The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Sigmar rolled aside, and swung Ghal-maraz against Skaranorak’s exposed flank. The hammer rebounded from the beast’s iron hide. He scrambled to his feet and slammed his weapon into the paler flesh above the scaled skin of the dragon, but this blow was just as ineffective.

  The dragon ogre lashed out with its foreleg, and Sigmar was hurled through the air, landing on top of a mangled, half-eaten body. He rolled from the bloody corpse and shook his head free of the ringing dizziness that threatened to swamp him.

  Thunder boomed, and a jagged fork of lightning slammed into the ground, sending leaping blue flame spinning through the air. The rain beat the earth, and Sigmar swore he could hear hollow laughter in the wake of the thunder.

  The dragon ogre came at him once more, but Sigmar was ready for it this time. Again, he swayed aside at the last moment, letting the monster’s axe hammer the ground next to him. As the blade bit into the rock, Sigmar leapt towards Skaranorak, slamming his hammer into its chest and drawing a bellow of pain from it.

  He landed badly, and lost his footing on the slippery rocks, tumbling to the ground as Skaranorak’s axe slashed over him. Sigmar slithered over a jutting overhang, and dropped to a lower level of the plateau as the monster’s foot smashed down, leaving a clawed print hammered into the rock.

  Sigmar ran for the cover of a jumbled collection of rocky spires, gathered together like a forest of dark stalagmites in a cave. Perhaps here he could find some advantage, for out on the plateau he had none.

  He turned as he felt a gathering pressure in the air, and fell back as a colossal peal of thunder roared like the bellow of an angry god, and a spear of vivid lightning ripped the sky apart with its unimaginable brightness.

  The bolt struck the dragon ogre full in the chest, and Sigmar’s initial elation quickly turned to horror as he saw the creature swell with the terrible energies. Its eyes blazed with power and fire writhed beneath its flesh, as though its very bones were formed from the fury of the storm.

  Skaranorak leapt down from the plateau, and the earth seemed to quake at its touch. Sigmar had never known a foe like this, and his every instinct was to flee before its terrible power, for surely no man could stand before such a creature and live.

  Sigmar, however, had never once fled before his enemies, and the very fear he felt gave him strength, for what was courage without fear?

  He stood straighter and hefted his warhammer as the great beast advanced towards him, its prowling pace deliberate, like a stalking wolf.

  Seeing he was standing unyielding before it, the dragon ogre roared and charged once more, its axe sweeping out and smashing one of the stalagmite towers to splintered rock. Sigmar backed away from the beast as it hacked again, splitting yet more of the rock to jagged shards.

  Sigmar risked a glance over his shoulder as he led Skaranorak deeper into the forest of stalagmites. He saw that the depthless chasm was close by, noxious yellow tendrils of smoke reaching up from below.

  He also saw that he was running out of room to withdraw.

  The monster’s roars drowned out the peals of thunder that were coming so rapidly that it was like some daemonic drummer hammering on the roof of the world. Flickering lightning lit the skies with an unceasing barrage, and the rain hammered the mountains as though an ocean had been upended from the realm of the gods.

  Sigmar gripped his hammer and knew that he would need to make his move soon, for his reserves of strength would only last for so long. The climb from the lands of the Brigundians had left him almost spent, and to fight this monster at the end of such exertion…

  The dragon ogre smashed through a pair of stalagmites with brute force, its axe raised high to strike him down. Sigmar vaulted towards a tumbled spire of rock as the axe swept down, and hurled himself towards the beast as the blades passed beneath him.

  Sigmar slammed into the beast’s chest, his free hand scrabbling for purchase and finding one of the iron rings piercing its flesh. Gripping the ring tightly, Sigmar braced his feet against the monster’s stomach and smashed Ghal-maraz into its face.

  Skaranorak’s howl of pain sheared avalanches of rock from the mountain, and it bucked furiously as it sought to throw off its attacker. Sigmar held fast to the iron ring and slammed his warhammer into the beast’s face again, drawing a fresh bellow of rage.

  Scalding blood spattered Sigmar, and he roared in triumph as he saw the terrible damage his weapon had wrought upon Skaranorak’s face. The flesh around its eyes was a gory mess, blood spilling like tears down the shattered bones of its skull. The monster reared up, and Sigmar hung on for dear life as its clawed forelegs tore at him.

  White-hot fire lanced through Sigmar as the monster’s talons ripped into his back. He fell from Skaranorak, and cried out in agony as blood flowed from him. The dragon ogre thrashed madly above him, its bulk toppling stalagmites, its howls deafening.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Sigmar pulled himself upright, swaying as his strength sought to desert him. The blind monster thrashed madly in its agony and rage. Sigmar turned to climb the nearest jagged spike of rock as his vision greyed around the edges. He climbed higher, the rain hammering him and the wind threatening to dislodge him at any second.

  A clawed hand slammed into the rock beside him, the talons gouging deep grooves in the stone, and Sigmar lost his grip. He spun madly in the air, hanging by one hand as the rock trembled at the impact.

  Skaranorak’s bloody face was inches from his, but he had no leverage to strike the monster. It clawed at him, and Sigmar swiftly clambered above its questing hands as they scored the rock in quest of his flesh. More lightning shattered the sky, but the bolts were slamming into the ground without direction, as though without the dragon ogre’s guidance they could avail it nothing.

  Sigmar hauled himself onto the flat top of the rock spire, and lay flat on his belly, the rumbling quakes of Skaranorak’s madness causing it to shake like a reed in the wind. Blue fire crackled around the head of Ghal-maraz, and Sigmar remembered the lightning that had struck it before he had killed the leader of the forest beasts all those years ago.

  The power had flowed through him, and he had felt the energies of the heavens surge in his bones, filling his muscles and masking the pain of his wounds.

  Below him, Skaranorak tore at the air with its claws, its blindness rendering its attacks haphazard and random. Sigmar felt no pity for the monster, for it was a creature of unnatural origin, its flesh a fusion of warped beasts that were utterly inimical to his kind.

  Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz and rose to his full height as thunder crashed from the sides of the canyon, and a fork of lightning spat from above.

  The howling dragon ogre below him was illuminated for the briefest second, its roaring face turned up towards him.

  With a roar of anger, Sigmar leapt from the rock, Ghal-maraz held high as Skaranorak’s axe struck the spire and smashed it apart. Sigmar landed on the beast’s shoulder, and swung his hammer two-handed against the side of its skull.

  Driven with all Sigmar’s strength and rage, the rune encrusted head of Ghal-maraz smashed through the thinner bone of Skaranorak’s temple and buried itself in the monster’s brain.

  The dragon ogre’s howl of agony died, stillborn, and its enormous bulk crashed through the few spires of rock that still stood. Sigmar gripped the matted hair at the beast’s spine as it careened forward, and its body registered the fact that it was dead.

  The monster crashed to the ground, the impact splitting the rock beneath it, and Sigmar was thrown clear, his body skidding through the shattered debris of their epic battle. Blood flowed in the rain from his many wounds, and Sigmar groaned in pain as the full weight of his victory settled upon him.

  The last breath sighed from the tusked jaws of the dragon ogre, and as it died, the rain and thunder died with it. As Sigmar lay battered and bruised amid the rubble of the rock spires, the rain ceased, and the dark, purple-lit clouds began to disperse.

  Sigmar rolled onto his front,
groaning with the effort, and using the haft of Ghal-maraz to push himself to his knees. The body of the dragon ogre lay still, and despite the pain, Sigmar smiled. With the beast’s death, he had won another three tribes to his banner.

  ‘You were a worthy foe,’ said Sigmar, honouring the spirit of so mighty a beast.

  The sun broke through the clouds and a shaft of golden light shone upon the mountains.

  Summer sun shone on rippling fields of corn, and Sigmar felt a deep sense of contentment as he rode along the stone road that led through the hills to Reikdorf. In the two months since his departure from his capital, the fields had grown fruitful and the land had returned the care his people had lavished upon it.

  Many farms and villages dotted the landscape as the sun warmed the backs of farmers with their faces to the earth. Sigmar was proud of all that he and his people had achieved, and though there were sure to be hard times ahead, the land was at peace for the moment, and Sigmar was content.

  He had returned to the ruined village of Krealheim to find Siggurd and his men camping forlornly by the side of the river. The Brigundian king had wept with joy at the sight of him and the trophies he dragged behind him. After resting on the mountains for a day to recover his strength, Sigmar had cut the great tusks from the dragon ogre’s jaw, and had taken his long hunting knife to skin the iron-hard hide from its flanks.

  ‘We thought you were dead,’ said Siggurd when Sigmar had crossed the river.

  ‘I am a hard man to kill,’ replied Sigmar, breathless from his trek down the mountain.

  Sigmar held out the bloody tusks and offered them to Siggurd, who took them and shook his head in amazement and regret.

  ‘Alone you have achieved what our best warriors could not,’ said Siggurd. ‘The tales of your bravery and strength do you no justice.’

  Sigmar reached into a pocket sewn in his cloak, and removed something small and golden. He held it out to Siggurd and said, ‘I found this in the beast’s lair and thought it should be returned to you.’

  Siggurd looked at the object in Sigmar’s palm, and his face crumpled in anguish.

  ‘The ring of the Brigundian kings,’ he said. ‘My son’s ring.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Sigmar. ‘I too know the pain of losing a loved one.’

  ‘He was our best and bravest,’ said Siggurd, fighting for composure before his warriors. The king took the ring from Sigmar and drew himself upright, squaring his shoulders and looking into the mountain as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

  ‘We Brigundians are a proud people, Sigmar,’ said Siggurd at last, ‘but that is not always a good thing. When first you came before me, I saw an opportunity to be rid of you, for I had no wish to be drawn into what I believed to be your quest to enslave all the tribes with pretty words and high ideals. But when you accepted the task of slaying Skaranorak, I realised that you spoke true and that I had acted selfishly.’

  ‘It does not matter now,’ said Sigmar. ‘I live and the beast is dead.’

  ‘No,’ said Siggurd. ‘It does matter. I thought I had sent you to your doom, and I have waited here tormented by the guilt of that base deed.’

  Sigmar offered his hand to the Brigundian king and said, ‘Then our sword oath will mark a new beginning for the Unberogen and the tribes of the south-east. Let us measure our deeds from this point onwards as friends and allies.’

  Siggurd’s face was pained, but he smiled. ‘It shall be so.’

  They had left the shattered ruins of Krealheim and returned to Siggurdheim where the giant tusks of the slain dragon ogre were mounted on a great podium in recognition of Sigmar’s mighty victory. He had rested and recovered from his wounds, and a week after his return from the mountains, the kings of the furthest tribes had come to Siggurdheim.

  Henroth of the Merogens was a barrel-chested warrior with a long, forked beard of red and a heavily scarred face. Thick braids hung from his temples, his eyes were hard as napped flint and his grip strong. Sigmar liked him immediately.

  The Menogoth king, Markus, was a shaven-headed swordsman with a lean, wolfish physique and suspicious eyes. His initial manner was cold, but when he saw the tusks Sigmar had taken from the dragon ogre, he was only too eager to obey Siggurd’s directive to swear a sword oath with Sigmar.

  The four kings crossed their blades over Skaranorak’s tusks, and sealed their pact with an offering to Ulric that was witnessed by the priests of the city. After three nights of feasting and drinking, Markus and Henroth had departed for their own kingdoms, for the orcs were on the march, and they had battles of their own to win.

  Sigmar had promised Unberogen warriors to their battles, and he watched from the highest tower of Siggurdheim as they and their sword-brothers galloped towards the mountains. At dawn the following day, Sigmar took his leave from his brother king and prepared for the journey back to his own lands.

  It had taken him nearly five weeks to reach Siggurdheim on foot, but the journey home would be shorter, for King Siggurd had gifted him a powerful roan gelding with a gleaming leather saddle fashioned by Taleuten craftsmen.

  Unlike the horsemen of the Unberogen, who rode their steeds bareback, Taleuten riders went into battle on saddles fitted with iron stirrups, which allowed them to better guide their mounts and fight more effectively from horseback.

  In addition, the armourers and garment makers of Siggurdheim had worked together to create a shimmering cloak of scale from the hide that Sigmar had cut from Skaranorak. It was a wondrous thing, and could turn aside even the most powerful sword blow without a mark.

  Amid cheering crowds and the sound of singing trumpets, Sigmar rode north for his own lands once more, enjoying the sensation of riding with a saddle, and relishing the prospect of seeing his friends again.

  The journey north was uneventful, and Sigmar had once again enjoyed the solitude of travelling through the open landscape. He rode without the sense of liberation that had gripped him as he had left Reikdorf, but the chains of duty that had seemed constricting on the journey south were now welcome.

  Sigmar had hoped to arrive quietly and unannounced in Reikdorf, but he had been challenged by Unberogen scouts at the borders of his lands, and word of his return had swiftly travelled back to his capital. He had refused the offer of an escort, and had ridden for Reikdorf through a pastoral landscape of golden cornfields and peaceful villages.

  He passed a marker stone in the road that told him he was three leagues from Reikdorf, and urged his horse to greater speed as he saw many lines of smoke etched on the sky, too many for Reikdorf alone.

  At last, he came around the side of a rolling embankment and saw the smoke curling from the city, and from the hundreds of cook fires spread in the fields and hills to the north. The flanks of the hills were dotted with makeshift shelters, and thousands of people huddled together beneath canvas awnings or in shelters dug from the earth. From the colours of their cloaks and their dark hair, Sigmar could tell these people were not Unberogen, but who were they and why were they camped before the walls of Reikdorf?

  Warriors manned the walls of his capital, and afternoon sunlight glinted on hundreds of spear points and links of mail shirts. The city—it could no longer be called a town—was his home, and the life-giving River Reik glittered like a silver ribbon as it wound around the walls and meandered towards the far distant coast.

  Sigmar guided his horse along the south road, and joined the many trade wagons as they made their way towards the city. As he approached the gates of Reikdorf, a great cheer went up as the warriors on the wall recognised him. Within moments, the entire length of the wall was a mass of cheering men, who waved their spears or banged their swords against their shields in welcome.

  The gates of the city swung open, and Sigmar saw his closest friends awaiting him.

  Wolfgart stood alongside Alfgeir and Pendrag, who held his crimson banner in a gleaming silver hand. Beside Pendrag was a short bearded figure, clad in a long coat of shimmering scale, who wore a winged
helm of gold. Sigmar smiled as he recognised Master Alaric and raised his hand in welcome.

  Another man Sigmar did not recognise stood behind his friends, a tall, rangy warrior with a bare chest and a single scalp lock trailing down his back from the crown of his head. The man wore bright red leggings and high-sided riding boots, and he carried an ornate scabbard of black leather and gold.

  Sigmar put the stranger from his mind as Wolfgart clapped a hand on his horse’s neck.

  ‘You took your bloody time,’ said his sword-brother by way of a greeting. ‘A short journey you said. At least tell me it was successful.’

  ‘It was successful,’ said Sigmar as he dismounted. ‘We are now brothers with the tribes of the south-east.’

  Wolfgart took the horse’s reins and gazed quizzically at the arrangement of saddle and stirrups. ‘Brigundian?’

  Sigmar shook his head. ‘Taleuten, a gift from King Siggurd.’

  Alfgeir came forward and looked Sigmar up and down, taking in the fresh scars on Sigmar’s arms. ‘Looks like they didn’t join peacefully,’ he observed.

  ‘It is a fine tale,’ said Sigmar, ‘but I will tell it later. First, tell me what is going on? Who are these people camped beyond the walls?’

  ‘Greet your sword-brothers first,’ said Alfgeir. ‘Then we will talk in the longhouse.’

  Sigmar nodded, and turned to Pendrag and Master Alaric. He took Pendrag’s silver hand, and was surprised when the fingers flexed and gripped his own.

  His sword-brother smiled and said, ‘Master Alaric fashioned it for me. Almost as good as the real thing, he says.’

  ‘Better than the real thing,’ grumbled Alaric. ‘You won’t lose these fingers if you’re clumsy enough to let an axe strike them.’

  Sigmar released Pendrag’s hand and gripped the dwarf’s shoulder. ‘It is good to see you, Master Alaric. It has been too long since you visited us.’