The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  ‘If the viaduct was the only way into the city I might agree with you,’ said Sigmar, ‘but it is not. Is it, Myrsa?’

  The Warrior Eternal shook his head, looking as though he were being forced to reveal an uncomfortable secret.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not. How did you know?’

  ‘I am the Emperor, it is my duty to know such things,’ he said. He smiled, and then tapped the rune-inscribed circlet of gold and ivory at his brow. ‘Alaric told me how his miners and engineers helped Artur reach the summit of the Fauschlag Rock. He told me that the rock beneath us is honeycombed with tunnels and caves. Some carved by the dwarfs, others made by hands that are a mystery to even the mountain folk.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Myrsa. ‘We have a few maps, but they are mostly incomplete and, truth be told, I don’t think anyone really knows exactly what’s beneath us.’

  ‘There is another way in to my city and I do not know of it?’ asked Pendrag. ‘You should have told me of this, Myrsa.’

  ‘The city’s defence is my domain,’ said Myrsa. ‘Long ago it was decided that the fewer people knew of the tunnels the better. In any case, our enemies cannot know of them.’

  ‘They will,’ said Sigmar. ‘They will find them and we must defend them.’

  They watched the assembling forces of the Norsii in silence for a while, each trying to guess how many enemies they faced, for Cormac Bloodaxe’s force was far larger than before. Inhuman beasts had swelled its ranks, and the sight of so vast a gathering of monsters was horrifying.

  ‘The forests have emptied,’ said Otwin. ‘I never dreamed there were so many beasts.’

  ‘There will be fewer by the end of this,’ snarled Conn Carsten.

  Though Sigmar could claim no fondness for the Udose clan-chief, he silently thanked him for his defiant words as he saw resolve imparted to his fellow warriors. He returned his gaze to the enemy army, his keen eyes picking out the banner of Cormac Bloodaxe.

  Beneath the banner, a towering warrior in black armour and horned helm looked up at the mountain city. Though great distance separated him from his foe, Sigmar felt as though Cormac was right in front of him. If he whispered, his enemy would hear what he had to say.

  ‘You will not take my empire from me,’ he said.

  Two figures attended the Norsii warlord, a hunched form that reeked of sorcery, and the lithe warrior in silver armour who bore twin swords. The swordsman’s hair was dark, his skin pale, and as he drew one of his blades Sigmar felt a tremor of recognition.

  It was impossible. The distance was too great, and though the warrior’s face was little more than a tiny white dot amid a sea of warlike faces, Sigmar was certain he knew him.

  ‘The swordsman,’ he said, ‘next to Cormac Bloodaxe.’

  Wolfgart squinted in the crepuscular gloom. ‘Aye, the skinny looking runt. What of him?’

  ‘I know him,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ hissed Wolfgart. ‘How can you know him? Who is he?’

  ‘It is Gerreon,’ said Sigmar.

  Wolfgart sighed.

  ‘This just gets better and better,’ he said.

  Eighteen

  The Empire at Bay

  The army of Cormac Bloodaxe began the assault on Middenheim at dawn the following day, after a night of braying howls, echoing war-horns, sacrificial pyres and blood offerings. Their chants and songs of war drifted up to the defenders, promising death and rich with the primal urges of the gathered Norsii tribes.

  Where the men of the empire craved peace and the warmth of hearth and home, the Norsii craved battle and conquest. Where progress and development were the watchwords of the empire, slaughter and the lust for domination drove the northern tribes. The gods of the south watched over their people in return for worship, but the baleful gods of Chaos demanded worship, and offered only battle and death to those that venerated them.

  Eight thousand empire warriors stood ready to defend the city, around half the number opposing them. More than just men were poised to attack: bull-headed monsters, winged bat-creatures, and twisted abominations so far removed from any known beast that their origins could never be known. They bellowed alongside packs of slavering, black-furred wolves, and towering troll-creatures lumbered through the host with clubs that were simply trees ripped from the earth.

  Sigmar had long since planned the defence of Middenheim, knowing the Flame of Ulric would draw the followers of the Dark Gods like moths to a lantern. The bulk of the enemy would surely come at them up the viaduct, and despite the best efforts of Middenheim’s engineers, the stonework connecting it with the city could not be dislodged. The skill of its dwarfen builders was such that not a single stone could be removed. To compound this problem, the citadel and towers designed to defend the top of the viaduct had yet to be completed. The barbican walls were barely the height of a tall man, and the towers were hollow and without ramparts. Blocks of stone intended to raise the wall to a height of fifty feet were even now being used to plug the unfinished gateway or hauled into position to form a fighting step for the men behind it.

  This was where Sigmar would make his stand, and he would do it with a thousand warriors drawn from every tribe gathered in Middenheim. Thuringian berserkers stood shoulder to shoulder with Udose clansmen, Jutone spearmen, Unberogen swordsmen and the city’s greatswords. Though the White Wolves fought elsewhere, Redwane had refused to leave Sigmar’s side, claiming that Alfgeir would have his hide nailed to the longhouse’s wall if anything were to happen to the Emperor.

  Pendrag and Myrsa commanded a thousand Middenlanders on the city’s northern flank, its count and Warrior Eternal facing their foes’ homeland as tradition demanded. The White Wolves stood with the Count of Middenheim and his champion, given the duty of their protection by Sigmar. Though unhappy not to be fighting at their Emperor’s side, each warrior had sworn himself to this duty before the Flame of Ulric. The eastern districts were held by Conn Carsten’s Udose, while the west was the domain of Marius and the Jutones.

  Every able-bodied man and boy in the city carried a weapon, though the very oldest and youngest were spared fighting on the front lines. To them was entrusted the defence of the streets and crossroads leading towards the temple being built at the centre of the city.

  Middenheim groaned at the seams with people from the surrounding settlements and refugees fleeing the Norsemen’s brutal invasion. The city’s wells were covered with iron grates and what food remained was under armed guard. At a conservative estimate, Pendrag’s quartermasters calculated there was enough to last a month.

  Sigmar stood behind the unfinished wall at the top of the viaduct, and watched as the Norsii gathered behind a smoking construct of brass and bone. Beside him, five hundred warriors of the empire stood with spears and bows and swords, ready to fight alongside their emperor. Behind him, five hundred more awaited his order to advance.

  A rhythmic booming echoed from far below, the northern tribesmen banging axes and swords against shields as they marched up the viaduct. Monotonous chanting droned in counterpoint to the clash of iron, and the howls of monstrous beasts completed the dreadful, courage-sapping noise. It was a sound that spoke of destruction for destruction’s sake, the urge to kill and maim for no reason other than the suffering it would cause.

  No courage or faith a man might possess could fail to be shaken by such a noise, for it had been the primordial sound of mankind’s doom since the beginning of the world.

  Sigmar felt the fear take root in the hearts of his warriors, and vaulted to the top of the wall, resplendent in the glittering armour of his coronation. Each plate shone like silver, each wondrously-crafted engraving dazzling the eye and capturing the heart with its glory. The visor of his winged helm was raised and all who looked upon him saw his determination to resist this attack. He raised Ghal-maraz in defiance of the Norsii and his golden shield, a gift from Pendrag to replace the one destroyed at Black Fire Pass, captured the sunlight.

  ‘Men of the empire!�
�� he shouted, his voice easily carrying to the farthest extent of the defences. ‘The warriors before you have been forged in the harshest lands of the north, yet they have not your strength. Their gods are bloody avatars of battle, yet they have not your faith. They live for war, yet they have not your heart! Because they live only for themselves, they are weak. Because they place no value on the lives of their fellow men, they have no brotherhood. Look around you! Look at the face of the warrior beside you. He may be from a land far distant to your home; he may speak a different language, but know one thing: he is your brother. He will stand beside you, and as you will fight and die for him, he will fight and die for you!’

  Sigmar turned to face the Norsii, standing tall and proud and mighty.

  ‘Together we are strong,’ he shouted. ‘Together we will send these whoresons back across the sea and make them wish their mothers had never birthed them!’

  Pendrag hefted his axe, and watched in disbelief as the beasts began climbing the Fauschlag Rock. They swarmed its sides, clawing their way up the impossible face of the sheer rock. Sigmar had climbed this rock once and it had almost killed him, but these monsters ascended with no more trouble than a man might climb a ladder.

  The sky was the colour of ashes, dripping with clouds, and Pendrag felt a queasy sense of vertigo as he looked beyond the northern horizon. No one knew what lay beyond the eternally snowbound landscape, but the legends of every tribe described it as a land of gods and monsters, where the very air carried madness and the power of creation.

  He took a deep breath as he altered his grip on the haft of his axe. His silver hand tingled with the memory of fingers and the scar at his neck, from where the long dead warrior-king had struck him, itched abominably. All his old wounds were retuning to haunt him, and he tried not to think what kind of omen that might be.

  Beside him, Myrsa stood in perfect stillness. Pendrag had fought countless foes and stood with heroes in the greatest battle in the history of the race of men, yet still his heart hammered at his chest and his mouth was dry.

  Six hundred warriors of Middenheim stood at the defensive wall encircling the city, a chest-high barrier built where the ground sloped down to the vertical face of the Fauschlag Rock. Three hundred warriors occupied perches on roofs and towers further back, armed with hunting bows and slings. Their faces were dour and stoic, a cliché of the grim northern tribesman. In the years since he had come to Middenheim, Pendrag had come to see that stoicism as simple practicality and a recognition of the futility of wasted emotion.

  No glorious war cries roused the warriors of Middenheim, and bitter experience had taught Pendrag that grand speeches would be wasted on such men. All that mattered to them was the courage in a man’s heart and the strength of his sword-arm. Pendrag had proved himself to them, and thus they stood with him to defend their city. Their presence was symbol enough of his acceptance.

  What more could any man ask?

  The city’s blue and white banner flew above him, and Pendrag was honoured to fight in its shadow. He had fought the dead creatures of the necromancer beneath the Dragon Banner, and it felt good to face an enemy beneath a battle flag of honour, not one of murder.

  Among the Middenlanders were a hundred White Wolves, their red armour and white wolfskin cloaks marking them out among the city’s defenders. Though they should have fought with Sigmar, Pendrag was glad of their strength.

  A group of men clad in the neutrally coloured tunics of foresters scrambled from the very edge of the rock towards the defensive wall. They climbed towards Pendrag, and a host of hands helped them across it.

  ‘They’re close,’ said one of the foresters. ‘A hundred feet or so and climbing fast.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Pendrag. ‘Join the rest of the archers.’

  ‘Be wary,’ said the forester as he pushed through the tightly packed defenders. ‘There are flying beasts as well as climbing ones.’

  Instinctively, Pendrag looked up, but the sky was empty save for circling carrion birds gathered in anticipation of a feast of flesh.

  He turned to Myrsa.

  ‘Fight well, Warrior Eternal,’ he said.

  ‘And you, Count of Middenheim,’ replied Myrsa.

  Sigmar and his warriors threw the Norsii charge back three times before the strange construction of brass and bone reached them. The morning was only a few hours old and Morr had come to claim the souls of the fallen time and time again. The enemy dead were thrown from the viaduct, and the screams of the wounded warred with the battle-chants of the Norsemen.

  Each charge was a furious scramble of blades and blood, screams and courage, with Sigmar killing dozens of frenzied Norsii champions seeking his head.

  This latest attack promised to be something different.

  ‘What in Ulric’s name is that?’ asked Redwane, voicing the question on every man’s lips.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Sigmar. ‘But it can be nothing good.’

  It towered over the Norsii, a mighty altar of blood and blades pulled by two mighty steeds with curling ram’s horns and smouldering coals for eyes. More nightmares made flesh than animals, the beasts’ skins smoked with furnace heat and their flanks ran with steaming blood. Skulls tumbled from the monstrous construction, and endless rivulets of boiling blood poured from the altar, staining the flagstones with hissing red streams. Black smoke twisted and billowed in defiance of the wind, and Sigmar blinked as he thought he saw screaming skulls in its depths.

  The Norsii gathered around it, howling a single name that sent spasms of nausea stabbing through his body. It was a name of death, yet Sigmar felt his warrior’s heart stirred by the damnable syllables. A towering warrior in blood-soaked armour marched to the fore, bearing a black banner that seethed with the power of a storm, its surface alive with chained arcs of black lightning.

  With one last screamed exhortation of their dread god’s name, the Norsii charged, a foaming mass of tattooed warriors. A volley of iron-tipped crossbow bolts from mercenaries hired with Jutone gold hammered the Norsii, splintering shields and punching through armour. The front rank fell, only to be trampled by the warriors behind them. Another volley and another hit home, each one reaping a fearsome tally.

  Archers loosed shafts, but without the power of the crossbows, many thudded home into heavy shields without effect. Sigmar offered a silent thanks to whichever of the gods had sent Otwin to prevent him killing Marius. Without these crossbows, the Norsii might already have broken through.

  Then it was too late for arrows and crossbows.

  The Norsii hurled themselves at the wall, and the bloodshed began again.

  Sigmar blocked a slashing axe, and smashed his hammer into the face of a screaming warrior. The man fell back, his skull caved in, but another clambered over his body, and thrust his blade at Sigmar’s neck. He swayed aside and slammed his shield into the warrior’s chest.

  Screaming Norsemen used their dead to gain height, and the mound of corpses at the wall was crushed beneath their armoured weight. Sigmar stood firm in the face of the enemy, striking out with killing sweeps of Ghal-maraz and, where he fought, the Norsii were hurled back. The warrior with the black banner raised it high, and Sigmar heard a dreadful hissing as smoke from the diabolical altar was drawn towards it.

  A howling bellow seemed to come from the bloody altar, and the monstrous beasts pulling it reared and slashed the air with iron-shod hooves. Sigmar felt the ancient power bound within the terrible altar as a stocky tribesman with one eye and hair spiked with chalk and resin hurled himself forward.

  He turned to meet the man’s attack, but no sooner had he raised his shield than a flickering black light erupted from the dread banner and a terrific impact tore at him. His shield flared and crumbled to ash, its edges hot and golden like parchment in a fire.

  ‘Ulric’s teeth!’ he yelled, hurling the last remnants of the grip away. The one-eyed tribesman slammed into Sigmar, and he fell from the ramparts. They landed hard, and Sigmar lost his grip o
n Ghal-maraz. He rammed his helmet into the tribesman’s face, but the man seemed impervious to pain. He bit and spat at Sigmar as iron talons erupted from his fingertips. He clawed at Sigmar with bestial ferocity.

  Along the length of the wall, the Norsii threw themselves at the men of the empire with renewed fury, the ancient power of their northern gods searing their veins and filling them with rage. It was a destructive power that would consume them without care, but not one of the Norsii feared such an end.

  Sigmar rolled, feeling the man’s skin ripple and bulge beneath him, as though a mass of snakes writhed in his chest. The tribesman’s lengthening fangs snapped at his neck, and only the silver gorget saved Sigmar from having his throat ripped out.

  He punched the man in the face. Bone broke and fangs snapped, but the man’s flesh was like iron. His skin was darkening, and a pair of bony horns erupted from his forehead in a frothing shower of pink flesh. A spear plunged into the tribesman’s side, and he reared up to tear the belly from the spearman. Sigmar scrambled clear, and swept up Ghal-maraz as the tribesman, now more beast than man, sprang at him once again.

  He loosened his grip on his warhammer, letting it slide until he held it just beneath the head. Sigmar stepped to meet the monster and punched Ghal-maraz straight at his enemy’s face with all his strength behind the blow.

  The creature’s head burst apart and its grey-fleshed body dropped to the cobbled esplanade. The body jerked and kicked, as though the change wracking its body was not yet done and fresh horns, limbs and bony protuberances erupted from its flesh.

  Sigmar leapt back to the makeshift fighting step, seeing that the entire mass of the Norsii were fighting like beasts, their bodies infused with dark magic and warping to render them less than human. Transformation ran amok through the Norsemen, and Sigmar saw a group of warriors whose skin had become scaled and reptilian. Some sprouted horns like those of a mighty bull, while the bodies of others writhed with blazing green flames. A few hurled themselves from the viaduct, their minds unhinged by the dreadful power coruscating through their ranks.