The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Teon looked over at Gorseth, his best friend and companion in troublemaking. He winked and said, ‘A sore head. It’s all nonsense anyway. Who needs numbers when you can swing a sword as well as I can?’

  He flexed his arm and Gorseth laughed on cue. The rest of the class nervously followed.

  ‘Enough!’ said Eoforth, lifting the birch cane from beside his desk.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Teon, ‘I dare you. My father will kill you, old man or not.’

  For all his bluster, Teon was popular with the other boys. Powerfully built for his age and blessed with handsome features and an easy manner beyond the classroom. Close to his fifteenth birthday, he would soon ride out on his first war hunt. His father was Orvin, one of Alfgeir’s captains of battle, and the boy saw little need to spend his days cooped up in a classroom when there were fights to be gotten into and maidens to pursue.

  Eoforth stood and limped towards Teon’s desk, the cane swishing the air before him like a threshing scythe.

  ‘Every day you cheek me, Master Teon,’ said Eoforth. ‘Every day you test my patience, but I counselled King Björn in the time of woes when all around us threatened to destroy the Unberogen. I stood at his side when the Cherusens and Taleutens raided our lands. I brokered the peace that first united those tribes as allies, and I have spoken with the kings and queens of all the great tribes. I have done all this, and you think you can intimidate me? You are a foolish young boy with a head as thick as a greenskin skull and the manners of a forest beast.’

  Teon frowned, unused to being spoken to like this. He was off balance and Eoforth smiled as he stopped by the boy’s desk.

  Eoforth tapped the cane on the arithmetical problem chalked on the slate surface of the desk. ‘Now I am asking you again. What is the answer to the problem?’

  Teon looked up at him defiantly before spitting on the slate and smearing the chalk illegible with his sleeve. ‘A pox on you, old man. I spit on your sums and letters!’

  ‘Wrong answer,’ said Eoforth, slashing his birch cane down on Teon’s fingers.

  The youngster snatched his hand back with a howl of pain. Tears brimmed on the curve of his eyes and Eoforth wasn’t proud that he hoped they would spill out. Some shame and humility would do the boy a world of good. Teon’s face flushed with anger and he rose to his full height, clutching his hand to his chest.

  ‘My father will hear of this,’ he spat, heading for the classroom door.

  ‘Indeed he shall,’ said Eoforth. ‘For I will tell him, and he will give you a sound beating for disrespecting your elders. Your father knows the value of discipline, and he would thrash you within an inch of your life were he to see you behave like this.’

  Eoforth wished that were true. Orvin was as brash and quick to anger as his son, yet he was a fierce warrior and had ridden with Alfgeir’s knights for ten years. Though Eoforth did not like the man, he knew of his respect for the proper order of things. He just hoped his son saw that.

  Teon paused and Eoforth saw the battle raging within him. To lose face by complying with Eoforth’s demand or to risk a beating from his father. The lad returned to his seat, though he continued to glare fiercely at Eoforth.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eoforth, moving between the lines of desks. A dozen boys and girls filled his classroom, a dusty room within a timber-built schoolhouse on the southern bank of the River Reik. A hundred children of Reikdorf learned their numbers and letters here, taught by women he himself had instructed. No men taught at the school, for the youngsters tended to rebel more against male teachers, and seemed more reluctant to pick fights with the matronly women Eoforth had chosen.

  ‘I know what you are thinking,’ he said. ‘You are thinking that this is a waste of time, that you would much rather be practising on the Field of Swords, learning how to fight. The skills of a warrior are important, and every Unberogen needs to know them. But consider this, without your numbers how will you know how much beef to carry in your wagons when you go to war? How much grain and fodder for the horses, and how much extra for the beasts of burden who pull those wagons? How many swords will you need? How many arrows and what size of war chest should you bring to pay your soldiers?’

  Eoforth paced the length of his classroom, his limp forgotten as he warmed to his theme.

  ‘And what of your orders? How will you read the map to deploy your warriors, or read the names of the towns your captain has sent you to? Will you be able to work out how far you must travel or where your evening campsites must be? How will you send word to your fellow warriors without knowledge of your letters?’

  He paused by Teon’s desk and fished a lump of chalk from the pockets of his grey scholar’s robes. He scratched the problem on the slate once more.

  ‘Now let’s try again,’ he said.

  The lesson continued for another twenty frustrating minutes, with the youngsters seemingly incapable of grasping the concept of numbers and solutions that couldn’t be calculated on their fingers. Eoforth pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingertips and took a deep breath. Everything was easy when you knew how it was done, and it was hard to remember what it was like not to know these things.

  He was in the process of chalking a simpler problem on the board when an excited shout went up from one of the boys seated by the window. Eoforth heard the sound of metal and the whinny of horses from beyond the walls of the schoolhouse.

  ‘Look!’ shouted a girl with corn-coloured hair and petite features, pointing at something beyond the window. She bounced on her stool with excitement, clapping her hands together.

  ‘Erline!’ snapped Eoforth. ‘Your attention please.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Erline. ‘But look!’

  The rest of the class hurried over to the windows and an excited babble broke out as the boys cheered and the girls blushed and scolded one another at their whispered suggestions. Eoforth stooped to look through the window and knew there would be no more lessons today.

  While part of him was angered at that fact, he could not deny his Unberogen heart was stirred by so formidable a display of martial power.

  Fifty horsemen rode down the thoroughfare, each armoured in a heavy shirt of mail and gleaming iron breastplate. They bore crimson and white shields bearing the hammer of Sigmar, and each carried a lance supported in a Taleuten-style stirrup cup. Spitted upon each lance tip was a rotting greenskin head. A glorious banner of white silk emblazoned with a black cross and wreathed skull flew over these warriors, and Eoforth smiled as he recognised the bronze-armoured warrior who rode at the head of these horsemen.

  Alfgeir, Grand Knight of the Empire.

  Sunlight filtered through the forest canopy in thin bars, leaving much of the silent spaces beneath cloaked in shadows. Cuthwin slid through the trees towards the road, a seldom-used track that ran south from Reikdorf all the way to the Grey Mountains. Hardly anyone used these roads any more; the settlements at the foot of the mountains had been destroyed by greenskins ten years ago, and the wilderness had risen up to claim them back.

  But someone was using them now, someone who was in trouble.

  He moved with an arrow nocked to his bow, a magnificent weapon of yew and ash inlaid with lacquered strips of rowan. Blessed by a priest of Taal, the weapon had never once let him down and had saved his life more times than he could count. The string was loose, but could be drawn in an instant. Sounds of battle were coming from the road, the clash of iron weapons and the screams of wounded souls. Normally Cuthwin would give such sounds a wide berth, for the monstrous denizens of the deep forests were as fond of making war amongst themselves as they were on humanity.

  He’d been about to carry onwards to Reikdorf when a loud bang echoed through the forest. Birds fled the treetops and he darted into hiding to string his bow. Another booming echo rolled through the forest. Cuthwin knew that sound, it was a dwarf weapon; one of their thunder bows. He’d seen the mountain folk use them at Black Fire Pass and knew how lethal they could be. His mind made up, he s
wiftly followed the sounds to their source.

  Clad in hard-wearing leather and fur, Cuthwin was the colour of the forest, a ghost moving from shadow to shadow with carefully weighted footfalls. Dead leaves pressed softly into the dark earth without sound and twigs were pushed aside by his buckskin boots. His long hunting knife was sheathed in a leather scabbard, and his pack was hung from a high tree branch a hundred yards behind him. He kept his hair long, though it was pulled back over his ears and held by a leather cord around his temples. He scanned the forest to either side, his peripheral vision alert to anything moving on his flanks.

  He heard the clang of swords, the howls of wounded creatures and more of the banging reports of thunder bows. The wind carried their smoke to his nostrils, acrid and reeking of hot metal, like Govannon’s forge on a hot day. Beneath that there was a familiar smell of rank, unwashed bodies and rotten food.

  Cuthwin knew that smell. He remembered it from the days before Black Fire Pass, when he and Svein had scouted the mountains and discovered the vast host only days from descending into the Empire.

  Greenskins.

  He heard malicious, squealing voices, squawking war cries and vicious wolf barks, answered by deep, rumbling voices that sounded like they came from the deepest pits of the earth. Cuthwin eased through the forest, keeping his back to the trees and altering his approach every time the wind changed.

  Cuthwin was travelling alone, a dangerous pastime in the forests of the Empire, for all manner of peril lurked within their shadow-haunted depths. He knew the risks he took, but was confident enough in his skills to see such dangers as a challenge. To Cuthwin there was nothing as liberating as spending time alone in the deep forests. To survive by his skill with a bow and an innate empathy with the seasonal lore of the wilds was what made him feel alive.

  The sounds of battle were growing louder, and Cuthwin pressed himself to the thick bole of a larch, easing his head around it and peering through its branches to the clearing below.

  The ground sloped down to the road, a rutted track almost obscured by high grass and gorse. Bodies lay strewn around four wagons arranged in a loose circle on the road. Six dwarfs in long mail shirts fought from the backs of the wagons, armed with a mix of hammers and short-hafted axes. The mules hauling the wagons were dead, and a dozen wiry creatures with pallid green flesh wrapped in filth-encrusted rags surrounded them.

  Smaller and weaker than orcs, goblins were cunning little runts that had learned to strike from ambush and kill with the backstab and the low blow. A man or a dwarf was more than a match for a goblin in a straight contest of arms, but that wasn’t how these vicious creatures fought. Half bore compact bows of horn and bone, while others swung curved blades with rusted and serrated edges. They rode emaciated wolves that howled with bloodlust, their fur matted and their jaws dripping with saliva.

  Two dwarfs emptied fine black powder into the barrels of their thunder bows, while the others slashed at any goblins that came too close. As things stood, the dwarfs would be overrun, but like Sigmar before him, Cuthwin would aid the beleaguered mountain folk.

  He hauled back on the string of his bow and sighted on a goblin with a skullcap of bright red leather.

  Eoforth dismissed his class, knowing there would be no more work done today. He was disappointed, but remembered the excitement he had felt when the royal brothers, Björn and Berongunden, had ridden through his village behind their father, Redmane Dregor. The king had been magnificent that day, clad in his burnished bronze armour and leading a host of Unberogen horsemen from the back of a tall dappled stallion of grey and white. His white bearskin cloak fell like a mantle of snow from his armoured shoulders and his hair was the colour of fire.

  Powerful and elemental, Dregor had stopped beside him.

  ‘You are Eoforth?’ asked the king.

  ‘I am, my lord,’ he said, surprised the king knew his name.

  ‘And this is your village?’

  ‘I am the elder of Ingaevon, yes.’

  ‘I have heard of you, Eoforth of Ingaevon. The other village elders say you have no taste for war. Is that true?’

  ‘It’s true I have no love of killing, but I know it is sometimes necessary. That is why I have trained men under arms quartered here. It is also why I had our carpenters construct a high palisade wall and the village’s stockade. I may not carry a sword in this world, but I know how to stay alive in it.’

  ‘Aye, they said you were a sly fox,’ said the king, surveying the lines of the hilltop fort and the well-built and nigh-impregnable walls of the settlement. ‘You may not swing a sword, but you wield that mind of yours like a weapon.’

  The king sighed, looking him in the eye, and Eoforth had been surprised at the marrow-deep weariness he saw in his gaze. The king leaned down and lowered his voice so that only Eoforth could hear his words.

  ‘This world is changing, but the Hag-Mother of the Brackenwalsch tells me I will not live to change with it. That will be for those that come after me. I have need of men like you, men who know that not all battles are fought by warriors, that men of peace will one day be as important as men of war.’

  ‘I would hope that such a day is already here,’ Eoforth had replied.

  Dregor laughed, a rich, wholesome sound that lifted the hearts of all who heard it.

  ‘For a clever man you are naïve, Eoforth, but I like your optimism.’

  ‘What is it you want of me, my lord?’

  ‘I want you to come to Reikdorf,’ said the king in a tone that suggested this was not a request that could be ignored. ‘My boys are good lads, but like their father, they are headstrong; all too eager to rush into battle without considering what other options may be open to them. When Berongunden is king, he will have need of a wise man at his side. I want you to be that wise man.’

  ‘I am flattered, my lord,’ said Eoforth, genuinely taken aback.

  ‘Then you’ll do it?’

  ‘Of course. It would be an honour.’

  Thus had begun his long years of service to the kings of the Unberogen. A life that had seen the Unberogen grow in strength and prominence with every passing year. Björn had readily accepted Eoforth’s counsel, but Berongunden was a warrior cast too closely in his father’s image to listen to anyone’s voice but his own. Proud, reckless and full of Unberogen fire, Berongunden had died in the mountains to the north of the Fauschlag Rock, torn to pieces by a winged beast that haunted the highest crags. A year later King Dregor followed his son into the depths of Warrior Hill, his chest pierced by a dozen greenskin arrows, and Björn had taken the crown.

  The power and influence of the Unberogen had steadily increased under Björn’s leadership, with many sword oaths and trade pacts sworn with neighbouring tribes. Gold and goods from all across the land flowed into Reikdorf, and as the fame of Björn’s farsightedness spread, many tribal kings came to his settlement to meet this wise ruler.

  Björn honoured Eoforth for his wisdom and when Sigmar eventually took the crown after his father’s death fighting the Norsii, he had continued to advise the Unberogen king. Sigmar was now Emperor and Eoforth knew his own span was coming to an end. Sigmar had proven to be a greater king than any of his ancestors, bringing all the tribes of men together under his rule, forging the Empire of men and holding it firm in the face of all enemies.

  A mix of his father’s keen mind and his grandfather’s hot temper, Sigmar was a ruler fit for the Empire: warlike when roused to fight, diplomatic and persuasive when called to pass judgement. Of course there had been times when Eoforth’s steadying hand had been required, such as the incident with Krugar and Aloysis and the dread crown of Morath.

  Thankfully, Sigmar had learned valuable lessons from those moments of weakness, a strength born from understanding that no man was infallible, that such perfection was best left to the gods. Since then Eoforth had quietly faded into the background, content to pass his teachings onto the next generation of Unberogen.

  He sighed, thinking back to
his treatment of Teon. The lad had been rude and arrogant, but Eoforth should have been above such retaliation. In striking the young boy, he had already lost.

  ‘I may not be a warrior, but I am Unberogen,’ he said, smiling as his good humour was restored at the recognition that no matter how cultured a man could become, there was no escaping his heritage. He gathered his books and writing tools from the desk, running a gnarled finger over the carvings around its lip.

  Master Holtwine was a master craftsman and many of the pieces in the Emperor’s longhouse had come from his workshop. His work was truly extraordinary, and was in demand by patrons as diverse as Count Otwin and Count Adelhard. Marius of the Jutones had several pieces, including a great bed frame carved with his heroic deeds during the battle for the Fauschlag Rock.

  Eoforth made his way from the classroom and stepped out into the warm spring sunlight. Winter had broken early and the farmsteads around Reikdorf were being prepared for the sowing. The warm smell of freshly turned earth filled the air, even in the heart of the city, reminding Eoforth that it was not by swords that empires endured, but by keeping food plentiful.

  He made his way along the street, meandering between the streams of youngsters as they gawped at the armoured horsemen. He saw Teon speaking to his father. Eoforth wondered if he was recounting his punishment in class. He decided that was unlikely; he knew the boy and his father were not close. Orvin was of typical Unberogen stock, broad-shouldered and powerfully built with a shock of dark hair. His bearing was confident to the point of arrogant, but unlike his son he had earned the right to walk with a swagger.

  Eoforth waved as he saw Alfgeir walking his horse along the cobbled street towards him.

  ‘Welcome home, Grand Knight of the Empire,’ said Eoforth. ‘I take it you were successful? The orcs are defeated?’

  Alfgeir lifted his helmet’s visor and scowled at Eoforth’s use of his formal title. Alfgeir had many titles, Grand Knight of the Empire being but his most recently acquired. Marshal of the Reik was another, but to Eoforth he would always simply be his friend.