02 - Empire

by Graham McNeill

  How could this have happened? The blood of an entire tribe was on his hands. He wept as he ran, his entire body wracked with heaving sobs for the lives he had ended and the souls blackened by his actions.

  The mist thickened until he could see no farther than his next step. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, yet the blackness that hung over him followed him wherever he went. He splashed through shallow streams, blundered into tearing bracken and gorse, tripped over buried rocks and breathed in great lungfuls of swampy air. He ran until he could run no more, and dropped to his knees before a deep pool of peaty water, the surface like a black mirror.

  Ripples spread from the edge of the pool, and eyeless things disappeared beneath the surface as they sensed his presence. Fat flies with iridescent wings droned over the surface of the water and loathsome plants with white, sticky fronds brushed him with hideous caresses as he fell forward.

  His arms sank to his elbows, and segmented worms blindly wriggled around his flesh. He pulled his arms from the mud and held his hands out before him. Black water ran from them like blood, and the horror of the last few months surged to the forefront of his mind.

  How could he have done this?

  That was not him. Sigmar Heldenhammer was a better man than that.

  Are you so sure?

  Sigmar’s head lifted at the question. Had he spoken aloud? Was this the voice of his conscience? Or was there someone else in the marsh?

  Something black moved in the mist, like an enormous figure swathed in robes of utter darkness, but when Sigmar snapped his head around to look, he saw nothing but the undulant banks of yellowish-white fog drifting at the edge of the pool.

  “Show yourself!” he demanded.

  I am not here, the voice said. You know where I am, and you know what I can give you.

  “I want nothing from you!” screamed Sigmar. “Whatever you are, you are a monster. A creature of evil!”

  True, but I could not have reached out to you had there not already been a darkness within you. The door was open. All I needed to do was step through.

  “No! I am a good man!” wailed Sigmar.

  You are a man, and man is born with darkness in his heart, hissed the voice and Sigmar saw the phantom shadow at the edge of his vision once more. It circled him, though part of him knew it was but a fragment of some far greater power.

  “I will not listen to you,” said Sigmar, reaching up to tear the crown from his head. Once again spikes of pain stabbed through his eyes, and he fell to the ground, clawing at his head.

  You will listen, for you are to be my herald. You shall usher in an age of death to the world. You will craft a realm of bone for me to rule. Such has been your destiny since before your insignificant ember of life was spat into existence.

  Sigmar picked himself up as yet more memories of his slaughter of the Roppsmenn flooded his thoughts.

  You see? This is what you are. This is who you are. Embrace it and the pain will end. Cease your resistance and give me your flesh to wear. You cannot keep my spirit out forever, and when you are mine, I shall give you power beyond your wildest imaginings. This petty empire of man that you have built is nothing to what we might achieve together. There are lands far beyond these shores to be conquered, worlds beyond this paltry rock to be enslaved! Stand at my side and this entire world will be yours!

  Sigmar saw it all, the warring states of the eastern dragon kings, the mysterious island of the fey in the west, the endless jungles of the south where lizards that walked like men built towering cities, and the seething lands of chaos and madness in the north.

  All of it could be his, and he saw himself at the head of an invincible army of warriors that stretched from horizon to horizon. Wherever these warriors marched, the land blackened and shrivelled, dying with every footstep taken in dreadful unison. This was an army of the dead, an unstoppable force that defied the living and left nothing but ashes in its wake. This was an army that would never die, led by a warrior whose name would live forever.

  That name could be yours.

  He saw himself atop the world with all the power such a position could grant. He saw worlds beyond his own, worlds of unimaginable wealth. It was all just waiting to be brought low. This could be his, and world upon world would know and fear Sigmar’s name.

  The allure of such eternal power spoke to the ambition that had driven Sigmar to build the empire, promising the fulfilment of every desire, the satisfaction of every dream and the power to achieve the impossible. His ambition revelled in such potential, yet the flickering candle that was Sigmar’s humanity rebelled at this perversion of his vision of a united land.

  “No,” he whispered. “This is not what I want. This is a domain of the dead.”

  It will live forever. As will you.

  “No,” repeated Sigmar, the very act of denial giving him strength. “I will not!”

  Then if not for you, perhaps for another.

  The mist before Sigmar parted and a tormented moan issued from deep within him. Across the water, he saw Ravenna, as beautiful as the last time he had seen her by the river. Her dark tresses spilled around the sculpted arc of her pale shoulders, and the light in her eyes was like the dawn of the brightest day. Nearly two decades had passed since her death, yet Sigmar remembered every curve of her body, every subtle aroma of her flesh, and this vision was just as he pictured her in his dreams.

  “My love,” whispered Sigmar.

  She smiled at him, and his heart broke anew.

  Join me and she can live again. Death is meaningless in the face of the power I can give you. Surrender to me and she will be yours forever.

  Sigmar pushed himself to his feet, knowing that the vision across the water was not Ravenna. Nevertheless, he stepped into the pool, sinking to his knees as he went to her. He took another step, the black water rising to his waist. Another step and the water was at his chest.

  Yes, let the water claim you.

  Sigmar heard the glee in the shadow’s voice, but didn’t care. All he wanted was to cross the pool to get to Ravenna. With her in his arms, the world could go away. He would have reclaimed his lost love.

  The water rose to his neck, and he felt the clammy embrace of underwater fronds like grasping hands on his body. Water splashed his eyes, and the image of Ravenna shimmered like a ghostly mist before him. Thoughts of life and death vanished from his mind as the water closed over his head, and Ravenna disappeared.

  Then he was alone in the darkness, and all he could hear was booming laughter echoing across the gulf of time.

  When he opened his eyes, he was lying beside a river, its fast-flowing waters like shards of dancing ice and the scent of the surrounding woodlands intoxicating with its vitality. He watched as children played in the river, two boys and a girl. Their laughter was like musical rain, sweet, joyous, and unburdened by the passage of years.

  He felt a presence beside him, and smiled to see his wife lying next to him. Her hair was grey, and though she was close to seventy years old, she was as beautiful as ever. He stroked her hair, seeing that his own flesh was gnarled and lined with age. The thought pleased him.

  “Is this real?” he asked.

  Ravenna turned to face him and smiled.

  “No, my love. It is but a dream,” she said, “a last, sweet memory of a future that never came to pass.”

  “Ours?”

  “Perhaps,” said Ravenna, watching the children playing in the river. “Though I doubt it.”

  “Why?” asked Sigmar, hurt by her honesty.

  “Is this what you wanted?” she asked him. “Really?”

  “A future where I have lived a full life, with many children and now grandchildren? What man could ask for more?”

  “You are no normal man, Sigmar,” said Ravenna. “You were always destined for things beyond the reach of mortal men. As much as I would have wished you to live out the span of our days together, it could never be. I know that now.”

  “Then it
is really you, Ravenna?” asked Sigmar. “This is not some evil fantasy?”

  “It is me, my love,” she said, and the sound of her voice was like a soothing balm upon his soul. “I have watched with pride as you achieved everything you set out to do.”

  “I did it all for you,” he said.

  “I know you did, but you are being corrupted from within. A dread power has come to this land and threatens everything you and all who came before you have built. Even now it seeks to drag you down into death.”

  Sigmar sat up as a cloud passed across the face of the sun and the surrounding forest, which had seemed so benign beforehand, was now haunted by shadows. The laughter of the children faltered, and his heart beat a little faster as unbidden images of dead Roppsmenn flickered behind his eyes. A hot wind blew through the trees, dusty and dry, and laden with the powdered bones of a long-dead civilisation.

  “Tell me what I must do!” he cried. “I cannot fight it alone. I… I have done terrible things, and I am losing more and more of myself with every day. I can feel it, but I cannot stop it. The evil that poisons me grows stronger as I grow weaker.”

  “You are Sigmar Heldenhammer,” said Ravenna, taking his head in her hands as the winds grew stronger. “You are the greatest man I know, and you will not give in to this.”

  “It is too strong for me,” he gasped, hearing the children’s laughter turn to cries of fear as the darkness closed in. Trees bent with the force of the howling winds of the desert, though Ravenna’s face remained unwavering before him. Grit carried on the wind scoured his flesh, peeling back his solidity as if seeking to erase him from this dream. The forest faded, and he held on to Ravenna’s words even as the wind fought to obscure them.

  “You are the Chosen of Ulric,” said Ravenna, her voice fading as he was torn away from her by the wind. “The wolf of winter runs in your blood and the power of the northern winds gives you life. You can stand tall against this reborn evil, though it poisons you through that sorcerous crown. The land must be united as one, for its maker will soon come to claim it, and you must be ready to face him!”

  “I don’t know how!” he cried with the last of his breath.

  “You will,” promised Ravenna as the winds plucked him away and sent him spinning off into the darkness.

  Sigmar’s eyes snapped open, and he saw nothing. Absolute darkness filled his vision. No, that wasn’t right. Bright spots of light danced before his eyes, and his head pounded with searing pain. He tried to scream, but achingly cold water poured down his throat, and he gagged as the rank, stagnant taste of it filled his lungs.

  He coughed, and his whole body spasmed as he realised that he was beneath the water of the Brackenwalsch. Half-remembered fragments of dreams and memories came to him, but through all of it he saw Ravenna’s face. Her bright eyes willed him to live, and he struggled against the deathly grip of the water. He kicked upwards as he fought to reach the surface, but no matter how hard he fought, a leaden weight kept him from rising.

  The pain in his head intensified, as though a red-hot band of iron was slowly tightening upon his temple, burning its way through his skull to his brain. Swirling in the water around him, the phantom darkness spun him grand illusions of wealth, power, women and immortality, but without Ravenna, they were hollow, worthless promises.

  If not for her, then for your land, hissed the voice, undaunted by his resistance.

  Sigmar’s vision blurred, and he saw barren, windswept tundra, a northern realm haunted by daemons and ancient gods of blood. His mind’s eye swooped and dived like a bird, and he flew over this bitter, hateful landscape in the blink of an eye, seeing signs that thousands of people had, until recently, called this place home.

  His immaterial form swept out over the grey waters of the Sea of Claws, following a course southwards through riotous tempests, until he came upon a vast fleet of ships sailing over the crests of surging waves: Wolfships.

  These were the Norsii ships of war, and there were hundreds of them bound for the northern coasts of the empire. An army of conquest or an army of destruction, it made no difference. They would invade the north and ravage his land unless he could defeat them.

  I can help you. With the power I offer, the Norsii will be food for crows. Your land will be safe and one day we will cross the water to wipe their race from the face of the world!

  Sigmar ignored the voice and shook off the vision, pushing hard for the world above. Each passing moment increased the pressure and pain in his lungs. He could not last much longer. Then the pounding in his head eased, and he felt his struggles grow weaker as the weight at his head dragged him deeper into the water.

  Yet more images flashed before his eyes: Blacktusk the Boar, Trinovantes as his body was carried into his tomb on Warrior’s Hill, the towering peak of the Fauschlag Rock, and a hundred other moments from his life. It was a life lived for the good of others: a life lived with honour, courage and sacrifice.

  A wasted life, sneered the voice.

  Then he heard another voice, one with a deep and resonant timbre that instantly transported him to his youth, when he had sat with the veteran warriors of the tribe and thrilled to their tales of heroic sagas, of kings long since taken to the Halls of Ulric.

  “I want no other son,” said this voice. “I have you. I know you will be a great man, and people will speak the name Sigmar with respect and awe for years! Now fight!”

  The new voice echoed in his head with absolute authority, and he could no more disobey its command than he could breathe underwater. Sigmar cast off the last of the crown’s blandishments, knowing that he had a duty to live. He had to return to the world of light and life to protect his people.

  All else was folly, and he grieved at how easily his heart had been turned from its course.

  Sigmar took hold of the golden crown.

  It burned with dark magic, and he saw that its golden light was hideous and filled with malice. It fought him, filling his thoughts with ever more outrageous promises of power. His weary soul had been blinded to the crown’s malevolence, but now he knew what a terrible trap it had been.

  With a soundless scream, Sigmar tore the ancient metal from his brow.

  His entire body was a searing mass of pain, but not even the touch of Shallya could compare to the joy that filled him as the crown’s terrible hold was broken. Sigmar pushed up from the bottom of the pool with the last of his strength, feeling a wordless scream of frustration echo from somewhere far, far away.

  Slicks of light whirled above him, strange stars and unknown worlds, but he kept his gaze fixed upon the water’s rippling surface. At one and the same time it seemed unbearably close, yet impossibly distant. His strength was gone, and he knew he could not reach the surface.

  A questing hand splashed down into the water, and Sigmar reached out for it, feeling an iron grip take hold of his wrist and pull.

  Sigmar burst from the pool, his chest heaving and expelling a torrent of scum-frothed water. He clawed his way up the muddy banks, revelling in the sweetness of the air and the myriad scents that filled the swamp. A strong pair of hands hauled him the rest of the way and he rolled onto his back, sucking great gulps of air into his tortured lungs.

  A hulking form sat on a nearby rock, a warrior covered from head to foot in black mud, whose face was bruised and bloody. Sigmar wiped his face and gathered breath to thank his rescuer, but the words died in his throat.

  “Thought I’d lost you there,” said Wolfgart.

  When he had strength enough to stand, Sigmar embraced his sword-brother, shamed and honoured by his devotion.

  The cool air of the marsh felt wondrously sharp against his skin, and Sigmar revelled in the sensation. He breathed as though it were the sweetest nectar. His entire body shook with cold and pain, but he welcomed it, for it was a reminder that he was alive.

  At last they parted, and Sigmar looked down at the crown he held in one hand. He dropped it as though it were red-hot and stepped away from it. Wol
fgart bent to examine the crown, but Sigmar kicked it away.

  “Do not touch it!” he cried. “It is a thing of evil!”

  “I know,” said Wolfgart, “and you should have known too. What kind of fool trusts a treasure taken from a necromancer?”

  Sigmar knew that Wolfgart was right, but would anything be gained in trying to explain the glamour with which the ancient crown had ensnared him? That it had preyed upon his ambition and exploited the warlike heart that made him so formidable a warrior? Anything he said now would sound like an excuse, an attempt to abrogate responsibility for his actions.

  And that was something that Sigmar would never do.

  “The Roppsmenn,” he said, burying his head in his hands. “Oh gods, what have I done?”

  That the crown had saved Pendrag’s life did not matter, for there were no excuses that could atone for what he had done in the months since Morath’s defeat.

  “Aye, you’ll carry that one for the rest of your life,” said Wolfgart, “and you’ll have a job earning back the trust of the counts.”

  “What about you?” asked Sigmar haltingly. “I almost killed you.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Wolfgart, offering him his hand. “That’s what’s important. It was the crown, it made you do those terrible things. But that’s done with now.”

  “The crown is evil,” agreed Sigmar, “but it could have done nothing to me unless it had found some darkness within me to latch onto. The Hag Woman tried to warn me about replacing Alaric’s gift, but I did not listen.”

  “Ah, speaking of the mountain folk,” said Wolfgart, reaching down to lift a canvas bag from the edge of the pool, “I brought some things for you. I had hoped to give them to you earlier, but… Well, things got a bit out of hand.”

  Wolfgart reached into the bag, and Sigmar almost wept at the sight of what he pulled out.

  Ghal Maraz glittered in the light, and Sigmar felt his hand curl with the urge to grip the ancient warhammer.

  “How?” he asked.