The walls of Reikdorf loomed large ahead of them, stark and black against the faded ivory of the sky, and Sigmar looked forward to his return home as much as he feared it. He remembered the cheering folk of his home as they had seen the warriors off in glory, shields bright and spears shimmering in the sun.
Now they were returning in glory, the greenskin menace from the Grey Mountains defeated and its warlord slain. All told, they had burned just under two thousand orc and goblin corpses in great pyres, and by any normal measure, the victory had been magnificent.
The chieftain of Astofen, a distant cousin of his father, had welcomed them within the town’s walls following the battle, his people tending to Sigmar’s wounded men, and feeding the victorious warriors with the choicest meats and finest beers.
Sigmar had joined with his men in celebrating the victory, for to stand apart from them in melancholy for the slain would only have insulted their courage. In his heart, however, he mourned the death of Trinovantes. He mourned him and felt the ache of guilt that his order had sent him to his death.
Ahead, the land sloped down to the Sudenreik Bridge, a grand construction of stone and timber that Alaric and Pendrag had designed and overseen the construction of barely two months ago. Sigmar and his fellow litter-bearers followed the course of the dusty road as it wound down the hill towards the bridge, each step measured and dignified as they brought the honoured dead home for the last time.
The notched edges of the shields bearing his sword-brother bit into his shoulder, but he welcomed the discomfort, knowing that the burden of Trinovantes’s death would be his long after he put down the litter and his friend was interred within his tomb on the edge of the Brackenwalsch up on the Warrior’s Hill.
The ground levelled out, and the litter bearers passed between carved pillars topped with howling wolves that reared to either side of the bridge. Stone panels on the inner face of the bridge’s parapet were carved with images of battle from the legends of his people, each one a heroic tale that had thrilled Unberogen children for years.
Heroes such as Redmane Dregor and his father battled orcs and dragons on the panels, and across from the image of Björn slaying a great, bull-headed creature was a blank panel where Sigmar’s tale would begin. No doubt some graven image of the victory of Astofen would be rendered in stone, forever marking the birth of his legend.
Sigmar watched as the heavy gates of Reikdorf swung outwards, pushed by groups of straining warriors. The walls of Reikdorf were taller than those of Astofen, encircling an area far larger, and home to over two thousand people. King Björn’s city was one of the marvels of the land west of the mountains, but Sigmar already had plans to make it the greatest city in the world.
The arch above the gate was formed from interlaced beams of timber, and at its apex stood a statue of a grim-faced and bearded warrior swathed in armour and wolfskin, who bore a huge, two-handed warhammer. A pair of wolves sat beside him, and Sigmar bowed his head before the image of Ulric.
His father stood in the centre of the open gateway, accompanied as always by Alfgeir and Eoforth. Sigmar felt intense joy at seeing him, knowing that no matter how far he travelled or how great his legend might become, he would always be his father’s son and grateful for the fact.
Men and women of Reikdorf clustered around the gates, but none ventured from beyond the walls, for it was every warrior’s right to march back through the gates of his home with his head held high.
‘A fine welcome indeed,’ said Pendrag, marching beside Sigmar, and also bearing the weight of Trinovantes’s body.
‘As well it bloody should be,’ pointed out Wolfgart. ‘The tribe hasn’t seen a victory like this in decades.’
‘Aye,’ said Sigmar. ‘As it should be.’
Their steps shortened as the ground rose, and they climbed the slope towards the walls of Reikdorf. Sigmar felt his spirits rise as he saw the crowds arrayed to welcome them home, feeling a great surge of affection for his people. Through everything this world could throw at them on the road to Morr’s kingdom: monsters, disease, hunger and hardship, they survived with dignity and courage.
What force could halt the progress of a race such as his?
Yes, there was pain and despair, but the human spirit had vision, and dreams of a greater destiny. Already the seeds of Sigmar’s vision were bearing fruit, but no growth was achieved without pain. Sigmar knew there would be much hardship in the years ahead, before he could realise the grand ambition that had filled him upon his dooming day amid the tombs of his ancestors.
Sigmar led his warriors through the gates of Reikdorf, and roars of approval and joy swelled from hundreds of throats as their people welcomed them home. Parents rushed to greet their sons with tears; some shed in joy, others in sadness.
Heartfelt welcomes and aching cries of loss filled the air as Unberogen mothers found their sons either riding tall upon their horses or laid across them.
Sigmar kept walking until he stood before his father, the king as regal and magnificent as ever, though his face spoke of the simple joy at seeing a son return from war alive and well.
‘Lower him gently,’ said Sigmar, and he and his sword-brothers slipped the shields from their shoulders and laid Trinovantes’s body upon the ground.
Sigmar stood before his father, unsure as to what he should say, but King Björn solved his dilemma for him by sweeping him up in a crushing bear-hug and embracing him tightly.
‘My son,’ said his father. ‘You return to me a man.’
Sigmar returned his father’s embrace, feeling his love for the brave man who had raised him without a wife at his side as a powerful force within him. Sigmar knew that he owed everything he was to the teachings of his father, and to have won his approval was the finest feeling in the world.
‘I told you I would make you proud,’ said Sigmar.
‘Aye, that you did, my son,’ agreed Björn, ‘that you did.’
The king of the Unberogens released his son, and stepped forward to address the warriors that had returned to his city, his arms raised in tribute to their courage.
‘Warriors of the Unberogen, you are returned safely to us, and for that I give thanks to Ulric. Your valour will not go unrewarded, and every one of you dines like a king tonight!’
The riders cheered, the sound reaching the clouds, and Björn turned to Sigmar and his fellow litter bearers. He looked down at the banner and said, ‘Trinovantes?’
‘Yes,’ said Sigmar, his voice suddenly choked with emotion. ‘He fell at Astofen Bridge.’
‘Did he fight well? Was it a good death?’
Sigmar nodded. ‘It was. Without his courage the day would have been lost.’
‘Then Ulric will welcome him into his halls, and we shall envy him,’ said Björn, ‘for where Trinovantes is now, the beer is stronger, the food more plentiful and the women more beautiful than any in this world. In time, we will see him again, and we will be proud to walk the halls of the mighty with him.’
Sigmar smiled, knowing his father spoke truly, for there could be no greater reward for a true warrior than to be honoured with a good death and then welcomed into the feast halls of the afterlife.
‘I had always believed that it was the loneliest thing to lead men in battle,’ said Björn, ‘but now I know that a father’s loneliness as he awaits his son to return safely is far worse.’
‘I think I understand,’ said Sigmar, turning to look at distraught parents as they led away the horses that bore their dead sons. ‘For all its glory, war is a grim business.’
‘Then you have learned a valuable lesson, son,’ said Björn. ‘A victory is a day of joy and sadness in equal measure. Cherish the first and learn to deal with the second or you will never be a leader of men.’
Björn turned to Sigmar’s sword-brothers and said, ‘Wolfgart, Pendrag, it fills my heart with joy to see you both returned to us.’
Wolfgart and Pendrag beamed at the king’s praise as three wagons bearing barrels of b
eer rumbled along the road from the brew house stores. Alaric the dwarf rode in the lead wagon, and a mighty roar went up from the warriors as they recognised the angular, runic script on the side of the barrels.
‘Dwarf ale?’ asked Wolfgart.
‘Nothing but the best for our returning heroes,’ smiled Björn. ‘I had been keeping it for my son’s wedding feast, but he seems determined to keep me waiting. Better to use it before it goes flat.’
‘I heard that,’ called Alaric. ‘Dwarf ale never goes flat.’
‘Figure of speech,’ said Björn. ‘I meant no offence, Master Alaric.’
‘Just as well,’ grunted the dwarf. ‘I can head back to my people any time, you know.’
‘Stop being such a dour misery guts,’ laughed Pendrag, taking the dwarf’s hand in a firm grip of friendship, ‘and get pouring!’
Wolfgart nodded to Sigmar, and the king quickly made his way to Pendrag and the beer barrels.
‘Not joining them?’ asked Björn.
‘I will,’ said Sigmar, ‘but I should wait with Trinovantes until his kin come for him.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Björn, with a knowing grin. ‘Right enough, but until they do, tell me of your adventures and leave no detail untold.’
Sigmar smiled and said, ‘There’s not much to tell, really. We tracked the greenskins south and west, and then routed them before the walls of Astofen.’
‘How many?’ asked Alfgeir, with his customary lack of embellishment.
‘Around two thousand,’ said Sigmar.
‘Two thousand?’ gasped Björn, exchanging a proud glance with Alfgeir. ‘Not much to tell, he says! And Bonecrusher?’
‘Dead by my hand,’ said Sigmar. ‘Ghal-maraz drank deep of his blood.’
‘Thousands,’ said Eoforth. ‘I had not dreamt such numbers of greenskins could be gathered under one warlord. And you killed them all?’
‘That we did,’ said Sigmar. ‘Their corpses are ash in the mountains.’
‘Ulric’s blood,’ said Björn. ‘Then I hope Eadhelm gave you a hero’s welcome in his little town, I’ll have words with him if he didn’t.’
‘He did,’ said Sigmar. ‘Your cousin sends greetings to his king, and swears to send what warriors he can spare should we ever need them.’
Björn nodded. ‘He’s a good man is Eadhelm. Takes after old Redmane.’
Sigmar saw a warning look enter his father’s eyes, and turned to see a girl with midnight dark hair walk stiffly through the gates of Reikdorf. His mouth suddenly felt dry as he recognised Ravenna, her long green dress and proud beauty sending his stomach into a loop of unfamiliar feelings.
Her face was lined with sadness, and Sigmar felt as though his heart would break at the sight of it. Her younger brother, Trinovantes’s twin, followed her, tears of grief spilling down his pale skin.
She walked towards her brother’s banner shrouded body, and nodded to Sigmar and his father, before kneeling beside her dead sibling and placing her hand upon his chest. Gerreon slumped beside her, wailing and shaking his head as great sobs wracked his thin frame.
‘Be silent, boy,’ said Björn. ‘It is women’s work to weep for a fallen warrior.’
Gerreon looked up, and his eyes locked with Sigmar’s.
‘You killed him,’ wept Gerreon. ‘You killed my brother!’
The fires of the king’s longhouse burned low, the peat and timbers smouldering, and the soporific heat had sent many a warrior to his bed. The revelries of victory had gone on long into the night, with offerings of choice meats and beer made to Ulric and Morr; the first to be thanked for the courage the warriors had shown in battle, and the second to guide them to their rest.
The longhouse was quiet, the sounds of perhaps a hundred warriors as they slept wrapped in animal skins and the creak of settling wood all that disturbed the silence. Those warriors with families had returned to their homes, while those without wives, or too young to know their limit of beer, lay passed out, face down on the long trestle tables.
As was customary on a night when fighting men returned home, the king and his heir watched over their warriors to honour their courage. Sigmar sat on a throne next to his father, a throne that had been carved by his father’s hand in readiness for his coming of age, when he would sit beside the king as a man. A long wolfskin cloak hung from Sigmar’s shoulders, and Ghal-maraz rested on a plinth, created specially for the dwarf-crafted weapon.
A small herd had been slaughtered for the feast, and when the dwarf ale had run out, the brewmaster’s reserve had been brought out. Oaths of brotherhood had been renewed by veteran warriors, and new ones sworn by those who had earned their shields on the bloody field of Astofen.
Sigmar had celebrated along with his warriors, but could not rid himself of the image of Ravenna’s strained face and Gerreon’s weeping as they knelt by the body of Trinovantes. He knew the battle of Astofen had been an incredible victory, but it was soured for him by the death of his friend.
Part of him knew that such thoughts were selfish, for did the deaths of those warriors he had not been sword-brother to not matter? Trinovantes had been a good and a trusted friend, quiet and thoughtful in his counsel, but never less than honest and true. Where Wolfgart would advise violence and Pendrag diplomacy, Trinovantes’s counsel often combined the best of both arguments. Not compromise, but balance. He would be sorely missed.
‘You are thinking of Trinovantes again?’ asked his father.
‘Is it that obvious?’ asked Sigmar.
‘He was your sword-brother,’ said Björn. ‘It is right you should miss him. I remember when Torphin died in the Reik Marshes, that was a sad day, so it was.’
‘I think I remember him. The big man?’ asked Sigmar. ‘You haven’t talked of him much.’
‘Ach… you were only a boy and his death wasn’t a tale for young ears,’ said Björn, waving a hand. ‘Yes, Torphin was a giant of a man, bigger even than me, if you can believe that. Carved from oak he was, and strong as stone. He was the best sword-brother a man could ask for.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died, as all men must,’ said Björn.
‘How?’ asked Sigmar, seeing that his father was reluctant to be drawn on the matter, but sensing that perhaps he wanted to be coaxed into telling him the tale of his sword-brother’s death.
‘It was four or five summers ago,’ began Björn, ‘when we marched to war alongside King Marbad of the Endals. You remember?’
Sigmar tried to recall the encounter, but his father had left Reikdorf to fight so many battles that it was hard to remember them all.
‘No?’ said Björn. ‘Well, Marbad’s a good man and his people were scratching a living on the edges of the marshes at the mouth of the river. They’d settled there after King Marius of the Jutones drove them from their homeland after the Teutogens had taken their lands. I suppose it’s possible to live there, but why anyone would want to, I don’t know. The marshes are dangerous places, full of sucking bogs, corpse lights and daemons that drink the blood of men.’
Sigmar shivered, despite the heat of the longhouse, remembering terrifying tales of dead-eyed things of pale skin and needle teeth that lurked in the haunted mists to feast on the unwary.
‘Anyway,’ continued his father, ‘Marbad and I go back a long way. We fought the orcs of the Bloodmaw tribe that came over the Grey Mountains twenty years ago, and he saved my life, so I owed him a blood debt. When the mist daemons of the marshes rose up to threaten his people, he called in that debt, and I marched out to fight alongside him.’
‘You marched all the way to the coast?’
‘Indeed we did, lad, for when an oath is sworn you must never break it, ever. Oaths of loyalty and friendship are all we have in this world, and the man who breaks a promise or whose word isn’t worth anything has no place in it. Always remember that.’
‘I will,’ promised Sigmar. ‘What happened when you got to the coast?’
‘Marbad and his army were waitin
g for us at Marburg, and we walked into the marshes as though it was some grand adventure, all us warriors out for glory and honour.’
Sigmar saw his father’s eyes take on a glassy, distant sheen as though the mists he spoke of had risen up in his memories, and he once more walked that long ago trodden path.
‘Father?’ asked Sigmar, when Björn did not continue.
‘What? Oh, yes… Well, we set off into the marshes, and the mist daemons rose up around us like ghosts. They took men down into the bogs, drowned them, and sent them back to fight us, all bloated and white. I saw Torphin snatched by one of them, I’ll never forget it. It was white, so white, so very white. Like a winter’s sky it was, with eyes of cold blue. Like the fires in the northern skies at winter. It looked at me, and I swear it laughed at me as it took my sword brother to his death.’
‘How did you defeat them?’
‘Defeat them?’ asked Björn. ‘I’m not sure we did, you know. It was all we could do to get out of the marshes alive. Marbad possessed a weapon crafted by the fey folk, a blade of power he called Ulfshard. I don’t know what manner of power was bound to it, but it could slay daemons, and he wielded it like a true hero, cutting us a path through the mists, and slaying any daemon that came near us. That wasn’t the worst of it, though.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘No, not by a long way. Just as we got to the edge of the marsh, I heard someone calling my name, and I remember the joy I felt when I recognised it as Torphin’s voice. Then, there he was, walking out of the mist towards me, eyes rolled back in their sockets, skin all waxy and dead, and black water spilling from his mouth as if his lungs were full of it.’
Sigmar’s eyes widened, and he felt his skin crawl at the terrible image of his father’s sword-brother and the horror of what had been done to him.
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I do?’ asked Björn. ‘Marbad offered me Ulfshard, and I cut Torphin down and sent him to Ulric’s Halls. Being drowned is no death for a warrior, so I killed him with a sword, and if there’s even a shred of justice in the wolf god, he’ll let Torphin in, because there was no truer man than he that walked this land.’
The Legend of Sigmar Page 6