A handful of the red-skinned monsters hurled spears at the riders, but they were poorly aimed, and none of the riders were troubled. Sigmar hurled his own spear, the heavy missile punching through a beast’s back and pinning it to a stunted tree. His warriors cast their own spears, and the air was filled with grunting roars of pain.
Cuthwin and Svein loosed arrows from the crater’s lip, and each goose-feathered shaft felled another beast. With no time to hurl another spear, Sigmar took up Ghal-maraz and swung it at the snarling, bestial face of a shaggy, bear-headed monster.
The warhammer cleaved the beast’s skull, and Sigmar rode deeper into the press of enemies. Snapping jaws and yellowed talons flashed towards him. His horse screamed in pain as a stabbing spear tore into its haunch. Sigmar backhanded Ghal-maraz into his attacker’s chest, crushing its ribcage and hurling it through the air.
The Unberogen smashed through the beasts’ campsite in a trampling fury of blades. Spears stabbed and swords hacked clawed limbs from powerfully muscled shoulders. The centaur creatures bellowed in defiance as they charged in, long axes and spiked clubs raised.
Sigmar saw one of his riders battered from his steed by such a weapon, the man falling to the ground broken and dead, his armour no defence against the brute strength of the monster.
The reek of the creatures was a potent mix of wet fur, blood and excrement. Sigmar gagged as a cackling devil-creature leapt onto his horse and buried its needle fangs in the muscle of his arm.
Sigmar slammed his elbow back, smashing its lupine features and dislodging it from his flesh. He drew his dagger with his free hand and stabbed backwards, plunging the blade into his attacker’s belly. The beast fell from his horse, and he stabbed the dagger through the eye of a snarling creature that charged him with a wide-bladed axe. The blade was torn from his hand, and he heard more cries of pain as the beasts finally overcame the shock of the Unberogen charge.
The great beast in the centre of the camp stood with its arms outstretched, lightning dancing in the palms of its hands. Sigmar looked up to the east and west as he heard the war cries of his sword brothers. First Pendrag appeared and then Wolfgart, leading the remainder of his warriors in the charge.
“Unberogen!” he yelled, riding into the thick of the fighting.
Sigmar swung Ghal-maraz left and right, slaying beasts with every blow, and roaring with the release of battle. The thunder of horses’ hooves echoed around the crater as Wolfgart and Pendrag charged into battle, the clash of swords and axes deafening.
Then the lightning struck.
As though hurled by some malign god, a sizzling spear of blue-white light slammed into the ground in the midst of the Unberogen. The bolt exploded, and men, horses and beasts were hurled through the air as its deadly energy tore through them.
The reek of burned meat filled the air, and Sigmar blinked away dazzling afterimages, horrified at the awesome destruction. Another bolt of lightning crashed into the earth, ripping a zigzagging trail of destruction as the blinding light split the sky.
Screams of pain sounded, and horses thrashed madly on the ground, their legs blasted to stumps by the power of the lightning. Roaring monsters fell upon the downed riders, stabbing with crude spears and knives. Crackling arcs of energy danced in the air, zipping from rider to rider, and pitching them from their horses.
Sigmar saw Wolfgart hurled through the air as yet another whipping bolt of light exploded amid the riders. Pendrag’s warriors smashed into the beasts, scattering them before their blades and spears. Arrows thudded into bestial flesh, and terrified brays from the smaller beasts echoed as they sought to flee the slaughter.
The riders spared them no mercy, crushing them beneath the hooves of their charging steeds or bringing them down with hurled spears.
Yet more lightning stabbed from the sky, and the ground rippled with flickering blue fire as it struck. Arcs of power crashed into the crater, and Sigmar heard the bull-headed monster’s glee at the destruction it had unleashed. The beast kept one clawed hand flat on the mighty herd-stone at the centre of the crater as it called down the lightning, and Sigmar urged his horse towards it. He raised Ghal-maraz high as another snapping, fizzing bolt of lightning hammered downwards.
Instead of striking the ground, however, it struck the mighty head of Sigmar’s hammer.
Sigmar felt the awesome power the great beast had called upon, and a terrible heat built in the shaft of Ghal-maraz as it fought to dissipate the dreadful energies. He cried out as a measure of those energies pulsed through him, filling his veins with elemental fire.
Arcs of blue light flashed around Sigmar and flared from Ghal-maraz in buzzing, crackling arcs. The lightning blazed in Sigmar’s eyes as he struggled to contain energies that could tear him apart in an instant.
The creature saw him coming and barked out a series of guttural commands to its followers, who swiftly rushed to defend it. The freakishly twisted creatures shambled to block his path, but a host of arrows flashed, felling a number of them.
Sigmar let loose an ululating war cry, and his stallion leapt into the air.
The beasts howled as Sigmar sailed over them, drawing back his hammer and hurling it towards the lightning wreathed monster.
Ghal-maraz spun through the air, crackling with energy. Sigmar’s horse landed as the weapon struck. With one hand fastened to the herdstone and the other locked in place with the lightning, the great beast was powerless to avoid Sigmar’s throw.
The monster’s skull split apart as the mighty warhammer struck, its head exploding in a welter of blood and bone fragments. A jet of blazing energy fountained from its headless corpse, and its body jerked spasmodically as the power it had summoned erupted from its flesh.
Sigmar wheeled his horse as the beast died, its seared body reduced to a withered husk of burned meat. The fire in his eyes dimmed, and the last of the caged lightning fled his body at the death of its creator. Sigmar took a juddering breath and turned his attention back to the battle raging behind him.
The beasts howled at the death of their leader, the last of their number being ridden down by Unberogen warriors. Wolfgart stood in the midst of the crater, hacking his enormous blade through the last of the slavering, wolf-headed drummer beasts, while Pendrag loosed shaft after shaft from his horn bow into the fleeing creatures.
Sigmar smiled grimly to himself. Within moments, not a single beast would remain alive.
He slid from the back of his horse and patted its flanks.
“Gods, that was a mighty leap, Greatheart!” he cried, rubbing a hand down its neck and ruffling its mane.
The horse whinnied in pleasure and tossed its mane, following him as he stooped to retrieve his warhammer. The lightning it had briefly carried within it had faded, though the runic script across the head still shone with power.
“That was perhaps the most foolish thing I have ever seen you do,” said Gerreon, riding up behind him.
Sigmar turned to face the warrior. “What was?”
“Throwing your hammer like that. You just disarmed yourself.”
“I still had my sword,” said Sigmar.
Gerreon pointed to Sigmar’s waist, where a broken strap of leather was all that remained of his sword belt. Sigmar had not even felt the blow that had cut the leather, and felt suddenly foolish for hurling Ghal-maraz.
“By Ulric!” cried Wolfgart, jogging over to join them. “That was a throw, Sigmar! Amazing! Took the bastard’s head clean off!”
Gerreon shook his head. “And here is me telling him what an idiot he was for throwing it.”
“Not at all!” said Wolfgart. “Didn’t you see? I’ve never seen anything like it. The lightning! The throw!”
“What if you had missed? What then?” asked Pendrag, riding to join the gathering.
“I’d have beaten it to death,” said Sigmar, assuming a fist-fighter’s pose.
“Didn’t you see the size of it?” laughed Pendrag. “It would have gored you before you could lan
d a punch.”
“Sigmar?” said Wolfgart. “Never.”
“Now if you had a hammer that came back to your hand once you’d thrown it,” said Gerreon, “then I’d be impressed.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Pendrag. “A hammer that came back after you threw it? How would you even make something like that?”
“Who knows?” said Wolfgart. “But I’m sure Master Alaric could do it.”
Pendrag shook his head, and said, “Leaving aside Gerreon and Wolfgart’s tenuous understanding of the world for the moment, we should get these bodies burned and leave this place. The blood will bring other predators, and we have our own wounded to deal with.”
“You’re right,” said Sigmar, all levity forgotten. “Wolfgart, Gerreon, have your men gather up the dead beasts and build a pyre around that stone. I want them burned within the hour and us on our way. Pendrag, help me see to the wounded.”
The journey back to Reikdorf took the riders six days through the forest, their route taking them past many scattered villages and settlements. Before reaching the inhabited areas of the forest, Sigmar led the survivors of the beasts’ raids back towards the shattered ruins of the three villages that had been attacked.
The walls surrounding each were broken and ruined, hacked apart with heavy axes or simply torn down with bestial strength. When Sigmar’s riders had come upon the smoking charnel houses of the villages there had not been the time to attend to the duty to the dead and, together with the hollow-eyed, weeping survivors, they buried the corpses and sent them on their way to Morr’s kingdom.
As Sigmar stood beside the graves, he felt a presence beside him, and looked up to see Wolfgart. His friend’s eyes were red-rimmed from the smoke of fires, and he looked weary beyond measure.
“A grim day,” said Sigmar.
Wolfgart shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Then what troubles you?”
“This,” said Wolfgart, waving his hand at the graves they stood before. “This slaughter, and the men we lost avenging it.”
“What of it?”
“This village is in Asoborn lands and the people we brought back are Asoborns.”
“So?”
Wolfgart sighed and said, “They are not Unberogen, so why did we ride to their rescue? We lost five men and another three will not ride to battle again. So tell me why we did this. After all, Queen Freya would not have done so for our people, would she?”
“Maybe not,” admitted Sigmar, “but that does not matter. They are all our people: Asoborns, Unberogen, Teutogen… all of them. The night we swore that everything we would do would be in service of the empire of man… did that mean anything to you, Wolfgart?”
“Of course it did!” protested Wolfgart.
“Then why the problem with aiding the Asoborns?”
“I am not sure,” shrugged Wolfgart. “I suppose because I assumed we’d be making this empire by conquering the other tribes in battle.”
Sigmar put his hand on Wolfgart’s shoulder and turned him around to face the work going on in the village. Burial parties dragged dead bodies from ruined homes, while warriors worked alongside farmers as they gathered up the dead, their hands and faces bloody.
“Look at these people,” said Sigmar. “They are Asoborn and Unberogen. Can you tell which is which?”
“Of course,” said Wolfgart. “I have ridden with these warriors for six years. I know every man well.”
“Assume you did not know them. Could you then tell Asoborn from Unberogen?”
Wolfgart looked uncomfortable with the question, and Sigmar pressed on. “They say that all wolves are grey at night. You have heard that expression?”
“Yes.”
“It is the same with men,” said Sigmar, pointing to a man with sadness imprinted onto his face as he carried a dead child in his arms. “Beneath the blood and grime we are all men. The distinctions we place on each other are meaningless. In the blood, we are all the same, and to our enemies, we are all the same. Do you think the beasts and orcs care whether they kill Asoborns or Unberogen? Or Taleuten or Cherusen? Or Ostagoth?”
“I suppose not,” admitted Wolfgart.
“No,” said Sigmar, suddenly angry with Wolfgart for his short-sightedness, “and neither should we. As for conquering the other tribes… I do not want to be a tyrant, my friend. Tyrants eventually fall, and their enemies tear down what they built. I want to build an empire that will last forever, something of worth that is built on justice and strong leadership.”
“I think I understand, brother,” said Wolfgart.
“Good,” said Sigmar, “for I need you with me, Wolfgart. These divisions are what keep us apart, and we have to grow beyond them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” said Sigmar. “Be a better man.”
Five days later, Sigmar watched from the walls of Reikdorf as yet another barge eased against the docks that had been built along the northern bank of the river. This one was a wide, deep-hulled craft with tall sides formed from hide-covered tower shields, and was marked with the Jutone heraldry of a skull emblazoned across two curved sabres.
The upper deck of the barge was filled with barrels and timber crates, the lower hold no doubt filled with heavy canvas sacks and bundles of furs and dyes. The marshlands around Jutonsryk provided many ingredients for dyes, and merchants who could afford to pay warriors willing to venture into the haunted marshes could return with many vivid pigments that did not fade over time.
He could see another ship further up the river, this one bearing the raven emblem of King Marbad. He made a mental note to remind the night guards to keep an eye on the alehouses beside the river, for wherever Endals and Jutones gathered there was sure to be violence.
Sigmar’s gaze spread from the newly constructed docks to the buildings on the far side of the river. The Sudenreik Bridge was already one of the busiest thoroughfares in the town, and work had now begun on a third bridge across the river, for the second, a simple timber structure, was mostly used to transport building materials to the newer southern portion of the town.
Taking what he had learned from Master Alaric, Pendrag had set up a schoolhouse in the new area where, twice a week, Unberogen children came to learn of the world beyond Reikdorf and of the means by which they lived in it.
Many of the parents of these children had complained to King Bjorn of the time being wasted on schooling when there were crops to plant and chores to be done, but Sigmar had convinced his father that only by educating the people could they hope to better themselves, and the lessons had continued.
With the clearing of the southern forests for crop fields and the establishment of new ranges for herd animals, a new granary and slaughterhouse had been built. More and more people had come to Reikdorf over the last few years, drawn by the promise of work and wealth, and the town was growing faster than anyone could have believed possible.
New homes had been set up within the southern enclosure of the walls, and a multitude of tradesmen had followed soon after: cobblers, coopers, smiths, weavers, potters, ostlers and tavern keepers. A second market had also sprung up within a year of the completion of the tall timber walls protecting it from attack.
Portions of the northern wall were already being improved, the logs uprooted and replaced with stone blocks dragged from the forest, and shaped by newly trained stonemasons under the watchful eye of Master Alaric.
Many of the buildings in the centre of Reikdorf were already stone and as more quarries were opened in the surrounding hills, yet more were being constructed to ever more elaborate designs.
Sigmar had not yet laid eyes on King Marbad’s Raven Hall or King Artur’s Fauschlag, but he doubted the settlements surrounding either were as populous as Reikdorf. The river and fertile lands surrounding the Reik had brought great prosperity to the Unberogen, and the time was fast approaching when they would need to make use of the great bounty the gods had bestowed upon them.
T
he coffers were filled with gold from trade with the dwarfs and the other tribes, and the grain stores were swollen with the fruits of the fields. The morale of the warriors was high, and with every smith in the Unberogen lands labouring to equip them, each man had a shirt of iron mail, a moulded breastplate and pauldrons, shoulder guards, greaves, vambrace and gorget.
To see the riders of the Unberogen on the march was to watch a host of glorious silver warriors glittering in the sun. Master Alaric had even suggested fashioning armoured plates for horses, but such protection had proven too heavy for all but the biggest steeds.
Even now, Wolfgart was buying the heaviest, strongest workhorses and the most powerful warhorses in an attempt to breed a beast with enough strength and speed to wear such armour. Within a few years, he was convinced, he would have bred such a steed.
Soon it would be time to take Sigmar’s dream of empire beyond the borders of the Unberogen lands.
Sigmar’s twenty-first year was approaching, and as he looked out over the thriving town of Reikdorf, he smiled.
“I will make this the greatest city of my empire,” he said, turning from his vantage point on the walls, and making his way back down to the longhouse at the town’s centre.
He crossed the main market square of Reikdorf as the sun set over the wall. Most of the traders had already broken down their wagons and hauled them away, leaving the square a mess of scraps and scavenging dogs. Sigmar made his way past Beorthyn’s forge, keeping to the centre of the street to avoid the muddy puddles that gathered at the buildings’ edges.
Beyond the longhouse, he could see the armoured form of Alfgeir upon the Field of Swords, still training Unberogen men in swordplay despite the late hour. On a whim, Sigmar changed course and made his way towards the training ground.
A dozen young men sparred on the field, and the evening sun reflected on Alfgeir’s bronze armour, making it shine like gold. Of all the Unberogen warriors, the king’s champion was the only one still to wear armour of bronze.