Sigmar stood and circled the fire, Ghal Maraz held loosely across his shoulder as he answered Wolfgart.
“Every day since I threw his ambassador from Reikdorf, Marius has been fortifying Jutonsryk, building his walls and towers of stone higher. His ships bring grain, weapons and mercenaries from the south, and every day we sit like old women around the fire, his city grows stronger. The longer we wait to take the fight to Marius, the more men will die when we attack.”
Sigmar and Wolfgart locked eyes, and it was his sword-brother who looked away.
“You’re the Emperor,” said Wolfgart. “You always did see things bigger than me, but I wouldn’t go haring off to Jutonsryk without making sure my back was covered first.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Sigmar, stopping in front of Wolfgart.
“Aldred of the Endals,” said Alfgeir.
“Aldred?” asked Sigmar. “The Endals are our brothers, Sword Oath sworn and bound to us for generations. Why would you dishonour a man who has sworn a sword oath with me?”
“That’s just it,” said Wolfgart. “His father did, but he hasn’t.”
“And you think Aldred would dishonour his father’s memory by turning on us?” demanded Sigmar, angry that his sword-brother would suggest such a thing.
“He might. You don’t know Aldred’s heart.”
“I think what Wolfgart means is that the Endals are something of an unknown quantity,” said Eoforth hurriedly. “King Marbad was your father’s greatest friend and a proud ally of the Unberogen, but Aldred…”
“I grieved with Aldred when we set Marbad on the pyre,” said Sigmar. “He knows I honoured his father.”
“We all grieved for Marbad,” said Alfgeir, “but I agree with Wolfgart. It makes no sense to face one enemy with potentially another behind us.”
Wolfgart rose from his seat and stood face-to-face with Sigmar. “I watched the Endals the whole time they were here, and I didn’t like the looks of that Aldred one bit. The way he stared at you, well, it was as if you’d rammed that spear in his father’s chest yourself.”
“You’re saying that he blames me for his father’s death?”
“You’d have to be a blind man not to see that,” said Wolfgart. “Even Laredus was like a stranger, and it wouldn’t surprise me if we saw less and less of the Endals as time goes on.”
“You agree with this?” Sigmar asked Eoforth.
“I think it is worth considering,” said Eoforth. “As Alfgeir says, it’s sensible to make certain of the loyalty of the warriors behind you before laying siege to Jutonsryk. Be sure of Aldred, win him to your cause, and then take your anger to the Jutones.”
Sigmar wanted to rage against their words, but he had seen the bitterness in Aldred’s eyes and had known it for what it was. Marbad had been dear to Sigmar, but he was Aldred’s father too. Nothing could assuage Aldred’s knowledge that, had his father not been compelled to hurl the blade Ulfshard to Sigmar at the height of the battle, he might have lived.
Sigmar took a deep breath.
“You are right,” he said. “My anger towards Marius and my frustration at the deaths of my people is blinding me to the wisdom of my friends. I saw the hurt in Aldred’s eyes, but I chose to ignore it. That was foolish of me.”
“We all make mistakes,” said Wolfgart. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No,” said Sigmar. “I am Emperor, and I cannot afford to act so rashly or people will die. From hereon, I will make no decisions of magnitude without speaking with you, for you are all dear to me and this crown weighs heavy on my brow. I will need your honest counsel if I am to make wise decisions.”
“You can count on me to tell you when you’re being an ass,” said Wolfgart. “You always could.”
Sigmar smiled and shook Wolfgart’s hand.
“So do you still want to order the spring muster?” asked Alfgeir.
“No, not yet,” said Sigmar. “Our reckoning with Marius will need to wait.”
“Then what are your orders, sire?”
“When the snow breaks, assemble a hundred of the White Wolves,” said Sigmar. “We will pay a visit to Count Aldred in Marburg and see what truly lies in his heart.”
—
City of Mist
The column of riders made its way along the muddy track that served as a road through the sodden lands of the Endals, a hundred warriors in red armour, all carrying long-handled hammers. Sigmar rode at the head of the column, with Redwane alongside him holding the emperor’s standard aloft. The crimson banner hung listlessly from the crosspiece, for there was no wind and damp air had saturated the fabric.
The journey from Reikdorf had begun well, the snows breaking swiftly and spring’s warmth arriving earlier than had been predicted by the bones of old men. That fortune had lasted for the first three days, as the riders made good time along the stone roads leading from Sigmar’s capital.
Then the road ended and the rest of the journey had been made along muddy trails, forest tracks and rutted roadways. Wolfgart had travelled this way before, and though he was reluctant to leave Maedbh so near to the birth of his child, he insisted on riding with Sigmar.
Alfgeir remained in Reikdorf as Sigmar’s regent. Though the Grand Knight of the Empire understood the honour of being appointed the city’s guardian, he chafed at the thought of allowing others to protect the Emperor. At Alfgeir’s insistence, Cradoc had accompanied the riders. In lieu of Alfgeir, the finest healer in the Unberogen lands would have to suffice in safeguarding the Emperor’s life.
Sigmar looked over at Redwane. The young warrior was only two summers older than he had been when he first rode to war. The young White Wolf sensed the scrutiny and glanced over, his youthful face alight with excitement and anticipation.
Sigmar could barely remember being so young and brash, and he suddenly envied the young man’s outlook on life, seeing the world as new and alive with possibility.
“How far is it to Marburg, Wolfgart?” asked Redwane.
“Gods, boy!” snapped Wolfgart. “I’ll tell you when we’re close. Now stop asking me.”
“It’s just I thought we’d be able to see it by now.”
“Aye, you’d see it yonder if not for this damn mist,” replied Wolfgart, winking at Sigmar. “It’s the noxious wind of the daemons that live in the marshes around Marburg, so don’t breathe too much of it in lest you become one yourself.”
“Truly?” asked Redwane, trying to keep his lips pursed tightly together.
Cradoc stifled a laugh as Wolfgart continued, “Aye, lad, for the daemons of the mist are cunning beasts. King Bjorn fought them before you were born. Rode to Marburg just like we’re doing, and marched into the mist to face the daemons with King Marbad at his side. A hundred men went in, but barely a handful came out, the rest dragged to their deaths beneath the dark waters of the bogs.”
“Gods! That’s no way for a warrior to die!” cried Redwane.
“That’s not the worst of it, lad,” continued Wolfgart, looking warily to either side of the road, as though the daemons might be lurking within earshot.
“It isn’t?”
“No, not by a long way,” said Wolfgart, and Sigmar saw he was enjoying tormenting the White Wolf immensely. “Some say the souls of those dead men linger beneath the marsh, and when the Dread Moon waxes, they rise from their watery graves to feast on the living. Horrible things they are, lad: a single deathly eye, needle teeth and grasping claws ready to pull you under the water to join them forever.”
Sigmar’s father had told him of the mist daemons that haunted the marshes around Marburg upon their return from Astofen Bridge. Wolfgart was exaggerating that tale, but like the best storytellers, he was weaving his embellishments around a core of truth.
“Daemons, eh?” said Redwane. “I’ve never fought a daemon before.”
“Then you are lucky,” said Sigmar, remembering the desperate fight against a host of daemonic beasts in the Grey Vaults, the bleak neth
erworld between life and death. His father had crossed over into Morr’s realm to rescue him, giving up his life to save his only son. A lump formed in Sigmar’s throat at the thought of his father’s sacrifice.
“Ulric’s teeth, what I wouldn’t give to fight such a beast,” continued Redwane. “Imagine it, Wolfgart. You’d have the pick of the maidens after a kill like that.”
“Trust me, Redwane,” said Sigmar. “I have fought beings from the dread realms, and you should pray to all the gods that you never face such a creature.”
Wolfgart looked curiously at him. “When did you fight a daemon? And why wasn’t I beside you?”
“Do not ask me that,” said Sigmar, unwilling to be drawn on the subject. “I will not speak of it, for evil like that is drawn by such talk. There are daemons enough in this world without summoning more to us.”
Wolfgart shrugged, and a stern glance silenced the question Sigmar saw on Redwane’s lips. A thin rain began to fall, and the riders journeyed in silence for perhaps another hour before the mist began to thin and the land began to rise. Sigmar saw villages huddled in the distance, their waterlogged fields worked by mud-covered farmers and sway-backed horses.
This land was drained of life and colour, the sky was leaden and thunderous above the vast mountains to the south. Everywhere Sigmar looked, he saw tones of a dull and muddy brown. This was not what he had expected to see. Around Reikdorf, the land was green and golden, fertile and bountiful. Though life was hard and demanding, a sense of pride and purpose filled the settlements in Unberogen lands.
Sigmar saw none of that here, and a gloomy solitude settled upon him.
Several times during this last stage of the journey, the riders left the road to make way for rattling corpse-carts piled high with the dead. Each wagon was escorted by grim-faced knights in black and dark-robed priests of Morr, their monotone chants and dolorous bell-ringing muffled by the fog. Wailing mourners followed the carts, tearing at their hair and mortifying their flesh with knotted ropes hung with fishhooks.
The White Wolves covered their mouths with their cloaks, and made the sign of Shallya to ward off any evil vapours as each procession passed. Sigmar rode alongside Cradoc as the old man stared into a cart where the ties binding the canvas covering had come loose. Stiff and cold bodies looked out with bulging eyes that spoke of terrible fear and agonising pain.
“Looks like lung rot,” said Cradoc. “Don’t worry, it’s not infectious, but the air here has turned bad. Something has stirred a miasma from the depths of the marsh to infect the air.”
“That’s bad, yes?” asked Redwane.
“Oh yes, very bad,” said Cradoc. “Over time, fluid builds up in the lungs, draining your strength until you can barely move or even speak.”
“Then what happens?” asked Wolfgart.
“Then you drown in your bed.”
“Shallya’s mercy,” hissed Sigmar, covering his mouth. “Should we take any precautions?”
“Not unless you plan to live here,” said Cradoc, riding away from the corpse-cart.
At last the sodden road led the riders through a wilting stand of trees of bare branches. Topping a rise shawled in wiry gorse, Sigmar caught the scent of sea air and saw Marburg. The city of the Endals sat atop a jagged bluff of volcanic black rock that reared from a desolate landscape of fog-shrouded heaths and endless marshland. This was where the mighty Reik reached the sea, and its sluggish waters were frothed with patches of ochre scum.
The black promontory of Marburg glistened in the rain, and an uneven band of pale blue stone rose to a height of about six feet from its summit, almost as though it had grown out of the rock. This was all that remained of an outpost built by an ancient race of fey folk who were said to dwell far across the ocean.
Even from here, the great skill of the stonemasons was evident, the joints between the blocks barely visible, and the curving sweep of the walls elegantly fashioned. Where dwarf-craft was solid, straightforward and had little in the way of subtlety, the remains of this structure were as much art as architecture.
Vast earthen ramparts of all too human construction were piled high upon the pale stone, and sadness touched Sigmar to see such a noble outpost so reduced. For a moment, he pictured it as it might once have looked: a glittering fastness of slender towers of silver and gold, arched windows of delicate glass and a riot of colourful flags.
The picture faded from his mind as he saw thick logs with sharpened ends jutting from the muddy ramparts, as much to reinforce the earth as to deter attackers. Black banners hung limply from a pair of flagpoles, rising from the stone towers built to either side of a wide timber gateway. Both towers were built from the same black stone of the rock and each was shaped in the form of a tall raven.
Trails of smoke rose from the city, and the tops of buildings roofed with grey slate could be seen over the walls. Flocks of dark-pinioned birds circled the winged towers of the Raven Hall at the heart of Marburg.
Beyond the city, the ocean’s dark expanse spread towards the horizon. Grey banks of fog clung to the surface of the water and a few ships bobbed in the swells. Fishing nets trailed from their sterns, though Sigmar had little appetite for any fish caught in such sombre seas.
“Gods, have you ever seen anywhere so depressing?” asked Redwane, waving a hand in front of him. “It stinks worse than an orc’s breath!”
“Wasn’t like this when I was here,” said Wolfgart. “Marburg was a fine town, with good beer and food. I don’t recognise this place.”
Sigmar wanted to rebuke Redwane and Wolfgart, but there was little point, for there was no denying the pall of misery that hung over Marburg. The entire land of the Endals was soaked in despair.
“Come on,” said Sigmar. “I want to find out what’s at the heart of this.”
They rode towards Marburg, the widening road laid with timbers to ease the passage of wagons and horses. The raven sculpted towers loomed above them, dark and threatening, and a chill travelled down Sigmar’s spine as he entered their shadow. The city gates were open, and Endal tribesmen in brown and black made way for the mud-spattered horsemen.
Sigmar knew they made an impressive sight, for their horses were powerful beasts, the product of years of careful selective breeding on Wolfgart’s lands. Long ago, Wolfgart had promised to breed horses capable of wearing iron armour, and he had set to the challenge with as much determination as Sigmar had set about achieving his dream of an empire.
As a result, Unberogen horses were the biggest in the land, grain-fed mounts of no less than sixteen hands, with wide chests, strong legs and straight backs. By any reckoning, Wolfgart was a wealthy man, for his stallions were much sought after by those whose coin was plentiful, and several had been requested by Sigmar’s counts upon seeing them at the gallop.
The White Wolves were no less impressive: tough, capable men who were equally at home fighting from the back of a horse as they were on foot. Their armour was of the finest quality, though they eschewed the use of shield or helmet, and their red cloaks were arranged carefully over the rumps of their horses. There was no give in them, and their long hair and beards were deliberately wild and barbarous.
Sigmar led the White Wolves through the gateway and into a cobbled courtyard. Warriors in black breastplates and helmets lined the courtyard, each carrying a long, bronze-tipped lance. Sigmar was instantly alert, for this was not the welcome an Emperor might expect. It felt more like the arrival of a tolerated enemy.
A warrior in a black, full-faced helm and a man dressed in flowing robes of green wool stood in the centre of the courtyard. Sigmar angled his course towards them. The warrior was powerfully built, while the robed man was old, his beard reaching almost to his waist. A long, curved blade hung from a belt of woven reeds, and he carried a staff of pale wood, its length garlanded with mistletoe.
“Why do I feel like there’s an arrow aimed between my shoulder blades?” whispered Wolfgart.
“Because there probably is,” replied
Redwane, nodding upwards.
Sigmar saw warriors peering down from the raven towers and nodded, knowing there would indeed be archers above them with arrows nocked. Aldred would not be so foolish or bitter as to have him killed, but still his senses were warning him of danger.
“Stay alert,” he hissed, “but do nothing unless I do it first.”
The warrior in the black helmet stepped forward and bowed curtly to Sigmar. He removed his helmet and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“Laredus,” said Sigmar, recognising the warrior of the Raven Helms. “Where is Count Aldred? He cannot come to greet me himself?”
“Emperor Sigmar,” said Laredus, “you honour us with your presence in Marburg. Count Aldred sends his regrets, but the health of his brother deteriorates daily and he fears to leave his side.”
“His brother is ill?” asked Sigmar, dropping from his horse to stand next to Laredus. If archers were going to shoot, he would give them a choice of targets.
“Indeed, my lord. The sickness from the marsh claims pauper and prince alike,” said Laredus.
“And who is this?” asked Sigmar, indicating the robed man beside Laredus. “I do not know him.”
“I am called Idris Gwylt,” said the man with a short bow, his voice lilting and unfamiliar. His skin was the colour of aged oak and his hair was the pure white of freshly fallen snow. Pale green eyes regarded Sigmar with curiosity, and though there was no hostility in them, neither was there welcome.
“You’ll address your Emperor as ‘my lord’ in future,” snapped Redwane.
Sigmar waved Redwane back and said, “What is your role, Idris Gwylt? Are you a priest, a healer?”
“A little of both, perhaps,” said Idris, with a wry smile. “I am counsellor to Ki… Count Aldred on matters spiritual and worldly.”
Sigmar turned from Idris Gwylt and addressed Laredus. “My men have travelled far and require food, lodgings and hot water. We shall also require stabling and grain for our mounts. When I have washed myself clean of mud, you will take me to Count Aldred, sick brother or not.”
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