[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  Many years had passed since he had ridden to battle, and it felt magnificent to have so great a steed beneath him and the curved blade of Ulfshard in his hand.

  Only fighting beside his old friend, King Bjorn, could have made this moment more perfect, but then without Sigmar, this battle would not have been fought at all.

  The ebb and flow of the battle had changed dramatically in the last few moments, and, with the arrival of Wolfgart’s warriors, the centre was still holding. The Ostagoths and surviving Thuringians were hooking around the centre to relieve the pressure there, but orcs boar riders were even now moving to counter them. Every manoeuvre made by Sigmar’s army could be met with vast hordes of orcs and bludgeoned into submission.

  Courage and iron could only hold the line for so long.

  Eventually, the brutal arithmetic of war would see the army of men destroyed.

  Clouds of dust were thrown up around them, and Marbad desperately sought out the banner of the Unberogen king amid the swirling melee before the cliff face.

  He and his Raven Helms had been searching for a gap in the enemy lines to exploit when Marbad had seen the crimson banner raised high by Sigmar’s silver handed standard bearer.

  No sooner had Marbad seen the banner than he had ordered his warriors to follow him. Aldred had protested, but the word of his father was law, and Marbad had ridden with his finest warriors towards the embattled right flank.

  When you see the silver hand lift the crimson banner high.

  He had been dreaming, or so he had thought, when he had seen the vision of the crone in black beside his bed in the Raven Hall twenty years ago. How she had come to be in his chambers was a mystery to him, yet here she was, perched on the end of his bed.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “And how did you get here?”

  “How I got here is unimportant, Marbad,” said the white-haired crone, “but I am sometimes known as the hag woman of the Brackenwalsch. An ugly name, but one I am forced to bear for this age of men.”

  “I have heard of you,” said Marbad. “Your name is a curse to the Unberogen. They say you practise the dark arts.”

  “The dark arts?” laughed the hag woman. “No, Marbad, if I practised the dark arts then Sigmar would already be dead.”

  “Sigmar? What has Bjorn’s son to do with anything?”

  “To some, maybe I am a curse,” continued the hag woman as though he had not spoken, “but when men are desperate, you would be surprised how swiftly they seek my aid.”

  “I require nothing of you,” answered Marbad.

  “No,” agreed the hag woman, “but I require something of you.”

  “What could one such as you want of me?”

  “A sacred vow, Marbad,” said the hag woman, “that when you see the silver hand lift the crimson banner high, you will ride with all your strength to Sigmar’s side and grant him your most precious possession.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I do not require your understanding, Marbad, just your sacred vow.”

  “And if I do not give it?”

  “Then the race of men will die, and the world will end in blood.”

  Marbad paused to see if the woman was joking, but when she remained silent he knew she was not. “And if I give you this vow?”

  “Then the world will endure a little longer, and you will have changed the course of history. What man could ask for more?”

  Marbad smiled, recognising the flattery for what it was, but sensing no lie in the hag woman’s words. “For this, I will earn glory?”

  “You will earn glory,” agreed the hag woman.

  “I have the feeling you are not telling me something,” said Marbad.

  “True, but you will not want to hear it.”

  “I will be the judge of that, woman! Tell me.”

  “Very well,” said the crone. “Yes, if you honour your vow you will earn glory, but you will be choosing a path that leads to your death.”

  Marbad swallowed, making the sign of the horns. “They are right to call you a curse.”

  “I am all things to all men.”

  Marbad chuckled. “Glory and a chance to save the world,” he said. “Death seems like such a small price for that.”

  “Do I have your oath?” pressed the hag woman.

  “Yes, damn you. I give you my oath. When I see the silver hand lift the crimson banner high, whatever that means, I will ride with all my strength to Sigmar’s side.”

  The following morning he had awoken refreshed and with only a fleeting recollection of the encounter with the hag woman, but as he had seen Pendrag raise Sigmar’s banner, the memory of two decades ago had returned with incredible clarity.

  Marbad sat tall in the saddle as he rode with all his strength to Sigmar’s side.

  Glory and a chance to save the world… not bad for an old man, eh?

  The fighting swirled around Sigmar like a living thing, pulsing and flowing to unseen rhythms that were invisible to a normal man, but which were as plain as day to him. The charge of his Unberogen warriors had been magnificent and glorious, headstrong and courageous, but ultimately foolhardy.

  Blades rose and fell, but the sword arms of the Unberogen were tired, their weapons seeming to have gained ten pounds in weight. The charge to rescue the Merogens would be a tale to tell in years to come, but first they had to survive the fight.

  The Unberogen had hacked down many of the fleeing orcs, and then run into a solid wall of iron and green flesh. Orcs as hard as the mountains, and with as little give in them, cut men down with ruthless ferocity, and Sigmar saw that these darker-skinned orcs were larger and more heavily muscled than any they had fought thus far.

  Where once his warriors had marched to the rescue of their fellows, they now fought for their lives. Pendrag still held the banner high, but he bled from a wound to the head, and the great standard wavered in his grip.

  Sigmar hammered a shield from a snarling orcs’ grip, and slammed a fist into its porcine face. He grunted at the impact, for it was like punching stone. The orcs roared and lashed out with its axe, and Sigmar ducked, slamming his hammer into the beast’s groin. It dropped, and Sigmar drove his shield into its face, snapping its tusks and sending it reeling backwards.

  Bellowing orcs surrounded him, and a heavy club smashed into his shoulder, tearing his last remaining shoulder guard away and driving him to his knees. Ghal-maraz swept out in a low arc and smashed the legs from his attacker, who fell in a crumpled heap beside him.

  Sigmar rose and stamped his heel down on the orcs’ throat as he blocked the sweeping axe blow with his shield. A sword sailed past his head, and he swayed aside as a spear stabbed for his chest. He smote the spear-carrier, and rammed his shield forward into the face of another orcs as an axe caromed from his breastplate.

  “Pendrag!” cried Sigmar as he saw a great shadow loom over his sword-brother.

  The troll creature was a terrifying monster of gigantic proportions, its limbs grossly swollen and lumpen with twisted muscle. Its head was enormous, repellent and humanoid, but its eyes held no gleam of intelligence. Hideous growths and fur like wire sprouted from its grey, stony flesh, and it carried the trunk of a tree with a dozen sword blades jutting from the end.

  The monster drooled smoking saliva, and its limbs moved with a ponderous strength. Pendrag looked up through a mask of blood in time to see the massive spiked club descending towards him, and raised his arms in a futile gesture of defiance.

  Sigmar slammed into Pendrag, pushing him from the path of the troll’s club. The monstrous weapon split the ground, and Sigmar rolled to his feet with Ghal-maraz raised and his shield held before him. Pendrag lay where he fell, the crimson banner fallen beside him.

  The troll towered above Sigmar, a thick lipped smile of hungry malice spreading across its slack features. A series of booming grunts came from its mouth, and Sigmar realised that it was laughing.

  Anger filled him, and he ducked beneath its swinging club, smas
hing his hammer against the monster’s thigh. The beast’s hide cracked beneath the blow, and the ringing impact travelled up Sigmar’s arm as though he had struck the side of a mountain. Its club swung for him again, and he took the blow on his shield. The metal cracked, and his arm felt as though a horse had trampled.

  The troll reached for him, but he dodged its clumsy, grasping hands. Sigmar heard shouts from his men as they saw their king’s danger and rushed to his aid. The orcs fell back from the renewed attack, but they would not be held for long.

  Sigmar spun inside the troll’s reach, swinging his hammer for the monster’s face, but the beast reared up, and Ghal-maraz slammed into its chest with a heavy crack. The troll’s armoured hide split wide open, and vile, stinking blood sprayed from the wound. Sigmar gagged and fell back, his gorge rising at such an unholy reek.

  He blinked to clear his vision, and stared in shock as the terrible wound in the troll’s chest began to close over, its thick skin slithering and growing with unnatural speed to repair the damage. Sigmar’s surprise almost cost him his life as the troll drew in a great breath and leaned forwards with its mouth opened wide.

  Instinct made Sigmar raise his shield, and he cried out as a torrent of disgusting fluid vomited from the troll. The stench was unbearable and the acrid stink of its digestive fluids stung his eyes.

  Sigmar tumbled away from the troll, repulsed beyond words as he felt a sizzling heat across his arm and chest. His shield was melting, the metal hissing and flowing as it dripped in golden droplets to the earth. Astonishment made him slow, until a tiny rivulet of the troll’s eructation dripped onto his arm.

  The pain was incredible, and he cast the shield from him, seeing that he had been the luckiest of those standing before the troll. A trio of Unberogen warriors screamed in unimaginable pain as the acidic bile burned through their armour and liquefied the flesh beneath. Sigmar felt a heat on his chest, and looked down to see a bubbling stain of hissing bile eating through the metal of his breastplate.

  Sigmar dropped to his knees, fumbling with the straps securing the breastplate to his chest, but they were out of reach. He cried out as the heat of the acid seared his skin.

  “Hold still,” said Pendrag, appearing at his shoulder with a knife in his hands.

  “Hurry!” cried Sigmar.

  Pendrag sawed through the straps securing the armour, and Sigmar cast the breastplate from his body with a desperate heave. In pain, but grateful to be alive, Sigmar nodded his thanks to his sword-brother and rose to his feet in the thick of the fighting.

  Pendrag once again held his banner, and Sigmar saw that his warriors had formed a shieldwall around him, protecting him while he faced the troll. Perhaps a hundred men still fought, and Sigmar could see no end to the orcs encircling them. An ocean of green flesh surrounded this island of Unberogen.

  His warriors were attempting a fighting withdrawal, but the orcs had cut off every avenue of escape, and they were trapped. Sigmar could see little of the battle beyond this fight, but he hoped that Alfgeir or some other king could see their desperate predicament.

  Sigmar heard a disgusting cracking, slurping sound, and saw the troll devouring one of the warriors who had fallen beneath its dreadful vomit. The man’s leg still protruded from its jaws, but with a heave of its gullet, the leg was swallowed. The troll looked up, and, seeing Sigmar, bludgeoned its way through the shield-wall towards him.

  Warriors were smashed aside by its enormous club, sailing over the heads of their fellows to land in the midst of the orcs. Sigmar leapt to meet the troll, even as he knew he could not defeat it alone. As if in answer to that thought, a handful of his warriors, including Pendrag, attacked with him, stabbing long spears and swords at the horrific beast.

  Blades cut its hide and spears stabbed into its sagging belly, but no sooner had the monster bled than its terrible anatomy would heal within moments. Men were crushed beneath its heavy club, and Sigmar saw cruel enjoyment in its moronic features. Nothing they could do was harming this monster, and the shieldwad was shrinking as men fell to the chopping blades of the orcs.

  Then Sigmar heard the thunder of hooves, and his heart leapt as he saw the blessed sight of the Raven Helms of King Marbad cutting a path through the orcs. The black-armoured riders smashed through the greenskins, their heavy steeds crushing their foes, and their lances spitting them where they stood.

  King Marbad rode at their head, and the old king was magnificent, his silver hair streaming behind him as he clove through the ranks of the orcs, Ulfshard’s blade streaming with blue fire. No power of the orcs could stand before the sword of the fey folk, and the stone set in its pommel shone with ancient power.

  The Raven Helms were the greatest warriors of the Endals, and the orcs scattered before them or else were destroyed by them. Needing no orders, the Unberogen began fighting to link with Marbad’s warriors.

  A deafening roar of hunger echoed as the troll smashed through Sigmar’s warriors and came at him again, its stomach heaving with grotesque motion. Its monstrous head lowered and its jaws spread wide once more.

  “Sigmar!” shouted Marbad, drawing his arm back.

  The king of the Endals hurled Ulfshard towards Sigmar, the glittering blade of the fey folk spinning with effortless grace towards him.

  Sigmar plucked the weapon from the air, blue flames leaping from the blade at his touch, and spun on his heel.

  The wondrous blade sliced into the troll’s throat, cutting clean through its neck with a searing blast of power. The monster’s head flew from its shoulders, and its body crashed to the ground.

  Sigmar roared in triumph, and let the fire of Ulfshard join with the winter flames that burned in his own heart. With a weapon of power in each hand, Sigmar turned from the troll’s corpse and raced to rejoin his warriors as Pendrag led them through the orcs towards the Raven Helms.

  A cry of rage torn from scores of throats made him look up, and he cried out as he saw Marbad’s horse brought down, and the old king fall among the orcs.

  “Marbad!” shouted Sigmar, cleaving a path towards his friend. The orcs were no match for him, and his twin weapons cut through his enemies with ease, but Sigmar already knew he would be too late. He smashed Ghal-maraz through the skull of an orcs too slow to flee before him, and stabbed Ulfshard through the back of another as he drove them from the body of the fallen king.

  Sigmar reached the king of the Endals and knelt beside him, anguish tearing at his heart as he saw the terrible wound in Marbad’s chest. Blood pooled beneath the king, and Sigmar saw there would be no saving him.

  A spear had torn into his lower back, ripping up into his lungs, and a broken sword blade jutted from his side. A circle of warriors formed around him, Raven Helms and Unberogen born.

  “You old fool,” wept Sigmar, “throwing your sword like that.”

  “I had to,” coughed Marbad, gripping Sigmar’s hand. “She promised me glory.”

  “And you have it, my king,” said Sigmar. “You are a hero.”

  Marbad tried to smile, but a spasm of coughing shook him. “There is no pain now,” he said. “That is good.”

  “Yes,” said Sigmar, pressing Ulfshard into the dying king’s hand.

  “I always feared this day,” said Marbad, his voice drifting, “but now that it is here… I do not… regret it.”

  With those words, the king of the Endals passed from the realms of man.

  Sigmar stood, and his hatred of the greenskins burned hotter than ever as he took in the measure of the battle in an instant. The tempo of the fighting had changed, and he saw that Menogoth warriors were pushing forward to secure the right flank that they had previously fled.

  Once more the battle had become a desperate toe-to-toe struggle of heaving warriors.

  Howling orcs crashed against the warriors of men and dwarfs, the line of defenders bending back, but as yet unbroken. The charge of the Raven Helms had forged a path back to his army, and Sigmar was not about to waste his brother king’
s sacrifice.

  A young man Sigmar recognised as Marbad’s son pushed through the ring of warriors, his face a mask of grief.

  “Father,” wept Aldred, cradling Marbad’s head in his lap.

  “Let me help you with him,” offered Sigmar.

  “No,” snapped Aldred as four Raven Helms stepped forward. “We will carry him.”

  Sigmar nodded and stepped back as the Endal warriors lifted Marbad onto their shields.

  As he watched the Raven Helms bear Marbad away, Sigmar knew that there was only one way to end this battle.

  “Gods, man, what were you thinking?” demanded Alfgeir as Sigmar jogged back to where the war banner of the Unberogen was planted in the ground. He did not answer Alfgeir, but simply swung into the saddle of his gelding. His armour had been torn from him, and his body was a mass of blood and scars.

  “We cannot win the battle like this,” said Sigmar. “The orcs will grind us down, and there is nothing we can do to stop them.”

  Alfgeir looked set to deliver a withering reply, but saw the cold fire in Sigmar’s eyes and thought better of it. “What are your orders, sire?” he asked.

  “Send runners to every king,” commanded Sigmar. “Tell them to watch the rock of the Eagle’s Nest and to follow my example.”

  “Why?” asked Alfgeir. “What are you going to do?”

  But Sigmar had already ridden away.

  ——

  Birth of an Empire

  Sigmar pushed his roan gelding hard towards the Eagle’s Nest, riding behind the front lines of battle. The clash of iron and flesh filled his senses, and it was all he could do not to turn his horse towards the battle. He would fight soon enough, but he had grander plans than simply joining the fighting ranks.

  The jutting rock was aptly named, for it rose in a sweeping curve like an eagle’s noble head. It dominated the centre of the pass, its summit some ten yards above the ground, and Sigmar could see why Master Alaric had suggested he direct the battle from here.