Wolfgart rode alongside him, his mighty sword held before him, his expression accusing.
“I told you this land was dangerous!”
Sigmar shook his head. “If they wanted to kill us, we would be dead already.”
“Then what do they want?”
“I think we are about to find out,” said Sigmar as a score of war chariots appeared on the hillside and rolled towards them, the tripartite standard of Queen Freya billowing in the wind from spiked banner poles.
Sigmar blinked as the blindfold was removed and he found himself in a great, earth-walled chamber, illuminated by hundreds of lanterns and a great fire pit. The smell of wet earth and damp cloth was strong in his nostrils, and he ran his hands across his face and through his hair.
Wolfgart was beside him, similarly startled by the change in their surroundings.
The rain had eased as the charioteers surrounded their procession, and though they made no overtly aggressive moves, the tension was palpable. A tall, broad shouldered woman, naked but for her long cloak and tattoos, had leapt down from the lead chariot and stood defiantly before them.
Cuthwin and Svein were bound on a chariot behind her, and Sigmar could feel their acute embarrassment in their refusal to meet his gaze.
“You are the one the Unberogen call king?” asked the woman.
“I am,” confirmed Sigmar, “and this is my sword-brother, Wolfgart.”
The woman acknowledged them with a curt bow. “I am Maedbh of the Asoborns,” she proclaimed. “Queen Freya has declared you a friend of her tribe. You will come with us to the settlement of Three Hills.”
“And if we don’t want to?” called Wolfgart before Sigmar could respond.
“Then you will leave our lands, Unberogen,” replied Maedbh. “Or you will die here.”
“We will come with you,” said Sigmar hurriedly “For I much desire to see Queen Freya. I bring gifts from my land that I wish to present to her.”
“You desire her?” asked Maedbh, waving a pair of her warriors forward. “That is good, it will be less painful that way.”
“Painful? What?” asked Sigmar as the painted Asoborns unwound cloth bindings from their wrists and made to blindfold them.
Wolfgart lowered his sword to point at the Asoborn woman’s chest. “What is this for? We will not be rendered blind.”
“The secret paths to the halls of the Asoborn Queens are not for the eyes of men,” said Maedbh. “You travel in darkness or you turn back.”
“You’re going to blindfold us all?” snarled Wolfgart.
“No, just you and those who bring your gifts. The rest of your warriors will remain here.”
“Now just hold on—” began Wolfgart before Sigmar silenced him with a gesture.
“Very well,” said Sigmar. “We accept your terms. I have your word that no harm will come to my warriors?”
“If they remain here and do not try to follow us, then no ill will befall them.”
Wolfgart turned towards Sigmar and hissed. “You’re going to let these damned women blindfold us and take us Ulric knows where? Without any warriors? They’ll have our balls for breakfast, man!”
“This is the only way, Wolfgart,” said Sigmar. “We came here to see Freya after all.”
Wolfgart spat on the ground. “If I return and am unable to provide my father with a grandson, then you will be the one to explain this to him.”
The blindfolds had been tied tightly, and amid the protests of his men, the Asoborn warrior women had led Sigmar and Wolfgart away. As a parting order, Sigmar had shouted over his shoulder to Cuthwin and Svein.
“Make no attempt to follow us! Remain here until we return.”
They had been led into the forest, that much Sigmar knew, but beyond that, he could make no sense of their route, for it ventured over hills and through sheltered valleys and dense undergrowth. Though Sigmar tried to hold true to their course, he soon hopelessly lost his bearings and any sense of how far they had travelled.
At last he had heard the sounds of people and could smell the scents of a settlement. Even then, this was not the end of their journey as they had travelled through a long, enclosing space of echoes and wet, earthy smells. Sigmar had felt the heat and smoke of a fire, and had a sense of a great space above him.
The blindfolds had been removed, and Sigmar had found himself within the hall of the Asoborn Queen. It was like nothing he had seen before, the walls curving upwards as though they were in some giant underground barrow. Snaking tree roots laced together on the ceiling above him, and a timber-edged hole penetrated the roof to allow smoke to disperse.
Hundreds of warriors of both sexes filled the hall, dressed in striped leggings and long cloaks. Most were bare-chested, with bronze torques ringing their arms and swirling tattoos covering their chests and necks. Sigmar noticed that they were all armed with bronze-bladed swords.
“Ulric preserve us,” whispered Wolfgart, seeing the fierce queen presiding over the assembly on her raised throne.
Queen Freya was a striking woman at the best of times, but here in her own domain, she was extraordinary. She sat draped across a graceful curve of fur-lined tree roots, the wood carefully shaped over hundreds of years by human hands to form the throne of the Asoborn queens.
Her flesh was bare, save for a golden torque around her neck, a split leather kilt and a cloak of shimmering bronze mail. A cascade of hair like flaming copper spilled from her head, held from her face with a crown of gold set with a shimmering ruby.
Freya swung her legs from the throne and stood facing them, lifting a trident spear from the warrior woman Maedbh, who stood next to her. Muscles rippled along her lean, powerful arms, and Sigmar did not doubt the strength in them.
“I knew you would come to me before long,” said Freya, descending from her raised throne, and Sigmar could not help but admire her full, womanly figure. The cloak of mail partially covered her breasts, but what lay beneath was tantalisingly revealed with every sway of her hips and shoulders as she approached.
“It is an honour to stand in your halls, Queen Freya,” said Sigmar with a short bow.
“You have come from Taleuten lands,” stated Freya. “Why do you enter my domain now?”
Sigmar swallowed and said, “I have come with gifts for you, Queen Freya.”
“Armour of iron and dwarf-forged swords,” said Freya, tilting her head to one side. “I have seen them, and they please me. Are the horses mine too?”
Sigmar nodded. “They are. Wolfgart here is a horse breeder of no little skill, and these steeds are faster and more powerful than any others in the land. These beasts are among his finest studs and will give you many strong foals.”
Freya drew level with Sigmar, and he felt his pulse quicken as he took in the scent of the oils applied to her skin and hair. The queen of the Asoborns was tall, and her eyes were a fierce, penetrating emerald that regarded Sigmar with a predatory gleam.
“His finest studs,” repeated Freya with a smile.
“Aye,” agreed Wolfgart. “You’ll find no finer in the land.”
“We shall see about that,” said Freya.
The sun was approaching midday when Sigmar emerged from Queen Freya’s Great Hall, tired and glad to feel the breath of wind on his face. His limbs were scratched and tired, and he felt as weak as when he had awoken from the Grey Vaults.
Golden light bathed him, and he turned his face to the sun, enjoying the blue of the sky now that the storm had broken. A great hill rose at his back, perfectly round and crowned with red-barked trees that flowered with a sweet smelling blossom. The queen’s halls lay buried beneath the tree, the entrance hidden to all but the most thorough search.
Though he had just emerged from the hall, Sigmar found that even he could scarcely tell how to gain entry within. Looking around him, laughing Asoborns went about their daily duties, and here and there, Sigmar could see wisps of smoke from buried homes or perhaps a smithy.
The people of the east we
re long-limbed and fair of skin, their hair blonde or copper, and their bodies heavily tattooed. Though there was a mix of sexes moving through the cunningly concealed settlement, Sigmar noted that it was predominantly women who bore weapons and walked with the confident swagger of the warrior.
A fierce pride burned in the hearts of the Asoborns, and to harness that was to tie oneself to a maddened colt, but the bargain was sealed, and he and Freya had exchanged Sword Oaths after numerous bouts of furious lovemaking.
His back felt as though he had been flogged, and his chest bore the imprint of Freya’s sharpened teeth from collarbone to pelvis. His leggings had chafed against his groin as he had dragged them on and finally climbed from her bed.
Sigmar walked amongst Freya’s people and saw the steep, thickly wooded slopes of the other two hills that gave the name to the Asoborn settlement. He saw dwellings constructed atop the trees and among the tangled roots of their trunks. A mill had been fashioned in the body of tall oak, the sails turning slowly and turning a millstone that Sigmar suspected must lie beneath the hill.
A tumbling stream wound its way through the settlement, and Sigmar knelt beside it, dipping his head in the fast-flowing waters, letting the sudden cold wash away his tiredness and the taste of the potions that Freya had made him consume, claiming they would prolong the act of love.
Sigmar knelt back on his haunches and threw back his head, letting the water pour down his chest and back. He blinked away the last droplets on his face and ran his hands through his golden hair, pulling it into a long scalp lock and securing it with a leather cord.
“So could you?” asked an amused voice behind him.
“Could I what, Wolfgart?” asked Sigmar, rising to his feet and turning to face his sword-brother. In contrast to his own appearance, Wolfgart looked fresh and well rested, his eyes full of wicked amusement.
“Could you beat Freya in a fight? Surely you remember your father’s advice about only bedding wenches you could best in a fight?”
Sigmar shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think Freya sees much difference between rutting and fighting. I certainly feel as though I have been in a battle.”
“You look like it too, brother,” said Wolfgart, turning him around and inspecting the flesh of his back. “Gods alive! It looks like you’ve been mauled by a bear!”
“Enough,” said Sigmar, pulling away from Wolfgart. “Not a word of this when we get back. I mean it.”
“Of course not,” smiled Wolfgart. “My lips are sealed tighter than a virgin’s legs on Blood Night.”
“That’s not very tight at all,” pointed out Sigmar.
“Anyway,” said Wolfgart, relishing Sigmar’s discomfort and ignoring his glare, “are we allies with the Asoborns? Did they accept our gifts?”
“Aye, they did,” said Sigmar. “The gifts pleased the queen, as did your horses.”
“I should damn well think so!” said Wolfgart. “I gave her Fireheart and Blackmane, the finest stallions of my herd. You could strap a hundredweight of armour to them and they’d still outpace the ponies the Asoborns use to pull their chariots. Give them a few years and they will have warhorses worthy of the name.”
“Freya knows that, and that’s why she gave me her Sword Oath.”
Wolfgart slapped his palm on Sigmar’s back and laughed as he flinched in pain. “Come on, brother, we both know the real reason she gave you her oath.”
“And what is that?”
“When the sap of an Unberogen man rises there’s not a woman in the world can say no.”
* * * * *
Sigmar and Wolfgart were returned to their warriors later that day, though as sworn allies of the Asoborns, they were not blindfolded this time. As they led their horses over the ridge before the gathered Unberogen, a great cheer went up, and Sigmar cast a withering glance towards Wolfgart, who affected an air of supreme nonchalance.
Sigmar was glad to see the Asoborns had been true to their word and none of his warriors had been harmed, but they were clearly relieved to have their king return to them.
Once again, their guide had been the warrior woman, Maedbh, and she rode alongside them in a chariot of lacquered black wood and bronze edging. A pair of hardy plains ponies pulled the chariot, and the wheels were fitted with glittering scythe blades. Remembering the ripple of fear that had passed through his men at the sight of the chariots, Sigmar knew that when they were pulled by powerful Unberogen horses, they would be nigh unstoppable in battle.
Maedbh halted her chariot and stepped down from the fighting platform to stride over to Sigmar and Wolfgart. She shared her queen’s tempestuous beauty, and Sigmar hid his amusement as he guessed the reason for her approach.
“You leave our lands as a friend, King Sigmar,” said Maedbh.
“We are one people now,” replied Sigmar. “If your lands are threatened, our swords are yours to call upon.”
“Queen Freya said you were a man of stamina. All Unberogen men are like you?”
“All Unberogen men are strong,” agreed Sigmar.
Maedbh nodded and moved past him to stand before Wolfgart. Before his sword-brother could say anything, Maedbh hooked one hand behind Wolfgart’s neck, the other between his legs and pulled him close for a long, passionate kiss.
Another mighty cheer erupted from the Unberogen warriors, and Sigmar laughed as Wolfgart struggled in the grip of the fearsome warrior woman. At last she released him and climbed back onto her chariot.
“Come back to me in the summer, Wolfgart of the Unberogen,” called Maedbh as she turned her chariot. “Come back and we will fasten hands and make strong children together!”
The chariot swiftly vanished around the bend in the track, and Sigmar put his arm around his sword-brother, who stood speechless at what had happened.
“Looks like I am not the only one to have made an impression,” said Sigmar.
Cormac Bloodaxe stood on the shore of a sea as grey as iron, and stared at the ruin of what had become of his people. His anger made him gnash his teeth as the berserk rage threatened to come upon him once more, but he savagely quelled the rising fury. Sigmar of the Unberogen and his warriors had all but wiped them out, driving them from their homeland to this forsaken place across the sea.
The southern shores of the cursed land were bleak and swept with snow, a wind like the breath of the mightiest ice daemon howling across the string of makeshift settlements that dotted the coastline.
There was nothing of permanence to the settlements, for they had been constructed from the cannibalised remains of Wolfships, an ignoble end to the mighty vessels that had carried the Sea Wolves of the Norsii into battle for years.
Those same ships had brought them here from the lands of the southern kings, but few men were left that knew the skills of the woodworker and the builder. Draughty lean-tos and caves now sheltered the pitiful remains of all that remained of the proud Norsii people, where once they had dwelled in mighty halls of fire and warriors.
Cormac stood beside Kar Odacen, the stoop-shouldered mystic that had advised his father, the slain king of the Norsii, on the will of the gods. Cormac despised the man and had wanted to kill him for the disaster that had overtaken their people, but he knew better than to anger the gods, and had reluctantly allowed him to live.
Kar Odacen had counselled the warrior kings of the north for as long as Cormac could remember, and it had been whispered by the elders that this Kar Odacen was the same man who had stood at the right hand of his great grandsire.
Certainly, the man looked old enough, his pate shaved and his flesh wrinkled like worn leather. The man’s frame was skeletal, and his features were hooked like those of a raven. Cormac shivered, despite his thick woollen leggings and the heavy bearskin cloak he wore wrapped tightly about him. Though Kar Odacen’s dark robes were thin and ragged, he appeared not to feel the biting cold of the wind.
“Tell me again why we are here, old man?” snapped Cormac. “You will see us both dead with a fe
ver if we remain here much longer.”
“Have some patience, my young king,” said Kar Odacen, “and some faith.”
“I have precious little of either,” snapped Cormac as a freezing gust of wind blew through him like a thousand icy knives. “If this is a fool’s errand, I will cut the head from your shoulders.”
“Spare me your empty threats,” said Kar Odacen. “I have seen my death a thousand times and it is not by your axe.”
Cormac swallowed his anger with difficulty, and stared out to sea once more. Far to the south, through the banks of fog and across the dark waters of the ocean, lay the warm, fertile lands of the south, lands that had once been theirs.
Lands that would one day be theirs again.
Cormac could still taste the ash in his mouth from the burning ships and men as Sigmar’s strange war machines had hurled balls of flaming death from the cliffs. Thousands had died as their ships burned beneath them, and thousands more as they sank to the bottom of the sea.
Sigmar and his allied kings would one day pay for these deaths, and Cormac vowed that he and all who came after him would once again sail across the water and take the songs of war southwards.
Cormac knew, however, that these were dreams for another day, banking the flame of his anger in his heart. Last night around the fire, Kar Odacen had promised him that the days of blood would begin again soon, and that Cormac must accompany him to this desolate shoreline upon the dawn.
Cormac could see nothing to make him believe that this journey was anything other than a waste of time, and was just about to turn and make his way back to the settlement when Kar Odacen spoke once more.
“One comes who will be mightier than us all, even you.”
“Who?”
“Look yonder,” said Kar Odacen, pointing a bony finger out to sea.
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