01 - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  “I like Marbad,” said Sigmar, turning to his father.

  “Aye, he is an easy man to like,” agreed Bjorn. “Back in the day, he was a mighty warrior. In his prime he would have attacked the Jutones and driven them away. Perhaps it might have been better for the Endals had rulership passed to one of his sons, to someone with more thirst for battle.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Sigmar, walking back into the settlement with his father as the people of Reikdorf returned to their labours.

  Bjorn put his hand on Sigmar’s shoulder and said, “In a wolf pack, the leader is always the strongest, yes?”

  “Yes,” agreed Sigmar.

  “While it is strong and can fight off challenges from the younger wolves, it remains the leader,” said Bjorn. “All the while, the other wolves know that one day the leader will get old, and they will tear out his throat. Sometimes the leader senses when it is his time, leaving the pack and heading into the wilds to die alone with dignity. It is a terrible thing when age makes us weak and we become vulnerable or a burden. Better to leave while there’s still some strength left to you than die uselessly with no legacy to call your own. Do you understand me?”

  “I do,” said Sigmar.

  “It is a hard thing to do,” said Bjorn. “A man will cleave to power as he will a beautiful woman, but sometimes it must be set aside when the time is right. Everything has its time in the sun, but a thing that goes on beyond its allotted span is a terrible thing, my son. It weakens everything around it and tarnishes the memory of what glory it once had.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Ravenna as Sigmar led her through the trees towards the sound of rushing water Sigmar smiled at the nervous excitement he heard in her voice. She was scared being blindfolded this far from Reikdorf, but pleased to be here with him on this perfect spring morning.

  “Just a little further,” he said. “Just down this slope. Careful, watch your step.”

  The day was bright, the sun not yet at its zenith, and the forest was filled with birdsong. A soft wind drifted through the trees, and the gurgling of the water over rocks was soothing.

  Spring had restored Ravenna’s spirits, and the energising optimism that filled Reikdorf in the months following the snows had helped lift her from melancholy. Once again, she smiled, and it had been like a ray of sunshine in his heart to hear her laughing with the other young girls of the tribe as they came in from the fields.

  Since the night he had told her of his grand dream, Sigmar had thought of little else other than Ravenna: her night-dark hair and the sway of her hips as she walked. As much as he had vision for greater things for his people, he was still a man, and Ravenna fired his blood.

  They had seen each other as often as time had allowed, but never enough for either of them, and only now, as the touch of summer began to warm the ground, had they found time to escape for an afternoon together.

  They had ridden along hunters’ paths deep into the woodland, through open clearings and along rutted tracks identified with marker stones. Eventually, Sigmar had led them from the path and into the forest, where they had dismounted and tethered the horses to the low branches of a sapling. Sigmar had taken a hide pack and cloth-wrapped bundle from his horse’s panniers and slung them over his shoulder before taking her hand and leading her onwards.

  “Come on, Sigmar,” said Ravenna. “Where are we?”

  “In the forest to the west of Reikdorf, about five miles’ out,” he said, taking her hand and guiding her down the worn path that led to the river. With her eyes covered, he was free to look at her openly, taking in the curve of her jaw and the smoothness of her skin, so pale against the ochre yellow of her dress.

  Her hands were tough, the fingers callused, but the warmth in them sent a flush of excitement through him.

  “Five miles?” she laughed, taking tentative steps. “So far!”

  Though they were well within the borders of Unberogen land, it was still not entirely safe to travel so far into the forests alone, but he did not want any worries for their safety to intrude on this day.

  “This?” he said. “This is nothing, soon I will take you to see the open lands far to the south, and north to the ocean. Then you will have travelled far.”

  “You haven’t even seen those places yet,” she pointed out.

  “True,” said Sigmar, “but I will.”

  “Oh yes,” she replied, “when you’re building your empire.”

  “Exactly,” said Sigmar. “Right… we are here.”

  “I can feel the sun on my face,” said Ravenna. “Are we in a clearing?”

  “Watch your eyes,” he said. “I am going to take off your blindfold.”

  Sigmar moved around behind her, and undid the loose knot with which he had secured the strip of cloth across her eyes. She blinked as she adjusted to the light, but within moments her face lit up at the beauty of the sight before her.

  They stood on a grassy bank at the edge of a river, its waters crystal and foaming white as it gambolled over a series of smooth boulders buried in the shallows of the riverbed. Sunlight glittered on the fractured water and silver-skinned fish darted beneath the surface.

  “It’s wonderful,” said Ravenna, taking his hand and heading to the riverbank.

  Sigmar smiled as he revelled in her enjoyment, dropping the hide sack and cloth bundle to the grass, and happily allowed her to drag him behind her. Standing at the river’s edge, Ravenna took a deep breath, her eyes closed as she took in the unspoiled scents of the deep forest.

  Jasmine was heavy on the air, but Sigmar had no sense of the beauty around him, save that of the young woman beside him.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said. “How did you know of this place?”

  “This is the River Skein,” said Sigmar, “where we met Blacktusk.”

  “The great boar?” asked Ravenna.

  Sigmar nodded, gesturing to a point on the opposite bank of the river near one of the rounded boulders. “Yes, the great boar himself. He came out of the woods just there, and I remember Wolfgart nearly dropped dead of fright when he saw him.”

  “Wolfgart, afraid?” laughed Ravenna, glancing nervously across the river. “Now that I would have liked to have seen. Is the boar still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sigmar. “I hope so.”

  “You hope so? I heard Blacktusk was a monster that killed an entire hunting party.”

  “That’s true enough,” admitted Sigmar, “but he was a noble creature, and I think we sensed something in each other that we recognised.”

  “What did you recognise in a boar?” laughed Ravenna, kicking her boots off and sitting on the riverbank. “I’m not trying to flatter you, but I do not think you look much like a boar.”

  Ravenna dangled her feet in the cool waters and tilted her head towards the sun.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean that, though you should see me with a hangover.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  Sigmar sat next to her and undid the thongs holding his boots in place. The water was cold, and he felt his skin tingle pleasantly as he immersed his feet in the fast flowing river.

  “I meant that we were both one of a kind.”

  She laughed, and gave him a playful shove before seeing that he was serious.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to laugh.”

  “I know, it sounds arrogant, but it is what I felt,” said Sigmar. “Blacktusk was enormous, the biggest animal I have ever seen, legs like tree trunks and a chest wider than the biggest horse in the king’s stables. He was unique.”

  “You are right,” said Ravenna. “That does sound arrogant.”

  “Is it? I don’t think so, for I am the only one who seems to have a vision of anything better for us than what we have at the moment. The kings of the tribes are content with their lot, squabbling amongst themselves, and fighting the orcs and beasts as they are attacked.”

  “But not you?”

&nb
sp; “No, not me,” agreed Sigmar, “but I did not bring you here to talk of war and death.”

  “Oh?” said Ravenna, flicking a spray of water towards him. “So what did you bring me here for?”

  Sigmar pushed himself to his feet and retrieved the items he had brought from his horse’s panniers. He laid the hide pack beside him and handed Ravenna the cloth-wrapped bundle.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Open it and find out.”

  Ravenna eagerly unfolded the cloth protecting the bundle’s contents, turning it over as she uncovered what lay within. The last covering fell away, and she gasped as she saw a folded emerald cloak embroidered with curling spirals of gold. Silver thread intertwined with the gold, and the collar of the cloak was edged in soft ermine.

  Sitting on the folded garment was a tapering golden cloak pin adorned with an azure stone at its thickest end. Set in the centre of a circle of glittering gold worked into the shape of a snake devouring its own tail. The workmanship was exquisite. Small bands along the length of the snake’s body were engraved with the symbol of a twin-tailed comet.

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” said Ravenna. “It’s wonderful.”

  “Eoforth told me that the snake eating its own tail is a symbol for rebirth and renewal,” said Sigmar as Ravenna turned the pin over in her hands, staring in open-mouthed admiration at the incredible piece of jewellery. “The start of new things… and the coming together of two into one.”

  “Two into one,” smiled Ravenna.

  “So he tells me,” said Sigmar. “I had Master Alaric fashion the pin for me, but I think he only agreed so he wouldn’t have to make any more mail shirts.”

  Ravenna traced her fingers around the gold circle. “I have never owned anything so beautiful,” she said, and Sigmar heard a tremor in her voice. “And this cloak…”

  “It was my mother’s,” said Sigmar. “My father said she wore it when they were wed.”

  Ravenna placed the pin back on the cloak, and said, “These are exceptional gifts, Sigmar. Thank you so much.”

  Sigmar blushed, happy they had pleased her. “I am glad you like them.”

  “I love them,” said Ravenna. She nodded to the hide pack beside him. “And what is in there? More presents?”

  He smiled. “Not quite,” he said, reaching over and opening the hide pack to lift out some muslin-wrapped cheese and a number of slices of bread. A wax sealed clay jug came next, followed by two pewter goblets.

  “Food,” she said. “You thought of everything.”

  Sigmar broke the seal on the jug, and poured a crisp liquid the colour of pale apple juice. He handed her a goblet. “Wine from the slopes of the Reik estuary,” he said, “courtesy of King Marbad.”

  They drank together, and Sigmar enjoyed the refreshing bite of the wine. A more refined taste than the beer he was used to, it was, nevertheless, enjoyably crisp.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “I do,” said Ravenna. “It’s sweet.”

  “Be careful, Marbad warned me it’s quite strong.”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Do I need to?”

  “That depends on what you’re trying to achieve.”

  Sigmar took another mouthful of wine, feeling as though he was already drunk, but knowing it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

  “I know of no clever way to say this,” said Sigmar, “so I am just going to say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “I love you, Ravenna,” he said simply. “I always have, but I am not skilled with words and have not known how to say it until now.”

  Ravenna’s eyes widened at his declaration, and he feared he had made a terrible error, until she reached out with her free hand and ran her fingers down his cheek.

  “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” she said.

  “You are in my thoughts every day,” said Sigmar, his words coming out in a gabbled rush. “Every time I see you, I want to sweep you up in my arms and hold you.”

  She smiled and halted his ramblings by leaning forward to kiss him, her lips tasting of the wine and a thousand other flavours he would remember for the rest of his life. Sigmar kissed her back, sliding his arms around her and lowering her towards the grass.

  Ravenna’s arms slipped naturally around his shoulders, and they kissed for many minutes until their hands found each other’s belts and buttons. Their clothes slipped from their bodies with ease, and though Sigmar knew it was foolish to be so exposed this far into the forest, all thoughts of caution were banished by the sight of her naked flesh beneath him.

  Her skin was pale and smooth, and her flesh lean and hard from days spent working the fields, yet soft and supple and flushed with excitement.

  Sigmar had bedded his share of village girls, but as his hands explored her body, he felt as though this beauty before him erased the memory of them. His every touch was experimental, tentative and deliciously new. Likewise, her hands touched the hard, corded muscles of his chest and arms with unabashed pleasure.

  They kissed fiercely as they made love, their every movement gaining in confidence. Sigmar wished that the moment would never end. The chill feel of the wind on his back, the rushing of the river and Ravenna’s rapid breath rang like thunder in his ears.

  At last they were spent, and lay wrapped together on the banks of the river, all thoughts of the world beyond this moment forgotten.

  Sigmar rolled onto his elbow and ran his fingertips along the length of her body.

  “When I am king, I will marry you,” he said.

  Ravenna smiled, and his heart was snared.

  The cave was dark and filled with echoes of the past: grand deeds, villainous betrayal and horrifying carnage. Some had been plotted and some had been prevented, but as with all things, they had their origins with men and their desires.

  The hag woman sat in the centre of the cave, a cauldron of black iron hissing on a low fire in front of her. Evil-smelling smoke rose from the skin of murky liquid at the base of the pot, and she sprinkled a handful of rotten herbs and mildew into the hot metal.

  Hissing smoke rose from the mixture, and she took a deep draught into her lungs as she felt the power that blew from the northern realms fill her body. Men knew little of this energy, fearing its power to transform and twist creatures into vile monsters. In their ignorance, they called it sorcery or simply evil, but the hag woman knew that this power was simply an elemental force that could be shaped by the will of one strong enough.

  As a child, she had been cursed with visions of things that later came to pass, and could perform miraculous feats without effort. Fires could dance on her fingertips, and the shadows would obey her commands, carrying her wherever she desired.

  For this she had been feared, and her parents had pleaded with her to stop, to keep her abilities to herself. They had loved her, but they had dreaded her coming of age, and she could hear them as they wept and cursed the gods that had delivered them such an afflicted child.

  She was young, however, and the temptation to make use of her ability was too great. She had entertained the other children of the village with dazzling displays of light and fire, sending them squealing home with tales of her wondrous powers.

  She had told her father of this, and her heart had broken as she saw the anguish etched into his face. Without a word spoken, he had taken up his axe and led her from their small home and into the dusk-lit forest.

  They had walked for hours until she had fallen asleep, and he had carried her against his chest. If she tried, she could still recall the smell of his leather jerkin and the peaty aroma of the marshes as he splashed through the shallow bogs of the Brackenwalsch.

  With the green moon high overhead, he had set her down amid the reeds and black water, the drone of insects and distant splashes of marsh toads loud in the darkness. His axe had come up, moonlight glinting on the sharpened blade, and she had cried as he had cried also.

  T
he hag woman felt her anger grow and viciously suppressed it. Anger would cause the north wind to surge with fierce power and send her into a dark spiral of hate. To soar on the currents of power, the mind needed to be clear. Anger would only cloud her thoughts.

  Her father had held the axe aloft, his arms shaking at the terrible thing he was about to do, but before it descended to end her life, a strong voice rang out, carried across the bleak fens with fierce authority.

  “Leave the child,” said the voice. “She belongs to me now.”

  Her father had backed away, dropping his axe to the waters with a heavy splash.

  She cried for him, but he had vanished into the darkness, and she never saw him again.

  She had turned to see a withered old crone in ragged black robes making her surefooted way through the marsh towards her. Her fear was instantly multiplied as she sensed a dreadful familiarity and awful inevitability steal over her, but her feet were rooted to the spot, and she could not move.

  “You have the gift, child,” said the crone as she stood before her.

  She had shaken her head, but the crone had laughed bitterly. “You cannot lie, girl. I see it in you as my predecessor saw it in me. Now come with me, there is much to teach you, and already the dark powers are conspiring to see me ended.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she had said. “I want to go home. I want my papa.”

  “Your papa was going to kill you,” said the crone. “There is nothing for you to go back to. If you return, the priests of the wolf god will burn you as a practitioner of the dark arts. You will die in pain. Is that what you want?”

  “No!”

  “No,” agreed the crone. “Now give me your hand and I will teach you how to use that power of yours.”

  She had wept, and the crone’s hand, fast as a blade, snapped out and slapped her hard across her cheek.

  “Do not cry, child,” snapped the crone. “Save your tears for the dead. If you are to use your power and live, you will need to be stronger than this.”

  The crone offered her hand. “Now come. There is much to teach you and little time to learn it.”