Gerreon stood beside Alfgeir, for there was no better swordsman amongst the Unberogen and no better man to teach the next generation of warriors. Sigmar spared a glance to Trinovantes’ tomb on the overlooking Warriors’ Hill. Then he returned his attention to the training before him, relishing the clash of iron weapons as they struck sparks from one another.
He watched as Alfgeir shouted at the furthest pair of his pupils, and gave one a clout around the ear. Sigmar winced in sympathy. King’s son or not, he had received a few such blows in his time learning upon the Field of Swords.
Sigmar watched with the practiced eye of a warrior born, noting the boys who were quickest, the most dextrous and the most determined, and which of them had the look of heroes, a quality that Wolfgart had been the first to give a name to.
“You can see it in their eyes,” Wolfgart had said, “a perfect blend of honour and courage. It’s the same look I see in your eyes.”
Sigmar had searched his sword-brother’s face for any sign of mockery, but Wolfgart had been deadly serious, and he had accepted the compliment for what it was. In truth, once given a name and an idea, he had seen the same look in the faces of every one of his friends, and he knew that he was truly blessed to be surrounded with such fine companions.
Gerreon spotted him, and jogged over to join him at the edge of the field.
“They are coming along well,” said Sigmar.
“Aye,” agreed Gerreon. “They are good lads, Sigmar. Give it a few years and they will be as fine a body of warriors as you could wish for.”
Sigmar nodded, and returned his attention to the sparring warriors as one of the boys gave a cry of pain and dropped his sword. Blood washed down his arm from a deep cut to his bicep, and he sank to his knees.
Immediately, Gerreon and Sigmar set off across the field towards the boy as Alfgeir shouted, “Get the surgeon,” his words clipped and curt.
Sigmar knelt beside the wounded boy and examined the cut on his arm. The wound was deep, and had sliced cleanly through the muscle. Blood pulsed strongly from the cut, and the boy’s face was ashen.
Sigmar said, “Look at me.”
The boy turned his head from his bloody arm. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, but Sigmar saw his determination not to shed them before the king’s son.
“What is your name?”
“Brant,” gasped the boy, his breathing becoming shallower.
“Don’t look at it,” ordered Sigmar, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look at me. You are Unberogen. You are descended from heroes, and heroes do not fear a little blood.”
“It hurts,” said Brant.
“I know,” said Sigmar, “but you are a warrior and pain is a warrior’s constant companion. This is your first wound, so remember this pain and any other wounds will be nothing compared to it. You understand me?”
The boy nodded, his teeth gritted against the pain, but Sigmar could already see that the boy was drawing on his reserves to conquer it.
“There is iron in you, Brant. I can see it plain as day,” said Sigmar. “You will be a mighty warrior and a great hero.”
“Thank you… my lord,” said Brant as Cradoc the healer ran across the field with his medicine bag held before him.
“You will earn a scar from this,” said Sigmar. “Wear it well.”
Sigmar wiped his hand on his tunic and picked up Brant’s sword as Cradoc squatted beside the boy. He tested the edge, not surprised to find it was razor sharp. He turned to Alfgeir and Gerreon.
“You make them train with swords that are not blunted?”
“Of course,” said Alfgeir, his tone challenging. “You make a mistake and get wounded, you will not make that mistake again.”
“I never trained with sharpened weapons,” said Sigmar.
“It was my idea,” said Gerreon. “I thought it would teach them the value of pain.”
“And I agreed,” said Alfgeir. “As does the king.”
Sigmar handed Brant’s sword to Alfgeir. “You do not have to justify yourselves. I am not about to berate you for this. As a matter of fact, I agree with you. The training must be as hard and real as it can be. That way, when they face battle, they will know what to expect.”
Alfgeir nodded and turned back to the other boys, who watched as their wounded companion was led from the Field of Swords.
“No one said you could stop!” he roared. “Training does not finish until I say so!”
Sigmar turned from the king’s champion to face Gerreon.
His friend’s face was as pale as Brant’s had been. “Gerreon? Is something wrong?”
Gerreon was staring at him, and Sigmar looked down at his tunic to see a bloody handprint in the centre of his chest. Sigmar reached out to his friend, but Gerreon flinched.
“What is it? It’s just a little blood.”
“The red hand…” whispered Gerreon, “And a wounded sword.”
“You are not making sense, my friend,” said Sigmar. “What is wrong?”
Gerreon shook his head as if waking from a long slumber, and Sigmar saw a coldness enter the swordsman’s eyes.
Before Sigmar could ask more, the urgent sound of warning bells sounded throughout the town, and he reached for Ghal-maraz.
“Gather the warriors!” he said, turning on his heel and sprinting for the walls.
——
Heralds of War
Sigmar raced through the streets of Reikdorf, his hammer gripped tightly and his heart beating against his ribs. It had been years since the wall guards had felt the need to ring the alarm bells, and he wondered what manner of threat would have driven them to take such a measure.
He skidded around the corner of the central grain store, his mad dash joined by Unberogen warriors pulling on mail shirts or hastily buckling sword belts around their waists. The flow of warriors increased as the sound of the bells continued.
Sigmar ran to the ladders that led onto the ramparts. He slung Ghal-maraz to his belt and swiftly climbed the ladder. Curiously, he saw no urgency or fear in the men gathered on the ramparts. No bows were drawn and no spears were poised, ready to be hurled at an attacking enemy. Sigmar reached the rampart and made his way to the spiked logs of the battlements.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Scouts just brought word of them,” answered a nearby warrior, pointing over the wall. “Hundreds of them are coming south along the Middle Road.”
Looking out over the walls, Sigmar saw a long column of people trudging towards Reikdorf. Hundreds of men and women in filthy, travel stained clothes wound their way from the forests to the north of Reikdorf. Many dragged wagons and litters, laden with canvas covered bundles, children and the elderly.
“Who are they?”
“Look like Cherusens to me.”
Sigmar transferred his gaze to the column of people as they marched warily up to the gate and the great, wolf-flanked statue of Ulric. He peered closer as he recognised a dark-haired woman walking beside the column. Supporting a woman with white hair, who carried a screaming child, Ravenna walked alongside these people, her long green dress stained with mud.
“Open the gates,” he said. “Now!”
The warrior nodded and shouted orders to the guards stationed at the base of the wall. Sigmar returned to the ground as a handful of armoured warriors began pulling the mighty portals open.
As soon as it was wide enough, Sigmar moved through the gate and made his way along the length of the column, feeling the weight of their pleading looks.
Reaching Ravenna, he said, “What is this? Where have these people come from?”
“Sigmar!” cried Ravenna. “Thank the gods! We were finishing work in the high pastures when we saw them coming south.”
“Who are they? They look like Cherusens.”
Ravenna placed her hand on his arm, and Sigmar could see that she was exhausted. “They are survivors,” she said simply.
“Survivors of what?”
/> Ravenna paused as though afraid to give voice to the terror that had driven these people from their homes. “The Norsii,” she said. “The northmen are on the march.”
The mood in King Bjorn’s longhouse was ugly, and Sigmar sensed a growing anger and need for retribution fill the hearts of every warrior present. He had felt the same anger when they had found the carnage the forest beasts had wreaked amongst the villages on the eastern borders of Unberogen lands. The Norsii…
It had been years since the bloodthirsty tribes of the north had come south, bringing death, destruction and horror in their wake. The lands of the far north were a mystery to most of the southern tribes, few having had cause or desire to venture from their own lands, let alone travel beyond the Middle Mountains. Tales were told of great dragons that roamed the forests and flesh-eating tribes of ferocious warriors, who gave praise to dark gods of blood.
Decades had passed since the Norsii had marched south, but the elders of Reikdorf still told tales of the foe they had once faced: brutal warriors in black armour and horned helms, with dread axes and kite shields taller than a normal man, towering horsemen on black steeds with burning red eyes that breathed fire.
Masters of the fearsome Wolfships, Norsii raiders were the terror of the coastline, killers who left nothing but smoking ruins and corpses behind them. Few had faced them and lived.
It was said that slavering hounds and twisted monsters fought in the armies of the northmen, and the elders whispered of foul necromancers, who could summon terrifying daemons from beyond the known realms and hurl spears of flame that could burn a host of armoured warriors to death.
Sigmar had no doubt that many of these tales were exaggerated, but the threat of the northmen was taken seriously by every man in the lands west of the mountains.
Nearly four hundred people had been brought within the walls of Reikdorf, with a further two hundred camped outside in makeshift tents and canvas shelters. Fortunately, the worst of the winter had passed and the nights were mild, so few were expected to perish without a roof over their heads.
Alfgeir had raged at the guards for opening the gates, and had threatened to flog the skin from their backs until Sigmar had explained that he had ordered them opened.
“And how will we feed these people?” raged the Marshal of the Reik.
“The grain stores are full,” said Sigmar. “There is enough to go round if we are careful.”
“You assume too much, young Sigmar,” said Alfgeir, striding away.
Within the hour, the warriors of the Unberogen had gathered in the longhouse to hear the words of two men who had come with the refugees, emissaries from King Krugar of the Taleutens and King Aloysis of the Chemsens.
King Krugar’s man was a lean, hawk-faced warrior named Notker, who bore a curved cavalry sabre and wore his hair shaven save for a long scalp lock that hung down his back to his waist. His clothes and slightly bow-legged walk marked him as a horseman, and his every movement was quick and precise.
The emissary from King Aloysis was named Ebrulf and was a giant of a man with powerfully muscled shoulders and an axe of such weight it seemed impossible it could ever be swung. Sigmar had instantly liked the man, for his bearing was noble and proud, but without arrogance.
Sigmar stood beside his father, who sat on his oak throne, his face grim and regal as he heard the words of his brother kings’ emissaries. The news was not good.
“How many of the Norsii are on the march?” asked Bjorn. Notker answered first. “Nearly six thousand swords, my lord.”
“Six thousand!” said Alfgeir. “Impossible. The northmen could not possibly muster that many men.”
“With respect to your champion,” said Ebrulf. “It is not impossible. The lost tribes from across the seas march with them. Hundreds of Wolfships are drawn up on the shores of the northern coast and more arrive daily.”
“The lost tribes?” gasped Eoforth. “They return?”
“They do indeed,” said Notker. “Tall men on black steeds, with long lances and armour of brazen iron, who serve the forsaken gods, with shamans who call on the powers of those gods to slay their enemies with sorcerous fire.”
A gasp of horror rippled around the longhouse at the mention of the lost tribes, terrifying, bloodthirsty men who had been fought in the earliest days of the land’s settlement. The hearthside stories told of brave heroes of old, who had driven these savages across the seas and into the haunted wastelands of the north hundreds of years ago.
“It was said that the lost tribes had died in the desolate wastes,” said Eoforth. “The land there was cursed by the gods in ages past and none can live there.”
Ebrulf patted the haft of his axe, and said, “Trust me, old one, they live. Neckbiter here has taken more than a few of their heads in battle.”
“I am assuming that you come to my longhouse as more than simply bearers of this news,” said Bjorn. “Ask me what it is you have come to ask.”
Notker and Ebrulf shared a glance, and the Chemsen gave a curt nod to the shaven-headed Taleuten, who stepped forward and bowed low before the king of the Unberogen.
“Our kings have despatched us to offer you the chance to join a mighty host being mustered to face the north-men and drive them back to the sea,” said Notker.
Ebrulf continued. “King Aloysis draws fighting men to his banner in the shadow of the Middle Mountains, and King Krugar marshals his riders at the Farlic Hills. Our army numbers nearly four thousand swords, but if you were to add the strength of your warriors, we would meet the northmen on equal terms.”
“An offer to join your host?” snapped Alfgeir. “What you mean to say is that you face defeat and will be dead by winter unless we aid you.”
Ebrulf glowered at Alfgeir. “You have a viper’s tongue, king’s man. Show me such disrespect again and my axe will bite at your neck!”
Alfgeir took a step forward, his face flushed and his hand reaching for his sword.
Bjorn waved Alfgeir back with an irritated wave of the hand. “Though Alfgeir speaks out of turn, he is right to say that this is a great thing your kings ask of me. To send so many warriors north would leave my lands virtually undefended.”
Notker said, “King Krugar understands what it is he asks, but offers you his Sword Oath if you ride north.”
“King Aloysis makes the same pledge, my lord,” said Ebrulf.
Sigmar was amazed at such oaths, but his father seemed to have expected it, and nodded.
“Truly the threat from the north must be great,” said King Bjorn.
“It is, my lord,” promised Notker.
The emissaries were thanked for their news and dismissed, taken by the king’s servants to lodgings befitting the messengers of kings for food and water. The Unberogen warriors were likewise dismissed, their mood dark and filled with thoughts of war.
King Bjorn gathered Alfgeir and Eoforth to him, and Sigmar sat next to his father as they debated how the threat from the north should be met. The Marshal of the Reik was in a belligerent mood, his normal brevity ranked by the arrival of the refugees and the emissaries.
“They are desperate,” said Alfgeir. “They must be to have sent those two to beg for our help. To offer a Sword Oath… that is not a thing given lightly.”
“No,” agreed Eoforth, “but the northmen are not a threat to be taken lightly either.”
“Pah, they are just men,” said Alfgeir. “They bleed and die like any other.”
“I have fought the Norsii once before,” said Bjorn. “Yes, they bleed and die, but they are strong, ferocious warriors, and if the lost tribes indeed march with them…”
“I always thought the lost tribes were a dark tale to frighten children,” said Sigmar.
“And so they are,” said Alfgeir. “They are just trying to scare us into helping them.”
“I do not believe so,” said Eoforth. “Nor do I believe that either of those men were lying.”
“They were not,” said Bjorn. “Sigmar? You agr
ee?”
“Yes, father. I sensed no deceit in them. I believe they are speaking the truth and that we must march out to the aid of your brother kings. To have the Sword Oaths of two such powerful kings would greatly benefit us. Much of our northern border would be secure, and to have Taleuten cavalry and Chemsen wildmen as allies is no small thing.”
“Spoken like a true king!” laughed Bjorn. “We will, indeed march out. If the Chemsen and Taleuten are defeated then the Norsii will surely fall on us next.”
“I wonder,” said Eoforth, “why Aloysis and Krugar have not turned to the Teutogens for help?”
“They probably have,” said Bjorn, “but Artur will think himself safe atop the Fauschlag, and no doubt plans to invade his neighbours’ lands when the Cherusens and Taleutens are defeated and the Norsii are weakened.”
“Then it is even more imperative that we march now,” said Sigmar.
“What of our own lands?” asked Alfgeir. “We will strip them bare of protection if we send that many warriors north. The beasts grow bolder each day, and the greenskins are always on the march with the spring.”
“We will muster as many warriors as we can, but we shall not be leaving our lands undefended,” said Bjorn. “I shall be leaving our greatest warrior to keep our homes safe.”
“Who?” asked Alfgeir, and Sigmar felt a leaden lump form in the pit of his stomach as he feared the answer his father would give.
“Sigmar will defend our lands while our army marches north.”
The moon was reflected in the Reik, and the sound of drunken revelry from the alehouses carried across the water to the dimly illuminated dwellings on the southern bank. Gerreon stood on the edge of the river, his thoughts in turmoil as he relived the incident on the Field of Swords.
Accidents were not uncommon under Alfgeir’s harsh tutelage, but the blood spilled this evening had reminded him of a day he had almost forgotten. He closed his eyes as he pictured the smeared red handprint on Sigmar’s tunic, and the sudden clarity of memory as he heard the hag woman’s words echo in his head as though he had heard them only yesterday.