The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘Don’t tire him out,’ warned the surgeon. ‘The lance broke three of his ribs and nicked his right lung. He’s lucky to be alive, though to hear him you’d think he’d just cut himself shaving.’

  ‘Damn it, man,’ said Otwin from behind Cradoc. ‘I’ve been hurt worse after a night on the beer. Come morning, I’ll be back on my feet.’

  ‘It is morning,’ snapped Cradoc. ‘And if you try to stand you’ll die.’

  Cradoc lowered himself from the wagon, looked up at Sigmar, and said, ‘I have others to treat today, so keep an eye on him. And don’t let him up from his bed. If he dies, I’ll blame you.’

  ‘I understand. You have my word he will not leave this wagon.’

  The irascible healer nodded, and wearily made his way towards more of the walking wounded. Sigmar walked his horse behind the wagon and looked in at his wounded friend.

  Count Otwin reclined on a cot bed, his upper body completely wrapped in linen bandages. The Berserker King’s skin was waxy and pale, his chest rising and falling with shallow hiked breaths. He smiled weakly, and Sigmar saw how close to death he had come.

  ‘I hope you listened to what Cradoc told you,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘Ach, surgeons, what do they know about being wounded in battle?’

  ‘Plenty, you old rogue,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Cradoc’s stitched my wounds more than once, and back in his day he swung a sword as well as a wielding a needle and herb bag.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ conceded Otwin, ‘and I heard what you said to the Blades. Good speech, but they’re not big on fancy words.’

  ‘So I saw,’ said Sigmar. ‘But it needed to be said.’

  Otwin nodded. ‘Aye, it did. The damn Norsii handed us a beating and no mistake, Sigmar, so I hope you’re giving that same speech to everyone. The men need to hear how those bastards got lucky and that we’ll drive them back the next time we face them.’

  ‘That’s what I told him,’ put in Wolfgart.

  ‘So how many did we lose?’ asked Otwin.

  ‘We’ve still to tally the final butcher’s bill, but it looks like we lost close to a thousand men,’ said Wolfgart.

  ‘Shallya’s tears, that’s a lot,’ cursed Otwin. ‘And the Norsii?’

  ‘Hard to judge,’ said Wolfgart, ‘but I’d wager no more than three hundred.’

  ‘Aye, a beating,’ repeated Otwin, shaking his head. ‘It would have been more if not for Marius. His lancers and crossbows really pulled our arse out of the fire.’

  ‘That they did,’ agreed Sigmar.

  The Jutone count had surprised them all with his courage and steadfast resolve in the face of defeat. Mercenary crossbowmen with pockets lined with empire gold hammered the rampaging Norsemen with merciless volleys of iron-tipped bolts, covering the retreat and preventing it from becoming a rout.

  ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’ asked Otwin with an amused grin. ‘Bloody Marius. I’ll bet you’re glad I didn’t let you kill him at Jutonsryk, aren’t you?’

  ‘More than you know,’ said Sigmar.

  Otwin took a drink from a wineskin, grimacing as his stitches pulled tight. He slumped back on his bed, his brow sheened in perspiration, though the day was still chill.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Otwin when he had recovered enough to speak. ‘I trust you have a plan to send these bastards back across the water?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Sigmar. ‘This Cormac Bloodaxe is a clever general, but the very savagery that makes his warriors so fierce was our salvation. Had they been disciplined enough to mount a pursuit, they would have destroyed us. Cormac will not make that mistake again.’

  ‘What about the other counts?’ asked Otwin. ‘Is there any word? We need their strength.’

  ‘I know, but it will take time for them to gather their armies and march to our aid.’

  Otwin hesitated before saying, ‘And you’re sure they’ll come? I mean, after what happened with the Roppsmenn and that… unpleasantness with Aloysis and Krugar.’

  ‘They will come,’ said Sigmar, with more conviction than he felt. ‘If for no other reason than the Norsii will surely turn their axes on them if we fail.’

  ‘There’s truth in that,’ agreed Otwin. ‘So how will you buy the time they need to march?’

  ‘I underestimated the Norsii,’ said Sigmar, ‘but I will not do that again. We need to draw them to us and destroy them as a surgeon lances a plague sore.’

  ‘And how do you plan to do that?’ asked Wolfgart. ‘They outnumber us by several thousand now.’

  ‘We will retreat to Middenheim,’ said Sigmar. ‘It is the greatest fastness in the empire and it has never fallen.’

  ‘It has never been attacked,’ pointed out Wolfgart. ‘A city on a mountain? You’d have to be mad to attack it. Why would they not just ignore us and push on to Reikdorf? Or any other city that won’t be as impossible to take.’

  ‘Their leaders are thinking like us, and they will know they cannot simply ignore Middenheim,’ said Sigmar. ‘To push further into the empire while leaving an army at their backs would be madness. They will have no choice but to come at us.’

  ‘Then let us hope you are right about the other counts,’ said Otwin. ‘If they do not heed your summons then Middenheim will be our grave.’

  Pyres burned, pyramids of skulls were built long into the night, and Cormac watched the bloody torture of the prisoners. Their screams were prayers to the Dark Gods, and the forests echoed to the chants and prayers of the Norsii. Drunk on slaughter and victory, thousands of men filled the shallow valley where they had faced the might of Sigmar and prevailed.

  Cormac could still hardly believe they had won.

  Watching the army of Sigmar upon the hillside, his mouth had been dry and his guts twisted in apprehension. The Emperor had never been defeated, and the men of the empire fully expected to crush the invaders in one great battle.

  Though he hated to admit it, Kar Odacen’s plans and the training regime of Azazel, who had spent the last two seasons teaching the Norsii the empire way of war, had borne fruit. Cormac relished the sense of panic that seized their foes when they had seen the Norsii fighting as a disciplined whole. Kar Odacen’s host of shamans had worked their sorceries to bring the heavens down upon the enemy, and their doom was assured.

  The slaughter had been mighty, and he had given an equal share of the living plunder to each of his vassal warlords. The Kul had ritually disembowelled their captives, and hunchbacked shamans with gibbering shadows at their shoulders had eaten the entrails. Groups of Wei-Tu riders attached ropes to the limbs of prisoners and rode off in different directions to tear them apart, while Khazag strongmen pummelled their prisoners to death with their fists.

  Cormac had fought and killed two dozen warriors in a hastily-dug battle pit ringed with swords. With bare hands and naked ferocity, he had beaten each prisoner down, and drunk their blood as it gushed from necks torn open with his teeth.

  The Hung had violated their captives in every way imaginable, and then given their broken, abused bodies to the slaves as playthings. Of all the fates suffered by the prisoners of the empire, this was the one that had offended Cormac the most. Every warrior, even an enemy, was entitled to a death of blood, his skull offered to the brass throne of Kharnath.

  Kar Odacen placated him by speaking of the myriad aspects of the Dark Gods and how each was honoured differently. Were not the reeking plague pits of Onogal a means to serve the gods of the north? Though they took no skulls in battle, the shamans who ventured into the madness of the far north and returned twisted and insane with power were just as devoted to the old gods. The pleasure cults of the Hung were no less honourable, elaborated Kar Odacen, though they seemed so to Cormac’s eyes.

  Besides, as Azazel had pointed out, Cormac could ill-afford to invite dissent into his army by keeping the Hung from their sport. Its unity was a fragile thing at best, and to single out the worshippers of Shornaal would start a rot that would see the army break up within days.

>   Cormac threaded his way through the camp, pausing every now and then to watch a particularly amusing or grotesque sacrifice at a makeshift altar. His skin was hot and red from the pyres, for there was plenty of wood to burn. In time, the empire would be one gigantic pyre, with the skull of its Emperor mounted on a great pyramid of bone and ash.

  As he reached the head of the valley, he saw Kar Odacen and Azazel. His mood soured, for he could not look upon them without thinking that they plotted behind his back. A shaman and a traitor to his own kind. Such lieutenants he had!

  A brutalised corpse lay at the shaman’s feet, and from the hideous mutilations wrought upon its flesh, Cormac knew that Azazel had indulged his lust for torture. The corpse’s belly was opened, and Kar Odacen’s hands were buried in its intestines. With a wet, sucking sound, Kar Odacen removed a glistening liver and turned it over in his red hands.

  ‘What do the entrails say?’ asked Cormac, and Azazel only reluctantly tore his eyes from the ruptured corpse. Cormac was about to ask again when Kar Odacen held up a hand.

  ‘Be silent,’ said the shaman. ‘The art of the haruspex requires concentration.’

  Cormac fought the urge to take his axe and bury it in the shaman’s head for such disrespect, releasing the iron grip on his weapon. He hadn’t been aware he was holding it.

  ‘It was a good victory,’ said Azazel, gazing rapturously at his own image in the gleaming metal of his sword blade. ‘Hard fought and well won.’

  Cormac nodded, unsure whether Azazel was talking to him or the reflection. He forced himself to answer without anger.

  ‘Aye, it was that,’ he said. ‘Many skulls taken and fresh trophy rings for every champion.’

  ‘It is a shame you did not capitalise on it,’ said Kar Odacen without looking up from his reading of the dead man’s meat. ‘Discipline broke down at the end and our enemies escaped us. Now we will need to fight those men again.’

  ‘Then we will fight them again,’ hissed Cormac, ‘and we will defeat them again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ said Azazel. ‘We beat Sigmar’s men because they were not ready for us to fight like them, but they will learn from that mistake.’

  Cormac tried not to look at Azazel, and waited for the shaman to speak.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ asked Azazel.

  ‘I heard you,’ snapped Cormac, finally meeting the swordsman’s gaze. As much as he detested the rites of Shornaal, the dark prince’s powers must surely have shaped Azazel’s features. To raise his voice in anger to such a specimen of perfection seemed abhorrent.

  He forced himself to look past Azazel’s glamours to the corruption beneath.

  ‘I thought your training made us their equals in battle?’ he said.

  Azazel laughed, and such was its beguiling quality that Cormac felt his anger melting in the face of such a wondrous sound.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Azazel, flashing him a smile. ‘We have trained for little more than two seasons. Sigmar’s men have trained and fought together for years.’

  ‘Your army outnumbers Sigmar’s,’ said Kar Odacen, ‘and the power of the Dark Gods makes us invincible.’

  ‘No, it makes us vulnerable,’ said Cormac.

  ‘That makes no sense,’ hissed Kar Odacen. ‘My power has never been greater.’

  ‘It is a mistake to think yourself invincible, shaman. Over-confidence will see us defeated. Think like that and we will make mistakes, leave openings for the enemy to exploit. We must assume nothing, and expect that our enemies will come back from this defeat stronger and more prepared. The master of the empire is no fool and will surely learn from his humbling.’

  ‘Then what do you think Sigmar will do next?’ asked Azazel.

  ‘He will fall back to Middenheim,’ said Cormac. ‘It is his only option.’

  Azazel nodded and said, ‘I will climb to the heavens and tear him from his lofty perch.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Cormac. ‘At least, not yet.’

  Azazel’s expression hardened and his eyes grew cold.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Our enemy is within reach, why do we not strike for his throat?’

  ‘Because that is what he will expect us to do,’ explained Cormac. ‘Sigmar must win time for his forces to gather. He will do so by drawing us onto the walls of an impregnable city.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ hissed Azazel. ‘My blades ache for Sigmar’s body.’

  ‘That we do not dance to his tune. We ignore Middenheim and push eastwards. Burn the forests and villages of the empire, and seek out the forces answering Sigmar’s call for aid. Destroy them one by one, and soon tales of our victories will draw more of our kin across the sea. Within a season, we will see the empire in flames.’

  ‘No,’ said Kar Odacen, rising from the corpse and holding the liver out for them to see. Its hard, fibrous interior was yellow with sickness. ‘You are mistaken. That will not happen.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Cormac.

  Kar Odacen stroked the liver, stringy ropes of rancid pus dripping from his fingers.

  ‘We follow Sigmar to Middenheim,’ said the shaman.

  ‘That is a mistake,’ said Cormac. ‘We can destroy the empire without facing the Emperor in battle until we have taken everything from him.’

  ‘You think this is about the empire?’ snapped Kar Odacen, his bitter gaze sweeping over Cormac and Azazel. ‘It is not. It is about Sigmar. You think you fight for lost lands, for revenge? No, this war is the first of many, and all others will hang upon it.’

  ‘Though I dislike the thought of leaving Sigmar in his mountain city, Cormac’s plan has merit,’ said Azazel, and Cormac was surprised at the swordsman’s support.

  ‘Cormac’s plan?’ hissed Kar Odacen. ‘Since when do the tribes of the north heed the word of a mortal man? He is warlord and champion of this host by the will of the gods, and when they speak he must obey!’

  ‘Then what is the will of the gods?’ asked Cormac, fighting down his killing urge.

  The shaman’s eyes took on a glazed, faraway look, and his voice seemed to echo from a place or time far distant.

  ‘The Flame of Ulric must be extinguished and Sigmar must die,’ he said. ‘I have seen ages beyond this time of legends to a place where darkness closes in on the world, and the forces of the old gods stand poised to bring ruin upon the world. The final triumph of Chaos is at hand, but one name holds back the darkness, one name of power that gives hope to men and bolsters the courage of all who hear it. That name is Sigmar, and if we do not destroy him here and now, then his name will echo down the centuries as a symbol for our enemies to rally behind.’

  Cormac felt a shiver of dark premonition travel the length of his spine as the forests around his army trembled with motion. His first thought was that Sigmar’s army had returned in the night to fall upon them as they gave thanks for their victory, but that thought died as he saw what emerged from the tree line.

  Thousands of beasts that walked, crawled and flew stood illuminated in the firelight, completely encircling the northern army. Blessed by the warping power of the Dark Gods, no two were alike, a glorious meld of man and animal. Armed with crude axes, rusted swords or studded clubs, they had come at the shaman’s call, a host of monsters with the snarling heads of wolves, bears, bulls and a myriad other forms that defied easy identification.

  As one, they split the night with their howls, brays and shrieks, and Cormac’s sense of might and power as master of this army retreated in the face of such atavistic devotion to the old gods. Primal and devoid of any urges save to destroy and revenge themselves on a race that hated and feared them, the beasts were ready to tear the throat from the empire.

  ‘These are days of great power,’ said Kar Odacen. ‘The tribes of the north, the beasts of the forest, and a great prince of Kharnath will fall upon Middenheim, and we will baptise this world in blood!’

  Night was falling, but still they kept coming.

  Like a livin
g sea of fur, flesh and iron, the host of the north swirled and flowed around the base of the Fauschlag Rock without end. Sigmar stood at the edge of the city with the wind billowing his wolfskin cloak behind him, while his fellow warriors stood a more prudent distance from the sheer drop.

  The last time so many of them had been gathered together was at Sigmar’s coronation, nine years ago. So much had happened since then that Sigmar barely remembered the promise and hope of that day.

  Some of those hopes had been fulfilled, some had been dashed.

  Friendships had been forged and strengthened. Others had been soured.

  The coming war would test which would endure.

  Conn Carsten of the Udose stood with his hands resting on the pommel of a wide-bladed broadsword, while Marius of the Jutones simply watched the gathering enemy impassively. Against all advice, Otwin had joined them, held upright by Ulfdar and a Thuringian warrior whom Sigmar didn’t know. The Berserker King’s vast axe was freshly chained to his wrist and would only be parted from him in victory or death.

  Myrsa and Pendrag were on his left, with Redwane and Wolfgart at his right. His greatest friends and allies stood with him, and their continued faith and friendship was humbling. Despite everything he had put them through over the years, they remained steadfastly loyal.

  ‘They came,’ said Wolfgart. ‘Just like you said.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Redwane. ‘Lucky us, eh?’

  ‘I didn’t think they would,’ said Pendrag. ‘They must know they cannot take this city.’

  ‘I do not think they would have come if they did not expect to defeat us,’ said Sigmar.

  ‘They won’t get up the chain lifts, so the only other way in is the viaduct,’ said Wolfgart. ‘With the warriors we have, we can hold that until the end of days.’

  Sigmar read their faces. High on this rock, they believed themselves secure and invincible. They would learn soon enough the folly of that belief.