Björn—Father of Sigmar and King of the Unberogen.
Bretonni—Western tribe of men.
Brigundians—Tribe of men of the east.
Cherusens—Tribe of wildmen from the north.
Cradoc—Aged healer of the Unberogen.
The Dragon Sword of Caledfwlch—The blade of Artur, forged by a mysterious shaman from a captured shard of lightning frozen by the breath of an ice dragon.
Eadhelm—Astofen chieftain and cousin of Björn.
Endals—Tribe of men of the west and staunchest allies of the Unberogen.
Eoforth—Unberogen counsellor and trusted advisor to King Björn.
The Fauschlag Rock—Mountainous rock and seat of the great city of the Teutogens.
Field of Swords—Training ground for the young warriors of the Unberogen.
Freya—Warrior queen of the Asoborns.
Galin Veneva—Ambassador of King Adelhard of the Ostagoths.
Gerreon—Unberogen blademaster. Brother of Ravenna and twin of Trinovantes.
Ghal-maraz—Legendary dwarf rune hammer gifted to Sigmar for rescuing King Kurgan Ironbeard of the dwarfs.
The Grey Vaults—A bleak netherworld between life and death where the spirits of the dead wander.
The Hag Woman—Mysterious and enigmatic figure of the Brackenwalsch Marshes, cursed with powers of foretelling and prophecy.
Henroth—King of the Merogens.
Jutones—Western tribe of men famed for their hunters and skill with bows.
Karaz-a-Karak—Greatest city of the dwarfs.
Krealheim—Brigundian settlement ravaged by the beast Skaranorak.
Krugar—King of the Taleutens.
Kurgan Ironbeard—High King of the dwarfs.
Maedbh—Asoborn warrior woman and charioteer of Freya.
Marbad—King of the Endals.
Marburg—Chief settlement of the Endals built atop a great black volcanic rock and the ruins of an ancient settlement of the elves.
Marius—King of the Jutones.
Markus—King of the Menogoths.
Menogoths—Tribe of men of the south.
Merogens—Tribe of men of the south.
Myrsa—Warrior Eternal of the Fauschlag Rock.
Norsii—Barbaric savages of the frozen north and worshippers of the Dark Gods.
Ostagoths—Tribe of men of the east.
Ostvarath—Ancestral sword of the Ostagoth kings.
Otwin—Berserker king of the Thuringians.
Pendrag—Sigmar’s sword-brother and bearer of his war banner.
Rahotep—A chieftain from ancient times known as the Warrior of the Delta, Conqueror of Death, whose tomb is located in the Brigundian wilderness.
The Raven Hall—The great hall of the Endal kings.
Raven Helms—Elite, mounted warriors of the Endals so named for their black cloaks and winged helmets.
Ravenna—Unberogen woman. Sister of Trinovantes and Gerreon.
Redmane Dregor—A legendary hero of the Unberogen tribe.
Reikdorf—Principal town of the Unberogen tribe.
Roppsmenn—Tribe of men from the north-east.
Siggurd—King of the Brigundians.
Siggurdheim—Principal town of the Brigundians.
Sigmar—Mighty hero of man and eventual King of the Unberogens. Known in prophecy as the Child of Thunder.
Skaranorak—Dwarf name for the dreaded dragon ogre of the mountains.
Soultaker—Doubled-bladed axe of King Björn.
Taalahim—Principal settlement and seat of King Krugar of the Taleutens.
Taleutens—Tribe of expert horsemen from the east who ride into battle on stirruped saddles.
Teutogens—A rival tribe of the Unberogen.
Thuringians—A tribe of berserkers from the west.
Trinovantes—Unberogen warrior. Brother of Ravenna and twin of Gerreon.
Udoses—Coastal tribe of men of the north.
Ulfdar –Berserker woman of the Thuringians.
Ulfshard—Daemon-slaying sword of legend said to have been forged by the elves. Wielded by Marbad of the Endals.
Ulric’s Fire—Undying flame at the pinnacle of the Fauschlag Rock.
Unberogen—Sigmar’s tribe of men.
Urgluk Bloodfang—Mighty orc warlord and leader of the greenskin warhost at the Battle of Black Fire Pass.
Warrior’s Hill—Sacred burial mound of the Unberogen.
White Wolves—Personal guard of the Unberogen King led by Alfgeir.
Wolfgart—Unberogen warrior and Sigmar’s sword-brother.
Wolfila—King of the Udose tribe.
This one is for Sawney, the newest recruit.
Book One
Empire of Hope
Then all chiefs made an oath
To stand together, united as men,
And a crown was fashioned
By Alaric, runesmith of the dwarfs,
Placed by Ulric, the priest,
Upon noble Sigmar’s brow.
One
The Last Days of Kings
The shadows were long as the Hag Woman stepped from the misty hilltop overlooking the city of Reikdorf. She had walked many miles from her home in the Brackenwalsch, and her limbs were aching from the long journey. The poultices and tisanes of Spiderleaf and Valerian were no longer able to keep the crystals in her joints from causing her pain, and she rested for a moment upon a long staff fashioned from the wood of the rowan tree. The staff’s top was hung with talismans of protection and shrouding, for the Summer Solstice was a time when the eyes of the gods were turned on the world, and it did not do to attract unwanted attention.
The Hag Woman set off down the hill towards the city that shone like a beacon in the gathering darkness. Torches had been set on the new walls of stone and light poured from the city, illuminating the landscape around it in a warm, safe glow.
The Hag Woman knew that safety was illusory, for this was a dangerous world, an old world, where monstrous beasts lurked in the sprawling forests, and warlike greenskin tribes raided the lands of men from their mountain lairs. Nor were these the only dangers that pressed close to the light: things unknown and unseen gathered their strength in the darkness to assault mankind.
A shiver travelled the length of the Hag Woman’s spine, and she felt the clammy embrace of the grave in its chill. Her time in this world was nearing an end, and there was still so much to do, so many courses yet to steer, and so many fates to thwart. The thought made her pick up her pace.
The ground was soft underfoot, warm and still damp from earlier rain. Though a stone-flagged road wound its way towards the open southern gate of the city walls, the Hag Woman kept to the grass, preferring to feel the life of the world beneath her feet. To walk barefoot was to feel the power that dwelt in the earth, and to know that streams of uncorrupted energy still existed in the sacred places of the world.
That such places were becoming ever fewer was a source of great sorrow to the Hag Woman. Every road, every hall of stone and every step taken on the path of civilisation took mankind further from his connection with the land that had birthed him. The advancements that allowed men to survive in this world were the very things divorcing them from their origins and their true strength.
The city walls reared up before her, tall and strong, constructed from blocks of dark stone. They were at least thirty feet high, and she recognised the teachings of the mountain folk in the precisely cut blocks. A pair of stout towers flanked the open gateway, and she saw the gleam of firelight on armour behind their saw-toothed battlements.
She reluctantly stepped onto the roadway and limped through the gateway, past rows of bearded Unberogen warriors armoured in fine hauberks of gleaming mail and bronze helmets with horsehair plumes.
None of the warriors so much as glanced at the Hag Woman, and she smiled at how easily men were fooled by even the simplest of enchantments.
Reikdorf opened up before her, and though it had been many years since she had c
ome to Sigmar’s city, she was nevertheless shocked by how much it had changed. What had once been little more than a simple fishing village on the banks of the Reik had grown to something huge and sprawling. Despite herself, she was impressed by Sigmar’s achievements.
Buildings of stone clustered tightly together in a warren of streets and alleys that reeked of life and unfettered growth. Granaries and storehouses loomed over her, and shouted oaths drifted from reeking taverns. Even this late in the day, metal clanged on metal from a nearby forge, and runners darted through the crowds carrying messages between merchants. The streets were thronged with people, though none save children and dogs spared her more than a glance. As she made her way through the city, men made the sign of the horns for no reason they could adequately explain, and women pulled suckling babes tighter to their breasts.
She could see the longhouse of the Unberogen kings ahead, a magnificently constructed hall fashioned by dwarf hands in gratitude for the rescue of King Kurgan Ironbeard of Karaz-a-Karak from greenskin marauders. The heavy timber shutters were thrown open, and yellow light spilled from within, carried on the sounds of great mirth and raucous merrymaking.
A host of banners was planted before the longhouse, a riot of colours and devices that had once signified division, but which now spoke of unity and shared purpose. She saw the raven of the Endals, the rearing stallion of the Taleutens, the Skull Banner of King Otwin of the Thuringians and many others. She frowned at the one notable absence, and shook her head as she made her way towards the longhouse, to where the lord of the Unberogen tribe and soon-to-be Emperor gathered his warriors.
Wide doors of iron-banded timber led inside. Before them stood six warriors in thick wolfskin cloaks with heavy hammers of wrought iron. As before, none paid her any attention as she passed between them, fogging their minds and memories of her presence. The guards would go to their graves swearing on their children’s lives that not a single soul had passed them.
The smell of sweat and free-flowing beer assailed her inside the longhouse, along with the vast heat of the fire pit at its centre. Sturdy tables ran the length of the building, and hundreds of warriors filled it with songs and laughter. Smoke from the fire gathered beneath the roof, and the rich aroma of roasting pork made her mouth water.
Though she had passed unseen through the streets of Reikdorf, she kept to the shadows, for there were minds close by that were sharper than those of ordinary folk. Kings, queens and dwarfs had gathered in Reikdorf and would not be so easily fooled. She made her way to the rear of the longhouse, far from the empty throne at the other end of the hall that sat beneath a series of grisly battle honours.
War banners hung from the rafters, and the Hag Woman was gratified to see tribesmen from across the Empire moving through the hall with an ease only shared by brothers-in-arms. These warriors had fought and bled at the Battle of Black Fire Pass, against the greatest horde of greenskins the world had ever seen. That incredible victory and shared horror had forged a bond as unbreakable as it would be enduring.
Endal pipers played martial tunes, and dwarf songsmiths told tales of ancient battles in time to the skirling music. The atmosphere was festive, the mood joyous, and the Hag Woman felt a moment of guilt for intruding on this day of celebration.
She wished she could have brought the new Emperor a gift of joy on his coronation night, but that was not the way of the world.
High above Reikdorf on Warrior Hill, Sigmar knelt before his father’s tomb, and scooped a handful of soil into the cup of his palm. The earth was dark, rich and loamy. It was good soil, nourished by the ancient dead. Looking at the great slab of rock that sealed King Björn’s tomb, Sigmar wished his father could see him now. He had achieved so much in his time as king, yet there was still much to do.
‘I miss you, father,’ he said, letting the earth pour between his fingers. ‘I miss the strength you gave me and the earned wisdom you freely offered, though too often I heeded it not.’
Sigmar lifted a foaming tankard of beer from the ground beside him and poured it onto the earth before the tomb. The smell of it stirred a thirst in Sigmar as he drew his hunting knife from its sheath at his belt. The weapon was a gift from Pendrag, and the workmanship was exquisite, the blade acid-etched with the image of a twin-tailed comet. Even King Kurgan had grunted that the blade was serviceable, which was about as close as a dwarf ever came to a compliment on the metalworking skills of other races.
With one swift motion, Sigmar drew the blade across his forearm, allowing blood to well in the cut before turning his arm over to let the ruby droplets fall to the ground. The dark soil soaked up his blood, and he let it flow until he was satisfied that he had given enough.
‘This land is my one abiding love,’ he said. ‘To this land and its people, I pledge my life and my strength. This I swear before all the gods and the spirits of my ancestors.’
Sigmar stood and turned his gaze further down the hillside, where countless other tombs had been dug into the earth. Each contained a friend, a loved one or a sword-brother. The day’s last light caught on a pale stone lying flush against the hillside, its surface etched with long spirals and garlanded with wild honeysuckle.
‘Too many times have I sent my brothers into the hillside,’ whispered Sigmar, remembering the climb to roll that boulder across the darkened sepulchre housing Trinovantes’s body. It seemed inconceivable that sixteen winters had passed since his friend’s death. So much had happened and so much had changed that it was as if the time when Trinovantes had lived belonged to some other life.
Painful memories threatened to surface, but he forced them down, not wishing to tempt fate on the day his grand dream of empire was finally coming to fruition.
A cold wind flayed the summit of the great Unberogen burial mount, but Sigmar did not feel its chill. A dark wolfskin cloak was pulled tightly about his shoulders and a padded woollen jerkin kept him warm. His blond hair was pulled tight in a short ponytail, his forelocks braided at his temples. Sigmar’s features were strong and noble, and his eyes, one a pale blue, the other a deep green, carried wisdom and pain beyond his thirty-one years.
Sigmar stood and brushed his hands clean of earth. He took a deep breath, and looked out over the landscape as dusk cast its purple shadows eastwards. Reikdorf shone with torchlight below him, but it was possible to see spots of light in the far distance, each one a well-defended town with a strong body of armed men to protect it. Beyond the horizon of forest, hundreds more villages and towns were spread throughout his domain, all united under his rule and sworn to the cause of a united empire of man.
The year since Black Fire Pass had been a bountiful one, the fields providing much needed grain to feed the returning warriors and their families. The winter had been mild, the summer balmy and peaceful, and the recent harvest had been among the most plentiful anyone could remember.
Eoforth claimed it was a reward from the gods for the courage shown by the warriors of the empire, and Sigmar had been only too pleased to accept his venerable counsellor’s interpretation. The years preceding the battle had been lean and hard, the land ravaged by constant battle against the greenskins. Mankind had been on the verge of extinction, but the flickering candle-flame had survived the darkness, and, now, burned even brighter.
‘Winter coming soon,’ said Alfgeir, standing a respectful distance behind him.
‘A fortune teller are you now, old friend?’ asked Sigmar, gripping the handle of Ghal-maraz, the great warhammer presented to him by King Kurgan Ironbeard.
‘Don’t need to throw the bones to feel winter on this wind,’ said Alfgeir. ‘And less of the “old” thank you very much. I’m barely forty-four.’
Sigmar turned to face the man who was both his Marshal of the Reik and personal bodyguard. Standing tall and proud in his gleaming bronze plate armour, Alfgeir was the very image of a proud Unberogen warrior. His face was scarred and craggy, yet Alfgeir wore his age with great dignity, and woe betide any young buck who sought
to humble the old man during training on the Field of Swords. Once, his hair had been dark, but now it was streaked with silver.
Like Sigmar, he wore a long wolfskin cloak, though his was white and had been a gift from King Aloysis of the Cherusens. A longsword of cold iron was belted at his waist, and his eyes constantly scanned the landscape for enemies.
The Legend of Sigmar Page 37