He ducked a slashing axe and drove Ghal-Maraz up into the pelvic cavity of a skeletal warrior clad in ancient armour of corroded bronze. The head of the hammer shattered the dead warrior’s spine and broke the body in two. It collapsed in a rain of dusty bone and Sigmar swung his hammer around, knocking three more revenants to the ground. Hoarse cries of Ulric’s name echoed from the hillside as the Cherasens hewed a path into the dead, felling them like dead wood with every crushing blow of their axes.
Sigmar’s warriors fought as one, each pushing forward with the support of the man next to him. Only Unberogen discipline allowed such close-quarter fighting, and it was paying dividends, as few were falling to the blades of the enemy. Lone Cherusen axemen fought until their arms grew weary and they were overwhelmed by the dead, dragged down and torn apart by the voracious enemy.
The pallid cannibal creatures darted through the trees in cowardly packs, skulking at the edges of the fighting and darting in for opportunistic slashes and bites. Sigmar paid them no mind, forging a path onwards towards Ostengard as he saw the Red Scythes ride along the arms of the horseshoe shaped settlement and form a deadly wedge of cavalry in a magnificent display of horsemanship.
“Hold them!” shouted Sigmar, spotting a black-cloaked warrior in the heart of the enemy host, a warrior with the bleached bone of a skull beneath a full-faced helm of bronze. Jade light burned in the sockets of his eyes, and Sigmar felt monstrous will gathered there, a black sorcery of abominable darkness that was holding this dead host together.
He smashed a pair of skeletal things aside with one blow of his hammer, angling his course towards the Cherusens.
“Aloysis!” he yelled, spotting the slender count of the Cherusens as he beheaded a rotten-fleshed cadaver with expert skill. “Fight with me!”
The count of the Cherusens heard him and gathered his closest warriors, cutting a path through the dead warriors towards Sigmar. They met in a ring of dead things, both blooded and both breathing hard. Yet for all the carnage around them, they both grinned with fierce battle fury.
“You’re hurt,” said Aloysis.
“Not badly,” answered Sigmar, pointing Ghal-Maraz towards the black-cloaked warrior with the bronze helm. “There yonder, that’s the source of their power. Destroy it and the host will crumble like morning ashes.”
Aloysis nodded and with a wild, ululating yell, set off downhill towards the nightmarish master of the dead. Sigmar followed him, breaking through the lumpen ranks of the dead to aid his count. Once more they were surrounded by the dead, but with numbers on their side, the strength of the mortal warriors was telling.
The thundering wedge of Krugar’s Red Scythes smashed into the rear ranks of the dead, trampling corpses and splintering bone beneath their hooves. Long lances punched into rotten bodies and the host of living dead were split apart. Krugar wielded Utensjarl as though it weighed nothing at all, its blade cleaving dead things in two with every stroke. Most mortal foes would have broken and run at this sudden attack, but the dead cared nothing for this new enemy, fighting with the same horrid determination as ever.
Sigmar and Aloysis fought their way towards the black-cloaked warrior, but with every step more of the dead seemed to rise and block their path. Bones once broken fused together and skulls split open reformed in a dreadful parody of healing. All around Sigmar, the dead pressed in, grasping with decayed hands.
“Sigmar!” shouted Krugar. “Duck!”
Knowing never to question a shouted battlefield command, Sigmar threw himself flat as something whirling and silver flashed over his head. He rolled swiftly to his feet and bludgeoned two dead warriors with quick jabs of his hammer. He looked left and right for fresh opponents. None of the dead came near him, and as he sought out the black-cloaked master of this dead host, he saw why.
The creature whose will drove the horde was dying.
Utensjarl had been bathed in the fire of Ulric in Middenheim after the great victory, and was now buried deep in the monster’s chest. Baleful energies flared from the dead thing, green fire streaming from its eyes as it sought to hold its unmaking at bay. An armoured warrior leapt towards it, a slender-bladed cavalry sabre arcing towards its bony neck. Aloysis’ blade found the gap between the dead warrior’s breastplate and helmet, his power and rage driving it through unnaturally formed sinews, bone and sorcery.
The bronze helm and skull parted from the body, falling to the ground and rolling downhill. A torrent of icy energy swept out from its disintegrating form as the bones collapsed and a spectral scream of hideous rage split the forest.
No sooner had its vile echoes faded than the dead host fell apart. The recently dead slumped over like drunks and the skeletal warriors risen from their graves fell to pieces like poorly made puppets. Sigmar blinked as the loathsome twilight they had fought this battle beneath was dispelled and sunlight returned to the forest.
Sigmar took a deep breath, feeling the air as a clean draught in his lungs, not the stale, stagnant miasma he had endured in the fighting. His warriors and those of Krugar and Aloysis stood amazed as life and vitality returned to the land. There was no cheering, no victory cries, for this was simply survival.
Krugar rode up to Sigmar and vaulted from his horse. He lifted Utensjarl from the rusted pile of armour and mouldering cloak. Its blade shone like new, and he turned it over to ensure no lingering trace of the dead warrior remained to taint its edge.
Sigmar stood next to Krugar as Aloysis joined them.
“My warriors gave me a stern lecture the last time I hurled my weapon in the middle of a fight,” said Sigmar.
Krugar shrugged. “And they were right to do so, but I never miss.”
“You’ve done that before?” asked Aloysis.
“Once or twice,” grinned Krugar. “After all, it never hurts for a leader of warriors to have the odd trick or two up his sleeve.”
Aloysis nodded and looked around the grim spectacle of the destroyed village. Sigmar felt his count’s pain, for it was his pain too. These people were Cherusens, but they were also Sigmar’s people, men and women of the Empire. This attack had brought them together as warriors and it united them as men.
“People will return,” said Sigmar. “That is what those who make pacts with the dead will never understand. Life will always return stronger than ever.”
“I hope you are right, my lord,” said Aloysis. “I fear that belief will soon be put to the test.”
—
Darkness Closes In
Govannon ran his hands along the cold metal cylinder, feeling the smooth, almost perfect finish the craftsman had applied to its surface. Even the most highly polished metal forged by man had imperfections, a roughness to the surface that no amount of sanding and finishing could erase. This had none of that, and if what he believed was true, then this was no decorative piece to be found in a king’s palace, but something far more interesting.
“What is it, da?” asked Bysen. “Is it a bellows, is that what it is, da?”
“No,” said Govannon. “It’s not a bellows, son.”
“So what in Ulric’s name is it?” asked Master Holtwine, staring at the device. “And why did you need me here?”
No sooner had Govannon given what Alfgeir’s knights had recovered from the earth a cursory examination, than he knew he’d need Holtwine’s help. He’d sent Cuthwin to fetch the master craftsman, knowing the man would not be able to resist this challenge. Holtwine was a stout man of average height with a scowling face and thinning blond hair. He had been a superlative bowyer and archer in his youth, but his time as a warrior was cut short when a greenskin spear had pierced his chest and nicked his left lung.
Turning his dextrous hands to woodwork, he quickly discovered a natural talent that carpenters who had worked the wood for decades couldn’t match. The man was a master of his art, a craftsman who could shape timber in ways that were simply incredible. Govannon had seen his most fabulous pieces, exquisite tables and chairs, decorative
cupboards and beds. Even kitchen furniture was given his special attention, resulting in pieces almost too good to be placed in such a harsh environment.
“The dwarf called it a Thunder Bringer,” said Govannon.
“His name was Grindan Deeplock,” Cuthwin reminded him.
Govannon heard the grief in the boy’s voice. Since losing his sight, Govannon had become adept at picking the truth from people’s voices. He’d heard from Elswyth that this young scout had rescued the dwarf clansman from the forest, though his wounds had been too severe and he’d later died.
“Aye, that it was, Master Cuthwin,” said Govannon. “My apologies. You saved his life, and it’s thanks to you that he’ll keep his honour in death. It’s all too easy to feel responsible for that life when it ends, trust me I know.”
“No, it’s me that needs to apologise,” said Cuthwin. “I know you meant no disrespect. It’s just that I promised that I’d get this machine back to his clan.”
“And so you shall, my boy,” Govannon assured him.
Govannon circled the machine, once again letting his hands inform him of its dimensions and construction.
Five long cylinders of cold iron were fixed in a wooden brace harness, which in turn was mounted on a broken carriage with two iron-rimmed wheels supporting the machine. Govannon could tell that each was precisely the same size, which was no mean feat.
Four of the five cylinders were perfectly cast, no blemishes, miscasts or air pockets that he could hear when he tapped the iron with his finishing hammer. The fifth was badly dented at its furthest extremity, as though pinched between enormous tongs, though Govannon shuddered to think of the strength that would be required to compress so strong a casting.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” said Master Holtwine.
“Don’t you know?” asked Govannon. “Even Bysen here could guess.”
Holtwine took an irritated breath. “I am a master craftsman, Govannon, not a player of games, so why don’t you just tell me? I have a weapons cabinet to finish for Count Aldred, and the individual walnut panels require chamfering before they can be fitted.”
“I am sure Count Aldred would understand were he here right now,” said Govannon, letting the moment hang. “This, my good friend, is, in the dwarf tongue, a barag.”
“What does that mean?” asked Cuthwin, leaning down to inspect the machine.
“What indeed?” asked Holtwine, his patience wearing thin.
“Is it Thunder Bringer?” suggested Cuthwin. “Grindan called it that before he died.”
Govannon smiled. “I am no expert in the dwarf tongue, but Wolfgart told me that the dwarfs who fought in the tunnels beneath Middenheim used a weapon known as a baragdrakk, which was a bellows-like machine that hurled gouts of sticky fire at the enemy. I’m guessing barag is a term for war machine, a dwarf version of the great catapults we use.”
Holtwine leaned over the device, his eyes roaming the expert shaping of the wood, the fabulous joint-work, the inlaid carvings and elegant cuts that ran with the grain. “Really? It’s a bit small. What manner of wall could you bring down with this?”
“I don’t think this is meant to bring down walls,” said Govannon. “I think this is designed to kill living things, a great many at once if I’m not mistaken.”
“How’s it do that, da?” asked Bysen, peering down the length of one of the iron cylinders.
Govannon ran his hands towards the back of the war machine, to where a complex series of flint and powder trap mechanisms in the shape of iron hammers and brass cauldrons were fitted to the back of each cylinder. He pulled each of the hammers back then hauled on the length of leather cord hanging from the base of the mechanism. The first hammer slammed down in the empty cauldron with a hard clang of iron. One by one, the other triggers battered down in their cauldrons, and sparks flew from the impact of flint and iron.
Everyone jumped, but it was Cuthwin who spoke first. He tapped the iron hammer. “It’s a kind of trigger mechanism, isn’t it? Like the firing lever on a crossbow.”
Holtwine leaned in, and Govannon could smell the beeswax, woodsap and polish on his skin. He smiled, knowing this device intrigued the man.
“A trigger mechanism, eh?” mused Holtwine. “Then this small cauldron would be filled with their fire powder? Ulric’s breath, is this some manner of enormous thunder bow?”
“That is exactly what I think it is,” said Govannon.
“So what do you plan to do with it?”
“I plan to return it to the dwarfs,” said Govannon. “But first, I intend to fix it. And I need you to help me.”
Redwane drew on his pipe, letting the fragrant smoke swirl around his mouth before blowing a series of perfect rings. Though the sun was shining, the day still seemed gloomy and cold. The clouds over the Middle Mountains were black and threatening, the skies to the south not much better. His relaxed posture and long wolfskin cloak hid his readiness for trouble, and his free hand never strayed too far from his hammer.
He and the other war leaders of the north made their way through the narrow, greystone streets of Middenheim, talking in the open air, as was Myrsa’s custom. The man hated being indoors, and insisted on conducting all planning with the northern wind in his hair and the open sky above him. The wardens of his northern marches, Orsa, Bordan, Wulf and Renweard, walked with him and the mood was grim.
Redwane had thought the dark clouds gathering over the Middle Mountains were a bad omen when he’d first seen them on waking. Now he knew that to be true.
Sigmar’s herald had arrived from Reikdorf at first light, bearing evil tidings of a coming war with the living dead. Count Myrsa had listened in stoic silence to the herald’s words of the Lord of Undeath’s return, and immediately summoned his northern wardens to a war counsel.
They strode down Grafzen Street, on the eastern side of the city, with the Middle Mountains soaring to their left and the rising walls and towers of the great temple to Ulric rearing up to their right. Redwane averted his eyes from the mighty structure, his dreadful scarring and the fight with the daemon lord too fresh and raw for comfort. He still dreamed of that terrible battle, wondering if he could have aimed his blow differently, if there was any outcome that would not have left him so disfigured. A dolorous bell pealed from the temple of Morr, its echoing toll unmistakable. Somewhere, someone was dead, and Redwane whispered a prayer for their journey into the next world.
Redwane glanced at the magnificent sword sheathed at Myrsa’s side, the runefang crafted by Alaric the Mad of the dwarfs. That blade had unmade the daemon lord’s malefic protection, allowing Sigmar to destroy it with the power bound to his enchanted warhammer.
In the wake of the battle, Sigmar had named the blade Blodambana, which meant Bloodbane in the ancient tongue of the Unberogen, and not a day passed when Redwane didn’t wish that Myrsa had reached the battle sooner.
He shook off his gloomy thoughts, concentrating on what was being said around him. He was the senior bodyguard of the count of Middenheim, and his attention was wandering far too much these days. Not that he had any real reason to fear for Myrsa’s safety. A ring of White Wolves surrounded the council of war, twelve fur-cloaked warriors with hammers resting on their shoulders. The citizens of Middenheim gave them a wide berth, sensing the bellicose mood of the count’s guards.
“There are people streaming south from the villages in the foothills of the Middle Mountains,” said Wulf, the lean and wiry Mountain Lord whose hardy warriors watched the high valleys and deep canyons of the Middle Mountains for trouble. “Many claim that the living dead are rising up in their hundreds, and I’m inclined to believe them. I’ve heard their stories and looked in their eyes as they spoke. They’re not lying.”
“The dead, are they coming from Brass Keep?” asked Myrsa, unable to contain his revulsion. “I prayed that we had broken Morath’s power.”
“We did, my lord,” said Wulf with gruff confidence. “Brass Keep is nothing more than a ref
uge for the few Norsii bastards who escaped the slaughter last year. If there’s dead rising in the mountains, then they’re not coming out of the peaks. It’s mainly the villages’ own dead that are rising, and it’s happening all over. Some of the local sword bands have contained the smaller attacks, but that won’t last long. The dead are rising in greater numbers, and they’re gathering together, like some damned pack instinct is at work.”
“Nonsense,” put in Bordan. “You put too much faith in peasants’ scare stories. And you’re giving the dead too much credit. It’s simple hunger that brings them together, nothing more.”
Bordan’s title was Forest Master, and the safety of the numerous villages and trails through the western woodlands were entrusted to his foresters and huntsmen. It was a thankless task, and had ground Bordan down into a cynical man with little patience for others. In return, few had time for him, Redwane included.
“You were not at Brass Keep, Bordan,” said Myrsa. “Wulf and Redwane and I were, and I am in no hurry to dismiss the Mountain Lord’s reports. I understand only too well the malign cunning that animates the living dead, and we should not dismiss any tales of malevolent intelligence.”
“As you say, my lord,” said Bordan, suitably chastened.
“Tell me, Bordan, how fare the forests?” said Myrsa, knowing when to scold and when to embolden. “I know there are many barrows and forsaken places within the Forest of Shadows. Have any of them been disturbed?”
“The western settlements have faced increased raids, my lord,” replied Bordan. “The beasts and brigands grow bolder and more desperate with the early onset of winter. There have been a several instances of pestilence, but I have heard of no attacks by the walking dead.”
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