As night fell on the fourth week of his travels, Sigmar set up camp next to a small stream, at the base of a jagged hillock that stood proud of the landscape like a lone barrow, its slopes composed of tumbled slabs of masonry and wild, rust-coloured ferns. A family of foxes bared their teeth at him as he set down his pack amid a collection of pottery fragments and began to prepare a fire, but he ignored them and they retreated into their den.
In the shadow of a fallen slab of rock, Sigmar set his fire and prepared a meal of roast deer with meat he had purchased from the last village he had passed through. The meat was tough and stringy, the hunter clearly having loosed his killing arrow while the beast was on the run, but it was rich and flavoursome nonetheless. He scooped some water into a shallow bowl and drank deeply, before washing his hands in the stream.
He lay back on a pillow formed from his armour wrapped in his travelling cloak and gazed up at the stars, remembering looking at these same stars with Ravenna in his arms. Where before such a memory had caused him pain, he now held to it as a precious boon.
Sigmar glanced over at the slab he sheltered behind, seeing patterns in the weathering that he had not previously noticed. The fire threw shadows on the rock, and grooves that Sigmar had thought natural now bore the hallmarks of a deliberate hand.
He sat up and leaned close to the slab, seeing that it had in fact been carved by some ancient hand in a language unknown to him. There were elements of similarity with the script Eoforth and Pendrag had devised, and Sigmar wondered who had written this forgotten message.
He brushed away some of the earth that had collected around the slab, and pulled up the ferns closest to it, seeing more fragments of pottery and the rusted heads of spears. The more Sigmar cleared, the more he saw that he had made camp amid a treasure trove of ancient artefacts, and a chill stole across him as he realised that what he had thought resembled a barrow in fact was a barrow.
Sigmar shifted a pile of pottery fragments, bronze arrowheads and broken sword blades with his foot, noting the unfamiliar design of the weapons. The swords were curved at the end, but straight at the base, though the handles had long since rotted away, leaving the corroded remains of the tang visible with scraps of leather still clinging to the metal.
Who had this tomb belonged to? Clearly a warrior or someone who wished to be remembered as a warrior. Hundreds of years must have passed since this warrior’s interment, and Sigmar wondered if anyone remembered his name. In ages past, this might have been the resting place of a king or a prince, or a great general: a man who thought his fame would live on past his death into immortality.
Here amid the cold winds of the Brigundian plains, a lone man sheltered in the ruins of what might once have been a magnificent memorial to a forgotten ruler. Any dreams of immortality or eternal remembrance were as dead as the barrow’s occupant. Such was the vanity of men to believe that their deeds would echo through the ages, and Sigmar smiled as he remembered thinking such thoughts earlier in his travels.
Would anyone remember Sigmar’s name in a hundred years? Would anything he had achieved be remembered when the world finally fell? Might some young man in a thousand years camp in the shadow of Sigmar’s tomb and wonder what mighty hero lay beneath the earth, little more than food for the worms?
The thought depressed him, and he crouched down beside the slab once more, determined to learn who lay within this tomb, offer a prayer to his spirit and tell him that at least one man remembered him.
Perhaps someone would do the same for him one day.
The script on the slab was faded and hard to make out, but the stark shadows cast by the fire helped pick out the strange, angular shape of the writing. Sigmar had learned the Unberogen script quickly enough, and, while this shared a number of similarities in construction and shape, there appeared to be a great number of pictographic representations that formed the words within each grouping of characters.
Sigmar’s lips moved soundlessly as he attempted to read the characters, tracing his fingers over the carved letters. A warm and arid wind whispered through him as he squinted at the writing and the plaintive cry of a night-hunting owl echoed over the plain. Sudden dread seized his heart as he felt a terrible hunger emanating from deep within the mound, a dormant rage born of thwarted ambition and eternal suffering.
Sigmar groaned as he saw the image of a skeletal king in golden armour, lying within a casket of jade and clutching a pair of the strangely curved swords. A cold blue light burned in the eyes of the skull, and a name whispered on the winds that billowed around him.
Rahotep… Warrior King of the Delta… Conqueror of Death…
Sigmar fell back from the slab as though it were afire, the image of the skeletal king at the head of a monstrous army of the dead burning in his mind. Giant warriors of bone and serried ranks of dry, dusty revenants filled the horizon, and the same, terrible, unnatural light burned in the lifeless eyes of every warrior that marched for eternity under the spell of their master’s dreadful will.
The hot winds of a far-off kingdom of endless sand and burning sun gusted around him, and Sigmar felt a nameless dread and horror at the thought that this army of the dead had marched across lands that were now home to men.
And might one day march across it again…
Sigmar quickly gathered his possessions and fled from the ancient barrow, the sick feeling of terror in the pit of his stomach fading with every yard that he put between himself and the resting place of the terrible skeletal king.
Fear was not an emotion that Sigmar was used to, but the sight of these long-dead warriors had touched the part of him that was mortal, and which dreaded the cold emptiness of being denied his final rest.
For a warrior of the Unberogen, it was the greatest honour to be welcomed within the Halls of Ulric upon a glorious death, but to be denied that for all eternity, and to be forced to walk the earth forever as a mindless thing of death…
Sigmar ran through the night until dawn spilled over the eastern mountains.
Sigmar had walked swiftly for four days since making camp in the shadow of the dead king’s barrow, passing many farms and villages before finally arriving at Siggurdheim. Numerous rutted earth roads led towards the capital of the Brigundians, and a multitude of laden carts made their way towards the city.
Siggurdheim was as impressive as Sigmar had been led to believe, rearing above a river valley like a jumbled pile of knucklebones that might topple with the slightest push. The town was large, but constrained by the crag it was built upon, and what Sigmar could see of its defences impressed him, though its ruler had unwisely allowed the city to grow beyond the walls.
Many of the trades associated with a town of such size had spilled down the rocky slopes, with mills, tanneries and temples perched on narrow ledges, supported by a dangerous looking arrangement of wooden spars, or jutting precariously from overhangs.
Sigmar joined the road that led up the slopes by the most direct route, and soon found himself amid a press of men and women from all across the lands. He recognised Asoborn tattoos, painted Cherusens and the plaid cloaks of the Taleutens.
Mixed in with those tribes he recognised were several others he did not, harsh-faced men with dark clothing and sullen demeanours. Perhaps these were the Menogoths or Merogens, for who would not be morose living so close to danger?
As Sigmar drew close to the gate, he pulled off his travel cloak and swapped it for a clean red cloak from his pack. He draped it over his shoulders and fastened it in place with his golden cloak pin. Many passers-by admired the pin, and Sigmar glared at a number of would-be thieves until they fled.
Though many of the men were armed with short iron blades or hunting knives, none had a weapon of any significance, and Sigmar lifted Ghal-maraz from beneath his cloak and rested it across his shoulder. As he had expected, gasps of astonishment and whispers of his name spread like ripples in a pool as those around him saw the incredible weapon and pulled away.
Ghal-maraz wa
s known and feared as the weapon of King Sigmar, and few who dwelled in the lands west of the mountains did not know of its great power.
Within moments, Sigmar was marching towards the gate alone, the wonder and majesty of his presence and that of his warhammer clearing a path for him as surely as a hundred trumpeting heralds.
The guards at the gate wore fine hauberks of iron scale, their bronze helmets polished and obviously well cared for. Each bore a long spear with a flaring, leaf-shaped blade, and a short, stabbing sword. Sigmar fought down a smile as he saw their suspicion turn to surprise and then awe as they recognised him.
Few, if any, of these folk would have laid eyes on Sigmar, but the force of his presence, the red cloak, dwarf-forged cloak pin and great warhammer could only belong to one man.
Sigmar halted before the gates of Siggurdheim. “I am Sigmar, king of the Unberogen,” he said, “and I am here to see your king.”
* * * * *
“You have come alone from Reikdorf?” asked King Siggurd, his flowing robes brightly coloured and edged with golden thread and soft fur. A golden crown sat upon his brow, its circumference studded with precious stones.
The Great Hall of King Siggurd was a far cry from the fire lit austerity of Sigmar’s longhouse, its walls inlaid with gold and painted with bright frescoes depicting scenes of hunting and battle. Tall windows lit the hall without need for torches or lanterns, but rendered it unsuitable for defence.
Scores of warriors filled the chamber, and Sigmar had been impressed by their discipline as they had escorted him through Siggurdheim towards the king’s hall. The town was noisy and thronged with people, its heart alive with shouting voices and ad-hoc markets, selling everything from expensive gold and silver jewellery to fresh meat and brightly dyed cloth.
Every aspect of the town was given over to trade, and every street was packed with merchants and carts transporting their goods to and from the gates or docks. Despite the intense atmosphere, Sigmar had sensed a subtle undercurrent of fear as though the inhabitants kept themselves deliberately busy to avoid dwelling on some nameless fear lurking behind the smiles and shouted haggling.
King Siggurd was an impressive figure, his bearing martial and his build that of a warrior. His long hair was dark, though streaked with white, and his eyes were as cunning as Sigmar had been told they were. His guards were well armoured and carried themselves well, but Sigmar could see fear in their eyes, though of what he could not tell.
“I have indeed walked from Reikdorf,” said Sigmar in answer to King Siggurd’s question.
“Why?” asked Siggurd. “Such a journey is perilous at the best of times, but on your own? With the orcs tribes on the march?”
“We have seen no orcs in the Unberogen lands for some years,” answered Sigmar.
“Of course not, for you are far from the mountains, but we are not so fortunate here.”
“I am not surprised,” said Sigmar, “and it is for that reason that I travelled to your hall, King Siggurd. The lands of men stretch from the mountains on the south and east to the oceans of the north and west, and the tribes of men that dwell within it are the blessed people of the gods. We farm fertile land, we raise our children and we gather around the hearth fires to hear tales of valour, but there will always be those who seek to take what we have from us: orcs, beasts and men of evil character. In the north, I have forged alliances with many tribes, for we were like packs of wild dogs, fighting and scrapping while the wolves grew stronger around us. It is madness to allow petty divisions to keep us apart when our common ancestry should bind us together. In any settlement, all men must aid their neighbours, or they will perish. When one calls for aid, all must answer.”
“A noble sentiment,” said Siggurd, stepping down from his throne and walking towards Sigmar. “Altruism is all very well, King Sigmar, but it is the nature of man to serve himself. Even when one man helps another, it is usually in the hope that he will receive some reward.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Sigmar, “but I remember when a fire started in a barn at the edge of Reikdorf last year. The barn was beyond saving, but the owner’s neighbours still bent every effort to prevent its destruction.”
“To prevent the fire spreading to their own properties,” pointed out Siggurd.
“No doubt that played a part, yes, but when the fire was extinguished, those same neighbours then helped to rebuild the burned barn. Where was the gain for them in this? Everyone in Reikdorf knows they can count on the people around them to support them in times of trouble, and that shared community is what gives us strength. It is the same with the tribes. I have sworn Sword Oaths with six kings of the north and all our warriors fight as one. When the beasts of the forest kill the settlements of the coast, Unberogen horse archers ride into battle alongside Endal spearmen. When the orcs of the east raid Asoborn villages, Taleuten warriors and Unberogen axemen drive them back into the mountains.”
Siggurd drew level with Sigmar, and he saw that the king’s eyes were drawn to Ghal-maraz. Sigmar held the warhammer out for the king of the Brigundians to hold.
“The strength of your sword arm is well known to me, as is the power of your allies,” said Siggurd, taking hold of the warhammer and hefting it in a powerful grip. “You keep your lands safe with thousands of warriors, who fight with the courage you give them. By strength of arms are your people defended, but we Brigundians prosper more by trade and diplomacy. Brigundian farms provide food for the Asoborns, the Merogens and the Menogoths, and our grain goes to the breweries of the dwarfs. These people are our friends, and through such alliances our lands are made safe.”
Sigmar shook his head. “There will come a time when diplomacy will avail you nothing, when an enemy comes in such numbers that no tribe can stand before it alone. Join with me in swearing a Sword Oath, and our people will stand together as brothers. Together with the tribes of the south, we will finally be united as a people.”
“All men must stand together?” asked Siggurd, handing Ghal-maraz back to Sigmar.
“Yes.”
“And all men should answer their neighbour if they call for aid?”
“No man of honour would refuse such a call,” said Sigmar.
Siggurd smiled and said, “Then as your brother king, I ask for your aid in fighting a great evil that plagues my lands.”
“My strength is yours,” said Sigmar. “What manner of evil troubles your lands?”
“A beast of the ancient times,” said Siggurd. “A dragon ogre.”
The peaks to the south of Siggurdheim were dark and hostile, the rocks jagged and the clouds drawn in tight to the mountains’ flanks. The air was cold and, within a few hours of climbing, Sigmar was coated in clammy wetness. The hairs on his arms stood erect, and flickering embers of ball lightning danced from the rocks around him.
No sound of wildlife nor cry of birds disturbed the silence, and the only sounds were the skitter of loose shale beneath Sigmar’s feet and the echoes of stones falling down the slopes and splashing into dark, silent tarns.
The wind sighed through clefts in the rock, and Sigmar had the uncomfortable feeling that the mountain was groaning in some dreaming pain. His hands were bloody where the razor-edged rocks had cut his palms, and his leggings and tunic were torn open.
Sigmar had left King Siggurd and his warriors in the foothills far below, by the banks of a fast-flowing river that rose in the heart of the mountains. A fair-sized village had been built beside the river, but nothing lived there now. Every building had been gutted by fire or torn down, and the wanton devastation reminded Sigmar of the ruins of the Asoborn villages raided by the forest beasts.
The main road through the remains of the village was dotted with blackened craters that resembled powerful lightning strikes, and Sigmar felt a growing sense of nervous anticipation at the thought of facing a creature that could call upon such power. Then he remembered the leader of the forest beasts and how it had used dark sorcery to hurl deadly bolts of lightning.
/> It had fallen to his warhammer, and so too would this creature of evil.
A drizzling rain had cloaked everything in grey, and the bitter sense of abandonment was palpable. Sigmar saw that many of the houses had been smashed down instead of burned, not by axe or hammer, but by brute strength.
“This was once Krealheim,” explained Siggurd, sadly, “one of the many settlements destroyed by the beast. Many believe this to be the first settlement of the Brigundians. It was where my mother and father were raised.”
“And the dragon ogre did all this?” asked Sigmar, aghast. “One creature?”
“Aye,” nodded Siggurd. “The dwarfs call it Skaranorak. They say that its strength can crush boulders and its claws can cleave even rune-forged armour. My trackers believe it was driven from the depths of the mountains by the mountain king’s slayers and now seeks to prey on us.”
“You have sent hunting parties to destroy the beast?”
“I have, but none have returned,” said Siggurd. “My son led the last expedition, and I fear greatly for his life.”
“I will slay this Skaranorak for you, King Siggurd,” vowed Sigmar, offering his hand.
“Kill it and you shall have my sword oath,” promised Siggurd, “and the oaths of the Menogoths and Merogens.”
“Their oaths are yours to give?”
“They are,” said Siggurd. “Kill the beast and we shall be part of your grand empire.”
Sigmar had found a small fishing boat that was just about seaworthy, and made his way across the river to begin his climb. Now, with the icy wind slicing down through deep, vertical crevices in the rock, Sigmar was chilled to the bone and his body felt like it was wrapped in freezing blankets.
He found some shelter in the lee of a jutting overhang of black rock, the shadowed hollow beneath it mercifully free from wind and water. Sigmar gathered together the little wood he could find and set a fire, the flickering flames barely warming his numbed body at all. Despite the cold, he slept, tiredness, and the pressing despair that hung over the mountains like a shroud, conspiring to overcome his watchfulness.
[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer Page 27