A WARHAMMER “TIME OF LEGENDS” NOVEL
HELDENHAMMER
Sigmar - 01
Graham McNeill
(An Undead Scan v1.1)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World lie the lands of men, ruled over by bickering tribal chieftains. It is a land divided. In the north. King Artur of the Teutogens surveys his rivals atop the mighty Fauschlag Rock, whilst the berserker kings of the Thuringians know only war and bloodshed. It is to the south that men must look for succour. At Reikdorf dwell the Unberogens, led by the mighty King Bjorn and his fated son, Sigmar. The Unbergens seek a vision, a vision of unity. The enemies of man are many and if men cannot overcome their differences and rally together, their demise is assured.
To the frozen north, Norsii raiders, barbarians and worshippers of Dark Gods, burn, slay and pillage. Grim spectres haunt the marshlands and beasts gather in the forests. But it is in the east where dark forces are moving, and the greatest threat lies. Greenskins have ever plagued the land and now they march upon the race of man in their numberless hordes with a single purpose—to eradicate their foes forever.
The human kings are not alone in their plight. The dwarfs of the mountains, great forge smiths and engineers, are allies in this fight. All must stand together, dwarf and man for their mutual survival depends on it.
BOOK ONE
Forging the Man
When the sun rests.
And the world is dark.
And the great fires are lit.
And the ale is poured into flagons.
Then is the time to sing sagas as dwarfs do.
And the greatest of sagas is the saga of Sigmar, mightiest warrior.
Harken now, hear these words.
And live in hope.
——
Battle’s Eve
The faint sound of songs and proud boasts guided the two boys as they scampered across the hard earth of the darkened settlement towards the longhouse at its centre. Their movements were furtive and cautious as they negotiated their way between high, timber walled buildings, and past the fish drying racks and the warm walls of the smithy. Neither boy wanted to be discovered, especially now that guards had been set on the walls and night had fallen.
Despite the threat of a beating at this trespass, the excitement of their intrepid raid into the heart of Reikdorf threatened to give both of them away.
“Be quiet!” hissed Cuthwin as Wenyld clattered against a previously unseen pile of planed timber, stacked against the woodworking store.
“Quiet yourself,” returned his friend, catching the timber before it could fall as both boys pressed their bodies flat against the wall. “There’s no stars or moon. I can’t see a thing.”
That at least was true, allowed Cuthwin. The night was utterly dark, the hooded braziers on the settlement’s walls casting a crackling orange light out into the forests beyond Reikdorf. Sentries circled the settlement within the ring of light, their bows and spears trained on the thick forests and darkened shoreline of the Reik.
“Hey,” said Wenyld, “did you hear what I said?”
“I heard,” said Cuthwin. “It’s dark, yes. So use your ears. Warriors aren’t quiet the night before riding to war.”
Both boys stood as still as the statue of Ulric above Reikdorf’s gate, and let the sounds and smells of the night wash over them, each one telling a story of the village they lived in: the groan of settling iron as Beorthyn’s forge cooled and creaked from a day’s work, producing iron swords and axe blades; the sounds of wives speaking with low, worried voices as they wove new cloaks for their sons, who rode to battle at daybreak; the whinny of stabled horses; the sweet smell of burning peat, and the mouthwatering aroma of cooking meat.
Over it all, Cuthwin could hear the open wash of the river as a constant rustle of water against the mud flats, the creak of wooden fishing boats as they moved with the tide, and the low moan of wind through the hung nets. It sounded sad to him, but night in the land west of the mountains was often a time of sadness, a time when the monsters came from the forests to kill and devour.
Cuthwin’s parents had been killed last summer by the greenskins, cut down as they fought to defend their farmstead from the blood-hungry raiders. The thought made him pause, and he felt his hands curl into fists as he pictured the vengeance he would one day take on the savage race that had taken his father from him, and had seen him eventually brought to Reikdorf to live with his uncle.
As though feelings of anger concentrated his hearing, he heard a muted sound of laughter and song from behind thick timbers and heavy, fortified doors. Firelight reflected on the walls of the grain store at the settlement’s heart as though a door or shutter had been opened, and from which spilled raucous sounds of merriment.
For a brief moment, the marketplace at the centre of Reikdorf was illuminated, but no sooner had the light come than it was gone. Both boys shared a look of excitement at the thought of spying on King Bjorn’s warriors before they rode out to do battle with the greenskins. Only those who had reached the age of manhood were permitted within the walls of the king’s longhouse before battle, and the mystery of such a thing simply had to be explored.
“Did you see that?” asked Wenyld, pointing towards the centre of the village.
“Of course I did,” replied Cuthwin, pulling Wenyld’s arm down. “I’m not blind.”
Though Cuthwin had lived in Reikdorf for less than a week, he knew the secrets of the town as well as any young child did, but in such complete darkness, without any visual landmarks beyond knowing where they stood, the village was suddenly unfamiliar and strange, all its geography unknown.
He fixed the brief image the light had given him, and took Wenyld’s hand.
“I’ll follow the sounds of the warriors,” he said. “Hold on to me and I’ll get us there.”
“But it’s so dark,” said Wenyld.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Cuthwin. “I’ll find a way around in the dark. Just don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” promised Wenyld, but Cuthwin could hear the fear that crept into his friend’s voice. He felt a little of it too, for his uncle was no slouch with the birch when punishment was to be meted out. He pushed the fear aside, for he was an Unberogen, the fiercest tribe of warriors north of the Grey Mountains, and his heart was strong and true.
He took a deep breath, and set off at a jog towards where the light had reflected on the walls of the grain store, following a remembered path where there was nothing to trip him or make a noise. Cuthwin’s heart was in his mouth as he crossed the open marketplace, avoiding spots where the light had shown him pitfalls or broken pottery that might crunch underfoot. Though he had only the briefest glimpse of the route he had to take, the image was imprinted on his memory as firmly as the wolves on one of King Bjorn’s war banners.
His father’s teachings in the dark of the woods returned to him, and he moved like a ghost, silently weaving through the market square, counting his strides and pulling Wenyld after him. Cuthwin pulled up and slowed his steps as he closed his eyes and let his ears gather information on his surroundings. The sound of merrymaking was louder, and the echoes of it on the walls were forming a map in his head.
Cuthwin reached out, and he smiled as he felt his fingers brush the stone wall of the longhouse. The stones were square-cut and carved, hewn by dwarf miners from the rock of the Worlds Edge Mountains, and brought to Reikdorf as a gift to King Bjorn when spring had broken.
He remembered watching
the dwarfs with a mixture of awe and trepidation, for they had been frightening, squat figures in gleaming armour, who paid little heed to the people around them, speaking to one another in gruff voices as they built the longhouse for the king in less than a day. The dwarfs had stayed no longer than necessary, and had refused all offers of help in their labours, all but one marching into the east as soon as the work was complete.
“Are we here?” whispered Wenyld.
Cuthwin nodded before remembering that Wenyld wouldn’t be able to see him.
“Yes,” he said, his voice low, “but be quiet. It’ll be a week emptying the privies if we’re caught.”
Cuthwin paused to let his breathing even out, and then began edging along the length of the wall, feeling ahead of him for the corner. When it came, it was as smooth and as sharp as an axe blade, and he eased himself around it, glancing up as the clouds parted and a bright glitter of stars sparkled in the heavens above him.
The extra light glistened on the walls of the dwarf-cut stone as though they were filled with stars, and he took a moment to admire the incredible craftsmanship that had gone into their making.
Along the length of the wall of the longhouse, Cuthwin could see a wide doorway fashioned from thick beams of timber, and embellished with angular bands of dark iron and carvings of hammers and lightning bolts. Shutters above them were fastened tightly to their frames, not so much as a gap wide enough for a knife blade between the timber and the stone.
Through the shutters, Cuthwin could hear the muted sounds of carousing warriors, the clatter of ale pots, the sound of rousing war songs and the banging of swords upon shield bosses.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the shutter above him. “We’ll see if we can get a look in here.”
Wenyld nodded and said, “Me first.”
“Wy should you go first?” asked Cuthwin. “I got us here.”
“Because I’m the oldest,” said Wenyld, and Cuthwin couldn’t fault his logic, so, he laced his fingers together to form a stirrup like those used by the horsemen of the Taleuten.
He braced his back against the stone wall and said, “Very well, climb up and see if you can work the shutter open far enough to see something.”
Wenyld nodded eagerly and set his foot in Cuthwin’s hands, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders. With a grunt, Cuthwin boosted Wenyld up, turning his head to avoid a knee in the face.
He opened his stance a little to spread Wenyld’s weight, and craned his neck to see what his friend was doing. The shutter was wedged firmly within its frame, and Wenyld had his face pressed against the wood as he squinted along the joints.
“Well?” asked Cuthwin, closing his eyes as he strained to hold Wenyld. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” replied Wenyld. “I can’t see anything, the wood’s fitted too closely together.”
“That’s dwarf craft for you,” said a strong voice beside them, and both boys froze.
Cuthwin turned his head slowly, and opened his eyes to see a powerful warrior, outlined by starlight, and as solid as if he was carved from the same stone as the longhouse.
The sheer physical presence of the warrior took Cuthwin’s breath away, and he released his grip on Wenyld’s foot. His friend scrabbled for a handhold at the edge of the shutter, but there was none to be had, and he fell, knocking the pair of them to the ground in a pile of acute embarrassment. Cuthwin shook free of his cursing friend, knowing that he was to be punished, but determined to face the warrior without fear.
He rolled quickly to his feet, and stood before their discoverer, his defiance turning to awe as he stared into the open, handsome face. Blond hair shone like silver in the starlight, kept from the warrior’s face by a headband of twisted copper wire, and his thick arms were bound by iron torques. A long bearskin cloak flowed from his shoulders, and Cuthwin saw that beneath it the warrior was clad in shimmering mail, bound at the waist by a great belt of thick leather.
A long-bladed hunting knife was sheathed at his belt, but it was the weapon hanging beside it that captured Cuthwin’s full attention.
The warrior bore a mighty warhammer, and Cuthwin’s eyes were drawn to the wide, flat head of the weapon, its surface etched with strange carvings that shimmered in the starlight.
The warhammer was a magnificent weapon, its haft forged from some unknown metal and worked by hands older than imagining. No man had ever forged such a perfect weapon of destruction, nor had any smith ever borne such a fearsome tool of creation.
Wenyld sprang to his feet, ready to flee from their discovery, but he too was held rooted to the spot at the sight of the awesome warrior.
The warrior leaned down, and Cuthwin saw that he was still young, perhaps around fifteen summers, and had a look of wry amusement glittering in the depths of his cold eyes, one of which was a pale blue, the other a deep green.
“You did well getting across that market square in the dark, boy,” said the warrior.
“My name is Cuthwin,” he said. “I’m nearly twelve, almost a man.”
“Almost,” said the warrior, “but not yet, Cuthwin. This place is for warriors who may soon face death in battle. This night is for them and them alone. Do not be in too much of a rush to be part of such things. Enjoy your childhood while you can. Now go, be off with you.”
“You’re not going to punish us?” asked Wenyld, and Cuthwin dug an elbow into his ribs.
The warrior smiled and said, “I should, but it took great skill to get this far without being seen, and I like that.”
Despite himself, Cuthwin felt inordinately pleased to have earned the warrior’s praise and said, “My father taught me how to move without being seen.”
“Then he taught you well. What is his name?”
“He was called Gethwer,” said Cuthwin. “The greenskins killed him.”
“I am sorry for that, Cuthwin,” said the warrior. “We ride to do battle with the greenskins, and many of them will die by our hand. Now, do not tarry, or others with less mercy than I will discover you, and you’ll be in for a beating.”
Cuthwin needed no second telling and turned from the warrior, sprinting back across the market square with his arms pumping at his side. The stars were out, and he followed a direct route from the longhouse towards the storehouse at the edge of the market square. He heard running steps behind him and risked a glance over his shoulder to see Wenyld swiftly following. The older boy quickly overtook him, a look of frantic relief plastered across his face as they rounded the corner of a timber-framed storehouse.
The boys pressed their bodies against the building, lungs heaving, and wild laughter bursting from their throats as they relived the thrill of capture and the relief of escape.
Cuthwin darted his head around the storehouse, remembering the fierce strength of the warrior who had sent them on their way. There was a man who feared nothing, a man who would stand up to any threat and meet it with his warhammer held high.
“When I am a man I want to be like him,” said Cuthwin when he had got his breath back.
Wenyld doubled up, the breath heaving in his chest. “Don’t you know who that was?”
“No,” said Cuthwin, “who was it?”
Wenyld said, “That was the king’s son. That was Sigmar.”
Sigmar watched the boys run off as though the Olfhednar themselves were at their heels, smiling as he remembered attempting to sneak up to the old longhouse the night before his father had led the Unberogen warriors into battle against the Thuringians. He had not been as stealthy as the young lad he had just sent on his way, and vividly remembered the thrashing the king had administered.
He heard unsteady footfalls behind him. Without turning, he knew that Wolfgart, his closest friend and sword brother, approached.
“You were too soft on them, Sigmar,” said Wolfgart. “I remember the beating we got. Why should they not learn the hard way that you don’t try to spy on a warriors’ Blood Night?”
“We were caught because you c
ouldn’t hold me up for long enough,” Sigmar pointed out, turning to see a heavily muscled young man clad in mail and swathed in a great wolfskin cloak. A long-handled sword was sheathed over his shoulders, and unkempt braids of dark hair spilled around his face. Wolfgart was three years older than Sigmar, his features handsome and his skin flushed with heat, rich food and plentiful drink.
“Only because you broke my arm the year before with a smelting hammer.”
Sigmar’s gaze fell upon Wolfgart’s elbow, where five years previously, his rage had overcome him after the older boy had bested him in a practice bout and he had swung his weapon at the unsuspecting Wolfgart. Though long forgiven, Sigmar had never forgotten the unworthy deed, nor had he quickly forgotten the lesson of control his father had taught him in the aftermath of the bout.
“True enough,” admitted Sigmar, slapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder and turning him back towards the long-house. “You have never let me forget it.”
“Damn right!” roared Wolfgart, his cheeks red with ale flavoured with hops and bog myrtle. “I won fair and square, and you hit me from behind!”
“I know, I know,” said Sigmar, leading him back towards the door.
“What are you doing outside anyway? There’s more drinking to be done!”
“I just wanted some fresh air,” said Sigmar, “and haven’t you had enough to drink?”
“Fresh air?” slurred Wolfgart, ignoring the latter part of Sigmar’s comment. “Plenty of fresh air to be had on the morning. Tonight is a night for feasting, drinking and giving praise to Ulric. It’s bad luck not to sacrifice to the gods before battle.”
“I know that, Wolfgart. My father taught me that.”
“Then come back in,” said Wolfgart. “He’ll be wondering where you are. It’s bad luck to be apart from your sword brothers on a Blood Night.”
“Everything is bad luck to you,” said Sigmar.