“You have seen the future?” asked Sigmar, making the sign of the horns.
“There is no future,” said the Hag Woman. “Nor is there a past. All things exist now and always. It is the blessing of mankind that they do not perceive the whole of this world’s infinite structure. Existence is a complex puzzle, of which you see but a single piece. It is my curse to see many such pieces.”
“You do not see them all?” asked Sigmar, intrigued despite himself.
“No, and I am grateful for that small mercy. Only the gods dare know everything, for it would drive men to madness to know the full truth of their destiny.”
“You have delivered your warning,” said Sigmar. “Now make your request and begone.”
“Very well, though you will be pleased that this time I speak of life, not death.”
“Life? Whose?”
“The man named Myrsa,” said the Hag Woman. “You call him the Warrior Eternal, and it is a well-chosen title. The people of the Fauschlag Rock harken to an ancient prophecy, one that warns of their city’s fall without such a warrior to lead their armies in times of war.”
The Hag Woman laughed. “A false prophecy delivered by a conniving soothsayer to advance his idiot son’s ambitions, though now it seems it has a measure of truth to it. More by accident than design, I suspect. In any case, you must not allow the Warrior Eternal to die before his time.”
“Before his time?” asked Sigmar. “What kind of request is that? How can any man know when it is his time to leave this world?”
“Some men know, Child of Thunder,” said the Hag Woman. 'You will know.”
Once again Sigmar made the sign of the horns.
“A curse on you, woman!” he said. “Speak not the words of my death! Now leave or by Ulric’s blood I will kill you where you sit.”
“Be at peace,” said the Hag Woman. “I do not speak of your death.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“No,” said the Hag Woman with a knowing wink. “That I choose not tell you, for it is the uncertainty of life that keeps it interesting, don’t you think?”
Anger flared in Sigmar’s heart, and he slid from the bed, his blade extended before him.
“You torment me with your mysteries, woman,” he said. “Well, no more! If I see you again, I will cut your throat before that vile tongue can utter another curse upon my head.”
“Fear not, Child of Thunder, for this will be the last time we speak,” promised the Hag Woman sadly. “Yet we will see one another again, and you will remember my words.”
“More riddles,” spat Sigmar.
“Life is a riddle,” said the Hag Woman, rising from the bed with a smile and turning her gaze upon the smouldering fire. “Now sleep, and do not forget what I have said, or everything you have built will be destroyed.”
The hearth erupted with flames, and the dagger dropped from Sigmar’s hand as he collapsed onto his bed. Great weariness descended upon him, and the sleep that had previously eluded him dragged him down into its warm embrace.
Sigmar awoke with the dawn, warm and refreshed beneath his bearskin. There was no sign of the Hag Woman and his hounds were no worse for the encounter, though the same could not be said for Sigmar. Her words hung like chains around his neck, and throughout the rest of the week of feasting and celebration, he found his eyes darting to the shadows lest her dark form should emerge from them.
Over the next six days, the warriors of the empire gorged themselves on the fruits of their victory: mountains of food and lakes of beer. Counts from the far corners of the empire brought wines and fiery spirits from beyond the mountains to the south, and tribal dishes were prepared by the womenfolk of every land. Unberogen beer, a powerful ale flavoured with bog myrtle was consumed by the barrel-load, and crate after crate of Asoborn wine was unloaded from the docks and dragged to the longhouse.
Cherusen beef was served on platters with Menogoth pork, and every king enjoyed new and exotic dishes from across the empire. Truly, it was a feast that none gathered in Reikdorf would ever forget. Nor was it only the warriors who were honoured with such largesse; Sigmar commanded his granaries to be opened, and for the duration of the coronation, free bread was distributed to every family in Reikdorf and beyond.
Eoforth bemoaned the expense, but Sigmar was not to be dissuaded, and his name was praised from one end of the land to the other.
Custom dictated that the Emperor spent his coronation day as an aloof and magisterial ruler, but for the rest of the week he resolved to be simply Sigmar the man. Wolfgart and Pendrag had approached him almost immediately on the second morning, and Sigmar knew exactly what his banner bearer was going to say.
“I cannot do this, Sigmar,” said Pendrag. “Ruler of an entire city? It is an honour, but there must be others more suited to the task.”
Wolfgart shook his head, and said, “He’s been like this all night, Sigmar. Sort him out.”
Sigmar took his old friend by the shoulders and said. “Look at what you have done with Reikdorf: stone walls, new schools, forges and regular markets. You have made it the jewel in my crown, and you will do the same for Middenheim, I know it.”
“But Myrsa… It is his city,” protested Pendrag, though Sigmar saw that the thought of applying his ideas to a new city appealed to him. “The honour should be his. He will feel slighted.”
Sigmar shivered, recalling the Hag Woman’s words as Wolfgart said, “I think Myrsa will be only too happy to have you take charge. What was it he said last night? ‘I am a fighter, not a ruler!’”
“I don’t think you need worry about Myrsa’s feelings, my friend.”
“For a man who’s been up all night drinking, Wolfgart speaks sense,” added Sigmar. “But keep Myrsa close, for he knows the city and its people. He will be a staunch ally in your rule.”
“I am not sure—”
“Trust me, my friend, you will make a grand count of Middenheim. Now go, enjoy yourself and get drunk!” ordered Sigmar.
“First sensible thing I’ve heard this morning,” said Wolfgart, leading Pendrag away.
Over the following days, Sigmar mixed with his subjects and conversed with his counts about what needed to be done to secure the peace they had won. Sword oaths were renewed and plans laid to defend the east and north, while expeditions were planned to learn more of the lands far to the south.
Many called for war against the Jutones, and the sentiment found much support amongst the counts. King Marius, safe in his coastal city of Jutonsryk, endured thanks only to the great victory others had won. All agreed that a reckoning was due, and that Marius must be brought to heel or destroyed.
Queen Freya of the Asoborns was Sigmar’s constant shadow throughout the feasting, and he endured countless tales of her twin boys, Fridleifr and Sigulf, who were gods amongst men if their mother’s stories were to be believed. Freya’s desire for him was undimmed and her disappointment was clear when he gently rebuffed her offers of carnal pleasure.
Kragar of the Taleutens and Aloysis of the Cherusens both tried to broach the subject of their shared border, each claiming that the other was sending raiders to violate their lands. Sigmar forestalled such disputes until the spring; this was a time for unity, not division. Neither count was happy with his judgement, but both bowed and withdrew.
Of all the counts gathered, Sigmar enjoyed the company of Wolfila the most. The Udose count was a garrulous guest, and seemed to have a limitless supply of energy with which to feast and partake in games of strength and skill. None who fought him in mock duels could best him, until Sigmar put him flat on his back with one punch.
No sooner had he regained consciousness than Wolfila dragged Sigmar into the longhouse to break open a bottle of his finest grain spirit, a bottle said to have been laid down in his grandfather’s time. The two men drank long into the night, cutting their palms and becoming blood-brothers while devising ever more elaborate means to solve the evils of the world.
On the morning of t
he fourth day of feasting, Wolfila introduced Sigmar to his wife, Petra. Swathed in a patchwork dress of many colours, Petra was petite and slender, though she had fought in battle since becoming Wolfila’s wife. From the swelling of her belly, it was clear that she was with child, her first, though this had not stopped her from eating and drinking her share of the feast platters.
“He’ll be a bonny lad,” said Wolfila, patting his wife’s belly. “A hellraiser and a warrior to be sure. Just like his father.”
“Whisht,” scolded Petra. “Away with you, it’s a girl, as sure as night follows day.”
“Don’t be foolish, woman,” cried Wolfila. “A boy, didn’t old man Rouven say so?”
“Rouven?” snapped Petra. “Ach, the man couldn’t predict rain in a thunderstorm!”
The Udose were renowned as an argumentative tribe, whose clannish family groupings fought with one another as often as they battled their enemies. Though Wolfila and Petra loved each other dearly, Sigmar soon learned that they would argue over the smallest thing, and that it was best to leave them to it. The strange thing was that they seemed to enjoy it.
As well as the rulers of each tribe, Sigmar spent a great deal of time with the warriors of the tribes, listening to their tales of courage and heartbreak from the field of Black Fire Pass. A Thuringian warrior broke a table as he re-enacted his killing of a gigantic troll, a pair of Asoborn spearmen ran circles around their listeners as they explained the tactics of a chariot charge, and shaven-headed Taleuten horsemen sang songs of how they rode down fleeing greenskins at battle’s end.
With every account, Sigmar’s awe for these men and women grew deeper and his gratitude more profound. Most moving of all were the words of a Menogoth warrior named Toralf, who tearfully begged Sigmar’s forgiveness for his cowardice in running.
“We tried,” sobbed Toralf, showing a monstrous scar in his side where a great barb had pierced him. “We killed the wolves and marched into the teeth of the spear throwers. We didn’t know… We didn’t know… Hundreds of bolts let fly at us, thick as a felled tree they were, and each one killed a dozen men, skewered like pigs in a row. I lost my father and both brothers in the time it takes to nock an arrow, but we kept going… We kept going till we couldn’t go no more… And then we ran. Ulric forgive me, but we ran!”
Sigmar remembered the dreadful fear he had felt watching the Menogoth ranks breaking under the horrific onslaught of orc spear throwers. The greenskins had poured into the gap and savaged the flanks of King Henroth’s Merogens before Sigmar had led his Unberogen sword bands forward to hurl the orcs back.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he told Toralf. “No warriors could have held firm under such an attack. There is no shame in fleeing from so grievous a slaughter. What matters most is that you came back. In every battle, there are those who flee for their lives. Fewer are those who find their courage and return to the fight. Without the strength of the Menogoths, the battle would have been lost.”
Toralf looked up with wet eyes and dropped to his knees before Sigmar, who placed his hand on the man’s head. All eyes were upon him as Toralf received Sigmar’s blessing, and a palpable sense of wonder filled the longhouse as the hearts of the Menogoths were healed.
Though he favoured no count over another, Sigmar found that he spent almost no time at all with Aldred. This was not for lack of effort on Sigmar’s part, for it seemed the Endal count deliberately kept away from the new emperor. King Marbad, Aldred’s father, had been one of Sigmar’s staunchest allies, and it grieved him to feel the distance growing between him and the count of the Endals.
No sooner had the feasting come to an end on the seventh day than the Endals mounted their black steeds and rode through Morr’s Gate, Reikdorf’s westernmost entrance. Sigmar watched them go, the Raven Helms surrounding their master as they followed the course of the river towards Marburg.
One by one, the counts of the empire returned to their homelands, and it was a time of great joy and melancholy. With the celebrations done and the warriors departed, Reikdorf felt strangely empty. Autumn was coming to an end, and the cold winds howled over the northern hills with the promise of winter.
Soon darkness would cover the land.
The seasons following Black Fire Pass had been mild, but the winter that fell upon the empire in the wake of Sigmar’s coronation was as fierce as anyone living could remember. The land was blanketed in white, and only the most foolhardy dared venture far from the warmth of hearth and home.
Blizzards sprang from nowhere, raging southwards to bury entire villages beneath the snow and wipe them from the map. Only when the snows retreated in the spring would many of these settlements be rediscovered, their frozen inhabitants huddled together in their last moments of life.
Days were short and the nights long, and the people of the empire were left with little to do but press close to their fires and pray to the gods to deliver them from the bitter cold. Harsh as the winter was, the Unberogen passed it with relative ease, for the granaries were well stocked, even after Sigmar’s generosity at his coronation.
The ground was like iron, and work ceased on the forest clearances as well as the wide roads running between Middenheim in the north and Siggurdheim in the south. The workers were glad of the respite, for the hungry forest beasts made it too dangerous to venture beyond the walls of a settlement for any length of time. Work would resume in the spring, and fine roads of stone would link the great cities of the empire.
The danger of the forest beasts was illustrated only too clearly when a pack of twisted monsters raided the village of Verburg, burning it to the ground and taking the inhabitants captive. Though savage winds howled around Reikdorf, Sigmar had gathered a hunting party to track the beasts and rescue his captured people. His head scout, Cuthwin, found the beasts’ trail a mile east of Astofen, and the Unberogen riders had fallen on the creatures as they camped above a frozen lake.
The slaughter had been swift, for the beasts were starving and weak. Not a single rider fell in the fight, but the captives were already dead, butchered to feed the hungry pack. Dispirited by their failure to rescue the villagers, the Unberogen rode back to Reikdorf without the soaring pride that would normally accompany the slaying of so many of their enemies.
Two days later, Sigmar still brooded on the deaths of his people, and it was in this mood that his friends found him as they came to discuss the spring muster.
The fire in the centre of the longhouse burned low, yet the dwarf craft in the hall’s construction was so precise that no cold seeped in through the windows or doors. Sigmar sat upon his throne, Ghal Maraz lying across his lap and his faithful hounds curled at his feet.
Behind him stood Redwane, one hand on the grip of his hammer, the other on a polished banner pole of yew. With Pendrag in Middenheim, the honour of bearing Sigmar’s crimson standard had gone to the strongest warrior of the White Wolves. Alfgeir had advised Sigmar to choose a warrior of greater maturity, but he had seen great courage in Redwane and would not change his mind.
The doors to the longhouse opened, and a malicious gust of wind scattered the dry straw spread across the floor. Eoforth limped inside, swathed in thick furs and flanked by Alfgeir and Wolfgart. The cloaked warriors helped Eoforth to a seat by the fire, and Sigmar descended from his throne to sit with his closest friends.
“How goes work in the library?” asked Sigmar.
“Well enough,” nodded Eoforth, “for many of the counts brought copies of their foremost scholars’ work with them in autumn. The winter has given me the chance to read many scrolls, but the business of organising them is never-ending, my lord.”
Sigmar nodded, though he had no real interest in Eoforth’s books. The first hints that winter was loosening its grip were in the air, and he was eager to make war once more.
As promised at his coronation, there were reckonings to be had.
He turned from Eoforth and spoke first to Alfgeir. “How many men do we have under arms for the spri
ng muster?” he asked. Alfgeir glanced at Eoforth.
“Perhaps five thousand in the first raising,” he said. “If need be, another six when the weather breaks.”
“How soon can they be gathered?”
“Once the war banner is unfurled, I can send riders out, and most of the first five thousand will be here within ten days,” said Alfgeir. “But we will need time to prepare food and supplies before ordering such a gathering. It would be best to wait until the snows melt.”
Sigmar ignored Alfgeir’s last comment and said, “Eoforth, draw up a list of everything the army will need: swords, axes, spears, armour, wagons, war-machines, horses, food. Everything. I want it ready by tomorrow evening and I want us ready to raise the war banner as soon as the roads become passable.”
“I will do as you command,” said Eoforth, “though the planning of so large a muster should be given more time than a single day.”
“We do not have more time,” said Sigmar. “Just make it happen.”
Wolfgart coughed and spat into the fire, and Sigmar sensed his friend’s confusion.
“Something troubles you, Wolfgart?” he asked.
Wolfgart looked up and shrugged.
“I’m just wondering who you’re in such a rush to go and fight,” he said. “I mean, we killed the beasts and burned their corpses didn’t we? The others of their kind will get the message.”
“We are not riding out to kill beasts,” said Sigmar. “We march to Jutonsryk. The coward Marius must be called to account for deserting us at Black Fire.”
“Ah… Marius,” said Wolfgart, nodding. “Aye, well he needs to be dealt with, right enough, but why so soon? Why not wait until the snows break properly before ordering men to leave their homes and loved ones? Marius isn’t going anywhere.”
“I thought that you of all people would be eager for this,” snapped Sigmar. “Were you not complaining that big sword of yours was getting rusty?”
“I’m as eager for battle as the next man,” said Wolfgart, “but let’s be civilised about this and fight in the spring, eh? My old bones don’t like marching in the snow or sleeping rough in the cold. War’s hard enough as it is, there’s no need to make it harder.”