‘Here they come,’ whispered Sigmar.
His sword-brothers peered through the twilight gloom. ‘You have keen eyes, brother,’ said Wolfgart. ‘I can see nothing.’
Pendrag nodded towards a line of trees and said, ‘There. By the elms, I think.’
Wolfgart squinted, but shook his head. ‘Like ghosts they are,’ he said.
‘They’d be poor scouts if they let themselves be seen,’ pointed out Pendrag.
The two scouts stepped from behind the trees they had been using as cover and Sigmar waved them over to the group of horsemen that lurked in the tangled bushes at the edge of the crater. The terrain here was steep and heavily wooded, the ground underfoot earthy and strewn with jagged, black rocks.
Legend said a piece of the moon had fallen here centuries ago and smashed a hole in the ground. Sigmar did not know if that was true, but the land around this place was barren, and nothing good grew here. The air had a foul reek to it and the trees were twisted as if in pain. The bushes that sprouted along the edges of the crater were wiry and barbed, the thorns weeping a greenish sap that imparted fever dreams to any man unlucky enough to be scratched.
The sound of muffled drums and guttural brays drifted over the rocky lip of the crater, accompanied by a dark tongue issuing from throats never meant to give voice to language.
Fifty warriors wrapped in wolfskin cloaks awaited the scouts, and Sigmar prayed that the ground was favourable, for he could feel the need for vengeance burning in every man’s heart. The butchery inflicted by the beasts on the settlements straddling the borders of the Unberogen and Asoborn lands had been unprecedented.
‘What did you see?’ he asked when the two scouts drew near enough to hear his whisper.
‘Around sixty or seventy beasts,’ replied Svein, ‘drunk and bloody.’
‘Captives?’
Svein’s normally jovial face hardened and he nodded. ‘Aye, but none in a good way. The beasts have made sport of them.’
‘And they have no idea we are here?’ asked Wolfgart.
Cuthwin shook his head. ‘I brought us in downwind of their encampment. None of them are looking outwards, they are too… busy… with the captives.’
‘You’re sure?’ pressed Wolfgart.
‘I’m sure,’ snapped Cuthwin. ‘If they find us here it will be because of your bloody noise.’
Sigmar hid his smile from Wolfgart as he remembered the night when he had discovered Cuthwin sneaking towards the longhouse in the centre of Reikdorf, nearly six years ago. It had been the night before they had ridden to battle at Astofen Bridge, and Sigmar remembered the lad’s stealth and defiant courage, traits that served him well as one of Sigmar’s warriors.
Wolfgart bristled in anger at the young scout’s words, but kept his mouth shut.
‘Pendrag,’ said Sigmar, ‘take fifteen warriors and ride eastwards for three hundred paces. Wolfgart, you do the same to the west.’
‘And you?’ asked Wolfgart. ‘What will you be doing?’
‘I’ll be riding over the ridge charging into the heart of the beasts’ encampment,’ said Sigmar. ‘When they come at me, you pair will ride in from the flanks and crush them.’
‘Sound plan,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Nice and simple.’
Pendrag looked as though he was about to argue, but shrugged and turned his horse to gather his men. Sigmar nodded to Wolfgart, who followed Pendrag’s example and rode off to gather the warriors he would lead into battle.
Sigmar turned in his saddle to face the warrior behind him as the tempo of the drums from within the crater increased, and said, ‘Gerreon, are you ready?’
Trinovantes’s twin rode forward to join him, and grinned wolfishly. ‘I am ready, brother.’
Sigmar and Gerreon had made their peace six years ago.
Sigmar had been sparring with Pendrag upon the Field of Swords at the base of Warrior’s Hill, practising with sword and spear, when Trinovantes’s brother had sought him out. The Field of Swords was the name given to a wide area of ground within Reikdorf’s walls where the veteran warriors of the ever-expanding town trained the younger men for battle.
Wolfgart had argued that it was bad luck to learn the skills of war before a place of the dead, but Sigmar had insisted, claiming that every warrior needed to know what was at stake if they faltered.
Scores of youngsters learned to fight with sword and spear under Alfgeir’s merciless tutelage, while Wolfgart instructed others in archery. Targets carved to resemble orcs had been set up, and the thwack of accurately loosed arrows and the clash of iron swords filled the air.
Every man in Reikdorf now owned an iron sword, and Pendrag and Alaric had travelled throughout the Unberogen lands over the years to ensure that every smith laboured in a forge equipped with a water-powered bellows capable of producing such weapons. Few warriors now wore bronze armour, and most riders were equipped with mail shirts of linked iron rings or hauberks of overlapping scales.
Emissaries from the Jutones, Cherusens and Taleutens had observed the great leaps the Unberogen were making, and King Björn relished the thought of his tribe’s strength being known far and wide throughout the land.
‘Here comes trouble,’ said Pendrag as Gerreon approached.
Sigmar lowered his sword and turned to face Ravenna’s brother, already tensing for harsh words and the handsome warrior’s outrage at his behaviour with his sister. It was no secret that he and Ravenna were becoming closer, and only a blind man could have missed their obvious feelings for one another.
He was just surprised it had taken Gerreon this long to approach him.
As always, Gerreon was immaculately dressed, his buckskin trews of the finest quality, his black jerkin stitched with silver thread and his boots crafted from soft leather. His hand lightly gripped the hilt of his sword, a sword Sigmar had seen him wield with terrifying, dazzling skill in numerous practice bouts and battles.
Sigmar was a fine swordsman, but Gerreon was what the Roppsmenn of the east called a blademaster. He tensed, expecting furious indignation, and felt Pendrag move alongside him.
‘Gerreon,’ said Sigmar, ‘if this is about Ravenna…’
‘No, Sigmar,’ replied Gerreon. ‘This is not about my sister. It is about you and I.’
Surely Gerreon did not mean to challenge him to a combat? To challenge the king’s son was madness. Even if he won, the king’s guards would kill him.
‘Then what is it about?’
Gerreon removed his hand from his sword hilt. ‘I have had time to think since Trinovantes’s death, and I am ashamed of the things I said and did when you returned from Astofen. He was your friend and you loved him dearly.’
‘That I did, Gerreon,’ said Sigmar.
‘I just wanted you to know that I do not blame you for his death. As my sister said, it was an orc that killed him, not you. If you will offer me your forgiveness, then I will offer you friendship as my brother once did.’
Gerreon smiled his dazzling smile and offered his hand to Sigmar, ‘And as my sister now does.’
Sigmar felt his face reddening as he took Gerreon’s hand. ‘You are Unberogen,’ he said. ‘You do not need my forgiveness, but you have it anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gerreon. ‘This means a lot to me, Sigmar. I did not know if I had forfeited any chance of friendship.’
‘Never,’ said Sigmar. ‘What kind of empire will I forge if there is division within the Unberogen? No, Gerreon, you are one of us and you always will be.’
They shook hands, and Gerreon smiled in relief.
Wolfgart and Pendrag had been suspicious of this sudden contrition, but in the years that followed, Sigmar’s trust had been vindicated, and Gerreon had earned their respect in dozens of desperate fights. At the Battle of the Barren Hills, Gerreon had saved Sigmar’s life, neatly beheading an orc war leader that had pinned him beneath the body of its slain wolf.
Against Teutogen raiders, Gerreon had also despatched an archer ready to loose a point-bl
ank shaft into Sigmar’s unprotected back.
Time and time again, Gerreon had ridden into battle alongside them, and each time, Sigmar was thankful for the strength of character that had driven the warrior to seek forgiveness. Ravenna had been overjoyed, and Sigmar had spent many pleasant times with her and Gerreon, hunting, riding the forest trails or simply talking long into the night of his dream of uniting the tribes of man.
Now, with the darkness all around them and his sword-brothers riding away from him to circle around the crater, Sigmar was grateful for Gerreon’s presence. He counted a hundred heartbeats before urging his stallion forward, the twenty warriors who remained with him following swiftly behind.
The sound of the drums grew louder as the horses climbed the rocky slopes of the crater, and Sigmar twisted in the saddle to address the riders behind them. Each wore a mail shirt, and many sported iron breastplates and shoulder guards. Red cloaks flowed from their shoulders, and every rider carried a long spear and heavy sword.
‘We hit them hard and fast,’ said Sigmar. ‘Make lots of noise when you charge, I want them all looking at us.’
He could see in their faces that every man knew what to do. ‘Good hunting,’ he said.
The ridge at the top of the crater drew nearer, limned in starlight, and the clouds above glowed orange from the fires below. A scream tore the night, and Sigmar felt his anger grow at the terror and unimaginable pain it conveyed.
‘You realise the risk we’re taking,’ said Gerreon.
‘I do, but we cannot wait,’ said Sigmar. ‘If we do not attack now, the beasts will vanish into the deep forest and we will lose any chance to avenge the dead. No, they die tonight.’
Gerreon nodded and slid his sword from its sheath.
Sigmar hefted a heavy, iron-tipped spear from the quiver slung behind him.
‘Unberogen!’ he yelled, raking his heels along the stallion’s flanks. ‘Ride to vengeance!’
The stallion surged over the crater’s lip, and his riders followed him with a roaring war cry.
Below was a scene of bedlam. Flames roared skyward, and packs of monstrously twisted beasts filled the basin of the crater, carousing and drunk on slaughter and vile spirits.
Freakish monsters of fur and hide, the hideous creatures were the bastard gets of man and beast, shaggy goat heads atop muscular torsos and twisted, reverse jointed legs. Red-skinned creatures with horned skulls and whipping tails capered amid mounds of the dead, while lumbering beasts that resembled a dreadful fusion of horse and rider lurched drunkenly around the edges of the campsite.
A great black stone reared above the gathering at the crater’s centre, a spike of obsidian carved with hideous runes that spoke of slaughter and debauchery. A huge, bull-headed beast in a ragged black cloak tore the heart from a still-living captive as mad creatures of no easily identifiable heritage slithered and capered around the stone in lunatic adoration.
Their howls mingled with the drumbeats of huge, wolf-headed creatures that hammered their taloned paws on crude hide drums.
Bound men, women and children were spread throughout the camp, their bodies abused and beaten. Many were dead, and all had been tortured. Others had simply been eaten alive, and Sigmar’s anger, already white-hot, threatened to overwhelm him as he felt a red mist descend upon him.
Sigmar was no berserker, however, and he focused his rage into a burning spear of cold anger.
His stallion pounded down the slope, and a wordless cry of hatred burst form his lips. An Unberogen war horn sounded, the strident notes of each blast seeming to carry them towards their foe with greater speed.
The creatures were rousing themselves, though their debauched revelries had left them lethargic and unprepared. The bull-headed beast let loose a deafening bellow that echoed from the sides of the crater, and the relentless tattoo of the drums ceased.
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 herdstone at the centre of the crater as it called down the lightning, and Sigmar urged his horse toward
s 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.
The Legend of Sigmar Page 12