The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘Let us hope you never have to, my friend,’ said Pendrag.

  By the time the sun dipped into the west on the night of King Björn’s funeral rites, the tension in Reikdorf was palpable. A great feast had begun in the longhouse when the sun had reached its zenith, with great quantities of beer and spirits consumed, as the assembled kings and warriors drank to the great name of King Björn. Hundreds filled the longhouse, men and women from all across the land, and Sigmar was thrilled to see so many from so far away.

  The finest animals from the Unberogen herds had been slaughtered and hundreds of loaves of bread baked. Barrels of beer from the riverside brewery and scores of jugs of wine from the west lay on trestle tables along one wall. The central firepit heated the longhouse, and the mouth-watering smell of cooking meat swamped the senses.

  Endal pipers filled the hall with music, and drummers thumped their instruments in time to the melody. A festive, yet strained, atmosphere danced on the air, for this was a time to remember the great deeds of a heroic warrior, a chance to celebrate his epic life as he took his place in the Halls of Ulric. The king lay in the House of Healing, his body tended by the acolytes of Morr, men who had walked from the Brackenwalsch the previous week to watch over his body before it passed the doors of his tomb.

  Thus far, the atmosphere in Reikdorf had been tense, but free of violence, the warriors of each tribe respecting the banner of truce that the kings of men gathered beneath, and Eoforth had been careful to keep the warriors of those tribes whose relations were fractious as far apart as possible. To further safeguard the peace, Alfgeir and the White Wolves roamed the halls with their hammers carried loosely at their belts and their goblets filled with heavily watered wine.

  The loud buzz of conversation and song echoed from the rafters, and Sigmar cast his gaze around the hall as he sat upon his throne, his father’s throne empty beside him.

  King Marbad told tales of the mist daemons in the marshes, and Unberogen warriors clamoured to hear of the battles he had fought in his youth alongside Björn. Krugar and Aloysis told of the war against the Norsii, and of how Björn had charged the centre of a shieldwall and cut the head from the enemy warlord in single combat.

  Every ruler had a story to tell, and Sigmar listened as Queen Freya told of the final destruction of the Bloody Knife tribe of orcs, a battle that had seen the power of the greenskins broken in the east for a decade. Many of the Unberogen warriors gathered in the longhouse had been present for this victory, and the hafts of axes were slammed upon tabletops as they relived the fury of the battle.

  As Queen Freya concluded her tale, Sigmar was shocked to hear her tell of his father’s sexual prowess, now understanding that lying with the queen of the Asoborns had been the price of her warriors’ aid in the battle against the orcs. He wondered if he would be called upon to share Freya’s bed to win her to his cause, and the thought made him shiver.

  Sigmar saw where the trouble would begin the instant before the first insult was hurled, seeing a Jutone tribesman with a forked beard, braided hair and a heavily scarred face swagger up to where the Endal pipers were gathered.

  Though the young boy playing the pipes was much taller than the Jutone tribesman, he was much younger and clearly not yet a warrior.

  ‘Gods, my ears hurt from this din! It sounds like someone rutting with a sheep! Why don’t you play some proper music?’ yelled the Jutone, ripping the pipes from the young lad’s hands and hurling them into the firepit.

  The rest of the pipers ceased their playing, and a handful of Endal tribesmen surged to their feet in anger. A handful of Jutone warriors in brightly coloured jerkins rose from the benches across from them. Alfgeir saw the confrontation gathering momentum, and strode through the crowds to reach the warriors.

  The Jutone and Endal tribesmen glowered at each other, and King Marbad nodded to the remaining pipers, the music beginning once again.

  ‘That is proper music, Jutone,’ cried one of the Endals, dragging the charred remains of the pipes from the fire, ‘not the ear-bleeding nonsense you listen to.’

  The Marshal of the Reik finally reached the Jutone and spun him around, but the man had violence in mind and was not about to go quietly. His fist lashed out at Alfgeir, but Sigmar’s champion had been expecting the attack and lowered his head. The Jutone’s fist cracked into his forehead and the man roared in pain.

  Alfgeir stepped back and thundered his hammer into the man’s belly, doubling him up with an explosive whoosh of breath. A pair of White Wolves appeared at his shoulder, and Alfgeir quickly handed the incapacitated man off to them.

  Spurred into action, the rest of the Jutones hurled themselves at Alfgeir, fists arcing for his head. He rode the punches, and slammed the haft of his hammer into a snarling Jutone warrior’s face, breaking his nose and snapping teeth from his jaw. The Endals leapt to Alfgeir’s aid, and soon fists and feet were flying, as long-standing grudges and feuds reared their heads.

  Sigmar leapt from his throne and ran the length of the firepit, angry at the folly of this senseless brawl. Warriors rose to fight throughout the hall, and Sigmar pushed his way towards his champion. Belligerent cries followed in his wake, but were quickly silenced when it was realised who pushed his way through.

  The fighting at the end of the longhouse spread like ripples in a pool as warriors further from its origin were swept into its orbit. Queen Freya leapt into the fray like a banshee, while Taleuten warriors fought with Jutones, and Cherusen men grappled with shrieking Asoborn warrior women.

  Thus far, no one but Alfgeir had drawn a weapon, but it was only a matter of time until a blade was rammed home, and the gathering would break apart in discord. Without conscious thought, Sigmar hefted Ghal-maraz and leapt towards the heart of the struggling warriors.

  The weapon swept up and then down, slamming onto a tabletop and smashing it to splinters. The hammer struck the ground, and a deafening crack spread from the point of impact as a powerful wave of force hurled every man from his feet.

  Sudden silence fell as Sigmar strode into the centre of the fallen warriors.

  ‘Enough!’ he yelled. ‘You gather under a banner of truce! Or do I have to break some heads before you get the idea?’

  No one answered, and those closest to Sigmar had the sense to look ashamed of the fight.

  ‘We gather here to send my father to his final rest, a man who fought alongside most of you in battles too numerous to count. He brought you together as warriors of honour, and this is how you remember him? By brawling like greenskins?’

  Sigmar said, ‘The old sagas say that the people of this land are those that the gods made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad. Until now I did not understand those words, but now I think I do.’

  The words poured from Sigmar without thought, his every waking dream of empire flowing through him as he paced his father’s hall, the mighty warhammer held before him.

  ‘What kind of race are we that would draw the blood of our fellows when all around us are enemies that would gladly do it for us? Every year more of our warriors die to keep our lands safe, and every year the hordes of orcs and beasts grow stronger. If things do not change, we will be dead or driven to the edge of existence. If we do not change, we do not deserve to live.’

  Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz high, the firelight glittering from the runes worked into the length of its haft and its mighty head.

  ‘This land is ours by right of destiny, and the only way it will remain so is if we put aside our differences and recognise our shared goal of survival. For are we not all men? Do we not all want the same things for our families and children? When you strip away everything else we are all mortal, we all live in this world, breathe its air and reap its bounty.’

  King Krugar of the Taleutens strode forward and said, ‘It is the nature of man to fight, Sigmar. It is the way things have always been, and the way they always will be.’

  ‘No,’ said Sigmar. ‘Not any more.’


  ‘What are you suggesting?’ asked King Aloysis of the Cherusens.

  ‘That we become one nation,’ cried Sigmar. ‘That we fight as one. When one land is threatened, all lands are threatened. When one king calls for aid, all must answer.’

  ‘You are a dreamer, my friend,’ said Krugar. ‘We swear Sword Oaths with our neighbours, but to fight for a king in distant lands? Why should we risk our lives for people not our own?’

  ‘Why should we not?’ countered Sigmar, his voice carrying throughout the silent longhouse. ‘Think what we might achieve if we were united in purpose. What great things might we learn, were our lands always kept safe from attack? What new wonders might we discover if scholars and thinkers were free from the burden of feeding or defending themselves, and bent their entire will to the betterment of man?’

  ‘And who would rule this paradise?’ asked Aloysis. ‘You?’

  ‘If I am the only one with the vision to realise it, then why not?’ cried Sigmar. ‘But whoever would rule would be just and wise, a strong ruler with the support of his chiefs and warriors. He would have their loyalty and in turn they would have the protection of every warrior in the land.’

  ‘You really believe this can be done?’ asked Aloysis.

  ‘I believe it must be done,’ nodded Sigmar, holding out Ghal-maraz. ‘I believe that no problem of our destiny is beyond us. We must unite to fight for our survival, it is the only way. The high king of the dwarfs gave me this hammer, a mighty weapon of his ancestors, and I swear by its power that I will achieve this within my lifetime.’

  A cold wind whistled through the longhouse, and a gruff voice, sonorous and deeply accented said, ‘Fine words, manling, but Ghal-maraz is much more than just a weapon. I thought you understood that when I gave it to you.’

  Sigmar smiled and turned to see a squat, powerfully muscled figure standing silhouetted in the doorway of the longhouse. Firelight gleamed on shining armour of such magnificence that it took away the breath of every warrior gathered to see it. Gold and silver hammers and lightning bolts were worked into the shimmering breastplate, and links of the finest mail covered the warrior’s short legs.

  A full-faced helmet, worked in the form of a stylised dwarf god covered the warrior’s face and he stepped into the longhouse as he reached up to remove it.

  The face revealed was aged and pale, barely any flesh visible thanks to the swathes of braided hair and silver beard that covered the dwarf’s face. The eyes of the dwarf were aged with wisdom beyond the ken of men, and Sigmar lowered Ghal-maraz as he dropped to one knee.

  ‘King Kurgan Ironbeard,’ said Sigmar, ‘welcome to Reikdorf.’

  Every eye in the hall was fixed upon the High King of the dwarfs as he paced before the assembled warriors upon the raised dais next to Sigmar and Eoforth. News of the dwarfs’ arrival had spread quickly, and the hall was packed with warriors gathered to hear the king of the mountain folk speak.

  Master Alaric had come from his forge, greeting his king like a long-lost friend, and they had spoken briefly in the language of their people before the high king had nodded sadly and turned away.

  The king’s guards were powerful dwarfs in elaborate armour, fashioned from a metal that shone brighter than the most polished silver, and which threw back the torch light of the hall in dazzling brilliance. Each of the warriors bore a mighty axe, easily the equal of any carried by the strongest Unberogen axemen, and their eyes were guardedly hostile. No man had yet dared speak with any of them, for they seemed like otherworldly beings, strange and dangerous to approach.

  King Kurgan had returned Sigmar’s greeting, and marched through the men gathered in the longhouse, parting them like a ship parts the water as he marched towards the dais before the throne of the Unberogen kings.

  ‘You remember the day I gave you that hammer, manling?’ asked the high king.

  ‘I remember it well, my king,’ replied Sigmar, following King Ironbeard.

  ‘Clearly you do not,’ growled Kurgan. ‘Or you’d remember that it was Ghal-maraz that chose you. I saw something special in you that day, boy. Don’t make me regret giving you the heirloom of my house.’

  King Kurgan turned to the gathered warriors and said, ‘I expect you know how this young one came by Ghal-maraz?’

  No one dared answer the king until Wolfgart shouted, ‘We’ve heard it once or twice, but why don’t you tell it, King Kurgan?’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Kurgan, ‘mayhap I shall. Looks like someone needs to remind you of what it means to bear an ancestral weapon of the dwarfs. But first I need some beer. ’Tis a long way from the mountains.’

  Master Alaric swiftly produced a firkin of beer, the mouth-watering aroma of fine dwarf ale drifting to those nearby as a tankard was poured for Kurgan. The dwarf king took a long swallow of the beer, and nodded appreciatively before setting the tankard down on the armrest of King Björn’s throne.

  ‘Very well, manlings,’ began Kurgan. ‘Listen well, for this is a tale you will not hear from a dwarf’s lips again for as long as any of you shall live, for it is the tale of my shame.’

  A hushed sense of expectation pressed upon the walls of the longhouse, and even Sigmar, who knew the tale of Ghal-maraz better than anyone, felt a breathless sense of excitement, for he had never dreamed that he might hear the dwarf king speak of his rescue before a hall of tribesmen.

  ‘Was barely yesterday,’ said Kurgan. ‘The blink of an eye to me, so close I remember everything about it, more’s the pity. Me and my kin were travelling through the forests to the Grey Mountains to visit one of the great clans of the south, the Stonehearts. Fine workers of the stone, but greedy for gold. Loved it more than any other clan of dwarfs, and that’s saying something, let me tell you.

  ‘Anyway, we were crossing a river when the thrice-cursed greenskins fell upon us, led by a great black orc monster named Vagraz Head-Stomper. Cunning as a weasel that one was, waited until we were ready to stop for the night and break out the beer before they attacked us. Black arrows took my kinsman, Threkki, in the throat. Stained his white beard as red as a sunset, I’ll never forget it. Our guards, dwarfs I’d known longer than twice your eldest’s span of years, were cut down without mercy, and our ponies were hamstrung by goblins. Friends from hearth and home were murdered by the greenskins, and I remember thinking it were an evil day when they took us prisoner and hadn’t just killed us.

  ‘They robbed us of our gold and treasure, and of our weapons. A black day it was for sure, and I remember thinking to myself, “Kurgan, if you ever get out of this, there’s going to be a grudge as long as your arm…”. But I’m getting ahead of myself, and my throat’s dry reliving this here story.’

  The dwarf king stopped for another mouthful of beer, his audience enraptured by his tale and his iron-hard voice. It was a voice of supreme confidence, but was not arrogant, for the king had tasted defeat and, in doing so, had gained humility.

  ‘So, there we were, tied to stakes rammed into the ground and nothing but sport for the orcs. All we could do was try to break our bonds and die with honour. But even that was denied us, for we were tied with our own rope, good dwarf rope that even I couldn’t break. All around us, Vagraz and his orcs were sitting like kings on our treasure, drinking five hundred year old beer that was worth an army in gold and feasting on the flesh of my friends. I struggled and I struggled, but I couldn’t break them ropes.

  ‘I looked that big black orc right in the eye, and I’m not ashamed to say that he was a damned fearsome beast. It was his eyes, you see… red, like the fires of a forge that had burned low, filled with hate and anger… so much hate. He planned on torturing us, one by one, letting me watch all my friends and kin torn apart for the fun of it. He wanted me to beg, but a dwarf begs to no one, least of all a damned orc! I vowed right then that I was going to see that beast dead before the morn.’

  Spontaneous cheering erupted, and Sigmar found himself joining in, swept up by the defiant turn in Kurgan’s tale. Every man in the hall was
standing straighter, pressing forward to hear more of the dwarf king’s story.

  ‘Brave words, manlings, brave words indeed, but as my old counsellor, Snorri, was dragged towards the fire, I don’t mind telling you that I thought my time for this world was done, that I was all set to join my ancestors. But it was not to be.’

  Kurgan walked over to Sigmar and placed a mailed fist in the centre of his chest.

  ‘The greenskins were getting ready to torture old Snorri when suddenly the air’s filled with arrows, human arrows. At first I didn’t know what was happening, then I saw this young lad here leading a scrawny looking pack of painted men into the orc camp, whooping and yelling, and screaming like savages.

  ‘Half of me thinks that we’re still not out of the pot, that we’re just going to get robbed and killed by this lot instead of the orcs, but then they starts killing the greenskins, fighting with courage as hard as an Ironbreaker’s hammer and just as deadly. Never saw anything like that before, humans fighting orcs with such heart and fire. Then this lad jumps right into the middle of an orc shieldwall, cutting and stabbing with a little sword of bronze. Madness I thought, he’ll never walk out of there alive, but then he does, not just alive, but with a ring of dead greenskins all around him.

  ‘Now I’m not a dwarf that’s easily impressed, you understand, but young Sigmar here fought like the spirits of all his ancestors were watching him. He even lifted the stake old Borris was tied to right from the ground, and I’d seen three orcs ram that stake into the earth. Course by now some of us are being freed, and as my bonds were cut, I turns to young Sigmar and tells him that his warriors are all going to die unless they gets some help. Now my lads and I, well, we had some powerful rune weapons with us when we were taken, and I knew exactly where to find them.’

  Kurgan paused as he shared a guilty look with Sigmar. ‘Well, maybe not exactly, but not far off. I knew that Vagraz would keep all the weapons in his tent, close by so he’d have all the best stuff, because even an orc knows good weapons when he sees them. By now, Sigmar here’s fighting the monster, and they’re going back and forward, hacking lumps from one another, only Sigmar’s having the worst of it on account of Vagraz’s axe and armour. Now, I don’t know what kind of enchantment the orc shamans work, but whatever dark spells they wield must be powerful. Black flames flickered around the beast’s axe, and, no matter where Sigmar stuck him with his sword, he couldn’t even scratch the warlord.’