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A Gathering of Kings
With the return of the Unberogen warriors to Reikdorf, a great feast was held to honour their courage and the deeds of the dead. Saga poets filled the alehouses, and gathered at every corner to entrance audiences with blood drenched tales of the battles against the cruel Norsii and the glorious death of King Bjorn.
As epic and lurid as such tales were, Sigmar knew they did not—could not—capture the nobility or sacrifice of his father’s final battle, when he had walked into the underworld to save his son.
Sigmar felt no need to add to the legends being woven around his father’s deeds, knowing that the ages would want the desperate heroism and tragic inevitability of his death rather than the more intimate familial drama that had played out in the twilight realm of the Grey Vaults.
The days following the return of the army were joyous, as wives and mothers were reunited with husbands and sons, but also heartbreaking, for many families had suffered the death of a loved one, and the loss of King Bjorn was a grievous blow to the Unberogen.
The fallen were honoured with pyres upon the hills surrounding Reikdorf, and as the sun set the following day, a thousand fires banished the night. The northmen had been driven back to their frozen land, but Sigmar knew it would only be a matter of time before another warlord arose and fanned the smouldering coals in their warlike hearts.
For all that, the mood of the Unberogen was not downcast, and Sigmar could feel the confidence his people had in him as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet. His skills in battle were well known, as was his honour and integrity. He could feel their pride in him, and knew that it was tempered by their sadness at the loss of Ravenna. No one dared mention Gerreon, his name unspoken and soon to be banished from memory.
Everywhere Sigmar walked in Reikdorf, he was greeted with warm smiles and the easy friendship of people who knew and trusted him.
He was ready to be king, and they were ready for his rule.
The kings of the tribes arrived in Reikdorf the day before the new moon.
King Marbad of the Endals was among the last to arrive, accompanied by his Raven Helms and bearing a banner dipped in blood in honour of the fallen Bjorn. With Pendrag by his side, Sigmar watched them arrive to the music of the pipers, and was once again impressed by the martial bearing of Marbad’s warriors.
The last time Sigmar had seen these magnificent fighters was six years ago, when the ageing king had accompanied Wolfgart from his lands in the west to pay a visit to his brother king. Marbad had aged in the years since then, his hair now completely white and his spare frame painfully thin. Yet for all that, Marbad still carried himself proudly, and greeted Sigmar warmly and with strength.
The Raven Helms were as fearsome as Sigmar remembered, and just as wary of their surroundings, though Sigmar allowed that this time they had reason to be wary. Across the river, a series of bronze-armoured warriors with feathered helmets and colourful pennants streaming from their lances watched the arrival of the Endals with undisguised hostility. These were the brightly clad warriors of the Jutone tribe, emissaries from King Marius, who had not deigned to travel to Reikdorf.
Nor had King Artur of the Teutogens come, not even bothering to send an emissary to the funeral rites of his fellow king. Sigmar had not been surprised by this and, in truth, had been glad that no Teutogen would set foot in Reikdorf, fearing reprisals for the raid on Ubersreik and the other border villages and settlements on the edges of Unberogen lands.
Both kings that had fought alongside his father against the Norsii had come in person, King Krugar of the Taleutens and King Aloysis of the Cherusens. Both were men of iron, and had impressed Sigmar with their sincere praise for his father.
Queen Freya of the Asoborns had come in a whooping procession of chariots from the east, terrifying the people tilling the fields and sending a wave of panic towards Reikdorf until their intent was confirmed. Riding atop a bladed chariot of dark wood with inlaid gold flames, the beautiful copper-haired queen had presented herself before Sigmar with a wicked grin, and had planted her trident spear in the earth before him.
“Queen Freya!” she had announced. “Destroyer of the Redmaw Tribe, conqueror of the stunted thieves and slayer of the Great Fang! Lover of a thousand men and Mistress of the Eastern Plains, I come before you to pay homage to your father, and to sup from your strength to measure it against my own!”
She had then snapped the trident spear and hurled it to Sigmar’s feet, before pulling him forward to kiss him hard on the lips while grabbing him between the legs. Pendrag and Alfgeir had been so surprised that neither one had time to react, but as they reached for their swords, the queen released Sigmar, throwing back her head and laughing.
“The son of Bjorn has his father’s strength in his loins,” said Freya. “I will enjoy making the beast with two backs with him!”
With that, Freya and her Asoborn warriors, fierce women daubed in paints, who rode their chariots naked, had ridden from Reikdorf to make camp in the fallow eastern fields.
“Gods above,” said Sigmar later as they ate in the king’s longhouse. “The woman is mad!”
“Well, at least she said you were strong,” said Pendrag. “Imagine if she had not been impressed with your… strength.”
“Aye,” grinned Wolfgart. “If I were king, I wouldn’t mind a night alone with that one.”
“It would certainly be an interesting experience,” agreed Pendrag, “if you lived.”
“You are both mad,” said Sigmar. “I’d sooner take a rabid wolf to my bed than Freya.”
“Don’t be such an old woman,” said Wolfgart, clearly relishing Sigmar’s discomfort. “It would be an unforgettable night, and think of the battle scars you’d get.”
Sigmar shook his head. “My father always said that a man should never bed a wench he couldn’t best in a fight. Do either of you think you could take Freya?”
“Maybe not,” said Wolfgart, “but it would be fun finding out.”
“Let us hope you never have to, my friend,” said Pendrag.
* * * * *
By the time the sun dipped into the west on the night of King Bjorn’s funeral rites, the tension in Reikdorf was palpable. A great feast had begun in the longhouse when the sun had reached its zenith, with great quantities of beer and spirits consumed, as the assembled kings and warriors drank to the great name of King Bjorn. Hundreds filled the longhouse, men and women from all across the land, and Sigmar was thrilled to see so many from so far away.
The finest animals from the Unberogen herds had been slaughtered and hundreds of loaves of bread baked. Barrels of beer from the riverside brewery and scores of jugs of wine from the west lay on trestle tables along one wall. The central firepit heated the longhouse, and the mouthwatering smell of cooking meat swamped the senses.
Endal pipers filled the hall with music, and drummers thumped their instruments in time to the melody. A festive, yet strained, atmosphere danced on the air, for this was a time to remember the great deeds of a heroic warrior, a chance to celebrate his epic life as he took his place in the Halls of Ulric. The king lay in the House of Healing, his body tended by the acolytes of Morr, men who had walked from the Brackenwalsch the previous week to watch over his body before it passed the doors of his tomb.
Thus far, the atmosphere in Reikdorf had been tense, but free of violence, the warriors of each tribe respecting the banner of truce that the kings of men gathered beneath, and Eoforth had been careful to keep the warriors of those tribes whose relations were fractious as far apart as possible. To further safeguard the peace, Alfgeir and the White Wolves roamed the halls with their hammers carried loosely at their belts and their goblets filled with heavily watered wine.
The loud buzz of conversation and song echoed from the rafters, and Sigmar cast his gaze around the hall as he sat upon his throne, his father’s throne empty beside him.
King Marbad told tales of the mist daemons in the mar
shes, and Unberogen warriors clamoured to hear of the battles he had fought in his youth alongside Bjorn. Krugar and Aloysis told of the war against the Norsii, and of how Bjorn had charged the centre of a shieldwall and cut the head from the enemy warlord in single combat.
Every ruler had a story to tell, and Sigmar listened as Queen Freya told of the final destruction of the Bloody Knife tribe of orcs, a battle that had seen the power of the greenskins broken in the east for a decade. Many of the Unberogen warriors gathered in the longhouse had been present for this victory, and the hafts of axes were slammed upon tabletops as they relived the fury of the battle.
As Queen Freya concluded her tale, Sigmar was shocked to hear her tell of his father’s sexual prowess, now understanding that lying with the queen of the Asoborns had been the price of her warriors’ aid in the battle against the orcs. He wondered if he would be called upon to share Freya’s bed to win her to his cause, and the thought made him shiver.
Sigmar saw where the trouble would begin the instant before the first insult was hurled, seeing a Jutone tribesman with a forked beard, braided hair and a heavily scarred face swagger up to where the Endal pipers were gathered.
Though the young boy playing the pipes was much taller than the Jutone tribesman, he was much younger and clearly not yet a warrior.
“Gods, my ears hurt from this din! It sounds like someone rutting with a sheep! Why don’t you play some proper music?” yelled the Jutone, ripping the pipes from the young lad’s hands and hurling them into the firepit.
The rest of the pipers ceased their playing, and a handful of Endal tribesmen surged to their feet in anger. A handful of Jutone warriors in brightly coloured jerkins rose from the benches across from them. Alfgeir saw the confrontation gathering momentum, and strode through the crowds to reach the warriors.
The Jutone and Endal tribesmen glowered at each other, and King Marbad nodded to the remaining pipers, the music beginning once again.
“That is proper music, Jutone,” cried one of the Endals, dragging the charred remains of the pipes from the fire, “not the ear-bleeding nonsense you listen to.”
The Marshal of the Reik finally reached the Jutone and spun him around, but the man had violence in mind and was not about to go quietly. His fist lashed out at Alfgeir, but Sigmar’s champion had been expecting the attack and lowered his head. The Jutone’s fist cracked into his forehead and the man roared in pain.
Alfgeir stepped back and thundered his hammer into the man’s belly, doubling him up with an explosive whoosh of breath. A pair of White Wolves appeared at his shoulder, and Alfgeir quickly handed the incapacitated man off to them.
Spurred into action, the rest of the Jutones hurled themselves at Alfgeir, fists arcing for his head. He rode the punches, and slammed the haft of his hammer into a snarling Jutone warrior’s face, breaking his nose and snapping teeth from his jaw. The Endals leapt to Alfgeir’s aid, and soon fists and feet were flying, as long-standing grudges and feuds reared their heads.
Sigmar leapt from his throne and ran the length of the firepit, angry at the folly of this senseless brawl. Warriors rose to fight throughout the hall, and Sigmar pushed his way towards his champion. Belligerent cries followed in his wake, but were quickly silenced when it was realised who pushed his way through.
The fighting at the end of the longhouse spread like ripples in a pool as warriors further from its origin were swept into its orbit. Queen Freya leapt into the fray like a banshee, while Taleuten warriors fought with Jutones, and Chemsen men grappled with shrieking Asoborn warrior women.
Thus far, no one but Alfgeir had drawn a weapon, but it was only a matter of time until a blade was rammed home, and the gathering would break apart in discord. Without conscious thought, Sigmar hefted Ghal-maraz and leapt towards the heart of the struggling warriors.
The weapon swept up and then down, slamming onto a tabletop and smashing it to splinters. The hammer struck the ground, and a deafening crack spread from the point of impact as a powerful wave of force hurled every man from his feet.
Sudden silence fell as Sigmar strode into the centre of the fallen warriors.
“Enough!” he yelled. “You gather under a banner of truce! Or do I have to break some heads before you get the idea?”
No one answered, and those closest to Sigmar had the sense to look ashamed of the fight.
“We gather here to send my father to his final rest, a man who fought alongside most of you in battles too numerous to count. He brought you together as warriors of honour, and this is how you remember him? By brawling like greenskins?” Sigmar said, “The old sagas say that the people of this land are those that the gods made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad. Until now I did not understand those words, but now I think I do.”
The words poured from Sigmar without thought, his every waking dream of empire flowing through him as he paced his father’s hall, the mighty warhammer held before him.
“What kind of race are we that would draw the blood of our fellows when all around us are enemies that would gladly do it for us? Every year more of our warriors die to keep our lands safe, and every year the hordes of orcs and beasts grow stronger. If things do not change, we will be dead or driven to the edge of existence. If we do not change, we do not deserve to live.”
Sigmar raised Ghal-maraz high, the firelight glittering from the runes worked into the length of its haft and its mighty head.
“This land is ours by right of destiny, and the only way it will remain so is if we put aside our differences and recognise our shared goal of survival. For are we not all men? Do we not all want the same things for our families and children? When you strip away everything else we are all mortal, we all live in this world, breathe its air and reap its bounty.”
King Krugar of the Taleutens strode forward and said, “It is the nature of man to fight, Sigmar. It is the way things have always been, and the way they always will be.”
“No,” said Sigmar. “Not any more.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked King Aloysis of the Chemsens.
“That we become one nation,” cried Sigmar. “That we fight as one. When one land is threatened, all lands are threatened. When one king calls for aid, all must answer.”
“You are a dreamer, my friend,” said Krugar. “We swear Sword Oaths with our neighbours, but to fight for a king in distant lands? Why should we risk our lives for people not our own?”
“Why should we not?” countered Sigmar, his voice carrying throughout the silent longhouse. “Think what we might achieve if we were united in purpose. What great things might we learn, were our lands always kept safe from attack? What new wonders might we discover if scholars and thinkers were free from the burden of feeding or defending themselves, and bent their entire will to the betterment of man?”
“And who would rule this paradise?” asked Aloysis. “You?”
“If I am the only one with the vision to realise it, then why not?” cried Sigmar. “But whoever would rule would be just and wise, a strong ruler with the support of his chiefs and warriors. He would have their loyalty and in turn they would have the protection of every warrior in the land.”
“You really believe this can be done?” asked Aloysis.
“I believe it must be done,” nodded Sigmar, holding out Ghal-maraz. “I believe that no problem of our destiny is beyond us. We must unite to fight for our survival, it is the only way. The high king of the dwarfs gave me this hammer, a mighty weapon of his ancestors, and I swear by its power that I will achieve this within my lifetime.”
A cold wind whistled through the longhouse, and a gruff voice, sonorous and deeply accented said, “Fine words, manling, but Ghal-maraz is much more than just a weapon. I thought you understood that when I gave it to you.”
Sigmar smiled and turned to see a squat, powerfully muscled figure standing silhouetted in the doorway of the longhouse. Firelight gleamed on shining armour of such magnificence that it took away th
e breath of every warrior gathered to see it. Gold and silver hammers and lightning bolts were worked into the shimmering breastplate, and links of the finest mail covered the warrior’s short legs.
A full-faced helmet, worked in the form of a stylised dwarf god covered the warrior’s face and he stepped into the longhouse as he reached up to remove it.
The face revealed was aged and pale, barely any flesh visible thanks to the swathes of braided hair and silver beard that covered the dwarf s face. The eyes of the dwarf were aged with wisdom beyond the ken of men, and Sigmar lowered Ghal-maraz as he dropped to one knee.
“King Kurgan Ironbeard,” said Sigmar, “welcome to Reikdorf.”
Every eye in the hall was fixed upon the High King of the dwarfs as he paced before the assembled warriors upon the raised dais next to Sigmar and Eoforth. News of the dwarfs’ arrival had spread quickly, and the hall was packed with warriors gathered to hear the king of the mountain folk speak.
Master Alaric had come from his forge, greeting his king like a long-lost friend, and they had spoken briefly in the language of their people before the high king had nodded sadly and turned away.
The king’s guards were powerful dwarfs in elaborate armour, fashioned from a metal that shone brighter than the most polished silver, and which threw back the torch light of the hall in dazzling brilliance. Each of the warriors bore a mighty axe, easily the equal of any carried by the strongest Unberogen axemen, and their eyes were guardedly hostile. No man had yet dared speak with any of them, for they seemed like otherworldly beings, strange and dangerous to approach.
King Kurgan had returned Sigmar’s greeting, and marched through the men gathered in the longhouse, parting them like a ship parts the water as he marched towards the dais before the throne of the Unberogen kings.
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