—<NINE>—

Northern Fire

 

 

Of all the Udose settlements Cyfael had seen, Haugrvik was amongst the most pleasant. Most villages on the empire’s northern coastline were battered by the cold winds raging southwards from the ice-bound lands beyond, but a high ridge to the north of Haugrvik sheltered it from the worst of the coastal weather. Built on a crescent bay of shingled shores, the low dwellings had a rustic charm not seen in the townships and settlements south of the Middle Mountains.

Cyfael made his way from the house the village chief, Macarven, had assigned him, a single storey structure of wattle and daub with timber struts and a rough coating of hading to the exterior. As he stretched in the early morning sunshine, he massaged his head and reflected that rustic charm was all well and good so long as you didn’t have to wake up every morning with a raging thirst and monstrous hangover.

The women and youngsters of the village were already at the shoreline, folding the nets, and packing barrels with meat and bread for the fishermen. Six longboats were pulled up onto the shore, ready to be sent out into the Sea of Claws to bring back the day’s catch. The village elders joined the women in their work, for the majority of the village’s men were marching south to the Fauschlag Rock to answer a sword muster called by Count Pendrag.

Since arriving in Count Wolfila’s castle of Salzenhus from Middenheim a month ago, Cyfael had ridden the length of the northern coastline with his fiercest clansmen to bring word of that summons to the villages of the Udose.

They were welcomed in the main, for Emperor Sigmar’s armies had saved the Udose from destruction at the hands of the Norsii many years ago, and highland memories were long. Honouring the blood debt to the Unberogen and the Emperor was a matter of pride, and none of the many Udose clans would bear the shame of not living up to that obligation.

So far, Cyfael had mustered three hundred men, more than enough for this stretch of coastline, for it would not do to strip it completely of its warriors. The northern coasts of the empire were dangerous, and though Norsii raids were few and far between this far east, no one forgot the terror of the mighty Norsemen.

That fact was made clear by the presence of the timber hill fort atop a low mound on the northern curve of the bay. Surrounded by a palisade wall of sharpened logs and a wide, water-filled ditch, Macarven’s fort was one of the largest Cyfael had seen in Udose lands. A tall watchtower rose from the walls, and, though the stronghold wasn’t a patch on the grand fortress of Middenheim, there was a barbarous splendour to its construction.

The size of his hill fort was an indication that Macarven was a clan chief of some importance in the area, commanding respect from at least six other clans. The chieftain had been a generous host and had demanded Cyfael stay on for a few more days to sample Udose hospitality, which mainly involved flagon after flagon of strong drink and endless feasts of beef and fish.

Cyfael pulled his cloak tighter about himself as a bitter squall whipped up from the sea, and a shiver of unease travelled the length of his spine. He made his way down the stony path to the shore, enjoying the wildness of the country around him. He called the Fauschlag Rock home and from its towering heights a man could see to the edges of the world. The view across the endless forests of the empire was something to be treasured, but here… Here a man could live in that landscape.

The land of the Udose spread out before him like a great tapestry, rugged and harsh, but possessed of a haunting beauty that would never leave his soul. The ocean was an impossibly vast expanse of shimmering blue that stretched to the horizon and promised far off lands as yet unexplored. At least it would be, were it not for the thin morning mist that clung like fallen clouds to the surface of the water.

Donaghal, one of Count Wolfila’s Hearth-Swords, waved at him from the shore, his near-naked body wrapped in a plaid cloak. The man was soaked from an early morning swim, and Cyfael saw the pale lines of scars criss-crossing his chest and arms. A long, basket-hiked claymore sat propped up against one of the longboats next to him. Donaghal was a fine warrior, a man whom other men looked up to.

“How’s the water, Donaghal?” shouted Cyfael.

“Bracing. You should get yourself in and find out.”

Cyfael shook his head and grinned.

“I don’t think so, my friend,” he said. “Us southern types don’t like the cold. I do not wish a fever before I return to Middenheim.”

“Cold? Ach, whisht, man, this isn’t cold, it’s like swimming in a hot spring.”

“To you perhaps,” said Cyfael. “You Udose have ice in your veins.”

Donaghal started to reply, but his mouth snapped shut as a ringing bell echoed from above. Cyfael turned at the sound, shielding his eyes as he looked up towards the hill fort. A clansman at the top of the watchtower was ringing the warning bell and pointing to the ocean. Cyfael couldn’t make out what he was saying, but Donaghal clarified the nature of the threat with a single shouted word that was part warning, part curse.

“Norsii!”

Cyfael looked out to sea, and a trio of dark ships slid from the mist like phantoms. Tapered hulls angled upwards with wolf-headed prows arced towards the shore, driven by banks of oars that swept up and back in perfect unison.

“Ulric save us…” hissed Cyfael, wishing he’d thought to buckle his sword-belt on this morning. The Wolfships arced over the water, each vessel carrying at least thirty warriors in dark armour and horned helms, their swords and shields gleaming in the sun.

“Go!” shouted Donaghal. “Get the women and children to the stockade!”

“I can help you,” said Cyfael.

“Don’t be daft, you have no weapon and this is my shore. Now go!”

Though it tore at his heart to leave the clansman, Cyfael knew he would be little use without his sword.

“Ulric bless you, my friend,” he said. “Take as many of the bastards with you as you can!”

Donaghal grinned, and said, “No bother.”

Cyfael ran back to his lodgings, and quickly ducked inside to retrieve his sword, a fine Asoborn weapon with a leaf-shaped blade. Buckling on his sword-belt as he ran, he glanced back to the shoreline, and a cold lump of fear settled in his belly as he saw the three Wolfships driven up the shingle and Norsii warriors leaping over the side.

Donaghal charged to meet them with an Udose war cry on his lips, and his sword smashed through the armour of the first warrior to land on the beach. He killed a second Norsii with a devastating overhead sweep, and another with a disembowelling cut that tore up through the Norseman’s mail shirt. His defiance couldn’t last, and Cyfael watched in horror as a giant warrior in midnight-black armour leapt to the shingle with a red-bladed axe that seemed to burn with an evil flame.

Donaghal attacked the warrior, but his sword was batted aside with ease, and the burning blade swept back to cleave the clansman from neck to groin. The brave clansman fell to the bloody water, and Cyfael ran as Donaghal’s killer turned his baleful gaze towards the settlement.

Cyfael sprinted through the village, passing homes that he had visited many times, and which would probably be burned to the ground before the day was out. In his short time here he had come to love this place, and the thought of its destruction at the hands of the Norsii filled him with a towering rage.

Women carrying children were fleeing along the roadway of hard-packed earth that led to the stockade on the hill. Cyfael ran after them, but his pace faltered as he saw something amazing.

Streaming from the forests around Haugrvik were at least two hundred warriors in patterned cloaks of red and green with heads shaven except for long braids at their ears. Each man was armoured in a mail vest and bore a small wooden buckler and a wide-bladed sword.

Roppsmenn!

The women of Haugrvik cried out in relief at the sight of the Roppsmenn, tribal warriors from the east who, while not sworn allies of the empire, were certainly more welcome than the Norsii.

A swordsman in form-fitting silver armour, who bore twin blades of slender beauty, led the Roppsmenn, and Cyfael recognised a deadly killer in his every move. A dark suspicion formed in his mind as the warriors took up positions in the heart of the village on the road that led to the stockade.

Cyfael shouted a warning, but it was already too late.

The Roppsmenn fell upon the women with swords, and the screaming tore at Cyfael’s heart. He dragged his own weapon from its sheath and ran at the nearest of the Roppsmenn, plunging the blade into the man’s side. Even as he died, he lashed out at Cyfael, who leapt back to avoid a killing blow from the dying man’s weapon.

A Roppsmenn warrior lunged at him, and Cyfael swept the man’s blade aside and spun around him, slashing his sword across the back of his foe’s knees. Hamstrung, the man collapsed with a foul scream, and Cyfael tore the man’s buckler from his arm. The Roppsmenn circled him, and Cyfael knew that he couldn’t hope to survive the fight.

“Right, you bastards!” he yelled. “Who’s next?”

A shaven-headed Roppsmann with a scarred face raised his sword, but the silver-armoured swordsman shook his head.

“No,” he said, “this one’s mine.”

The warrior circled Cyfael, and his courage fled as he recognised the lithe footwork of an expert swordsman in the man’s every move. Cyfael had once been privileged to witness a display of Ostagoth Droyaska, blademasters who elevated sword combat to an art-form. Next to this man’s fluid movement, they seemed like crippled simpletons.

“You should be honoured,” said the warrior. “You will be my first.”

“First what?”

“The first empire man I will kill.”

“You are arrogant,” said Cyfael, mustering the last shreds of his warrior spirit. “Perhaps I will kill you.”

The man laughed and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Already, fear is turning your bowels to water and you know you do not have the skill to defeat me.”

“A fight is about more than just skill. There is luck and fate. You might slip, your sword might break or I could surprise you.”

“No. You won’t.”

The man removed his helm, and Cyfael’s jaw dropped at the sight of the wondrously handsome man before him. Lustrous dark hair was bound in a long scalp-lock, but it was the man’s face, sensuous and perfectly symmetrical that snared Cyfael’s attention.

Handsome to the point of obscenity, the man’s features were clearly not those of the Norsii tribes. His curving cheekbones, full lips and softer jaw spoke of southern tribal ancestry. Cyfael was a lover of women, and had no interest in men beyond their comradeship, but he felt an undeniable attraction to this beautiful man.

“Who are you?” whispered Cyfael, his sword lowering.

The swordsman’s blade lanced out in a gleaming blur, and a rush of blood poured onto Cyfael’s chest. He looked down, and saw that his throat had been opened, the blade that killed him so sharp he hadn’t even felt it cut his flesh.

He dropped to his knees as his life poured out of him. The swordsman stood over him, and Cyfael was glad that his death had come at the hands of this perfect warrior and not some stinking, traitorous Roppsmann.

“I am Azazel,” said the swordsman, “but before that I was called Gerreon.”

Cyfael tried to form a reply, but his mouth filled with blood and the words wouldn’t come.

“I once called this land home,” said Azazel, kneeling beside Cyfael and unsheathing a dagger. “But I was betrayed and driven out by a man who called me sword-brother. His name is Sigmar, and I have come home to kill him.”

Azazel gripped Cyfael’s neck and held the glittering blade of his dagger a hair’s-breadth from his eye. As the last of his strength faded, Cyfael saw the swordsman’s face twist in anger, and what he had once thought beautiful was now hideous and terrifying.

“I am going to put out your eyes and cut out your tongue,” hissed Azazel with obvious relish. “You will walk blind and without voice in the void for all eternity. Your torment will be exquisite.”

The dagger stabbed home, and Cyfael knew no more.

 

Haugrvik burned. The stockade on the hill had fallen within the hour and its chieftain was nailed to its splintered gates. His wife and children were thrown, still living, onto the pyre of the dead. The elders and warriors were impaled on sharpened logs that had once encircled the hill fort, and the women too old to bear children were given to the blooded warriors for sport or taken by Azazel for torture.

The young women were whipped and chained before being taken aboard the Wolfships as spoils of war. The settlement’s children were offered to Kharnath, the dark god of blood, and their skulls woven into trophy chains to be hung from the banner of Cormac Bloodaxe.

Kar Odacen watched as the settlement burned, pleased at the victory and at the sense of ancient plans in motion that he felt all around him. The wizened, stoop-shouldered shaman sat on a fallen log, as Cormac stalked through the blazing village, his powerful form clad in blood-coloured armour taken from the lost tomb of Varag Skulltaker the previous year. The warrior’s axe, a dread blade into which Kar Odacen had bound a creature from the pit, was dark and lifeless, its hunger for slaughter sated for now.

With eyes that saw the world beyond that of mortals, Kar Odacen perceived the red haze of anger that enveloped Cormac, and smiled. That anger had been a potent force in rebuilding the Norsii tribes, an anger that Kar Odacen had carefully fanned and built, ever since Cormac’s father had been killed and the Norsii driven from their homes by Sigmar Heldenhammer.

Forever on the fringes of the southern lands, the Norsii had honoured the ancient gods of the world, and for this they had been hated and feared. The soft-bellied southern tribes knew nothing of the power of the northern gods, and so were prey to the Norsii. Then the hated Sigmar had united the tribes beneath his banner and made war on the chosen of the gods.

Against such a powerful enemy, the Norsii had had no choice but to flee to the icy wastelands across the sea. Here they scraped a pitiful existence from the bleak landscape, dreaming of the day when they would sing the songs of war and sail the Wolfships south to bring death to their enemies.

Alone of all the Norsii, Kar Odacen embraced his new home, for he had travelled these forsaken lands before in ages past. Centuries before Cormac’s birth, Kar Odacen had dared venture into the northern reaches of the world, where the very air seethed with power, and the land writhed with the breath of the gods. Unimaginable energies had poured into his body, the gods blessing him with extended life and the power to change the world. The elements bent to his will, daemons of the pit were his to command, and the myriad patterns of the future came to him in dreams and visions.

Upon his return to the world of men, he walked amongst the Norsii for many lifetimes, shaping their destiny and ever working to bring about the End Times, the days of blood when the Dark Gods would finally claim this world as their own. Kar Odacen had held to the old ways, and with Cormac’s anger binding the Norsii together, they had rebuilt the tribes, gathering the survivors of Sigmar’s wrath and filling their hearts with hatred.

With the coming of Azazel, that time was closer than ever before.

Kar Odacen looked over the burning hill fort as the young warrior walked from its ruins. He stopped beside Cormac, and the two warriors made their way towards him. As they drew close, Kar Odacen studied them both.

Cormac Bloodaxe was the greatest of the Norsii warlords, a warrior who had brought many of the disparate tribes of the north together under one banner and promised them revenge. A core of molten rage burned in his heart, and that anger would burn the empire to ashes.

Azazel’s silver armour was drenched in blood, and lines of red streaked his cruelly handsome face. The man revelled in torture, and the burning fort was filled with the mutilated bodies of his victims. The swordsman had come a long way in the ten years since his arrival on their shores in a stolen boat, delirious and near death. The womenfolk nursed him back to health, and as soon as he had regained his strength, Kar Odacen took the warrior into the northern wastelands. Deep in the abode of the gods, Azazel fought creatures of nightmare and felt the blessings of the gods flow in his veins. The warrior had been reborn there and, like Cormac, Azazel had good reason to hate the empire.

His thirst for vengeance was a sword aimed at the heart of its ruler.

It had been hard for Cormac to accept the southlander as an equal, but in the years of battle since he had first come to their lands, Azazel had proved himself a warrior of superlative skill and ruthlessness. His cruelty and beauty were feared and beloved in equal measure, and he had willingly turned from the weak gods of the southern tribes to worship the hungry gods of the dark.

“A grand day’s slaughter,” said Kar Odacen as the two warriors reached him.

“This?” spat Cormac, removing his helm. “This was nothing.”

Cormac Bloodaxe had the face of a fist fighter, his nose a flattened nub of gristle that had been broken many times, and his eyes were hooded and malicious. His hair was the colour of copper, and his skin was windblown from a life lived in the tundra of the northern realms.

Cormac bore numerous tally scars on his cheeks, each one representing a great mound of skulls offered to his patron god. He looked over at the line of impaled Udose prisoners. “There was barely a fighter among them, save the clansman I killed at the shore,” he said. “The chieftain opened his gates after we slew the first of his women. A man like that does not deserve to be a leader.”

“The men of the empire are sentimental,” said Azazel. “It will be their undoing.”

“Exactly,” agreed Kar Odacen. “They do not live a life of battle and blood like the Norsii. Comfort and peace makes women of their warriors.”

“You were once one of them,” pointed out Cormac, never passing up an opportunity to remind Azazel of his southern heritage. “I have yet to see your sentimental side.”

Kar Odacen expected anger from Azazel, but the man simply shrugged.

“I cast off such weakness when I killed my sister,” he said. “I am no longer one of them. I am Norsii.”

“Aye,” said Kar Odacen, “that you are. Tell me, Cormac, did the Roppsmenn fight well?”

Cormac shrugged.

“Well enough,” he said. “They know what will happen to their womenfolk should they falter.”

Kar Odacen smiled. With the breaking of the ice around the Norscan coastline, Cormac and Azazel had sailed the Wolfships across the ocean and plundered the towns and settlements of the Roppsmenn. They had taken the Roppsmenn’s women and tribal leaders hostage, and demanded a season’s servitude from the eastern tribe’s warriors in return for their safety.

It was a bargain Kar Odacen had no intention of living up to. He sensed Azazel’s dark eyes boring into him.

“The Roppsmenn must know you will not return their hostages,” said Azazel. “You will burn them upon a great pyre to ensure the success of next year’s campaigning.”

As always, Azazel’s beguiling allure gave Kar Odacen pause, but he forced himself to see past the haunting beauty the dark prince had bestowed upon the swordsman.

“You see much that is hidden, Azazel,” said Kar Odacen. “You have the sight?”

Azazel shook his head and smiled.

“I don’t need sorcerous powers to know that you will kill them,” he said. “It’s what I would do. Slowly.”

Kar Odacen smiled. Truly the man Gerreon was no more. Only Azazel, disciple of Shornaal, remained.

“It matters not,” said Kar Odacen. “There is nothing they can do to prevent it. But time is passing, and we should leave this place. The smoke will bring Udose warriors from other settlements.”

“Let them come,” snarled Cormac. “I grow weary of killing women and old men, shaman.”

“Yet you take such relish in the task.”

“Kharnath cares not from where the blood flows,” spat Cormac, “but we gain nothing by killing such wretches. My blade hungers for worthy foes to slay.”

“You must be patient, Cormac, this is not a time for war; it is a time for terror.”

“Terror? Terror does not reap skulls for Kharnath. Terror does not win us back land that is rightfully ours!”

Kar Odacen held up a placatory hand.

“Terror is a potent ally, Cormac,” he said. “It moves through the land faster than any army, and saps the courage of every man it touches. Your name is known in the south already, for it is carried on every panicked scream and cry of loss. The terror of what you have done here will spread like a plague, and tales of your slaughters will reach the furthest corners of the empire. With every retelling, they will grow in magnitude until terror gnaws at the hearts of Sigmar’s warriors like rats in the darkness.”

“Then it is time to march south?” asked Cormac.

“No,” said Kar Odacen. “Not yet. There is work to be done before the empire burns.”

“Damn you, shaman, you say that every time I ask. What is left to be done?” asked Cormac.

“Patience, young Cormac, you have nursed your hatred for ten years. What matters one more turning of the seasons?”

“Tell me, shaman, or I shall feed your soul to my axe!”

“Very well,” said Kar Odacen, feigning submission, though he knew his death would not be at the hands of a mortal like Cormac Bloodaxe. “There is an enemy that dwells in the south who draws power from the pulse of the earth.”

“A sorcerer like you?”

“No,” hissed Kar Odacen, “not like me. There are no others like me, but this one… This one has real power, and the gods have spoken words of death that cannot be denied.”

“Then kill this mystic and be done with it.”

“'I shall,” promised Kar Odacen. “I must travel deep into the lands of the south, but I shall not be going alone. Azazel must accompany me, for he knows the ways of its people. He shall be my guide and my protector.”

“And then we take the fire south?” demanded Cormac.

“Then we take the fire south,” promised Kar Odacen.

 

Thanks to the paved roads leading from Reikdorf, it took Sigmar and his warriors less than two weeks to travel north to Count Otwin’s castle in the Dragonback Hills. Here they rested for three nights, enjoying the rough and ready hospitality of the Thuringian count before pressing on towards the Fauschlag Rock.

So far the journey had been uneventful, with each town and settlement greeting the Emperor and his warriors with open arms and generous hospitality. The settlements were protected by tall palisade walls and armed men equipped with mail shirts and sturdy iron swords. As secure as they were, the arrival of three hundred White Wolves was most welcome.

The settlement of Beckhafel marked the most northerly extent of the road to Middenheim, and Sigmar was pleased to see hundreds of men hard at work in the forests beyond the village. Robed map-makers and scribes consulted with foresters to plot the route of the road, and logging gangs felled trees from its path as well as cutting undergrowth back from the road to allow armed warriors on horseback to protect the working men.

Burly men with iron-bladed augers broke the ground for the diggers to form the wide trench that would be filled and levelled with sand before the stonecutters laid flattened slabs on a bed of lime mortar. Scores of tents and wagons lined the road, filled with sand, stone and tools. The scope and scale of the work filled Sigmar with pride as he and Redwane rode alongside the ever-lengthening road.

Workmen waved as they passed, and Sigmar held Ghal Maraz out for his subjects to see, holding the weapon aloft until they rode out of sight of the work-gangs and into the wild reaches of the forest. The regular sound of axes biting into timber was soon swallowed by the thick woodland, and Sigmar shivered as the trees seemed to crowd in that little bit closer.

He looked into the forest on either side of him, unable to see further than ten or fifteen feet.

Anything could be lurking in the darkness, and Sigmar’s hand slipped back onto the haft of Ghal Maraz. A palpable tension descended on Sigmar’s warriors as they appreciated how isolated they were. The sensation was not entirely unwelcome and as their guide, a huntsman named Tomas, led them deeper into the shadowy reaches of the forest, Sigmar had a potent sense of venturing into the unknown.

As though picking up on his thoughts, Redwane leaned over and said, “Are you sure this man knows where he’s going? It doesn’t look like anyone’s come this way in years.”

Sigmar had to agree with the young White Wolf. Their route was overgrown, and tangled with plants and gently waving ferns. He could barely see the faint trail of hard-packed earth that wound its way between the trees.

Without looking back, Tomas said, “You’re welcome to try and find your own way, boy.”

Their guide was a tall and rangy Thuringian, clad in leather and buckskin that blended with the neutral tones of the forest. A long-hafted axe was sheathed on his back and, unusually for one of Count Otwin’s subjects, he carried a compact recurved bow, Taleuten by the craft of it.

“Redwane meant no disrespect, friend Tomas,” said Sigmar. “Though the trail does look abandoned.”

“It’s not,” said Tomas. “Few use this path now, only foresters and hunters. And good ones don’t leave signs of their passing.”

“What about the bad ones?” quipped Redwane.

“They end up dead. The forest doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

“You travel this way regularly?” asked Sigmar as Redwane made a face of mock terror at the huntsman’s back. Tomas nodded.

“Aye,” he said. “End of each hunting season I’ll take my furs north to the Fauschlag Rock. Wolf, deer and fox mainly, but sometimes I get a bear. Trade them for supplies to last out the winter.”

“A hard life,” said Sigmar.

The huntsman shrugged, as though he hadn’t given the matter any thought. “No harder than most, I suppose. I don’t like towns. I like the peace of the forest.”

“How long till we reach Middenheim?” asked Redwane.

Tomas looked up. “A week. Maybe less if the weather holds.”

The huntsman pushed deeper into the forest ahead and, careful to keep his voice low, Redwane said, “A dazzling conversationalist, eh? Makes Alfgeir look like a blabbermouth.”

“He is a man who spends a lot of time on his own,” said Sigmar, “and someone who can bring a bear down on his own is clearly not a man to antagonise.”

Redwane nodded, glancing over at Tomas and the well-used axe on his back.

“I take your point,” he said.

“Still,” continued Sigmar, “I like the idea that we are treading paths few others have followed. It feels as though we are discovering somewhere new, for the empire is becoming a smaller place.”

Seeing Redwane’s confusion, Sigmar said, “The roads I am building are bringing lands once thought unreachable within our grasp. As traders from Jutonsryk and beyond the southern mountains forge new trade routes throughout the land, it sometimes feels as though the unknown places of the world are becoming fewer and farther between.”

“That’s a good thing, surely?”

“Yes,” agreed Sigmar. “While my intellect rejoices at the idea of unlocking the land for my people, allowing trade and travel to flourish, my heart mourns the passing of its mysteries. Soon there will be no secret places left in the world, and the light of civilisation will usher in a new age.”

“Sounds grand,” said Redwane, though Sigmar knew the young warrior did not grasp the implications of a land made small by the expansion of man. As much as the world needed illumination, it needed the promise of realms unexplored to drive the imagination.

Sigmar remembered journeying south to Siggurdheim and the sense of boundless space he had felt while alone in a landscape free from the stamp of civilisation. Travelling through the northern forests had awakened that wanderlust in Sigmar, and he felt the excitement of an explorer daring to brave new horizons.

He wondered how much longer this would last, for loggers were clearing forests all across the empire. New towns and farms and grazing land were emerging every day, and his people were carving out their homes in areas that had once been beast-haunted wilderness. It seemed as though the forest and lands of the empire were limitless, but Sigmar knew they were not.

What would happen when the land grew too small for his people?