She shielded her eyes, looking for some sign of Reikdorf’s warriors returning.
“I can’t see them, Gerreon,” she said, turning towards her younger brother, who walked beside her on the rutted track that led from the cornfields around Reikdorf to its fortified gate.
“I’m not surprised,” said Gerreon, shifting the leather sling that bound his broken wrist to his chest to a more comfortable position. “The forest’s too thick. They could be almost home and you wouldn’t see them.”
“They should be back by now,” she said, stopping to loosen her knotted headband and run a hand through her dark hair.
Gerreon paused with her, and said, “I know. Remember, I should have been with them.”
Ravenna heard the bitter note of regret in her brother’s voice, and said, “I know it was your time to ride to battle, but I am glad you did not.”
He met her gaze, and the anger she saw in his pale-skinned face surprised her. “You don’t understand, Ravenna, they already make fun of me as it is. Now I’ve missed my first battle, and no matter how courageously I fight from this day on, they’ll always remember that I wasn’t with them the first time.”
“You were injured,” said Ravenna. “There was no way you could have fought.”
“I know that, but it will make no difference.”
“Trinovantes will not allow them to mock you,” she said.
“So now I need my twin brother to look after me, is that it?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said, growing weary of his petulance, and moving off down the path once more. Her brothers were dear to her, but where Trinovantes was quiet, thoughtful and reserved, Gerreon was quick-witted, handsome and the terror of mothers with pretty daughters, but he could often be cruel.
Like her, his hair was the colour of jet and worn long as was the custom of the Unberogen, and was his pride and joy. Only the previous week, Wolfgart had teased him about looking like a Bretonii catamite, such was the care he lavished on his appearance, and Gerreon had attacked him in a fury.
Gerreon was no match for the older boy, and had ended up flat on his back, nursing a cracked wrist. Trinovantes had stopped Gerreon from making any further rash mistakes, and helped him from Wolfgart’s booming laughter to Cradoc the healer, where his wrist was set and a sling fashioned.
When the time had come for Sigmar to earn his shield and ride out to do battle with the greenskins ravaging the southern territories of the Unberogen, Trinovantes had made it clear that Gerreon could not ride with them.
“What use is a warrior who cannot hold onto his horse and bear a weapon?” Trinovantes had said gently, and Ravenna had been glad, for the thought of both her brothers riding off had worried her more than she cared to admit.
Ravenna scanned the trees across the river as she made her way home, looking for a telltale glint of metal, but again she saw nothing. Early evening sunlight scattered bright reflections from the sluggish river as it meandered along the edge of the village and, despite her worry, she could appreciate the beauty of the place.
Since dawn, she and Gerreon had been amongst those bringing in the summer harvest, him wielding the sickle with his good arm, and her with the basket upon her shoulders. It was hard, thankless work, but everyone had to take their turn in the fields, and she was grateful for Gerreon’s presence, despite his foul mood. Though he could not ride to war with the others, he could still wield a sickle and help in the fields.
Now the day’s work was done, and she could look forward to resting for the evening and eating some hot food. The harvest had been plentiful, and thanks to the new pumps installed by Pendrag and the dwarf, Alaric, many acres of land that had previously been thin and undernourished were now irrigated and fertile.
The storehouses were full to bursting, and surplus grain left every week in wagons escorted by armed warriors for the east, to be traded with the dwarfs for weapons and armour, for no finer race of metalworkers existed than the mountain folk.
Gerreon caught up to her and said, “I’m sorry, Ravenna, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“I’m not angry,” she said. “I’m just tired and worried.”
“Trinovantes will be fine,” said Gerreon, his voice full of pride and love for his twin. “He’s a great warrior. Not as elegant a swordsman as me, but handy with an axe.”
“I’m worried for them all,” she said, “Trinovantes, Wolfgart, Pendrag…”
“And Sigmar?” asked Gerreon with a sly grin.
“Yes, for Sigmar too,” she said, avoiding his teasing smile as she said Sigmar’s name for fear of blushing.
“Honestly, sister, I don’t know what you see in him. Just because he’s a king’s son doesn’t make him special. He’s like all the rest of them, boorish and just one hot meal away from being a savage.”
“Hush!” said Ravenna, rising to his bait, and cursing herself for it when he laughed.
“What? Afraid Wolfgart’s going to come and break my other wrist? I’ll gut him first.”
“Gerreon!” said Ravenna, hearing genuine venom in his voice, but before she could say more, she saw her brother’s eyes fix on something behind her. She turned, and followed his gaze across the river, her brother’s harsh words forgotten in an instant.
A column of horsemen was emerging from the trees, their pace weary, but voices triumphant. Spears and banners were held high, and the warriors cheered at the sight of Reikdorf.
Answering cries came from the settlement’s walls, and the men and women of Reikdorf ran to the gates as word spread that the warriors had returned.
Ravenna felt relieved laughter bubble up inside her, but it died in her breast as she saw a group of warriors in full battle armour leading the horsemen and carrying a litter of shields, upon which was laid the body of a fallen hero.
“Oh no,” cried Gerreon. “No… please, by all the gods, no!”
Ravenna’s heart sank as her first thought was that the fallen warrior was Sigmar, but then she saw that the king’s son helped to carry the litter, and that his crimson banner was still held aloft.
Her relief at Sigmar’s survival was then crushed savagely and heartbreakingly as she recognised the emerald green banner that covered the dead warrior: Trinovantes’ banner.
The walls of Reikdorf loomed large ahead of them, stark and black against the faded ivory of the sky, and Sigmar looked forward to his return home as much as he feared it. He remembered the cheering folk of his home as they had seen the warriors off in glory, shields bright and spears shimmering in the sun.
Now they were returning in glory, the greenskin menace from the Grey Mountains defeated and its warlord slain. All told, they had burned just under two thousand orcs and goblin corpses in great pyres, and by any normal measure, the victory had been magnificent.
The chieftain of Astofen, a distant cousin of his father, had welcomed them within the town’s walls following the battle, his people tending to Sigmar’s wounded men, and feeding the victorious warriors with the choicest meats and finest beers.
Sigmar had joined with his men in celebrating the victory, for to stand apart from them in melancholy for the slain would only have insulted their courage. In his heart, however, he mourned the death of Trinovantes. He mourned him and felt the ache of guilt that his order had sent him to his death.
Ahead, the land sloped down to the Sudenreik Bridge, a grand construction of stone and timber that Alaric and Pendrag had designed and overseen the construction of barely two months ago. Sigmar and his fellow litter-bearers followed the course of the dusty road as it wound down the hill towards the bridge, each step measured and dignified as they brought the honoured dead home for the last time.
The notched edges of the shields bearing his sword-brother bit into his shoulder, but he welcomed the discomfort, knowing that the burden of Trinovantes’ death would be his long after he put down the litter and his friend was interred within his tomb on the edge of the Brackenwalsch up on the Warrior’s Hill.
Heroes such as Redmane Dregor and his father battled orcs and dragons on the panels, and across from the image of Bjorn slaying a great, bull-headed creature was a blank panel where Sigmar’s tale would begin. No doubt some graven image of the victory of Astofen would be rendered in stone, forever marking the birth of his legend.
Sigmar watched as the heavy gates of Reikdorf swung outwards, pushed by groups of straining warriors. The walls of Reikdorf were taller than those of Astofen, encircling an area far larger, and home to over two thousand people. King Bjorn’s city was one of the marvels of the land west of the mountains, but Sigmar already had plans to make it the greatest city in the world.
The arch above the gate was formed from interlaced beams of timber, and at its apex stood a statue of a grim-faced and bearded warrior swathed in armour and wolfskin, who bore a huge, two-handed warhammer. A pair of wolves sat beside him, and Sigmar bowed his head before the image of Ulric.
His father stood in the centre of the open gateway, accompanied as always by Alfgeir and Eoforth. Sigmar felt intense joy at seeing him, knowing that no matter how far he travelled or how great his legend might become, he would always be his father’s son and grateful for the fact.
Men and women of Reikdorf clustered around the gates, but none ventured from beyond the walls, for it was every warrior’s right to march back through the gates of his home with his head held high.
“A fine welcome indeed,” said Pendrag, marching beside Sigmar, and also bearing the weight of Trinovantes’ body.
“As well it bloody should be,” pointed out Wolfgart. “The tribe hasn’t seen a victory like this in decades.”
“Aye,” said Sigmar. “As it should be.”
Their steps shortened as the ground rose, and they climbed the slope towards the walls of Reikdorf. Sigmar felt his spirits rise as he saw the crowds arrayed to welcome them home, feeling a great surge of affection for his people. Through everything this world could throw at them on the road to Morr’s kingdom: monsters, disease, hunger and hardship, they survived with dignity and courage.
What force could halt the progress of a race such as his?
Yes, there was pain and despair, but the human spirit had vision, and dreams of a greater destiny. Already the seeds of Sigmar’s vision were bearing fruit, but no growth was achieved without pain. Sigmar knew there would be much hardship in the years ahead, before he could realise the grand ambition that had filled him upon his dooming day amid the tombs of his ancestors.
Sigmar led his warriors through the gates of Reikdorf, and roars of approval and joy swelled from hundreds of throats as their people welcomed them home. Parents rushed to greet their sons with tears; some shed in joy, others in sadness.
Heartfelt welcomes and aching cries of loss filled the air as Unberogen mothers found their sons either riding tall upon their horses or laid across them.
Sigmar kept walking until he stood before his father, the king as regal and magnificent as ever, though his face spoke of the simple joy at seeing a son return from war alive and well.
“Lower him gently,” said Sigmar, and he and his sword-brothers slipped the shields from their shoulders and laid Trinovantes’ body upon the ground.
Sigmar stood before his father, unsure as to what he should say, but King Bjorn solved his dilemma for him by sweeping him up in a crushing bear-hug and embracing him tightly.
“My son,” said his father. “You return to me a man.”
Sigmar returned his father’s embrace, feeling his love for the brave man who had raised him without a wife at his side as a powerful force within him. Sigmar knew that he owed everything he was to the teachings of his father, and to have won his approval was the finest feeling in the world.
“I told you I would make you proud,” said Sigmar.
“Aye, that you did, my son,” agreed Bjorn, “that you did.”
The king of the Unberogens released his son, and stepped forward to address the warriors that had returned to his city, his arms raised in tribute to their courage.
“Warriors of the Unberogen, you are returned safely to us, and for that I give thanks to Ulric. Your valour will not go unrewarded, and every one of you dines like a king tonight!”
The riders cheered, the sound reaching the clouds, and Bjorn turned to Sigmar and his fellow litter bearers. He looked down at the banner and said, “Trinovantes?”
“Yes,” said Sigmar, his voice suddenly choked with emotion. “He fell at Astofen Bridge.”
“Did he fight well? Was it a good death?”
Sigmar nodded. “It was. Without his courage the day would have been lost.”
“Then Ulric will welcome him into his halls, and we shall envy him,” said Bjorn, “for where Trinovantes is now, the beer is stronger, the food more plentiful and the women more beautiful than any in this world. In time, we will see him again, and we will be proud to walk the halls of the mighty with him.”
Sigmar smiled, knowing his father spoke truly, for there could be no greater reward for a true warrior than to be honoured with a good death and then welcomed into the feast halls of the afterlife.
“I had always believed that it was the loneliest thing to lead men in battle,” said Bjorn, “But now I know that a father’s loneliness as he awaits his son to return safely is far worse.”
“I think I understand,” said Sigmar, turning to look at distraught parents as they led away the horses that bore their dead sons. “For all its glory, war is a grim business.”
“Then you have learned a valuable lesson, son,” said Bjorn. “A victory is a day of joy and sadness in equal measure. Cherish the first and learn to deal with the second or you will never be a leader of men.”
Bjorn turned to Sigmar’s sword-brothers and said, “Wolfgart, Pendrag, it fills my heart with joy to see you both returned to us.”
Wolfgart and Pendrag beamed at the king’s praise as three wagons bearing barrels of beer rumbled along the road from the brew house stores. Alaric the dwarf rode in the lead wagon, and a mighty roar went up from the warriors as they recognised the angular, runic script on the side of the barrels.
“Dwarf ale?” asked Wolfgart.
“Nothing but the best for our returning heroes,” smiled Bjorn. “I had been keeping it for my son’s wedding feast, but he seems determined to keep me waiting. Better to use it before it goes flat.”
“I heard that,” called Alaric. “Dwarf ale never goes flat.”
“Figure of speech,” said Bjorn. “I meant no offence, Master Alaric.”
“Just as well,” grunted the dwarf. “I can head back to my people any time, you know.”
“Stop being such a dour misery guts,” laughed Pendrag, taking the dwarf’s hand in a firm grip of friendship, “and get pouring!”
Wolfgart nodded to Sigmar, and the king quickly made his way to Pendrag and the beer barrels.
“Not joining them?” asked Bjorn.
“I will,” said Sigmar, “but I should wait with Trinovantes until his kin come for him.”
“Aye,” agreed Bjorn, with a knowing grin. “Right enough, but until they do, tell me of your adventures and leave no detail untold.”
Sigmar smiled and said, “There’s not much to tell, really. We tracked the greenskins south and west, and then routed them before the walls of Astofen.”
“How many?” asked Alfgeir, with his customary lack of embellishment.
“Around two thousand,” said Sigmar.
“Two thousand?” gasped Bjorn, exchanging a proud glance with Alfgeir. “Not much to tell, he says! And Bonecrusher?”
“Dead by my hand,” said Sigmar. “Ghal-maraz drank deep of his blood.”
> “Thousands,” said Eoforth. “I had not dreamt such numbers of greenskins could be gathered under one warlord. And you killed them all?”
“That we did,” said Sigmar. “Their corpses are ash in the mountains.”
“Ulric’s blood,” said Bjorn. “Then I hope Eadhelm gave you a hero’s welcome in his little town, I’ll have words with him if he didn’t.”
“He did,” said Sigmar. “Your cousin sends greetings to his king, and swears to send what warriors he can spare should we ever need them.”
Bjorn nodded. “He’s a good man is Eadhelm. Takes after old Redmane.”
Sigmar saw a warning look enter his father’s eyes, and turned to see a girl with midnight dark hair walk stiffly through the gates of Reikdorf. His mouth suddenly felt dry as he recognised Ravenna, her long green dress and proud beauty sending his stomach into a loop of unfamiliar feelings.
Her face was lined with sadness, and Sigmar felt as though his heart would break at the sight of it. Her younger brother, Trinovantes’ twin, followed her, tears of grief spilling down his pale skin.
She walked towards her brother’s banner shrouded body, and nodded to Sigmar and his father, before kneeling beside her dead sibling and placing her hand upon his chest. Gerreon slumped beside her, wailing and shaking his head as great sobs wracked his thin frame.
“Be silent, boy,” said Bjorn. “It is women’s work to weep for a fallen warrior.”
Gerreon looked up, and his eyes locked with Sigmar’s.
“You killed him,” wept Gerreon. “You killed my brother!”
The fires of the king’s longhouse burned low, the peat and timbers smouldering, and the soporific heat had sent many a warrior to his bed. The revelries of victory had gone on long into the night, with offerings of choice meats and beer made to Ulric and Morr; the first to be thanked for the courage the warriors had shown in battle, and the second to guide them to their rest.
The longhouse was quiet, the sounds of perhaps a hundred warriors as they slept wrapped in animal skins and the creak of settling wood all that disturbed the silence. Those warriors with families had returned to their homes, while those without wives, or too young to know their limit of beer, lay passed out, face down on the long trestle tables.
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