02 - Empire

by Graham McNeill

  “A good answer, King Sigmar,” replied Ar-Ulric. “Ulric knows your name and watches you with interest. How is it that Ulric should care for the fate of a mortal such as you?”

  “I passed through the Flame of Ulric and was not burned,” said Sigmar.

  “And you think that is enough?” Sigmar shrugged.

  “I know not,” he said, “but I have fought every battle with Ulric’s name on my lips. I could have done no more.”

  Ar-Ulric reached down and took hold of Sigmar’s head. The priest’s fingers were sheathed in wolf claws, and Sigmar could smell the blood on them. “I see into your heart, King Sigmar. Your lust for immortal glory sits alongside your devotion to Ulric. You seek to rival his mighty deeds and carve your name in the pages of history.”

  Defiance flared in Sigmar’s heart.

  “Is that wrong?” he asked. “To desire my name to live beyond my time in this world? Lesser men may be forgotten, but the name of Sigmar will echo into the future. With Ulric’s blessing, I will forge the land into an empire that will endure until the end of all things.”

  Ar-Ulric laughed, the sound as brittle as ice and as cold as the grave. “Seek not immortality through war, for it will only bring you pain and death. Go from here, sire sons and daughters, and let them carry your name onwards. Seek not to match the gods in infamy.”

  “No,” said Sigmar. “My course is set. The life of hearth and home is not for me. I was not made for such things.”

  “In that you are correct,” said Ar-Ulric. “There will be no soft bed to pass away the last breath of your dotage, not for you. A life of battle awaits you, Sigmar, and this pleases Ulric.”

  “Then you will bless my coronation?”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Ar-Ulric. “Stand and call forth your sword-brothers.”

  Sigmar forced himself to his feet, his limbs cold and muscles cramped. He turned towards the ring of firelight and scanned the crowd for his sword-brothers. At last, he saw them just beyond the ring of firelight.

  “Wolfgart! Pendrag!” he shouted. “Come forth and stand with me.”

  The kings parted to allow the two warriors through their ranks. Both were dressed in long tunics of red, with wide leather belts from which hung daggers and wolf-tail talismans. Pendrag’s attire was clean, where Wolfgart’s was crumpled and stained with grease and beer spills. Both looked pleased to be asked to come forth, but Sigmar could see their unease at being in the presence of the hulking priest of Ulric.

  “Damn, but I wish I was drunk,” hissed Wolfgart, his gaze never leaving the burning eyes and bared fangs of Ar-Ulric’s wolves.

  “You already are, remember?” said Pendrag.

  “Drunker then.”

  A low snarl from the black wolf silenced them both.

  “My sword-brothers, Wolfgart and Pendrag,” Sigmar told Ar-Ulric. “They have fought at my side since we were youngsters, and are bonded to me in blood.”

  Ar-Ulric’s wolf-skull mask turned towards them, and Sigmar heard sharp intakes of breath as the full force of his frigid gaze swept over them.

  The priest nodded and waved Sigmar’s sword-brothers forward.

  “Disrobe him,” he said, “until he is as he came into this world.”

  Sigmar handed Ghal Maraz to Wolfgart, and, piece by piece, his sword-brothers removed his clothing until he stood naked before the cauldron. His body was lean and muscled, with a host of pale, ridged scars snaking their way over his arms and across his chest and shoulders.

  “This is the Cauldron of Woe,” said Ar-Ulric. “It has been used for centuries to determine the worth of those who seek Ulric’s blessing.”

  “The Cauldron of Woe?” asked Wolfgart. “Why’s it called that?”

  “Because those found unworthy do not survive its judgement,” said Ar-Ulric.

  “'You had to ask,” snapped Pendrag, and Wolfgart shrugged.

  “How does it judge my worth?” asked Sigmar, fearing he already knew the answer.

  “You must immerse yourself in its waters and if you emerge alive, you will have proved your worth.”

  “That doesn’t sound so hard,” said Wolfgart. “It looks cold, sure enough, but that’s all.”

  “Do you want to try it?” asked Sigmar, already imagining the freezing temperature of the icy water in the cauldron.

  “Oh no,” said Wolfgart, putting up his hands. “This is your day after all.”

  Sigmar gripped the cauldron’s edge, feeling the intense cold of the water through the iron. The ice on the surface was solid, but there would be no help in breaking it. He took a deep breath and hammered his fist upon the ice. Pain and cold flared up his arm, but the ice remained firm. Again, he slammed his fist down, and this time a spider-web of cracks appeared.

  His hand was a mass of pain, but again and again Sigmar punched the ice until it broke apart beneath his assault. His chest heaved with painful breaths and his fist was covered in blood. Sweat was freezing on his brow, but before he could think of how cold the water was going to be, he hauled himself up and over the lip of the cauldron, and plunged in.

  The cold hit Sigmar like a hammer-blow, and the breath was driven from him. He tried to cry out in pain, feeling his heart batter against his chest, but freezing water filled his mouth. Bright light, like the dying sun of winter, flashed before his eyes.

  Sigmar sank into the darkness of the cauldron.

  * * *

  The darkness beneath the surface of the water was absolute, unending and unyielding. Cold seared his limbs, the sensation akin to being burned. Strange that such icy water should feel like that. Sigmar sank deeper and deeper, far further than the cauldron’s size should allow. His body tumbled in its icy depths, lost in the endless night of winter.

  His lungs were afire as he tried to hold his breath, and his heart’s protesting beat sounded like the pounding of orc war drums in his head. Images flashed before him in the darkness, scenes from his life replayed before him as they were said to do before the eyes of a drowning man. Sigmar watched himself lead the charge at the Battle of Astofen, feeling the savage joy of breaking the greenskin horde, and the numbing sorrow of Trinovantes’ death.

  He saw the fight against the forest beasts, the slaying of Skaranorak, the battle against the Thuringians and the wars he had fought against the Norsii. A rippling face drifted into view, cruelly handsome with lustrous dark hair and eyes of seductive malice.

  Hate swelled in his breast as he recognised Gerreon, the betrayer who had slain his own sister and Sigmar’s great love, the wondrous Ravenna. In the wake of his treachery, Gerreon had fled the lands of men, and none knew what had become of him, though Sigmar had always known there was blood yet to be shed between them.

  Gerreon’s face vanished, and Sigmar saw a great tower of pearl in a mountain valley, long hidden from the sight of men. Atop this tower, he saw a crown of ancient power, and the loathsome creature upon whose skeletal brow it sat. This too drifted from sight, and was replaced with a vision of a towering pinnacle of rock set amid a sprawling, endless forest. A city was built upon this rock, a mighty city of pale stone, and above its towers and spires was a shimmering vision of a snarling white wolf.

  Sigmar recognised the Fauschlag Rock, but not as he view it. This city was old and time-worn, groaning at the seams with centuries of growth. Mighty causeways pierced the forest canopy, immense creations of stone that defied the eye with their enormous proportions. They soared towards the summit of the rock, and a host of warriors garbed in strange, slashed tunics held them against attack.

  An army of cruelly malformed horrors, each a hideous meld of man and beast, fought to destroy the city on the rock, but the courage of its defenders was unbreakable. Warriors in bloodstained armour of brazen iron gathered around the city in vast numbers, and the forest burned with sacrificial pyres to their Dark Gods.

  The tide of beasts and warriors broke against the city’s defences as a warrior clad in a suit of brilliant white armour sallied forth to b
reak the charge of the hideous attackers. The warrior’s face was obscured by the visor of his winged helm, but Sigmar knew that whatever the identity of this warrior, his life was tied to that of the city. If he fell, the city would fall.

  Before Sigmar could see more, the vision of battle faded as he sank deeper into the cold depths of the cauldron. His strength was almost spent and his lungs cried out for air.

  Was this how his dream of empire was to end? Was this how the greatest warrior in the lands of men was to die, frozen within the Cauldron of Woe and judged unworthy?

  Anger lit a fire in Sigmar’s heart, and fresh strength flooded his limbs. He swept his arms out with powerful strokes, determined not to die like this.

  No sooner had he formed the thought than a shaft of light pierced the darkness, and Sigmar twisted in the water’s icy embrace to seek its source. He saw a circle of brightness above him, and twisting spirals of red sank down through the water towards him.

  Warmth and the promise of life were carried with the light, and he kicked upwards, swimming through the frozen water towards it. With each stroke, the light grew brighter, and the promise of life surged in his veins. Bursting for air, his head pounding with fiery agony, Sigmar swam through the descending trails of red liquid. He recognised it as blood, but knew not who or what had shed it.

  The light shone like the new sun of spring, and with one last desperate heave, Sigmar broke the surface of the water.

  Sigmar erupted from the cauldron, drawing in a huge, gulping breath. His vision swam, and he gripped the rim of the cauldron for support as he drew one tortured gasp after another. Cold water ran from his body in a torrent as he held himself upright, determined that he would stand tall before all who witnessed his icy rebirth.

  He felt the presence of warm bodies around him, and blinked water from his eyes. Standing around the cauldron were Sigmar’s fellow kings, each with bared arms that bled from deep cuts in their flesh. He looked down and saw the water was red with their blood. Ar-Ulric stood behind him. Sigmar swung his legs over the side of the cauldron, and stood naked before his people, holding himself upright with a supreme effort of will.

  The cold presence of Ar-Ulric moved closer, and a heavy wolfskin cloak was set upon Sigmar’s shoulders. The pelt was warm and soft, and the aching cold of his immersion vanished in the time it took to fasten the leather thong at his neck.

  “Kneel,” said Ar-Ulric, and Sigmar obeyed without hesitation.

  The Oathstone was on the ground before him, and Sigmar placed his hand upon it. The stone was rough to the touch, red and streaked with gold veins unlike any other stone hewn from the rock of the mountains. It felt warm to the touch, and he heard a keening wail in his head, as though the stone itself was screaming. It was a scream of joy, not of pain, and Sigmar smiled at this affirmation.

  He looked up to see if anyone else could hear this scream of elation, but it was clear from the faces around him that the sound was for him and him alone.

  Kurgan Ironbeard stepped from the circle of kings, a crown of wondrous design in his hands, a rune-inscribed circlet of gold and ivory set with precious stones. Sigmar lowered his head as the dwarf king handed the crown to Ar-Ulric. The mighty priest stood before him, but his freezing aura did not trouble Sigmar, the icy cold kept at bay by the magic of the wolfskin cloak.

  Ar-Ulric raised the crown above his head for all to see. The glow of the torches reflected from the ivory and jewels like starlight on silver, and Reikdorf held its breath. “The cauldron judges you worthy. You are reborn in the blood of kings.”

  “I was born in blood once before,” replied Sigmar.

  “Serve Ulric well and your name will live on through the ages,” said Ar-Ulric, setting the crown upon Sigmar’s soaking head.

  It was a perfect fit, and as the crown settled on his brow the people of Reikdorf erupted in wild cheers, and the music of the pipers began anew. Drums beat and horns were blown as men and women of all the tribes roared their approval, dancing and singing, and beating swords on shields as the mood of jubilation spread throughout the city.

  Kurgan Ironbeard leaned forward and said, “Wear this crown well, Sigmar, for it is the work of Alaric.” The dwarf king winked. “He wanted to present it to you himself, but I am keeping him busy forging those swords I promised you.”

  Sigmar smiled.

  “I will wear it with pride,” he said.

  “Good lad,” said Kurgan, as Wolfgart came forward, holding Ghal Maraz out to him.

  Sigmar grasped the mighty warhammer, feeling the immense power the ancient craft of the mountain folk had wrought into its form. The hammer’s grip fitted his hand as never before, and Sigmar knew that this moment would live in the hearts of men forever.

  “Arise, Sigmar Heldenhammer,” cried Ar-Ulric, “Emperor of all the lands of men!”

  Once again, the longhouse was filled with kings and warriors. Wolfgart was enjoying himself immensely: he had bested warriors from the Thuringians, Cherusens and Brigundians in feats of strength, and had put a Menogoth under the table in a drinking contest. Galin Veneva, the Ostagoth warrior who had carried word of the greenskin invasion from the east, now challenged him to a fresh drinking game with a spirit distilled from fermented goat’s milk.

  “We call it koumiss,” said Veneva. “Is good drink for toasts and games of drinking!”

  Wolfgart loudly and graciously conceded defeat after one mouthful of the stuff.

  “It’s like drinking molten lead,” said Wolfgart, slapping Veneva on the back, his eyes streaming at the liquor’s potency. “But then I’m not surprised you eastern types like your drink so strong, I’ve seen your women. You’d need to be blind drunk to sleep with them.”

  Pendrag led him away from the good-natured jeering of the Ostagoth fighters, steering him through the scrum of painted, armoured and sweating bodies. Tonight, the kings of men feasted with their warriors, and the smoky atmosphere in the longhouse was one of good cheer and battle-earned brotherhood.

  At the end of the longhouse, Sigmar sat on his throne, speaking with Kurgan Ironbeard of Karaz-a-Karak, and the gold of his crown shone as if with an inner fire.

  Clad in dwarf-forged plate, a mighty gift from King Ironbeard, the Emperor shone like a god. Alfgeir stood to one side, while Eoforth, Sigmar’s venerable counsellor, sat on a bench to his left. The dwarf king leant on his axe as he conversed with Sigmar, taking great gulps of ale between sentences.

  Wolfgart waved, and Sigmar nodded in his direction with a broad smile.

  “Look at that, eh?” said Wolfgart. “A bloody emperor! Who’d have thought it?”

  “He did,” said Pendrag simply.

  Wolfgart looked over the fire pit, seeing Redwane standing on a table and swinging his sword as he recounted tall tales of his heroics at Black Fire Pass to an audience of smiling girls.

  “Someone won’t be sleeping alone tonight,” said Wolfgart.

  “He never does,” replied Pendrag. “Why spend coin on a night maiden when you can just seduce a pretty serving girl?”

  “Good point,” laughed Wolfgart. “Though, as a married man, I need do neither to wake up next to a warm woman.”

  “You are married to an Asoborn woman,” said Pendrag. “Maedbh would cut off your manhood if you behaved like Redwane.”

  “Again, a good point well made,” said Wolfgart, laughing as he spied a familiar face amid the mass of celebrating tribesmen.

  Wolfgart pushed through the crowded longhouse, scooping up two unattended tankards of beer from a nearby table on the way. Pendrag followed him as he approached a warrior in black armour, who stood close to the stone walls of the longhouse with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Laredus, you old dog!” shouted Wolfgart. “How in Ulric’s name do you fare?”

  The man turned at the sound of his name. He wore a winged black helmet and a dark cloak over his similarly black breastplate. Older than Wolfgart by a decade, Laredus was a warrior of the Raven Helms, the elite guard
s of the Endal Kings since the tribe’s earliest days.

  “Wolfgart,” said Laredus warily.

  “I haven’t seen you since before Black Fire,” said Wolfgart, thrusting a tankard towards Laredus.

  The Raven Helm warrior shook his head, saying, “No. Thank you, I won’t.”

  “What?” exclaimed Wolfgart. “Take a drink, man! Tonight of all nights!”

  “I cannot,” said Laredus. “King Aldred has commanded us not to partake of any strong drink.”

  “Ach, you’ll be fine then,” said Wolfgart, looking into the mug. “I think it’s Merogen beer. I’ve pissed stronger stuff than this. Go on, take a drink!”

  “No,” repeated Laredus stiffly. “My king has spoken, and I must obey his orders.”

  “Then sit with us awhile,” demanded Wolfgart, irritated at the Raven Helm’s refusal to drink with him. “Tell us of what’s happening in Marburg these days.”

  Laredus’ jaw was set and he bowed curtly to Wolfgart and Pendrag.

  “If you will excuse me, I must see to my men,” he said.

  Before Wolfgart could reply, Laredus turned on his heel and marched away.

  “Ranald’s balls, what was the meaning of that?” said Wolfgart, turning to Pendrag.

  Pendrag didn’t answer, and Wolfgart watched as Laredus joined a group of cloaked Endal tribesmen gathered around their young king.

  “I don’t understand,” said Wolfgart. “I wintered in Marburg after Astofen, and fought alongside Laredus against Jutone raiders. We were like brothers, and this is how he treats me! Damn it all, the bugger was friendly enough when last he came to Reikdorf.”

  “Aye,” said Pendrag, looking warily at the Endals and their grim-faced king, “but Marbad was king of the Endals then.”

  “'You might be onto something there, my friend,” agreed Wolfgart, not liking King Aldred’s hooded gaze one bit. Alone of all the kings, he and his warriors sat apart from the celebrations, their eyes cold and aloof. Wolfgart drained the tankard he had offered to the Raven Helm, and then tossed into the fire pit, making sure the Endals saw him do it.