The top of Warrior’s Hill was exposed, and the wind whipped around it with cruel fingers that lifted cloaks and tunics to allow autumn’s chill entry to the body. Sigmar made no attempt to pull his wolfskin cloak tighter as though daring the season to try its best to discomfit him. The cold was his constant companion now, and he welcomed it into his heart like an old friend.
No sooner had Sigmar opened his eyes and awoken to pain than the memory of the bloodshed by the river had returned, and he had screamed with an agony born not from his near death, but from his loss.
He remembered telling the wounded boy of the Field of Swords that pain was the warrior’s constant companion, but he now realised that it was not pain, but despair that dogged a warrior’s every moment: despair at the futility of war, at the hopelessness of joy and the foolishness of dreams.
Six armoured warriors accompanied him, his protectors since Gerreon’s attack nearly five weeks ago. Fear of assassination had made old women of his sword-brothers, but Sigmar did not blame them, for who could have foreseen that Gerreon would turn on him with such savagery?
He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees, tears spilling down his face as he thought of Ravenna. His grief at seeing the paleness of her flesh, stark against the darkness of her hair was as fresh now as it had been the moment he had seen her lying lifeless upon the pallet bed.
Gone was the vivacious, intelligent girl who had shone sunlight into his heart, and in her place was a gaping, empty wound that would never heal. His hands balled into fists, and he fought to control the anger building within him, for with no one to strike at, Sigmar’s rage had turned inwards.
He should have seen the darkness in Gerreon’s heart. He should have trusted his friend’s suspicions that Gerreon’s contrition was false. There must have been some sign he had missed that would have alerted him to the treachery that was to rob him of his love.
With every passing day, Sigmar drew further into himself, shutting out Wolfgart and Pendrag as they tried to rouse him from his melancholy. Strong wine became his refuge, a means of blotting out the pain and visions that plagued him nightly of Gerreon’s sword plunging into Ravenna’s body.
Nor was Ravenna’s death the only pain he carried in his heart, for he knew that his father, too, was dead. No word had come from the north, but Sigmar knew with utter certainty that the king of the Unberogen had fallen. The people of Reikdorf eagerly awaited the return of their king, but Sigmar knew that they were soon to experience the same sense of loss that daily tore at him.
A secret part of him relished the thought of others suffering as he did, but the nobility of his soul knew that such thoughts were unworthy of him, and he fought against such base pettiness. He had not spoken of the Grey Vaults and his father’s fate to anyone, for it would be unseemly for a son to speak of a king’s death before it was confirmed, and he did not want his rule of the Unberogen to begin on a sign of ill omen.
Reikdorf would learn soon enough the meaning of loss.
In the weeks since his awakening, he had learned that his body had lain cold and unmoving, not living, but not truly dead, for six days. His life had hung by the slenderest of threads, with the healer, Cradoc, at a loss to explain why he did not awaken or slip into death.
Wolfgart, Pendrag and even the venerable Eoforth had sat with him for all the time he had lain at the threshold of Morr’s kingdom, and he knew he was lucky to have such steadfast sword-brothers, which made his forced estrangement all the harder to rationalise.
Grief, as Sigmar had learned over the years, was a far from rational process.
He had tried to reject what his eyes had seen on the riverbank and looked for retribution, but even that was denied him, for neither Cuthwin nor Svein could find any trace of Gerreon’s passing. The traitor’s meagre belongings were gone, and he had vanished into the wilderness like a shadow.
With Sigmar’s awakening, Wolfgart had readied his horse to ride into the forest and hunt the traitor down, but Sigmar had forbidden him to go, knowing that Gerreon had too great a head start and was too clever to be caught.
Gerreon’s name was now a curse, and he would find no succour in the lands of men. He was gone, and would likely die alone in the forest, a nithing and an outcast.
Sigmar shook his head free of such thoughts, and scooped a handful of earth from the summit of the hill, letting the rich, dark soil spill from between his fingers as he felt something turn to stone within him.
He looked over his domain, the ever-growing city of Reikdorf, his people, the mighty river and the lands spread out in a grand tapestry as far as the eye could see.
The last of the earth fell from Sigmar’s fingers, and he reached up to his shoulder and brushed his hands across the golden pin he had given Ravenna by the river, and which now secured his own cloak.
“From now on I shall love no other,” he said. “This land shall be my one abiding love.”
The breath heaved in Sigmar’s lungs as he made the last circuit of the Field of Swords, each step sending bolts of fire along his tired limbs. He could feel the fire build in his muscles, but pushed on, knowing that he had to build his strength up before the Unberogen army returned to Reikdorf with the body of the king.
The guilt of keeping this from his people still gnawed at him, but the alternative was no better, and thus he kept the bitter truth locked deep within his heart.
Once, this run would have barely taxed him, but now it took all his willpower to keep putting one foot in front of another. His strength and endurance was returning, though at a rate that still frustrated him, even though it amazed old Cradoc.
Every day, Sigmar fought to regain his former vigour. He sparred with sword and dagger to restore his speed, lifted weighted bars of iron that Master Alaric had forged for him to develop his strength, and ran a dozen circuits of the Field of Swords to build his stamina.
It had been Pendrag’s idea that Sigmar train within sight of the younger warriors, claiming they would see him grow stronger and take hope from the sight.
Privately, Sigmar knew that Pendrag’s suggestion was as much to do with giving him the edge he needed to succeed as give his warriors hope. Training alone, he had only himself to disappoint if he gave up, but failing in full view of his people would disappoint everyone, and that was not Sigmar’s way.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped a hand across his brow as he approached the end of the run. He jogged to a halt beside Wolfgart, who looked barely touched by the exertion, and bent over to rest his hands on his thighs. Pendrag looked similarly untroubled, and Sigmar fought down the bitterness that rose within him.
“You have to give your strength time to return,” said Pendrag, guessing his mood.
Sigmar looked up as his vision swam, and sank to his haunches, taking a series of deep breaths and stretching the muscles of his legs.
“I know,” he said, “but it is galling… to know… I am not as fit… as I should be.”
“Give it time,” said Pendrag, offering him his hand. “Six weeks ago you were on the edge of death. It is arrogant to think you will be your old self so soon.”
“Aye,” said Wolfgart. “You’re a tough one, my friend, but even you are not that tough.”
“Well, I should be,” snapped Sigmar, ignoring Pendrag’s hand and rising to his feet. “If I am to be king, then a poor king I will be if I cannot exert myself without wheezing like a toothless old man!”
He immediately regretted the words, but it was too late to take them back.
Wolfgart shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. “Ulric preserve us, but you are in a foul mood today,” he said.
“I think I have cause to be,” retorted Sigmar.
“I am not saying you don’t, but why you have to take it out on us is beyond me. Gerreon, may the gods curse him, is gone,” said Wolfgart, “and so is Ravenna.”
“I know she is gone,” said Sigmar, his tone hardening.
“Then listen to me, brother,” implored Wolfgart. “Ravenn
a is dead and I grieve for her, but you have to move on. Honour her memory, but move on. You will find another woman to be your queen.”
“I do not want another woman for my queen!” cried Sigmar. “It was always Ravenna.”
“Not any more,” said Wolfgart. “A king needs a queen, and even if her brother had not killed her, Ravenna could never have been your wife.”
“What are you talking about?”
Wolfgart ignored Pendrag’s warning look and pressed on. “The sister of a betrayer? The people would not have allowed it.”
“Wolfgart,” said Pendrag, seeing Sigmar’s face purple.
“Think about it and you will see I am right,” said Wolfgart. “Ravenna was a wonderful lass, but who would have accepted her as queen? People would have said your line was tainted with the blood of traitors, and don’t try telling me that isn’t bad luck.”
“You need to watch your tongue, Wolfgart,” said Sigmar, stepping close to his sword-brother, but Wolfgart was not backing down.
“You want to hit me, Sigmar? Go ahead, but you know I am right,” said Wolfgart.
Sigmar felt his grief and anger coalesce into one searing surge of violence, and his fist slammed into Wolfgart’s jaw, sending his friend sprawling to the ground. No sooner had the blow landed than the shame of it overwhelmed him.
“No!” cried Sigmar, his thoughts flying back to childhood when he had smashed Wolfgart’s elbow with a hammer in a moment of rage. He had vowed not to forget the lesson of control he had learned that day, but here he was standing with his fists raised above the fallen body of a comrade.
Sigmar’s hands unclenched from fists and the bitterness melted away.
He knelt by his friend. “Gods, Wolfgart, I am so sorry!”
Wolfgart gave him a sour look, rotating his lower jaw and pressing his hand against a flowering bruise.
“I do not mean to lash out at you. I just…” began Sigmar, trailing off as he found he had not the words to express the emotions simmering within him.
Wolfgart nodded and turned to Pendrag. “Looks like we’ve still got our work cut out for us, Pendrag. He punches like a woman.”
“It is just as well our sword-brother is not back to full strength or he would have taken your damn fool head off,” said Pendrag, helping them both to their feet.
“Aye, maybe,” agreed Wolfgart, “but then I knew that.”
Sigmar looked into the faces of his sword-brothers, and saw their fear for him and their acceptance of his grief-fuelled anger. Their forbearance humbled him.
“I am sorry, my friends,” he said. “These past few weeks have been the hardest I have lived through. I cannot tell you how hard, but knowing that you are always there gives me the greatest strength. I have treated you badly, and for that I apologise.”
“You have suffered,” said Pendrag, “but you do not need to apologise to us. We are your sword-brothers and we are here for you through happy times and evil ones.”
“Pendrag has the truth of it, Sigmar,” said Wolfgart. “Only true friends would stand for you being such a royal pain in the arse. Anyone else would have just walked away by now.”
Sigmar smiled at Wolfgart’s earthy truth. “That is exactly why I do need to apologise to you, my friends. You are my brothers and my closest friends, and it is beneath me to treat you the way I have. Since Ravenna’s death… I have become closed off, creating a fortress for my soul. I have let none enter and have attacked those that tried, but those trapped in a fortress with a barred gate will eventually starve, and no man should remain apart from his brothers.”
Sigmar felt new strength filling him as he spoke, and for the first time since his return from the Grey Vaults he smiled.
“Will you forgive me?” he asked.
Pendrag nodded. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“Welcome back, sword-brother,” said Wolfgart.
The following morning began with rain, and Sigmar drifted towards wakefulness in the king’s longhouse with the remains of a dream slipping from his mind. Its substance was already fading, but he clung to it like a gift from the gods.
He had been walking alongside the river where he had faced the boar Blacktusk, the grass soft underfoot and the wind redolent with the scents of summer. His father had been standing at the riverbank, tall and powerful, and clad in his finest suit of iron mail. The bronze crown of the Unberogen gleamed upon his brow, the fiery metal catching the sunlight so that it shone like a band of fire around his head.
Bjorn radiated power and confidence, and as he turned to face Sigmar, he lifted the crown from his head and offered it to Sigmar.
With trembling hands, he accepted the crown. As his fingers touched the metal, his father had vanished, and he felt the weight of the crown upon his brow.
Sigmar heard laughter and turned, smiling with joy as he saw Ravenna dancing on the grass with the wind catching her hair. She wore the emerald dress he liked and his mother’s cloak, which was secured by the golden pin Master Alaric had fashioned for him.
Though he could not remember the substance of their words, they had spoken for an age and then made love, as they had done the first time Sigmar had taken her there.
For the first time since Gerreon’s attack, he felt no sorrow, just love and an enormous feeling of thankfulness to have known such a beauty. Never would she grow old to him. Never would she become bitter or resentful as the years passed.
She would be forever young and forever loved.
Sigmar opened his eyes and felt more refreshed than he had in weeks, his eyes bright and clear, his limbs powerful and lean. He took a deep breath and ran through his morning stretches, pondering the meaning of the dream. To have dreamed of his father and Ravenna would normally have brought pain, but this had been different.
Priests taught that dreams were gifts from Morr, visions allowing those blessed with them to glimpse beyond the fragile veil of existence and see the realm of the gods. To have such a vision was seen as an omen of great significance and an auspicious time for new beginnings.
Was this dream a last gift from the gods before he was to embark upon the great work of forging the empire of man? If so, it could only mean one thing.
Sigmar finished his stretches and dunked his head in the water barrel in the corner of the longhouse, drying himself on a linen towel before pulling on his tunic and trews. He could hear the sound of shouting from beyond the walls of the longhouse, and knew what it must be.
He lifted his mail shirt and pulled it over his head, rotating his shoulders until the armour lay properly. Then he ran his hands through his hair, and tied it back in a short scalp lock with a leather thong.
More raised voices came from outside as Sigmar lifted his crimson banner from beside his throne in one hand and took up Ghal-maraz in the other. He marched towards the great oak doors of the longhouse, the king’s hounds padding after him, and Sigmar reflected that these beasts were now his.
He pushed open the door to see a solemn procession of warriors marching towards him through the rain, carrying a body on a bier of shields. Hundreds of people surrounded the shield bearers, and on the hills around Reikdorf, Sigmar saw the Unberogen army watching their king’s last journey home.
Alfgeir waited before the bier, his bronze armour dulled and dented. His head was downcast, but he looked up as the doors to the king’s longhouse opened.
The Marshal of the Reik’s eyes told Sigmar what he already knew.
Rain fell in misty sheets, dripping from Alfgeir’s armour and lank hair. The Marshal of the Reik dropped to one knee, and Sigmar had never seen a man look so wretched or ashamed.
“My lord,” said Alfgeir, drawing his sword and offering it to Sigmar, “your father is dead. He fell in battle against the northmen.”
“I know, Alfgeir,” said Sigmar.
“You know? How?”
“Much has changed since my father left to go to war,” said Sigmar. “I am no longer the boy you knew, and you are no longer the man yo
u were.”
“No,” agreed Alfgeir. “I failed in my duty, and the king is dead.”
“You did not fail,” said Sigmar, “and you should keep your sword, my friend. You will need it if you are to be my champion and Marshal of the Reik.”
“Your champion?” asked Alfgeir. “No… I cannot…”
“There was nothing you could do,” stated Sigmar. “My father gave his life for me, and no skill at arms in this world could have saved him.”
“I do not understand.”
“Nor do I entirely,” confessed Sigmar, “but I would be honoured if you would serve me as you served him.”
Alfgeir rose to his feet, the rain streaking his face like tears, and he sheathed his sword.
“I will serve you faithfully,” promised Alfgeir.
“I know you will,” said Sigmar, moving past his champion to the bier of shields. His father lay with Soultaker clasped to his breast, his armour bright and burnished. His noble features were at peace, the fierceness of the scar across his face somehow lessened now that his soul had departed.
Sigmar stepped away from the bier and said, “Carry my father within his hall.”
The procession of warriors marched through the mud and into the longhouse, and Sigmar turned to address the hundreds of mourning people gathered before him. He saw many friends among his people, and every face was a face he knew.
These were his people now, the Unberogen.
Sigmar planted his banner in the mud before the long-house as a shaft of sunlight broke through the storm clouds and bathed it in light. The crimson fabric rippled in the wind, and Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz above his head as he shouted to the crowd, his voice carrying all the way to the thousands of warriors gathered on the hills beyond the town.
“People of the Unberogen! King Bjorn has passed from the land, and now wields the great axe Soultaker in the Halls of Ulric with his brothers Redmane Dregor, Sweyn Oakheart and the mighty Berongundan. He died as he would have wished, in battle, with enemies all around him and his axe in his hand.”
Sigmar lowered Ghal-maraz and cried, “I will send riders throughout the land and let it be known that at the rise of the next new moon my father will take his place on Warrior’s Hill!”
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