03 - God King

by Graham McNeill

  “Hurry it up, for Ulric’s sake!” she said, scooping up Ulrike and depositing her in the chariot. She unlimbered her bow from the side of the chariot and quickly bent it back to string it.

  “String yours too,” she said to Ulrike. “And keep a wary eye out.”

  “What’s going on, mother?” said Ulrike, sensing a measure of her mother’s unease.

  “Nothing, my dear,” she said. “Just do it. Hurry.”

  She climbed onto her chariot seeing that the rest of her group were almost ready. The birds cawed again and another wolf howl echoed over the desolate wilderness. That one was unmistakably from the north, and as the wind changed again, Maedbh caught the reek of dead flesh, of mangy, maggot-ridden fur and stagnant, bloody saliva.

  Someone screamed and she looked up to see a line of huge timber wolves on the ridge above them. Their fur was rotted and patchy over yellowed bone and torn muscle. Vacant eye sockets glimmered with emerald light and drooling ropes of bloody saliva hung from their exposed fangs.

  Some dead things did move, it seemed.

  “Ride!” shouted Maedbh.

  ——

  The First to Die

  Though he had faced the horror of the living dead before, Sigmar’s soul rebelled at the sight before him. Once Ostengard had been a prosperous, well-populated logging village, home to two hundred Cherusen woodsmen and their families. Now it was a charnel house, a field of blood and death.

  “Ulric’s bones,” swore Count Aloysis, his face pale and the tattoos that curled across his face bleached of colour. His shaven head was criss-crossed with scars and his long scalp lock was more silver than black, bound with circlets of cold iron. “Those were my people.”

  Aloysis’ scarlet cloak flapped in the cold wind and his hand twitched on the hook-bladed sword at his side. His eyes were wide with fear at what lay below them.

  “Not anymore, they’re not,” grunted Count Krugar, trying to mask his own fear. “Now they’re dead meat for hewing.”

  The Taleuten count was wide and powerful, clad in a shimmering hauberk of silver scale. He hefted Utensjarl from hand to hand. The ancient weapon of Talenbor was slender-bladed, but Sigmar had seen Krugar hew Norsii like saplings with its lethal edge. Despite Krugar’s bluster, Sigmar knew both counts were afraid. He didn’t blame them.

  “Krugar speaks the truth, Aloysis,” said Sigmar. “These are not your people. Remember that.”

  “Aye, I know,” said Aloysis. “That doesn’t make it any easier to take a blade to them.”

  Sigmar knew that only too well, having fought against dead things that had once been men of the Empire in the Middle Mountains. This would be hardest on Aloysis, but it would be a test every one of them would have to face soon, of that Sigmar was certain.

  A thousand warriors lined the hillside above Ostengard, a mix of Cherusen axemen and foresters, the Red Scythes of the Taleutens and Unberogen swordsmen. Though the Cherusens and Taleutens had almost gone to war a few years ago, their leaders had since become staunch allies, their bond forged by the nearness of their death at Sigmar’s hands when the dread crown of Morath had poisoned him with its evil.

  In the wake of Khaled al-Muntasir’s appearance in Reikdorf, Sigmar had gathered a sword host of five hundred warriors and ridden with all speed towards Taalahim, the great forest city of the Taleutens. If the dead were on the march, then it seemed their first move was in the north. Both counts had sent desperate missives asking for the Emperor’s troops to quell the rising dead, and Sigmar had answered their calls.

  The Unberogen had ridden hard, meeting the Cherusens and Taleutens in the rugged southern skirts of the Howling Hills. Too late to save the people of Ostengard, but not too late to avenge them.

  Clustered around a central thoroughfare that led to the river, Ostengard had been built in a horseshoe shape, with a grain store and carpentry building at its centre. Numerous dwellings were built around these structures, and an elaborate shrine to Taal stood at the riverside. Vast swathes of the forest had been cleared around the village, and much of that had been given over to cultivation, with fields of golden corn and barley waving in the gentle breeze.

  The village seethed with activity, unnatural activity. Pallid-skinned creatures with thin, wiry limbs and enlarged skulls feasted on the dead, loping from corpse to corpse to fight for the choicest shanks of meat. Shambling corpses in muddy rags gathered together in moaning bands of rotting flesh, stumbling and dragging themselves towards the hillside where the warriors of the Empire watched.

  The dead had risen from the mulchy earth and devoured Ostengard, and a gathering darkness held sway over the day, though the sun was only just past its zenith. The horde of dead things, sensing the warm meat of the living, came for them in an inexorable march of dread patience and insatiable hunger.

  Sigmar guessed they faced at least five hundred living dead, a number that could normally be easily overcome, but this was a foe that fought with fear as their greatest weapon.

  “Aloysis, you and your axemen are with me. Krugar, split your horsemen and ride around the enemy to hit them from behind,” said Sigmar. “Ride down to the village and come up through its main street.”

  “They won’t break and run,” pointed out Krugar, mounting his horse, a powerful, grain-fed stallion of midnight black. “The dead don’t fear anything.”

  “They fear this,” said Sigmar, lifting Ghal-Maraz from his belt. The dwarf runes etched into its surface shimmered with silver light, and he could feel the weapon’s ancestral hatred of the living dead. “Somewhere down there is a will that is controlling this horde. Ghal-Maraz will find it and I will destroy it. With its destruction this horde cannot exist.”

  “Then let me be the one to fell it,” begged Aloysis. “My people demand their count’s vengeance.”

  Sigmar nodded. “So be it, but enough talk, it’s time to fight.”

  Krugar dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and said, “May Ulric give your arm strength, brothers.”

  The Taleuten count wheeled his horse and joined the Red Scythes. At a curt command, the horsemen split into two groups with the smooth ease of practiced warriors. They rode with incredible skill, crouched low over their mounts’ heads as they moved to encircle the host of the dead.

  Aloysis offered Sigmar his hand, and he shook it, feeling the clammy sweat coating the Cherusen count’s palm. The man was terrified, but he was facing that terror with iron courage. Sigmar had always respected Aloysis, but this was a level of courage beyond simple bravery.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “No,” answered Aloysis honestly. “But let us fight together, my Emperor.”

  Sigmar took Ghal-Maraz in a two-handed grip and raised his voice so that every warrior on the hillside could hear him.

  “Men of the Empire, you fight a terrible enemy today, but know this. The dead can die. Lay them low as you would slay any foe. Sword and axe will fell them as surely as any living man. Fight in Ulric’s name and we will prevail! For Ulric!”

  A ragged cheer erupted along the hillside and Sigmar led the warriors forward in two solid blocks, Sigmar in command of the left, Aloysis the right. They marched towards the enemy, and Sigmar felt the fear of the dead spread through the ranks.

  He raised Ghal-Maraz and the man next to him hoisted the Imperial standard high, a magnificent banner of red, blue and white. A glorious beast of legend was picked out in gold, with a silver crown encircling its breast, and the sight of Sigmar’s new heraldry filled the hearts of all who saw it with fresh courage.

  Closer now, the dead were a truly horrific sight, a collection of all degradations time could wreak upon the frailty of human form. Decomposing flesh hung from the bones of those who had clawed their way from earthen graves, loose jawbones hanging like grotesque ornaments from splintered skulls. Those more recently dead were bloody and raw where grasping hands, grave-dirt claws and broken teeth had torn the meat from their bones.

  Worse than that, the dreadf
ul aspect of their very existence sent cold spikes of unreasoning fear through every man who stood against them. A man could face another man with courage and know that he could prevail by the strength of his sword arm alone. To face the dead was another matter entirely, for to look into their eyes was to see your own death, to know that your existence in this world was fleeting. To face the dead was to face mortality itself.

  Sigmar increased his pace to a loping ran, lifting Ghal-Maraz over his shoulder and letting loose a fearsome Unberogen war-shout. His warriors echoed him, bellowing the name of Ulric and matching his pace. The Cherusens whooped and hollered, their painted faces recalling the days they had fought near-naked and chewing on wildroot and bane leaves.

  Where the Unberogen marched in close-packed ranks, the Cherusen fought as individuals, their mighty felling axes requiring space to swing without hitting a fellow warrior. Aloysis had his sword drawn, a long cavalry sabre more useful on the back of a horse, but a fine enough weapon to strike down the dead on foot.

  Less than twenty yards separated the living from the dead.

  Sigmar shouted, “For Ulric!” and broke into a furious charge.

  The Unberogen and Cherusen came with him and they struck the dead with all the force and vitality the living could muster.

  Maedbh hauled the reins left as a savage beast with blood-red eyes leapt towards her, its taloned paws slashing. The feral wolf slammed into the side of the chariot with a heavy thump, its claws tearing down through the wooden sides. Ulrike screamed in terror and Maedbh risked a glance back to check her daughter was safe.

  Ulrike loosed a poorly aimed shaft. The arrowhead scored through the wolf’s fur and bounced from its skull. It howled and fell away from the chariot.

  “Keep them back!” shouted Maedbh.

  Only three of the chariots had escaped the riverbed, breaking through the encircling packs of wolves. The horses yoked to Yustin and Kreo’s chariot were torn apart before they could get moving, and the youngsters were brought down moments later. A huge, black-furred wolf snapped its jaws on Yustin’s head, killing the youth instantly, while two wolves with bare skulls and exposed musculature tore Kreo’s arm off with brutal sweeps of their claws.

  Henia and Torqa got their chariot moving, but a pair of wolves leapt from the ridge straight onto them. Torqa skewered the first with her spear, but the second wolf bit her in two and smashed Henia’s spine with one slash of its claws.

  The rest of them had broken free and rode with all speed to the north.

  Maedbh looked around. The wolves were loping alongside them, their decayed bodies ravaged and wasted, yet powerful and untiring. Six followed them and another four ran on each flank, content to drive them into the path of wolves Maedbh knew were lying in wait somewhere up ahead. These were dead creatures, but they hunted like living ones.

  A steady stream of arrows flew from the backs of the chariots. Of all the youngsters, Ulrike had the best eye, and her arrows struck home more than anyone else’s. Already she had brought down two wolves. Even amid this desperate chase, Maedbh was proud of her.

  The wolves howled and closed in. A slavering beast loped in from the right, its eyes fixed on Maedbh’s throat. She pulled the reins in hard, almost tipping the chariot, and its right wheel came off the ground. The wolf hit the spinning wheel and its momentum carried it under the chariot. It gave a mournful howl before its bones were crushed and whatever animation empowered it was extinguished.

  Ulrike loosed an arrow at the creature behind it, the shaft punching through the beast’s eye socket, and its body writhed as the unnatural energies that bound it together faded and it dropped without a sound. The other creatures cared nothing for the deaths of their pack brothers, and drove the chariots onwards. Maedbh saw three wolves closing on Osgud’s chariot and steered around a patch of rocks to sweep in behind him.

  “Bloody fool never could keep his spacing,” she hissed. The wolves saw her coming, but too late, and she drove over the rearmost creature, flattening it beneath her wheels. The second loped away, but the third was too fixated on its prey to pay her any mind.

  “Osgud! Hard right!”

  The terrified youth obeyed instantly, his training making the movement automatic. The two chariots slammed together, crushing the wolf between them. Ulrike screamed as she was jolted from her perch. Maedbh reached back and grabbed her daughter’s arm as she slid off the chariot.

  Ulrike flailed with her free arm, desperately clawing her way back on board. Spying a target of opportunity, a ravaged wolf with a spectral gleam in its eyes and a hollowed skull bounded towards her, stinking grave dirt spilling from its fang-filled jaws. It leapt towards Ulrike, claws outstretched.

  A heavy spear slammed into its side, punching through its ribs and skewering it in mid-air. The blade twisted and the wolf fell away, its bones dissolving and its fur rotting to ash in the wind. Daegal drew back his spear as another wolf leapt for the back of his chariot. The blade stabbed into its skull, and the wolf howled as it died anew.

  Maedbh hauled Ulrike back into the chariot, pleased at least one of her students had listened to her. She lashed her horses to greater speed, pulling in close to Osgud’s chariot and making sure Daegal’s was close by too.

  Eight wolves remained, but one of those was slain by a pair of arrows that pierced its chest and skull. Another died when it dared to come too close to Daegal’s chariot, and ended up beneath its wheels. Six left, and the ground was rising towards the hills where they would find sanctuary. She heard the howls of wolves from ahead, and knew that was just where the wolves were driving them.

  “Circle up!” she cried, and the chariots rolled around, each moving in a smooth arc until they had formed an ad-hoc fortress with one another. The wolves surrounded them, wary at this change of strategy on the part of their prey. Ulrike dropped one wolf with an arrow to the head, and Daegal hurled his spear into the flank of another. Both yelped as their bodies crumbled away to stinking ash.

  Realising they could not afford to wait, the remaining wolves hurled themselves at the Asoborns. Freed from the need to control the chariot, Maedbh loosed a quick arrow that tore the throat from a leaping wolf. She threw her bow aside and drew her sword as the rest of the wolves attacked.

  Osgud killed a wolf with a spear thrust, and was borne to the ground by a second. Ulrike stabbed a throwing spear into the side of a snapping beast as it climbed over the sides of the chariot. The shaft snapped off in the creature’s ribcage, but Maedbh stepped in and hacked the wolf’s head from its shoulders with one blow.

  The last wolf backed away from the Asoborns, its fangs bared and its eyes alight with killing fire. A living wolf would have slunk away in defeat, but this dead creature circled the chariots at speed before finally leaping onto Osgud’s chariot and plucking the fallen youngster from his position there. Its jaws closed with the sound of two spars of wood slamming together and Osgud’s body came apart in a spray of crimson.

  Four arrows sliced into its body and a heavy throwing spear all but severed its spine. Its rotten bones fell apart and Osgud’s remains flopped into his chariot, little more than torn limbs and ruptured meat.

  Maedbh cast a wary look north. She saw no signs of wolves and let out a pent up breath.

  “Gather up your arrows!” she ordered. “Quickly, there’s likely more of these things out there.”

  Ulrike and the others ran to obey and she was proud of them all. Maedbh retrieved her own bow, constantly scanning the horizon for fresh threats. The darkened skies to the south worried her, more than they had before. Something evil was coming to the lands of the Asoborns, and this was just a foretaste.

  The youngsters ran back to the chariots, and they mounted up.

  “We ride west!” shouted Maedbh.

  “No!” protested Ulrike. “We can’t go west. Three Hills is north.”

  “And so are the wolves,” answered Maedbh, coming down to Ulrike’s level. “If we go west through the hills, no wolves will be able to
find us. When it’s safe, we’ll cut back north.”

  “I was scared,” said Ulrike, holding onto Maedbh’s arm.

  She saw the fear behind her daughter’s eyes, a fear for her own life, but also that of her mother. Only now, with the immediate danger averted, did Maedbh realise how close she had come to losing Ulrike. The thought terrified her, and a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach sent a dreadful nausea through her entire body.

  “I know you were, my dear,” said Maedbh, fighting to keep her voice even. “So was I, but you were very, very brave, my girl. You were scared, but you didn’t run, you fought like a true Asoborn. I’m so proud of you.”

  Ulrike smiled, but Maedbh saw the fear hadn’t left her entirely. She stood on trembling legs, and took hold of the chariot’s reins. Her hands shook and she gripped the leather tightly to keep her terror from showing.

  “Perhaps Wolfgart was right,” she whispered, fighting back tears.

  Sigmar slammed his hammer into the face of a long dead man in mouldering rags. The skull caved with a wet, tearing sound and his hammer broke through the corpse’s collarbone and burst from the ruined chest cavity. He jabbed the butt of the hammer through the throat of a nearby corpse and kicked out at a fallen dead thing that grasped his legs with broken fingers. All around him, the battle raged with one-sided fierceness. The dead clawed and bit at the living, but there was no passion or courage to their violence. An animating will filled them, but did so without the spark that drove living warriors to risk their lives for something greater than themselves.

  Yet for all their monotonous rigour, the blows of the dead were no less fatal. The flesh of the living was a choice sweetmeat to them, the craving for the warmth and softness of their flesh a hunger that could never be satisfied.

  Sigmar’s armour bore numerous dents and scars from viciously wielded clubs and cleavers, and blood flowed from a deep cut on his shoulder where a dead logger’s axe had smashed the pauldron from his armour and bitten through the links of his mail shirt. He fought alongside Unberogen veterans of the battle of Middenheim, each hacking a path through the dead while watching for threats Sigmar could not see.