The clansmen had taken bloodthirsty relish in the war, killing all before them with hearts hungry to avenge the death of Count Wolfila. The stories of his death had been told and retold so often that the truth was lost and the horror of what the Roppsmenn were said to have done grew to ridiculous levels.
‘All the better to justify what we do here,’ he had told Redwane one night as they gathered around the campfire and the White Wolf had told him the latest gruesome embellishment.
Sigmar and Adelhard marched up the iron-hard ground towards the army, and Pendrag felt a chill at the sight of the Emperor that had nothing to do with the plummeting temperature. Though snow swirled in the air and his breath misted before him, Sigmar was clad in only a thin tunic of red with a silver wolf stitched upon his chest. The warriors of the army were wrapped in thick furs, but Sigmar appeared not to feel the intense chill that stabbed like knives from the north.
Since leaving the Middle Mountains, Sigmar’s face had hardened, and the death of Wolfila hung like a noose around his neck. His hair was lank and thin, and the flesh seemed somehow tighter on his body, as though his bones were pushing out a little harder than before. His eyes were haunted by the loss of his friend, but glittered with a light that seemed to come from a dark place deep inside him. He still wore the golden crown he had taken from Morath, and instead of Ghal-maraz, the long, basket-hilted claymore that had once belonged to Count Wolfila was scabbarded at the Emperor’s hip.
King Kurgan’s hammer was wrapped in an oiled cloth in Pendrag’s pack, nestled beside the crown crafted by Alaric the Mad for Sigmar’s coronation. It sat ill with Pendrag that he carried such legendary items, but Sigmar had insisted that the Roppsmenn be fought with the blade of the man they had so brutally killed.
Sigmar drew Wolfila’s weapon and held it out before him. The sword was heavy and fashioned from thick, dark iron. It was not the weapon of a swordsman, it was the weapon of a butcher.
‘I want those warriors dead,’ said Sigmar aiming the sword towards the Roppsmenn by the river. ‘Redwane, take your White Wolves and ride them down.’
‘Very good,’ said Adelhard. ‘I order Ostagoth horse archers to hem them in and you will drive them into the river.’
‘My lord?’ asked Redwane, looking at Pendrag for support.
‘Is something about my order unclear?’ asked Sigmar.
‘No, my lord,’ said Redwane, ‘but is it really necessary to attack?’
‘Necessary?’ hissed Sigmar. ‘These treacherous curs killed a count of the empire. Of course it is necessary! Now follow my orders.’
Redwane shook his head.
‘No, my lord, I won’t,’ he said.
Sigmar planted the claymore in the ground before him, his face twisted in fury.
‘You dare to defy me, boy?’ he asked. ‘I am your Emperor and you will obey my orders or I will see you dead.’
‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I won’t lead the White Wolves to murder those men.’
‘You will do as you are ordered!’
‘No,’ said Redwane, and Pendrag’s heart soared with pride. ‘I will not.’
Sigmar stepped towards Redwane, and Pendrag dropped from his horse to put himself between the two warriors.
‘There is no need for this,’ he said. ‘The Roppsmenn are defeated. They are a broken people, and you have avenged Wolfila’s death.’
Sigmar turned on Pendrag, and the well of hate he saw in the Emperor’s face sent a jolt of fear down his spine. For the briefest moment, it seemed as though someone far older looked out from behind Sigmar’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly, Pendrag wasn’t sure he had really seen it.
‘Always the peacemaker, Pendrag.’ hissed Sigmar. ‘It was your counsel that stayed my hand when I could have destroyed the Norsii. Look at what that mercy has brought us. Wolfila dead and fleets of Norse raiders attacking our coast every day. No, I will not make the mistake of leaving any of these vermin alive to return with vengeance in their hearts.’
‘You speak of the Norsii,’ said Pendrag, fighting to keep his voice even. ‘Then why are we not readying ourselves to fight them? You must know they will come at us soon. Our people live in terror of their warlords and, with every day that passes, that fear grows more powerful and saps their courage.’
‘The people of the empire will stand firm against the Norsii,’ promised Sigmar.
‘No,’ said Pendrag. ‘The north is wide open. All we have done here is weaken our land. We need to return to Reikdorf and gather the forces of the counts to strengthen the north.’
‘Spoken like a true coward,’ snapped Sigmar. ‘I remember you telling me you were not fit to rule Middenheim, that there were others more suited to the task. It seems I should have listened to you.’
‘Listen to yourself, Sigmar,’ begged Pendrag. ‘This bloodshed is madness. It sullies everything we have achieved over the years. Is this how you want to be remembered, as a butcher of men? A tyrant king? A killer of women and children, no better than a greenskin?’
Sigmar’s face darkened with anger, but Pendrag felt a weight lift from his shoulders with every word he spoke. ‘I am soul-sick of this killing. Every man here has blood on his hands, and our honour is stained by what we have done here.’
He reached out and put his hand on Sigmar’s shoulder, and said, ‘It is time to go home, my friend.’
Sigmar’s hand closed on the hilt of the claymore and drew it from the earth. He stared at the butcher’s blade, and for a dreadful moment, Pendrag thought that his friend was about to run him through.
Though imperceptible to the eye, Pendrag could feel that Sigmar’s entire body was trembling. The muscles at his jawline were as tight as a drum, clenching and releasing as though he sought to quell a dreadful killing rage.
At last his head came up, and Pendrag’s heart broke to see the pain in his friend’s eyes, swimming to the surface as if from a great depth.
Sigmar looked back at the desperate scramble of people fighting to cross the river to escape his wrath, and his shoulders sagged.
‘You are right,’ said Sigmar, letting out a shuddering breath. ‘It is time to go home.’
Nearly four hundred Wolfships filled the sheltered bay, their clinker-built hulls crafted from the scarce wood of the tundra and timbers carried from the ruins of plundered Udose settlements across the sea. Cormac Bloodaxe felt a potent sense of purpose as he stood on the cliff above the shoreline and admired the host of warships bobbing in the heavy swells. It had taken an entire year to build them, and no warlord in the history of the Norsii had ever assembled so mighty a fleet.
Behind him, what had once been a ramshackle collection of crude dwellings constructed from the cannibalised remnants of Wolfships was now a settlement to match any from their old lands. As well as the rebuilt tribe of the Iron Wolves, the nameless settlement was now home to thousands of tribesmen who had come from far and wide to make war on the southern lands.
It had begun as the first rays of weak summer sun had thawed the iron ground. The season of night had come to an end, and the power of the gods had swept the lands of the north, summoning their followers to battle. Warriors with golden skin and almond-shaped eyes, who called themselves the Wei-Tu, had come out of the east and sworn their lives to Cormac. Two days later, warbands of tattooed fighters called the Hung had emerged from the swirling lights of the far north on towering steeds of darkness.
That was just the beginning.
Over the course of the season of sun, warriors from tribes with names like the Gharhars, Tahmaks, Avags, Kul, Vargs and Yusak had crossed the northern sea and pledged their swords to his banner. Every day brought fresh champions and fighters to the coast, drawn by the thrumming pressure in their veins that demanded war. Over ten thousand Northmen were camped within a day’s ride, and the totems of a dozen warlords were planted in the earth. The rivalry between them was fierce, and only Cormac’s vision of destruction and the growing sense of history unfolding was keeping the violenc
e in check. It would not last forever, and, as soon as the pack-ice around the coastline melted, Cormac would lead his fleet of Wolfships across the sea.
He turned from the cliffs and made his way back down to his longhouse, passing the camps of warriors from the Khazags and Mung. The latter tribe of flat-faced warriors were short and stocky, and fought with enormous axes that were almost comically oversized. Cormac had seen one of them split a column of seasoned timber with a single blow, and any doubts as to how lethal they would be in battle were forgotten.
As he passed yet more totems rammed into the hard ground, Cormac thought back to Kar Odacen and Azazel. Kar Odacen had predicted that there would be a gathering of might, and he had been proven right. As much as he detested the vile shaman, Cormac was not so blinded by his devotion to the Dark Gods that he did not value the man’s insight.
He had not seen or heard from Kar Odacen in months, and had no way of knowing whether his mission into the south had been successful. Whether the shaman and Azazel still lived was a matter of supreme indifference to Cormac. The subjugation of Sigmar’s people would begin at the next turning of the world, with or without them.
The year of raiding and slaughter had spread terror through the lands of the empire.
There would never be a better time to attack.
‘Now it is time to take the fire south,’ he said.
The aftermath of the destruction of the Roppsmenn was a sombre time for Sigmar’s army. It was not called a war, for the empire’s wars were fought for noble reasons, and no one could think of a noble reason for this slaughter. Wolfila’s death had been avenged, but vengeance was not so noble a reason for the virtual annihilation of an entire tribe.
No sooner was the campaign declared over, and the army withdrawn from the great dividing river, than the Asoborns turned their chariots south and rode away from the army with their banners lowered. They said no fond farewells nor made oaths of brotherhood, for the warriors of Queen Freya wished to forget their part in this killing.
Count Adelhard led his Ostagoths eastward the following morning, exchanging words with Sigmar that no one could hear. Sigmar never spoke of what Adelhard said to him, but his face was murderous as he turned away from the eastern count and mounted his horse.
Only the Udose warriors felt no remorse at the bloodshed, and they marched with the Unberogen as far as the tip of the Middle Mountains before turning north to their homelands. They had a land to rebuild and a new leader to find. Months of skirmishing and political infighting was sure to follow as the powerful clan lords manoeuvred for supremacy and sought to position themselves or their heirs as the new count of the Udose.
Sigmar led his warriors around the snow-wreathed peaks of the mountains towards the Fauschlag Rock. Winter was at its zenith and the land was deathly quiet, as though afraid to intrude upon the Emperor’s sombre isolation. The army trudged through the snow, each man lost in his thoughts and wrapped in misery as they skirted the rocky haunches of the mountains. The Emperor kept a distance from his friends, unwilling to be drawn into conversation beyond what was necessary for the upkeep and course of the army.
Redwane and Pendrag said little to Sigmar on the journey home, for the brutality of the campaign still played out in their nightmares, and neither man wished to relive their part in it. Pendrag still carried Sigmar’s crown and hammer, for the Emperor had not relinquished Count Wolfila’s claymore, and the golden crown of Morath still glittered upon his brow.
The days were long, the nights bitter and hard. The Unberogen huddled close to the fires, wrapped tightly in their wolfskin cloaks to survive the darkness until the sun crested the Worlds Edge Mountains.
Each night, Redwane walked the camp, unable to close his eyes without seeing the faces of the dead that seemed to hang over them like a curse. Passing the Emperor’s tent, he would hear Sigmar crying out in his sleep, as though in the grip of a never-ending nightmare. He spoke of this with Pendrag, who confessed that he had often seen Sigmar whispering under his breath, as though conversing with unseen spirits.
Sigmar dismissed their concerns with the same sullen expression with which he made every pronouncement, and the march through the snow continued.
At last, the soaring rock of Middenheim came into view, and the spirits of the army lifted as thoughts turned to homes and wives unseen for more than half a year. Even Sigmar seemed buoyed by the sight of the incredible city when it became apparent that the first of the great viaducts had been completed. The camps around the city were deserted, the labourers and craftsmen having returned to their villages for the winter, but work had already begun on clearing the forest at the site of the second viaduct.
Myrsa marched down from the city to greet them, surrounded by a bodyguard of plate-armoured warriors. The Warrior Eternal had made a full recovery from the wound he had taken at the fortress of the necromancer, yet his joy at seeing his friends return was tempered by the tales of slaughter from the east, and the hollow-eyed appearance of the Emperor.
The Middenlanders climbed to their city with Myrsa at their head, and Pendrag bade Sigmar farewell with stiff formality. Something precious had been lost between them and, though they would always be sword-brothers, it seemed their friendship had died along with the Roppsmenn. The journey into the north ended as it had begun, with Sigmar and Redwane riding at the head of the White Wolves.
A month and a half later, with the promise of spring prising loose winter’s claws, the ruler of the empire rode through the gates of Reikdorf.
From high upon the walls of his city, Sigmar watched the Red Scythes as they crossed the Ostreik Bridge. The sun was setting, and the last of winter’s light gleamed on the iron hauberks worn by the forty men in vivid red cloaks surrounding Count Krugar. The leader of the Taleutens was dressed in a fine tunic of crimson and gold over his heavy suit of armour, and a banner of the same colours flew in the brisk wind.
Sigmar felt a thrill of anticipation at what was to come, and gripped the hilt of Wolfila’s sword tightly. The eastern gate of the city was open and, as the riders made their way towards it, Sigmar turned and descended the steps to the hard-packed earth of the gateway.
Six White Wolves followed him, men who had marched into the north, whose loyalty he could trust absolutely. Since he had returned from the land of the Roppsmenn, he had felt the eyes of his people on him constantly. Men and women he had called friends for years now cast sidelong glances at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. He felt their suspicious looks, and knew that they spoke ill of him when his back was turned.
Men who claimed to care for him spoke in hushed whispers when he was near, no doubt plotting against him, imagining a day when his back would make a good home for a traitor’s dagger. They questioned him constantly, and though the war against the Roppsmenn was months old, Eoforth and Wolfgart would not let it rest, endlessly asking why he had led his army with such brutality.
Brutality they called it, yet without such brutality the empire could not be maintained. They did not understand that betrayal had to be punished in a manner that would send a clear message to those who thought their oaths of loyalty could bend as they saw fit. Loyalty to Sigmar’s empire was inflexible, and the war against the Roppsmenn had been a bloody reminder to his counts of the price of disloyalty.
It would not be the only one.
Sigmar reached the roadway as the Taleuten warriors rode through the gate, moving to the sides of the esplanade as Krugar’s horse approached him. He felt the White Wolves around him tense in readiness.
‘Count Krugar,’ said Sigmar. ‘Welcome to Reikdorf.’
The Taleuten count smoothly dismounted and removed his helm. His hair was matted with sweat, and his beard was plaited in three long strands. The man was weary and Sigmar saw suspicion in his eyes, for the summons that had brought Krugar to Reikdorf had been direct and without any hint of a reason.
Sigmar’s eyes were drawn to the curved leather scabbard at Krugar’s hip, in which was sheathed Ut
ensjarl, the sword of the Taleuten kings. When he had seen it first, it had seemed little more than a well-crafted blade, but now he saw that it was a weapon of power. Dangerous.
‘Emperor,’ said Krugar, his voice strong and resonant. He took Sigmar’s hand in the warrior’s grip, and said, ‘It is good to see you. My congratulations on your victories in the north of the empire.’
Sigmar nodded and released Krugar’s sweaty hand as though it were a poisonous snake.
‘Yes, a usurper destroyed, and the Roppsmenn will trouble me no longer. All in all, a fitting end to a season of campaigning.’
‘You have a new crown,’ said Krugar. ‘What happened to the old one?’
Sigmar reached up to touch the golden circlet at his brow, feeling the reassuring warmth of its power coursing through him.
‘It was destroyed,’ said Sigmar. ‘The dwarf magic was not so strong after all.’
‘Destroyed?’ said Krugar. ‘Damn me, but I didn’t think I’d see the day when something forged by dwarf-craft could be undone.’
‘It matters not. As you say, I have a new crown,’ said Sigmar, eager to change the subject. ‘I trust you encountered no trouble on the road?’
‘Nothing we couldn’t drive off with a few charges,’ said Krugar proudly. ‘My Red Scythes are nothing if not fearsome.’
‘They are that,’ agreed Sigmar, ‘but they must be weary. To have reached Reikdorf so soon, you must have ridden like the Scrianii themselves were at your heels.’
‘We made good time,’ said Krugar, handing his helmet to one of his warriors and running his hands through his hair. ‘We skirted the forest to the edge of the Asoborn lands, and then followed the river here.’
‘Your men will be fed and watered, and their horses given the best of care in Wolfgart’s stables,’ promised Sigmar, waving his men forward.
The Legend of Sigmar Page 61