What little sense of order the cavalry clash might once have had vanished in the heaving press of horsemen. This was a fight for warriors protected by iron armour, and the Taleutens had ridden clear, though they galloped around the edges, loosing goose-feathered shafts into the combat when targets presented themselves.
Warriors on foot joined the fight, surrounding the battle against the lancers. Cherusen Wildmen dragged them from their saddles, while Count Otwin leapt upon a loose horse and ran amok through the Jutones.
The silver-helmed warrior pulled his mount around in a tight turn, and Sigmar was impressed by the man’s horsemanship. He had expected Marius to be an effete trader, but he had proven himself to be a cunning general. He had also not expected him to be as skilled a rider as he was proving to be. What other surprises might the Jutone king have in store?
Sigmar raked back his spurred stirrups and yelled as he rode at Marius once again. The Jutone king’s sword was aimed at his heart, and Sigmar held Ghal Maraz close.
Marius slashed with his sword, and Sigmar brought Ghal Maraz up to block, but the blade flashed down, aimed not at Sigmar, but at his horse. Blood sprayed the cobbles, and the beast’s front legs went from under it as its lifeblood fountained from its opened throat. Sigmar kicked his feet from the stirrups and hurled himself clear as the horse collapsed. He hit the ground hard and the breath was driven from him as he rolled.
A Jutone lancer swept his sword down at Sigmar, but he ducked beneath the blow and dragged the man from his horse. He slammed his hammer down on the warrior’s chest, and turned to pull himself up into the saddle, but the horse bucked and ran from him before he could mount.
The battle raged around him, and Sigmar desperately hunted for another horse as Marius wheeled his mount and rode back at him. He planted himself before the charging count and sent a prayer for strength to Ulric. The Jutone king’s steed was a towering beast of midnight black, its chest wide and powerful. It wore a caparison of blue silk over its long coat of mail, and Sigmar felt a moment’s regret at what he was going to have to do.
Sigmar watched Marius as he charged in, and the world seemed to recede as his vision narrowed and time became sluggish. All he could hear was the clattering hoofbeats of the horse, all he saw was the snorting breaths from its flared nostrils and the wind of its speed ruffling its plaited mane. Marius’ blue green sword gleamed as it cut the air.
Sigmar’s hammer came up, and, in the moment before he struck, he begged Taal’s forgiveness for taking such a fine specimen from the world.
Marius swung his horse to Sigmar’s right, and the Jutone king’s sword lanced out.
Sigmar stepped straight in front of the horse and brought his hammer down in a sweeping arc upon the beast’s head. All his strength was behind the blow and the horse’s skull split apart as it died. Marius was thrown from his saddle, and the full weight of the charging steed slammed into Sigmar.
The force of the impact was enormous, and Sigmar landed in a sprawled heap on the edge of the cavalry clash. Stars spun before him and he tasted blood. Sigmar groaned and tried to stand, but his body flared with pain. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself upright, feeling that several ribs had snapped beneath his armour. But for King Kurgan’s gift, he would have broken every bone in his body.
His sky-blue tunic torn and bloody, Marius lay close by, supine amid the chaos his unwillingness to join the empire had spawned. Hundreds of men lay dead or dying around the Jutone king, the cobbles slick with warriors’ blood, blood that need not have been shed if Marius had only submitted to Sigmar’s rule. Sigmar cried out as he pushed himself to his feet, his entire body a mass of bloody wounds and fiery pain.
That pain fanned his fury at Marius into a raging inferno, and he felt the iron chains of his control slipping from him. Sigmar the Emperor diminished, and Sigmar the warrior surged to the fore as he staggered over to his enemy.
Sigmar hauled Marius to his knees, who cried out in pain and fear at the sight of the bloodstained warrior Emperor. Marius had lost his silver helm in the fall from his horse, and long blond hair spilled from a leather circlet at his temples. Dirt coated his handsome face, and he looked up at Sigmar through a mask of blood and sweat.
There was fear in his eyes, and Sigmar revelled in that fear as a red haze of anger and vengeance swept through him.
“Please!” cried Marius. “Mercy!”
“For the likes of you?” roared Sigmar. “Never!”
He lifted his hammer high, ready to dash his foe’s brains out over the cobbles.
Marius raised his hands, as if to ward off his imminent death, and Sigmar laughed at the futility of the gesture.
“So perish all who defy me!” cried Sigmar, and brought the hammer down.
Marius screamed, but before the hammer struck, a powerfully muscled hand flashed out and grabbed the weapon’s haft, halting it in mid-swing. Sigmar looked up in fury, seeing a giant warrior, covered in blood and tattoos, whose temple was pierced by a crown of golden spikes.
Sigmar knew he recognised the warrior, but his fury was a raging storm that blotted out any thoughts, save those of violence. He thundered his fist into the warrior’s face, but the giant lowered his head, and the golden spikes embedded around his skull tore bloody chunks from Sigmar’s hand. The pain was excruciating, and he staggered away from the warrior, as Ghal Maraz was torn from his grip.
The giant dropped the hammer and simply said, “Enough.”
“I’ll kill you!” raged Sigmar, snatching up a fallen axe. “Get out of my way!”
“Don’t be a fool, man!” said the giant. “Killing Marius will be an act of darkness that will taint everything you have achieved.”
“He deserves death,” snarled Sigmar. “Look at all the men who have died here.”
“Aye, maybe he does, but if you kill him, this will all have been for nothing.”
Sigmar’s anger fled in the face of the giant’s words and the pulsing waves of rage and hatred melted away. He dropped to his knees, and blinked away tears as the full horror of what he had been about to do flooded through him.
He looked up at the bloodstained giant. “Otwin?” he said. “Is that you?”
“Aye, Sigmar, it’s me,” said the count of the Thuringians. “Are you calm now?”
Sigmar nodded and took a deep breath, dropping the axe and letting the swelling darkness in his heart diminish. Otwin held out his hand and Sigmar took it, cradling his bloody fist close to his chest. He looked over at Marius, who knelt in the midst of fallen warriors and horses. The Jutone king had climbed unsteadily to his feet, and Sigmar saw that the fighting had ceased. A deathly stillness filled Jutonsryk, as though the world had paused to witness how this drama would play out.
The lancers had thrown down their weapons, but the battle hunger of Sigmar’s warriors was poised and ready to devour the defeated Jutones. He could feel the anger in the air, the battle-born hatred that was the father of all massacres and bloodletting. In that moment, Sigmar felt the truth of the Hag Woman’s warning.
She had warned him to beware the darkness in his heart, but he had believed that he could control it, that he was its master and could wield it in battle without fear of losing control.
He saw the folly of that belief and, but for Otwin’s hand, he would have crossed the line from battle to murder.
Once that line was crossed there was no going back.
Sigmar had allowed his darkness to slip its leash, and it very nearly destroyed everything he had built in one moment of hatred. That it had taken Count Otwin, a warrior who was no stranger to slaughter, to save him from himself was no small irony and a measure of how close Sigmar had come to letting his all too human failings get the better of him.
The future of the empire hung in the balance, and Sigmar knew that this was the most important moment of his life. He nodded to Otwin and reached for Ghal Maraz.
“Give me my hammer,” he said.
“You’re not going to do anything foolis
h are you, lad?” asked Otwin.
“No.”
“You sure? I don’t want to have to put you on your arse again.”
“I am sure, my friend,” promised Sigmar. “And thank you.”
Otwin shrugged and handed him Ghal Maraz. The hammer felt natural in Sigmar’s grip, a symbol of his rule more than a weapon, a tool for the uniting of men, not their destruction. Sigmar moved past Otwin, and stood before Marius. The Jutone king took a step back, looking warily at Sigmar’s bloody hammer.
“King Marius,” said Sigmar. “We are divided, and in division we are weak. It is my desire that we be united. One land, one people.”
Marius licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. He straightened his tunic and stood proudly before Sigmar, every inch a king of men.
“You offered me that before,” said Marius. “What makes you think I will accept now?”
“Look around you. Your walls are carried and your warriors defeated. If I order it, your city will burn and all your people will die.”
“Threats are no way to win me to your cause.”
“That was not a threat, it was a statement of fact.”
“Hair-splitting, nothing more.”
“No,” said Sigmar. “I came here with anger in my heart and it almost cost me my soul. I think I hated you, and that hatred blinded me to what it was doing to me. I wish for nothing more than you and your people to be part of the empire. It is all I have ever wanted, and if you could see all that we have achieved, I know you would wish to be part of it.”
“All I wanted was for my people to be left in peace,” said Marius. “It is you who have brought war and bloodshed.”
Sigmar nodded and said, “I know what I have done and I will bear the burden of that for the rest of my days, but put aside notions of blame for the moment. Think of what you might gain as part of the empire: the protection of every warrior in the empire and the brotherhood of fellow kings and your emperor. Jutonsryk grows fat on trade, but with the whole of the empire opened up to you, how much richer might it become? In time, your city will become the jewel of the empire, a gateway to the world beyond our shores!”
“I will be no man’s vassal,” said Marius, but Sigmar saw that his appeal to Marius’ greed and vanity had struck home. “You may have taken my walls, but I’ll not swear allegiance to any man who demands it at the end of a bloody weapon.”
“Nor should you,” agreed Sigmar, dropping to one knee and holding Ghal Maraz out to the king of the Jutones. “I offer you the hammer of Kurgan Ironbeard and place my life in your hands as a symbol of the honest brotherhood I offer. Bear the symbol of my power and judge my heart. If you judge it pure, join with me. If not, then strike me down, and I swear that no man here will ever violate your lands again.”
Sigmar felt a wave of sudden fear sweep through his men as Marius lifted Ghal Maraz. The ancient hammer seemed to pulse with the power of days past, and a tremor worked its way up Marius’ arms. His expression, which had been belligerent and defiant, eased, and his eyes widened at the awesome power bound within the dwarf weapon.
Sigmar saw Marius’ desire to strike him down with the hammer at war with the truth Ghal Maraz represented, and the knowledge of what might be forged with it as a beacon to all men. The Jutone king let out a shuddering breath and reversed the hammer, holding it out to Sigmar in both hands.
“We have been fools,” said Marius. “Pride and anger have divided us, and look at what it has wrought—death and misery.”
“We are but men,” said Sigmar. “It is our curse to allow pride and anger to lead to hatred and fear. From them are spawned the wars that feed the cycle of hatred. Join me so we might put an end to the darkness that sees men divided.”
Sigmar reached out and placed his hands next to those of Marius, so that they held Ghal Maraz together, bound as brothers by that ancient weapon of power.
“One land, one people?” said Marius.
“Always,” agreed Sigmar.
And it was done.
BOOK TWO
Empire of Blood
Thus did Sigmar call to account
Those who turned their backs.
And great was the war waged
On a king that lived by the blood of heroes.
Mighty was Sigmar’s wrath,
Yet guarded not was his weary heart,
And evil of ancient times
Found root in the present.
——
Northern Fire
Of all the Udose settlements Cyfael had seen, Haugrvik was amongst the most pleasant. Most villages on the empire’s northern coastline were battered by the cold winds raging southwards from the ice-bound lands beyond, but a high ridge to the north of Haugrvik sheltered it from the worst of the coastal weather. Built on a crescent bay of shingled shores, the low dwellings had a rustic charm not seen in the townships and settlements south of the Middle Mountains.
Cyfael made his way from the house the village chief, Macarven, had assigned him, a single storey structure of wattle and daub with timber struts and a rough coating of hading to the exterior. As he stretched in the early morning sunshine, he massaged his head and reflected that rustic charm was all well and good so long as you didn’t have to wake up every morning with a raging thirst and monstrous hangover.
The women and youngsters of the village were already at the shoreline, folding the nets, and packing barrels with meat and bread for the fishermen. Six longboats were pulled up onto the shore, ready to be sent out into the Sea of Claws to bring back the day’s catch. The village elders joined the women in their work, for the majority of the village’s men were marching south to the Fauschlag Rock to answer a sword muster called by Count Pendrag.
Since arriving in Count Wolfila’s castle of Salzenhus from Middenheim a month ago, Cyfael had ridden the length of the northern coastline with his fiercest clansmen to bring word of that summons to the villages of the Udose.
They were welcomed in the main, for Emperor Sigmar’s armies had saved the Udose from destruction at the hands of the Norsii many years ago, and highland memories were long. Honouring the blood debt to the Unberogen and the Emperor was a matter of pride, and none of the many Udose clans would bear the shame of not living up to that obligation.
So far, Cyfael had mustered three hundred men, more than enough for this stretch of coastline, for it would not do to strip it completely of its warriors. The northern coasts of the empire were dangerous, and though Norsii raids were few and far between this far east, no one forgot the terror of the mighty Norsemen.
That fact was made clear by the presence of the timber hill fort atop a low mound on the northern curve of the bay. Surrounded by a palisade wall of sharpened logs and a wide, water-filled ditch, Macarven’s fort was one of the largest Cyfael had seen in Udose lands. A tall watchtower rose from the walls, and, though the stronghold wasn’t a patch on the grand fortress of Middenheim, there was a barbarous splendour to its construction.
The size of his hill fort was an indication that Macarven was a clan chief of some importance in the area, commanding respect from at least six other clans. The chieftain had been a generous host and had demanded Cyfael stay on for a few more days to sample Udose hospitality, which mainly involved flagon after flagon of strong drink and endless feasts of beef and fish.
Cyfael pulled his cloak tighter about himself as a bitter squall whipped up from the sea, and a shiver of unease travelled the length of his spine. He made his way down the stony path to the shore, enjoying the wildness of the country around him. He called the Fauschlag Rock home and from its towering heights a man could see to the edges of the world. The view across the endless forests of the empire was something to be treasured, but here… Here a man could live in that landscape.
The land of the Udose spread out before him like a great tapestry, rugged and harsh, but possessed of a haunting beauty that would never leave his soul. The ocean was an impossibly vast expanse of shimmering blue that stretched to
the horizon and promised far off lands as yet unexplored. At least it would be, were it not for the thin morning mist that clung like fallen clouds to the surface of the water.
Donaghal, one of Count Wolfila’s Hearth-Swords, waved at him from the shore, his near-naked body wrapped in a plaid cloak. The man was soaked from an early morning swim, and Cyfael saw the pale lines of scars criss-crossing his chest and arms. A long, basket-hiked claymore sat propped up against one of the longboats next to him. Donaghal was a fine warrior, a man whom other men looked up to.
“How’s the water, Donaghal?” shouted Cyfael.
“Bracing. You should get yourself in and find out.”
Cyfael shook his head and grinned.
“I don’t think so, my friend,” he said. “Us southern types don’t like the cold. I do not wish a fever before I return to Middenheim.”
“Cold? Ach, whisht, man, this isn’t cold, it’s like swimming in a hot spring.”
“To you perhaps,” said Cyfael. “You Udose have ice in your veins.”
Donaghal started to reply, but his mouth snapped shut as a ringing bell echoed from above. Cyfael turned at the sound, shielding his eyes as he looked up towards the hill fort. A clansman at the top of the watchtower was ringing the warning bell and pointing to the ocean. Cyfael couldn’t make out what he was saying, but Donaghal clarified the nature of the threat with a single shouted word that was part warning, part curse.
“Norsii!”
Cyfael looked out to sea, and a trio of dark ships slid from the mist like phantoms. Tapered hulls angled upwards with wolf-headed prows arced towards the shore, driven by banks of oars that swept up and back in perfect unison.
“Ulric save us…” hissed Cyfael, wishing he’d thought to buckle his sword-belt on this morning. The Wolfships arced over the water, each vessel carrying at least thirty warriors in dark armour and horned helms, their swords and shields gleaming in the sun.