‘So long as the land bears fruit, it will endure,’ said Gwylt.
Sigmar glared at the robed priest. ‘In Reikdorf we put our faith in the gods.’
‘This is not Reikdorf,’ replied the priest.
Sigmar and his warriors spent the next three days secluded in the royal apartments. Though they were free to roam the city and its environs as they pleased, the sickness that ravaged the population kept most of them indoors. Sigmar spent the first day walking the fog-shrouded streets of Marburg to see how its population fared, and when he returned to his chambers there was a shadow on his soul.
The city of the Endals was a grim and melancholy place, not at all like the vibrant, cosmopolitan coastal city its old king had once told raucous tales of. Noxious mists coiled in from the marshes to drain the city of colour, and its inhabitants moved through the streets like ghosts. Despair came on those mists, a smothering blanket of misery that coiled around the soul and leeched it of vitality. Immediately upon his return, Sigmar bade Cradoc do what he could for the population of Marburg.
The old healer appropriated two score of the White Wolves to be his orderlies, and day and night Cradoc did what he could for the sick. Those whom the sickness had touched were too often beyond the power of his remedies. Families were found dead in their homes, faces spattered with crusted mucus and eyes swollen and red as though filled with blood. Despite Cradoc’s best efforts, the priests of Morr led more and more corpse-carts on their sad journeys from the city.
It was thankless, heartbreaking work, but that did not stop Cradoc from trying to help those he could, and his poultices of lungwort and vinegar were freely distributed among the sick. It did little to halt the terrible pestilence, but until the source of the sickness was defeated it was all that could be done.
On the evening of the third night, frustrated at the lack of action from Count Aldred, Sigmar and Wolfgart sat outside their apartments on a high terrace overlooking the cliffs and marshes to the north of Marburg. They talked long into the night, drinking from a clay jug of southern wine and eating platters of salted fish. They told tales of battles won and friends in far of lands, enjoying a rare moment of companionship.
Though the talk was ribald and flowing, Sigmar sensed sadness in his friend that had little to do with too much wine. As Wolfgart finished telling the story of his fight against a particularly large greenskin in the opening moments of the battle at the crossing of the Aver, he sighed, his face melancholy.
‘It has been too long since we talked like this,’ said Sigmar.
‘That it has,’ said Wolfgart, raising his goblet. ‘Life gets busy as we get older, eh?’
‘That it does, old friend, but come, say what’s on your mind. Tell me what troubles you.’
At first he thought Wolfgart would dismiss his invitation to speak, but his sword-brother surprised him.
‘It’s what Redwane said when we were going to see Aldred,’ he said.
‘You didn’t take him seriously? The lad is young and foolish and he spoke out of turn, but you know Maedbh would never betray you like that.’
‘I know that,’ said Wolfgart, ‘but that’s not what I meant.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I reacted to him like a stag in heat, as though he was a rival or something. I know he’s not, but I pounced on him as if I was going to kill him. I would have done if you hadn’t stopped me. I should have kept my temper in check, for I shamed you in front of Laredus.’
Sigmar shook his head and drained his goblet.
‘Aye, we could have done without the Endals seeing us at each other’s throats,’ he said, ‘but what’s done is done. I don’t hold it against you.’
‘Maybe not, but I should have known better,’ said Wolfgart. ‘I’ve been around you long enough to know that I need to think before I act, but when he said that about Maedbh… Well, you saw how it affected me.’
‘I’m just glad Maedbh didn’t hear it,’ said Sigmar with a smile.
Wolfgart laughed and said, ‘True enough. She’d be wearing Redwane’s balls for earrings by now.’
‘You are a man of high emotion, Wolfgart, you always have been,’ said Sigmar. ‘It is one of the reasons I love you. Pendrag is my conscience and my intellect; you are the voice of my passions and my joys. I must be an Emperor, but you are the man I would wish to be were I not. By all means think before you act in future, especially when I must be seen to be the master of the empire, but never lose your fire. I wouldn’t have you any other way, and you would not be Wolfgart without it.’
His sword-brother finished his wine and smiled. ‘I’ll remind you of this the next time I lose my temper and embarrass you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know that,’ said Sigmar, reaching over to pour more wine. ‘I think the drink must be getting to me.’
Wolfgart lifted his goblet and took a long swallow.
‘You might be right,’ he said. ‘You never could drink as much as me. This wine’s not bad, but it’s not a mug of Unberogen beer. Too weak.’
‘Drink the rest of the jug and tell me that.’
‘Don’t tempt me. I’m that sick of waiting for something to happen, I might as well spend my time here drunk. How much longer do you think they’ll make us sit on our backsides?’
‘I do not know, my friend,’ said Sigmar with a shrug. ‘But for Idris Gwylt, I think I could have persuaded Aldred to march out with us.’
‘He’s a sly fox that one, he needs watching,’ agreed Wolfgart. ‘I heard those that followed the Old Faith used to sacrifice virgins to let the purity of their blood bless the earth, or something like that.’
‘So they say, but stories of old religions are almost always exaggerated by the faiths that replace them to make people glad they are gone. It’s like the stories you hear as a child about ancient heroes who bestrode the world like giants only to vanish and have their people claim that they will one day return when the world needs them most.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
‘Because people need hope when things are at their darkest,’ said Sigmar. ‘Of course, none of these heroes ever do return. Most likely they got a knife in the back or fell from a horse and broke their neck, but who wants their legends to end like that?’
‘Not me,’ said Wolfgart, letting loose an almighty belch. ‘I want my heroes to be gods among men, warriors able to level mountains with a single blow, rescue beautiful maidens from monsters without a second thought, and turn back armies with a word.’
‘You always were a dreamer,’ said Sigmar, laughing.
The moon had risen, lighting the sky with its pale glow as Sigmar opened his eyes. He blinked, realising he’d fallen asleep. He groaned, feeling the beginnings of a thumping headache. Wine had spilled down his tunic, and he saw that Wolfgart had passed out with his head between his knees. A puddle of vomit stained the flagstones of the terrace. Sigmar ran a hand through his hair. His eyes ached and his mouth felt as though he’d drunk a barrel-load of bog water.
‘Now I remember why I do not do this,’ he groaned, pushing himself to his feet. ‘I need to get to bed.’
A cold wind was blowing in from the darkened ocean, and Sigmar lurched towards the wall of the terrace, resting his palms on the cool stone and taking several deep breaths. It was foolish to try and blot out problems with strong drink, for they only returned all the more troublesome the following morning.
He looked down at the city gates below the terrace, surprised to see they were open. In Reikdorf, the gates were shut fast as night fell and did not open until the dawn. More corpse-carts no doubt.
Sigmar sighed, knowing that he was going to have to order Aldred to march alongside him to end the threat of the daemons. He was Emperor, and it was time to flex his imperial muscles.
‘I had hoped to avoid coercing you, Aldred,’ he whispered. ‘What brotherhood does not create, force will not correct.’
The night was clammy and still, but the fogs had cleared enough
to reveal a portion of the marshes stretching off into the distance. It was not an inspiring view, for the land around Marburg’s walls was desolate and uninviting, and the gibbous moonlight made them all the more threatening.
Looking northwards, all Sigmar could see was treacherous mist-wreathed bogs along the line of the coast. Nothing lived in those bogs, nothing wholesome at least, and Sigmar spat a mouthful of bitter phlegm over the edge of the terrace.
He was about to turn away when a column of cloaked figures emerged from the city, but this was no solemn procession of corpse-carts. Sigmar recognised Idris Gwylt at the head of the column, his white hair and beard dazzling in the moonlight. Behind him went twenty Raven Helms with the bronze-armoured Count Aldred leading them. Ulfshard shimmered in Aldred’s grip, wreathed in ghostly blue light like a frozen bolt of northern lightning.
The Raven Helms escorted what looked like a captive in their midst, and Sigmar’s eyes narrowed as he saw that it was Aldred’s sister, Marika, her willowy form and golden hair unmistakable.
The column turned from the road and made its way into the marshes. The mist closed around them, and in a heart-stopping moment of realisation, Sigmar understood the nature of the offering that Idris Gwylt intended to make to the daemons.
Five
Daemon Moon
Thirty of Sigmar’s warriors marched through the gates of Marburg with purposeful strides, their faces set and determined. The moonlight made their wolfskin cloaks glow, and reflected from the few pieces of armour they had been able to put on as Sigmar roused them from their beds. Wolfgart and Redwane followed Sigmar as he splashed from the roadway onto the boggy ground at its side.
He stopped, feeling the cold water seeping through the worn leather of his boots. Beyond the road, the marsh was shrouded in ghostly mist. Sigmar shivered as he remembered the last time he had seen such a desolate, soulless landscape. It had been ten years ago, when he had lain close to death and his soul wandered the barren wastelands of the Grey Vaults.
The souls of the damned haunted that netherworld between life and death, and these marshes would be little different. The mist writhed and coiled around itself, an opaque wall of grey with distant flickering lights bobbing in its depths.
‘What in the name of Shallya’s mercy is going on?’ asked Redwane. ‘Why are we here?’
‘Aye,’ said Wolfgart, still clad in his stained tunic. ‘It’s bad luck to fight beneath the dread moon, especially when it’s full. No good can come of it.’
‘We are here to save an innocent life,’ said Sigmar, hefting Ghal-maraz in both hands. The runes worked into its haft shone in the moonlight, as though energised by the thought of wreaking havoc against creatures of darkness once more.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You remember telling me about the Old Faith and their sacrifices of virgins?’ asked Sigmar.
‘Vaguely,’ replied Wolfgart.
‘Turns out they’re not just stories after all. I saw Aldred lead the Raven Helms into the marsh with Marika as their prisoner. Idris Gwylt means to offer her to the mist daemons.’
‘Bastard!’ snarled Redwane. ‘I’ll break his skull open with my hammer and tear his damn heart out!’
Sigmar was surprised at the strength of Redwane’s anger, but was pleased to see the outrage on his warriors’ faces as word of what was happening spread amongst them. He turned to face the White Wolves, knowing that some might not survive the night. Wolfgart was right, it was bad luck to go into battle beneath the spectral light of the dread moon, but they had no choice if they hoped to save Marika’s life.
‘A deluded old man seeks to murder an innocent girl!’ Sigmar cried, though the mist seemed to swallow his words, throwing back strange echoes as if to mock him. ‘I will not allow this to happen, and I need your strength to stop it. Are you with me?’
As one, the White Wolves raised their hammers and roared their affirmation, as Sigmar had known they would. Though the thought of entering this terrible marsh was a fearful prospect, the Wolves would never dream of letting their Emperor go into battle without them.
Sigmar nodded and set off into the mist, splashing through sucking mud and icy pools of stagnant water the colour of pitch. He had no way of knowing exactly where the Endals had gone, for brackish water poured into every footprint and erased it in seconds. Sigmar wished he had thought to bring Cuthwin to Marburg, but wishes were for fools and children, and they would need to find the Endals without their finest tracker.
The mist closed around the Unberogen as they forged a slow, stumbling path into the marsh. Their passage was lit by the sickly glow of lifeless moonbeams, and strange burping and bubbling sounds gurgled from the bog. A whispering wind dropped the temperature, but did not stir the heavy mist.
Nightcrawlers wriggled in the reeds and flies buzzed low over the ground. Sigmar saw an enormous dragonfly droning softly as it hunted in the hungry glow of the moon. His skin crawled and the hairs on the back of his neck itched as though a clawed hand was poised to strike him. This marsh was not like the Brackenwalsch, which wore its dangers openly. It was a haunted place where death crept up on a man and took him unawares.
‘Look!’ shouted Redwane. ‘Over there!’
Sigmar turned to where Redwane was pointing, and his eyes narrowed as he saw bobbing lights in the distance, like hooded lamps borne by weary travellers. He tried to remember if the Endals had carried such illumination. He thought they had, but couldn’t be sure.
Still, he was wary. The old men of Reikdorf spoke of such lights in the Brackenwalsch. They called them doom-lanterns, for the treacherous illumination they provided was said to lure men to their deaths with the promise of safety. Pendrag had told him that such lights were merely ignited swamp gases or moonlight reflecting from the feathers of night owls, but neither explanation gave Sigmar much comfort.
If these lights were indeed those of the Endals, then they had to follow them.
‘This way,’ called Sigmar, setting off after the lights. ‘Keep watch on the ground!’
Once more the Unberogen plunged deep into the marsh, the ground becoming progressively softer and wetter underfoot. Flies buzzed around Sigmar’s head and he saw yet more of the lights surrounding them, flickering like dancing torches. Bubbles burst around his feet, sounding like the mirthless laughter of dead things.
Time ceased to have meaning, for the thick fog made it impossible to judge the moon’s passage across the night sky. Sigmar looked up, wincing as the dread moon’s leering face seemed to stare back at him. Ill-favour followed those who turned their faces too long to that malevolent orb, and Sigmar hurriedly made the sign of the horns.
He started as he felt something brush his legs, and jumped back, seeing a pale shape, like a darting eel beneath the surface of the water. Sigmar lifted his boot from the sucking marsh, the fine leather stained and ruined. A filmy residue of reeking ichor, like pale syrup, dripped from the buckles. Once they got out of the marsh, he would never wear these boots again.
Sigmar heard a dreadful cry, followed by a heavy splash behind him. He spun to see a group of men holding out their hammers to a fallen warrior who thrashed his arms in a hidden pool of murky water. Sigmar recognised him as Volko, a man who had fought at his side in the charge to rescue the Merogen flank at Black Fire.
Volko was waist-deep in the bog, but his armour was dragging him down swiftly. He reached for the outstretched weapons, but the marsh was not about to release its victim. Volko’s head vanished beneath the surface of the water as he drew breath to scream, leaving only a froth of bubbles in his wake.
‘Ulric save us,’ said Wolfgart, stepping back from the water. ‘I knew this was bad luck.’
Sigmar fought his way through the mud and water to the bog where Volko had died. Tendrils of fog gathered around the legs of every warrior, and it was next to impossible to tell solid ground from deadly bog.
‘Move out,’ ordered Sigmar. ‘Check every footstep and stay close to your co
mrades.’
‘What about Volko?’ demanded Redwane. ‘No warrior deserves to die without hearing the sound of wolves.’
Sigmar risked a glance into the darkened sky. ‘You’re right, lad, but this is a night when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.’
‘So we’re just going to leave him?’
‘We will mourn him later,’ said Sigmar, setting off once more.
He had no way of knowing which way to go, but felt a slight pull to the north-east, as though Ghal-maraz knew better than he in which direction its enemies lay. Sigmar put his trust in the craft of the dwarfs and followed the wordless urging.
Wolfgart came alongside him, his eyes flicking from left to right.
‘None of us are going to make it out of here alive,’ he said.
Sigmar felt his fear, but said, ‘Let none of the men hear you say that.’
‘It’s true though, isn’t it?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ said Sigmar. ‘We are Unberogen and there is nothing we cannot do.’
Wolfgart nodded, visibly controlling himself.
‘You know we might have to fight the Raven Helms to save the girl,’ he said.
‘I know,’ nodded Sigmar, keeping a close eye on the ground. ‘And if that’s what it takes, then so be it. I drove the Norsii from the empire for such barbarism, and I’ll do the same to the Endals if that’s what’s needed.’
‘Aye,’ said Wolfgart. ‘It’s wrong is what this is. Utterly wrong.’
Sigmar halted and raised his hand. His warriors stopped with a series of splashes and curses. Ahead, more of the doom-lanterns were moving through the dark, but this time it appeared as though they were borne by indistinct, shadowy forms.
‘Unberogen! Stand ready!’ shouted Sigmar.
The White Wolves swung their hammers to their shoulders and formed a ragged battle line as best they were able.
The Legend of Sigmar Page 44