—<FOUR>—

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 netherworld 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.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Laredus coldly.

 

The guest lodgings in Count Aldred’s royal apartments were functional and clean, though no fire had been set in the hearth in anticipation of their arrival. A meal of fish and steamed vegetables came quickly, though it took an hour for enough water to be heated to allow Sigmar to bathe. Such treatment broke all the rules of hospitality that existed between allies, but Sigmar kept his temper in check, for he could ill-afford two enemies in the west.

With the journey washed from his body, Sigmar followed Laredus and a handful of cloaked Endal warriors through the streets of Marburg towards the Raven Hall. Dressed in a robe of crimson and a long wolfskin cloak, Sigmar marched at the head of Wolfgart, Redwane and an honour guard of ten White Wolves. Though outwardly calm, their hands never strayed far from their weapons.

Sigmar’s crown glittered upon his brow, and he carried Ghal Maraz at his belt, holding the haft tight against his leg as he looked in horrified wonder at the dismal city surrounding him.

Water and human waste sluiced the streets of Marburg, and a sickly oily sheen coated the cobbles where it had seeped into the cracks. The rancid smell of spoiled meat and grain hung on the air, hemmed in by buildings that crowded together and loomed over the few wretched people abroad in the streets. A forsaken air hung over the city, as though its inhabitants had long ago fled its darkened thoroughfares for the lands left by the Bretonii.

The buildings were predominantly constructed from warped, sun-bleached timbers, with only the lower portions of each structure built from stone. Damp blotched the walls, and runnels of black water fell from leaking eaves. Windows and doors were shuttered, and through those that were ajar Sigmar heard little sign of life, only soft weeping and muttered prayers.

“Look,” said Wolfgart, nodding down a reeking alleyway to where another corpse-cart was pulling away from a thatched house. A black-robed priest of Morr painted a white cross upon the door as a hunched man wearing a grotesque mask with glass eyes and an elongated nose nailed a wooden board across it.

“Plague?” said Redwane. “They must have breathed the daemon air!”

“Be quiet,” hissed Sigmar, though he reached up to touch the talisman of Shallya that he wore around his neck.

“Redwane is right, the city is cursed,” said Wolfgart. “The carrion birds circle this place as if it were a fresh corpse. We should leave now.”

“Don’t be foolish,” replied Sigmar. “What manner of empire would I have forged if I turn my back on the suffering of my people? We stay and find the cause of this.”

“Very well,” shrugged Wolfgart, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re coughing up your lungs and drowning in your own blood.”

Sigmar put such concerns from his mind as the Raven Hall came into sight. The ancestral seat of the Endal rulers was a towering miracle: a majestic hall carved from a mighty spire of volcanic rock and hollowed out to form the rearing shape of a vast raven. Black pinions of glistening stone swept from the tower’s flanks, and a great balcony was formed within the jutting beak at its summit.

Sigmar caught a flash of movement on the balcony, and saw the slender form of a woman clad in a long black dress with shoulder-length hair of golden blonde. No sooner had he spotted her than she vanished inside the tower.

“Ulric’s bones,” said Redwane. “And here’s me thinking Siggurdheim was impressive.”

“Aye, they did something special here,” agreed Wolfgart. “You can see almost all the way to the hills around Astofen when the mists roll back.”

“It’s amazing,” said Sigmar, his anger with Aldred retreating in the face of this wondrous creation. Far to the north, the Fauschlag Rock dominated the landscape for miles around, but its towering form had been shaped by the fist of Ulric; The Raven Hall was the work of men. Countless years of toil and skill had gone into the Hall’s creation, and it was a thing of dark, majestic beauty.

Laredus led them into the tower through a gateway formed between two giant claws and guarded by more Raven Helms. Now that he was closer, Sigmar saw the intricate detail worked into the tower’s walls, the glassy stone carved with feathers that looked almost real.

The corridors within the tower were black, and torchlight rippled on the stonework like moonlight on water. Laredus led them deep into the heart of the tower, eventually reaching a carved stairway that led up into darkness. Sigmar wanted more time to explore this fabulous place, but Laredus lifted a torch from a sconce at the foot of the stairs and set off upwards.

Sigmar followed the Raven Helm, running his fingers over the smooth walls. The stone felt like polished glass, and was slightly warm to the touch, as though the fire of its vitrification still lingered deep in its heart. The stairs rose high into the tower, following the outward curve of its walls, and Sigmar’s legs were soon aching.

“Does this damn tower ever end?” asked Redwane. “It feels like it goes on forever.”

“You’ve been spoiled in Siggurdheim,” chuckled Wolfgart. “Too much soft living has made you weak. You youngsters might have the edge in years on a veteran like me, but you’ve no stamina.”

“That’s not what your wife says,” joked Redwane.

Even in the torchlight, Sigmar saw Wolfgart’s face darken with anger. Wolfgart gripped Redwane’s tunic and slammed him against the wall. His knife hissed from its leather sheath to rest against Redwane’s throat.

“Speak that way about Maedbh again and I’ll cut your heart out, you little bastard!” he said.

Fast as quicksilver, Sigmar’s hand shot out and gripped Wolfgart’s wrist, though he did not remove the blade from Redwane’s throat.

“Redwane, sometimes your stupidity surprises even me,” said Sigmar. “You insult the honour of a fine woman, wife to my sword-brother and shield maiden to a queen.”

“I’ll kill him,” snarled Wolfgart. “No man claims I wear the cuckold’s horns and lives!”

“You will not,” stated Sigmar. “Kill him and you will be a murderer. The boy’s words were foolish, but he did not mean them. Did you, Redwane?”

“No, of course not!” cried Redwane. “It was just a jest.”

“Make such jests at your peril,” hissed Wolfgart, putting up his knife and stepping away from the White Wolf. Though Redwane’s life was no longer in immediate danger, Sigmar knew that Wolfgart would never forget those poorly-chosen words. He glanced over to where Laredus had been standing, but the Raven Helm had already gone ahead. Sigmar knew Aldred would already know of this altercation, and he cursed.

“Pull yourselves together and follow me,” said Sigmar, setting off after Laredus. “And if either of you behaves like this again, I’ll have you flogged and stripped of those wolf cloaks you prize so dearly.”

 

Count Aldred’s hall was a great domed chamber at the very summit of the tower. It was lit by twin shafts of yellow light that speared in through windows that formed the eyes of the Raven Hall. From its position in relation to the windows, Sigmar guessed that a curtain of red velvet led to the balcony he had seen from the outside. Scented torches formed a processional route towards a dark throne, and Sigmar guessed that they were lit to disguise the stench of the city below as well as to provide illumination.

Count Aldred awaited them clad in his father’s armour, a bronze breastplate moulded to resemble a muscular physique and a tall helm with feathered wings of black that swept up from angular cheekplates. His long dark cloak spilled around a throne of polished ebony with armrests carved in the form of wings and legs shaped like black talons. The Raven Banner was set in a socket in the backrest of the throne, and Sigmar remembered the pride he had felt watching that same banner carried into battle at Black Fire Pass.

Laredus and Idris Gwylt stood behind Count Aldred, and two thrones of similar, but smaller design sat to either side of the Endal ruler. One of these thrones was empty, while upon the other sat the golden-haired girl that Sigmar had seen from beyond the tower. She was perhaps sixteen years old and pretty in a thin kind of way, though her skin had an unhealthy pallor to it, much like everyone else Sigmar had seen in Marburg. She looked at Sigmar with a haughty expression for one so young, yet he saw the interest behind her veneer of indifference.

Sigmar marched towards Aldred’s throne, keeping his smouldering anger chained tightly within. He had come to the realm of the Endals to learn what lay in Aldred’s heart, but seeing the count told him all he needed to know. The scent of the torches caught in the back of Sigmar’s throat, and suddenly he knew what to say to Aldred.

“Count Aldred,” he said, “your lands are in disarray. Pestilence blights your city and a curse lies upon your people. I am here to help.”

Sigmar hid his amusement at Aldred’s surprise, and pressed on before the young count could reply, “King Marbad was as a brother to my father, and he saved my life upon the field of Black Fire Pass. I shed tears as we sent him to Ulric’s Hall, and I pledged to you that we would also be brothers. I have come to Marburg to make good on that pledge.”

“I do not understand,” said Aldred. “I asked for no aid.”

“When the lands of my counts are threatened, I do not wait for them to ask for my help. I bring a hundred of my finest warriors to your city to help in whatever way we can.”

Idris Gwylt leaned down to whisper something in Aldred’s ear, but Sigmar could not hear the words over the sound of the wind playing about the tower. Before Aldred could say anything in response to Gwylt’s counsel, Sigmar took a step towards the throne.

“Count Aldred, tell me what troubles your city,” said Sigmar. “As well as warriors, I bring my healer, Cradoc, a man who saved my life when I lay at Morr’s threshold. Let him try to ease your people’s suffering.”

Idris Gwylt stepped forward, and Sigmar breathed in his earthy aroma. Gwylt carried the smell of freshly turned soil and ripened crops, as though fresh from a field of sun-ripened corn. The feeling was intense, and Sigmar felt the power of the man, as though something vital coursed through him, a pulse of something old beyond imagining.

“The curse that afflicts us is beyond the power of your warriors to defeat, Emperor Sigmar,” said Gwylt. “The daemons of the mist grow strong once more and their evil flows from the depths of the marshes. It spreads through the earth and corrupts all that it touches. Disease strikes our people and the life drains from the land, washed into the ocean with all our hopes. Hundreds of our tribe are dead and even my noble count’s brother, the gallant Egil, has been struck down.”

“Then let Cradoc help him. There is little he does not know of the ways of sickness.”

“Egil is beyond the help of men,” said Idris Gwylt. “Only the healing power of the land can save him now, and it wanes as that of the daemons waxes. Only by offering the daemons our most valued treasure can Egil’s life be saved.”

“That is foolishness,” stormed Sigmar, addressing his words to Aldred. “This man speaks of offering tribute to daemons as though you are their vassals. Daemons are creatures of darkness and can only be defeated with courage and strong sword arms. What say you, Aldred? Rally the Raven Helms to your banner and join me in battle. Together, we can cleanse the marshes of their evil forever. My father and your father fought these creatures, so let us finish what they began!”

“Our fathers failed,” said the young girl seated beside Aldred. “The daemons drove them from the marshes and killed most of their warriors. What makes you think you can triumph where they could not?”

Sigmar lifted Ghal Maraz from his belt and held it out to her.

“I have never met a foe I could not defeat,” he said. “If I go into those marshes to fight, I will be victorious.” Her eyes blazed with anger.

“You are arrogant,” she said.

“Perhaps I am,” admitted Sigmar. “It is my right as Emperor. But you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I do not know you.”

“My name is Marika,” she snapped, “daughter of Marbad and sister to Aldred and Egil. You speak of battle as though it is the only way of ending our troubles, but not every curse can be lifted with killing. There are other ways.”

“Oh, like what?”

“It is not for me to say,” said Marika, the anger in her eyes replaced with sadness. Sigmar saw her glance towards Idris Gwylt.

“Then how would you end this curse, my lady?” asked Sigmar.

“By appeasing the daemons,” said Idris Gwylt.

“I was not asking you,” said Sigmar.

“Such daemons cannot be defeated by mortal men,” replied Gwylt, ignoring Sigmar’s displeasure. “The earth has been corrupted by the touch of the mist daemons, and we cannot restore its goodness with swords.”

“Does this man speak for you, Count Aldred?” demanded Sigmar. “I appointed you to rule these lands, not some old man who speaks of appeasement. Good gods, man, you do not invite the fox into the hen house, you root him out and kill him.”

“Gwylt enjoys my full confidence,” said Aldred. “We hold to the ways of our ancient forebears in Marburg, and it is in them that we will find salvation. Idris Gwylt is a priest of a power older than the gods, a servant of the land, who knows its ways and the means by which we may restore it. His words are wise beyond the understanding of most mortals, and he has done much to ease the suffering of my people. I trust him implicitly.”

“You may trust him, but I do not,” said Sigmar, understanding the source of Gwylt’s strange and powerful aura. “I thought the Old Faith died out a long time ago.”

“So long as the land bears fruit, it will endure,” said Gwylt.

Sigmar glared at the robed priest. “In Reikdorf we put our faith in the gods.”

“This is not Reikdorf,” replied the priest.

 

Sigmar and his warriors spent the next three days secluded in the royal apartments. Though they were free to roam the city and its environs as they pleased, the sickness that ravaged the population kept most of them indoors. Sigmar spent the first day walking the fog-shrouded streets of Marburg to see how its population fared, and when he returned to his chambers there was a shadow on his soul.

The city of the Endals was a grim and melancholy place, not at all like the vibrant, cosmopolitan coastal city its old king had once told raucous tales of. Noxious mists coiled in from the marshes to drain the city of colour, and its inhabitants moved through the streets like ghosts. Despair came on those mists, a smothering blanket of misery that coiled around the soul and leeched it of vitality. Immediately upon his return, Sigmar bade Cradoc do what he could for the population of Marburg.

The old healer appropriated two score of the White Wolves to be his orderlies, and day and night Cradoc did what he could for the sick. Those whom the sickness had touched were too often beyond the power of his remedies. Families were found dead in their homes, faces spattered with crusted mucus and eyes swollen and red as though filled with blood. Despite Cradoc’s best efforts, the priests of Morr led more and more corpse-carts on their sad journeys from the city.

It was thankless, heartbreaking work, but that did not stop Cradoc from trying to help those he could, and his poultices of lungwort and vinegar were freely distributed among the sick. It did little to halt the terrible pestilence, but until the source of the sickness was defeated it was all that could be done.

On the evening of the third night, frustrated at the lack of action from Count Aldred, Sigmar and Wolfgart sat outside their apartments on a high terrace overlooking the cliffs and marshes to the north of Marburg. They talked long into the night, drinking from a clay jug of southern wine and eating platters of salted fish. They told tales of battles won and friends in far of lands, enjoying a rare moment of companionship.

Though the talk was ribald and flowing, Sigmar sensed sadness in his friend that had little to do with too much wine. As Wolfgart finished telling the story of his fight against a particularly large greenskin in the opening moments of the battle at the crossing of the Aver, he sighed, his face melancholy.

“It has been too long since we talked like this,” said Sigmar.

“That it has,” said Wolfgart, raising his goblet. “Life gets busy as we get older, eh?”

“That it does, old friend, but come, say what’s on your mind. Tell me what troubles you.”

At first he thought Wolfgart would dismiss his invitation to speak, but his sword-brother surprised him.

“It’s what Redwane said when we were going to see Aldred,” he said.

“You didn’t take him seriously? The lad is young and foolish and he spoke out of turn, but you know Maedbh would never betray you like that.”

“I know that,” said Wolfgart, “but that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what is it?”

“I reacted to him like a stag in heat, as though he was a rival or something. I know he’s not, but I pounced on him as if I was going to kill him. I would have done if you hadn’t stopped me. I should have kept my temper in check, for I shamed you in front of Laredus.”

Sigmar shook his head and drained his goblet.

“Aye, we could have done without the Endals seeing us at each other’s throats,” he said, “but what’s done is done. I don’t hold it against you.”

“Maybe not, but I should have known better,” said Wolfgart. “I’ve been around you long enough to know that I need to think before I act, but when he said that about Maedbh… Well, you saw how it affected me.”

“I’m just glad Maedbh didn’t hear it,” said Sigmar with a smile.

Wolfgart laughed and said, “True enough. She’d be wearing Redwane’s balls for earrings by now.”

“You are a man of high emotion, Wolfgart, you always have been,” said Sigmar. “It is one of the reasons I love you. Pendrag is my conscience and my intellect; you are the voice of my passions and my joys. I must be an Emperor, but you are the man I would wish to be were I not. By all means think before you act in future, especially when I must be seen to be the master of the empire, but never lose your fire. I wouldn’t have you any other way, and you would not be Wolfgart without it.”

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.