Sigmar turned to Conn Carsten and said, “Can I ask you something, Conn?”
The newest count of the Empire nodded slowly, as though wary of Sigmar’s purpose.
“This should be a grand day for you,” said Sigmar, knowing that flowery words or an indirect approach would only irritate the northerner. “You are a count of the Empire now, a man of great respect and responsibility. Yet you seem distracted, like you stand at the grave of your sword brother. Why is that?”
Carsten put down his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve.
“I have lost too many men in the last year and a half to celebrate, my lord. The wolves of the north wreaked great harm on my tribe and devastated our lands. Every village among the Udose has widows to spare, and the black shawls of mourning are too common a sight among my people. We are always first to feel the bite of Norsii axes. That makes it hard to know joy.”
Sigmar shook his head, gesturing at the gathered warriors. “Your warriors seem to have no difficulty in finding it.”
“Because they are young and foolish,” said Carsten. “They think themselves immortal and beyond death’s touch. If they live a little longer they will see the lie of that belief.”
“A grim view, my friend.”
“A realistic one. I have buried three wives and six children in my life. I once believed that I could have it all, the life of a warrior with its glory and battles, with a loving wife and family to come back to. But it is impossible. You of all people should know that.”
Sigmar felt the touch of Ravenna’s memory, but instead of pain, it now brought him comfort, a reassurance that she was alive within his heart.
“You’re right, I do know the pain of losing loved ones. I lost the love of my life many years ago and my best friend was killed by a man I once called a brother. Every death in Middenheim was a grievous loss, but I know that a life lived without hope or joy is a wasted one. I know the reality of life in the Empire, my friend. I know it is dangerous, often short and violent. That is precisely why we must take what joy we can from what the gods give us.”
“That may be the Unberogen way, but it is not my way,” said Carsten. “Live in hope if you must, I will live in the knowledge that all things must die.”
Sigmar said, “Look at Reikdorf, look at all we have achieved here and how the Empire’s cities grow larger and stronger. One day we will have borders that no enemy, no matter how strong they are, can breach. We will have peace and our people will know contentment.”
Conn Carsten took a mouthful of beer and smiled. “It would not do for me to call you foolish, my Emperor, but I think that is a naive belief. We will always have to fight to hold on to what you have built. Already you have defeated two major invasions. Many more will come. It only takes one to succeed and the Empire will be forgotten in a generation.”
“I have heard that before, Conn,” said Sigmar with a grim smile. “The necromancer Morath tried to break me with a similar argument. If we live fearing that all we have will be lost, then we would never build anything, never achieve anything. I cannot live that way; I will build and defend what I have built with my life. You are part of that, Conn, a vital part. I cannot do this without your support. You alone can keep the clans united and be my sword in the north.”
Carsten smiled and his face was transformed in an instant. Sigmar’s words were flattery, but the northern clansman saw the sincerity in them and his dour expression lifted. He raised his mug of beer and Sigmar toasted with him.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Carsten. “But I know what I am, a cantankerous old man the clan chieftains tolerate as their count because they know that every other clan hates me too. I have no sons left to follow me, so the other chieftains look at me and know they will be rid of me in a few years. They can wait.”
Sigmar extended his hand and Conn Carsten took it.
“Make the bastards wait a long time,” said Sigmar.
Conn Carsten laughed and somewhere beyond the longhouse walls a bell tolled.
The revelries continued for another three hours, though Conn Carsten excused himself not long after their conversation. As the last of the tribesmen staggered or were carried from the longhouse, Sigmar stood from his throne and paced the length of the dwarf-built structure. Its walls were fashioned from black stone quarried from deep beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains, carried on wagons from the east and raised by surly craftsmen of the mountain folk under direction of Alaric.
Sigmar knew the dwarfs called him Alaric the Mad, a name that rankled, for a more level-headed, pragmatic individual would be hard to find. Alaric now laboured deep beneath the mountains to forge twelve mighty swords for the counts of the Empire. Before Black Fire, Pendrag had crafted wondrous shields for each of the tribal kings, and King Kurgan had decreed that he would present Sigmar with swords to match.
Alaric himself had delivered the first of those swords to Sigmar at the battle for the Fauschlag Rock, a blade without equal among the realm of man. It had been given to Sigmar, but he had presented it to Pendrag as the Count of Middenheim, and upon his death it had been taken up by Myrsa—once the Warrior Eternal, now the new count.
Sigmar sat on a bench, idly tracing the outline of a wolf in a spilled pool of beer. He missed his friends. Time and distance had seen them pulled to the corners of the Empire, and though each was in his rightful place, he still wished they could be near. He even found himself missing the reckless wildness of Redwane. The young warrior and his White Wolves were now quartered atop the Fauschlag Rock as honour guard to Myrsa, a position Sigmar saw no need to rescind.
The hall smelled of cold meat, sweat and stale beer. It was the smell of maleness, of warriors and companionship. Sigmar looked up as the moon emerged from behind a long cloud and its light flooded the hall. He remembered catching Cuthwin and Wenyld trying to sneak a glance at the warriors within on his Blood Night, smiling at the memory of those long ago days. Two and a half decades had passed since then, and Sigmar shook his head at the idea of such a span of time. Where had it all gone?
“Thinking of the past?” said Alfgeir, sitting opposite him and depositing a pair of wooden mugs of beer on the trestle table. “Isn’t that the job of old men?”
“We are old men, Alfgeir,” said Sigmar with a grin.
“Nonsense,” said the Grand Knight of the Empire. He was drunk, but pleasantly so. “I’m as strong as I was when I first took up a sword.”
“I don’t doubt it, but we’re not the young bucks of the herd anymore.”
“Who needs to be? We have experience those with milk from their mother’s teat on their thistledown beards can only dream about.”
“Those that are old enough to have beards.”
“Exactly,” agreed Alfgeir, taking a long swig of his beer.
Sigmar knew that Alfgeir would pay for this indulgence tomorrow. It wasn’t as easy to shake the effects of Unberogen beer as it had been in their youth. Sigmar had ridden to Astofen after a heavy night of drinking and had felt no worse than any other morning, but he now had to nurse his beer or else he’d feel like the gods themselves were swinging hammers on the inside of his skull. His friend was still a powerful warrior, yet Sigmar knew he was slowing down. A young man when he served King Bjorn, Alfgeir was now approaching his sixtieth year.
“Do you remember when we climbed to the top of the Fauschlag Rock?”
“Remember it? I still have nightmares about it,” said Alfgeir. “I still can’t believe I went with you. I must have been mad.”
“I think we were both a bit mad back then,” agreed Sigmar. “I think youth needs a bit of madness, or else what’s the point?”
“The point of what, youth or madness?”
“Youth.”
Alfgeir shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong man, my friend. You want clever answers, you should ask Eoforth.”
“I would, but he went to his bed many hours ago.”
“Always was the clever one, eh?”
“
The wisest among us,” said Sigmar, taking a long mouthful of beer.
They drank in silence for a while, listening to the good-natured arguments of drunken warriors outside as they wended their way to their bedrolls. Sigmar could well imagine the substance of their strident roughhousing, the same things he and his sword brothers had squabbled over when they were young; women, war and glory.
“I sometimes miss it though,” said Sigmar. “When all you had to do was strap on your armour, carry a sharp sword and ride out with the blood thundering in your ears. You fought, you killed the enemy and you rode back with your cheeks blooded. Things were simpler back then. I miss that.”
“Everything seems simple to the young.”
“I know, but it would be pleasant to live like that again, just for a while. Not to have to worry about the fate of thousands, to try and protect all you’ve built and fear for what will happen to it when you’re gone.”
Alfgeir gave him a sidelong look down the length of his nose. His eyes were unfocussed, but there was a clarity to his look that Sigmar knew all too well.
“The Empire will endure,” he said, taking his time not to slur. “The youngsters behind us may be foolish just now, but they’re good men and they’ll grow wiser. You’ve built a grand thing in the Empire, Sigmar, grand enough that it’ll endure without sons of your blood to keep it strong.”
Sigmar nodded and looked into the thinning froth on his beer. Alfgeir had hit a raw nerve, and he took a moment to consider his answer.
“Ravenna and I talked of a family,” he said.
“She would have borne you strong sons,” said Alfgeir. “She was a bonny lass, but she had strength too. Every day I wish Gerreon a thousand painful deaths for what he took from you.”
“What he took from us all,” said Sigmar. “But I don’t want to talk about Ravenna. The world will have to make do without my sons.”
“And mine,” said Alfgeir. “Never wanted to make a woman wait for me every time I rode to war. Didn’t seem fair, but I wish I’d sired a son. Someone to carry on my name after I die. I wanted there to be someone who’d remember me after I was gone.”
“The saga poets will remember you, my friend,” said Sigmar. “Your deeds will be immortalised in epic verse.”
“Aye, maybe so, but who’ll read them?”
“They’ll be sung from the longhouses of the Udose to the castles of the Merogens. I’m the Emperor, I can make it law if you like.”
Alfgeir laughed and the maudlin mood was banished. That was the Unberogen way, to laugh in the face of despair with a drink in one hand and a sword in the other. Alfgeir threw his empty mug over his shoulder into the gently glowing firepit and nodded.
“Aye, I’d like that,” he said. “Make it happen.”
“First thing tomorrow,” promised Sigmar, draining the last of his beer and lobbing his mug over Alfgeir’s shoulder. It broke apart on the coals, the last dregs of the beer hissing as the alcohol burned with sudden brightness.
“So how was Carsten?” asked Alfgeir, apropos of nothing. “Looked like you cracked the granite of his face at the end.”
Sigmar took a moment to consider the question. He and Carsten had established a connection tonight, one he hadn’t expected to make, but Sigmar still felt like he hardly knew the man.
“We’re never going to be friends, but I think I understand him a bit better.”
“What’s to understand? He’s a dour-faced misery, though he’s a devil of a fighter.”
“I knew that already, but I know why he’s the way he is. He’s known great pain and suffering and I think it got the better of him.”
“We’ve all known suffering and loss,” said Alfgeir, raising his mug. “To the dead.”
“To the dead,” said Sigmar.
Beneath the light of Mannslieb a hundred warriors of the Menogoths marched from the hill fort of Hyrstdunn. They followed an oft-used road that led through the fields and villages clustered around the sprawling settlement like children afraid to venture too far from a parent’s protection. Many warriors carried tall spears tied with green and yellow cords, flanked by groups of hard-eyed men in lacquered leather breastplates with unsheathed broadswords. Torchbearers accompanied the marching warriors; each robed in black and with their hoods pulled up over their heads. At the head of the column rode Count Markus of the Menogoths, draped in the black cloak of mourning and with his own swords sheathed across his back.
The fortress city at their back had stood for hundreds of years, a forest of wooden logs with sharpened tips and strong towers. The land hereabouts was rugged and undulant, rising in gentle sways towards the haunches of the Grey Mountains that bordered Menogoth lands to the south. The earth here was fertile and rich in resources, yet the price for that bounty was a life lived in the shadow of the monsters that made their lairs within the mountains: greenskins, cave beasts twisted by dark magic or strange monsters with no name and ever more fearsome reputations.
King Markus had carved a life for his tribe in this wild land, but not without great cost. His people were hardy, yet their souls were forever caught in the shadow of the mountains. Often gloomy and fatalistic, the Menogoths were viewed as a miserable tribe by their more northerly cousins, but had they spent a year in their lands, not one Unberogen, Cherusen or Thuringian would fail to see why.
Count Markus rode beneath a streaming banner of yellow and green silk carried by his sword champion, Wenian. The banner had been a gift from Marius of the Jutones in the wake of the great victory at the Fauschlag Rock, and its fabric was said to have come from lands far to the east beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains. Markus had cherished the gift ever since.
His wife and daughter rode in an ornate coach pulled by four black horses that had been harnessed in bronze and plumed with black feathers. The coach was of lacquered black wood, hung with ebony roses, spread-winged ravens and, at its front, the image of a great portal. The women had their heads bowed, and heavy veils hung with black pearls obscured their faces.
This was a grim night for the Menogoths, for the only son of Count Markus was dead.
Borne on a palanquin of spears, Vartan Gothii went to his rest among the tombs of his ancestors. An honour guard of the Bloodspears carried the body of Markus’ son, granted this honour for their courage in standing firm at Black Fire while their brother warriors had run.
Markus led the procession through his lands towards the flat-topped hill where the Menogoth heroes of old were buried. Called the Morrdunn, its height should have made it the natural place to build one of the forts that gave the Menogoths their name of hill people, but the first tribesmen to settle here had instinctively known that this was not a place for the living. A number of torches flickered at its summit as the grim procession wound its way up the hard-packed earth of its burial paths.
They passed the tomb of Devyn of the Axe, the heroic warrior who had saved the first king of the tribe from an ogre’s cook pot. Further up, Markus nodded respectfully to the mausoleum carved into the hill where Bannan, the greatest Swordmaster of the Menogoths, lay at his final rest. Odel the Mad lay within a simple sepulchre of polished grey granite built into the upper slopes of the hill, and Markus touched the talisman of Ranald at his chest to ward off the malign influence of the berserk huscarl.
He rode onto the crest of the hill, its summit enclosed by a ring of rune-carved stones like spikes on an ancient ruler’s crown. The priests of Morr were waiting, a dozen men in black robes tied with silver cords and each carrying a thin book bound in soft kidskin. The black coach rambled onto the hilltop, and the Bloodspears moved to the centre of the hill, where the only priest of Morr with his hood drawn back stood ready to fulfil his duty to the dead.
“Who comes with a lost soul to be ushered into the realm of Morr?” intoned the priest.
Markus and his champion dismounted, walking alongside the Bloodspears towards the centre of the hilltop tomb. Wenian planted the banner before the priest as Markus answered.
&nb
sp; “I do, Markus Gothii, King of the Menogoths.”
Markus used his old title, for this was an ancient rite of his tribe, one in which his new title of count had no part.
“Morr would know this soul’s name, King Markus of the Menogoths.”
“I bring my son, Vartan Gothii, slain by greenskin warriors while defending his people.”
“Slain in service of a higher calling,” said the priest. “Then he will find rest in the realms beyond this world of flesh.”
Markus clenched his jaw. He was the master of the Menogoths, a warrior of superlative skill. He rubbed a hand across his shaven scalp, tensing his lean, wolfish physique as the grief threatened to unman him before the priests who would see his son to the realms of the dead.
The priest saw his battle and opened the book he carried as the Bloodspears gently lowered Vartan Gothii to the ground. The acolytes of the head priest came forward and knelt in a circle around the body. Markus looked at the unmoving features of his son, so pale and serene that they might have been carved from marble.
“Keep it simple, priest,” ordered Markus. “Vartan hated ceremony.”
“As you wish, King Markus,” said the priest, flipping to a shorter passage.
Markus’ wife and daughter came alongside him and he took their hands as the priest began his recitation of the benediction to the dead. The priest’s voice was clear and strong as he read, and Markus took comfort in the words he heard.
“Great Morr, master of the dead and dreams, you have made death itself the gateway to eternal life. Look with love on our fallen brother, and make him one with your realm that he may come before you free from pain. Lord Morr, the death of Vartan Gothii recalls our human condition and the brevity of our lives in this world. For those who believe, death is not the end, nor does it destroy the bonds forged in our lives. We share the faith of all men and the hope of the life beyond this frail realm of all flesh. Bring the light of your wisdom to this time of testing and pain as we pray for Vartan Gothii and for those who loved him.”