The horde began its march into the mountains, its movement fitful, and without the cohesion of an army of men. Packs of wolves roamed ahead of the seething host, and hideous monsters lurched alongside the tens of thousands of orcs.
Despite the snow that still lay in thick drifts, the greenskins were marching for the pass.
Both Cuthwin and Svein knew that unless Sigmar was warned the orcs were on the move, the greenskins would be through Black Fire Pass before the armies of men could stop them.
Haste had made Cuthwin and Svein incautious, and as they rested on the tenth day of their travels west, the goblins had finally caught them.
Svein would now pay with his life for their carelessness.
The news they carried was of vital import to Sigmar’s force, yet Cuthwin found that he could not leave his friend to die alone on the mountains.
“You have to go,” said Svein, as though guessing his thoughts.
“No, I can’t leave you here,” protested Cuthwin. “I can’t.”
“Aye, lad,” said Svein. “That’s exactly what you have to do. This wound is the death of me, and you know it.”
Cuthwin heard a soft scrape, as of rough cloth on rock, and knew that their pursuers had found them. Svein had heard it too, and he leaned forward to grip Cuthwin’s tunic, his face creased in pain and determination.
“They’re coming now and if you don’t get to Sigmar, then I died for nothing, you understand me?”
Cuthwin nodded, his throat constricted and his eyes tearful.
“Give me that bow,” said Svein. “You won’t need it… and you’ll be quicker on your feet without it.”
Cuthwin quickly strung the bow he carried, and handed it to Svein, propping a quiver of arrows against the rocks as his friend drew his sword and laid it on the ground next to him.
“Now, be off with you, eh?” said Svein. “And may Taal guide your steps.”
Cuthwin nodded, and said, “Ulric’s hall will be open to you, my friend.”
Svein nodded. “It’ll bloody well better be. I don’t plan on dying a hero’s death for nothing. Now go!”
Cuthwin turned and slipped through the rocks, leaving a trail that would take more cunning than any goblin possessed to follow.
He had travelled less than a hundred yards when he heard the first squeals of dying goblins, followed swiftly by the clash of blades, and then nothing.
The Merogens called them the Worlds Edge Mountains, and Sigmar knew that the name was well deserved. Grim sentinels at the very edge of the known world, there was little beyond them that was understood, and much that was feared. Towering peaks of grey rock soared above the landscape, reaching to the heavens and piercing the sky with their immensity.
Snow lay in thick shawls over the slopes, and stands of pines scented the air with a freshness that Sigmar found welcoming after the stench of thousands of warriors on campaign.
Spring’s boon was upon the wind, and with it the promise of a year of blood and courage.
The sun was low on the eastern horizon, shimmering through the haze of early morning and framed by the towering escarpments that marked the sheer sides of Black Fire Pass. The day Sigmar had been preparing for all his life had finally arrived, and he could feel the potential of it pressing against the inside of his skull.
Today would see the race of man doomed or triumphant.
Eoforth had woken him from a dream in which he had supped from a cup of blood with Ulric himself, and eaten meat ripped from the bones of a freshly hunted stag. A pack of wolves with bloody snouts circled him, and their howls were music to his ears.
He had told Eoforth of the dream, and the old man had smiled. “A good omen, I think.”
Sigmar’s silver breastplate sat upon an armour tree, gleaming and embossed with a golden comet with twin tails of fire. His winged helm shone as though new, and his greaves of bronze were worked with silver wolves.
Eoforth had helped him don his armour, and as Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz, he felt a thrill of excitement pass through him. The ancestral weapon of King Kurgan also appreciated the significance of this day. Eoforth then handed Sigmar a golden shield, rimmed with iron, with a carved boss at its centre, depicting a snarling boar’s head.
Sigmar emerged from his tent, and a great cheer erupted from hundreds of throats as the warriors camped nearest saw him. The rest of the army soon took up the cheer as word spread, and soon the mountains shook with the deafening roar of thousands of warriors.
The land of the wide plains before the gates of the mountains were filled with warriors, horses and wagons, for Sigmar and Wolfgart had travelled throughout the lands of men to ensure that the other tribes were keeping to the pledge they had made in King Siggurd’s hall.
Their travels took them to the far corners of the land, and both men were pleased to see that there were no dissenters. Even those kings who had not attended were approached afresh with promises of honour and glory, but to little avail.
Each emissary to King Marius of the Jutones had been rebuffed, and King Marbad of the Endals brought word that the Bretonii had also refused to send any aid, leaving their homes and marching south across the Grey Mountains to distant lands. As unwelcome as the news was, Sigmar knew that the departure of the Bretonii was a blessing for the Endals, who now had fresh land into which their people could expand.
As the first month of spring had drawn closer, an ambassador from the west had presented himself before the gates of Reikdorf with word from the king of the Jutones.
Sigmar’s heart had been full of hope for the meeting, but it had been cruelly dashed when the ambassador, a thin, stoop-shouldered man named Esterhuysen, had presented him with a bow of wondrous quality, the wood golden and shaped with such craft as only the fey folk across the ocean were said to possess.
“King Marius offers you this token of his best hope,” said Esterhuysen, bowing low. “Regrettably, he can spare you no warriors for your war in the south, but he hopes that this magnificent weapon will bring you luck in all your endeavours.”
Sigmar had taken the bow, a truly wondrous artefact of incalculable worth, and broken it over his knee.
He hurled the broken pieces at the shocked Esterhuysen’s feet. “Leave my city,” said Sigmar. “I need no luck to defeat the greenskins, I need warriors. Return to your miserable home, and tell your coward king that there will be a reckoning between us when this war is won.”
The ambassador had been all but hurled from the western gates, and it had taken all of Sigmar’s self-control not to order an immediate attack on Jutonsryk.
Though the refusal of the Jutones to fight was a crushing disappointment to Sigmar, every ruler who had attended the Council of Eleven—as men were calling the momentous gathering in King Siggurd’s hall the previous year—had been true to their word, and had marched to Reikdorf with their glittering hosts of warriors.
Like spring itself, it had been a sight to lift the hearts of all who saw it, and was a potent symbol of all that had been achieved over the last year. Throughout the winter, the forges of the Unberogen and every other tribe of men had worked night and day to craft swords, spears and arrowheads, and lances for the Unberogen cavalry.
Vast swathes of forest had been felled to provide fuel for the furnaces, and every craftsman, from bowyers and fletchers, to clothmakers and saddlers, had worked wonders in producing the less martial, but no less essential, supplies needed for an army about to march.
Winter was normally a time of quiet for the tribes of men, when families shuttered their homes and huddled around fires as they waited for Ulric to return to his frozen realm in the heavens, and his brother Taal to bring balance to the world in the spring.
With the prospect of war looming, however, every household had spent the cold months preparing for the coming year, ensuring each of its sons was equipped with a mail shirt and sword or spear. Entire herds were slaughtered, and the meat cured with salt to provide food for the thousands of warriors who would march into
the fires of battle.
Within a week, the armies of the kings had mustered, and a host unlike any seen before had prepared to march to war. The Blood Night feasts were raucous and full of good humour, but also sadness, for many of those leaving in the morning would not return, leaving wives without husbands and children without fathers.
Sigmar and his brother kings had made sacrifices to Ulric, and offerings to the Lord of the Dead and the goddess of healing and mercy, Shallya. All the gods were honoured, for none dared anger even the least of them for fear of dreadful consequences in the battle ahead.
As the kings gathered on the morning of departure, Sigmar presented each one with a golden shield identical to his own, the design and workmanship exquisite. Pendrag had laboured long over the winter to create the shields, forging one for each of the allied kings of men. The outer circle of each was decorated with the symbols of the twelve tribes, and as Master Alaric had promised, Pendrag’s skill with metal was greater than ever before.
“As you pledged me your swords last year,” Sigmar had said, “I now give you each a shield to defend your body and your lands. We are the defenders of the land and this gift symbolises our union.”
Amid great cheering, the kings had renewed their oaths of loyalty, and the march south had begun to the sound of war horns, drums and boisterous pipe music.
For the first few weeks, the journey was made in high spirits, but as the shadow of the mountains grew darker, the easy banter soon petered out. The enormity of what was to come was lost on no one, and every man knew that each mile brought him closer to death.
The pace had not been forced, for the mountains were still cloaked in snow and the passes blocked, but that had changed when Cuthwin had staggered into the camp bringing word that the orcs were already on the march and that the snows were thinning in the pass. Sigmar was grieved to hear of Svein’s death, but had put aside his sorrow to galvanise his warriors to greater urgency.
That urgency had been understood, and the men had marched with a mile-eating stride that saw them climbing into the mountains beneath a cold spring sun. Wrapped tightly in fur cloaks, the men of the tribes made no complaint or oath as they climbed higher and higher to where the air was thin and wind whistled down from the rocks with teeth like knives.
Sigmar looked up into the mountains, the craggy peaks dwarfing him and uncaring of the great drama about to be played out in their shadows.
This was Black Fire Pass.
This was where everything would be decided.
Sigmar, Alfgeir and Wolfgart rode out ahead of the army of men as the sun rose higher, bathing the mountains in gold, and shining on over a hundred thousand glittering weapons. The ground was hard-packed and sandy, trampled flat by uncounted marching feet over the centuries.
Since the earliest days, Black Fire Pass had been the main route of invasion over the mountains, and it was easy to see why. Even this, the narrowest point of the pass, was nearly two miles wide, hemmed in by sheer cliffs on either side.
Black Fire Pass was a natural corridor from the blasted landscapes of the east to the fertile lands of the west, and Sigmar paused to look back on the assembled host of men.
The breath caught in his throat as he took in the awesome scale of the army of men: his army.
Warriors filled the pass from side to side without interruption, great blocks of swordsmen, standing shoulder to shoulder with spearmen and chanting berserkers.
Thousands of snorting horses stamped the ground, and Wolfgart’s skill as a horse breeder was evidenced by almost all of the riders’ steeds wearing iron barding. Most of the mounted warriors also carried tall lances, long lengths of wood with sharpened iron points. Heavier than a spear, these lances were deadly weapons, only made possible by the addition of stirrups to the Unberogen saddles. Clad in heavy plate armour, the riders were iron giants that would ride over the orcs in a roaring thunder of hooves.
Only Alfgeir’s White Wolves had refused to take up the lance, for they were men of fiery courage, who desired to ride through the heart of the battle with their hammers crushing the skulls of the foe in honour of their lord and master.
Hundreds of Asoborn chariots were drawn up on the left flank, Queen Freya at their head, resplendent in a breastplate of gold with her wild, red hair unbound and pulled into great spikes of crimson. Maedbh rode beside her, and both women raised their spears as Sigmar and Wolfgart passed.
Taleuten horsemen ranged ahead, riding energetically along the line of the army, their crimson and gold banners trailing magnificently behind them.
The Raven Helms of King Marbad surrounded their king and his son, ready to take the fight to the orcs as soon as the word was given. Kilted Udose clansmen drank distilled grain liquor from wineskins, and waved their swords like madmen as a group of warriors armoured from head to foot in gleaming plate looked on with grim amusement. Myrsa, the Warrior Eternal, led these warriors, some of the strongest men in the west, men who fought with enormous greatswords said to have been forged by the dwarfs.
In the centre of the army were Sigmar’s Unberogen warriors, fierce men who had fought for their king since Bjorn’s death. No finer warriors existed in the land, and even the frothing, berserk warriors of King Otwin accorded them a nod of respect as they took their position in the battle line.
Merogens and Menogoths stood side by side, eager to take their vengeance upon the enemy that had ravaged their lands the previous year, their swords and axes blessed by the priests of Ulric to seek orcs throats. Brigundian warriors in gaudy cloaks and intricate armour stood alongside their southern brothers, and King Siggurd shone like the sun in a suit of magnificent golden armour said to have been enchanted in ages past.
A forest of coloured banners fluttered and snapped in the wind, and as Sigmar saw the multitude of different tribal symbols, he smiled and whispered a short prayer to the spirit of his father. Almost overwhelmed by the spectacle of so much martial power, Sigmar turned away and rode on towards the warriors waiting by the ruins of a crumbling watchtower.
The warriors of Kurgan Ironbeard, High King of the dwarfs, were grim and unmoving, without the animation and cheering that echoed from the men behind Sigmar. Fully encased in hauberks of shimmering silver metal and plates of gleaming iron, the dwarfs appeared as immovable as the mountains through which they passed.
Thick beards and long braids were all that indicated that they were living creatures of flesh and blood at all, such was the weight of metal protecting them. The warriors carried mighty axes or heavy hammers, and Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz in salute of their bravery as he rode towards the watchtower.
The ruined state of the watchtower spoke of the battles that had been fought there, but Sigmar knew that what was to occur here today would eclipse them all. The forces gathered here were beyond comprehension, and the thought that such a host of men was his to command left Sigmar breathless.
Sigmar dismounted, and tethered the roan gelding to a withered tree. He ducked beneath the low lintel of the doorway and made his way to the stairs, the rise of each step smaller than he was used to. Wolfgart and Alfgeir followed him inside the dwarf-built tower, which, despite the ravages of time and battle, was relatively intact within.
He emerged onto the roof of the tower to find King Kurgan Ironbeard awaiting him, flanked by two stout dwarf warriors with mighty axes, and the silver armoured form of Master Alaric. The dwarf king sat on a wide firkin and slurped from a tankard of ale.
“You came then?” asked Kurgan.
“I said I would,” replied Sigmar, “and my father taught me to be a man of my word.”
“Aye, he was a good man, your father,” said Kurgan, taking a great mouthful of ale and wiping his beard with the back of his hand. “Knew the value of an oath.”
The dwarf king nodded his head to the east. “So what do you think?”
Sigmar followed the king’s gaze, seeing a desolate plain that began to slope downwards, becoming progressively rockier the further eastward it
fell. He looked to his left and right, and said, “It’s good ground, and this is the narrowest part of the pass is it not?”
“Aye,” said Kurgan. “That it is, young Sigmar.”
“The greenskins will not be able to use their numbers against us, and the cliffs will prevent them from flanking us.”
“And?”
Sigmar struggled to think what he might have missed.
“And the slope will slow them,” put in Wolfgart. “They’ll be tired when they get to the top. Gives our archers more time to shoot the greenskin bastards.”
“And there’s that rock further back, Sigmar,” said Alaric. “The Eagle’s Nest, we call it. It would be a good place from which to direct the battle, elevated, yet safe from attack.”
Sigmar let the suggestion hang in the air for a moment before answering.
“You are suggesting I do not fight in the battle?”
“Not at all,” said Alaric. “Merely that you direct the battle from safety before deciding where best to strike when the time comes.”
“Would you do this?” asked Sigmar of King Kurgan.
“No,” admitted Kurgan, “but then I’m a stubborn old fool, lad. My fighters tend to get a bit lost without me there to show them how to kill grobi.”
“I shall not skulk behind my men,” said Sigmar. “This battle will not be won by stratagems and ploys, but with strength of arms and courage. I am king of the Unberogen and master of the armies of men. Where else would I be but in the forefront of battle?”
“Good lad,” said Kurgan, getting up from the firkin and leading Sigmar over to the foreshortened battlements of the tower. “Listen. Can you hear that?”
Sigmar looked out over the rocky pass, the landscape more rugged and inhospitable the further east the pass went. Some half a mile away, it curved to the south around a spur of fallen stone that had once been a mighty statue of a dwarf god, and Sigmar could hear a faint rhythmic tattoo thrown back from the rocky walls of the mountains.