—<SIX>—

Troublesome Kings

 

 

Count Aldred renewed the Sword Oath of his father in the main square before the Raven Hall, dropping to one knee and lifting Ulfshard for the Emperor to take. Cheers echoed from one end of Marburg to the other as Sigmar took the ancient blade and then handed it back to Aldred, thus sealing their pact of confraternity.

Dawn had been lighting the eastern horizon when the battle-weary but elated warriors emerged from the marsh. They bore their dead but, after the noxious reek of the swamps, the sweet smell of clean, sea air banished any thoughts of grief.

All through the journey back to Marburg, bodies had floated to the surface of the swamp, as though the defeat of the daemons had freed them to return to the world above. The unique properties of the bog water had preserved the bodies remarkably, and in time they too would be recovered and sent into the next world with honour.

Within days of Sigmar’s return, Cradoc reported a marked drop in new cases of lung rot, and soon it was clear that the worst had passed. The number of corpse-carts leaving the city dwindled, and those that had fled to the country to avoid the pestilence now returned to their homes. The city came back to life, and the oppressive gloom that had hung over it for so long was banished as light and wonder returned. The indefatigable human spirit, which had been on the verge of being snuffed out, had held on, and now bloomed stronger than ever.

Sigmar and his warriors remained in Marburg for another week, hailed as saviours and showered with gifts from a grateful populace. As she had promised, Princess Marika nursed the wounded Redwane personally, but Sigmar ensured that Cradoc was never far away. When Redwane complained about such a prudish chaperone, Wolfgart settled the matter by pointing out that Redwane would need to keep his hands to himself or take Marika as his wife, for Aldred would be well within his rights to kill him if he ever found out that his sister had been taken advantage of. Having heard the gruesome details of Idris Gwylt’s execution, Redwane was in no mood to count on Aldred’s forgiveness, and his complaints ceased.

Gwylt had suffered the hideous fate of a thrice death, and even Sigmar had blanched when he heard the details. The priest had been fed a broth laced with poisonous white mistletoe berries, and then led in chains to the edge of the marsh. A slaughterman then broke his crudely-shaven skull open with three precisely measured blows from an iron-tipped cudgel. Barely alive, Gwylt was dragged into the sucking bogs of the swamp, where Aldred slashed Ulfshard across his throat. Poisoned, dying from numerous skull fractures and with his lifeblood pouring from his neck, Laredus completed the execution by holding Gwylt beneath the marsh water until his feeble struggles ceased.

With so many “deaths” inflicted upon the priest in quick succession, his soul would not know when to flee the body until it was too late. Gwylt’s flesh would never decay in the depths of the swamp, and his soul would remain trapped in the corpse for all time.

The priests of Morr had protested at such a harsh punishment, for to deny a soul its final journey went against the sacred tenets of their faith. Their pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears, for the Endals had practised this form of execution for centuries, and no one could deny that such a painful death was richly deserved.

The Unberogen left Marburg in high spirits, despite bringing nine mounts back home without their riders. They travelled through a realm that was coming to life once more, the last remnants of the mist daemons’ curse lifting as the strength of the land emerged resurgent from its imprisonment.

Two months to the day after setting out for the city of the Endals, Sigmar led his warriors back across the Sudenreik Bridge and into Reikdorf.

 

Sigmar pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and sipped the herbal infusion Cradoc had prepared for him. His head hurt, though he had suffered no injury to make it ache. Rather, it was the incessant demands on his time that caused this headache. Uniting the tribes of men had, it turned out, been the easy part of forging the empire.

He sat in his private chambers, reclining on his bed with Ortulf, Kai and Lex curled at his feet. A freshly banked fire crackled in the hearth and the soothing aroma of wood smoke helped ease the pain behind his eyes. Since returning from Marburg, the business of gathering his warriors for an expedition to Jutonsryk had occupied his every waking moment, though there had been some good news to lighten Sigmar’s days.

As spring’s goodness blessed the land with warmth and life, Maedbh of the Asoborns gave birth to Ulrike, who came into the world with a lusty war cry on her lips. The joyous Wolfgart paraded his daughter through the city streets with tears of wonder spilling down his cheeks, and the people of Reikdorf had showered them both with handfuls of grain, earth and water.

Wolfgart and Maedbh honoured Sigmar by asking him to be Ulrike’s sword-guardian, a role traditionally filled by the closest friend of the parents. Sigmar accepted the great responsibility and solemnly swore to protect the child should they die.

At the child’s birthing ritual, held on a hillside to the east of Reikdorf, a priestess of Shallya named Alessa lit a fire and anointed Ulrike’s head with three drops of water taken from a nearby spring. As each droplet fell, she recited the Blessing of Welcome. “A little drop of the sky on thy little forehead, beloved one. A little drop of the land on thy little forehead, beloved one. A little drop of the sea on thy little forehead, beloved one.”

Alessa then placed a heart-shaped locket of silver around Ulrike’s neck and said, “The heart of Shallya to shield thee from the fey, to guard thee from the host, to cloak thee from the wicked, to ward thee from the spectre, to surround thee and to fill thee with grace.”

With Ulrike protected against dark sorcery, Alessa then immersed her in the cold spring with a silver and gold coin in each hand to honour the powers of the moon and sun. Wolfgart held the crying child in the fast-flowing water as the priestess filled her palm with earth and rubbed it over the child’s belly, arms and legs while singing a prayer of protection and health.

With the father’s duties complete, Wolfgart handed Ulrike to Maedbh, who completed the ritual by taking Ulrike and touching her forehead to the ground as she recited a prayer to Morr. This last act was to ask the god of the dead to seal the gate between the previous world and this one, for no others should cross the threshold of life.

With the correct rites observed, Ulrike was handed to Sigmar, who lifted her towards the sky, for to move a child downwards would forever doom it to remaining lowly in the world, never able to rise to distinction or wealth.

This had been a rare moment of joy in a spring that brought ill news to Reikdorf every week. A haphazard pile of rolled parchments sat on a table beside Sigmar, each one a letter from his counts that bore news of their lands and people.

They made for grim reading.

In the north, Pendrag and Wolfila sent word of increasing raids by Norsii Wolfships, the dark-armoured Norsemen marauding settlements many miles inland as well as those on the coast. The Norsii were attacking with ever more frequency, and the cunning of their leaders was all too apparent in their choice of targets. Most of the raids had come at a time when the majority of the menfolk were gathering for sword musters in distant towns, and Sigmar sensed more than simple luck in the Norsii’s timing of their attacks.

Survivors of the raids carried south the names of two warlords, names that spoke of the naked brutality of the Norsii. Cormac Bloodaxe was said to be a towering warrior in black armour, who fought in a frenzy with a mighty twin-bladed axe of red fire, while Azazel was a lithe swordsman with dark hair, who delighted in cutting his opponents apart a piece at a time.

So far, the raids had been confined to the northern coastline, though Pendrag warned that it would not be long before the Norsii grew bolder.

That was a problem for another day, for the greenskins on the eastern mountains were once again daring to venture from their mountain lairs to raid and kill. Amid the tall tales of her sons’ achievements, Freya of the Asoborns warned that a growing number of settlements in the foothills of the Worlds Edge Mountains were being raided by orcs. Scouts who had ventured into the mountains found no sign of any greenskin forces of any great size, though Sigmar knew it was only a matter of time before a powerful leader emerged and sought to weld the tribes together once more.

Further west, progress on the stone roads linking Reikdorf with Middenheim and Siggurdheim had slowed considerably. Attacks from forest beasts were an almost daily occurrence. Sigmar had tasked more men to patrol the roads and protect the work gangs, as well as increasing their pay to tempt others to volunteer for the roads’ construction. Alfgeir had urged him to put those who broke the law to work, but Sigmar was loath to use such labour. He wanted men to work with pride, and to feel that they had participated in something worthwhile. Men forced to work under the lash would never build something worthwhile, and Sigmar did not want his empire to be built on the backs of criminals.

In the south, Count Markus spoke of his people’s attempts to reclaim their tribal domains, for the orcs, trolls and twisted vermin-beasts from beneath the mountains had grown bold of late. During the wars against the greenskins, many of the Menogoth hill forts had been destroyed, and their people slaughtered or taken beyond the eastern peaks as slaves. The Menogoths had been on the verge of extinction, and taking back their ancestral lands with so few warriors was no small challenge. Markus was a canny leader of men, and the Menogoths a hardy, pragmatic tribe, and not even dark rumours of the dead rising from their mountain tombs dissuaded them from the task.

Sigmar sighed, sipping his herbal infusion and wondering if the world would ever allow him to be free from protecting his people. No matter how many warriors he could call upon, there was always a threat building somewhere, if not from beyond his lands then from within them. Sigmar’s thoughts darkened as he thought of the audience with Krugar and Aloysis earlier that afternoon.

With the looming threat of extinction lifted, the counts of the empire were free to turn their gazes on ancient grudges and long-standing feuds with neighbouring tribes. Both Krugar and Aloysis had sent bleating letters, once again claiming the other was sending masked raiders across their borders to harass their people’s settlements, burning crops, killing livestock and stealing grain. Of course, both counts denied they were doing any such thing, citing years of border disputes and blaming the other for their woes.

In the end, Sigmar had summoned both counts to Reikdorf to put an end to the matter.

 

The atmosphere in the longhouse was tense, the crackle of the fire and the distant noise of the city beyond the only sounds to disturb the brooding silence. Sigmar sat upon his throne at the far end of the hall, his crown glittering upon his brows and Ghal Maraz laid across his lap. A wolfskin cloak spilled around his shoulders, and the foulness of the emperor’s mood was obvious.

Alfgeir stood behind Sigmar, his bronze-bladed sword unsheathed and held with its point resting on the floor. Eoforth sat to Sigmar’s left, with a long, rolled-up length of hide parchment laid across his lap. Neither man looked at the counts, and disappointment was etched into both their faces.

Aloysis, lean and immaculately presented, was a hawkish man with a closely trimmed beard and hooded eyes. The Cherusen count was precise in movement and thought, the very antithesis of his people, who were wild and rough foresters proficient with axe and bow. His robes of crimson and emerald were richly appointed, and a golden chain with a silver eagle at its centre hung around his neck. A vivid yellow cloak was thrown rakishly over one shoulder, and a long Cherusen dagger with a beautifully inlaid scabbard of mother-of-pearl was sheathed at his hip.

Across from Aloysis was the grim-eyed count of the Taleutens. Krugar was a wild-bearded giant of a man in gleaming scale armour, formed from intricately carved leaves of silvered iron. Sheathed in a plain scabbard of dark leather was Utensjarl, a curved cavalry sabre said to have been forged by Talenbor, the first king of the Taleutens. Krugar had the bow-legged stance of a seasoned horseman, and when the Taleutens made war, he rode with the Red Scythes, the lancers who had broken the orc line at the Aver. Krugar’s cheeks and neck were tattooed with jagged lines of red and gold, and his gaze smouldered with long-burning anger.

Neither count deigned to look at the other, and Sigmar knew this dispute would not be settled without angry words. Sigmar nodded towards Aloysis, and the count of the Cherusens did not hesitate to speak.

“This situation is intolerable, my emperor,” began Aloysis. “Taleuten riders regularly cross the Taalbec river and spread terror and destruction amongst my people. Already nine Cherusen villages have suffered at their hands, losing grain and precious supplies for the winter.”

“Pah,” sneered Krugar. “If my riders were crossing into your territory to raid, your people would not have food to last them a week. Taleutens know how to pick the land clean.”

“You see?” cried Aloysis. “The braggart admits his crimes before you! I demand justice!”

“I admit nothing, you fool,” roared Krugar, gripping the hilt of his sabre. “It is you who sends axemen across the river! Your logging gangs hack down trees from land that is not theirs and float them down-river to Cherusen lumber yards in the Howling Hills.”

“A fool, am I?” roared Aloysis, the veins standing out on his neck as his hand flashed to the engraved hilt of his dagger. His eyes bulged, making him look like one of the painted Wildmen of his tribe. “I’ll not suffer your lies and insults any longer, Krugar.”

“Lies? You are the one poisoning the air with falsehoods!”

“Enough!” roared Sigmar, rising from his throne. The two counts ceased their bickering as he strode towards them. He glared first at Aloysis and then at Krugar, his expression softening in regret.

“It saddens me how soon you forget the brotherhood we forged in blood,” said Sigmar. “Can you not remember how your souls soared at the Pass when the orcs broke and ran? Has the golden memory of that shared victory faded from your thoughts?”

“Never, my lord!” said Aloysis. “I will take the glory of that bloody day to my grave.”

Krugar drew his sword and held it before Sigmar. The silver blade was etched with the dwarf rune for Black Fire Pass. “Each time I unsheathe Utensjarl, I am reminded of that great battle!”

“That day brought us together,” said Sigmar, “all men joined in unity and fighting as one race. We stood before the largest army this world has ever seen. We proud few stood against that army, and we defeated it.”

Sigmar pointed to the huge orc skull that hung on the wall above his throne, that of the warlord who had led the greenskin horde at Black Fire Pass. Larger than the mightiest stallion’s, the skull boasted two enormous tusks that jutted from the lower jaw like those of the mythical beasts of the Southlands. Even in death, the fearsome power of the monster once known as Bloodfang was palpable.

“The world will never see its like again, yet here we are, a year from that day and you squabble with a brother whose warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with you in the battle line. Sword Oaths were sworn in the years before Black Fire Pass and we renewed them by the flames of Marbad’s pyre. Or at least I thought we did.”

“My Sword Oath is yours,” said Aloysis immediately. “My life is yours.”

“And mine also, Lord Sigmar,” said Krugar, unwilling to be shown up before his rival. “I gave my oath to your father and I gave it again to you, freely.”

“Aye, you both swore Sword Oaths with me,” nodded Sigmar. “And swearing an oath with me is the same as swearing an oath with your brother counts. Aloysis, have you forgotten how you fought alongside Krugar and my father to drive the Norsii from your lands? And Krugar, can you not remember when the charge of the Cherusen Wildmen split apart the greenskin trap that encircled your riders at the Aver?”

“An attack on one of you is an attack on me, remember?” continued Sigmar, waving Eoforth forward. “Your lands are threatened, so I must ride to your aid. Each of you claims the other attacks you, but upon whom should I make war?”

Neither count answered as Eoforth handed the long roll of parchment to Sigmar. He undid the leather cord binding it, and unrolled a beautifully rendered map on one of the tables that ran the length of the great hall. Aloysis and Krugar gathered close to Sigmar, their enmity forgotten in the face of this incredible piece of cartography.

The forests, rivers and cities of the empire were picked out in coloured inks, each feature drawn with wondrous skill and precision. The territories of each tribal group were clearly marked, and golden lettering named the major settlements, rivers and mountain ranges.

Sigmar stabbed his finger into the centre of the map, where an exquisitely drawn castle in black ink represented Hochergig, the largest city of the Cherusens and seat of Count Aloysis.

“Do I march north and fall upon the Cherusens, smiting them with my wrath for attacking my brother Krugar?”

Without waiting for an answer, Sigmar’s finger trailed downwards across the Taalbec River to where a great basin nestled in the eye of the forest. “Or do I ride to Taalaheim, smash down its gates with my war-machines, and slaughter the Taleutens for daring to attack my friend Aloysis? Tell me, brothers, what should I do?”

One after the other, Sigmar looked each of his counts in the eye, letting them see his deadly earnestness. Indecision warred in their souls, the need to save face against their rival vying with the desire to spare their lands and people from the Emperor’s wrath.

Sigmar did not want to march north, especially when his warriors were mustering for war against the Jutones, so he was prepared to offer each man a way out. He traced a line down the course of the Taalbec, which marked the border between the counts’ territories.

“On the other hand, perhaps the reavers that plague your lands are simply brigands,” said Sigmar, thoughtfully. “Mayhap there are several of these rootless sword bands with secret forest camps in both your lands. Instead of my army marching north, perhaps you might hunt them down and destroy those that skulk in your lands. That would resolve your difficulties and see an end to this matter would it not? Tell me your thoughts, my friends.”

Krugar saw the resolve in Sigmar’s eyes and nodded slowly.

“I believe you may be right, my Emperor,” he said. “Now that I look closer, these raids have all the hallmarks of banditry.”

The words were spoken without conviction, but that they were spoken at all was good enough for Sigmar. He looked over to Aloysis.

“Indeed,” agreed Aloysis, quick to seize the opportunity to save face that Sigmar had offered. “I have skilled trackers who should be able to locate such bands.”

“That is great news, my friends,” said Sigmar. “Then you will put an end to this dispute, and return to your lands as brothers. This is my command.”

“It shall be as you say, my lord,” said Aloysis with a bow.

“I will return to Taalaheim immediately,” said Krugar.

Aloysis turned to Krugar and the two counts embraced. The gesture was forced and awkward, but it was enough for now. Both men faced Sigmar, and bowed before withdrawing from the great hall. As the door shut behind them, Eoforth rolled up the map, and Alfgeir descended from the dais of the throne. The Grand Knight of the Empire sheathed his sword and sat on the edge of the table as Eoforth tied the leather cords around the map.

“Do you think they will do as you say?” asked Alfgeir. “Krugar and Aloysis, I mean.”

“They had damn well better,” said Sigmar. “Or else they will see what it means to incur my displeasure.”

“You don’t really believe there are bandits in the forest, do you?”

“There are always brigands,” said Sigmar, “but not raiding Cherusen or Taleuten lands. Each of them was right, they were being attacked by their neighbour.”

“Why? It makes no sense,” said Alfgeir.

“Human nature,” replied Eoforth. “Without a common enemy, men will look for foes in the one place they can guarantee finding one: the past. The Cherusens and Taleutens have fought to control the fertile lands around the Taalbec for centuries. They only came together when King Bjorn forced them to join forces during the Winter of Beasts, you remember?”

“Aye,” said Alfgeir. “The vermin-beasts from beneath the Barren Hills, I remember it all too well. I had my first taste of battle and blood in the snows around Untergard.”

“Long before I was born,” said Sigmar with a wry smile.

“Not that long,” muttered Alfgeir.

“The point is,” continued Eoforth, “that powerful men with warriors to command will always look for someone to attack, and past grievances, unsettled wergelds and ancestral grudges are a good place to find them.”

“So what are you suggesting?” asked Sigmar.

“That we give our troublesome kings a better target for their warlike tendencies.”

 

The summer muster began early, with riders bearing letters, sealed with wax and imprinted with the twin-tailed comet emblem of Sigmar, despatched to the furthest tribal lands of the empire to rouse the counts to war.

The marching season had come, and it was time to call Marius of the Jutones to account.

As the days of spring warmed to summer, hundreds of warriors pitched their tents in the cleared fields around Sigmar’s capital, and over the next two moons, sword bands from the furthest corners of the empire arrived to join the Unberogen.

Autumn-hued Asoborns rode in on chariots of lacquered black and gold, provoking cheers and wolf-whistles from the richly-attired Brigundians who waved their spears and bared their many scars to the fierce warrior women.

Armoured warriors from the Fauschlag Rock marched to Reikdorf bearing news from Pendrag and Myrsa, and Sigmar smiled as he read of his friend’s tribulations in attempting to modernise a populace rooted in tradition. As difficult as Pendrag was finding the task, Sigmar could read between the lines well enough to know that he was relishing the challenge, and he was pleased at the optimistic tone of his friend’s words.

The southern kings had sent two hundred warriors each: grim-faced Merogens in their distinctive rust-coloured cloaks, and slender Menogoth swordsmen in shimmering greens and golds. Taleuten horse archers rode though the campsite, showing off their skills to any who cared to watch, and competing with the shaven-headed Ostagoth bowmen for bragging rights in the coming march. Galin Veneva led the Ostagoths and he presented Wolfgart with a gilded bottle of koumiss and a promise of a drinking challenge at the end of this muster.

In addition to two hundred swordsmen, Count Krugar sent a company of his Red Scythes, armoured horsemen bearing glittering lances and wickedly curved sabres. Krugar did not attend the muster. Nor did the Cherusen count ride south, though the sending of five hundred tattooed warriors in earth-coloured cloaks and tunics was a grand gesture indeed. A hundred of the famed Cherusen Wildmen had also come to Reikdorf, their near-naked bodies crusted with coloured chalk and writhing tattoos.

By spring’s end, over nine thousand warriors had assembled beyond Reikdorf’s walls. The majority of these were Unberogen, though close to a third were men who called another land home. So great a host required feeding and watering, and since Sigmar had first begun to build the empire, the size of its armies had grown enormously. Consequently, the task of supplying them had grown ever more complex.

To make war so far from home, an army needed huge amounts of wagons, and thus Sigmar sent loggers out to chop down vast swathes of forest to enable carpenters to construct them. The lands around Reikdorf were squeezed of every last grain of corn, and the fletchers, bowyers and smiths of the city worked day and night to fashion thousands of arrows, swords and axes. Ropes, picks, levers, scaling ladders, saws, adzes and shovels were stockpiled alongside the heavy timbers of Sigmar’s disassembled catapults. Such was their weight that new yokes had to be designed to enable the oxen to pull them. Mobile forges were hauled onto the backs of reinforced wagons, and hundreds of craftsmen joined the muster in order to maintain its equipment ready for battle.

Tens of thousands of pounds of grain, flour and salt were stacked alongside hundreds of barrels of cured meat and fish, and enough food to feed the army for several months was quickly assembled. Eoforth and a virtual army of scribes and bookkeepers kept track of the supplies coming in from the country, and yet more wagons were set aside for the quartermaster’s records, for so large an army could not operate without a thorough understanding of the available resources.

As the sun rose on a glorious summer’s morning, Eoforth declared the army ready to march, and the priests of Ulric burned offerings to the god of battles on a great pyre atop Warrior Hill. Led by Alessa, the priestesses of Shallya moved through the host of warriors, blessing their hearts and asking the goddess of mercy and healing to watch over them.

Sigmar, Wolfgart and Redwane rode through Morr’s Gate at the head of two hundred White Wolves and took up their position at the front of the column. A great cheer echoed from the hills around Reikdorf as Redwane lifted the crimson banner of Sigmar high, and with the Emperor’s banner unfurled, a rippling flurry of tribal colours rose above the assembled host.

The White Wolves led the way along the paved western road as the army set off to war.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Sigmar’s army was joined by five hundred Endal warriors in dark armour at the river crossing of Astofen. A cavalry squadron of Raven Helms led by Count Aldred and Laredus met Sigmar in the centre of the bridge where Trinovantes had died, and Sigmar wished good fortune to the spirit of his old friend.

Swollen with these reinforcements, Sigmar’s army now numbered nearly ten thousand swords, with perhaps a thousand camp followers bringing up the rear. As the army halted each night, ostlers, craftsmen, drovers, healers, merchants and night maidens would make their way through the camp to ply their trade and maintain the army’s battle readiness.

Spirits were high, and each night Sigmar moved from campfire to campfire, speaking with his warriors and listening to their tales. All the men were looking forward to teaching the upstart Marius the price of cowardice and driving his warriors across the sea. Sigmar would remind them that the Jutones were still men and that it would be better to bring them into the empire than destroy them, though the words sounded hollow, even to him. Marius had deserted them in their hour of need. What manner of ally would such a man make?

The army turned northwards, and Sigmar led the march across the fertile flatlands that made up the northern reaches of the Endal lands, skirting the marshes and swampland around the Reik estuary. Though the vast expanse of marshland was still a treacherous mire of sucking bogs and stagnant pools of black water, the mists no longer clung to the earth, and sunlight bathed the landscape in warmth.

At the Great North Road, which had once marked the boundary between the lands of the Teutogens and Jutones, Sigmar’s army encountered a force of Thuringian warriors led by the giant Count Otwin. The berserker king had answered Sigmar’s call to arms with four hundred warriors, painted men and women in a riotous mix of plate armour, mail shirts and baked leather breastplates. Otwin’s warriors proudly bore the scars earned at Black Fire Pass, and Sigmar saw the berserker woman, Ulfdar, among the Thuringian host.

Otwin presented Sigmar with three prize bulls from his herd, and hundreds of Thuringian beef cows were slaughtered to feed the fighting men before they began the march to Jutonsryk. A grand feast was held on the Jutone border, with offerings made to Ulric, Taal and Shallya.

The following morning, with Otwin and Aldred at his side, Sigmar’s army crossed the Great North Road.

The war against the Jutones had begun.