The Legend of Sigmar

by Graham McNeill

  Sigmar led the way through the streets of Reikdorf towards the splintered wreckage of the Ostgate. Behind him marched a column of tribesmen, thousands upon thousands of warriors, men and women, old men and young, mothers, daughters, fathers and sons. Those without swords carried iron-tipped cudgels, butcher’s hooks, felling axes or clubs formed from broken furniture. Sigmar’s army was everyone in Reikdorf, peasant and noble-born alike. They came with him, chanting his name like a mantra or a prayer, their belief in him like a force of nature or some divine mandate stolen from the gods themselves.

  His boon companions rode at his side, and though this could very well be the last day of the Empire, Sigmar faced it with pride and courage.

  High Priestess Alessa was waiting for him at the Ostgate, surrounded by a hundred warriors with their heavy broadswords drawn. She carried a heavy iron box, banded with silver and secured by a lock of the same metal. Dark earth clung to the box, as though it had only recently been dug from the ground. Sigmar could feel the dark power bound to the dread artefact within, remembering the foul deeds it had driven him to before.

  ‘You are sure about this?’ said Alessa, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘I am,’ said Sigmar. ‘There is no other way to face Nagash and live.’

  Alessa nodded, as though she had been expecting this.

  ‘You will need to be strong, Sigmar Heldenhammer,’ she said. ‘It will tempt you with all the secret things you hold deep in your heart.’

  Sigmar shook his head with a derisive sneer. ‘It offered me my heart’s desire once before and I rejected it. There is nothing else it can show me.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Alessa, opening the box. ‘Or else it will not be Nagash who destroys the lands of men. It will be you.’

  Twenty

  The Battle of the River Reik

  The army of mortals poured from the ruined gates of the city, forming a great mass of flesh and blood in the land between the two forks of the river that converged within its walls. Khaled al-Muntasir saw Sigmar at the heart of this force, a figure in shining armour to match his own. A twinge of unease flickered in the vampire’s chest, as though he were watching some magnificent Nehekharan host arrayed for ritual battle instead of a pathetic, desperate horde of mortals.

  Sigmar took his place at the head of maybe three hundred horsemen, each atop a powerful, armoured steed, and each bearing a mix of swords, axes and spears. As more of the Emperor’s subjects marched from Reikdorf, a shape began to form of Sigmar’s plan, and Khaled

  al-Muntasir laughed as his unease was replaced by relief.

  Another block of cavalry formed up beside Sigmar’s, and great wedges of infantry formed up to either side of the horsemen. Some of these were disciplined and marched like they’d been given some training, but others were little better than ragged mobs. Give them a taste of blood and death and they’d run easily enough. Yet more cavalry rode onto the northern flank of the army, their armour red-painted and bedecked with suns. A handful of chariots and painted warriors took position by the southern fork of the river, and the vampire smiled as he recognised Freya’s barely-armoured form.

  ‘Some mortals just never learn,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Siggurd.

  ‘They think they can win,’ said Khaled al-Muntasir. ‘Even after all that’s happened, they still think they can win. Hope has undone them. Hope has sent them out here to die ingloriously instead of accepting the inevitable and prospering.’

  ‘Sigmar will always think he can win,’ said Markus. ‘Until the blade cleaves his heart, I’ll not be too sure he’s wrong.’

  Khaled al-Muntasir looked over at his creation and frowned. ‘You think that pathetic force can best ours?’ He looked out over Sigmar’s army, trying to estimate how many warriors the Emperor had. ‘He has fifteen thousand men at best. We outnumber him by more than two to one. He cannot possibly defeat so many.’

  Markus shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of battles lost with better odds.’

  ‘Impossible,’ sneered Khaled al-Muntasir.

  ‘You don’t know Sigmar,’ said Siggurd, his black steed pawing the ground and snorting with impatience.

  Once again, the tiny ember of unease in Khaled al-Muntasir’s chest was fanned, but he quashed it ruthlessly. More than numbers would decide this battle. The terrible fear of the dead would unman many of the Emperor’s warriors, and for every one of them that fell, another fighter would be added to the army of the dead. Though Markus and Siggurd had not yet developed their sorcerous powers, his own were formidable. But even they were a pale shadow compared to the magic of Nagash. With a word, the necromancer could command the dead to rise, the living to wither and die, and curse the skies to bring forth elemental fury.

  No, his vampire counts were simply being overly cautious, yet the thought would not leave him that this last, desperate battle was in fact a ploy to lure them into a trap. His gaze swept the mortal army as it began a slow advance, skirling war horns, trumpets and drums driving the army towards the silent host of undead. Sigmar’s horsemen pulled ahead of the main battle line, riding at speed towards the centre of Nagash’s army.

  Khaled al-Muntasir followed the line of Sigmar’s charge, seeing where it led with a derisive bark of laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Markus.

  ‘Sigmar wants to duel,’ he said in disbelief. ‘He thinks he can face Nagash.’

  At the centre of the army of the dead, the pillar of terror and ice that was Nagash bellowed with rage. Black lightning surged from the necromancer, a furious, blitzing whirlwind of dark magic that consumed hundreds of revenants around him. A roaring scream of rage and bitter spite cracked the sky, and a cold rain began to fall as the wounded heavens wept over the lands of men.

  Khaled al-Muntasir felt the terrible force of the necromancer’s rage and, moments later, realised its source. Riding ever closer to the army of the dead, Sigmar’s head was held high, and upon his brow was the glittering majesty of Nagash’s crown. It pulsed with silver light, its magic unseen by mortals, but visible as a ghostly corona of light around the Emperor’s head. Khaled al-Muntasir had taken it for some cheap mortal bauble, enchanted with some hedge wizard’s pitiful ward charms, but the dormant power coming off it in waves told another story.

  ‘Blood of the Ancients…’ hissed Khaled al-Muntasir, angered at the sight of a mere man wearing the crown crafted by the master of the dead. The incredible power bound to its unknown metals was not for some fleshy sack of blood and meat to wear, it was for the Lord of Undeath alone. Sigmar had worn the crown once before and it had almost destroyed him, but his strength of will had been enough to resist its siren song.

  A terrible thought occurred to the vampire…

  Had Sigmar mastered the power of the crown?

  Was that what this was, a trap to lure the army of the dead to Reikdorf just to wrest it from Nagash?

  ‘Ride out,’ commanded Khaled al-Muntasir. ‘Ride out now!’

  Sigmar felt the awful weight of the crown at his brow, its immense power threatening to crush his skull and invade his mind with all the terrible temptations of power it had offered him before. He had had Wolfgart’s help to resist it last time, now he was on his own. Black thoughts of vengeance, power and dominance filled his mind, but knowing them for what they were, he was able to push them away for now.

  To march to war at the head of so great a host of men was a truly magnificent honour, but facing them was an army of nightmares. The greenskin horde at Black Fire had been larger, but so had his army. And this foe could return from the dead…

  A great mass of shambling dead opposed him, a ragged, shuffling horde of corpses in numerous stages of decomposition. Many wore the garb of Empire warriors or peasants, and he kept his anger in check, lest it feed the black sorcery of the crown. Dark horsemen rode to each flank of the enemy army and ravening packs of dead wolves and ghoulish cannibals roamed the banks of the southern arm of the Reik. The Asobo
rns faced this scattered horde of teeth and claws, led by Garr’s Queen’s Eagles and Freya herself. Sigmar saw the warrior queen atop a commandeered chariot, with Sigulf acting as her rider and Fridleifr as her spear bearer. Sigmar felt a knot in his gut at the sight of those boys going into battle, but they had been blooded already and would be again if they survived this fight.

  Beside Sigmar, Wolfgart stood tall in his saddle, waving towards Maedbh. Her chariot sped along beside the queen’s, with Ulrike and Cuthwin in the back, each armed with bows and many quivers of arrows blessed by the priests of Taal.

  Wenyld rode next to Wolfgart, holding Sigmar’s banner aloft with an expression of disbelieving pride. The rippling battle flag, with its glorious beast of legend picked out in gold, represented everything this mortal army stood for and was willing to die to defend. To carry it was the greatest honour, one that had fallen to Pendrag before his death. Though Sigmar had thought Wolfgart would want to bear the banner, he had instead preferred to carry his enormous sword. Sigmar understood, and Wolfgart’s battle captain had taken up the banner. Thinking back to how he had first encountered Wenyld, Sigmar was pleased the banner would be borne by someone he knew.

  Looking left and right, Sigmar saw his countrymen, warriors of all different tribes and lands. Scattered among the battle-trained warriors were cheering masses of farmers, craftsmen and labourers, men who had never faced battle until now. As glad as Sigmar was to have them march out with him, he knew they could not be relied upon to stand when the fighting became close and bloody.

  In the moments before battle, the priests of each temple had given their blessings to the army, but instead of retreating behind the walls, each took up a heavy hammer, mace or cudgel and joined the battle line. With the exception of the priests of Ulric, no holy men fought with the army of the Empire, but Sigmar was happy to have the help of whichever god chose to aid them this day.

  Far to Sigmar’s left the Red Scythes rode along the line of the northern fork of the river, Leodan leading his warriors in an attempt to flank the enemy army and put their lances and heavy swords to good use. Sigmar rode at the head of one detachment of the Great Hall Guard, while Alfgeir commanded the other. Both masses of heavy horse held the centre of the army, and Sigmar’s entire strategy depended on their strength, speed and power.

  Ahead of them, beyond the thousands of lurching corpses, ghostly revenants and rank upon rank of skeletal warriors, was a towering figure wreathed in black light and shimmering arcs of deathly energy. Sigmar could see Nagash clearly now, a boon from the crown no doubt, and he saw the incredible, unknowable power that seethed in his chest. Sustained by the darkest of magic, Nagash was immortal, invincible and deadly.

  He felt the black gaze of the necromancer slide over him, a creeping chill that would have frozen his heart in an instant but for the power of the dwarf-forged plate that encased him. No sooner had that icy gaze felt what sat upon his brow than a hideous roar of fury shook the world and booming peals of thunder rolled across the landscape. Sheets of rain fell in cascades and brilliant traceries of lightning forked from the sky.

  ‘Looks like you were right, old friend,’ said Sigmar, thinking back to Eoforth’s last words.

  Even armed with that knowledge, Sigmar knew he would only get one chance to land a killing blow. He took a deep breath, whispering a prayer to Ulric.

  ‘Is it time?’ said Wolfgart.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Sigmar. ‘Sound the horns.’

  The order was given, and all along the Unberogen line, a rippling series of horn blasts spread from the army’s centre. Pipes and drums joined the crescendo, and even before the first echoes faded, the army of the Empire was on the move.

  Sigmar raked back his spurs and the gelding leapt to the charge. The ground between the forks of the river was hard-packed and flat, ideal cavalry terrain, and the sound of hoof beats was like the thunder booming in the heavens above them. Hundreds of heavily armoured horsemen kicked their mounts from a canter to a charge, yelling fearsome Unberogen war cries to banish the fear that tore at every one of them.

  Wolfgart drew his heavy two-handed sword from his shoulder scabbard. The weapon was unwieldy to use from the back of a horse, but Wolfgart would sooner be defenceless than go into battle without such a blade. Wenyld held the banner high, gripping onto his horse with his thighs and stirrups as he swung the spiked ball of a great morning star in looping arcs.

  Sigmar picked out the dead man he would slay, an eyeless corpse with thin, wasted arms hanging limply at its sides. His steed whinnied in fear and he lifted his hammer high.

  ‘For Ulric!’ shouted Sigmar, urging his horse to greater speed. ‘For the Empire!’

  Ghal-maraz slammed down and broke the corpse in two as the Unberogen cavalry struck the shambling mass of the dead in a deafening crash of iron and bone. The first ranks of the dead simply disintegrated as the unstoppable mass of horsemen crushed them with the speed and weight of their charge. Hundreds were trampled and broken apart in moments, hammers and swords and axes hacking a bloody path through the undead.

  Sigmar kicked a dead man in the face, caving in the bone of his skull and backhanding his hammer into the chest of another. Ribs splintered and rotten meat sprayed from the impact. Emerald-lit eyes dulled as the corpse fell, but Sigmar was riding onward before the body had even fallen. Claws tore at his horse and his legs, but his armour was impervious to the broken nails and bony fingertips of the dead. The Great Hall Guard were the very best of the Unberogen, and these wretched specimens could not hope to halt their advance.

  ‘Keep pushing!’ shouted Sigmar. ‘If we stop we are lost!’

  Wenyld’s morning star battered the dead from his path as he sought to keep up with Sigmar, and Wolfgart’s sword clove living corpses in two with every blow. Sigmar’s horse kicked out as he drove it onwards, iron-shod hooves breaking skulls and shattering rib cages as it fought as hard as its rider.

  With Sigmar at their head, the Unberogen punched through the ranks of the corpse warriors, but this had been but a taster for the battle to come. These were the chaff of the dead, and served only to slow Sigmar’s charge. The Great Hall Guard hacked, bludgeoned and sliced through the wall of corpses, punching through to the army beyond, where ranked up skeletal warriors marched towards them with spears lowered and shields locked together.

  Alfgeir marvelled as his new sword cut through the necks of two dead men with flawless ease. It was half as light as he would have expected, yet it was perfectly balanced for his reach and strength. Wherever he swung the sword, it connected with the most vulnerable portion of his enemy, and he had left two score headless corpses in his wake. Its edge was keen beyond imagining and not a trace of grave dirt or blood befouled its surface.

  Govannon had presented the sword to him as they gathered to hear Sigmar’s words at the Oathstone. Together with Masters Holtwine and Alaric, Govannon had handed him the blade, hilt first, and apologised for the lack of a case.

  Alfgeir had been speechless, overcome with gratitude that the smith had actually managed to fulfil his promise and finish the blade before the first fall of snow.

  ‘If I live through this battle, I will commission a sword case from Master Holtwine,’ he’d said.

  ‘It will be my finest work,’ Holtwine had said.

  It was a sword of heroes, a blade that never failed to find its mark and clove to the very heart of its victim. Beyond the works of the dwarfs, no man had wielded a finer weapon. Too fine a blade to belong to one man alone; this would be the blade of the Marshal of the Reik for evermore.

  Alfgeir fought with the skill and strength of a man half his age or less, showing the younger warriors how to fight like a true Unberogen. His two hundred knights fought just as hard, seeking to earn his favour with their faith and fury. While Sigmar’s cavalry punched through the centre of the undead towards the necromancer, Alfgeir’s riders angled their course towards the dead marching along the northern fork of the river.

  Behi
nd Alfgeir, Orvin and his son, Teon, fought the dead with crushing blows from their heavy broadswords. Orvin was a man quick to anger, with a temper that had made him few friends in peacetime, but which served him well in battle. His son wore an old bronze helmet with a white, horsehair plume. It was dented on one side from a blow struck more than forty years ago, and Alfgeir remembered the boy’s grandfather wearing the helm. The dent had come from the axe blow that had panned in his skull. Alfgeir hoped the grandson would have better luck with it.

  Orvin carried the white gold banner Sigmar had presented to Alfgeir upon his coronation as Emperor, and though no words had ever been spoken to make it so, it had become a kind of unofficial talisman for the Great Hall Guard. His warriors fought all the harder when it flew above them, so Alfgeir was happy for them to count it as their own.

  Alfgeir chopped the arms from a corpse seeking to drag him from his saddle and pushed his mount through the press of crushing bodies. The banner flew proudly above the knights, a beacon of light for his warriors to rally around. Though fear of this foe threatened to overcome every one of them, none would falter while the white and gold banner flew. Wolfskin cloaks streamed at their backs as they broke through the shambling dead and came face to face with rank after rank of the warriors formed from bone and iron.

  ‘Onwards!’ cried Alfgeir, urging his steed onwards. ‘For Sigmar and the Empire!’

  Another wolf howled as it was crushed beneath the iron-rimmed wheels of Maedbh’s chariot. Its remains rotted in an instant, and Ulrike loosed an arrow through the jaws of another beast as it leapt towards them. Beside her, Cuthwin loosed with calm precision, each shaft slicing home into the body of a wolf.

  ‘Keen eyes!’ shouted Maedbh, proud to have her daughter as her spear bearer and glad to have a warrior as cool-tempered as Cuthwin next to her.