by ich du
Wet from the surf, they assembled again on the shale beach in a line facing towards the burning ship. Jurd Skalding, new chieftain of the tribe, pulled his sword from its scabbard and raised it above his head. The tribe set up a great clamour, bellowing and roaring, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. Jurd shouted above the noise.
'Beware!' he cried. 'Beware those who live beyond the edge of the sea in the lands of the birthing sun. Hors Skalding comes to you, greatest of the Norse. In this, his thirty-second summer, he has lain down his soul for the gods to judge. And they shall judge him well. Great wealth has he brought his tribe. With his strong sword-arm and his wolfish cunning, he brought terror and desolation to his foes. The coffers of the southerners were his for the plundering, and he drew deeply of their generosity.'
'Beware, souls upon the fiery waves in the realms of the gods, that Hors Skalding slew many foes. Chosen as champion to the great Sutenvulf, he led the armies of the gods at the Battle of a Thousand Winters. Though the gods did not grant us victory, a score of enemies fell to his blade as he escaped from their wrath.'
'Beware those brave warriors who fell in brave battle, that Hors Scalding has long reigned over the seas, and his longship has brought dread across the known world. Hear now as we raise up our voices and cheer him into the land of the gods, where he shall sail forever, most blessed of our people, most favoured of our gods!'
The weak light of the sun broke over the fjord, glowing from the waters, which seemed aflame with reflections. In one last final salute, the men of the Skaldings drew their knives across their open palms and let their blood drip into the receding waters, a tribute to the gods so that they would welcome Hors Skalding into their eternal realm.
Mordheim, Early winter 1771
'THE NOVICES AND sisters train in the shrine itself,' said Magda Hauptstrecht, Matriarch of the Sisters of Sigmar.
She was with a young girl, less than ten years old, in Sigmar's Rock, a forbidding fortress-convent raised upon an island in the River Stir. She held the hand of her newest acolyte and led her across the tiled floor of the shrine, towards the statue of Sigmar at the far end. It was a wide open space where the sisters would stand in prayer and during hymnals, and where for much of the day they would practise the art of fighting, with whip and hammer and sword. It was empty now as the sisters of the order spread through the city of Mordheim performing their other duties of tending to the poor and the infirm.
From an archway to their right, a frail figure appeared, dressed in the white and red robes of an augur. She was old, ancient even, but she walked with her back straight and her head high, though her skin was heavily wrinkled, her head almost bald, her eyes rheumy. Magda stopped, reluctant to intrude upon the peace of the venerable sister.
'Who is she?' the little girl whispered. Magda crouched down next to her.
'I do not know, little one.' replied Magda. 'She was old when I was your age, and the matriarch who took me under her wing did not know her either. She has been here a very long time, perhaps even since the founding of Sigmar's Rock. She never speaks, and I think she is very sad.'
They watched in silence as the aged augur knelt before the statue of Sigmar and bowed her head in prayer. After a few minutes she rose and walked to the effigy and laid something over the hammer extended towards the centre of the shrine.
As she walked away, they could see that it was a small circlet of flowers from the gardens.
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Version 1.2
Índice
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN