‘Can you save him?’ pleaded Björn.
‘No,’ said the hag woman. ‘Only you can do that.’
‘How?’
‘By making a sacred vow to me when I ask it,’ said the hag woman, taking his hand.
‘Ask it!’ cried Björn. ‘I will swear whatever you ask.’
The hag woman shook her head, and the wind lessened as the stars began to shine once more. ‘I do not ask it yet, Björn, but be ready when I do.’
Björn nodded as he pulled away from the hag woman. He looked around the hillside, seeing that the sky had returned to its normal dusky colour. He let out an anguished breath, and turned back to Trinovantes’s tomb.
The fire was extinguished, and the heart burned to ashes on the wind.
The hag woman was gone.
Sigmar watched the tiny flickering glow on Warrior’s Hill wink out, and hung his head, knowing that the last of the funeral rites for his friend was over. He could not make out his father on the hillside, but he knew that he would not neglect his duty to the dead.
A shiver passed through Sigmar, and he looked into the west and the setting sun. Soon it would be dark, and he could already see wall sentries lighting the hooded braziers that illuminated the open ground before the walls of Reikdorf. Night was a time to be feared, and the monsters that lived in the forests and mountains claimed dominion over the land in its shadow.
No more, thought Sigmar, for now is the time of men.
‘I will push back the darkness,’ he whispered, placing his hand on a heavy square stone laid in the centre of the settlement. The rough surface of the stone was red and striated with thin golden lines, quite unlike anything west of the mountains.
The last of the sun’s rays had heated its surface, and Sigmar felt a warm glow from the stone as if it approved of his sentiment. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching.
Wolfgart and Pendrag, still clad in their bronze armour, strode through the town, their heads held high and proud. Sigmar smiled to see them, feeling a kinship with these brave souls who had fought and bled alongside him.
‘So what’s this all about?’ asked Wolfgart. ‘There’s drinking to be done, and plenty of women who still want to welcome us back properly.’
Sigmar rose from his haunches and said, ‘Thank you for coming, my friends.’
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Pendrag, catching a measure of his tone.
Sigmar nodded, squatting down next to the red stone. ‘You know what this is?’
‘Of course,’ said Wolfgart, kneeling next to him.
‘It is the Oathstone,’ said Pendrag.
‘Aye,’ said Sigmar. ‘The Oathstone, carried from lands far to the east by the first chiefs of the Unberogen, and planted in the earth when they settled here.’
‘What of it?’ asked Wolfgart.
‘The town of Reikdorf was built around this stone, and its people have flourished, the land opening up to us and returning our care tenfold,’ said Sigmar, laying his hand on the stone. ‘When a man plights his troth to a woman, their hands are fastened here. When a new king swears to lead his people, his oath is taken here, and when warriors swear blood oaths, their blood falls upon this stone.’
‘Well,’ began Pendrag, ‘you are not yet king, and I’m assuming you’re not planning on marrying either of us?’
‘He’d bloody better not be!’ cried Wolfgart. ‘He’s too skinny for my tastes anyway.’
Sigmar shook his head. ‘You’re right, Pendrag. I brought you to this place because I want what happens here to be remembered by both of you. We won a great victory at Astofen, but that is just the beginning.’
‘The beginning of what?’ asked Wolfgart.
‘Of us,’ said Sigmar.
‘Maybe you were wrong, Pendrag,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Maybe he does want to marry us.’
‘I mean “us” as in the race of man,’ said Sigmar. ‘Astofen was just the beginning, but I see something greater for us. All year, the beasts of the forest attack our settlements, and greenskins from the mountains plague us, yet still we fight each other. The Teutogens and Thuringians raid our northern lands and the Merogens our southern settlements. The Norsii and the Udoses are in a state of constant war, and the Jutones and the Endals have fought each other for longer than any man can remember.’
Wolfgart shrugged. ‘It’s the way it’s always been.’
Pendrag nodded and said, ‘Men will always fight one another. The strong take from the weak, and the powerful will always want more power.’
‘Not any more,’ said Sigmar. ‘Here we make an oath to end the wars between the tribes. If we are ever to make more of ourselves, to do more than simply survive, then we must be united in common purpose.’
Sigmar pulled Ghal-maraz from his belt and laid it across the Oathstone.
‘On my dooming day, I walked amongst the tombs of my forefathers and saw our land laid out before me. I saw the sprawling forests and scattered towns within it, like islands in a dark sea. I saw the strength of men, but I also saw frailty and fear as people huddled together behind high walls that separated them from one another. I felt the jealousy and mistrust that will forever be our undoing in the face of stronger enemies. I have a great vision of a mighty empire of men, a land ruled with justice and strength, but if we are ever to stand a chance of realising that vision, we must put such petty considerations behind us.’
‘A lofty goal,’ said Pendrag.
‘But a worthy one.’
‘Worthy, yes,’ said Wolfgart, ‘but an impossible one. The tribes live for war and fighting, they have always fought, and they always will.’
Sigmar shook his head, and placed his hand on Wolfgart’s shoulder. ‘You are wrong, my friend. Together we can begin something magnificent.’
‘Together?’ asked Wolfgart.
‘Aye, together,’ said Sigmar, placing his hand on the head of his mighty warhammer. ‘I cannot do this alone; I need my sword-brothers with me. Swear with me, my friends. Swear that everything we do from this day forth will be in service of this vision of a united empire of man.’
Wolfgart and Pendrag looked at each other as though thinking him mad, but Pendrag turned to him and smiled. ‘This oath, will it require blood? We’ve all shed enough these last few days.’
‘No, my friend,’ said Sigmar. ‘Blood is for Ulric, your word will be enough.’
‘Then you have it,’ nodded Pendrag, placing his hand on the haft of the warhammer.
‘Wolfgart?’
His friend shook his head with a smile. ‘You’re both mad, but it is a grand madness, so count me in.’
Wolfgart placed his hand on Ghal-maraz, and Sigmar said, ‘I swear by all the gods of the land and upon this mighty weapon that I will not rest until all the tribes of men are united and strong.’
‘I swear this also,’ said Pendrag.
‘As do I,’ said Wolfgart.
Sigmar’s heart swelled with pride as he looked into the eyes of his sword-brothers and saw the strength of their faith in him. Wolfgart nodded and said, ‘Now what? You want the three of us to march out and conquer the world tonight? We’d have our work cut out for us.’
‘We three are just the beginning,’ promised Sigmar, ‘but there will be more.’
‘Many will not want to walk this road with us,’ warned Pendrag. ‘We will not forge this empire of yours without bloodshed.’
‘It will be a long, hard road,’ agreed Sigmar, ‘but I believe that some things are worth fighting for.’
Wolfgart looked up from the Oathstone, and said, ‘Aye, I think you might be right.’
Sigmar followed his sword-brother’s glance, and his heart beat a little faster as he saw Ravenna standing at the edge of the square. She was wrapped in a green shawl, pulled tightly around her body, and her black hair lay unbound around her shoulders. Sigmar knew that he had never seen her look more beautiful.
He turned back to his friends, torn between the solemnity of the oath they had sworn an
d the desire to go to Ravenna.
‘Go on,’ said Pendrag. ‘You’d be a fool if you didn’t.’
They walked to the river, and watched the sun as the last curve of its light slipped further beyond the horizon. Darkness was creeping in from the east, and only the metallic rustle of sentries’ armour and the splashing of the river broke the silence of the world.
Ravenna had said nothing as he approached, and they had walked in companionable silence towards the river, the dark waters churning past like fast-flowing pitch. Sigmar felt awkward in his armour, his every footfall loud and ungainly next to the grace of her poise.
They walked past the boats, pulled up onto the banks of the river and the drying racks, coming eventually to a small jetty where tall logs were driven into the river to shore up the banks. Ravenna stepped out onto the jetty, and walked to the end, staring out over the waters of the Reik as they flowed towards the coast far to the west.
‘Trinovantes used to love swimming in the river,’ said Ravenna.
‘I remember,’ said Sigmar. ‘He was the only one strong enough to swim to the other side. Everyone else got swept downstream, and had to walk back to Reikdorf.’
‘Even you?’
‘Even me,’ smiled Sigmar.
‘I miss him.’
‘We all miss him,’ he said. ‘I wish there was something I could say that would lessen the pain of his death.’
She shook her head. ‘No words could do that, Sigmar. Nor would I want them to.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he said. ‘Why hang onto pain?’
‘Because without it I might forget him,’ she said. ‘Without the pain I might forget that it was war and men like you that saw him killed.’
‘You blame me for his death,’ said Sigmar.
She turned away from him, and the dying rays of the sun shimmered in her hair like molten copper. ‘An orc drove that spear through my brother, not you. I do not blame you for his death, but I hate that we need men like you and my brother to protect us from the world. I hate that we have to build walls to hide behind and make swords to fight our enemies.’
He reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘The world is a dark place, Ravenna, and without warriors and swords we would all be dead.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I am not naïve. I understand the necessity of warriors, but I do not have to like it, not when it takes my brother away from me, not when it might take you away from me.’
Sigmar laughed. ‘I am not going anywhere.’
Ravenna turned back to him, and the laughter died in his throat as he saw the tears springing from her eyes.
‘You are a warrior and the son of a king,’ she said. ‘Your life is one of battle. You are unlikely to die as an old man in your bed.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching for her.
She fell into his arms, and wept for her brother now that the rites were concluded. She had been strong for long enough. They stood together on the edge of the river as the sun sank beneath the horizon and the stars finally came out in all their glory. The night was cloudless, and Sigmar looked up at the star pictures, seeing the Great Wolf, the Myrmidion Spear and the Scales of Verena shining against the darkness.
There were others, but he did not want to move and spoil this moment to look at them. Ravenna wept for her lost brother for many minutes, and Sigmar simply held her, knowing that to try to speak would be to intrude on her grief. At length, her tears stopped, and she looked up at him, her eyes puffy, but as strong as when she had taken Trinovantes’s shield from him on the Warrior’s Hill.
‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping her eyes on the edge of her shawl.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Yes, you did.’
Mystified as to her meaning, he said nothing until she eventually pulled away, wrapping her arms around her body again.
‘That looked serious,’ she said suddenly, moving the subject away from her brother. ‘with Wolfgart and Pendrag I mean.’
Sigmar hesitated before answering. ‘We were swearing an oath,’ he said at last.
‘An oath? What kind of oath?’
Sigmar wondered if he should tell her, but then immediately saw that if his dream of a united empire were to come true then it would need to take shape in the hearts and minds of the people. An idea was a powerful thing, and it would spread faster than any army could march.
‘To bring an end to war,’ he said, ‘to unite the tribes and forge an empire that can stand against the creatures of darkness.’
She nodded and said, ‘And who would rule this empire?’
‘We would,’ he said, ‘the Unberogen.’
‘You mean you would.’
Sigmar nodded, ‘Would that be so bad?’
‘No, for you have a good heart, Sigmar. I truly believe that. If you ever build this empire, it will be a place of justice and strength.’
‘If I build it? Don’t you think I can do it?’
‘If anyone can do it, you can,’ she said, stepping forward and taking his hand. ‘Just promise me one thing.’
‘Anything.’
‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what I’m going to ask.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Sigmar. ‘Your wish is my command.’
She reached up with her free hand and stroked his cheek. ‘You are sweet.’
‘I mean it,’ said Sigmar. ‘Ask and I will promise.’
‘Then promise me that the wars will end some day,’ said Ravenna, looking him straight in the eye. ‘When you have achieved all you set out to do, put down your weapons and leave it all behind.’
‘I promise,’ he said without hesitation.
Five
The Dreams of Kings
Winter closed in on Reikdorf like a clenched fist, each day growing shorter, and the temperature falling until the first snowfalls blanketed the world in white. The River Reik flowed slow and stately, the water cold and filled with drifting ice floes that came all the way from the Grey Mountains far to the south.
The Unberogens hunkered down to wait out the season, their grain stores filled with the fruits of a bountiful harvest; bread was plentiful and no household went hungry. King Björn sent wagons of grain westwards to the lands of the Endals, for the soil there was thin, and evil waters from the marshes had poisoned many of their crops.
Armed warriors travelled with the wagons, for the forest was a place of danger, even in the depths of winter. Brigands might cease their raiding while the snow lay thickly on the ground, but the deathly cold held no terror for the twisted beasts that hid in the darkest depths of the forests.
Wolfgart led the Unberogen warriors to Marburg, riding at the head of a column of warriors armoured in new hauberks of linked iron, fresh from the forge-work of Alaric and Pendrag. Wolfgart had been loath to part with his bronze breastplate and cuirass, but when Alaric had shown him the strength of the iron armour, he had tossed aside his old plate and happily donned his new protection.
He and his warriors would winter with the Endals to return in the spring, and Sigmar missed his friend greatly as the days passed with gelid slowness.
The cold weeks dragged on, and each one weighed heavily on Sigmar. He longed to make good on the oath he had sworn with his sword-brothers, but while winter held the land in its grip, nothing could be done. No army could march in winter, and to set out in such bone numbing cold was akin to suicide. Daily life continued as normal, with the folk of Reikdorf turning their hands to work that could only be undertaken when the days were not filled with the backbreaking labour of farming.
Artisans crafted fine jewellery, weavers created great tapestries, and craftsmen trained apprentices in woodwork, stone carving and dozens of other trades that would have been unthinkable without the luxury of a crop surplus.
Alaric’s forge rang with hammer blows, and hissing clouds of hot steam billowed from the high chimney. Pendrag had become a daily visitor to the forge, learning the secret of blending metals t
o produce iron swords that held a superior edge for a greater span of time, and did not shatter after continued use.
As winter dragged on, the flow of trade into and out of Reikdorf dwindled to almost nothing. Only dwarf caravans dared to travel during the winter, squat, unlovely things pulled by equally squat and muscular ponies. Each caravan came loaded with ore from the mines, finely crafted weapons and armour, and barrels of strong ale.
Dwarfs encased in gleaming surcoats of mail and heavy plate trudged alongside the caravans, apparently untroubled by the deep snow. Their faces were hidden, and only their long braided beards were visible beneath bronze faceplates. Alaric would greet each caravan personally, talking in the gruff, yet lyrical language of the mountain folk, while the Unberogens watched from behind shuttered windows.
No sooner were the wagons unloaded than they would be filled with grain, furs and all manner of goods unavailable to the dwarfs in their holds. Messages would be exchanged between King Björn and King Kurgan Ironbeard, each passing on what news of the world they knew to the other.
Sigmar spent much of the winter training with the warriors of the Unberogen, honing his already fearsome skill, and instilling a sense of camaraderie in the warriors with his quick wit and loyalty.
Of course there were still battles to be fought, and both Sigmar and his father led their warriors into the forest several times to fight marauding groups of beasts that preyed upon outlying settlements. Each time, the riders would return to Reikdorf with skulls mounted on their spears, and each time it would be longer before the beasts attacked again.
Nor were beasts their only enemies. Teutogen raiders rode brazenly into Unberogen territory to steal cattle and sheep, but were hunted down and killed before they could return to their own lands. Gerreon finally rode to war in such a skirmish, earning the respect of his fellows for his deadly skill with a blade, though as he had predicted, his absence from the Battle of Astofen had created a gulf between him and those who had fought in the desperate battle with the orcs.
As the days lengthened, Unberogen warriors began riding further afield, maintaining a close watch on their borders. With spring’s approach, border skirmishes became more common, and time and time again, Unberogen horse archers would turn back feints from laughing reavers, who whooped and hollered as they threw spears and loosed arrows.