As was customary on a night when fighting men returned home, the king and his heir watched over their warriors to honour their courage. Sigmar sat on a throne next to his father, a throne that had been carved by his father’s hand in readiness for his coming of age, when he would sit beside the king as a man. A long wolfskin cloak hung from Sigmar’s shoulders, and Ghal-maraz rested on a plinth, created specially for the dwarf-crafted weapon.
A small herd had been slaughtered for the feast, and when the dwarf ale had run out, the brewmaster’s reserve had been brought out. Oaths of brotherhood had been renewed by veteran warriors, and new ones sworn by those who had earned their shields on the bloody field of Astofen.
Sigmar had celebrated along with his warriors, but could not rid himself of the image of Ravenna’s strained face and Gerreon’s weeping as they knelt by the body of Trinovantes. He knew the battle of Astofen had been an incredible victory, but it was soured for him by the death of his friend.
Part of him knew that such thoughts were selfish, for did the deaths of those warriors he had not been sword-brother to not matter? Trinovantes had been a good and a trusted friend, quiet and thoughtful in his counsel, but never less than honest and true. Where Wolfgart would advise violence and Pendrag diplomacy, Trinovantes’ counsel often combined the best of both arguments. Not compromise, but balance. He would be sorely missed.
“You are thinking of Trinovantes again?” asked his father.
“Is it that obvious?” asked Sigmar.
“He was your sword-brother,” said Bjorn. “It is right you should miss him. I remember when Torphin died in the Reik Marshes, that was a sad day, so it was.”
“I think I remember him. The big man?” asked Sigmar. “You haven’t talked of him much.”
“Ach… you were only a boy and his death wasn’t a tale for young ears,” said Bjorn, waving a hand. “Yes, Torphin was a giant of a man, bigger even than me, if you can believe that. Carved from oak he was, and strong as stone. He was the best sword-brother a man could ask for.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died, as all men must,” said Bjorn.
“How?” asked Sigmar, seeing that his father was reluctant to be drawn on the matter, but sensing that perhaps he wanted to be coaxed into telling him the tale of his sword-brother’s death.
“It was four or five summers ago,” began Bjorn, “when we marched to war alongside King Marbad of the Endals. You remember?”
Sigmar tried to recall the encounter, but his father had left Reikdorf to fight so many battles that it was hard to remember them all.
“No?” said Bjorn. “Well, Marbad’s a good man and his people were scratching a living on the edges of the marshes at the mouth of the river. They’d settled there after King Marius of the Jutones drove them from their homeland after the Teutogens had taken their lands. I suppose it’s possible to live there, but why anyone would want to, I don’t know. The marshes are dangerous places, full of sucking bogs, corpse lights and daemons that drink the blood of men.”
Sigmar shivered, despite the heat of the longhouse, remembering terrifying tales of dead-eyed things of pale skin and needle teeth that lurked in the haunted mists to feast on the unwary.
“Anyway,” continued his father, “Marbad and I go back a long way. We fought the orcs of the Bloodmaw tribe that came over the Grey Mountains twenty years ago, and he saved my life, so I owed him a blood debt. When the mist daemons of the marshes rose up to threaten his people, he called in that debt, and I marched out to fight alongside him.”
“You marched all the way to the coast?”
“Indeed we did, lad, for when an oath is sworn you must never break it, ever. Oaths of loyalty and friendship are all we have in this world, and the man who breaks a promise or whose word isn’t worth anything has no place in it. Always remember that.”
“I will,” promised Sigmar. “What happened when you got to the coast?”
“Marbad and his army were waiting for us at Marburg, and we walked into the marshes as though it was some grand adventure, all us warriors out for glory and honour.”
Sigmar saw his father’s eyes take on a glassy, distant sheen as though the mists he spoke of had risen up in his memories, and he once more walked that long ago trodden path.
“Father?” asked Sigmar, when Bjorn did not continue.
“What? Oh, yes… Well, we set off into the marshes, and the mist daemons rose up around us like ghosts. They took men down into the bogs, drowned them, and sent them back to fight us, all bloated and white. I saw Torphin snatched by one of them, I’ll never forget it. It was white, so white, so very white. Like a winter’s sky it was, with eyes of cold blue. Like the fires in the northern skies at winter. It looked at me, and I swear it laughed at me as it took my sword brother to his death.”
“How did you defeat them?”
“Defeat them?” asked Bjorn. “I’m not sure we did, you know. It was all we could do to get out of the marshes alive. Marbad possessed a weapon crafted by the fey folk, a blade of power he called Ulfshard. I don’t know what manner of power was bound to it, but it could slay daemons, and he wielded it like a true hero, cutting us a path through the mists, and slaying any daemon that came near us. That wasn’t the worst of it, though.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No, not by a long way. Just as we got to the edge of the marsh, I heard someone calling my name, and I remember the joy I felt when I recognised it as Torphin’s voice. Then, there he was, walking out of the mist towards me, eyes rolled back in their sockets, skin all waxy and dead, and black water spilling from his mouth as if his lungs were full of it.”
Sigmar’s eyes widened, and he felt his skin crawl at the terrible image of his father’s sword-brother and the horror of what had been done to him.
“What did you do?”
“What could I do?” asked Bjorn. “Marbad offered me Ulfshard, and I cut Torphin down and sent him to Ulric’s Halls. Being drowned is no death for a warrior, so I killed him with a sword, and if there’s even a shred of justice in the wolf god, he’ll let Torphin in, because there was no truer man than he that walked this land.”
Sigmar knew that his father would have had no choice but to kill his sword-brother to allow him to enter Ulric’s Halls. The idea that he might one day have to fight one of his own sword-brothers was anathema to him, and he decided there and then that he would gather those closest to him and make an oath of eternal brotherhood with them.
“We left the marshes, I returned Ulfshard to Marbad, and we became sword-brothers. That’s why when we or the Endals call for aid, the other is oath-bound to answer. In the same way, the Cherusens and the Taleutens are our sworn allies after the battles against the monstrous beast-kin of the forests. It’s all about oaths, Sigmar. Honour those you make, and others will follow your example.”
Sigmar nodded in understanding.
Ravenna closed the button of her brother’s tunic and pulled the lacing tight, before smoothing the soft wool over his chest. Dressed in his finest clothes, Trinovantes lay on the cot bed he had risen from only a few days ago to ride to war. Since their mother and father were dead, it fell to her to wash his body and clean his hair in preparation for his interment in his tomb, upon the rise of the new moon the following night.
She ran a hand along the side of his cold cheek and through his fine, dark hair, so like her own and Gerreon’s. His features had softened, but the lines of care and worry that had forever creased his handsome face remained imprinted upon him.
“Even in death, you still look sad,” she said.
His axe lay on the bed next to him, its edges sharp, and the blades gleaming in the firelight. She reached out to touch it, but pulled her fingers back at the last moment. It was a weapon of war, and she wanted nothing more to do with it. War was a fool’s errand, a game to the warriors of Reikdorf, but a game that could have only one outcome.
Gerreon sat opposite her at their table, his head buried in a curled
arm as he wept for his lost twin. On her deathbed, Ravenna’s mother had confided to her that when Trinovantes and Gerreon were born, the hag woman who had birthed them said they would forever have a connection to one another, but that only one would grow to know the greatest pleasure and the greatest pain.
She had never spoken of this to Gerreon, but wondered if the death of his twin brother was the greatest pain of which the hag woman had spoken. What then might be his greatest pleasure?
Ravenna longed to take her brother in her arms and rock him to sleep as she had done many times when they had been growing up and the older boys had teased him for his thin frame and beautiful face. That, however, was the impulse of an older sister, and he was beyond such simple remedies.
She rose from her kneeling position beside the bed, and crossed their low dwelling. Smoke from the fire gathered beneath the roof since there was no vent, for the hot smoke kept the roof warm and dry. The smell of boiling meat from the king’s herd rose from a bubbling pot hung on iron hooks above the fireplace, although she suspected that the meat would go to waste, for neither of them had much of an appetite.
Ravenna reached out, and placed her palm on her brother’s head as she sat next to him. Ignoring her earlier thought, she slid her arms around him and drew him close to her. His arm slipped naturally around her waist, and she gently rocked him back and forth.
“Hush now,” she said. “We’ll have no more tears in this house, Gerreon. You’ll attract evil spirits, and your brother does not want to go to Ulric’s Halls with your sorrow as the last thing he hears.”
“I can’t help it,” said Gerreon, lifting his head from her shoulders. Tears and snot mingled on his upper lip and chin, and his eyes were bloodshot from crying.
He wiped his free arm across his face. “My brother is dead.”
“I know,” said Ravenna. “Trinovantes was my brother too, Gerreon.”
“But he was my twin, you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone who’s like a part of you. I could feel the same things he did as though they happened to me.”
“Trinovantes was a warrior,” said Ravenna. “He chose that life, and he knew the risks.”
“No,” said Gerreon, “I don’t think he did. I’ve asked around.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Sigmar caused his death,” snapped Gerreon. “I spoke to the warriors who came back, and they told me that Sigmar sent Trinovantes to hold Astofen Bridge. He ordered him not to retreat, no matter what. What kind of a choice is that?”
Ravenna slipped her arm from around her brother, taking him by the shoulders, and turning him to face her. She too had desired to know how her brother had died, but she had asked Pendrag and knew the truth of the matter.
“No, Gerreon,” said Ravenna, “Trinovantes volunteered to hold the bridge. I asked Pendrag and he told me what happened.”
“Pendrag? Well, of course he’s going to back up his sword-brother, isn’t he? They’ve sworn an oath or something. He’d say anything to protect Sigmar.”
Ravenna shook her head. “Pendrag may be many things, but he is not a liar, and I believe him. A greenskin killed Trinovantes, and Sigmar slew the beast.”
Gerreon pulled away from his sister. “How can you defend him at a time like this? Is it because you can’t wait to spread your legs for him? Is that it?”
Ravenna slapped him hard, her palm leaving a vivid imprint on his cheek.
“So it’s true,” he said, and she drew back her arm to slap him again.
His hand snapped out, and caught her wrist in an iron grip.
“Don’t,” he said.
Ravenna pulled her arm free as Gerreon stood, his hand balled into a fist, and the veins in his neck stark against his pale skin.
Ravenna scrambled back, frightened of her brother’s sudden fury.
“I’m sorry I said that, sister,” said Gerreon, “but you won’t change my mind. Sigmar killed our brother as surely as if he’d driven that spear through his heart!”
—
Sword Brothers
A cold wind blew over the grassy slopes of the Warrior’s Hill, and Ravenna pulled her green cloak tighter around her body as she watched the snaking column of warriors make their way from Reikdorf. Sigmar led the procession, dressed in his gleaming bronze armour and iron helm. The king walked beside him, with Pendrag and Alfgeir following behind them, one carrying Sigmar’s banner, the other carrying the king’s.
Armoured warriors carried her brother on a bier of shields, his green banner draped across his recumbent form, and Ravenna felt a cold lump of grief settle in her throat at the sight of her brother’s body.
Gerreon stood to her left, stiff and tense as the procession approached. She spared him a glance, his handsome features set as though carved from stone. He wore his finest tunic of scarlet wool, and had left his arm unbound from its sling. His sword was belted at his waist, and his good hand rested on its pommel.
She reached out and took his hand from the weapon, slipping her hand into his. He frowned at the gesture, but relaxed as he saw the sorrow in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, sister,” he said. “I’m not going to do anything foolish.”
“I didn’t think you were,” she lied.
He squeezed her hand, and returned his gaze to the approaching men, who were already halfway up the hill. Ravenna watched as the warriors passed the tomb of Redmane Dregor, both Sigmar and his father bowing to their ancestor as they did so.
The king’s father had been long dead before Ravenna’s birth, but his stories had thrilled many of the settlement’s children over the years, and his heroic deeds were known the length and breadth of the Unberogen lands.
At last, her brother’s funeral procession climbed the winding path to the place set aside for Trinovantes, a barrow cut in the side of the hill, framed by tall pillars of weathered stone. As one of the guards of the King’s Hall, Trinovantes was entitled to such honour in his final resting place, on a stone shelf beside their father. A heavy boulder lay to one side, a muddy crease marking where it had been rolled aside in preparation for her brother’s interment.
King Bjorn halted before the opening of the barrow, and Sigmar gave her and her brother a solemn nod of acknowledgement. For long moments, no one moved, and the sigh of the wind around the hillside was the only sound, a mournful howling that captured the feelings of those present more eloquently than any could manage with words.
At length, King Bjorn stepped towards the barrow, and dropped to his knees with his head bowed beside the darkened entrance. His cloak of deep blue flapped in the wind, and the bronze crown upon his brow shone in the afternoon sun.
“A warrior is laid to rest in the land he fought to protect,” said the king. “His name was Trinovantes, and he died a hero’s death, his blade wet with the blood of his enemies and all his wounds to the fore. Know him, mighty Ulric, and grant him a fitting welcome.”
The king drew a bronze knife and slashed the blade across his palm. He made a fist, allowing droplets of blood to splash the ground before the black opening of the tomb.
“I offer you the blood of kings,” said Bjorn, “and the honour of his sword-brothers.”
Sigmar led the warriors who bore Trinovantes past the king, and ducked down as he led them into the musty darkness. Ravenna felt Gerreon’s hand tighten on hers, but she did not take her eyes from the sight of her brother’s body as it was carried within.
She felt tears welling as she heard the scrape of metal and hushed words from the tomb. At last, the armoured warriors emerged into the light, taking up positions behind the king with their shields carried proudly before them. Eventually, Sigmar emerged from her brother’s tomb, Trinovantes’ shield carried before him like a platter. The leather stretched across the wood was split, and several of the brass studs around its rim were missing.
Sigmar walked slowly towards her and Gerreon, his face a mask of anguish, and her heart went out to him, even as she grie
ved for her own loss. She felt Gerreon tense beside her as Sigmar lifted the shield and offered it to her brother.
“Triovantes was the bravest man I knew,” said Sigmar. “This is his shield, and it passes to you, Gerreon. May you bear it proudly and earn honour with it as your brother did.”
“Honour?” spat Gerreon. “Sent to his death by a friend? Where is the honour in that?”
Sigmar showed no outward sign of anger, but Ravenna could see the smouldering, grief-born rage behind his eyes. The king’s son continued to hold the shield out, and Ravenna released her brother’s hand that he might take it.
“He was my friend, Gerreon,” said Sigmar. “I mourn his death as you do. Yes, I gave him the order that led to his death, but such is the way with war. Good men die, and we honour their sacrifice by living on and cherishing their memory.”
Ravenna willed Gerreon to take Trinovantes’ shield, but her brother seemed determined to savour the angry confrontation, and steadfastly refused to receive the shield from Sigmar.
Both men’s eyes were locked together, and she wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she reached up, took hold of her brother’s shield, and bowed her head to Sigmar as she slid it onto her arm and bore it before her.
Sigmar looked down in surprise as she hefted Trinovantes’ shield, but she could see his anger diminish and the light of understanding in his eyes.
“Thank you,” said Ravenna, her voice strong and proud despite her grief. “I know you loved our brother dearly, and he loved you in return.”
Sigmar said, “He was my sword-brother and he will not be forgotten.”
“No,” agreed Ravenna, “he won’t be.”
Gerreon stood unmoving, but with the shield accepted, Sigmar turned away, and returned to stand beside Pendrag, and the crimson banner that snapped and rippled in the wind.
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