The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘Thousands will die to satisfy that honour,’ said Sigmar. ‘It is madness.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps,’ agreed Alfgeir, ‘but I can’t help but admire him for it.’

  Wolfgart dragged his mighty sword from his shoulder scabbard. ‘Ach, let’s just get this over with and go home.’

  Sigmar smiled, guessing the cause of Wolfgart’s irritation, and grateful for a chance to change the subject. ‘Do not worry, brother. We’ll keep you safe and get you home for Maedbh.’

  ‘Aye, she’d have our guts if we didn’t,’ said Pendrag.

  Despite the danger of travelling in the snow, Wolfgart had journeyed back into the east soon after their return from their mission to Queen Freya’s lands, and had spent the winter with the Asoborns. When he had returned in the spring, he had proudly sported a tattoo upon his arm, a sign of his betrothal to Maedbh. When this bloody business with the Thuringians had been concluded, he would be joined to the Asoborn woman over the Oathstone in Reikdorf.

  Sigmar was happy for his friend and looked forward to the revelries that always followed a hand fastening ceremony, but melancholy touched him as his thoughts inevitably turned to Ravenna. Many years had passed since her death, but not a day went by without Sigmar thinking of her.

  Even when he had lain with Freya, it had been Ravenna’s face he had pictured.

  He shook off such thoughts, for it would attract ill-luck to think of the dead before battle.

  The blare of Unberogen horns sounded, the army ready to march to battle, and Sigmar shook hands with each of his comrades.

  ‘Fight well, my friends,’ he said. ‘If we must fight this battle for honour, then let it be fought swiftly.’

  Sigmar crashed his hammer into the chest of a Thuringian warrior, spinning on his heel as he blocked a thrusting spear with the sword in his other hand. His elbow hammered the wielder’s face, and he leapt the falling body to shoulder charge the man behind him. A berserker’s axe had splintered his shield and he bled from a score of shallow wounds.

  The sound of screaming warriors filled the air, thousands of battle-hardened tribesmen hacking at one another with axe and sword, or stabbing with spears and daggers. King Otwin’s army was disintegrating before the charge of the Unberogens, Alfgeir’s White Wolves smashing into the left flank and crushing the lightly armoured warriors there. Nimble outriders encircled the right flank, while unflinching spearmen and swordsmen met the furious charge of the berserkers in the centre.

  Sigmar had waited with Pendrag and Wolfgart as the screaming Thuringians charged towards them. Most were naked and covered in colourfully painted spirals, their hair pulled into stiffened spikes with chalked mud. They swung enormous swords and axes, their eyes maddened and their mouths foaming.

  A giant warrior came at Sigmar, his face pierced with spikes of metal and heavy rings. His body was enormous, packed with muscle and bleeding from deep, self-inflicted cuts. Sigmar ducked a whooshing sweep of the man’s axe, the blow hacking the warrior next to him in two. The return stroke was blindingly swift, and the edge of the axe caught Sigmar’s shoulder guard, and tore him from his feet.

  Sigmar rolled in the mud, desperately trying to find his feet. A spear stabbed for him, and he deflected it with his forearm. The point hammered the ground, and Sigmar kicked out at the wielder, cracking his kneecap and driving him back. The ground slid beneath him, churned to mud by the battling warriors, and a sword slashed across his chest as he rose to his feet, the iron links parting beneath the powerful blow.

  The padded undershirt he wore was cut, but the mail had robbed the blow of its strength. He headbutted the swordsman, and then slammed his hammer into his groin. The giant axeman swung at him again, and Sigmar threw up Ghal-maraz to block the blow. The ringing impact numbed his arm, but he spun around the warrior’s guard, and stabbed his sword into his gut.

  The sword was torn from his hand, and the giant slammed the haft of his axe into Sigmar’s face. Blood sprayed from his burst lip, stars exploded behind his eyes and he reeled at the force of the strike.

  Though dealt a mortal wound, the axeman came at him again, apparently untroubled by the sword in his belly. The man howled as he swung his axe, the madness of battle overcoming his pain. Sigmar ducked beneath a killing blow, stepping in to ram the head of his hammer against the hilt of his sword. The impact drove the blade further into the man’s flesh until the hand guard was pressed against his skin.

  The warrior reached out and took hold of Sigmar’s hair, wrenching his head back to expose his neck. The axe rose, and Sigmar reached down. He took hold of the sword’s handle and planted his foot in the giant’s belly.

  Sigmar twisted the sword and pulled. The blade slid free and Sigmar spun, chopping it down with all his strength on the side of the giant’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound, the squirting power of the crimson stream telling Sigmar that he had struck an artery.

  The warrior staggered, and Sigmar swung his hammer in an upward arc, knocking the giant to the ground. The mail shirt was dripping rings to the ground, torn and useless, so, in the few moments of space he had created, Sigmar shrugged it off, leaving his upper body bare. His hair was unbound and wild, his face a mask of blood, and Sigmar hoped none of his warriors would mistake him for a Thuringian berserker.

  A breathless Pendrag appeared at his side, his axe bloody and his mail shirt battered, but his grip on the banner still strong. ‘Gods, I thought that big bastard was never going down!’

  ‘Aye,’ gasped Sigmar. ‘He was a tough one all right.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Pendrag.

  ‘Nothing serious,’ said Sigmar, seeing a furious melee erupt deeper in the ranks of the Thuringians, beneath a banner bearing a design of silver swords against a black background.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sigmar. ‘I see Otwin’s banner!’

  Pendrag nodded as Unberogen warriors formed a fighting wedge around their king and, without further words, Sigmar led his warriors towards the centre of the battlefield. Sigmar’s practiced eye could see that the Thuringian army was doomed. The White Wolves were crushing the flanks and pushing towards the centre, their dreaded hammers rising and falling bloody as they pounded a path towards the king’s banner.

  The right flank had collapsed into isolated shieldwalls. Only the centre held firm against the Unberogen attack, and if the battle was to be ended, Sigmar must reach the king.

  Blood-maddened berserkers threw themselves in front of the Unberogen king, and all died before his warhammer or sword. Gathered around their king, Sigmar’s warriors were unstoppable, fighting with stubborn courage and ferocity. Yard by yard, the Unberogen pushed through the screaming mass of Thuringians, hacking a bloody path and howling the name of Sigmar.

  Sigmar saw Otwin fighting in the centre of his battle line and felt a shiver of superstitious dread seize him. The king of the Thuringians was a giant of a man, even bigger and more powerful than the axeman Sigmar had killed. Otwin’s naked body was festooned with tattoos and piercings, his crown a patchwork of golden spikes hammered through the flesh of his temple. Blood coated his body and he wielded an axe chained to his wrist with twin blades more monstrous than those of Sigmar’s father’s weapon.

  A clutch of similarly fearsome warriors gathered around their king, their howling cries like a pack of rabid wolves. Sigmar saw Otwin register the fighting wedge of Unberogen warriors and turn to face them with a leering grin of insane fury.

  One of the king’s champions leapt forward, unable to contain his battle lust, and Sigmar swung his hammer at the warrior. The warrior ducked and dived beneath the blow, rolling to his feet with his twin swords extended before him. Sigmar leapt above the thrusting blades and spun in the air, hammering his heel against the warrior’s chin.

  The man’s neck snapped with a hideous crack and he fell as yet another warrior attacked. Sigmar raised his sword to strike, but hesitated as he saw that this champion was a beautiful woman with a whip-thin physique, golden hair and tawny eyes. Her bo
dy was powerful, but fast. Sigmar’s hesitation almost cost him his life as the twin swords she bore slashed towards him in a blur of bloodstained bronze.

  ‘I am Ulfdar!’ screamed the warrior woman. ‘And I am your death!’

  Sigmar parried one of Ulfdar’s swords as the other sliced across his shoulder in a line of fire. He deflected another blow with his blade, and rammed his forehead into Ulfdar’s face. She staggered and spat blood, laughing maniacally as her sword stabbed for his groin. Sigmar swayed aside as the blades of his warriors finally met those of the Thuringian king’s retinue.

  The warrior woman’s second blade slashed towards his neck, and Sigmar stepped into the blow, her hand striking the iron torque at his neck. Sigmar heard her fingers snap, and the sword spun away from her. He swung his hammer towards her stomach, the heavy head driving the breath from her body. His knee drove up into her jaw, and he heard it crack as she fell to her knees before him. The berserk light was fading from her eyes as the pain of her wounds overcame the red mist upon her, yet still she glared up at him in defiance.

  Sigmar knew he should kill her, as she would have killed him, but some unknown imperative stayed him from delivering the fatal blow. Instead, he hammered his fist against her cheek, knowing that were she to remain conscious she would only try to find another weapon and get herself killed.

  The battle flowed around Sigmar like a living thing, the tide of screaming warriors a rising crescendo of pain and fury. He saw a knot of enemy warriors forging a path towards his crimson banner, and shook his head free of the combat he had just fought as the mighty berserker king bellowed his challenge to him in blood and courage.

  Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz high for all his warriors to see, and answered with his own challenge.

  The two kings met in a clash of fire and fury, Otwin’s mighty axe cleaving the air in a bloody arc as Sigmar rolled beneath the blow to smash his hammer into his foe’s side. The king of the Thuringians grunted in pain, but did not fall, the haft of his axe hooking down, the blade stabbing into the muscle at Sigmar’s shoulder.

  Sigmar cried out in pain and dropped his sword. Otwin thundered his fist against Sigmar’s face, and he fell back, feeling his cheekbone break. The Thuringian king pressed forwards, his axe slicing up to take Sigmar under the arm and drive into his heart. Sigmar spun away from the axe and let the momentum of his spin carry Ghal-maraz into Otwin’s hip, the powerful blow driving the Thuringian king to his knees.

  Sigmar shook his eyes free of blood, and leapt to attack his foe once more. Otwin’s axe swept out, but Sigmar was ready, and hammered Ghal-maraz against the king’s wrist.

  Hot sparks erupted from the chain that bound the axe to Otwin, and the links parted before the fury and craft of the great warhammer. Sundered links of chain flew through the air, and the enormous axe spun from Otwin’s grasp.

  Sigmar closed the gap between them, and his hand closed on Otwin’s throat, crushing the breath from him. The berserker king’s eyes bulged and he struggled to rise, but Sigmar kept him on his knees, his grip like iron upon his neck. Otwin clawed at Sigmar’s arm, but the choking grip was unyielding. Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz above his head, the rune-forged hammer poised to split the Thuringian king’s skull.

  All movement on the battlefield ceased as the warriors of both armies sensed the import of this clash of giants. The outcome of the battle was being decided in this one moment, and the clash of blades died as all eyes turned to the struggle at the centre of the field.

  Sigmar lowered his warhammer and lifted Otwin from his knees, keeping his grip firm on his foe’s neck until he saw the light of battle-madness driven from his eyes. The berserker king drew a rasping breath into his lungs as Sigmar released his grip and met his gaze without fear or shame.

  ‘It is over, King Otwin,’ said Sigmar, his tone brooking no disagreement. ‘You have a choice now: live or die. Swear your Sword Oath with me. Become part of my brotherhood of warriors, and together we will build an empire of men to hold back the darkness.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’ growled Otwin, blood leaking from the edge of his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheeks.

  ‘Then I will drive you and all your people from this land,’ promised Sigmar. ‘Every man gathered here will be slain, your villages will burn, your heirs will die and the lamentation of your women shall be unending.’

  ‘That is not much of a choice,’ said Otwin.

  ‘No,’ agreed Sigmar. ‘What is it to be? Peace or war? Life or death?’

  ‘You have a heart of stone, King Sigmar,’ said Otwin, ‘but, by the gods, you are a warrior to walk the road to Ulric’s Hall with!’

  ‘Do I have your oath?’ asked Sigmar, offering his hand to the Thuringian king.

  ‘Aye,’ said Otwin, taking Sigmar’s hand, ‘you have it.’

  Music filled the king’s longhouse, and dancers spun and laughed as they wove in and out of each other’s path in time to the drums and pipes. Garlands of flowers hung from the rafters, and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle was a fragrant blossom on the air. Sigmar watched the wedding dances with unalloyed joy, relishing seeing his warriors at play instead of at war.

  With the victory against the Thuringian host, the majority of warriors in Sigmar’s army had returned to their homes, while the standing fighting men had marched back to Reikdorf in triumph. Though many men had died to secure the sword oath of King Otwin, Sigmar had been pleased, and not a little relieved, to see that many of the wounded would live.

  Alfgeir had taken a lance to the side, but his armour had prevented the weapon from disembowelling him, and Pendrag had lost three fingers on his left hand when a Thuringian axe had struck the banner pole and slid down its length. Despite the loss of his fingers, Pendrag had not let the banner fall, and Sigmar had never been more proud of his sword-brother. The healer, Cradoc, had saved the rest of Pendrag’s fingers, but he would always bear the scars of the battle to win over the Thuringians.

  Wolfgart had come through the battle unscathed, requiring little more than a few stitches across his forearms and legs, and had immediately set off ahead of the main body of the army to Reikdorf.

  Maedbh had been waiting for him, and on the day following Sigmar’s return, he and Maedbh walked the flower-strewn path to the Oathstone, where the priestess of Rhya had fastened their hands with a spiral of mistletoe and taken their pledges of faith and fertility.

  Sigmar had blessed the union and Pendrag had presented the fastening gifts: a gold torque of wondrous workmanship for Maedbh and a mail shirt embossed with a silver wolf for Wolfgart.

  Sigmar had opened the doors to the king’s longhouse and all were made welcome within, the wines and beers free to everyone who desired to be part of the festivities. The square before the longhouse became a gathering for feasters, and it did not take long for singers, minstrels and tale tellers to begin the entertainments.

  Sigmar had danced with many of the village maidens, but he had excused himself before becoming too entangled with the dancing, and returned to his throne to watch over his people. Now, with the pleasant glow of wine and grain spirits warming his stomach, Sigmar felt as though his dream was on the very cusp of completion. Only the furthest tribes remained aloof from the advances of the Unberogen, the Jutones and Bretonii in the west, and the Brigundians and Ostagoths of the east.

  Further south-east were the Menogoths and the Merogens, but whether they even still existed was a mystery, for their lands were dangerously close to the mountains, where all manner of bloodthirsty tribes of orcs and beasts made their lairs.

  Sigmar smiled as he watched Maedbh and Wolfgart dance with their arms linked in a circle of their friends. Seated at a table nearby, Pendrag tapped his foot in time with the music, his hand wrapped in spiderleaf bandages.

  Even Alfgeir had been persuaded to dance, and old Eoforth was dancing lustily with the maiden aunts of the town. Laughter and good cheer were the common currency of this day, and Sigmar’s people were spending it freely i
n the spirit of shared friendship and plenty.

  Reikdorf had continued to grow over the years, and with the discovery of fresh gold and iron ore in the hills, its prosperity had been assured. Tanneries, breweries, forges, clothmakers, dyers, potters, horse breeders, millers, bakers and schools could all be found within Reikdorf’s walls, and its people were well-fed and numerous.

  Over four thousand people called Reikdorf home, and though much of the town was still protected by timber stockade walls, the majority of the foundations had been laid for an encircling wall of stone that would protect the Unberogen from attack.

  Sigmar was not yet twenty-seven, but he had already achieved more than his father, though he was canny enough to know that he had stood upon the shoulders of giants to reach such heights.

  The music shifted in tempo, slowing from the furious drive of the previous tune to become a haunting lament that spoke of lost love and forgotten dreams. The dancing slowed as couples held each other close, and friends drank fresh toasts to the honoured slain who walked with Ulric in the halls of the dead.

  Sigmar rose from his throne and, unnoticed, slipped from the longhouse through a door at the rear, making his way from the festivities to a dark place to the north of the town. The night was warm and the light breeze was pleasant on his skin after so long in armour.

  Both moons were bright and high, and his shadows were short as he walked alone through the streets. A few of his hounds followed him from the hall, but Sigmar sent them back with a curt whistle and a chop of his hand. The further Sigmar travelled from the centre of the town, the fewer stone buildings he passed, the majority well-formed from timber and thatch. The buildings were tightly packed, and he passed unnoticed towards the section of wall he knew was unfinished.

  The wall was patrolled, but Sigmar knew the town and its rhythms, the pace of the guards and their movements better than anyone. It was a simple matter for him to pass the walls without detection and vanish into the forests around the city.