent, and you killed her.
No, thought the Hag Woman, as she turned from the path towards a ragged black rock that jutted from the marshland like a sunken mountain that left only its topmost peak visible. The ground leading towards a black cleft in the rock was soggy underfoot, and a wrong step in any direction would see her sucked beneath the bog.
She reached the mouth of her cave and paused, taking a last look at this magnificent day.
This world was harsh and unforgiving, yet it was also beautiful and miraculous. If you knew where to look, wonders could be found in every corner and she would miss it when she was gone.
The Hag Woman ducked her head and entered the cave, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the shadowy interior. She moved deeper into the cave, allowing sense memory to guide her in the dim light. The smell of herbs and heat came to her, reassuring in their familiarity, and following hot on their heels was the smell of cold iron and the sweat and dust of travel.
The Hag Woman halted, realising she was not alone. Orange light flared in the darkness, and a crackling fire appeared in the circle of stones that served as her hearth. A wizened old man sat cross-legged before the fire, his head bowed and his hands steepled before him as though in prayer. She narrowed her eyes, needing no wych-sight to tell that this man was more than he seemed. The breath of the Dark Gods filled this one, and his power was palpable.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘A traveller who walks a similar path to you, Gráinne,’ said the old man.
The Hag Woman started at his use of her given name. ‘No one has called me that in many years. How is it you know it?’
‘The Dark Gods know your name and they have spoken the words of your death,’ said the old man, raising his head and looking at her with cold eyes that had seen the passage of centuries and the slaying of thousands.
She swallowed and reached deep into herself for any last shreds of power that remained to her, knowing that she would only have one chance to fight him. She felt a movement behind her, but before she could move, strong hands seized her and held her fast.
‘Remember me?’ said a silky, seductive voice at her shoulder.
The Hag Woman twisted in her captor’s grip, but her struggles lessened as she saw the face of the man holding her. He was wondrously handsome, with a beautifully cruel grin that was beguiling and yet curiously repellent.
Though the light was poor, there was no mistaking the young man who had come to her cave many years ago in search of vengeance. Lost innocence hid behind his killer’s eyes, but beyond that, a hidden face shone with unspeakable desires and monstrous arrogance. With a sinking heart, she knew it was his true self, and she marvelled that she had not seen it before.
These were not the eyes of a man; they were the eyes of a daemon.
She turned away and the old man laughed, saying, ‘She remembers you, Azazel.’
‘That is not your name, Gerreon,’ she whispered, knowing it would do no good.
‘It is now,’ hissed Azazel, drawing his knife and holding it to her throat, ‘and it will be the last name you hear as you die.’
Wolfgart sat before his fire and watched Ulrike fight sleep, curled on Maedbh’s lap, smiling at the sight of his family and wondering at his luck to be blessed with two such fine women in his life. Maedbh smiled at him and stroked her daughter’s golden hair, so like her own. Ulrike was five and a half years old, as beautiful as her mother, and already Wolfgart could see that he would be hurling suitors from his door in the years to come. He remembered his own wild youth, carousing and trying to bed as many of the village girls as possible. The thought of Ulrike encountering someone like him when he had been that age was more terrifying than any enemy he had faced in battle. He pushed the thought aside. That was a problem for another day, and he had a few years yet before he would be replaced in his daughter’s affections by some young buck eager to take her maidenhead.
The room was warm and lit with golden light from the fire. The surround was carved from Asoborn wildwood and had been a gift from Queen Freya upon her last visit to Reikdorf. The workmanship was exquisite, depicting a host of entwined trees with a multitude of roots that plunged deep into the earth before coming together. Maedbh said it depicted the Asoborn belief that all living things were connected. Wolfgart just thought it looked pretty.
The stone-built house kept the heat, and chopped logs stacked against the north wall kept the wind from sapping its warmth. It was a fine building, one Wolfgart had commissioned from Ornath the Stonemason, a man whose prices were outrageous but whose genius with a hammer and chisel was such that it was rumoured the dwarfs had trained him in their mountain halls. Wolfgart knew that wasn’t true, but the man’s skill was prodigious nonetheless.
Less than a generation ago, a man would have built his own home, but in the two years since the siege of Jutonsryk had ended, gold had flowed in an unending river from the west, and the empire had flourished like never before. Traders from lands so far distant as to be almost mythical travelled the roads linking the cities, bringing exotic goods and swelling the coffers of Sigmar’s counts.
With trade bringing peace and prosperity to their lands, tribal chieftains who had once fought bloody wars with one another were now the best of friends. The common enemy of the greenskins had brought them together, but wealth was the glue that held them. Well, with the exception of the Taleutens and Cherusens who, in defiance of Sigmar’s threats, still insisted on raiding one another’s lands and feuding over some ancient grievance.
Wolfgart received a portion of Jutonsryk’s wealth for his part in its capture, and also earned a generous monthly coin as Sigmar’s Captain of Arms in Reikdorf. Taken together with his horse breeding farms and the merchants in which Maedbh had persuaded him to invest, Wolfgart was one of the wealthiest men in Reikdorf, and his home was as luxuriously appointed as any of the empire’s counts. Thick rugs of bear fur from the Grey Mountains were spread throughout the downstairs rooms, and finely crafted tables and chairs of oak and ash were set with plates of delicate ceramics that had come from a land far to the east.
Endal tapestries hung from the walls, though pride of place was given to a silver breastplate with gold embossing in the shape of a snarling wolf and fluted rims of bronze. Pendrag had forged the breastplate as a gift to him, and it had served him well in the campaigns he had fought in Sigmar’s name. His eyes drifted to the mighty sword hung on the wall above the fireplace, its blade six feet long and still razor-sharp.
It had been several years since Wolfgart had swung his sword in anger. He remembered the last blow he had struck, an upward
sweep that smashed through the shield of a Jutone lancer before he buried the blade in his chest. With Alfgeir appointed regent of Reikdorf while Sigmar fought the Roppsmenn in the north, Wolfgart had taken over the training of the Unberogen youth in the arts of war. It was worthy work, but not the same as a real fight.
‘Do you miss it?’ asked Ulrike, startling him from his reverie.
‘What’s that, my dear?’
The young girl pointed above the fireplace.
‘Fighting,’ she said. ‘You keep looking at your sword.’
He shook his head.
‘No, beautiful girl, my days of war are over,’ he said. ‘The kings have all sworn fealty to Sigmar, and the empire is at peace. Well, mostly.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Maedbh with a sly look. ‘I think Ulrike might be on to something.’
‘Ganging up on me now, eh?’ grinned Wolfgart. ‘Gods preserve me from two women in the house.’
‘That is our right as women, husband of mine,’ said Maedbh. ‘You are outnumbered, so you might as well surrender and answer your daughter’s question.’
Wolfgart stood and he lifted Ulrike from his wife’s lap. He walked a slow circle around the room, pausing by each of the fine things that filled their home. ‘Trade is how a man makes his name now,’ he said, ‘not how well he can swing a sword.’
‘That’s not an answer,’ pressed Ulrike.
Wolfgart was about to give another flippant response, but he saw real fear in his daughter’s eyes. She was clever, and she knew that not all men who went to war came back.
‘Honestly? Yes, I do miss it,’ he said. ‘I wish I didn’t, but I do.’
‘That’s silly,’ said Ulrike. ‘Why would anyone want to fight? You could get hurt or… or killed. War is stupid.’
‘I can’t argue with you there, girl, but sometimes we need to go to war.’
‘Why?’
Wolfgart looked over at Maedbh for help, but his wife shook her head with a wry grin.