‘Pah,’ grunted the dwarf. ‘Was just yesterday, boy. You manlings have such poor memories. I’ve hardly been gone.’
Sigmar laughed, for it had been nearly three years since he had laid eyes on Master Alaric, but he knew that the mountain folk counted time differently to the race of men, and that such a span of time was as the blink of an eye to them.
‘You are always a welcome visitor, my friend,’ said Sigmar. ‘King Ironbeard prospers?’
‘Aye, he does. My king sends me to you bearing grim tidings from the east. Much like this young fellow,’ said the dwarf, nodding towards the bare-chested man who stood apart from Sigmar’s captains.
‘And who are you?’ asked Sigmar, turning to face the stranger.
The man stepped forward and bowed before Sigmar. His skin was smooth and his features soft, but his eyes were haunted.
‘I am Galin Veneva. I am Ostagoth and come from King Adelhard. It is my people who are beyond your walls.’
Sigmar gathered his warriors in the longhouse to hear Galin Veneva’s tale, and it was with a heavy heart that he sat upon his throne and rested his warhammer beside him. The journey home through the peaceful fields and golden sunshine seemed now to be a last gift from the gods before what he knew would be days of blood and war.
The Ostagoth tribesman’s voice was heavily accented, and he told his tale haltingly, the memory of the horrors his people had suffered weighing heavily upon him.
Orcs were on the march in greater numbers than had been seen in living memory.
They had come in a green tide from the eastern mountains, burning and destroying all in their path. Entire Ostagoth settlements had been razed to the ground. No plunder had been taken and no captives hauled away, for the greenskins had simply slaughtered the people of the east for the sheer enjoyment of the deed.
Fields were burned and all the forces that King Adelhard could muster were swept away before the might of the orc host. Braying, chanting orc warriors in patchwork armour offered no mercy, and the scattered Ostagoths were no match for the brutal killers.
The men of the east fought on, their king rallying as many men to his banner as possible, while the survivors of the swift invasion fled into the west. Some were even now camped around Taalahim, seat of King Krugar of the Taleutens, but fearing the greenskins would drive onwards, many refugees had continued west to the lands of the Unberogen.
Sigmar well understood Galin’s bitterness at being in Reikdorf while his kinsmen fought and died to defend their homeland, but his ruler had tasked him with a solemn duty to meet with King Sigmar and present him with a gift and a request.
Alfgeir tensed as the Ostagoth approached Sigmar’s throne, holding a black and gold scabbard out before him.
‘This is Ostvarath, the ancient blade of the Ostagoth kings,’ said Galin proudly. ‘King Adelhard bids me present it to you as a sign of his truth. He pledges you his sword oath, and asks you to send warriors to his lands to fight the orcs. Our people are being slaughtered, and if you do not aid us, we will be dead by the time the leaves fall from the trees.’
Sigmar rose from his throne and accepted the scabbard from Galin, drawing the blade and letting his eyes linger on the fine workmanship of the sword. Ostvarath’s blade was polished and smooth, both edges honed to razor sharpness. This was truly a blade fit for a king, and for Adelhard to have sent his own sword was a sure sign of his desperation.
‘I accept your king’s sword oath,’ said Sigmar, ‘and I give mine to him. We will be as brothers in battle, and the lands of the Ostagoths will not fall. I give you my word on this, and my word is iron.’
The relief in Galin’s face was clear, and Sigmar knew that he wished to return to the east and the battles being fought in his homeland. Sigmar sheathed Adelhard’s blade and handed it back to Galin.
‘Return Ostvarath to your king,’ commanded Sigmar. ‘Adelhard will have need of it in the days to come.’
‘I shall, King Sigmar,’ said the tribesman with relief, before withdrawing from the throne.
Sigmar said, ‘Master Alaric? What news do you bring?’
The dwarf stepped into the centre of the longhouse, and his voice was laden with grim authority as he spoke.
‘The lad there spoke the truth, the orcs are indeed on the march, but the greenskins attacking his lands will soon retreat to the mountains.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Sigmar.
‘Because my people will stop them,’ said Alaric. ‘The warriors of the Slayer King and Zhufbar are even now marching to meet them in battle. But word has reached Karaz-a-Karak of a great horde of orcs, moving up from the peaks of the south and from the blasted lands east of the mountains. A host of greenskins that will make the army ravaging King Adelhard’s lands look like a scouting force. This is an army that seeks only to destroy the race of man forever.’
The atmosphere in the longhouse grew close, and Sigmar could feel the tension in every warrior’s heart at the news. The greenskin menace had been a constant threat for as long as any man could remember, killing and rampaging throughout the lands of men, but this was no mere raiding force.
Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz, and his gaze swept over the warriors gathered before him: proud men, courageous men. Men who would stand beside him and face this threat head on: Sigmar’s people.
‘Send riders to the halls of my brother kings,’ ordered Sigmar. ‘Tell them I call upon their sword oaths. Tell them to muster their warriors and prepare for war!’
Nineteen
The Swords of Kings
From where Sigmar stood on the banks of the River Aver, it appeared that the southern lands had been set ablaze. Pyres of dead orcs sent reeking plumes of black smoke into the sky, and what had once been fertile grassland was now a charred, ashen wasteland. The advance of the greenskins had been merciless and thorough, no settlement going unmolested and nothing of value left intact.
Sigmar’s anger smouldered in his breast, banked with the need to avenge the last two years of war. He had aged in these last years. His face was lined and tired around the eyes, and the first streaks of silver were appearing in his hair.
His body was still strong, the muscles iron hard, and his heart as powerful as ever, but he had seen too much suffering ever to be young again. His body ached from the days and nights of fighting to hold the bridges over the River Aver, and his many stitched wounds pulled tight as he walked through the Unberogen campsite.
Sigmar was bone weary, and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a season, but his warriors had fought like heroes, and he spent some time with each sword band, praising their courage and mentioning warriors by name. Dawn had been but a few hours old when the battle had been won, and now the sky was dark, yet still he could not rest.
Priestesses of Shallya and warrior priests of Ulric also made their way through the campsite, tending to the injured, easing the passing of the mortally wounded, or offering prayers to the Wolf God to welcome the dead into his halls.
Since Master Alaric’s warning of the orc invasions, Sigmar had hardly seen the lands where he had grown to manhood. He had returned to Reikdorf only twice in the last two years, but no sooner had he washed the orc blood from his armour and hair than the war horns would sound and he would lead his warriors into the fire of battle once more.
The dwarfs had been true to their word, holding the greenskin tribes from advancing any further into the lands of the Ostagoths, but the warriors of the High King had been forced to withdraw to defend their mountain holds. The time bought with dwarf lives had not been wasted, for King Adelhard had rallied his warriors and had linked with Alfgeir’s White Wolves, Cherusen axemen, Taleuten lancers and Asoborn war chariots. In a great battle on the Black Road, Adelhard smashed the orcs and drove the bloodied survivors back to the mountains.
By the time Sigmar had mustered the hosts of his fellow kings to march south-east, the lands of the Merogens and Menogoths were all but overrun, their kings besieged in their great ca
stles of stone. Orcs roamed the lands with impunity and laid waste to the lands of men.
Brutal, green-skinned savages destroyed villages and towns, burning what they could not carry. Thousands died, and only the natural internecine violence of the greenskins had prevented them from spilling west and north with greater speed.
Thousands of refugees flooded the lands of the Unberogen, and Sigmar had given orders that all were to be given shelter. The grain stores were bled dry, and kings from far off lands sent what aid they could spare in an effort to relieve the suffering. The days were dark and filled with despair, and it seemed as though the end of the world had come, for each day more howling warbands of greenskins descended from the mountains, while the armies of men grew weaker.
Sigmar paused by a lone, fire blackened tree atop a small hillock and looked out over the flood plains of the Aver, where the armies of Cherusens, Endals, Unberogen and Taleutens camped. Nearly fifty thousand warriors rested beside their campfires, eating, drinking and offering thanks to the gods that they were not food for the crows.
A limping figure climbed towards him, and Sigmar saw the aged form of the healer, Cradoc, the man who had helped bring him back from the wound Gerreon had inflicted.
‘You should rest, my lord,’ said Cradoc. ‘You look tired.’
‘I will, Cradoc,’ said Sigmar. ‘Soon. I promise.’
‘Oh, you promise, do you? I was told always to beware the promises of kings.’
‘I thought it was their gratitude?’
‘That too,’ said Cradoc. ‘Now are you going to get some rest, or am I going to have to beat you over the head and drag you?’
Sigmar nodded and said, ‘I will. How many?’ He did not have to qualify the question.
‘I will know for sure in the morning, but at least nine thousand men died to hold these bridges.’
‘And wounded?’
‘Less than a thousand, but most will not live through the night,’ said Cradoc. ‘A man felled by an orc rarely survives.’
‘So many,’ whispered Sigmar.
‘It would be more if you hadn’t held the bridges,’ said Cradoc, wrapping his arms around his frail body. ‘I shudder to think of it. The greenskins would have killed us all, and would be halfway to Reikdorf by now.’
‘This is just a temporary respite,’ said Sigmar. ‘The orcs will return. They have an unquenchable thirst for battle and blood. The dwarfs say an even larger host of greenskins gathers east of Black Fire Pass, awaiting the spring to pour across the mountains and wipe us from the face of the world.’
‘Aye, no doubt that’s true, but that is for another day,’ said Cradoc. ‘We are alive now and that is what matters. Tomorrow will look after itself, but if you do not rest, then you will be no use to man nor beast. You are a powerful man, my king, but you are not immortal. I have heard you fought in the thick of the battle, and Wolfgart tells me you would have been killed at least a dozen times, but for Alfgeir’s blade.’
‘Wolfgart talks too much,’ said Sigmar. ‘I have to fight. I have to be seen to fight. I do not wish to sound arrogant, but few men are my equal, and where I fight my warriors fight that much harder.’
‘You think me a simpleton?’ snapped Cradoc. ‘I have fought in my share of battles.’
‘Of course,’ said Sigmar. ‘I did not mean to patronise you.’
Cradoc waved away Sigmar’s apology. ‘I know the sight of a king risking his life in battle lifts the courage of men. But you are important now, Sigmar, not just to the Unberogen, but to all the tribes of men. Imagine how terrible a blow it would be if you were slain.’
‘I cannot simply watch a battle, Cradoc,’ said Sigmar. ‘My heart is where the blood sings and death watches to take the weak.’
‘I know,’ said Cradoc sadly. ‘It is one of your less appealing characteristics.’
With the armies already gathered in the south, King Siggurd had offered his allies the hospitality of his city, and a council of war was convened. The king of the Brigundians greeted the rulers of the tribes as they arrived at the golden doors of his great hall, and Sigmar’s heart swelled with pride as he knew he was witnessing a gathering such as had never before been seen in the lands of men.
A great circular table had been set up in the middle of the hall, and a brazier of coals burned brightly at its iron centre. Sigmar, Wolfgart and Pendrag stood at their appointed places around the circle and watched as the arrival of each king was announced.
Marbad of the Endals was first to arrive, flanked by his eldest son, Aldred, and two tall Raven Helms in black cloaks and fine mail shirts. King Marbad nodded a greeting, and Sigmar frowned as he saw the venerable king of the Endals turn pale as he noticed Pendrag’s silver hand.
Marbad was followed by Aloysis of the Cherusens, a lean, hawk-faced man with long dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
Next to enter were Queen Freya and Maedbh. Sigmar felt Wolfgart stand taller behind him at the sight of his wife, for it had been many months since they had been together. The Asoborn queen favoured Sigmar with a sly smile, and ran her hand across her belly before seating herself across from him.
King Krugar of the Taleutens was announced, and he marched into the hall with two hulking warriors in silver scale armour at his side. King Wolfila of the Udose tribe, clad in his finest kilt and pleated sash, entered the hall and offered a raucous greeting to the room. Two bearded clansmen of fearsome appearance accompanied the northern king, their beards and hair wild, and their broadswords carried lightly over their shoulders.
Representing the forces of the northern marches, Myrsa of the Fauschlag rock led a pair of warriors armoured in gleaming suits of plate, and Sigmar nodded to the Warrior Eternal as he took his place at the table.
Otwin of the Thuringians arrived next, and Sigmar did a double take as he saw who had come with the berserker king, for it was none other than Ulfdar, the warrior woman he had fought before facing Otwin. Both were virtually naked, clad only in loincloths and bronze torques.
King Markus of the Menogoths and Henroth of the Merogens arrived together, and Sigmar was shocked at the change in them since he had seen them two years ago. The sieges of their castles had only recently been lifted. Both men were painfully thin, and the dreadful suffering of their people haunted their eyes.
Adelhard of the Ostagoths was last to arrive, accompanied by Galin Veneva, and Sigmar liked the look of the eastern king immediately. The Ostagoth king stood tall and broad, his pride restored after the great victory on the Black Road, and his gratitude evident in the respectful nod he gave Sigmar before taking his seat at the table.
With all the oath-sworn tribal rulers gathered, Siggurd closed the doors of his hall and took his place at the table as a host of servers stepped forward and placed a silver goblet of rich red wine before each ruler.
Siggurd stood to address the gathering. ‘My friends, I welcome you to my hall. In these dark days, it fills my heart with joy to see rulers from all across the lands beneath my roof.’
The Brigundian king lifted his goblet and said, ‘This wine is valued above all others by my warriors, for it is only ever drunk in celebration of the greatest of victories. After two years of fighting, we have won such a victory, and driven the greenskins back to the mountains. Savour its sweet flavour and remember it, for a great battle awaits us at Black Fire Pass in the spring, when you will taste it again. Welcome, all.’
Fists were banged on the table as Siggurd took his seat, and Sigmar stood with his own goblet raised.
‘Fellow kings,’ he began.
‘And queens!’ shouted Maedbh good-naturedly.
‘And queens,’ smiled Sigmar, nodding towards Freya. ‘King Siggurd speaks the truth, for it is a grand thing to see you all here. We are all bound together by oaths of loyalty and friendship, and it gives me hope to know that such warriors of courage and heart are gathered here.’
Sigmar pushed his chair back and began to walk around the circular table, his goblet still held out be
fore him. ‘These last years have been dark indeed, and doomsayers walk the land, tearing at their flesh and wailing that these are the end times, that the gods have turned from us. The gods have abandoned us to our doom, they say, but I do not accept that. The gods have given us many strengths. They have given us the wit to recognise those strengths, and also the humility to see our weaknesses. What are these if not gifts from the gods? I say the gods help those who help themselves, and this gathering is another step towards final victory.’
As he reached Marbad, Sigmar placed a hand on the Endal king’s shoulder.
‘Since my father’s death I have travelled these lands and seen those strengths first hand. I have seen courage. I have seen determination. I have seen fire, and I have seen wisdom. I have seen them in the deeds of every man and woman in this hall. I have fought alongside many of you in battle, and I am proud, so very proud, to count you as my sword-brothers.’
Sigmar lifted his goblet high. ‘Oaths of man have brought us together, but ties of blood bind us even closer.’
The gathered rulers lifted their goblets, and as one, drank the victory wine.
‘Never!’ shouted the king of the Taleutens. ‘Surrender command of my warriors to another? The gods would strike me down at such cowardice!’
‘Cowardice?’ retorted King Siggurd. ‘Is it cowardice to recognise that we must fight as one or else be destroyed? I know you, Krugar, it is not cowardice that stays your hand, it is pride!’
‘Aye,’ nodded Krugar, ‘pride in the courage and strength of the Taleutens. The same pride my warriors have in me for leading them in battle these last twenty-three years. Where will that pride be if I am to stand idly by while another leads them?’
‘Whisht, man, it will still be there!’ cried Wolfila. ‘Any man who’s fought alongside Björn’s son knows there’s no shame in granting him command. When the wolves of the Norsii were hammering at the gates of my castle, who was it drove them away? You were there, I grant you, Krugar, and you too Aloysis, but Sigmar it was who scattered them and drove them across the sea!’
The Legend of Sigmar Page 30