Sigmar knew that his father would have had no choice but to kill his sword-brother to allow him to enter Ulric’s Halls. The idea that he might one day have to fight one of his own sword-brothers was anathema to him, and he decided there and then that he would gather those closest to him and make an oath of eternal brotherhood with them.
‘We left the marshes, I returned Ulfshard to Marbad, and we became sword-brothers. That’s why when we or the Endals call for aid, the other is oath-bound to answer. In the same way, the Cherusens and the Taleutens are our sworn allies after the battles against the monstrous beast-kin of the forests. It’s all about oaths, Sigmar. Honour those you make, and others will follow your example.’
Sigmar nodded in understanding.
Ravenna closed the button of her brother’s tunic and pulled the lacing tight, before smoothing the soft wool over his chest. Dressed in his finest clothes, Trinovantes lay on the cot bed he had risen from only a few days ago to ride to war. Since their mother and father were dead, it fell to her to wash his body and clean his hair in preparation for his interment in his tomb, upon the rise of the new moon the following night.
She ran a hand along the side of his cold cheek and through his fine, dark hair, so like her own and Gerreon’s. His features had softened, but the lines of care and worry that had forever creased his handsome face remained imprinted upon him.
‘Even in death, you still look sad,’ she said.
His axe lay on the bed next to him, its edges sharp, and the blades gleaming in the firelight. She reached out to touch it, but pulled her fingers back at the last moment. It was a weapon of war, and she wanted nothing more to do with it. War was a fool’s errand, a game to the warriors of Reikdorf, but a game that could have only one outcome.
Gerreon sat opposite her at their table, his head buried in a curled arm as he wept for his lost twin. On her deathbed, Ravenna’s mother had confided to her that when Trinovantes and Gerreon were born, the hag woman who had birthed them said they would forever have a connection to one another, but that only one would grow to know the greatest pleasure and the greatest pain.
She had never spoken of this to Gerreon, but wondered if the death of his twin brother was the greatest pain of which the hag woman had spoken. What then might be his greatest pleasure?
Ravenna longed to take her brother in her arms and rock him to sleep as she had done many times when they had been growing up and the older boys had teased him for his thin frame and beautiful face. That, however, was the impulse of an older sister, and he was beyond such simple remedies.
She rose from her kneeling position beside the bed, and crossed their low dwelling. Smoke from the fire gathered beneath the roof since there was no vent, for the hot smoke kept the roof warm and dry. The smell of boiling meat from the king’s herd rose from a bubbling pot hung on iron hooks above the fireplace, although she suspected that the meat would go to waste, for neither of them had much of an appetite.
Ravenna reached out, and placed her palm on her brother’s head as she sat next to him. Ignoring her earlier thought, she slid her arms around him and drew him close to her. His arm slipped naturally around her waist, and she gently rocked him back and forth.
‘Hush now,’ she said. ‘We’ll have no more tears in this house, Gerreon. You’ll attract evil spirits, and your brother does not want to go to Ulric’s Halls with your sorrow as the last thing he hears.’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Gerreon, lifting his head from her shoulders. Tears and snot mingled on his upper lip and chin, and his eyes were bloodshot from crying.
He wiped his free arm across his face. ‘My brother is dead.’
‘I know,’ said Ravenna. ‘Trinovantes was my brother too, Gerreon.’
‘But he was my twin, you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone who’s like a part of you. I could feel the same things he did as though they happened to me.’
‘Trinovantes was a warrior,’ said Ravenna. ‘He chose that life, and he knew the risks.’
‘No,’ said Gerreon, ‘I don’t think he did. I’ve asked around.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that Sigmar caused his death,’ snapped Gerreon. ‘I spoke to the warriors who came back, and they told me that Sigmar sent Trinovantes to hold Astofen Bridge. He ordered him not to retreat, no matter what. What kind of a choice is that?’
Ravenna slipped her arm from around her brother, taking him by the shoulders, and turning him to face her. She too had desired to know how her brother had died, but she had asked Pendrag and knew the truth of the matter.
‘No, Gerreon,’ said Ravenna, ‘Trinovantes volunteered to hold the bridge. I asked Pendrag and he told me what happened.’
‘Pendrag? Well, of course he’s going to back up his sword-brother, isn’t he? They’ve sworn an oath or something. He’d say anything to protect Sigmar.’
Ravenna shook her head. ‘Pendrag may be many things, but he is not a liar, and I believe him. A greenskin killed Trinovantes, and Sigmar slew the beast.’
Gerreon pulled away from his sister. ‘How can you defend him at a time like this? Is it because you can’t wait to spread your legs for him? Is that it?’
Ravenna slapped him hard, her palm leaving a vivid imprint on his cheek.
‘So it’s true,’ he said, and she drew back her arm to slap him again.
His hand snapped out, and caught her wrist in an iron grip.
‘Don’t,’ he said.
Ravenna pulled her arm free as Gerreon stood, his hand balled into a fist, and the veins in his neck stark against his pale skin.
Ravenna scrambled back, frightened of her brother’s sudden fury.
‘I’m sorry I said that, sister,’ said Gerreon, ‘but you won’t change my mind. Sigmar killed our brother as surely as if he’d driven that spear through his heart!’
Four
Sword Brothers
A cold wind blew over the grassy slopes of the Warrior’s Hill, and Ravenna pulled her green cloak tighter around her body as she watched the snaking column of warriors make their way from Reikdorf. Sigmar led the procession, dressed in his gleaming bronze armour and iron helm. The king walked beside him, with Pendrag and Alfgeir following behind them, one carrying Sigmar’s banner, the other carrying the king’s.
Armoured warriors carried her brother on a bier of shields, his green banner draped across his recumbent form, and Ravenna felt a cold lump of grief settle in her throat at the sight of her brother’s body.
Gerreon stood to her left, stiff and tense as the procession approached. She spared him a glance, his handsome features set as though carved from stone. He wore his finest tunic of scarlet wool, and had left his arm unbound from its sling. His sword was belted at his waist, and his good hand rested on its pommel.
She reached out and took his hand from the weapon, slipping her hand into his. He frowned at the gesture, but relaxed as he saw the sorrow in her eyes.
‘Don’t worry, sister,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to do anything foolish.’
‘I didn’t think you were,’ she lied.
He squeezed her hand, and returned his gaze to the approaching men, who were already halfway up the hill. Ravenna watched as the warriors passed the tomb of Redmane Dregor, both Sigmar and his father bowing to their ancestor as they did so.
The king’s father had been long dead before Ravenna’s birth, but his stories had thrilled many of the settlement’s children over the years, and his heroic deeds were known the length and breadth of the Unberogen lands.
At last, her brother’s funeral procession climbed the winding path to the place set aside for Trinovantes, a barrow cut in the side of the hill, framed by tall pillars of weathered stone. As one of the guards of the King’s Hall, Trinovantes was entitled to such honour in his final resting place, on a stone shelf beside their father. A heavy boulder lay to one side, a muddy crease marking where it had been rolled aside in preparation for her brother’s interment.
King Björn halted before the opening of the barrow, and Sigmar gave her and her brother a solemn nod of acknowledgement. For long moments, no one moved, and the sigh of the wind around the hillside was the only sound, a mournful howling that captured the feelings of those present more eloquently than any could manage with words.
At length, King Björn stepped towards the barrow, and dropped to his knees with his head bowed beside the darkened entrance. His cloak of deep blue flapped in the wind, and the bronze crown upon his brow shone in the afternoon sun.
‘A warrior is laid to rest in the land he fought to protect,’ said the king. ‘His name was Trinovantes, and he died a hero’s death, his blade wet with the blood of his enemies and all his wounds to the fore. Know him, mighty Ulric, and grant him a fitting welcome.’
The king drew a bronze knife and slashed the blade across his palm. He made a fist, allowing droplets of blood to splash the ground before the black opening of the tomb.
‘I offer you the blood of kings,’ said Björn, ‘and the honour of his sword-brothers.’
Sigmar led the warriors who bore Trinovantes past the king, and ducked down as he led them into the musty darkness. Ravenna felt Gerreon’s hand tighten on hers, but she did not take her eyes from the sight of her brother’s body as it was carried within.
She felt tears welling as she heard the scrape of metal and hushed words from the tomb. At last, the armoured warriors emerged into the light, taking up positions behind the king with their shields carried proudly before them. Eventually, Sigmar emerged from her brother’s tomb, Trinovantes’s shield carried before him like a platter. The leather stretched across the wood was split, and several of the brass studs around its rim were missing.
Sigmar walked slowly towards her and Gerreon, his face a mask of anguish, and her heart went out to him, even as she grieved for her own loss. She felt Gerreon tense beside her as Sigmar lifted the shield and offered it to her brother.
‘Triovantes was the bravest man I knew,’ said Sigmar. ‘This is his shield, and it passes to you, Gerreon. May you bear it proudly and earn honour with it as your brother did.’
‘Honour?’ spat Gerreon. ‘Sent to his death by a friend? Where is the honour in that?’
Sigmar showed no outward sign of anger, but Ravenna could see the smouldering, grief-born rage behind his eyes. The king’s son continued to hold the shield out, and Ravenna released her brother’s hand that he might take it.
‘He was my friend, Gerreon,’ said Sigmar. ‘I mourn his death as you do. Yes, I gave him the order that led to his death, but such is the way with war. Good men die, and we honour their sacrifice by living on and cherishing their memory.’
Ravenna willed Gerreon to take Trinovantes’s shield, but her brother seemed determined to savour the angry confrontation, and steadfastly refused to receive the shield from Sigmar.
Both men’s eyes were locked together, and she wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she reached up, took hold of her brother’s shield, and bowed her head to Sigmar as she slid it onto her arm and bore it before her.
Sigmar looked down in surprise as she hefted Trinovantes’s shield, but she could see his anger diminish and the light of understanding in his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ said Ravenna, her voice strong and proud despite her grief. ‘I know you loved our brother dearly, and he loved you in return.’
Sigmar said, ‘He was my sword-brother and he will not be forgotten.’
‘No,’ agreed Ravenna, ‘he won’t be.’
Gerreon stood unmoving, but with the shield accepted, Sigmar turned away, and returned to stand beside Pendrag, and the crimson banner that snapped and rippled in the wind.
The king stood and glared at Gerreon, but said nothing as he took his place beside his champion. Sigmar and Wolfgart now stepped forward to stand beside the boulder that would cover the entrance to her brother’s final resting place. Pendrag handed Sigmar’s banner to another warrior, and joined his sword-brothers.
They placed their shoulders against the boulder and heaved, the muscles in their legs bunching as they strained against its weight. Ravenna thought they would not be able to move it, but it began to shift, slowly at first, and then with greater ease as its momentum built.
At last, the boulder rolled across the entrance, and Ravenna closed her eyes as it slammed into place with a thud of rock and a dreadful finality.
Dusk was drawing in as Björn sat on a rock staring at the tomb of Trinovantes, the sack containing the bull’s heart on the ground before him. He was impatient, and the small fire before the tomb did nothing to dispel the cold wind that stole the warmth from him like a thief. This part of the funeral rite always unsettled him, despite its necessity, but as king, it fell to him to perform it.
He looked up at the slowly emerging stars as he waited for the other to arrive, seeing them as faint spots of light in the dusky sky. Eoforth said they were holes in the mortal world, beyond which lay the abode of the gods, from where they looked down on the race of man. Björn did not know if it were true, but it sounded good, and he was prepared to bow before the wisdom of his counsellor.
He tore his gaze from the stars as he heard soft footfalls from the other side of the hill, and his hand stole towards Soultaker’s haft. He could see nothing in the gloom, but dusk was a time of shadows and phantoms, and his eyes were no longer as clear as they had been in his youth.
‘Be at peace, Björn,’ chuckled a low, yet powerful voice. ‘I mean you no harm this night.’
A hunched woman, swathed in black robes, emerged from behind the mound of the tomb, but Björn did not release his grip on the weapon as he saw her. She walked with the aid of a gnarled staff, and her hair was as white as a mist daemon’s hide.
The comparison unnerved him, but he stood to face her, determined that he would show no emotion before the hag woman of the Brackenwalch.
‘You bring the offering for the god of the dead?’ asked the woman. Her face was ancient and wrinkled, yet her eyes were like those of a maiden, bright and full of mischief.
‘I do,’ replied Björn, bending to lift the sack from the ground.
‘Something unsettles you, Björn?’ asked the woman.
‘Your kind always unsettles me,’ he replied.
‘My kind?’ sneered the old woman. ‘It was my kind that protected you when plague came to your lands. It was my kind that warned you of the great beast of the Howling Hills. Thanks to me, you have prospered, and the Unberogen are now numbered among the mightiest tribes of the west.’
‘All of that is true,’ said Björn, ‘but it does not change the fact that I believe darkness clings to you like a cloak. You have powers beyond those of mortal men.’
The hag woman laughed, a bitter, dry sound. ‘Does it bother you that my powers are beyond mortals or beyond men?’
‘Both,’ admitted Björn.
‘Honest, at least,’ said the hag woman, settling on her haunches before the tomb. ‘Quickly now, bring the heart.’
Björn tossed the sack to the woman, who caught it before it landed, and upended it into the fire. The heart began to sizzle quickly, and the pungent aroma of burning flesh rose as it began to burn. The crackling organ spat fat and blood as it smoked, and Björn felt his mouth water at the scent.
‘The god of the dead is also the god of dreams,’ said the hag woman. ‘He sends sleeping visions to those who guide the souls of the departed to his realm.’
Björn did not reply, having no wish to bandy words with this conjurer of dead things. She looked up at him. ‘Do you wish to hear of my dreams?’
‘No,’ said Björn. ‘What would you dream of that I would wish to know?’
The hag woman shrugged, moving the heart around in the heat of the fire. Its surface was blackened and shrivelling as the flames consumed it.
‘Dreams are the gateway to the future,’ she said. ‘Vanity, pride and courage are no shield against the lord of the dead, and all journey to his kingdom sooner or later.’
br /> ‘Is the ritual done yet?’ demanded Björn, irritated by the hag woman’s prattling.
‘Nearly,’ she said, ‘but you of all people should know better than to rush an offering to the gods.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ asked Björn, looming over the hag woman. ‘Damn your riddles, speak plainly!’
The hag woman looked up, and Björn felt an icy hand take hold of his heart as surely as the flames had taken the bull’s heart. Her eyes shone with reflected light from the fire, and the heat from the flames vanished utterly.
The cold wind howled, and his cloak billowed around him like a living thing. He looked up to see that the sky was black and starless, and the light of the gods obscured. Björn had never felt so alone in all his life.
‘You stand on the brink of an abyss, King Björn,’ hissed the hag woman, her voice cutting through the still of the night like a knife, ‘so listen well to what I say. The Child of Thunder is in danger, for the powers of darkness move against him, though he knows it not. If he lives, the race of man will rise to glory and mastery of the land, sea and sky, but should he falter the world will end in blood and fire.’
‘Child of Thunder?’ asked Björn, tearing his gaze from the lifeless heavens. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I speak of a time far from here, beyond the span of your life and mine.’
‘If I will be dead why should I care?’
‘You are a great warrior and a good man, King Björn, but he who will come after you will be the greatest warrior of the age.’
‘My son?’ asked Björn. ‘You speak of Sigmar?’
‘Aye,’ nodded the hag woman. ‘I speak of Sigmar. He stands poised at a threshold of Morr’s gateway, and the god of the dead knows his name.’
Fear seized Björn’s heart. His wife had been taken from him on a night of blood, and hearing that he might outlive his son was to have his greatest fear realised.