The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘It is an honour to stand in your halls, Queen Freya,’ said Sigmar with a short bow.

  ‘You have come from Taleuten lands,’ stated Freya. ‘Why do you enter my domain now?’

  Sigmar swallowed and said, ‘I have come with gifts for you, Queen Freya.’

  ‘Armour of iron and dwarf-forged swords,’ said Freya, tilting her head to one side. ‘I have seen them, and they please me. Are the horses mine too?’

  Sigmar nodded. ‘They are. Wolfgart here is a horse breeder of no little skill, and these steeds are faster and more powerful than any others in the land. These beasts are among his finest studs and will give you many strong foals.’

  Freya drew level with Sigmar, and he felt his pulse quicken as he took in the scent of the oils applied to her skin and hair. The queen of the Asoborns was tall, and her eyes were a fierce, penetrating emerald that regarded Sigmar with a predatory gleam.

  ‘His finest studs,’ repeated Freya with a smile.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Wolfgart. ‘You’ll find no finer in the land.’

  ‘We shall see about that,’ said Freya.

  The sun was approaching midday when Sigmar emerged from Queen Freya’s Great Hall, tired and glad to feel the breath of wind on his face. His limbs were scratched and tired, and he felt as weak as when he had awoken from the Grey Vaults.

  Golden light bathed him, and he turned his face to the sun, enjoying the blue of the sky now that the storm had broken. A great hill rose at his back, perfectly round and crowned with red-barked trees that flowered with a sweet smelling blossom. The queen’s halls lay buried beneath the tree, the entrance hidden to all but the most thorough search.

  Though he had just emerged from the hall, Sigmar found that even he could scarcely tell how to gain entry within. Looking around him, laughing Asoborns went about their daily duties, and here and there, Sigmar could see wisps of smoke from buried homes or perhaps a smithy.

  The people of the east were long-limbed and fair of skin, their hair blonde or copper, and their bodies heavily tattooed. Though there was a mix of sexes moving through the cunningly concealed settlement, Sigmar noted that it was predominantly women who bore weapons and walked with the confident swagger of the warrior.

  A fierce pride burned in the hearts of the Asoborns, and to harness that was to tie oneself to a maddened colt, but the bargain was sealed, and he and Freya had exchanged Sword Oaths after numerous bouts of furious lovemaking.

  His back felt as though he had been flogged, and his chest bore the imprint of Freya’s sharpened teeth from collarbone to pelvis. His leggings had chafed against his groin as he had dragged them on and finally climbed from her bed.

  Sigmar walked amongst Freya’s people and saw the steep, thickly wooded slopes of the other two hills that gave the name to the Asoborn settlement. He saw dwellings constructed atop the trees and among the tangled roots of their trunks. A mill had been fashioned in the body of tall oak, the sails turning slowly and turning a millstone that Sigmar suspected must lie beneath the hill.

  A tumbling stream wound its way through the settlement, and Sigmar knelt beside it, dipping his head in the fast-flowing waters, letting the sudden cold wash away his tiredness and the taste of the potions that Freya had made him consume, claiming they would prolong the act of love.

  Sigmar knelt back on his haunches and threw back his head, letting the water pour down his chest and back. He blinked away the last droplets on his face and ran his hands through his golden hair, pulling it into a long scalp lock and securing it with a leather cord.

  ‘So could you?’ asked an amused voice behind him.

  ‘Could I what, Wolfgart?’ asked Sigmar, rising to his feet and turning to face his sword-brother. In contrast to his own appearance, Wolfgart looked fresh and well rested, his eyes full of wicked amusement.

  ‘Could you beat Freya in a fight? Surely you remember your father’s advice about only bedding wenches you could best in a fight?’

  Sigmar shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think Freya sees much difference between rutting and fighting. I certainly feel as though I have been in a battle.’

  ‘You look like it too, brother,’ said Wolfgart, turning him around and inspecting the flesh of his back. ‘Gods alive! It looks like you’ve been mauled by a bear!’

  ‘Enough,’ said Sigmar, pulling away from Wolfgart. ‘Not a word of this when we get back. I mean it.’

  ‘Of course not,’ smiled Wolfgart. ‘My lips are sealed tighter than a virgin’s legs on Blood Night.’

  ‘That’s not very tight at all,’ pointed out Sigmar.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Wolfgart, relishing Sigmar’s discomfort and ignoring his glare, ‘are we allies with the Asoborns? Did they accept our gifts?’

  ‘Aye, they did,’ said Sigmar. ‘The gifts pleased the queen, as did your horses.’

  ‘I should damn well think so!’ said Wolfgart. ‘I gave her Fireheart and Blackmane, the finest stallions of my herd. You could strap a hundredweight of armour to them and they’d still outpace the ponies the Asoborns use to pull their chariots. Give them a few years and they will have warhorses worthy of the name.’

  ‘Freya knows that, and that’s why she gave me her Sword Oath.’

  Wolfgart slapped his palm on Sigmar’s back and laughed as he flinched in pain. ‘Come on, brother, we both know the real reason she gave you her oath.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘When the sap of an Unberogen man rises there’s not a woman in the world can say no.’

  Sigmar and Wolfgart were returned to their warriors later that day, though as sworn allies of the Asoborns, they were not blindfolded this time. As they led their horses over the ridge before the gathered Unberogen, a great cheer went up, and Sigmar cast a withering glance towards Wolfgart, who affected an air of supreme nonchalance.

  Sigmar was glad to see the Asoborns had been true to their word and none of his warriors had been harmed, but they were clearly relieved to have their king return to them.

  Once again, their guide had been the warrior woman, Maedbh, and she rode alongside them in a chariot of lacquered black wood and bronze edging. A pair of hardy plains ponies pulled the chariot, and the wheels were fitted with glittering scythe blades. Remembering the ripple of fear that had passed through his men at the sight of the chariots, Sigmar knew that when they were pulled by powerful Unberogen horses, they would be nigh unstoppable in battle.

  Maedbh halted her chariot and stepped down from the fighting platform to stride over to Sigmar and Wolfgart. She shared her queen’s tempestuous beauty, and Sigmar hid his amusement as he guessed the reason for her approach.

  ‘You leave our lands as a friend, King Sigmar,’ said Maedbh.

  ‘We are one people now,’ replied Sigmar. ‘If your lands are threatened, our swords are yours to call upon.’

  ‘Queen Freya said you were a man of stamina. All Unberogen men are like you?’

  ‘All Unberogen men are strong,’ agreed Sigmar.

  Maedbh nodded and moved past him to stand before Wolfgart. Before his sword-brother could say anything, Maedbh hooked one hand behind Wolfgart’s neck, the other between his legs and pulled him close for a long, passionate kiss.

  Another mighty cheer erupted from the Unberogen warriors, and Sigmar laughed as Wolfgart struggled in the grip of the fearsome warrior woman. At last she released him and climbed back onto her chariot.

  ‘Come back to me in the summer, Wolfgart of the Unberogen,’ called Maedbh as she turned her chariot. ‘Come back and we will fasten hands and make strong children together!’

  The chariot swiftly vanished around the bend in the track, and Sigmar put his arm around his sword-brother, who stood speechless at what had happened.

  ‘Looks like I am not the only one to have made an impression,’ said Sigmar.

  Cormac Bloodaxe stood on the shore of a sea as grey as iron, and stared at the ruin of what had become of his people. His anger made him gnash his teeth as the berserk ra
ge threatened to come upon him once more, but he savagely quelled the rising fury. Sigmar of the Unberogen and his warriors had all but wiped them out, driving them from their homeland to this forsaken place across the sea.

  The southern shores of the cursed land were bleak and swept with snow, a wind like the breath of the mightiest ice daemon howling across the string of makeshift settlements that dotted the coastline.

  There was nothing of permanence to the settlements, for they had been constructed from the cannibalised remains of Wolfships, an ignoble end to the mighty vessels that had carried the Sea Wolves of the Norsii into battle for years.

  Those same ships had brought them here from the lands of the southern kings, but few men were left that knew the skills of the woodworker and the builder. Draughty lean-tos and caves now sheltered the pitiful remains of all that remained of the proud Norsii people, where once they had dwelled in mighty halls of fire and warriors.

  Cormac stood beside Kar Odacen, the stoop-shouldered mystic that had advised his father, the slain king of the Norsii, on the will of the gods. Cormac despised the man and had wanted to kill him for the disaster that had overtaken their people, but he knew better than to anger the gods, and had reluctantly allowed him to live.

  Kar Odacen had counselled the warrior kings of the north for as long as Cormac could remember, and it had been whispered by the elders that this Kar Odacen was the same man who had stood at the right hand of his great grandsire.

  Certainly, the man looked old enough, his pate shaved and his flesh wrinkled like worn leather. The man’s frame was skeletal, and his features were hooked like those of a raven. Cormac shivered, despite his thick woollen leggings and the heavy bearskin cloak he wore wrapped tightly about him. Though Kar Odacen’s dark robes were thin and ragged, he appeared not to feel the biting cold of the wind.

  ‘Tell me again why we are here, old man?’ snapped Cormac. ‘You will see us both dead with a fever if we remain here much longer.’

  ‘Have some patience, my young king,’ said Kar Odacen, ‘and some faith.’

  ‘I have precious little of either,’ snapped Cormac as a freezing gust of wind blew through him like a thousand icy knives. ‘If this is a fool’s errand, I will cut the head from your shoulders.’

  ‘Spare me your empty threats,’ said Kar Odacen. ‘I have seen my death a thousand times and it is not by your axe.’

  Cormac swallowed his anger with difficulty, and stared out to sea once more. Far to the south, through the banks of fog and across the dark waters of the ocean, lay the warm, fertile lands of the south, lands that had once been theirs.

  Lands that would one day be theirs again.

  Cormac could still taste the ash in his mouth from the burning ships and men as Sigmar’s strange war machines had hurled balls of flaming death from the cliffs. Thousands had died as their ships burned beneath them, and thousands more as they sank to the bottom of the sea.

  Sigmar and his allied kings would one day pay for these deaths, and Cormac vowed that he and all who came after him would once again sail across the water and take the songs of war southwards.

  Cormac knew, however, that these were dreams for another day, banking the flame of his anger in his heart. Last night around the fire, Kar Odacen had promised him that the days of blood would begin again soon, and that Cormac must accompany him to this desolate shoreline upon the dawn.

  Cormac could see nothing to make him believe that this journey was anything other than a waste of time, and was just about to turn and make his way back to the settlement when Kar Odacen spoke once more.

  ‘One comes who will be mightier than us all, even you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Look yonder,’ said Kar Odacen, pointing a bony finger out to sea.

  Cormac shielded his eyes against the glare of the pale sky, and saw a small boat bobbing helplessly in the swell of the surging waves. The tide was carrying it to shore, and the wind gusted uselessly through a torn and flapping sail. Such a boat was never meant to cross such an expanse of ocean, and Cormac was amazed that it had survived at all.

  ‘Where does it come from?’ he asked.

  ‘From the south,’ answered Kar Odacen.

  The boat continued to approach the shore, and as it tipped forward on the crest of a wave, Cormac saw that there was a man sprawled in its bottom.

  ‘Go,’ ordered Kar Odacen, when the boat had closed enough to reach. ‘Fetch it in.’

  Cormac shot the mystic a hostile glare, but waded into the sea nevertheless. The cold hit him like a blow, his legs numb within seconds. He waded in past his waist, already feeling the cold sap his strength with every passing moment.

  The boat came near, and he grabbed the warped timbers of its gunwale, quickly turning and heading back to shore. He heard the man within the boat groan.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ he hissed through gritted teeth, ‘you had better be worth all this.’

  Cormac struggled to shore, pulling the boat up onto the grey sands with difficulty. The cold was threatening to overcome him, but he saw that Kar Odacen had prepared a fire on the beach.

  Had he been in the water so long?

  Kar Odacen approached the boat, his face twisted with grotesque interest, and Cormac turned to the man in the boat as he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes.

  Midnight dark hair spilled around his shoulders, and his face was gaunt. Though unshaven and malnourished, the man was startlingly handsome. A scabbarded sword lay in the bottom of the boat, and as the man stirred, he reached for the weapon.

  Cormac reached down and plucked the scabbard from the man’s weakened grip. He drew the blade from its scabbard, holding the weapon aimed at the man’s throat.

  ‘Be careful,’ warned Cormac. ‘It is a bad death to be killed by your own sword.’

  As he held the sword out before him, Cormac admired the shining iron blade, its balance flawless, and its weight matched exactly to his reach and strength. Truly it was a magnificent weapon, and he had a sudden urge to lower the blade.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  The man licked his lips and tried to speak, but his mouth was parched from unnumbered days at sea, and his voice was an inaudible croak. Kar Odacen passed him a waterskin, and the man drank greedily, gulping down great mouthfuls.

  At last, the man lowered the waterskin and whispered, ‘I am called Gerreon.’

  Kar Odacen shook his head. ‘No. That is the name of your past life. You shall have another name now, a name given to you in ages past by the gods of the north.’

  ‘Tell me…’ begged Gerreon.

  ‘You shall be called Azazel.’

  Sixteen

  To be a King

  Though they were nearly a mile away, the strident cries of the berserker king’s battle line could clearly be heard from the Unberogen camp. Sigmar felt the weight of all his twenty-six years upon him now, hating the fact that his enemies on this battlefield were a tribe of men and not the greenskins.

  The sun was bright and the air chill, the last of the snows still clinging to the peaks of the mountains to the north and the winter winds blowing in from the western coast. Nearly twelve thousand Unberogen warriors were camped in the wilds of the lands of the Thuringians, ready to do battle with the painted warriors of King Otwin.

  Since dawn, the lunatic howls of berserk warriors had echoed through the forest, and the Unberogen men made the sign of the horns to ward off the evil spirits that were said to gather in the forests and drive men to madness.

  Hundreds of sword bands gathered around fires, and men exchanged raucous banter, sharpened already honed blades or offered prayers to Ulric that they would fight well. The smell of cooking meat and boiling oats hung in the air, though most warriors ate frugally, knowing that a full bladder and bowels were not desirable before going into battle.

  White Wolves tended to their mounts, rubbing them down and tying their tails with cords in preparation for the charge. The steeds did not yet wear their armour,
for they would need all their strength in the battle to come, and it would needlessly tire them to have it lifted onto their backs too early.

  The army was mobilising for war, the leaders of each sword band rousing his men and dousing the fires with handfuls of earth. What had once been a mass of men gathered without semblance of order, swiftly transformed into a disciplined army of warriors, and Sigmar’s heart swelled with pride to see them.

  He turned as he heard footsteps behind him, and saw Wolfgart, Pendrag and Alfgeir approaching. All were arrayed for battle, and Pendrag carried Sigmar’s crimson banner. The Marshal of the Reik’s face was grim, and even Wolfgart seemed uncomfortable at the nature of the battle they were about to fight.

  ‘Good day for it,’ said Wolfgart acidly. ‘The crows are already gathering.’

  Sigmar nodded sadly, for the outcome of the battle was surely not in doubt. Barely six thousand warriors opposed the Unberogen, and Sigmar’s army had never known defeat.

  ‘There is nothing good about this,’ said Sigmar. ‘Many men will die today and for what?’

  ‘For honour,’ said Alfgeir.

  ‘Honour?’ repeated Sigmar, shaking his head. ‘Where is the honour in this? We outnumber Otwin’s warriors at least two to one. He cannot win here and he must know that.’

  ‘It is not about winning, Sigmar,’ said Pendrag.

  ‘Then what is it about?’

  ‘Think on it, if our lands were invaded, would we not fight?’ asked Pendrag. ‘No matter how badly we were outnumbered, we would still fight to defend our lands.’

  ‘But we are not invaders,’ protested Sigmar. ‘I have done everything in my power to avoid this war. I offered King Otwin my Sword Oath and a chance to join us, but every emissary I sent was turned away.’

  Alfgeir shrugged, tightening the straps of his breastplate. ‘Otwin is canny; he knows he cannot win here, but he also knows that he would not remain king for long were he not to oppose us. When we defeat his army he will seek terms, for honour will have been satisfied.’