“It is over, King Otwin,” said Sigmar, his tone brooking no disagreement. “You have a choice now: live or die. Swear your Sword Oath with me. Become part of my brotherhood of warriors, and together we will build an empire of men to hold back the darkness.”
“And if I refuse?” growled Otwin, blood leaking from the edge of his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheeks.
“Then I will drive you and all your people from this land,” promised Sigmar. “Every man gathered here will be slain, your villages will burn, your heirs will die and the lamentation of your women shall be unending.”
“That is not much of a choice,” said Otwin.
“No,” agreed Sigmar. “What is it to be? Peace or war? Life or death?”
“You have a heart of stone, King Sigmar,” said Otwin, “but, by the gods, you are a warrior to walk the road to Ulric’s Hall with!”
“Do I have your oath?” asked Sigmar, offering his hand to the Thuringian king.
“Aye,” said Otwin, taking Sigmar’s hand, “you have it.”
Music filled the king’s longhouse, and dancers spun and laughed as they wove in and out of each other’s path in time to the drums and pipes. Garlands of flowers hung from the rafters, and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle was a fragrant blossom on the air. Sigmar watched the wedding dances with unalloyed joy, relishing seeing his warriors at play instead of at war.
With the victory against the Thuringian host, the majority of warriors in Sigmar’s army had returned to their homes, while the standing fighting men had marched back to Reikdorf in triumph. Though many men had died to secure the sword oath of King Otwin, Sigmar had been pleased, and not a little relieved, to see that many of the wounded would live.
Alfgeir had taken a lance to the side, but his armour had prevented the weapon from disembowelling him, and Pendrag had lost three fingers on his left hand when a Thuringian axe had struck the banner pole and slid down its length. Despite the loss of his fingers, Pendrag had not let the banner fall, and Sigmar had never been more proud of his sword-brother. The healer, Cradoc, had saved the rest of Pendrag’s fingers, but he would always bear the scars of the battle to win over the Thuringians.
Wolfgart had come through the battle unscathed, requiring little more than a few stitches across his forearms and legs, and had immediately set off ahead of the main body of the army to Reikdorf.
Maedbh had been waiting for him, and on the day following Sigmar’s return, he and Maedbh walked the flower-strewn path to the Oathstone, where the priestess of Rhya had fastened their hands with a spiral of mistletoe and taken their pledges of faith and fertility.
Sigmar had blessed the union and Pendrag had presented the fastening gifts: a gold torque of wondrous workmanship for Maedbh and a mail shirt embossed with a silver wolf for Wolfgart.
Sigmar had opened the doors to the king’s longhouse and all were made welcome within, the wines and beers free to everyone who desired to be part of the festivities. The square before the longhouse became a gathering for feasters, and it did not take long for singers, minstrels and tale tellers to begin the entertainments.
Sigmar had danced with many of the village maidens, but he had excused himself before becoming too entangled with the dancing, and returned to his throne to watch over his people. Now, with the pleasant glow of wine and grain spirits warming his stomach, Sigmar felt as though his dream was on the very cusp of completion. Only the furthest tribes remained aloof from the advances of the Unberogen, the Jutones and Bretonii in the west, and the Brigundians and Ostagoths of the east.
Further south-east were the Menogoths and the Merogens, but whether they even still existed was a mystery, for their lands were dangerously close to the mountains, where all manner of bloodthirsty tribes of orcs and beasts made their lairs.
Sigmar smiled as he watched Maedbh and Wolfgart dance with their arms linked in a circle of their friends. Seated at a table nearby, Pendrag tapped his foot in time with the music, his hand wrapped in spiderleaf bandages.
Even Alfgeir had been persuaded to dance, and old Eoforth was dancing lustily with the maiden aunts of the town. Laughter and good cheer were the common currency of this day, and Sigmar’s people were spending it freely in the spirit of shared friendship and plenty.
Reikdorf had continued to grow over the years, and with the discovery of fresh gold and iron ores in the hills, its prosperity had been assured. Tanneries, breweries, forges, clothmakers, dyers, potters, horse breeders, millers, bakers and schools could all be found within Reikdorf’s walls, and its people were well-fed and numerous.
Over four thousand people called Reikdorf home, and though much of the town was still protected by timber stockade walls, the majority of the foundations had been laid for an encircling wall of stone that would protect the Unberogen from attack.
Sigmar was not yet twenty-seven, but he had already achieved more than his father, though he was canny enough to know that he had stood upon the shoulders of giants to reach such heights.
The music shifted in tempo, slowing from the furious drive of the previous tune to become a haunting lament that spoke of lost love and forgotten dreams. The dancing slowed as couples held each other close, and friends drank fresh toasts to the honoured slain who walked with Ulric in the halls of the dead.
Sigmar rose from his throne and, unnoticed, slipped from the longhouse through a door at the rear, making his way from the festivities to a dark place to the north of the town. The night was warm and the light breeze was pleasant on his skin after so long in armour.
Both moons were bright and high, and his shadows were short as he walked alone through the streets. A few of his hounds followed him from the hall, but Sigmar sent them back with a curt whistle and a chop of his hand. The further Sigmar travelled from the centre of the town, the fewer stone buildings he passed, the majority well-formed from timber and thatch. The buildings were tightly packed, and he passed unnoticed towards the section of wall he knew was unfinished.
The wall was patrolled, but Sigmar knew the town and its rhythms, the pace of the guards and their movements better than anyone. It was a simple matter for him to pass the walls without detection and vanish into the forests around the city.
Free of the walls, Sigmar felt a strange sense of liberation as though he had been confined within the city as a prisoner, but had not realised that all his gaolers had long since vanished. Sigmar climbed the paths that led through the hills surrounding Reikdorf, looking back to see his home as a glittering, torch-lit beacon in the darkness.
Laughter and music were carried to him on the wind, and he smiled as he pictured his peoples’ revelries. Sigmar’s dream of empire had kept Reikdorf safe, and his preparations had allowed the Unberogen to become the pre-eminent tribe of the lands west of the mountains, but he knew there was still much to be done.
Scouts were already bringing word of an increase in orcs raids from the mountains, and it was only a matter of time before the greenskins ventured from their lairs in a roaring tide of destruction and death. That, however, was a problem for tomorrow, for tonight was a night for Sigmar, a night for remembrance and regret.
Once within the forests, the tracks and paths were all but invisible, but as well as Sigmar knew Reikdorf, he knew the land better, and it knew him, welcoming him as a man would welcome an old and trusted friend.
Sigmar made his way through the dark trees, retracing the steps of a day long ago when he had walked into the future with only golden dreams in his heart. He heard the sound of rushing water ahead, and was soon descending into a peaceful hollow, where a shallow waterfall poured into a glittering pool that shone as if strewn with diamonds.
“I should have wed you sooner,” he whispered, seeing the moonlight reflecting on the simple grave marker at the side of the pool. Sigmar knelt before the carved stone, tears of regret spilling down his cheeks as he pictured Ravenna’s dark hair and joyous smile.
He rested his hand on the stone and reached up to touch t
he golden cloak pin he had given her the day they had made love by the river.
“The king of the Unberogen does not celebrate with his people?” asked a voice from the edge of the clearing. “You will be missed.”
Sigmar wiped a hand across his face and rose to his feet, turning to see an ancient woman, her hair the colour of silver and her eyes buried within a wrinkled face that spoke of dark secrets and forbidden knowledge.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You know who I am,” said the woman.
“My father warned me of you,” said Sigmar, making the sign of the horn. “You are the hag woman of the Brackenwalsch.”
“Such a graceless title,” said the hag woman. “Men give vile names to the things they fear, which only serves to feed that fear. Would men be afraid of me were I called the Joy Maiden?”
Sigmar shrugged. “Perhaps not, but then you bring precious little joy into our lives. What is it that you want, woman? For I am in no mood for debate.”
“A pity,” said the hag woman. “It has been some time since I had the chance to speak with someone who appreciates grander things than a hot meal and a soft woman.”
“Speak your piece, woman!” spat Sigmar.
“Such hasty words. So like your father. Quick to anger and quick to promise what should be considered carefully.”
Sigmar made to walk away from the crone, tired of her ramblings, but with a gesture she halted him, his muscles rigid and the breath frozen in his lungs.
“Stay awhile,” she said. “I wish to talk with you, to know you.”
“I have no such desire,” said Sigmar. “Release me.”
“Ah, it has been too long since I walked among people,” said the hag woman. “They have forgotten me and the dread I used to inspire. You will listen to me, Sigmar, and you must listen well, for I have little time.”
“Little time for what?”
“Events are moving quickly and history is being written minute by minute. These are the days of blood and fire, where the destiny of the world will be forged, and much now hangs in the balance.”
“Very well,” replied Sigmar. “Say what you have to say and I will listen.”
“The victory against the Thuringians was honourably won, but there is still much to do, young Sigmar. The other tribes must come together soon or all will be lost. You must set off once more. The Brigundians and their vassal tribes must swear their sword oaths to you before the first snows or you will not live to see the summer.”
“My warriors have only just returned from the west,” said Sigmar. “I will not muster the army again so soon, and even if I could, we would not reach the Brigundians and defeat them before winter.”
The hag woman smiled, and Sigmar was chilled to the bone. “You misunderstand me. I said that you had to set off once more. The tribes of the south-east will not be won over by conquest, but with courage.”
“You wish me to go alone into the wilderness?”
“Yes, for agents of the Dark Gods goad the orcs of the mountains to war. Without enough of the tribes beneath your banner, the greenskins will destroy everything you have built.”
“You have seen this in a vision?” asked Sigmar.
“Amongst other things,” nodded the hag woman, glancing towards Ravenna’s gravestone.
“You saw her die?” hissed Sigmar. “You could have warned me!”
The hag woman shook her head. “No, for some things are carved in the stone of the world and cannot be changed by mortals or gods. Ravenna was a brief, shining candle that was lit to show you the path and then snuffed out to allow you to walk it alone.”
“Why?” demanded Sigmar. “Why give me love just to take it away from me?”
“Because it was necessary,” said the hag woman, and Sigmar almost believed he could detect a trace of sympathy in her voice. “To walk the road you must travel requires a strength of will and purpose beyond the reach of ordinary men, who only crave the comfort of hearth and home. That is what it takes to be a king. This land is yours, and you promised to love it and no other. Remember?”
“I remember,” said Sigmar bitterly.
—
Chains of Duty
The land spread out before Sigmar, more open than the domain of the Unberogen, and even flatter than the wide plains of the Asoborns. The weeks since leaving Reikdorf had been liberating, and though his departure had provoked furious arguments in the longhouse, his decision to travel alone was proving to be the right one.
“It is madness,” stormed Alfgeir, when Sigmar had announced his intention to go alone into the lands of the Brigundians.
“Insanity,” concurred Pendrag, and once Wolfgart had been dragged from his marriage bed, looking like a whipped dog, he had added his voice to the naysayers. “They’ll kill you.”
Sigmar had listened patiently while all manner of alternatives had been voiced: diplomatic missions led by Eoforth, a quick war of conquest, and even a lightning raid into Siggurdheim to assassinate the Brigundian noble house.
He had listened to every suggestion, but made it plain that he intended to go alone into the wilderness, no matter what his friends and advisors said. As much as it rankled to listen to the hag woman’s counsel, the moment he had made the decision to follow her words, a great weight had lifted from him, a weight that he had not even realised was upon him.
As the day turned from morning to afternoon, Sigmar gathered his supplies and marched towards the eastern gate of Reikdorf, passing from his capital and onto the roads that led towards the future.
His brothers had watched him from the walls, and that evening as he prepared a large meal of hot oats and rabbit meat, he had called out to the darkness, “Cuthwin! Svein! I know you are out there, so I have made enough for three. Come in and take some warmth from the fire, and some food.”
Minutes later, his two scouts emerged from the woodland and wordlessly joined him for the meal. After it was finished, Cuthwin cleaned the pot and plates and the three of them had lain down to sleep in their blankets as the stars emerged from behind the clouds.
By the time the scouts woke, Sigmar was long gone, and neither could find his trail.
Walking through the landscape was an awakening for Sigmar, the sheer immensity of the vista before him expanding the horizons within him. He had been too long in the company of his fellows, and to walk alone in the world with the sun on his skin and the wind at his back was a rediscovered pleasure.
Unberogen lands had changed more than he could imagine in the last ten years, new fields in the lowlands, and herds of cattle, sheep and goats in the hills around Reikdorf. The discovery of new mines had changed the landscape beyond recognition, and a man could walk for days still seeing signs of habitation and no sign of true wilderness.
It was different here. This was the world as it was shaped by the gods: wide plains with rocky hillocks and great sweeps of open grassland. Dark, lightning-wreathed mountains flickered in the far distance of the south and east, and the raw, vital, quality of the land spoke to Sigmar on a level beyond words and mortal comprehension.
The sense of freedom out in the open, separated from all ties of brotherhood, family and responsibility was incredibly liberating, and as Sigmar watched a herd of wild horses thunder across the plains, he suddenly envied them. Ties of iron duty bound him to the Unberogen people and the future, but out here, with only the land for company, Sigmar felt those bonds loosen, and the tantalising prospect of a life lived for himself drifted before him.
A life with Ravenna had been denied him, but he was still young, and the world was offering him a chance to leave behind his life of war and blood, to step from the pages of history and become… become nothing.
Even as the temptation came to him, he knew he would never succumb to it, for he could not simply walk away from his place in the world and his duty to his people. Without him, the tribes of men would fall and the world would enter a dark age, a bloody age of war and death. In any other ma
n such conceit would be monstrous arrogance, but Sigmar knew that it was simply the bare, unvarnished truth.
He also knew enough to know that ego played a part in his decision, for who would not wish to be remembered down the ages? To know that future generations of warriors might, in ages yet to come, give thanks to his memory, or tell tales of his battles over a foaming tankard of ale?
Yes, he decided, that would be fine indeed.
* * * * *
Days and weeks passed beneath the wide skies as Sigmar walked deeper into the south-east, and the dark peaks of the mountains drew ever closer. Though still many miles away, the threat from these colossal, soaring spires at the edge of the world was palpable as though a million spiteful eyes peered out from beneath gloomy crags and plotted the downfall of man.
A spear of purple lightning danced across the heavens, and Sigmar gave thanks to Ulric that his lands were far away from these brooding mountains.
No man would choose to live in such a place without good reason, but Sigmar had seen that the land was rich and dark, and loamy with goodness. To survive and prosper in a land so close to these threatening peaks would take great courage, and Sigmar found his admiration for the Brigundians growing with every step he took towards the heart of their realm.
Sigmar knew next to nothing about Siggurdheim, save what merchants who came to Reikdorf had told of it. The seat of King Siggurd was said to dominate the land around it from a natural promontory of dark rock with a wall of smooth stone around it. Traders spoke of King Siggurd as a wily ruler of great cunning and foresight, and Sigmar looked forward to meeting his brother king.
He had thought to check his route at the few villages he had passed through to buy supplies, but quickly found he had no need to ask, for many trade caravans were travelling south and all were bound for Siggurdheim. The one fact that was known of the Brigundians was that they possessed great wealth, trading food and iron ores with the Asoborns and the southern tribes, and even, some claimed, grain with the dwarfs.
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