02 - Empire

by Graham McNeill

  His sword-brother finished his wine and smiled. “I’ll remind you of this the next time I lose my temper and embarrass you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that,” said Sigmar, reaching over to pour more wine. “I think the drink must be getting to me.”

  Wolfgart lifted his goblet and took a long swallow.

  “You might be right,” he said. “You never could drink as much as me. This wine’s not bad, but it’s not a mug of Unberogen beer. Too weak.”

  “Drink the rest of the jug and tell me that.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m that sick of waiting for something to happen, I might as well spend my time here drunk. How much longer do you think they’ll make us sit on our backsides?”

  “I do not know, my friend,” said Sigmar with a shrug. “But for Idris Gwylt, I think I could have persuaded Aldred to march out with us.”

  “He’s a sly fox that one, he needs watching,” agreed Wolfgart. “I heard those that followed the Old Faith used to sacrifice virgins to let the purity of their blood bless the earth, or something like that.”

  “So they say, but stories of old religions are almost always exaggerated by the faiths that replace them to make people glad they are gone. It’s like the stories you hear as a child about ancient heroes who bestrode the world like giants only to vanish and have their people claim that they will one day return when the world needs them most.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because people need hope when things are at their darkest,” said Sigmar. “Of course, none of these heroes ever do return. Most likely they got a knife in the back or fell from a horse and broke their neck, but who wants their legends to end like that?”

  “Not me,” said Wolfgart, letting loose an almighty belch. “I want my heroes to be gods among men, warriors able to level mountains with a single blow, rescue beautiful maidens from monsters without a second thought, and turn back armies with a word.”

  “You always were a dreamer,” said Sigmar, laughing.

  The moon had risen, lighting the sky with its pale glow as Sigmar opened his eyes. He blinked, realising he’d fallen asleep. He groaned, feeling the beginnings of a thumping headache. Wine had spilled down his tunic, and he saw that Wolfgart had passed out with his head between his knees. A puddle of vomit stained the flagstones of the terrace. Sigmar ran a hand through his hair. His eyes ached and his mouth felt as though he’d drunk a barrel-load of bog water.

  “Now I remember why I do not do this,” he groaned, pushing himself to his feet. “I need to get to bed.”

  A cold wind was blowing in from the darkened ocean, and Sigmar lurched towards the wall of the terrace, resting his palms on the cool stone and taking several deep breaths. It was foolish to try and blot out problems with strong drink, for they only returned all the more troublesome the following morning.

  He looked down at the city gates below the terrace, surprised to see they were open. In Reikdorf, the gates were shut fast as night fell and did not open until the dawn. More corpse-carts no doubt.

  Sigmar sighed, knowing that he was going to have to order Aldred to march alongside him to end the threat of the daemons. He was Emperor, and it was time to flex his imperial muscles.

  “I had hoped to avoid coercing you, Aldred,” he whispered. “What brotherhood does not create, force will not correct.”

  The night was clammy and still, but the fogs had cleared enough to reveal a portion of the marshes stretching off into the distance. It was not an inspiring view, for the land around Marburg’s walls was desolate and uninviting, and the gibbous moonlight made them all the more threatening.

  Looking northwards, all Sigmar could see was treacherous mist-wreathed bogs along the line of the coast. Nothing lived in those bogs, nothing wholesome at least, and Sigmar spat a mouthful of bitter phlegm over the edge of the terrace.

  He was about to turn away when a column of cloaked figures emerged from the city, but this was no solemn procession of corpse-carts. Sigmar recognised Idris Gwylt at the head of the column, his white hair and beard dazzling in the moonlight. Behind him went twenty Raven Helms with the bronze-armoured Count Aldred leading them. Ulfshard shimmered in Aldred’s grip, wreathed in ghostly blue light like a frozen bolt of northern lightning.

  The Raven Helms escorted what looked like a captive in their midst, and Sigmar’s eyes narrowed as he saw that it was Aldred’s sister, Marika, her willowy form and golden hair unmistakable.

  The column turned from the road and made its way into the marshes. The mist closed around them, and in a heart-stopping moment of realisation, Sigmar understood the nature of the offering that Idris Gwylt intended to make to the daemons.

  ——

  Daemon Moon

  Thirty of Sigmar’s warriors marched through the gates of Marburg with purposeful strides, their faces set and determined. The moonlight made their wolfskin cloaks glow, and reflected from the few pieces of armour they had been able to put on as Sigmar roused them from their beds. Wolfgart and Redwane followed Sigmar as he splashed from the roadway onto the boggy ground at its side.

  He stopped, feeling the cold water seeping through the worn leather of his boots. Beyond the road, the marsh was shrouded in ghostly mist. Sigmar shivered as he remembered the last time he had seen such a desolate, soulless landscape. It had been ten years ago, when he had lain close to death and his soul wandered the barren wastelands of the Grey Vaults.

  The souls of the damned haunted that netherworld between life and death, and these marshes would be little different. The mist writhed and coiled around itself, an opaque wall of grey with distant flickering lights bobbing in its depths.

  “What in the name of Shallya’s mercy is going on?” asked Redwane. “Why are we here?”

  “Aye,” said Wolfgart, still clad in his stained tunic. “It’s bad luck to fight beneath the dread moon, especially when it’s full. No good can come of it.”

  “We are here to save an innocent life,” said Sigmar, hefting Ghal Maraz in both hands. The runes worked into its haft shone in the moonlight, as though energised by the thought of wreaking havoc against creatures of darkness once more.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You remember telling me about the Old Faith and their sacrifices of virgins?” asked Sigmar.

  “Vaguely,” replied Wolfgart.

  “Turns out they’re not just stories after all. I saw Aldred lead the Raven Helms into the marsh with Marika as their prisoner. Idris Gwylt means to offer her to the mist daemons.”

  “Bastard!” snarled Redwane. “I’ll break his skull open with my hammer and tear his damn heart out!”

  Sigmar was surprised at the strength of Redwane’s anger, but was pleased to see the outrage on his warriors’ faces as word of what was happening spread amongst them. He turned to face the White Wolves, knowing that some might not survive the night. Wolfgart was right, it was bad luck to go into battle beneath the spectral light of the dread moon, but they had no choice if they hoped to save Marika’s life.

  “A deluded old man seeks to murder an innocent girl!” Sigmar cried, though the mist seemed to swallow his words, throwing back strange echoes as if to mock him. “I will not allow this to happen, and I need your strength to stop it. Are you with me?”

  As one, the White Wolves raised their hammers and roared their affirmation, as Sigmar had known they would. Though the thought of entering this terrible marsh was a fearful prospect, the Wolves would never dream of letting their Emperor go into battle without them.

  Sigmar nodded and set off into the mist, splashing through sucking mud and icy pools of stagnant water the colour of pitch. He had no way of knowing exactly where the Endals had gone, for brackish water poured into every footprint and erased it in seconds. Sigmar wished he had thought to bring Cuthwin to Marburg, but wishes were for fools and children, and they would need to find the Endals without their finest tracker.

  The mist closed around the Unberogen as
they forged a slow, stumbling path into the marsh. Their passage was lit by the sickly glow of lifeless moonbeams, and strange burping and bubbling sounds gurgled from the bog. A whispering wind dropped the temperature, but did not stir the heavy mist.

  Nightcrawlers wriggled in the reeds and flies buzzed low over the ground. Sigmar saw an enormous dragonfly droning softly as it hunted in the hungry glow of the moon. His skin crawled and the hairs on the back of his neck itched as though a clawed hand was poised to strike him. This marsh was not like the Brackenwalsch, which wore its dangers openly. It was a haunted place where death crept up on a man and took him unawares.

  “Look!” shouted Redwane. “Over there!”

  Sigmar turned to where Redwane was pointing, and his eyes narrowed as he saw bobbing lights in the distance, like hooded lamps borne by weary travellers. He tried to remember if the Endals had carried such illumination. He thought they had, but couldn’t be sure.

  Still, he was wary. The old men of Reikdorf spoke of such lights in the Brackenwalsch. They called them doom-lanterns, for the treacherous illumination they provided was said to lure men to their deaths with the promise of safety. Pendrag had told him that such lights were merely ignited swamp gases or moonlight reflecting from the feathers of night owls, but neither explanation gave Sigmar much comfort.

  If these lights were indeed those of the Endals, then they had to follow them.

  “This way,” called Sigmar, setting off after the lights. “Keep watch on the ground!”

  Once more the Unberogen plunged deep into the marsh, the ground becoming progressively softer and wetter underfoot. Flies buzzed around Sigmar’s head and he saw yet more of the lights surrounding them, flickering like dancing torches. Bubbles burst around his feet, sounding like the mirthless laughter of dead things.

  Time ceased to have meaning, for the thick fog made it impossible to judge the moon’s passage across the night sky. Sigmar looked up, wincing as the dread moon’s leering face seemed to stare back at him. Ill-favour followed those who turned their faces too long to that malevolent orb, and Sigmar hurriedly made the sign of the horns.

  He started as he felt something brush his legs, and jumped back, seeing a pale shape, like a darting eel beneath the surface of the water. Sigmar lifted his boot from the sucking marsh, the fine leather stained and ruined. A filmy residue of reeking ichor, like pale syrup, dripped from the buckles. Once they got out of the marsh, he would never wear these boots again.

  Sigmar heard a dreadful cry, followed by a heavy splash behind him. He spun to see a group of men holding out their hammers to a fallen warrior who thrashed his arms in a hidden pool of murky water. Sigmar recognised him as Volko, a man who had fought at his side in the charge to rescue the Merogen flank at Black Fire.

  Volko was waist-deep in the bog, but his armour was dragging him down swiftly. He reached for the outstretched weapons, but the marsh was not about to release its victim. Volko’s head vanished beneath the surface of the water as he drew breath to scream, leaving only a froth of bubbles in his wake.

  “Ulric save us,” said Wolfgart, stepping back from the water. “I knew this was bad luck.”

  Sigmar fought his way through the mud and water to the bog where Volko had died. Tendrils of fog gathered around the legs of every warrior, and it was next to impossible to tell solid ground from deadly bog.

  “Move out,” ordered Sigmar. “Check every footstep and stay close to your comrades.”

  “What about Volko?” demanded Redwane. “No warrior deserves to die without hearing the sound of wolves.”

  Sigmar risked a glance into the darkened sky. “You’re right, lad, but this is a night when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.”

  “So we’re just going to leave him?”

  “We will mourn him later,” said Sigmar, setting off once more.

  He had no way of knowing which way to go, but felt a slight pull to the north-east, as though Ghal Maraz knew better than he in which direction its enemies lay. Sigmar put his trust in the craft of the dwarfs and followed the wordless urging.

  Wolfgart came alongside him, his eyes flicking from left to right.

  “None of us are going to make it out of here alive,” he said.

  Sigmar felt his fear, but said, “Let none of the men hear you say that.”

  “It’s true though, isn’t it?”

  “Not if I can help it,” said Sigmar. “We are Unberogen and there is nothing we cannot do.”

  Wolfgart nodded, visibly controlling himself.

  “You know we might have to fight the Raven Helms to save the girl,” he said.

  “I know,” nodded Sigmar, keeping a close eye on the ground. “And if that’s what it takes, then so be it. I drove the Norsii from the empire for such barbarism, and I’ll do the same to the Endals if that’s what’s needed.”

  “Aye,” said Wolfgart. “It’s wrong is what this is. Utterly wrong.”

  Sigmar halted and raised his hand. His warriors stopped with a series of splashes and curses. Ahead, more of the doom-lanterns were moving through the dark, but this time it appeared as though they were borne by indistinct, shadowy forms.

  “Unberogen! Stand ready!” shouted Sigmar.

  The White Wolves swung their hammers to their shoulders and formed a ragged battle line as best they were able.

  The lights drew closer and the mist parted as the ghostly figures came into sight.

  Idris Gwylt, eyes wide with surprise, halted at the sight of Sigmar. Laredus stood beside the priest of the Old Faith, supporting the weeping form of Count Aldred. The Raven Helm’s face was grim and etched with regret. Of the twenty warriors he had led into the marsh, Sigmar counted only a dozen left alive.

  Of Count Aldred’s sister, there was no sign.

  Redwane surged forward and lifted Gwylt by the throat.

  “Where is Marika?” he roared. “What have you done with her?”

  Sigmar saw the Raven Helms reach for their swords and knew that this desolate stretch of marshland might become a battleground in a matter of moments. It was madness, and he would be damned if this one moment would undo the long years of sacrifice spent in building the empire.

  The Raven Helms looked to their ruler for orders, and Sigmar marched over to him. The tension racked up a notch, but instead of words of rebuke Sigmar said, “Count Aldred, where is your sister?”

  Ulfshard dropped from Aldred’s hand, landing point down in the water with a soft splash as the lord of the Endals sank to his haunches. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed aching tears.

  “We left her,” he cried. “Ulric forgive me, we left her there.”

  “Where?” asked Sigmar, kneeling next to Aldred. “Tell me where and we will get her back. You and me both. This is wrong, Aldred, you know that.”

  “It had to be done!” cried Aldred. “A plague ravages my people and my brother is dead!”

  Sigmar was shocked.

  “Egil is dead?” he asked.

  Aldred nodded, tears cutting clean lines through the mud on his cheeks. “A few hours ago, and now my sister will join him in Morr’s realm. It was the only way to save my people.”

  “You are wrong,” said Sigmar.

  Aldred wiped his sleeve across his face.

  “What choice did I have?” he asked. “Everything was being taken from us and only the sacrifice of a pure and noble born maiden could save us.”

  Sigmar took Aldred by the shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.

  “You have been deceived,” he said, looking over his shoulder to where Redwane stood with his hammer poised to smash Idris Gwylt’s skull to shards. “Did he tell you that?”

  “The daemons demanded a sacrifice!” shouted Gwylt, struggling in vain to free himself from Redwane’s iron grip. “And the girl went willingly! She knew that the land must be nourished by virgin’s blood, as it was in the elder days. Aldred, you know I speak only the truth!”

  “Shut your mouth, you dog,” snarl
ed Redwane, squeezing Gwylt’s throat.

  Sigmar stood and snatched Gwylt’s staff. He broke it over his knee before hurling the shards into the marsh. The Raven Helms still gripped their swords and the White Wolves were braced to meet their charge. With the wrong word, Sigmar could have a civil war on his hands.

  “All of you listen to me!” he shouted. “And listen well, your lives depend upon it. This is a black day for the Endals, for you have heeded the words of a madman. You are warriors of honour and this act shames you. Leading a young girl to her death in this evil place is a vile deed, and if she dies, I will damn your names for all eternity. This curse, if curse it is, will only be lifted if we seek out these daemons of the mist and destroy them. Now I am going to find Marika, and I am going to bring her back to Marburg. You can either come with me and regain your honour, or you can slink back to your homes and live the rest of your lives known forever as cowards and nithings, to be cast out and shunned by all men.”

  Sigmar turned from the warriors as Aldred pushed himself to his feet. The count of the Endals rubbed the heels of his palms against his face, as though waking from a dreadful nightmare, and Sigmar saw the strength he had seen in Aldred’s father.

  “Aye,” said Sigmar, gripping Aldred’s hand. “Take up your sword, brother. We will get her back, I swear.”

  Aldred lifted Ulfshard from the water, the blade’s ghostly glow banishing the darkness with its brilliance. No trace of the foul marsh-water stained its blade.

  “When my father died, light fled from our lives,” said Aldred, his voice choked with emotion. “Since then I have lived in darkness. It has been so long that I cannot remember the light.”

  “Help me rescue your sister and the light will return,” said Sigmar.

  Aldred nodded, and a fierce determination shone in his eyes. He turned his gaze upon Idris Gwylt and said, “Aye, and this old fool will lead us back to their domain or I will cut his throat.”