Owl, perched high, eternal grieves.
Raven drinks the blood of Sigmar’s dead,
But soon flies off to hidden bed.
Weary ’neath death’s black spell,
The dead know pain that none can quell.
Cursed to fight those they loved,
Forever lost, each journey taken,
plagues the mind; the nights awaken.
Troubled visions, thoughts of yesterdays,
that seem like beacons; lives away.
Random comforts cannot ease their soul,
For knowledge takes its weary toll
’Pon one who suffers with each breath,
Who slept once in peace, then awoke in death.
—
Reunions
Though the sun was newly risen, light was already bleeding from the sky. The Asoborn battle line was silhouetted on the brow of the hill, three hundred men and almost a hundred women and children. Boys as young as six held long daggers, and men in their seventies gripped felling axes as they awaited the coming of the dead.
Maedbh kept Ulrike and Freya’s boys close, trying to hide her fear from them. The desire to flee smouldered in the hearts of everyone, and all it would take to ignite would be one spark of fear. The Queen’s Eagles held the centre of the line, thirty warriors in leather armour and golden winged helms. Each bore a long spear and carried a short, stabbing sword. Their presence was all that gave Maedbh hope they might withstand one attack at least.
Alaric had split his warriors into two groups of fifty, placing one on either flank. These redoubtable warriors bore wide-bladed axes slung across their backs, though each was presently armed with a heavy crossbow and bolts as thick as Maedbh’s thumb.
Five hundred against four thousand; it was the odds of which sagas were made.
After five days of forced marching, it felt strange to be simply waiting for the enemy to reveal itself. The Asoborn way of war was to strike hard and fast, wreaking as much damage as possible before withdrawing and dragging the enemy onto the blades of the spearmen. To wait for the enemy to attack felt wrong, but what else could they do?
Maedbh felt a small hand tugging at her sleeve and saw her daughter looking up at her with wide, determined eyes. Maedbh’s heart ached to see Ulrike afraid, but this was what it meant to be an Asoborn. Battle had to be given and courage earned in the face of fear. As much as Maedbh hated the idea of Ulrike fighting this foe, it would be the making of her.
“Are the bad wolves coming for us?” said Ulrike.
“Yes, dear heart, they are,” said Maedbh.
“But we’ll see them off won’t we? Just like we did before?”
“Yes, just like then, but this time we’ll make sure they don’t come back.”
Ulrike nodded and gripped her bow tightly. “Good,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bowstring. “I wish my father was here. He’d ride over them on his horse and that’d be the end of them, wouldn’t it?”
“I wish that too,” said Maedbh, “but the gods have already blessed us today, so we must be grateful for what they have given us.”
“How do you come to that conclusion?” said Sigulf, his features pale with worry. “The gods haven’t blessed us, they’ve forsaken us.”
Maedbh knelt beside the boy, his fair hair plastered to his scalp with sweat. His green eyes were wide and fearful. Sigulf had the soul of a poet, and though he had proved himself a capable fighter, Maedbh knew his heart was only truly free when he was writing music and composing verse.
His twin brother answered him. “Because they have sent us an enemy to test our courage and the strength of our sword arms.” Where Sigulf was a gentle soul, his twin was a warrior born and bred. Fridleifr loved to fight, and had made a name for himself among the Asoborn as a fist-fighter of some repute. Skilled with sword and axe, he was happiest when the blood flowed and death hung upon every heartbeat.
Just like his father, thought Maedbh.
“They’ve blessed us because they gave us a beautiful morning, and sent strong friends to stand beside us,” said Maedbh. “Ulric knows that no warrior should fight alone, and has sent us the warriors of the mountain holds to fight at our sides.”
“But we’re going to die,” said Sigulf, his voice quavering. “The dead are coming to kill us.”
“They’ll try to kill us, but I won’t be dying today, and neither will you, little brother,” stated Fridleifr. “These are Asoborn lands and we are the sons of a warrior queen.”
“But the iron men said mother was dead,” said Sigulf.
“Aye, but I’ll not believe it until I see her on a pyre,” replied Fridleifr, and Maedbh heard the strength and determination of the boy’s father in his words. Both boys possessed qualities of their sire, but only one man of this age embodied such greatness combined. “I’ll wager a fist of gold she’ll ride over the hill and send these bastards over the Worlds Edge!”
The boy’s voice lifted with every word and Maedbh saw his conviction that they would live through this fight spread to everyone in the battle line. Even the Queen’s Eagles took heart, and Maedbh was surprised to find that even she dared to hope he might be right.
A dwarf horn sounded a warning from the end of their formation and Maedbh saw the blood drinker’s army for the first time. The sky above the enemy army blackened like dead flesh around an infected wound as a morass of carrion birds, bats and blood-sucking insects took to the air.
A single vast block of skeletons, two hundred wide and twenty deep, marched towards the Asoborns in perfect formation, their bodies armoured in scraps of iron and rusted bronze. Their spears rippled in unison as they brought them down, serrated tips aimed at the hearts of the mortal warriors opposing them. The blood drinker rode in the midst of a hundred black-armoured horsemen, his brilliant white cloak streaming behind him in the cold winds that blew around the deathly army.
Wolves howled and loped around the dread host, filthy, diseased mockeries of the noble heralds of Ulric. Exposed muscles and withered meat hung from their bones and their jaws slavered with rotten saliva. Worse than all of that, was the fact that many of the dead warriors had clearly once been Asoborns. Everyone gathered on the hillside had family who had marched to war beside the queen, and the thought that they might come face to face with a loved one was almost too much to bear.
Maedbh felt the hope drain away from her people at the appearance of the foe. The sight of so unnatural a horde, an enemy of life itself, struck at the very core of what made mortals great. To fight this enemy would test the courage of even the mightiest warrior, and the Asoborns gathered on this lonely hilltop were old men and children.
Yet though these people had either hung their swords up years ago or had yet to be formally blooded, not one moved and not one gave voice to the terrible fear stabbing up from their soul that told them to run, to flee this battle and perhaps earn a few precious hours of life. Maedbh had never been prouder to be a warrior of the Asoborns.
There was no attempt at parley—what would be the point?—and no theatrical displays of martial prowess. The dead marched to the bottom of the hill and began climbing towards the Asoborns.
“Do you want me to kill him?” asked Laredus, working the whetstone across the blade of his sword. “Because I will if you need me to.”
Count Aldred shook his head. “No, though don’t think the thought doesn’t appeal.”
“It could be made to look like the dead did it,” pressed Laredus. “Or that he sickened.”
“Enough,” said Aldred, fetching himself a drink of water from an earthenware jug on the table of what had once been the seaward officers’ barracks of the citadel. The Raven Hall was no more and his servants had been sent to Reikdorf, so this was what he was reduced to. Pouring his own drinks and sitting in a draughty room with no more appointments than a junior officer. Still, it was better than a great many of the Endals were forced to endure. The barracks were cold and damp, the sea air having long since warp
ed the wood around the windows and letting in the clammy dampness of ocean mist.
“I know they’re up to something,” said Aldred, “but I don’t want you to kill him. Think how it would look if Marius were to die while under my protection.”
“I told you, my lord,” said Laredus. “It could be made to look like the enemy killed him.”
“No one would believe that, least of all Marika.”
“Does that even matter? You are the count of Marburg. In any case, it’s war, who’s to say what happens in the midst of a battle?”
“And what of the other Jutones? Do you plan to kill them too?”
Laredus looked uncomfortable with the idea of such mass murder, but he straightened his back. “If that’s what it takes to keep you and this city safe, then that can be arranged too.”
“There are three hundred Jutone warriors here, not including Marius’ lancers,” pointed out Aldred. “Even the Raven Helms would have their work cut out in killing those men. And I rather think we need those lancers to help defend our city.”
Laredus nodded, though he clearly was deeply unhappy at the idea of relying on Jutones for anything. Laredus had fought the Jutones on many occasions, and there was no love lost between the two tribes. Though that was changing. Ever since Marius had ridden out to rescue him, Aldred had seen the beginnings of camaraderie between the two tribes. That should have been a good thing, but he couldn’t help but feel it was the death knell for his city and his people’s way of life.
Aldred stared into the fire. It crackled with the little wood remaining to them that hadn’t been commandeered to craft fresh arrows and stakes for the defences behind the walls. It felt like evening, but the sun had risen only a few hours ago. The attack of the dead had shifted the diurnal cycle of Marburg, turning it into a ghost city in the daylight, a furious battlefield by night. He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, feeling a chill deep in his bones that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
“You should open your cloak, my lord,” said Laredus. “Let the fire’s warmth get to you.”
“I know. It’s tiredness playing its part, but I feel the touch of the grave deep in my heart, you understand?”
“I do, my lord,” said Laredus. “It’s settled in every man’s bones since the army of the dead sailed into Marburg. And I expect it’ll only lift once we defeat them.”
Aldred smiled mirthlessly with a shake of his head. “Forced from our homeland to a scrap of land in the midst of a marsh, our king slain, the pestilence of the mist daemons ravages our city, and now this. We are not a blessed people are we?”
“We are the Endals,” said Laredus. “Hardship makes us stronger.”
“Then we will be the strongest tribe of the Empire by the end of this war,” said Aldred.
Laredus tapped his fist against his breastplate in response and they lapsed into a comfortable silence, content to simply drink and enjoy this rare moment of quiet. Aldred wanted to close his eyes, but sleep brought nightmares and festering thoughts of being devoured by the wriggling creatures beneath the earth. When sleep did come upon him, he woke scrabbling at his eyes, fearing writhing masses of worms were feasting upon them.
“You still haven’t said what you want to do about Marius,” said Laredus.
“There’s nothing we can do,” said Aldred. “To kill him, you’d need to slay all his men too, and that will simply hasten our ending. And I still have a hard time believing Marika would conspire with Marius. She’s my sister.”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” replied Laredus.
“That’s just it though, you didn’t hear it.”
“One of my men did, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Who was it?”
“Daerian, one of my scouts. I had him assigned to the princess as a bodyguard, and he has the keenest eyes and ears I’ve known. He can see a hawk a mile distant and hear a whisper on the other side of seafront tavern. If he says they were talking about your death, then I’d wager a ship’s worth of gold it’s true. She still blames you for what happened with the mist daemons,” said Laredus. “Even though you weren’t at fault. It was Idris Gwylt skewed your judgement. She must understand that.”
“I had hoped she would by now,” agreed Aldred. “But that woman can hold a grudge like no other. She reminds me of it at every turn, like I wanted to sacrifice her.”
“You had no choice,” said Laredus.
“No, I didn’t,” said Aldred. “I did what I thought was best for my people.”
“And the people know that, even if she doesn’t,” ventured Laredus.
Aldred caught the hint of something unsaid, something too terrible to be given voice without tacit permission.
“What are you saying?” said Aldred. “You can speak freely.”
“I’m saying that perhaps we’re looking at the wrong person to kill.”
Aldred looked into Laredus’ eyes, seeing no give there, only a fierce determination to protect his count. “Marika?”
Laredus nodded. “It’s terrible and unthinkable, but I’m trying to save your life.”
“By killing my sister?”
“She’s trying to kill you.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” pointed out Aldred.
“Do you want to die to prove me right?”
Aldred said nothing, but the idea had already taken root.
The blood drinker unsheathed his sword and it glittered in the encroaching darkness with spectral light. Thunder split the sky above the Asoborns, and a crackling bolt of lightning zigzagged in a bright tracery, arcing downwards to be captured by the vampire’s sword. The blade swept down and the wolves sprinted towards the mortal prey at the hilltop. In their wake, the skeletal warriors began marching uphill.
Maedbh watched them come, her mouth dry and her bladder tight. Sweat moistened the grip on her bow, and she flexed her fingers. She put an arrow to the string and pulled back, sighting downhill at the loping wolves. Those Asoborns with bows followed her lead, bending their bows towards the howling beasts.
“Remember to aim high,” she shouted, knowing that many archers would send their shafts into the earth when aiming at targets downhill.
Maedbh sighted on a wolf with a ragged pelt of decaying fur and one side of its skull exposed. The green corpse light shimmered in its eyes, and she let fly between breaths, sending her shaft slicing though its jaw. It ran on for a moment before collapsing in a dissolving mass of bone and rotten meat.
Two hundred arrows slashed downhill, but despite her advice most thudded into the earth in front of the charging wolves. At least fifty of the creatures were undone before they could reach the Asoborn lines. A flurry of crossbow bolts hammered the dead warriors behind the wolves, each one punching through rotten flesh and bone to slay the warped power at its heart. Every single bolt loosed by a dwarf crossbow found its mark, yet the dead marched on.
Ulrike’s first arrow struck home as did her second, though her third went wide of the mark. Maedbh was able to loose three more times before the unnatural beasts reached them. She swapped to her sword as the wolves crested the summit of the hill. Snarling and clawing, they leapt with jaws stretched wide. Maedbh plunged her sword into a wolf’s belly, spilling its decaying entrails to the earth. It screamed as its body was destroyed.
A wolf snapped at Ulrike, but the young girl ducked and rammed her knife into the creature’s neck, tearing out the remains of its throat in a welter of grey meat and bone. Another snapped at her, but Maedbh’s sword swept down and ended it. Swords and spears flashed in the dim twilight, and wolves died, but a score of Asoborns were pulled to the ground. Fangs snapped shut on skulls and throats were torn out with single bites. Rotten claws opened bellies and thrashing wolves howled as they ate the flesh of those they had killed. Maedbh fought side by side with her daughter, each protecting the other as though they had trained as sword maidens for years.
Sigulf and Fridleifr did not fight with bows, but
with exquisitely crafted swords given as gifts to the queen by the dwarfs of the Worlds Edge Mountains. Long before Sigmar had sworn his oaths of brotherhood with King Kurgan, the eastern queens had counted the dwarfs of the mountains as their allies. As different in character as they were, they were alike in skill with a blade, Sigulf fighting with clinical precision, Fridleifr with furious passion.
The Queen’s Eagles protected the heirs to the Asoborn crown, sweeping forward and fighting with all the skill that had seen them elevated from the ranks to become the guardians of Asoborn royalty. Garr fought at their forefront, his twin-bladed spear cleaving left and right as he hacked wolves down with every stroke.
The wolves attacked all along the Asoborn line, bounding around the flanks and punching through to attack the weakest members of the Asoborns. Alaric’s dwarfs swung around like an opening gate, protecting the flanks and preventing the wolves from getting behind the battle line. They fought with mechanical strokes, relentless and merciless, hewing diseased flesh as easily as a butcher would prepare a bull’s carcass. No claw or fang could penetrate their armour, and no wolf could pass them. Immovable and impenetrable, the dwarfs anchored the Asoborn defence.
In moments it was over, the wolves destroyed and the battle line restored. The moans of the wounded were somehow dulled by the oppressive gloom, and the youngest children dragged those hurt too badly to fight further back onto the hillside. There was little that could be done for them, but they could do no more good in the fighting ranks.
Maedbh wiped her sword blade on the grass at her feet and gave her daughter a weak smile. Ulrike’s face was flushed with a mixture of fear and excitement, the adrenaline of battle outweighing the thought of facing an army of the dead.
There was no time for words, for the ranks of skeleton warriors in ancient armour were almost upon them. The wolves had been nothing more than a skirmish screen to protect the warriors following behind. The dead were less than fifty paces from the Asoborns, marching in perfect lockstep. Behind them, the vampire and his horsemen walked their skeletal steeds up the hill, ready to ride down any mortals who fled the field of battle.
[Sigmar 03] - God King Page 24