The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  People called him wise, as though that were enough to reach back across the gulfs of time to pluck the truth from the mass of conflicting information. He knew a great deal, it was true, more than most men, but in the face of all he needed to discover, his knowledge was a paltry thing indeed. Eoforth rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and stared at the manuscript before him once again.

  Its edges were curled and blackened, as though it had been plucked from a fire, and the writing was an old form of Reikspiel, one that only a handful of the oldest men and women in the Empire could decipher. It was a depressing thought that he was one of those oldest men.

  Endal mariners returning to Marburg from a mapping expedition to the far north over a century ago had discovered the manuscript aboard a smouldering galley drifting at the mouth of the Reik. No trace had been found of any ship that might have attacked the galley, nor were any of its crew found aboard.

  It was a mystery that had never been solved, but the sailors had found a treasure trove of trinkets and tomes of unknown provenance aboard the galley, all of which they took back to their city and presented to King Alderbad, the great-grandfather of Count Aldred. Eoforth had travelled to Marburg many years ago to study these artefacts—golden effigies of jackal-headed monsters, strange, beetle-like creatures and elaborate death masks of gold and jade.

  Many of the manuscripts Eoforth had studied made reference to ancient gods of similar aspect, naming them as forgotten kings of a lost land named Nehekhara. It was said that these kings had been laid to rest in fabulous tombs and mausoleum cities now lost to the desert sands. In many of the manuscripts, Nagash was blamed for the final doom of these kings in a single night, though how anyone, even Nagash, could have laid an entire civilisation low so swiftly was beyond Eoforth.

  If such tales were to be believed, then Nagash had walked the earth for over two thousand years, a fantastical span of time that Eoforth had trouble in grasping. It seemed absurd, but then the ultimate goal of the necromancer was to cheat death and live forever, so perhaps it was not so unbelievable after all.

  Some of what Eoforth read was plainly nonsense, tales of a beautiful queen of the dead who had become his consort and sired the race of blood drinkers, an alliance with a burrowing race of vermin creatures who infested the hidden corners of the world and, most incredible of all, the building of a vast obsidian pyramid somewhere in the southern mountains that prevented the necromancer from ever truly dying.

  All the accounts agreed on one thing: Nagash was the bane of life, a twisted and corrupt sorcerer whose existence had transcended his human origins to become something more monstrous and more evil than anything that had ever walked the face of the world. His powers were beyond imagining, his reach limitless and his armies legion.

  Inextricably linked with the tale of Nagash was the tale of the crown he had forged and into which he had bound the essence of his damned soul. This, the ancient taletellers agreed, was the source of Nagash’s greatest power and his greatest weakness. The manuscript from the burning galley spoke of an ancient warrior named Al-Khadizaar who slew the Lord of Undeath with a dreadful sword of fell power and cast his bones and crown into a great river.

  Frustratingly, the manuscript said no more of the crown, but in a long-dead trader’s recounting of his travels in the blasted lands south of the Black Mountains, Eoforth unearthed mention of a ruined ancient city that bore all the hallmarks of having been destroyed by a greenskin invasion. When Sigmar had told him of the battle against the necromancer of Brass Keep, he had spoken of a phantom city beneath the ice; a vision conjured by Morath to recreate the fallen glory of his lost city of Mourkain. Like the cities of Nehekhara, it too had been made great and then brought low by Nagash’s crown.

  A greenskin invasion had destroyed the city, but had they been drawn to destroy Mourkain by the crown’s influence? Everywhere the crown appeared in history, great devastation quickly followed: terrible invasions, cataclysms of dreadful power or corruptions of once noble civilisations into barbarism. The crown was a talisman of woe, a bringer of destruction that brought only misery and death whenever it came to light.

  And it was buried in the heart of Reikdorf.

  A soft gust sighed past Eoforth, and he heard a dry, dusty chuckle that echoed from the blackness between the stone pillars. It drifted on the still air, and Eoforth knew in that moment he was not alone. Deathly eyes were turned upon him, mocking his feeble attempts to unlock the nature of a creature that had walked the haunted paths of the world from the earliest ages of Man. Cold chills travelled the length of his spine and Eoforth slammed the book shut, his breath misting before him as the light from the flickering candles dimmed and the shadows crept closer.

  Gathering up his notes, Eoforth fled the library.

  Ten

  Creeping Death

  A dozen riders fled north, whipping their mounts in a frenzy of terror and desperation. Khaled al-Muntasir watched them go with a wry grin of amusement on his lips. A city of nearly eight thousand people, and twelve men were all that now lived. He watched from a high balcony of the Count’s Palace, a grand tower decorated with finery from all across the Empire and a number of artefacts he recognised as belonging to civilisations from the other side of the world.

  ‘You were a man of culture,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir, lifting a delicately-wrought vase of pale white ceramic decorated with exquisite images picked out in blue ink. The artist had skilfully rendered a man and women drinking tea at a low table in a bamboo-framed home. The brushwork was flawless and the detailing incredible. In any land this piece would fetch a small fortune.

  Khaled al-Muntasir tossed the vase from the balcony, watching as it tumbled down the cliff to smash to fragments on the way down. The vase’s owner didn’t bat an eyelid at his prized possession’s destruction.

  ‘Yes,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir, moving back into the Great Hall, its walls painted with colourful frescoes depicting scenes of hunting and battle. ‘You have some wonderful pieces here. This rug, for example, bears the handiwork of the dreamweavers of Ind, while this wall hanging is from the silk-worms of the Dragon Emperor is it not?’

  The vampire stopped beneath a podium of oak, upon which was mounted a pair of giant ivory tusks. He stroked the monstrous fangs, marvelling at their size and contemplating the scale of the beast from which they had been torn. The vampire looked towards the warrior standing motionless in the centre of the audience chamber, a tall man in golden armour and a crown of the same metal upon his brow. His hair was white and flowed across his shoulders like a frozen waterfall.

  ‘Ordinarily, I would say these belonged to a dragon, but I know of no such beasts in these lands any more. So tell me, Siggurd, what manner of creature once owned these?’

  The warrior turned to face Khaled al-Muntasir, his face drained of life and his throat a ruined mess of torn sinews and muscle. Blood coated his chest and his eyes were now sunken, filled with a hideous red light. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out, just a hiss of dead air from his opened throat.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course…’ said Khaled al-Muntasir. The vampire muttered a petty incantation of dark magic and the torn meat of Siggurd’s throat began to close up, the necrotic flesh weaving the ghastly wound closed. ‘Now, you were saying…?’

  The count of the Brigundian tribe’s mouth opened and a rasping death rattle emerged, a sound dragged from the abyss that carried such pleasing anguish that Khaled al-Muntasir couldn’t resist a wide grin.

  ‘Skaranorak…’ hissed Siggurd. ‘A dragon ogre…’

  Khaled al-Muntasir’s eyes widened, and he stroked the heavy tusks with his carefully clipped nails, a new-found respect in his deathly eyes.

  ‘You killed this beast yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Siggurd, his voice returning. ‘Sigmar killed it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Sigmar,’ said the vampire. ‘I should have guessed.’

  Siggurd walked out onto the balcony, a perch from where he ha
d once surveyed the lands belonging to his tribe, lands that had once brought trade and wealth to his city, but were now overtaken by darkness and fear. Swollen by the Menogoth dead, the army of Nagash had taken Siggurdheim in a matter of days, its rugged peak climbed by hundreds of ghoulish infiltrators as thousands of dead warriors marched along its steep winding roads to batter their way in through the heavy gateway. The city had fallen in a night that still held sway, the Great Hall’s many windows admitting no light, only the darkness of eternal night.

  ‘Are you not going to stop them?’ asked Siggurd, his flesh finally losing its vigour and warmth as the Blood Kiss destroyed the last of his humanity and completed his journey to become an immortal killer of the living.

  ‘Why would I care to do that?’ said a voice laden with thousands of years of blood and slaughter. Like tombstones crumbling, it was the sound of toppled civilisations, cultures destroyed and entire realms drained of life.

  Siggurd and Khaled al-Muntasir bowed as Nagash entered the Great Hall. The darkness beyond the windows was eclipsed by the bleak presence of the arch necromancer, a thick miasma of dark energy that filled his servants with macabre vigour. The coiled snake staff crackled with simmering power, and his metallic fingers dripped beads of dark magic to the stone floor of the hall.

  The hulking violence that was Krell marched at Nagash’s right hand, his black axe strapped across his armoured back. The fallen warrior of the Dark Gods had run rampant through the city, killing with a frenzy that would no doubt have pleased his former master. To Nagash’s left was the wolfish figure of Count Markus, his lean frame now invigorated with slaughter. His blade and chin were covered in blood; his eyes alight with the thrill of feeding on so many fearful hearts.

  ‘They will carry word of what has happened here,’ said Siggurd, staring hungrily at the blood on Markus’s blade. ‘It will give them time to prepare for your attack.’

  ‘It matters not,’ said Nagash. ‘Already my vassal forces spread fear to the furthest reaches of this land. Man is a beast and it is good that fear fills him.’

  ‘And that fear will drain men’s hearts of courage,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir, returning to the balcony. ‘But more than that, it tastes so sweet…’

  Khaled al-Muntasir watched as the riders fleeing Siggurdheim’s destruction disappeared over the horizon, their life lights as bright as stars. ‘Where will they go?’ he asked.

  ‘North to Asoborn lands,’ answered Siggurd, licking his lips and pacing the hall like a restless stallion. ‘They will flee to Queen Freya in Three Hills. She lives for war and will muster her warriors as soon as she learns what has happened here.’

  ‘Then that is where you will go, Khaled al-Muntasir,’ said Nagash. ‘Hunt down this queen and destroy her.’

  Khaled al-Muntasir bowed and dropped into the throne that had once belonged to the Brigundian count. ‘I will leave her lands as desolate as Bel Aliad itself.’

  ‘What of the Merogens?’ asked Siggurd, his hands clawed into fists. ‘Is Henroth dead?’

  ‘Henroth’s people huddle around flickering candles within their castles of stone, surrounded by the dead. They will be no threat,’ said Nagash as Markus walked over to Siggurd and took hold of his chin.

  The former count of the Menogoths turned to Khaled al-Muntasir. ‘The birth-hunger is upon him,’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ agreed the vampire.

  ‘He will need to feed soon or else go mad.’

  ‘There are living yet within this city’s walls,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir, languidly twirling a finger through the air, as though stirring its flavours. ‘Young Siggurd must learn to hunt on his own, just as you did.’

  Siggurd took Markus’s hand from his chin, his eyes hostile, and they circled like two virile males in a wolf pack. Khaled al-Muntasir smirked at such posturing in newly-ascended blood drinkers.

  ‘Give a mortal a taste of true power and it all but overwhelms them,’ said Nagash.

  ‘If either survive to learn how to use that power they will be formidable killers,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir.

  ‘The fate of blood drinkers interests me not at all,’ hissed Nagash ducking below the balcony’s archway and casting his immortal gaze over the landscape. The darkness of his armour and tattered cloak swirled around him like sable light, the faint glow from within his bones like the last sunset of the world. ‘Only the crown matters.’

  ‘Then why am I to ride north?’ asked Khaled al-Muntasir. ‘Surely we should march straight to Reikdorf.’

  Krell took a thunderous step towards him, his axe unsheathed in a heartbeat and the light in his skull shining with the threat of furious violence.

  ‘You question my purpose?’ said Nagash.

  ‘No, my master,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir, smoothly swinging his legs from the arms of the throne and giving an elaborate bow. ‘I am your humble servant in all things.’

  Nagash’s eyes bored into him, and Khaled al-Muntasir instantly regretted his flippant tone. He felt himself touched by a fraction of the necromancer’s power, a dreadful extinction that held everything that lived or once drew air into its lungs with contempt. Even the living dead were not immune to the necromancer’s touch. His enormous reservoirs of power could snuff out unlife as easily as a mortal blew out a candle.

  Khaled al-Muntasir had passed the point where he feared much of anything, but the one fate that still struck horror through his undying flesh was oblivion. To live forever, to hunt the living and to indulge his every sense and vice was the sum total of his desire, and the thought of that ended filled him with dread.

  Nagash saw his acquiescence and the lambent glow in his eye sockets shimmered at his vassal’s fear. The Lord of Undeath turned to the darkened landscape beyond Siggurdheim.

  ‘Spread the terror of death before you and drive those you do not kill toward my crown,’ hissed Nagash. ‘Lay waste these petty kingdoms and scour the seed of mortals from this land.’

  ‘It shall be my pleasure,’ Khaled al-Muntasir assured Nagash.

  A low bell tolled, echoing across the Old Town harbour, and Sergeant Alwin of the Jutonsryk Lancers paused to watch the beacon fire atop the Tower of Tides light up, signalling the end of another day.

  ‘Regular as always,’ he said to himself. ‘Good to know that some things never change.’

  He moved on, walking with an unhurried gait, his sword sheathed at his side and his blue cloak flitting behind him in the choppy evening wind blowing off the seafront. It was a quiet night, which made a nice change, the drunks keeping a low profile instead of roistering in the streets or brawling in the taprooms.

  The docks were quiet, just the slap of water against the quay, the creak of ships’ timbers and the sigh of wind through the rigging and flags. His lancers followed behind him, four men of proven character, all of whom he could rely on in a tight spot. Not that he expected any tight spots tonight; the day had been without incident, as though the thousands of sailors, tradesmen and inhabitants of the city had been reluctant to remain outdoors for any length of time. He’d thought it odd, but anything that helped keep the peace in Jutonsryk was a boon as far as Alwin was concerned.

  He paused by the westernmost spur of the docks, putting his foot up on one of the iron mooring rungs set in the quay. The Ormen Lange, an Udose vessel familiar to the docks of Jutonsryk, was moored here, and he waved up to the bearded clansman at ship’s watch in the forecastle.

  ‘All’s bonny,’ called the man. ‘None reddin the fire the night, eh?

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Alwin, though he had no idea what the clansman had just said.

  He moved on, looking up at the Namathir to Count Marius’s castle, its many windows glowing with colour and light. The lord of Jutonsryk was a hard man to like, but Marius knew how to run a busy port, understanding that commerce and trade would only flow into a city if its streets could be made safe. Merchants would not come to a city where they feared for their life and cargo.

  Which wasn’t to say the city
was a utopian society where crime didn’t happen, far from it, but those who flouted the law were punished by Marius’s only penalty—death. Justice in Jutonsryk was harsh, uncompromising and final. Which made for a city where all but the most foolish drunks or desperate footpads observed the law.

  Alwin followed the line of the docks as he and his lancers made his way towards Taal’s Fire, the most southerly beacon brazier of the docks. It burned with blue fire, a shimmering lodestone for incoming ships. Further north, around the curve of the bay, Ulric’s Fire wavered with a green light. Differing herbs altered the colour of the flames, and it was thanks to these beacons, together with the one atop the Tower of Tides, that not a single vessel had been lost while navigating the treacherous channels around the Reik estuary.

  As Alwin looked north, the light from Ulric’s Fire was momentarily obscured, as though a shimmering curtain had been drawn in front of it. He frowned and squinted through the darkness as it flickered and disappeared.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he said, turning towards his warriors.

  They nodded and Alwin looked south towards Taal’s Fire. It too was gone.

  ‘Damn me,’ hissed Alwin. ‘I don’t like that, no I do not.’

  He looked back at the Tower of Tides, reassured to see that its beacon light was still lit. Low clouds clung to the distant tower, tendrils of mist that seemed not to move with the wind. Alwin looked out to sea, and his mouth fell open at the sight of a rolling grey fog coming in from the darkness. Living by the ocean, with a coastline of marshland to the south, a man got used to mists, but this was something more. It hugged the water, undulating over its black surface like a scum of sea filth as it crept towards the city.

  The fog was thick and reeked worse than a bloated corpse dragged from the water. It drifted over the hundreds of berthed ships, slinking and creeping over their timbers with an unclean touch. It slithered up the quayside, oozing onto the docks with dreadful purpose, and Alwin knew he’d never seen anything quite so unpleasant.