“That looked serious,” she said suddenly, moving the subject away from her brother, “with Wolfgart and Pendrag I mean.”
Sigmar hesitated before answering. “We were swearing an oath,” he said at last.
“An oath? What kind of oath?”
Sigmar wondered if he should tell her, but then immediately saw that if his dream of a united empire were to come true then it would need to take shape in the hearts and minds of the people. An idea was a powerful thing, and it would spread faster than any army could march.
“To bring an end to war,” he said, “to unite the tribes and forge an empire that can stand against the creatures of darkness.”
She nodded and said, “And who would rule this empire?”
“We would,” he said, “the Unberogen.”
“You mean you would.”
Sigmar nodded, “Would that be so bad?”
“No, for you have a good heart, Sigmar. I truly believe that. If you ever build this empire, it will be a place of justice and strength.”
“If I build it? Don’t you think I can do it?”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” she said, stepping forward and taking his hand. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Be careful,” she said. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Sigmar. “Your wish is my command.”
She reached up with her free hand and stroked his cheek. “You are sweet.”
“I mean it,” said Sigmar. “Ask and I will promise.”
“Then promise me that the wars will end some day,” said Ravenna, looking him straight in the eye. “When you have achieved all you set out to do, put down your weapons and leave it all behind.”
“I promise,” he said without hesitation.
—
The Dreams of Kings
Winter closed in on Reikdorf like a clenched fist, each day growing shorter, and the temperature falling until the first snowfalls blanketed the world in white. The River Reik flowed slow and stately, the water cold and filled with drifting ice floes that came all the way from the Grey Mountains far to the south.
The Unberogens hunkered down to wait out the season, their grain stores filled with the fruits of a bountiful harvest; bread was plentiful and no household went hungry. King Bjorn sent wagons of grain westwards to the lands of the Endals, for the soil there was thin, and evil waters from the marshes had poisoned many of their crops.
Armed warriors travelled with the wagons, for the forest was a place of danger, even in the depths of winter. Brigands might cease their raiding while the snow lay thickly on the ground, but the deathly cold held no terror for the twisted beasts that hid in the darkest depths of the forests.
Wolfgart led the Unberogen warriors to Marburg, riding at the head of a column of warriors armoured in new hauberks of linked iron, fresh from the forge-work of Alaric and Pendrag. Wolfgart had been loath to part with his bronze breastplate and cuirass, but when Alaric had shown him the strength of the iron armour, he had tossed aside his old plate and happily donned his new protection.
He and his warriors would winter with the Endals to return in the spring, and Sigmar missed his friend greatly as the days passed with gelid slowness.
The cold weeks dragged on, and each one weighed heavily on Sigmar. He longed to make good on the oath he had sworn with his sword-brothers, but while winter held the land in its grip, nothing could be done. No army could march in winter, and to set out in such bone numbing cold was akin to suicide. Daily life continued as normal, with the folk of Reikdorf turning their hands to work that could only be undertaken when the days were not filled with the backbreaking labour of farming.
Artisans crafted fine jewellery, weavers created great tapestries, and craftsmen trained apprentices in woodwork, stone carving and dozens of other trades that would have been unthinkable without the luxury of a crop surplus.
Alaric’s forge rang with hammer blows, and hissing clouds of hot steam billowed from the high chimney. Pendrag had become a daily visitor to the forge, learning the secret of blending metals to produce iron swords that held a superior edge for a greater span of time, and did not shatter after continued use.
As winter dragged on, the flow of trade into and out of Reikdorf dwindled to almost nothing. Only dwarf caravans dared to travel during the winter, squat, unlovely things pulled by equally squat and muscular ponies. Each caravan came loaded with ores from the mines, finely crafted weapons and armour, and barrels of strong ale.
Dwarfs encased in gleaming surcoats of mail and heavy plate trudged alongside the caravans, apparently untroubled by the deep snow. Their faces were hidden, and only their long braided beards were visible beneath bronze faceplates. Alaric would greet each caravan personally, talking in the gruff, yet lyrical language of the mountain folk, while the Unberogens watched from behind shuttered windows.
No sooner were the wagons unloaded than they would be filled with grain, furs and all manner of goods unavailable to the dwarfs in their holds. Messages would be exchanged between King Bjorn and King Kurgan Ironbeard, each passing on what news of the world they knew to the other.
Sigmar spent much of the winter training with the warriors of the Unberogen, honing his already fearsome skill, and instilling a sense of camaraderie in the warriors with his quick wit and loyalty.
Of course there were still battles to be fought, and both Sigmar and his father led their warriors into the forest several times to fight marauding groups of beasts that preyed upon outlying settlements. Each time, the riders would return to Reikdorf with skulls mounted on their spears, and each time it would be longer before the beasts attacked again.
Nor were beasts their only enemies. Teutogen raiders rode brazenly into Unberogen territory to steal cattle and sheep, but were hunted down and killed before they could return to their own lands. Gerreon finally rode to war in such a skirmish, earning the respect of his fellows for his deadly skill with a blade, though as he had predicted, his absence from the Battle of Astofen had created a gulf between him and those who had fought in the desperate battle with the orcs.
As the days lengthened, Unberogen warriors began riding further afield, maintaining a close watch on their borders. With spring’s approach, border skirmishes became more common, and time and time again, Unberogen horse archers would turn back feints from laughing reavers, who whooped and hollered as they threw spears and loosed arrows.
The days passed, the people of Reikdorf survived the winter, and the hearts of men lightened as the days grew brighter. The sun stayed in the sky a little longer, and as the snows began to retreat, the green and gold of the forest grew more vivid with each passing day.
Farmers returned to their fields in preparation for the spring sowing, armed with Pendrag’s seed drills as new mills and granaries were built throughout the land. The elders of Reikdorf proclaimed that the winter had been amongst the mildest they could remember.
No sooner had the first flowers of spring begun to push their way through the snow than a party of horsemen was spotted riding along the northern bank of the Reik towards the town. Armoured warriors rushed to the walls, until a familiar banner was spotted and the gates thrown open. Wolfgart led his warriors beneath the grim, unsmiling statue of Ulric and back into Reikdorf to cries of welcome.
The homecoming was joyous, and a great feast was held to celebrate the safe return of every warrior who had set out. Folk clamoured for news from the west, and Wolfgart revelled in his role of taleteller.
“King Marbad,” said Wolfgart, “the old man himself, is coming to Reikdorf.”
The air in the forge was close and heavy, sparks and hot smoke gathering in the rafters as the bellows furiously pumped air into the furnace. The bricks closest to the fire glowed with the heat, and the charcoal roared as the air was forced over it.
“It must blow harder, manling!” shouted Alaric. “The furnace must be hotter to remove the impu
rities!”
“It can’t get any faster, Alaric,” said Pendrag. “The tide is too low, and the pump can’t get enough speed for the bellows.”
“Ach, they were going fine this morning.”
“That was this morning,” complained Pendrag, letting go of the crank handles on the mechanical bellows. “We are going to have to wait until the tide rises again.”
He stepped away from the contraption of bladder airbags and leather straps that made up the bellows, and which derived its power from a fast-flowing channel of surging water diverted from the River Reik to pass through the forge.
When the river was in spate, the water spun a great rotary paddle that in turn powered the bellows, which heated the furnace to the incredible temperatures required for the production of iron.
Until only last spring, when Alaric had first come to Reikdorf, the Unberogen warriors had wielded bronze swords and spears, but following the dwarf’s instructions, Pendrag had been the first man to forge a sword made of iron.
Within a season, every warrior had an iron blade, and every day, more hauberks of mail and leather were being produced as the smiths of Reikdorf learned the ancient techniques of metalworking known to the dwarfs.
“Tides,” said Alaric, shaking his head. “In Karaz-a-Karak we care not for tides. Mighty waterfalls from the peak of the mountain plunge into the heart of the hold day and night. Ah, manling, you should see the great forges of the mountains. The heart of the hold glows red with the heat, and the mountain shudders to the blows of hammers.”
“Well, we don’t have waterfalls like that here,” pointed out Pendrag. “We have to make do with tides.”
“And the engines,” said Alaric, ignoring Pendrag’s comment. “Great hissing pistons of iron, spinning wheels and roaring bellows. Gods of the Mountains, I never thought I’d miss the presence of an engineer.”
“An engineer? What’s that, some kind of smith?”
Alaric laughed. “No, an engineer is a dwarf who builds machines like that there bellows, but much bigger and much better.”
Pendrag looked at the hissing, wheezing bellows, the concertinaed bladders expanding and contracting as the rotary pump spun in the channel. With help from Alaric, it had taken him and the finest craftsmen in the village an entire month to build the water-powered bellows, and it was a marvel of invention and cunning.
“I thought we did well building the bellows,” said Pendrag defensively.
“You manlings have some ability, it’s true,” said Alaric, though Pendrag could see even such faint praise was given grudgingly, “but dwarf craft is the best there is, and until I can persuade an engineer to come down from the mountains, we will have to make do with this… contraption.”
“You helped us build the bellows,” said Pendrag. “Are you not an engineer?”
“No, lad,” said Alaric. “I’m… something else entirely. I can fashion weapons the likes of which you cannot imagine, weapons similar to the warhammer the king’s son wields.”
“Ghal-maraz?”
“Aye, the skull-splitter, a mighty weapon indeed,” nodded Alaric. “King Kurgan blessed your people when he gave it to Sigmar. Tell me, lad, do you know the meaning of the word unique?”
“I think so,” said Pendrag. “It means that something’s special. That it’s the only one.”
Alaric nodded. “That’s right, but it’s more like saying that it has no equal. Ghal-maraz is like that, one of a kind, forged in ancient times with an art no dwarf has been able to reproduce.”
“So you couldn’t make something like it?”
Alaric shot him an irritated glance as though he had impugned the dwarf’s skill. “I have great skill, lad, but not even I could craft a weapon like Ghal-maraz.”
“Not even if we had an engineer?”
The dwarf laughed, the tension vanishing from his bearded face. “No, not even if we had an engineer. My kind don’t much like to live without a roof of stone above our heads, so I doubt I’d be able to persuade one of them lads to come down from the mountains to stay.”
“You stayed,” pointed out Pendrag, watching as the glow of the furnace faded from a golden orange to a dull, angry red.
“Aye, and do you know what they call me back in Karaz-a-Karak?”
Pendrag shook his head. “No, what do they call you?”
“Alaric the Mad,” said the dwarf, “that’s what they call me. They all think I’ve gone soft in the head to spend my time with manlings.”
Though the words were said lightly, Pendrag could sense the tension behind them.
“So why do you stay with us?” asked Pendrag. “Why not go home to the mountains? Not that I want you to go, of course.”
The dwarf walked from the furnace to pick up one of the blades from the pile that lay on a low wooden bench running the length of one the forge’s stone walls. The metal was dark, and a hilt and hand-guard were still to be fitted over the sharpened tang.
“You manlings are a young race, and you live such short lives that many of my folk think it a waste of time to try to teach you anything. It would take the span of several of your lifetimes before a dwarf was thought simply competent as a smith. Compared to dwarf craft, manling work is shoddy and exude, and hardly worth bothering with.”
“So why do you?” said a voice from the door to the forge. “Bother with it I mean.”
Pendrag looked up, and saw Sigmar, silhouetted in the doorway, his bearskin cloak pulled tightly around his body. Cold air flowed into the forge, and the king’s son shut the door behind him as he entered.
Alaric put down the sword blade, and sat down on a thick-legged stool next to the bench. He nodded in welcome to Sigmar, and said, “Because you have potential. This is a grim world, lad—orcs, beasts and things best not spoken of seek to drown us all in blood. The elves have run scared to their island, and it’s only the likes of men and dwarfs that are left to stop these creatures of evil. Some of my kin think we should just seal up the gates to our holds and let you and the orcs fight amongst yourselves, but the way I see it, if we don’t help you with better weapons and armour, and teach you a thing or two about making them, then your race will die and we’ll be next.”
“You think we are that weak?” asked Sigmar, walking across to the bench with the unfinished sword blades, and picking one up.
“Weak?” cried Alaric. “Don’t be foolish, lad! Men are not weak. I’ve spent enough time amongst you to know you have strength, but you squabble like children, and you haven’t the means to fight your enemies. When your ancestors first came over the mountains they had bronze swords and armour, yes?”
“So the elders tell us,” agreed Pendrag.
“All the folks that lived here already had was stone clubs and leather breastplates, and look what happened to them, dead to a man. I’ve seen the orcs east of the mountains, and there’s so many of them, you’d think you were going mad to see them all. Without iron weapons and armour they’ll destroy you.”
Sigmar turned over the blade in his hand, and said, “Pendrag, can you make one of these iron blades without Master Alaric’s help?”
Pendrag nodded. “I think so, yes.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Sigmar, dropping the sword back onto the bench, and coming over to where Pendrag stood. The king’s son’s skin glistened with sweat from the heat of the forge, but his gaze was unwavering. “Tell me truly, can you make such a blade?”
“I can,” said Pendrag. “I know how to sift the impurities from the ores, and now that we have the bellows working, we can get the furnace hot enough.”
“At high tide,” grumbled Alaric.
“At high tide,” agreed Pendrag, “but, yes, I can do it. In fact, I’ve been thinking about how we can better remove the—”
Sigmar smiled, held up a hand, and said, “Good. When the snows break fully I will gather every smith from across the Unberogen lands, and you will teach them how to make such things. Master Alaric is right, without better weapons an
d armour we are lost.”
Pendrag said, “You want me to teach them? Why not Master Alaric?”
“With all due respect to Master Alaric, he will not be with us forever, and it is time we learned to do these things on our own.”
“Quite right,” agreed Alaric. “Besides you could die tomorrow, and then where would you be?”
Pendrag shot Alaric an exasperated look as Sigmar continued. “The king has decreed that by the end of the summer every Unberogen village is to be forging iron blades. You and Master Alaric have done magnificent things here, but you two alone cannot hope to produce enough weapons, fast enough to equip our warriors.”
Pendrag stood, and spat on his palm, offering his hand to his sword-brother.
“By the end of the summer?”
“Think you can do it?” asked Sigmar, spitting on his palm and taking Pendrag’s hand.
“I can do it,” said Pendrag.
King Marbad arrived barely a week after the snows broke, riding towards the Sudenreik Bridge with his raven banner unfurled and pipers marching before him. The pipers wore long kilts formed from leather straps, and gleaming breastplates of layered bronze discs.
Each musician was a youth of extraordinary height, and the pipes they carried resembled wheezing bladders stuck with wooden pipes, one of which was blown into, while another was played with the fingers.
The music carried across the river, and the fishermen on the far bank dapped in rime to the infectious melodies when they saw the raven banner, and who rode beneath it.
The king of the Endals was well known to the Unberogen, a grey-haired man of advancing years with a lined and weathered face. His frame was lean and spare, though his bronze armour was moulded to resemble the muscular physique of his youth. He wore a tall helm with feathered wings of black that swept up from the sweeping cheek plates, and a long dark cloak was spread over the rump of his horse. A score of Raven Helms rode alongside their king, tall warriors with black cloaks and winged helms identical to their king’s. These were the best and bravest of the Endal warriors, men who had sworn to protect their king’s life with their own.
[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer Page 8