—<ONE>—

The Last Days of Kings

 

 

The shadows were long as the Hag Woman stepped from the misty hilltop overlooking the city of Reikdorf. She had walked many miles from her home in the Brackenwalsch, and her limbs were aching from the long journey. The poultices and tisanes of Spiderleaf and Valerian were no longer able to keep the crystals in her joints from causing her pain, and she rested for a moment upon a long staff fashioned from the wood of the rowan tree. The staff’s top was hung with talismans of protection and shrouding, for the Summer Solstice was a time when the eyes of the gods were turned on the world, and it did not do to attract unwanted attention.

The Hag Woman set off down the hill towards the city that shone like a beacon in the gathering darkness. Torches had been set on the new walls of stone and light poured from the city, illuminating the landscape around it in a warm, safe glow.

The Hag Woman knew that safety was illusory, for this was a dangerous world, an old world, where monstrous beasts lurked in the sprawling forests, and warlike greenskin tribes raided the lands of men from their mountain lairs. Nor were these the only dangers that pressed close to the light: things unknown and unseen gathered their strength in the darkness to assault mankind.

A shiver travelled the length of the Hag Woman’s spine, and she felt the clammy embrace of the grave in its chill. Her time in this world was nearing an end, and there was still so much to do, so many courses yet to steer, and so many fates to thwart. The thought made her pick up her pace.

The ground was soft underfoot, warm and still damp from earlier rain. Though a stone-flagged road wound its way towards the open southern gate of the city walls, the Hag Woman kept to the grass, preferring to feel the life of the world beneath her feet. To walk barefoot was to feel the power that dwelt in the earth, and to know that streams of uncorrupted energy still existed in the sacred places of the world.

That such places were becoming ever fewer was a source of great sorrow to the Hag Woman. Every road, every hall of stone and every step taken on the path of civilisation took mankind further from his connection with the land that had birthed him. The advancements that allowed men to survive in this world were the very things divorcing them from their origins and their true strength.

The city walls reared up before her, tall and strong, constructed from blocks of dark stone. They were at least thirty feet high, and she recognised the teachings of the mountain folk in the precisely cut blocks. A pair of stout towers flanked the open gateway, and she saw the gleam of firelight on armour behind their saw-toothed battlements.

She reluctantly stepped onto the roadway and limped through the gateway, past rows of bearded Unberogen warriors armoured in fine hauberks of gleaming mail and bronze helmets with horsehair plumes.

None of the warriors so much as glanced at the Hag Woman, and she smiled at how easily men were fooled by even the simplest of enchantments.

Reikdorf opened up before her, and though it had been many years since she had come to Sigmar’s city, she was nevertheless shocked by how much it had changed. What had once been little more than a simple fishing village on the banks of the Reik had grown to something huge and sprawling. Despite herself, she was impressed by Sigmar’s achievements.

Buildings of stone clustered tightly together in a warren of streets and alleys that reeked of life and unfettered growth. Granaries and storehouses loomed over her, and shouted oaths drifted from reeking taverns. Even this late in the day, metal clanged on metal from a nearby forge, and runners darted through the crowds carrying messages between merchants. The streets were thronged with people, though none save children and dogs spared her more than a glance. As she made her way through the city, men made the sign of the horns for no reason they could adequately explain, and women pulled suckling babes tighter to their breasts.

She could see the longhouse of the Unberogen kings ahead, a magnificently constructed hall fashioned by dwarf hands in gratitude for the rescue of King Kurgan Ironbeard of Karaz-a-Karak from greenskin marauders. The heavy timber shutters were thrown open, and yellow light spilled from within, carried on the sounds of great mirth and raucous merrymaking.

A host of banners was planted before the longhouse, a riot of colours and devices that had once signified division, but which now spoke of unity and shared purpose. She saw the raven of the Endals, the rearing stallion of the Taleutens, the Skull Banner of King Otwin of the Thuringians and many others. She frowned at the one notable absence, and shook her head as she made her way towards the longhouse, to where the lord of the Unberogen tribe and soon-to-be Emperor gathered his warriors.

Wide doors of iron-banded timber led inside. Before them stood six warriors in thick wolfskin cloaks with heavy hammers of wrought iron. As before, none paid her any attention as she passed between them, fogging their minds and memories of her presence. The guards would go to their graves swearing on their children’s lives that not a single soul had passed them.

The smell of sweat and free-flowing beer assailed her inside the longhouse, along with the vast heat of the fire pit at its centre. Sturdy tables ran the length of the building, and hundreds of warriors filled it with songs and laughter. Smoke from the fire gathered beneath the roof, and the rich aroma of roasting pork made her mouth water.

Though she had passed unseen through the streets of Reikdorf, she kept to the shadows, for there were minds close by that were sharper than those of ordinary folk. Kings, queens and dwarfs had gathered in Reikdorf and would not be so easily fooled. She made her way to the rear of the longhouse, far from the empty throne at the other end of the hall that sat beneath a series of grisly battle honours.

War banners hung from the rafters, and the Hag Woman was gratified to see tribesmen from across the Empire moving through the hall with an ease only shared by brothers-in-arms. These warriors had fought and bled at the Battle of Black Fire Pass, against the greatest horde of greenskins the world had ever seen. That incredible victory and shared horror had forged a bond as unbreakable as it would be enduring.

Endal pipers played martial tunes, and dwarf song-smiths told tales of ancient battles in time to the skirling music. The atmosphere was festive, the mood joyous, and the Hag Woman felt a moment of guilt for intruding on this day of celebration.

She wished she could have brought the new Emperor a gift of joy on his coronation night, but that was not the way of the world.

 

High above Reikdorf on Warrior Hill, Sigmar knelt before his father’s tomb, and scooped a handful of soil into the cup of his palm. The earth was dark, rich and loamy. It was good soil, nourished by the ancient dead. Looking at the great slab of rock that sealed King Bjorn’s tomb, Sigmar wished his father could see him now. He had achieved so much in his time as king, yet there was still much to do.

“I miss you, father,” he said, letting the earth pour between his fingers. “I miss the strength you gave me and the earned wisdom you freely offered, though too often I heeded it not.”

Sigmar lifted a foaming tankard of beer from the ground beside him and poured it onto the earth before the tomb. The smell of it stirred a thirst in Sigmar as he drew his hunting knife from its sheath at his belt. The weapon was a gift from Pendrag, and the workmanship was exquisite, the blade acid-etched with the image of a twin-tailed comet. Even King Kurgan had grunted that the blade was serviceable, which was about as close as a dwarf ever came to a compliment on the metalworking skills of other races.

With one swift motion, Sigmar drew the blade across his forearm, allowing blood to well in the cut before turning his arm over to let the ruby droplets fall to the ground. The dark soil soaked up his blood, and he let it flow until he was satisfied that he had given enough.

“This land is my one abiding love,” he said. “To this land and its people, I pledge my life and my strength. This I swear before all the gods and the spirits of my ancestors.”

Sigmar stood and turned his gaze further down the hillside, where countless other tombs had been dug into the earth. Each contained a friend, a loved one or a sword-brother. The day’s last light caught on a pale stone lying flush against the hillside, its surface etched with long spirals and garlanded with wild honeysuckle.

“Too many times have I sent my brothers into the hillside,” whispered Sigmar, remembering the climb to roll that boulder across the darkened sepulchre housing Trinovantes’ body. It seemed inconceivable that sixteen winters had passed since his friend’s death. So much had happened and so much had changed that it was as if the time when Trinovantes had lived belonged to some other life.

Painful memories threatened to surface, but he forced them down, not wishing to tempt fate on the day his grand dream of empire was finally coming to fruition.

A cold wind flayed the summit of the great Unberogen burial mount, but Sigmar did not feel its chill. A dark wolfskin cloak was pulled tightly about his shoulders and a padded woollen jerkin kept him warm. His blond hair was pulled tight in a short ponytail, his forelocks braided at his temples. Sigmar’s features were strong and noble, and his eyes, one a pale blue, the other a deep green, carried wisdom and pain beyond his thirty-one years.

Sigmar stood and brushed his hands clean of earth. He took a deep breath, and looked out over the landscape as dusk cast its purple shadows eastwards. Reikdorf shone with torchlight below him, but it was possible to see spots of light in the far distance, each one a well-defended town with a strong body of armed men to protect it. Beyond the horizon of forest, hundreds more villages and towns were spread throughout his domain, all united under his rule and sworn to the cause of a united empire of man.

The year since Black Fire Pass had been a bountiful one, the fields providing much needed grain to feed the returning warriors and their families. The winter had been mild, the summer balmy and peaceful, and the recent harvest had been among the most plentiful anyone could remember.

Eoforth claimed it was a reward from the gods for the courage shown by the warriors of the empire, and Sigmar had been only too pleased to accept his venerable counsellor’s interpretation. The years preceding the battle had been lean and hard, the land ravaged by constant battle against the greenskins. Mankind had been on the verge of extinction, but the flickering candle-flame had survived the darkness, and, now, burned even brighter.

“Winter coming soon,” said Alfgeir, standing a respectful distance behind him.

“A fortune teller are you now, old friend?” asked Sigmar, gripping the handle of Ghal Maraz, the great warhammer presented to him by King Kurgan Ironbeard.

“Don’t need to throw the bones to feel winter on this wind,” said Alfgeir. “And less of the ‘old’ thank you very much. I’m barely forty-four.”

Sigmar turned to face the man who was both his Marshal of the Reik and personal bodyguard. Standing tall and proud in his gleaming bronze plate armour, Alfgeir was the very image of a proud Unberogen warrior. His face was scarred and craggy, yet Alfgeir wore his age with great dignity, and woe betide any young buck who sought to humble the old man during training on the Field of Swords. Once, his hair had been dark, but now it was streaked with silver.

Like Sigmar, he wore a long wolfskin cloak, though his was white and had been a gift from King Aloysis of the Cherusens. A longsword of cold iron was belted at his waist, and his eyes constantly scanned the landscape for enemies.

“There’s nothing out there,” said Sigmar, following Alfgeir’s wary looks.

“You don’t know that,” replied Alfgeir. “Could be beasts, goblins, assassins. Anything.”

“You’re being paranoid,” said Sigmar, setting off down the path towards his city. He pointed towards the tribal camps beyond the city walls to the west. “No one would try to kill me today, not with so many armed warriors around.”

“It’s having so many warriors around that makes me nervous,” said Alfgeir, following Sigmar towards Reikdorf. “Any one of them might have lost a father, a brother or a son in the wars you fought to win their kings to your cause.”

“True enough,” agreed Sigmar. “But do you really think any of the great kings has brought someone like that to my coronation?”

“Probably not, but I do not like to take chances,” said Alfgeir. “I lost one king to an enemy blade. I’ll not lose an emperor to another.”

King Bjorn had fallen in the wars to drive the Norsii from the lands of the Cherusens and Taleutens, and the shame of his failure to protect his liege lord had broken Alfgeir’s heart. When Sigmar became king of the Unberogen, he had all but destroyed the northern tribe in the following years, pushing their armies into the sea and burning their ships. His father had been avenged and the Norsii cast out from the empire, but Sigmar’s hatred remained strong.

Sigmar stopped and placed his hand on Alfgeir’s shoulder.

“Nor shall you, my friend,” he said.

“I admire your certainty, my king,” said Alfgeir, 'but I think I’ll be happier keeping my guard up and my sword sharp.”

“I would expect nothing less, but you are not a young man anymore,” said Sigmar with a grin that robbed the comment of malice. “You should let some of the younger White Wolves assist you. Perhaps Redwane?”

“I don’t need that young pup hounding my heels,” snapped Alfgeir. “The lad is reckless and boastful. He irritates me. Besides, I told you, I am barely forty-four, younger than your father was when he took the fight to the north.”

“Forty-four,” mused Sigmar. “I remember thinking such an age to be ancient when I was young. How anyone could let themselves grow old was beyond me.”

“Believe me, I don’t recommend it,” said Alfgeir. “Your bones ache in winter, your back gets stiff and, worst of all, you get no respect from youngsters who ought to know better.”

“I apologise, my friend,” chuckled Sigmar. “Now come on. We have honoured the dead, and now it is time to greet my fellow kings.”

“Indeed, my Emperor,” said Alfgeir with a theatrical bow. “You don’t want to be late for your own coronation, eh?”

 

“You are drunk,” said Pendrag.

“That I am,” agreed Wolfgart, happily taking a bite of roast boar. “I always said you were the clever one, Pendrag.”

Wolfgart drained his tankard and wiped his arm over his mouth, smearing a line of beer and grease across his sleeve. Both men were dressed in their finest tunics, though Wolfgart had to admit that Pendrag’s had survived the preliminary festivities rather better than his.

His sword-brother was dear to him, and they had shared adventures the likes of which would make great sagas to tell his son when he was born, but he did so love to nag. Pendrag was solid and immovable, the perfect build for an axeman, where Wolfgart had the wide shoulders and narrow hips of a swordsman.

Pendrag’s flame-red hair was worked in elaborate braids, and his forked beard was stiffened with black resin. Wolfgart had eschewed such gaudy adornments, and simply restrained his wild dark hair with a copper circlet Maedbh had given him on the anniversary of their hand fastening.

Serving girls threaded their way through the heaving mass of celebrating tribesmen, bearing platters stacked high with meat and tankards of foaming beer, while fending off the attentions of amorous drunks. Wolfgart reached out and swept a beaten copper ewer of beer from one of the girl’s trays and slurped a noisy mouthful without bothering to pour it into his tankard.

Most of the foaming liquid went down his front, and Pendrag sighed.

“You couldn’t stay sober tonight?” asked Pendrag. “Or at least not get so drunk?”

“Come on, Pendrag! How often does our childhood friend get to be crowned Emperor over all the lands of men? I’ll be the first to admit, I thought he was mad as a Cherusen Wildman when he told us his plan, but Ulric roast my backside if he didn’t go and do it!”

Wolfgart waved his tankard at the hundreds of feasting tribesmen gathered around the long fire pit. Wild boasts and happy laughter passed back and forth, pipe music vied with songs of battle, and the rafters shook with the sound of great revelries.

“I mean, look around you, Pendrag!” cried Wolfgart. “All the tribes gathered here, under one roof and not fighting each other. For that alone, Sigmar deserves to be Emperor.”

“It is impressive,” agreed Pendrag, taking a refined sip of Tilean wine. King Siggurd had brought six barrels of the stuff, and Pendrag had acquired quite a taste for it.

“It’s more than impressive, it’s a damned miracle,” slurred Wolfgart, using his tankard arm to encompass the entire longhouse. “I mean, the Cherusens and Taleutens have been fighting over their border territories for longer than any of us have been alive, and here they are drinking together. Look over there… Thuringians swearing blood oaths with thems as used to be Teutogens! Bloody miracle is what it is, a bloody miracle.”

“Aye, it’s a miracle, but it’ll be a greater miracle if you’re able to walk in a straight line when the time comes to take the king’s march to the Oathstone.”

“Walk. Stagger. What’s the difference?” asked Wolfgart, lifting the ewer once again.

Pendrag reached over to restrain him from pouring another drink, and Wolfgart felt the cold metal of his friend’s silver hand. A Thuringian axe had taken three of Pendrag’s fingers during the Battle of the Berserker King, and Master Alaric of the dwarfs had fashioned the new gauntlet for him. Pendrag claimed that the mechanical fingers functioned as well as his old ones, but Wolfgart had never been able to get used to them.

“You will shame Maedbh if you cannot stand up,” pointed out Pendrag. “And do you really want that?”

Wolfgart stared hard at Pendrag for a moment before upending the ewer.

“Damn, but you always cut to the bone, friend,” he said, reaching instead for the largely untouched jug of water. “I slept with the horses for three days the last time I came home drunk.”

Wolfgart took several gulping draughts of water, rinsing his mouth of the taste of beer and spitting it over the straw-covered floor.

“Civilised as always,” said a voice beside Wolfgart as a warrior, armoured in iron plate painted a deep red lowered himself to sit next to him. “I thought Reikdorf was the light of civilisation in the world these days, and that the northerners were supposed to be the crude barbarians?”

“Ah, Redwane, how the young misunderstand the ways of their elders and betters,” said Wolfgart, smiling and throwing an arm around the White Wolf. Like Pendrag, Redwane’s copper-coloured hair was elaborately braided, and his handsome features were open and friendly. Some called them soft, but those who had seen Redwane fight knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

“In the south, it is a sign of good breeding to behave like a lout from time to time,” said Wolfgart.

“Then you are the most civilised man I know,” said Redwane, adjusting his wolfskin cloak around his shoulders, and setting down his hammer before lifting an empty mug.

Wolfgart laughed, and Pendrag poured Redwane a beer.

“Welcome, brother,” he said. “It is good to have you back in Reikdorf.”

“Aye, it’s been too long,” agreed Redwane. “Siggurdheim is a fine place, with cold beer and warm women, but I’m glad to be home.”

“How come he gets to drink beer, but I don’t?” demanded Wolfgart.

“Because Ulric has blessed me,” said Redwane, patting his flat stomach. “My guts are lined with trollhide, and, unlike you milksops, I’m able to consume more than a flagon before falling down dead drunk.”

“That sounds like a challenge to me,” said Wolfgart, reaching for the beer.

“Leave it,” ordered Pendrag. “Save it until after the coronation.”

Wolfgart shrugged and threw his hands up, saying, “Ulric deliver me from these mother hens, one of them barely seventeen summers!”

“How was your journey?” asked Pendrag, ignoring Wolfgart’s exasperation.

“Uneventful,” said the warrior, “more’s the pity. Since Black Fire the roads have been quiet, no bandits or greenskins to speak of. Even the forest beasts seem cowed.”

“Aye, it’s been a quiet year,” agreed Pendrag.

“Too quiet,” grumbled Wolfgart. “My sword’s getting rusty above the fireplace, and I’ve not killed a greenskin in two seasons.”

“Wasn’t that the point?” countered Pendrag. “All the years of war were to keep our lands safe and protected. Now we have done that, and you complain because you do not have to fight and risk your life?”

“I am a warrior,” said Wolfgart. “It’s what I know.”

“Maybe you can learn a new trade?” said Redwane, winking at Pendrag. “With the land safe and the forests being cleared for new settlements, Sigmar’s empire will need more farmers.”

“Me, a farmer? Don’t be foolish, boy. I think that southern air has rotted your brain if you think I’ll be a farmer. Just because we slaughtered the greenskins at the pass doesn’t mean they won’t be back. No, I’ll not be a farmer, Redwane. I’ll leave that to others, for this land will always have need of warriors.”

Redwane laughed.

“I expect you’re right,” he said. “You would make a terrible farmer.”

Wolfgart smiled and nodded. “You have the truth of it. I’ve not the patience to work the land. I fear I am more suited to ending life than bringing it forth.”

“That’s not what I hear,” said Redwane, elbowing Wolfgart in the ribs. “The talk is that you are to be a father in the spring.”

“Aye,” said Wolfgart, brightening at the mention of his virility. “Maedbh will bear me a strong son to carry on my name.”

“Or a daughter,” said Pendrag. “Asoborn women beget girls more often than not.”

“Pah, not on your life!” said Wolfgart. “With the strength of my seed, the boy will climb out himself, you mark my words.”

“We shall see in the spring, my friend,” said Redwane. “Whatever form your heir takes, I will help you wet its head in beer, and sing the songs of war through the night with you.”

“I’ll be happy to let you,” said Wolfgart, clasping the White Wolfs wrist.

 

Sigmar’s brother kings were waiting for him at the base of Warrior Hill, resplendent in robes of many colours and armour of the highest quality. Each carried a golden shield upon one arm, and a line of flaming brands was set in the ground before them. The firelight cast a warm glow about them, the most powerful warriors in the lands of men. Together they had saved their people from annihilation, and now they had gathered to bear witness to a singular event in the history of the world: the crowning of the first Emperor.

This night would seal their pact to preserve the safety of every man, woman and child in the empire. Sigmar loved them all, and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks to Ulric for the honour of standing shoulder to shoulder with such heroes.

King Krugar of the Taleutens, a broad-shouldered warrior in a gleaming hauberk of silver scale, stood at their centre, flanked by King Henroth of the Merogens and Markus of the Menogoths. Both southern kings were smiling, though Sigmar could see the great sorrows they carried. Their kingdoms had suffered terribly in the wars against the greenskins, and little more than a thousand of their people had survived the years of death.

Sigmar’s eyes were drawn next to Queen Freya of the Asoborns. The flame-haired queen was clad in shimmering mail that looked as though it had been woven from golden thread. A torque of bronze and silver encircled her graceful neck, and a winged crown of jewel-studded gold sat on her high brow. A cloak of vivid orange hung from her shoulders, but did little to conceal the smooth curve of her limbs and the sway of her hips as she turned to face him.

Sigmar felt himself responding to Freya’s primal beauty, recalling the night of passion that had sealed their union with a mixture of pleasure and remembered pain. He quickly suppressed his feelings and concentrated on greeting the rest of his allies.

Next to the Asoborn Queen stood Adelhard of the Ostagoths, his drooping moustache waxed to gleaming points, and his chequered cloak of black and white echoing the trews and shirt he wore beneath it. Ostvarath, the sword of the Ostagoth kings, was sheathed at Adelhard’s side. Adelhard had offered to surrender this sword to Sigmar in return for his aid in battle against the orcs. Sigmar’s warriors had fought alongside the Ostagoths, but he had declined Adelhard’s sword, claiming that so mighty a weapon should remain with its king.

Aloysis of the Cherusens was a lean, hawk-faced man with dark hair tied in a long scalp-lock. In the manner of his fiercest warriors, he had shaved his beard and adorned his face with curling tattoos of blue and red, and his bright red cavalry cloak flapped in the wind. The laconic king give Sigmar a respectful nod.

King Aldred of the Endals wore a fur-lined robe of brown wool, edged in black and gold thread. The symbol of his kingship, the elf blade Ulfshard, was belted at his side, and Sigmar remembered Aldred’s father hurling the blade to him at Black Fire Pass. The weapon had saved Sigmar’s life, but Marbad had died moments later. Sigmar saw the bitter echoes of Marbad’s death in his son’s eyes.

The kilted warrior next to Aldred was King Wolfila of the Udose, a gruff king of reckless bravery and great warmth. His clansmen had fought the Norsii for many years, and his pale skin shone with a healthy glow in the torchlight. A great, basket-hilted claymore was sheathed over his shoulder, longer even than Wolfgart’s monstrous blade. Wolfila grinned like a loon, and his pleasure at the night’s events was clear.

Sigmar smiled to see that King Siggurd had outdone himself, appearing in a rich array of purple and blue robes, edged in ermine and bedecked in enough gold to make a dwarf’s eyes gleam with avarice.

Given his last observation, Sigmar was not surprised to see that King Kurgan Ironbeard of the dwarfs stood next to Siggurd, though his oldest ally wore almost as much gold as did the Brigundian king. Clad in a shirt of runic gold plate with silver steel pauldrons and a gold helmet, Kurgan seemed more like one of his people’s ancient gods than a mortal king. Alone of all the gathered kings, Kurgan’s weapon was bared, a mighty axe with two butterfly-winged blades enchanted with runes that shone with their own spectral light.

King Otwin of the Thuringians stood slightly apart from the others, though whether that was his choice or theirs was unclear. His crown was a mass of golden spikes hammered through the skin of his head, and he wore little more than a loincloth of dark iron mail and a cloak of deepest red. The Berserker King’s bare chest heaved, and Sigmar saw the wildroot juice staining his lips.

Myrsa of the Fauschlag Rock, dazzling in his armour of purest white, looked uncomfortable in the company of kings but, as the master of the northern marches, he had earned the right to be part of this fellowship. A long-handled warhammer was slung at Myrsa’s belt, but it was no imitation of Sigmar’s weapon, for this hammer was designed to be swung from the back of a charging steed.

Only one tribe was not represented, and Sigmar quelled his anger at the absence of the Jutone king. That was a reckoning for another day.

He squared his shoulders, and glanced round at Alfgeir, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

Sigmar took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Never before has this land borne witness to such a gathering of might,” he said, unhooking Ghal Maraz from his belt. “Even on the barren plain of Black Fire Pass we were not so proud, so strong or so mighty.”

Krugar of the Taleutens stepped from the ranks of kings and drew his sword, a curved cavalry sabre with a blade of brilliant blue steel.

“Have you honoured the dead, King Sigmar?” he asked. “Have you made offerings to the land and remembered those men from whence you came?”

“I have,” replied Sigmar.

“And are you ready to serve this land?” asked Siggurd.

“I am.”

“When the land is threatened, will you march to its defence?” demanded Henroth.

“I will,” said Sigmar, holding Ghal Maraz out before him.

“Then it’s to the Oathstone!” shouted Wolfila, swinging his enormous claymore from its scabbard. “Ar-Ulric awaits!”