The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  He hurled the broken pieces at the shocked Esterhuysen’s feet. ‘Leave my city,’ said Sigmar. ‘I need no luck to defeat the greenskins, I need warriors. Return to your miserable home, and tell your coward king that there will be a reckoning between us when this war is won.’

  The ambassador had been all but hurled from the western gates, and it had taken all of Sigmar’s self-control not to order an immediate attack on Jutonsryk.

  Though the refusal of the Jutones to fight was a crushing disappointment to Sigmar, every ruler who had attended the Council of Eleven—as men were calling the momentous gathering in King Siggurd’s hall the previous year—had been true to their word, and had marched to Reikdorf with their glittering hosts of warriors.

  Like spring itself, it had been a sight to lift the hearts of all who saw it, and was a potent symbol of all that had been achieved over the last year. Throughout the winter, the forges of the Unberogen and every other tribe of men had worked night and day to craft swords, spears and arrowheads, and lances for the Unberogen cavalry.

  Vast swathes of forest had been felled to provide fuel for the furnaces, and every craftsman, from bowyers and fletchers, to clothmakers and saddlers, had worked wonders in producing the less martial, but no less essential, supplies needed for an army about to march.

  Winter was normally a time of quiet for the tribes of men, when families shuttered their homes and huddled around fires as they waited for Ulric to return to his frozen realm in the heavens, and his brother Taal to bring balance to the world in the spring.

  With the prospect of war looming, however, every household had spent the cold months preparing for the coming year, ensuring each of its sons was equipped with a mail shirt and sword or spear. Entire herds were slaughtered, and the meat cured with salt to provide food for the thousands of warriors who would march into the fires of battle.

  Within a week, the armies of the kings had mustered, and a host unlike any seen before had prepared to march to war. The Blood Night feasts were raucous and full of good humour, but also sadness, for many of those leaving in the morning would not return, leaving wives without husbands and children without fathers.

  Sigmar and his brother kings had made sacrifices to Ulric, and offerings to the Lord of the Dead and the goddess of healing and mercy, Shallya. All the gods were honoured, for none dared anger even the least of them for fear of dreadful consequences in the battle ahead.

  As the kings gathered on the morning of departure, Sigmar presented each one with a golden shield identical to his own, the design and workmanship exquisite. Pendrag had laboured long over the winter to create the shields, forging one for each of the allied kings of men. The outer circle of each was decorated with the symbols of the twelve tribes, and as Master Alaric had promised, Pendrag’s skill with metal was greater than ever before.

  ‘As you pledged me your swords last year,’ Sigmar had said, ‘I now give you each a shield to defend your body and your lands. We are the defenders of the land and this gift symbolises our union.’

  Amid great cheering, the kings had renewed their oaths of loyalty, and the march south had begun to the sound of war horns, drums and boisterous pipe music.

  For the first few weeks, the journey was made in high spirits, but as the shadow of the mountains grew darker, the easy banter soon petered out. The enormity of what was to come was lost on no one, and every man knew that each mile brought him closer to death.

  The pace had not been forced, for the mountains were still cloaked in snow and the passes blocked, but that had changed when Cuthwin had staggered into the camp bringing word that the orcs were already on the march and that the snows were thinning in the pass. Sigmar was grieved to hear of Svein’s death, but had put aside his sorrow to galvanise his warriors to greater urgency.

  That urgency had been understood, and the men had marched with a mile-eating stride that saw them climbing into the mountains beneath a cold spring sun. Wrapped tightly in fur cloaks, the men of the tribes made no complaint or oath as they climbed higher and higher to where the air was thin and wind whistled down from the rocks with teeth like knives.

  Sigmar looked up into the mountains, the craggy peaks dwarfing him and uncaring of the great drama about to be played out in their shadows.

  This was Black Fire Pass.

  This was where everything would be decided.

  Sigmar, Alfgeir and Wolfgart rode out ahead of the army of men as the sun rose higher, bathing the mountains in gold, and shining on over a hundred thousand glittering weapons. The ground was hard-packed and sandy, trampled flat by uncounted marching feet over the centuries.

  Since the earliest days, Black Fire Pass had been the main route of invasion over the mountains, and it was easy to see why. Even this, the narrowest point of the pass, was nearly two miles wide, hemmed in by sheer cliffs on either side.

  Black Fire Pass was a natural corridor from the blasted landscapes of the east to the fertile lands of the west, and Sigmar paused to look back on the assembled host of men.

  The breath caught in his throat as he took in the awesome scale of the army of men: his army.

  Warriors filled the pass from side to side without interruption, great blocks of swordsmen, standing shoulder to shoulder with spearmen and chanting berserkers.

  Thousands of snorting horses stamped the ground, and Wolfgart’s skill as a horse breeder was evidenced by almost all of the riders’ steeds wearing iron barding. Most of the mounted warriors also carried tall lances, long lengths of wood with sharpened iron points. Heavier than a spear, these lances were deadly weapons, only made possible by the addition of stirrups to the Unberogen saddles. Clad in heavy plate armour, the riders were iron giants that would ride over the orcs in a roaring thunder of hooves.

  Only Alfgeir’s White Wolves had refused to take up the lance, for they were men of fiery courage, who desired to ride through the heart of the battle with their hammers crushing the skulls of the foe in honour of their lord and master.

  Hundreds of Asoborn chariots were drawn up on the left flank, Queen Freya at their head, resplendent in a breastplate of gold with her wild, red hair unbound and pulled into great spikes of crimson. Maedbh rode beside her, and both women raised their spears as Sigmar and Wolfgart passed.

  Taleuten horsemen ranged ahead, riding energetically along the line of the army, their crimson and gold banners trailing magnificently behind them.

  The Raven Helms of King Marbad surrounded their king and his son, ready to take the fight to the orcs as soon as the word was given. Kilted Udose clansmen drank distilled grain liquor from wineskins, and waved their swords like madmen as a group of warriors armoured from head to foot in gleaming plate looked on with grim amusement. Myrsa, the Warrior Eternal, led these warriors, some of the strongest men in the west, men who fought with enormous greatswords said to have been forged by the dwarfs.

  In the centre of the army were Sigmar’s Unberogen warriors, fierce men who had fought for their king since Björn’s death. No finer warriors existed in the land, and even the frothing, berserk warriors of King Otwin accorded them a nod of respect as they took their position in the battle line.

  Merogens and Menogoths stood side by side, eager to take their vengeance upon the enemy that had ravaged their lands the previous year, their swords and axes blessed by the priests of Ulric to seek orc throats. Brigundian warriors in gaudy cloaks and intricate armour stood alongside their southern brothers, and King Siggurd shone like the sun in a suit of magnificent golden armour said to have been enchanted in ages past.

  A forest of coloured banners fluttered and snapped in the wind, and as Sigmar saw the multitude of different tribal symbols, he smiled and whispered a short prayer to the spirit of his father. Almost overwhelmed by the spectacle of so much martial power, Sigmar turned away and rode on towards the warriors waiting by the ruins of a crumbling watchtower.

  The warriors of Kurgan Ironbeard, High King of the dwarfs, were grim and unmoving, without the animation and
cheering that echoed from the men behind Sigmar. Fully encased in hauberks of shimmering silver metal and plates of gleaming iron, the dwarfs appeared as immovable as the mountains through which they passed.

  Thick beards and long braids were all that indicated that they were living creatures of flesh and blood at all, such was the weight of metal protecting them. The warriors carried mighty axes or heavy hammers, and Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz in salute of their bravery as he rode towards the watchtower.

  The ruined state of the watchtower spoke of the battles that had been fought there, but Sigmar knew that what was to occur here today would eclipse them all. The forces gathered here were beyond comprehension, and the thought that such a host of men was his to command left Sigmar breathless.

  Sigmar dismounted, and tethered the roan gelding to a withered tree. He ducked beneath the low lintel of the doorway and made his way to the stairs, the rise of each step smaller than he was used to. Wolfgart and Alfgeir followed him inside the dwarf-built tower, which, despite the ravages of time and battle, was relatively intact within.

  He emerged onto the roof of the tower to find King Kurgan Ironbeard awaiting him, flanked by two stout dwarf warriors with mighty axes, and the silver armoured form of Master Alaric. The dwarf king sat on a wide firkin and slurped from a tankard of ale.

  ‘You came then?’ asked Kurgan.

  ‘I said I would,’ replied Sigmar, ‘and my father taught me to be a man of my word.’

  ‘Aye, he was a good man, your father,’ said Kurgan, taking a great mouthful of ale and wiping his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Knew the value of an oath.’

  The dwarf king nodded his head to the east. ‘So what do you think?’

  Sigmar followed the king’s gaze, seeing a desolate plain that began to slope downwards, becoming progressively rockier the further eastward it fell. He looked to his left and right, and said, ‘It’s good ground, and this is the narrowest part of the pass is it not?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kurgan. ‘That it is, young Sigmar.’

  ‘The greenskins will not be able to use their numbers against us, and the cliffs will prevent them from flanking us.’

  ‘And?’

  Sigmar struggled to think what he might have missed.

  ‘And the slope will slow them,’ put in Wolfgart. ‘They’ll be tired when they get to the top. Gives our archers more time to shoot the greenskin bastards.’

  ‘And there’s that rock further back, Sigmar,’ said Alaric. ‘The Eagle’s Nest, we call it. It would be a good place from which to direct the battle, elevated, yet safe from attack.’

  Sigmar let the suggestion hang in the air for a moment before answering.

  ‘You are suggesting I do not fight in the battle?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Alaric. ‘Merely that you direct the battle from safety before deciding where best to strike when the time comes.’

  ‘Would you do this?’ asked Sigmar of King Kurgan.

  ‘No,’ admitted Kurgan, ‘but then I’m a stubborn old fool, lad. My fighters tend to get a bit lost without me there to show them how to kill grobi.’

  ‘I shall not skulk behind my men,’ said Sigmar. ‘This battle will not be won by stratagems and ploys, but with strength of arms and courage. I am king of the Unberogen and master of the armies of men. Where else would I be but in the forefront of battle?’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Kurgan, getting up from the firkin and leading Sigmar over to the foreshortened battlements of the tower. ‘Listen. Can you hear that?’

  Sigmar looked out over the rocky pass, the landscape more rugged and inhospitable the further east the pass went. Some half a mile away, it curved to the south around a spur of fallen stone that had once been a mighty statue of a dwarf god, and Sigmar could hear a faint rhythmic tattoo thrown back from the rocky walls of the mountains.

  ‘It’s the drums, lad,’ said Kurgan. ‘Orc war drums. They’re close. We’ll be knee deep in greenskin blood by midmorning, mark my words.’

  Sigmar felt a flutter of fear at the thought, and quashed it viciously. All his life had been leading to this day, and now that it was here, he did not know if he was ready for it.

  ‘I have fought many foes, my king,’ said Sigmar, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he gazed into the future. ‘I have killed beasts of the forest, my fellow tribesmen, orcs, the blood drinkers and the eaters of men who dwell in the swamps. I have faced them all and defeated them, but this… this is something else. The gods are watching, and if we falter even a little, then all I have dreamed of will die. How does a man deal with such awesome responsibility?’

  Kurgan laughed and handed him the tankard of ale. ‘Well, I can’t say I know how a man would deal with it, but I can tell you how a dwarf would. It’s simple. When the time comes, hit them with your hammer until they’re dead. Then hit the next one. Keep going until they’re all dead.’

  Sigmar took a drink of the dwarf ale. ‘That’s all there is to it?’

  ‘That’s all there is to it,’ agreed Kurgan as the sound of orc war drums grew louder. ‘Now, we’d best be getting back to our warriors. We have a battle to fight!’

  Twenty-One

  Black Fire Pass

  The first ragged line of orcs came into view less than an hour later, a solid wall of green flesh and fury. They filled the pass before the army of men, the booming echoes of their war drums and monotonous chanting, working on the nerves and heightening the dread every man felt.

  Great, horned totems waved above their heads, festooned with skulls and fetishes, and the wind brought with it the reek of their unclean flesh: spoiled meat, dung and a sour, fungal smell that worked its way into the back of every man’s throat.

  Though Sigmar had heard of the enormous size of the orc host from the dwarfs and Cuthwin, the unimaginable vastness of their numbers still took his breath away. He looked to either side, and saw the same awe in the faces of his sword-brothers.

  Wolfgart tried to look unconcerned, but Sigmar could see past the bravado to the fear beneath, and Pendrag looked like a man who had just seen his worst nightmare come to life.

  The orcs were like some dreadful, elemental tide of anger and violence, their every action taken in service of the desire to wreak harm. This was unthinking violence made flesh, the aggressive impulse of a violent heart without the discipline of intellect to restrain it.

  Were a man to walk from one side of the pass to the other upon the heads of the orcs, he could do so without once setting foot on rock. Sigmar smiled at the absurdity of the image, and the spell that the orc numbers had upon him was broken.

  The greenskins carried huge cleavers, axes and swords, the blades rusted and stained with blood. Goblins scampered between the ranks of orcs, disgusting, cowardly creatures, swathed in dark robes and clutching wickedly sharp swords and spears. Fangs gnashed and shields were beaten in a manic rhythm, and it seemed as though every band of orc warriors strove to outdo the one next to it with its volume and ferocity.

  Snapping wolves, wide-shouldered beasts with frothing jaws, pawed at the earth on the flanks of the great host, and more goblins riding loathsome, dark-furred spiders scuttled over the rocks. Towering above the orcs, groups of hideous troll-creatures lumbered through the army, wielding the trunks of trees as easily as a man might bear a cudgel.

  ‘Ach, there’s not so many of them, eh?’ said Wolfgart, undoing the strap holding his greatsword in place and swinging the enormous weapon from his back. ‘We fought more at Astofen, don’t you think?’

  ‘I think so,’ agreed Sigmar with a smile. ‘This will just be a skirmish by comparison.’

  ‘By all the gods, they’re a ripe bunch,’ said Pendrag as the rank odour of the greenskins washed over him.

  ‘Always stay downwind of an orc,’ said Sigmar. ‘That’s what we always said wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, but I’m beginning to regret it.’

  ‘No time for regrets now, my friends.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Wolfgart. �
�How’s that warhammer of yours?’

  ‘It knows that the enemies of its makers are here,’ answered Sigmar. Since dawn, the mighty weapon had sent a powerful thrill of anticipation through him, and he could feel its hatred of the greenskins coursing through him, filling him with strength and purpose.

  ‘Aye,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Well, swing it hard, my friend. Plenty of skulls to split today.’

  A mob of greenskins, more armoured and darker skinned than the others, stepped from the rippling battle line of orcs, a tall, bull-headed totem held proudly above them. They began roaring in the guttural tongue of the orcs, brandishing their axes and swords in some primitive ritual of challenge or threat.

  ‘Holy Ulric’s beard,’ said Pendrag as they all saw the huge winged beast appear above the orcs. Sigmar’s eyes narrowed, and he shaded them from the eastern sun. Riding the flying monster was an orc of such colossal size that it must surely be the leader of this army.

  The warlord was huge beyond imagining, and was protected at least as well as Sigmar’s most heavily armoured riders, with thick plates of iron fastened to its flesh. Its axe was taller than a man, and rippled with green flames.

  The beast it rode was a wyvern, and, though Sigmar had never seen such a monster before, he had heard them described by his eastern allies enough times to recognise one. Yet, as much as the sight of it filled him with dread, he longed to match his strength against it.

  ‘What do you think?’ he shouted. ‘Shall I mount that beast’s hide on the longhouse wall?’

  ‘Aye!’ shouted a warrior from the ranks behind Sigmar. ‘Skin it and you can use it to make a map of the realm!’

  ‘I may just do that,’ answered Sigmar.

  The warlord swooped low over his army, and the orcs redoubled the fury of their roars, clearly eager for the slaughter to begin. The booming of cleavers and axes on shields rose to a deafening crescendo, the metallic ringing echoing from the sides of the pass, until it seemed as though the very mountains would crumble and fall.