[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  “I know,” said Cradoc sadly. “It is one of your less appealing characteristics.”

  With the armies already gathered in the south, King Siggurd had offered his allies the hospitality of his city, and a council of war was convened. The king of the Brigundians greeted the rulers of the tribes as they arrived at the golden doors of his great hall, and Sigmar’s heart swelled with pride as he knew he was witnessing a gathering such as had never before been seen in the lands of men.

  A great circular table had been set up in the middle of the hall, and a brazier of coals burned brightly at its iron centre. Sigmar, Wolfgart and Pendrag stood at their appointed places around the circle and watched as the arrival of each king was announced.

  Marbad of the Endals was first to arrive, flanked by his eldest son, Aldred, and two tall Raven Helms in black cloaks and fine mail shirts. King Marbad nodded a greeting, and Sigmar frowned as he saw the venerable king of the Endals turn pale as he noticed Pendrag’s silver hand.

  Marbad was followed by Aloysis of the Cherusens, a lean, hawk-faced man with long dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

  Next to enter were Queen Freya and Maedbh. Sigmar felt Wolfgart stand taller behind him at the sight of his wife, for it had been many months since they had been together. The Asoborn queen favoured Sigmar with a sly smile, and ran her hand across her belly before seating herself across from him.

  King Krugar of the Taleutens was announced, and he marched into the hall with two hulking warriors in silver scale armour at his side. King Wolfila of the Udose tribe, clad in his finest kilt and pleated sash, entered the hall and offered a raucous greeting to the room. Two bearded clansmen of fearsome appearance accompanied the northern king, their beards and hair wild, and their broadswords carried lightly over their shoulders.

  Representing the forces of the northern marches, Myrsa of the Fauschlag rock led a pair of warriors armoured in gleaming suits of plate, and Sigmar nodded to the Warrior Eternal as he took his place at the table.

  Otwin of the Thuringians arrived next, and Sigmar did a double take as he saw who had come with the berserker king, for it was none other than Ulfdar, the warrior woman he had fought before facing Otwin. Both were virtually naked, clad only in loincloths and bronze torques.

  King Markus of the Menogoths and Henroth of the Merogens arrived together, and Sigmar was shocked at the change in them since he had seen them two years ago. The sieges of their castles had only recently been lifted. Both men were painfully thin, and the dreadful suffering of their people haunted their eyes.

  Adelhard of the Ostagoths was last to arrive, accompanied by Galin Veneva, and Sigmar liked the look of the eastern king immediately. The Ostagoth king stood tall and broad, his pride restored after the great victory on the Black Road, and his gratitude evident in the respectful nod he gave Sigmar before taking his seat at the table.

  With all the oath-sworn tribal rulers gathered, Siggurd closed the doors of his hall and took his place at the table as a host of servers stepped forward and placed a silver goblet of rich red wine before each ruler.

  Siggurd stood to address the gathering. “My friends, I welcome you to my hall. In these dark days, it fills my heart with joy to see rulers from all across the lands beneath my roof.”

  The Brigundian king lifted his goblet and said, “This wine is valued above all others by my warriors, for it is only ever drunk in celebration of the greatest of victories. After two years of fighting, we have won such a victory, and driven the greenskins back to the mountains. Savour its sweet flavour and remember it, for a great battle awaits us at Black Fire Pass in the spring, when you will taste it again. Welcome, all.”

  Fists were banged on the table as Siggurd took his seat, and Sigmar stood with his own goblet raised.

  “Fellow kings,” he began.

  “And queens!” shouted Maedbh good-naturedly.

  “And queens,” smiled Sigmar, nodding towards Freya. “King Siggurd speaks the truth, for it is a grand thing to see you all here. We are all bound together by oaths of loyalty and friendship, and it gives me hope to know that such warriors of courage and heart are gathered here.”

  Sigmar pushed his chair back and began to walk around the circular table, his goblet still held out before him. “These last years have been dark indeed, and doomsayers walk the land, tearing at their flesh and wailing that these are the end times, that the gods have turned from us. The gods have abandoned us to our doom, they say, but I do not accept that. The gods have given us many strengths. They have given us the wit to recognise those strengths, and also the humility to see our weaknesses. What are these if not gifts from the gods? I say the gods help those who help themselves, and this gathering is another step towards final victory.”

  As he reached Marbad, Sigmar placed a hand on the Endal king’s shoulder.

  “Since my father’s death I have travelled these lands and seen those strengths first hand. I have seen courage. I have seen determination. I have seen fire, and I have seen wisdom. I have seen them in the deeds of every man and woman in this hall. I have fought alongside many of you in battle, and I am proud, so very proud, to count you as my sword-brothers.”

  Sigmar lifted his goblet high. “Oaths of man have brought us together, but ties of blood bind us even closer.”

  The gathered rulers lifted their goblets, and as one, drank the victory wine.

  “Never!” shouted the king of the Taleutens. “Surrender command of my warriors to another? The gods would strike me down at such cowardice!”

  “Cowardice?” retorted King Siggurd. “Is it cowardice to recognise that we must fight as one or else be destroyed? I know you, Krugar, it is not cowardice that stays your hand, it is pride!”

  “Aye,” nodded Krugar, “pride in the courage and strength of the Taleutens. The same pride my warriors have in me for leading them in battle these last twenty-three years. Where will that pride be if I am to stand idly by while another leads them?”

  “Whisht, man, it will still be there!” cried Wolfila. “Any man who’s fought alongside Bjorn’s son knows there’s no shame in granting him command. When the wolves of the Norsii were hammering at the gates of my castle, who was it drove them away? You were there, I grant you, Krugar, and you too Aloysis, but Sigmar it was who scattered them and drove them across the sea!”

  “I share Krugar’s unease at surrendering command,” put in Aloysis, “but if we each fight as individuals, the greenskins will destroy us one by one. I am a big enough man to allow my Cherusen to fight under Sigmar’s strategy.”

  Sigmar nodded to the Cherusen king in thanks for his support.

  “I will be no spectator in battle,” said Adelhard, drawing his sword and laying it on the table. “Ostvarath hungers to be wetted in orcs blood.”

  “You will be no spectator,” snapped Freya. “Like a true warrior, you will be in the fire of battle, where Ulric’s wolves await to take the dead to their rest. I will fight alongside Sigmar, for I know the strength in his blood. If any one of us is to take command, it must be Sigmar.”

  “And what of the Bretonii and the Jutones?” asked Myrsa. “Their kings do not join us?”

  “Marius?” spat Marbad. “The man is a snake. I’d sooner have the Norsii on my flanks than that conniving whoreson. At least with the Norsii you know where you stand.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Sigmar. “I will send emissaries to the Jutones to offer King Marius another chance to join us.”

  “And when he refuses?” asked Marbad. “What then? His lands will be kept safe by the deaths of our warriors, but he will shed no tears for them. He will wring his hands and think us fools. Such a man has no honour, and does not deserve a place within the lands of men.”

  As much as he loved the aged king, Sigmar knew that Marbad’s hatred of the Jutones ran too deep to be assuaged.

  “Then we will deal with Marius when the threat of the orcs is dealt with,” said Sigmar.

  One by one, the remaining kings spoke up, an
d the debate swung back and forth as they danced around the issue of command. Though each king spoke highly of Sigmar, and expressed their respect for his deeds and vision in gathering them together, few were willing to surrender command of their warriors to another.

  Sigmar felt his temper fraying with every hour that passed, the same arguments swirling around the table time and time again. He could see everything he had tried to build over the last decade and more slipping away.

  At last he rose and placed Ghal-maraz heavily on the table before him. All eyes turned to him, and he leaned forward, placing both hands palm down on the table-top.

  “So this is how the race of man will die?” he asked softly. “Bickering like old women instead of standing before our enemies with bloodied weapons in our hands?”

  “Die? What are you talking about?” asked Siggurd.

  “This,” said Sigmar, contempt dripping from his words. “A lesser race stands poised to destroy us, and we still find it in our hearts to fight amongst ourselves. Orcs are brute savages, creatures that live only for destruction. They build no farms, they work no land and they murder any who stand before them. By any measure of reckoning they are less than us, and yet they are united while we are divided by pride and ego. It grieves me to think that all we have achieved and the great strides we have made to bring our peoples together will end in such petty squabbles.”

  Sigmar stood straight and lifted Ghal-maraz, holding it out before him. “King Kurgan Ironbeard told of how I came by this hammer at my father’s funeral, and he reminded me that this great warhammer is not just a tool of destruction, but one of creation. The blacksmith’s hammer forges the iron that makes us strong, but Ghal-maraz is much more than a blacksmith’s hammer. It is a king’s hammer, and with it I dreamed of forging an empire of man, a realm where all men could live in peace, united and strong. But, if we cannot put aside our pride, even when it means our doom, then I will have nothing more to do with this gathering. I will return to Reikdorf and prepare to fight any orcs that dares to venture onto Unberogen lands. I will expect no aid from any of you, and will offer none if asked. The greenskins will come and they will destroy us. It may take them many years, but make no mistake, they will do it. Unless you stand behind me in battle. Fight under my command, do what I say and we may live through this trial. Make your decision now, but remember, united we live, divided we die.”

  Sigmar sat back down and placed Ghal-maraz back on the table before him. None of the tribal kings dared break the cold silence that followed until Marbad rose and moved to stand beside Sigmar. The king of the Endals drew Ulfshard, the shimmering blade forged by the craft of the fey folk, and laid it beside Ghal-maraz.

  “I have known Sigmar since he was a lad,” said Marbad. “I fought alongside his father and his grandfather, Redmane Dregor. All were men of courage, and it shames me that I ever doubted the wisdom of his course. I welcome the chance to fight at Sigmar’s side, and if that means placing my warriors under his command, then so be it. How many years have we spent at war with one another? How many sons have we buried? Too many. Our strength was divided until Sigmar united us, and now we want to shy away from allowing him command of our armies? No longer will I stand apart from my brothers. The Endals will fight under Sigmar’s command.”

  Marbad gripped Sigmar’s shoulder, and said, “Bjorn would be proud of you, lad.”

  Adelhard rose from his seat and circled the table, drawing Ostvarath as he walked. He too placed his blade beside Sigmar’s weapon. “My people owe you their lives. How could I not stand behind you?”

  Next came Wolfila, who placed his great broadsword beside the other swords of kings.

  One by one, each of the gathered rulers set their weapons beside Sigmar’s warhammer.

  Last to place his weapon was Myrsa, the Warrior Eternal of the Fauschlag rock, placing a heavy warhammer with a leather-wound grip and iron head in the shape of a snarling wolf next to Ghal-maraz.

  “I am no king, Lord Sigmar,” said Myrsa, “but the warriors of the north are yours by right and by choice. What would you have us do?”

  Sigmar stood, honoured and humbled by the faith his brother kings had shown him.

  “Go back to your lands, for winter is almost upon us,” said Sigmar. “Allow your warriors to return to their families, for it will remind them why they fight. Gird yourselves for war and march your armies to Reikdorf in the first month of spring with sharpened swords and hardened hearts.”

  “And then?” asked Myrsa.

  “And then we will take the fight to the greenskins,” promised Sigmar. “We will destroy them at Black Fire Pass, and secure our lands forever!”

  ——

  Defenders of the Empire

  “Leave me, boy,” gasped Svein, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. “You… know you… have to.”

  “Hush up there, old man,” snapped Cuthwin, hauling his friend and mentor’s body around a loose tumble of snow-covered rocks, and propping him upright. Blood coated Svein’s leather jerkin and stained his woollen leggings. The wound was plugged with a strip of cloth, but blood still leaked from the hole, leaving an easily followed trail of red dots on the snow.

  Cuthwin was exhausted, and he took a moment to regain his breath as he scanned their back trail. There was no sign of pursuit yet, but there would be. The smell of blood would draw the goblins, even if they were somehow unable to follow the trail he had been forced to leave while carrying his wounded friend.

  The goblin’s arrow had come out of nowhere and struck the older scout in the small of the back, punching through his jerkin and jutting from his belly. A host of the squealing monsters had leapt from the darkness, serrated knives and stabbing swords bright in the moonlight.

  Tiny hooded things that smelled of animal dung and rotten meat, the goblins were darting figures clad in ragged black robes that hid their cruel, pointed faces and needle-like teeth. Cuthwin killed the first two, and Svein had killed a third before they had closed in a flurry of rapid, slashing squeals.

  Their weight had borne Svein to the ground, but Cuthwin had kicked them clear, stabbing with his sword and hunting knife. Even wounded, Svein had fought like a hero, snapping necks and gutting the foul little creatures with quick twists of his knife. More arrows had clattered against the rocks, and the struggling goblins had shrieked in terror at their fellows’ lack of care for their lives, turning and fleeing into the darkened crevices of the mountains.

  With the goblins fled for the time being, Svein had dropped to his knees, and Cuthwin had rushed to his friend’s side. The arrow piercing his body was a crude thing, and Cuthwin snapped off the stone head and quickly slid the shaft from Svein’s body.

  “Ach… they’ve done for me, lad,” said Svein. “Leave me, and get on back to the armies.”

  “Don’t be daft,” he said. “You’ll be fine. You’re too big and ugly to die from this little pigsticker.”

  Cuthwin swiftly plugged the wound, and hooked an arm under Svein’s shoulder before hauling him to his feet. Svein grunted in pain, but Cuthwin could not afford to waste any time, knowing that the goblins would return when their fragile courage was bolstered by numbers.

  Throughout the night, he bore his friend westwards to the gates of the mountains, and safety. Winter’s grip had finally loosened on the mountains at the edge of the world, but the armies of the tribal kings were camped far from the mouth of the pass. If Svein could survive long enough, Cuthwin could get him to the apothecaries who would heal his wound.

  As the night dragged on, however, and the wound continued to bleed, Cuthwin feared that the goblin’s arrow had pierced one of his friend’s kidneys and that he was bleeding internally. He also knew that goblin arrows were often coated in animal faeces, and it was more than likely that Svein’s wound was already infected.

  Morning’s light brought little hope to Cuthwin, for Svein’s colour was terrible, his face ashen and his cheeks sunken. Looking at him, he knew that his friend would b
e lucky to live another hour, let alone return to their fellow warriors.

  Cuthwin felt tears prick at his eyes, and angrily wiped them away. He had known Svein for over half his adult life, and the big man had taught him the deepest mysteries, fieldcraft and survival, becoming the surrogate father he had never known since the greenskins killed his family many years before.

  In the months they had spent in the mountains, the two scouts had encountered many goblin bands, and they’d had the best of all those encounters. Cowardly creatures, the goblins would attempt to strike from ambush, but Cuthwin and Svein had craft beyond the cunning of mere goblins, and had evaded all such ambushes.

  The mountains at the eastern edge of the world were home to all manner of foul creatures, goblins among the least of them, and three times they had been forced to hide to avoid the attentions of trolls and, once, a lumbering giant. The danger was incredible, but Sigmar had tasked them with gathering information on the movements and strength of the greenskin horde gathering in the mountains.

  When they had reached the eastern mouth of the pass, they had seen the full extent of the orcs army. Though he had seen it with his own eyes, Cuthwin could still scarcely believe the size of the orcs horde, a swelling ocean of green flesh that filled the ashen plains beyond the mountains as far as the eye could see. Thousands of tribal banner poles dotted the plains, and the smoke from the greenskins’ fires cast a dark shadow over the entire landscape.

  The boom of war drums echoed from the mountainsides, and the shouts and bellows of chanting orcs was like the roar of an angry god. Giant idols had been erected, enormous wicker effigies of foul orcs deities, and Cuthwin’s anger had threatened to overwhelm his sense when they were burned, and he saw that each one was filled with screaming men, women and children.

  Following the burning of the idols, a huge winged creature with a serpentine neck and loathsome reptilian skin took to the air, a monstrously armoured warlord astride its back. Even over the tramp of marching feet and bellowing roars of the orcs, Cuthwin could hear this mighty beast’s roar of hatred.