03 - God King

  Deeplock stumbled and almost dragged Cuthwin down with him.

  “Up, mountain man!” he hissed. “Use those damn legs of yours!”

  “Must… go back…” gasped the dwarf, and Cuthwin saw there was blood in his beard.

  “Not if you want to live,” he said, hauling the dwarf to his feet.

  Deeplock muttered something else, but Cuthwin couldn’t make it out. He set off again through the trees, but the dwarf fell before they’d managed ten yards. Cuthwin fell with him, rolling to keep his bow from touching the ground.

  “Damn you, but you’re trouble,” he hissed.

  The sound of a howling wolf drifted through the trees. It was east of him, and another answered it, this time to the west. There would be more behind him, at least four, and he knew they were racing to get ahead of him, to close the circle around him and leave him nowhere to run.

  How far away were they? Listening to the echoes through the trees, he guessed they were no more than half a mile from him. He cursed and gripped the dwarf’s tunic, hauling him over his shoulder.

  “Ulric’s balls, but you’re heavy,” he told the unconscious dwarf. Though much shorter than Cuthwin, the dwarf was at least as heavy as a tall man. Bowed under the dwarf’s weight, Cuthwin set off again, following the building swell of river noise, hoping that he’d emerge from the trees where he’d planned.

  He ran on, sweat dripping into his eyes, losing track of time and distance as he fought to keep going. At last he saw a break in the trees and heard the rushing sound of falling water. Despite his exhaustion, he smiled, knowing the forest had steered him true. The sound of wolves was louder now. They knew they had him cornered, and were howling to get the fear pumping in his veins.

  “We’ll see about that,” he hissed, emerging from the trees onto the banks of a fast-flowing tributary of the Reik. Tumbling from the high peaks of the Grey Mountains, it wended its way through the uplands of the forest, gathering speed as it fed into the basin of the fertile southlands of the Empire.

  Perhaps fifty yards wide, the river poured northwards in a tumbling froth of white spume and swirling black pools. The riverbed was only a yard or so down, but it would take all his strength to keep his feet against the speed of the water.

  Greasy rocks slicked in moss jutted from the river as it widened towards a crashing waterfall. A glittering rainbow arced over the edge of the drop, the water falling to a wide pool of upthrust rocks far below.

  Cuthwin set down his burden, leaning the dwarf against a boulder at the side of the river. His pallor was terrible, and Cuthwin doubted that even the best healers in Reikdorf could save him. To be killed rescuing a dwarf that likely wouldn’t live out the day. That would be a poor way to meet his end.

  Heavy tree branches drooped over the water, willows, whip-limbed birch and young, supple saplings. Cuthwin shucked off his pack. He strung his bow and unsheathed his hunting knife, moving quickly to the treeline and testing the longest and thinnest tree branches.

  A wolf howl came from the forest, and Cuthwin knew he didn’t have much time.

  Sweating and breathing hard, Cuthwin looped Grindan Deeplock over his shoulders and waded back into the river. Swollen with mountain water, it was bitterly cold and the breath caught in his throat. It threatened to snatch him from his feet and send him hurtling over the waterfall, but thanks to the additional ballast of the dwarf, Cuthwin was able to keep his balance. He waded out into the river, biting his lip to keep the pain of the cold at bay.

  A dozen yards to his right, the waterfall boomed and roared like a hungry beast, and he tried not to think of how much it would hurt to be dashed to death on the rocks below. He reached the halfway point of the river, shuffling his feet through the mud and stones of the riverbed. Just ahead of him was a jutting boulder, its surfaces worn smooth by the passage of centuries of water. He slid Deeplock from his shoulders and propped him up against the rock, pressing his own back into the dwarf to hold him in place.

  The wolves emerged from the trees, seven of them, each with a goblin perched behind the blades of their shoulders. Chittering laughter giggled from beneath the goblins’ hoods, and hooked noses twitched in anticipation. They spat curses at him in their foul language, and many lifted their short horn bows from their backs.

  Cuthwin pulled back on his own bowstring and let fly, sending an arrow into the mouth of a snarling wolf and dropping it instantly. The goblin fell from its back and plunged into the waters of the river. It squealed in fear before being carried over the waterfall. The roar of the water swallowed its cries. Four of the wolves entered the river, the flesh of their jaws drawn back over their fangs. A black-fletched shaft skittered off the rock and Cuthwin flinched, swinging his bow around and sighting down the length of his arrow.

  He exhaled and loosed, watching the arrow as it slashed through the air to sever the thin knot of bound saplings he’d wedged in the soft earth before the bent branches of a long-limbed willow. Its branches whipped around, like the arm of a catapult laid on its side, and slashed into the wolf-riding goblins. Two of the wolves in the shallows were smashed from their feet and howled as they were swept downriver towards the falls. They and their riders vanished over the edge and as the other goblins watched in dismay Cuthwin nocked and let fly with another arrow.

  It punched through the chest of the goblin whose wolf had leapt back quick enough to avoid his trap. Another goblin arrow spun up to slice the skin of his forehead. Blood streamed down Cuthwin’s face, and he shook his head clear as the remaining four wolves leapt into the river, their lean bodies powering them through the water as the goblins held on for dear life.

  Cuthwin waited until they were a dozen yards from him and sent his next shaft into a branch he’d wedged beneath a precariously perched boulder further upriver. His arrow thwacked into the wood, but the branch didn’t move. The wolves snapped in the foaming water, and Cuthwin saw their feral hunger to tear him apart. He loosed another shaft into the wood, and this time it fell from where it was wedged into the soft mud he’d dug out of the riverbed.

  The boulder toppled over, and the water breaking behind it surged downriver with tidal force. The wave slammed into the wolves and broke against them with enormous power. They were helpless against the strength of the current and all but two were borne over the edge of the falls by the surging water. Their howls and the screeching fear of the goblins dwindled as they fell.

  Before he could congratulate himself, a goblin arrow ricocheted from the rock and sliced through his bowstring. Cuthwin took hold of his now useless bow and hurled it towards the far bank. It was a good throw, and the weapon landed in the ferns at the edge of the river. He couldn’t move from the rock for fear of losing Grindan Deeplock, so drew his knife and prepared to fight the last two of his pursuers.

  The wolf was fighting against the current, and before it could reach him in his sheltered enclave, Cuthwin lunged forward. Keeping one hand braced against the dwarf, he slashed his blade across the wolf’s snout as the goblin swung its sword at him. The beast yelped in pain and the goblin’s sword went wide. Cuthwin plunged the tip of his dagger into the rider’s throat. Blood spilled over his hand, and the goblin lurched back, yanking hard on the rope reins of its mount. The creature’s pain outweighed its sense of danger and the power of the river eagerly snatched it away.

  The last wolf had entered the river higher up and used the flow of water to its advantage. Swimming with the current, it lunged towards him. He hurled himself back against the rock and its jaws snapped shut an inch from his face. The goblin stabbed with its rusty blade. Cuthwin swayed aside and Grindan Deeplock slid away from him, his head sinking beneath the level of the rushing water.

  Cuthwin punched the wolf in the face and rammed his knife into the goblin’s side. Both tumbled away from him and he twisted the dagger in the greenskin’s flesh, pulling it out and stabbing it down into the wolf’s skull.

  Its yelp of pain was abruptly cut off and the corpses spun lazily away, di
sappearing over the edge of the waterfall. Cuthwin let out a long breath and turned to lift the dwarf from beneath the water. His eyes were closed, and it was impossible to tell if he were alive or dead. Checking the treeline for more enemies, Cuthwin hauled Grindan Deeplock over to the far side of the river and dragged him onto the bank.

  He pressed his fingertips to the dwarf’s throat, and was rewarded with a pulse. Weak, but steady. Cuthwin’s pack was sodden, but the oiled lining had kept the worst of the river at bay. Stripping the dwarf of his sodden clothes, he wrapped him in a woollen blanket from his pack and rubbed circulation back into his limbs.

  “Just as well you’re unconscious, mountain man,” said Cuthwin. “Don’t think you’d be keen on me doing this for you.”

  Satisfied the dwarf wasn’t about to die from the cold, Cuthwin swiftly redressed his wounds, using a healing poultice of valerian and spiderleaf and binding them with strips of vinegar-soaked linen. The dwarf grunted a few words in his harsh language. Cuthwin tied the bindings off under the dwarf’s shoulder and lay back against the bole of a tree, letting the adrenaline drain from him in a series of slow breaths. There was nothing more he could do for the dwarf, and they were still some days from Reikdorf.

  The dwarf would either live or die on his own terms.

  Night was coming, and they needed to find shelter. Cuthwin saw foresters’ marks on a nearby tree and dragged the dwarf further into the woods, following the signs towards a sheltered overhang of rock and fallen trees. A fire had been set in this hollow by its previous occupant, a fresh base of kindling and twigs ready for the next traveller to take shelter here. A stack of firewood lay bundled and tied with twine beneath the overhanging lip of a hollow tree.

  Cuthwin recognised the style of fire that had been set. Though he had never met the man, he knew him to be a hunter who favoured his right hand and walked with a slight limp. He was a successful hunter, as his footprints—when Cuthwin could find them—were always deeper on the way home than on the way out. Whoever he was, he lived perhaps a day or two from here, somewhere along the high ridges of the south-east.

  Cuthwin pulled out his tinderbox and got the fire going without difficulty. The hunter had built a good fire, and soon a small blaze was warming their sheltered hollow. With the fire going, he lay back and rested his eyes. He wouldn’t sleep though. With only one of them able to stand guard, it didn’t pay to leave their safety during the night to chance.

  Grindan Deeplock grumbled in his sleep, yet amid the unintelligible words of his strange language, Cuthwin heard a few heavily accented words in Reikspiel.

  One was buried, and he thought the other was organ.

  That didn’t make any sense. Were these dwarfs selling musical instruments?

  Putting the dwarf’s ramblings from his head, Cuthwin set about restringing his bow and settled down for the night.

  ——

  New Friends and Old Enemies

  The Emperor’s army returned to Reikdorf in triumph, his black steed flanked by a dozen others, and trailed by two thousand marching warriors. Since arriving back on Empire soil, his forces had swollen with followers, farm boys eager to take up a life of the sword and warriors from distant lands wishing to serve under the Imperial banner.

  Though Gerreon had escaped them, the stated purpose of the campaign had been to strike terror into the hearts of the Norsii, to let them know that they were not safe in their desolate realm of ice and snow. That task had been accomplished, and the crowds gathered to greet their Emperor’s return waved swords and axes high in recognition of his victories.

  Bells pealed from every tower that had one and the schoolhouses emptied as word spread throughout the city. First the arrival of the Grand Knight of the Empire, and now the return of the Emperor. Truly the city of Reikdorf was blessed. Thousands of men, women and children lined the streets, cheering and alternately shouting the names of Sigmar and Ulric.

  Conn Carsten and a hundred Udose warriors marched with the Emperor, grim-faced men in long kilts and baked leather breastplates. Each carried a long, basket-hilted broadsword over their shoulders and a round leather-covered shield was slung over their backs. They carried themselves with a rowdy confidence, utterly sure of themselves and cheerfully scornful of the ordered ranks of the Unberogen.

  Clad in his dwarf-forged plate and silver helm, Sigmar kept Ghal-Maraz held high. The symbol of his rule, it served to remind his people of the bond of loyalty that existed between his people and those of the mountains. The Empire had come close to disaster at Middenheim, and in times of trouble it was good to remind people of all that stood in their favour. It had been many years since King Kurgan had visited Reikdorf, and Sigmar longed to visit the mountain hold of his fellow king and friend someday.

  Wolfgart had not returned to Reikdorf. He had ridden south with Sigmar as far as the castle of Count Otwin of the Thuringians, before heading eastwards toward the lands of the Asoborns. Maedbh and Ulrike, his wife and daughter, now dwelled in the lands of Freya, Queen of the Asoborns. No one called Freya a count, no one dared. Like the Berserker King, she was one of Sigmar’s allies that found it hard to shed her former title.

  Behind the Emperor came an ornate bier, pulled by four white horses, the finest of Wolfgart’s southern herd. Upon it lay an iron coffin, draped in the blue and cream of Middenheim. The body of Pendrag lay within, preserved with camphorated wine and powdered nitre. For his service and friendship, Pendrag would be rewarded with a place of honour within Warrior Hill. Sigmar rode through the streets of his city, basking in his subjects’ adulation, the image of the heroic warrior-emperor his people needed and wanted.

  The fires of the longhouse burned fiercely, filling the length of it with warmth and light. Three wild boars hunted that morning from the forests north of Reikdorf turned on spits and the smell of roasting pork was making every man in the great hall salivate. Blessings to Taal had been said in thanks, and serving maids bearing trays laden with platters of roasted meat and wooden mugs of beer circulated amongst the celebrating tribesmen.

  The Udose drank heavily, singing achingly sad songs of lament to the wheezing, skirling music of the pipes. Unberogen warriors joined in, though the singsong language of the northern tribesmen was all but impenetrable to their southern ears. The mood in the hall was hearty, for both groups of warriors had fought side by side for the last year. Many oaths of brotherhood had been sworn between Udose and Unberogen, the kind that lay at the heart of what made the Empire strong.

  Sigmar sat upon his throne, stripped of his armour save for the gleaming breastplate and a thick bearskin cloak. Two of his hounds, Lex and Kai lay curled at his feet, while Ortulf—ever the opportunist—circulated through the longhouse in search of scraps. Conn Carsten sat in the place of honour to Sigmar’s right, while Alfgeir and Eoforth sat to his left. Though both these men had helped steer the Empire through some of its darkest hours, Sigmar found himself missing the earthy counsel of Wolfgart and Pendrag.

  This hall had once echoed with Wolfgart’s dreadful singing and off-colour jokes, but more and more, he was spending time in Three Hills with his family. Sigmar couldn’t blame him, Maedbh was a hard woman to refuse. As was any Asoborn woman, thought Sigmar, remembering how he had secured Queen Freya’s Sword Oath.

  Conn Carsten had filled the void of leadership left by the death of Count Wolfila, binding the argumentative clans of the Udose into a fighting force in the face of the Norsii invasion. But for Carsten’s merciless hit and run raids, the north would have fallen long before the armies of the Empire could have marched to save Middenheim.

  This night was to honour his courage during the war against the Norsii and confirm his appointment as Count of the Udose. It should have been an occasion for great celebration, and certainly was amongst Carsten’s warriors. But since this night had begun, Conn Carsten had said little and responded to any query with curt answers. He nursed his beer and seemed content to simply watch proceedings rather than participate.


  Sigmar regarded his newest count’s brooding countenance, his gloom-swept face having surely seen more than its fair share of hardship. His silver hair was cut tight to his skull and his beard was similarly trimmed. Where his warriors were bellicose and roaring, he was quiet and ill-suited to conversation.

  None of the other counts were in attendance, nor had Sigmar expected them to be. After the mustering of their armies for the relief of Middenheim, the tribal leaders were attending to matters in their own lands. Since his return, Sigmar had read missives from Freya and Adelhard of increased greenskin activity in the Worlds Edge Mountains, of warbands of twisted forest beasts in the southern reaches and increased coordination between brigands and reavers in the north. Krugar and Aloysis both begged the Emperor’s help in quelling numerous incidences of the dead rising from their tombs to attack the living, and Aldred of the Endals reported increased attacks from unknown seaborne corsairs.

  Eoforth had once said that winning the Empire had been the easy part. Holding on to it would be the real challenge. Sigmar was now beginning to see what he meant. Something so precious would always attract enemies, and the true legacy of Sigmar’s creation would be how long it endured against the encroaching darkness.

  As much as he found it hard to enjoy Carsten’s company, Sigmar knew this man was key to keeping his land safe. Better the northern marches were ruled by a competent, disagreeable man than a gregarious friend who didn’t know one end of a sword from the other. Yet it sat ill with Sigmar that he could not reach the dour clansman, as though some unknown gulf existed between them that he could not cross. He did not expect to be as close to all his counts as he was to his friends, and as their ruler he knew he ought not to be. Yet to count a man as his ally and not to know him, that would not stand.