—<SIXTEEN>—

The Temptation of Sigmar

 

 

Grey skies greeted the day of the executions. Sigmar rode through the streets of Reikdorf at the head of twenty White Wolves, moving quietly and without conversation. Counts Krugar and Aloysis were borne upon a hay wagon, their heads swathed in hessian hoods and their hands bound with iron fetters. A bell tolled from the steeple of the temple of Ulric, and a light rain began to fall.

It was still early, and the few people abroad at this hour stopped to stare in surprise and fear at the sight of him leading so strange a procession. Beneath their hoods, both prisoners were gagged, and all signs of their former station had been removed. To all appearances, the prisoners were no more than base criminals, yet Sigmar was not fool enough to think that their identities were not already common knowledge.

The thought did not trouble him, for the warriors who had ridden with Krugar and Aloysis were even now under guard in a number of warehouses on the southern bank of the river. The city gates had been closed to prevent word from spreading beyond the walls, but Sigmar could not stop tavern talk, and news of Aloysis and Krugar’s arrests had swept through the city like marsh pox.

Aloysis had arrived in Reikdorf only two nights previously, and the Cherusen count had been similarly outraged at his harsh treatment. Sigmar ignored his protests and left him chained to the dungeon wall until he had brought Krugar down to join him. As he held the blade to Krugar’s throat, the killing urge that had been with him since Morath’s defeat threatened to overwhelm him. It had taken all his self-control not to cut Krugar’s throat there and then.

Such urges were anathema to him, but the desire to kill Krugar and Aloysis was like a craving to which he dared not surrender.

These men were his friends.

No, they were his enemies, defying him and breaking their oaths of loyalty.

They were men who made foolish errors of judgement, letting ancient hatreds whose origins had long been forgotten blind them to their ties of brotherhood.

No, they were fools who deserved to die!

Sigmar’s head ached with conflicting thoughts and emotions. As much as he knew that what he was doing was very wrong, the rage that fed his urge to kill pulsed like fiery waves in his skull, blotting out any thoughts of compassion. So vile and bitter was this rage that he did not even recognise it as his own. Sigmar had known anger in his life, but this rage had been nursed for thousands of years, a hatred that had grown to such immense proportions that Sigmar’s mind recoiled from such darkness.

Even as he understood that this hatred was alien, calming warmth spread through him, seeping down from his temple and into his chest. It spread along his limbs, easing his fears and soothing his troubled mind. All remembrances of this morning’s evil fled from his thoughts.

The Ostgate loomed in the pre-dawn light, and the armoured warriors stationed there pulled the locking bar from its runners. The gate was opened, and Sigmar rode between the high towers flanking it. None of the gate guards dared meet his eyes, and he sensed great fear in their lowered gazes and submissive postures.

Even as he relished that fear, anger swelled as he saw that they pitied the prisoners.

These men had betrayed him, and his own warriors dared look at them with pity?

Keeping his hands tight on the reins, Sigmar rode from his city, keeping the pace steady as they travelled through the morning along the eastern road that skirted the edges of the Brackenwalsch. Weak sunlight warmed the earth, yet wisps of fog still oozed from the bleak fens to the north. The muddy greyness of the day lingered, and when the road bent towards Siggurdheim, Sigmar stopped his horse and dismounted.

“Bring them,” he said, his voice cold and laden with ancient relish.

The White Wolves manhandled the two captives from the wagon, and Sigmar marched over to them. He pulled off their hoods, and both counts blinked in the sudden brightness. Sigmar looked into their eyes, pleased at the fear he saw behind their bravado. Men always feared to die, no matter what they claimed.

“This is the day of your deaths,” he said, pointing into the fog-shrouded marsh. “Some years ago I watched the Endals execute a traitor named Idris Gwylt in the marshes around Marburg. They called it the thrice death, and it was a bad death. The priests of Morr tried to stop it. They said that for a man to die like that would deny him his journey onwards to the next world. I say it is the only death appropriate for traitors.”

He smiled as they blanched at the mention of the thrice death. Word of Idris Gwylt’s fate had spread throughout the empire, and the horror of his death was writ large in their eyes.

Sigmar led his warriors from the road and into the marsh, leaving a handful of White Wolves to guard their horses. The air tasted of life, and Sigmar felt his bile rise at the rancid stench of growth and fecundity. This was a liminal place, where worlds overlapped, and where the walls that separated them grew thin. He could sense power seeping up through the ground, the essence of life and creation, and his flesh crawled at its nearness.

No paths existed through the marshes, yet Sigmar led the way through the fog as though following a well-remembered route. He had never travelled these marshes, but he knew with utter certainty that he would not be sucked beneath the dark waters. Behind him, his warriors splashed and cursed as they dragged the reluctant prisoners through the sodden ground.

The marshes were alive with sound, and Sigmar shut out the cries of birds, the buzz of insects and the croaks of swamp creatures. His flesh grew clammy and warm with the life energy pouring from the waters. His warriors were oblivious to it, yet he could see it as a translucent green mist that rippled from the water and fens like noxious swamp gas.

When he decided they had come far enough, he raised a hand and turned to face his victims. He stood at the edge of a dark pool, the waters brackish and dead. It was perfect.

“This is far enough,” he said. “Bring them.”

Krugar and Aloysis were dragged forward and pushed to their knees at the edge of the pool. Their eyes bulged with fear, wordlessly pleading with Sigmar not to do this. He drew Krugar’s sword, carrying Utensjarl now instead of Count Wolfila’s blade. The hilt felt warm in his hand, the power within it cowed by something greater.

He held the gleaming blade before Krugar, and said, “To be killed by a weapon bound to your lineage will send a message that will be heard throughout the empire.”

Krugar struggled against his bonds, but the White Wolves held him firm.

“This gives me no pleasure,” said Sigmar, “but betrayal can have only one punishment.”

“And what of murder?” asked a familiar voice.

Sigmar turned as Wolfgart emerged from the mist, his sword-brother leading a lathered horse that picked its way fearfully over the sodden ground.

“What are you doing here, Wolfgart?” asked Sigmar. “This does not concern you.”

“Oh, this concerns me, Sigmar,” replied Wolfgart. “This concerns me a great deal.”

“These men defied my command. What message does it send if my counts can pick and choose which of my commands they obey and which they do not?”

“I don’t deny that action must be taken, but this?”

“This is a legitimate execution,” said Sigmar.

“It is murder,” replied Wolfgart.

Sigmar shook his head, aiming Utensjarl at Wolfgart.

“Of all the people I thought would betray me,” he said, “I never once thought you would be one of them.”

Wolfgart took a step towards Sigmar, his hands held out in supplication.

“I’m not betraying you, my friend. I’m trying to save you,” he said.

“From what?”

“From yourself,” said Wolfgart, moving closer. “Something happened to you in the north. I don’t know what, but something changed you, made you more ruthless, more… I don’t know… heartless.”

“Nothing happened in the north, Wolfgart,” said Sigmar, “save my eyes being opened to the true nature of man. He is an animal, and it is in his nature to betray. All the race of men understand is blood and vengeance.”

“Vengeance is pointless, Sigmar. Continuing the feuds that divide us will only lead to further hatred. You taught me that.”

“I was young and foolish then,” said Sigmar. “I was blind to the reality of the world.”

Wolfgart was right in front of him, and Sigmar felt a nauseous spike of pain in his gut, as though his sword-brother’s very nearness was somehow its cause. Wolfgart reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched.

“What do you think will happen to the empire if you kill Krugar and Aloysis?” Wolfgart asked. “The Cherusens and Taleutens won’t stand for it. They’ll rebel, and you’ll have a civil war on your hands. Some of the counts might support you, but others won’t, and what will you do then? March on their lands and burn them like you did the Roppsmenn?”

“If need be,” said Sigmar, shrugging off Wolfgart’s hand.

“I won’t let you do this,” said Wolfgart.

“You cannot stop me,” laughed Sigmar. “I am the Emperor!”

Sigmar turned his back on Wolfgart.

“I am done explaining myself to you. It is time to deliver my judgement upon these traitors,” he said.

“Sigmar, don’t,” pleaded Wolfgart.

“Begone,” he said. “I will deal with you when I return to Reikdorf.”

Sigmar lifted Utensjarl, but before he could strike Wolfgart hurled himself forward, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The sword landed point down in the mud.

Sigmar roared in anger as Wolfgart fought to hold him down. His fist cannoned into Wolfgart’s face, and he heard a crack of bone. Wolfgart slammed a right cross into Sigmar’s jaw, but he rode the punch and slammed his forehead into the middle of Wolfgart’s face.

Blood burst from Wolfgart’s broken nose, and Sigmar brought his knee up into his groin. His sword-brother grunted in pain, but did not release his hold.

“This is murder,” hissed Wolfgart through a mask of blood.

Hands gripped Wolfgart, hauling him from Sigmar.

“No!” roared Sigmar. “Leave him!”

They rolled in the mud and sopping pools of the marsh, punching, kicking and clawing at one another like wild animals. All thoughts of honour and nobility were forgotten in the brawl. Sigmar spat out a mouthful of stagnant water, and drove his elbow into Wolfgart’s neck.

Wolfgart clutched at his throat, crawling away as he gasped for air.

Sigmar reached out as he saw a gleam of silver, his hand closing on Utensjarl’s hilt. He dragged the sword from the mud. A ring of warriors surrounded him, but he cared nothing for their expressions of shock and confusion. All that mattered was that his enemy died.

He half-crawled, half-scrambled on his knees through the mud towards his sword-brother. Wolfgart lay at the edge of water, and Sigmar turned him onto his back. The water bubbled and churned around them, as though their struggles had stirred something beneath them. Rank swamp gas frothed to the surface.

Wolfgart’s face was bloodied, and he fought for breath. Sigmar took Utensjarl in a two-handed grip, the blade aimed at Wolfgart’s chest.

“Brother!” cried Wolfgart, and Sigmar’s killing fire faltered as he saw not fear, but sadness in his sword-brother’s face. The water around them heaved again, and Sigmar heard a wet, sucking sound, like a boot pulled from the mud.

A body broke the surface of the water, a corpse once held in the stygian darkness below, but now returned to the world above. The body rolled upright, and Sigmar gagged on the stench of the marsh’s depths as he found himself staring at a pallid, dead face.

It was the Hag Woman. Though dark water slicked from her face and marsh fronds garlanded her hair, there was no mistaking the Brackenwalsch seer.

Her throat had been cut and her skull was caved in at the temple.

Her eyes were open, and they stared directly at Sigmar. And in them, he saw his soul shining back at him.

 

Sigmar cried out as he saw himself reflected in the Hag Woman’s eyes, sitting astride his oldest and dearest friend with murder in his heart. As though looking up through her cold, lifeless orbs, he saw the horror in the faces of those around him, and the berserk rage on his own. For the briefest instant, he did not recognise himself, the drawn, parchment-skinned monster that revelled in bloodshed and the pain of the living.

The moment stretched, as though frozen in time, and Sigmar felt a feather-light brush of a power greater than anything he had ever known, including the Flame of Ulric. It was elemental and vast beyond understanding, a power that had existed since the dawn of the world, and which would endure beyond the span of men or gods.

It was old this power, old and strong, and with that one, almost inconsequential touch, Sigmar recognised it as a power he had long ago sworn to serve in a moment of grief. The Hag Woman had promised he would see her again, and he understood the meaning of her last words to him in one sudden, awful burst of clarity.

He looked beyond the ring of White Wolves, seeing that which was invisible to the sight of mortals. Was this a last gift of the Hag Woman, an echo of her powers granted to him that he might understand what he had become?

Sigmar saw the tautness of his body, as though his flesh and soul had been stretched and twisted like a fraying rope on the verge of snapping. A black miasma surrounded him, a cloying shroud that smothered the very things that made him the man he was and poisoned everything within him that was good and noble. Within this miasma, a towering shadow hung over him, a monstrous outline of something long dead, yet which endured impossibly down the thousands of years since its doom.

A clawed hand of glittering gold and silver seemed to reach from the miasma with fingers of black smoke that pressed upon his skull like the blessing of a priest. Yet this was no blessing, this was a curse, for, even as he watched, the essence of the shadowy creature was slowly, moment by moment, passing into Sigmar.

“No!” he cried, but he was not a player in this scene, merely a passive observer.

In an instant, he relived the war against the Roppsmenn, the hideous massacres, the burning villages, the blood-thirsty rampages of the Udose which he had not only allowed but encouraged. The slaughter of an entire people. Tears welled in his eyes as he knew that he had passed the darkness of his heart to every man who fought with him in the north.

The souls of all who took part in the destruction of the Roppsmenn would be forever tainted by that unjust war, and Sigmar knew he could never atone for it. Looking around him, he saw the same shadow that enveloped him as a haze around the warriors he had brought from Reikdorf. Through him evil had touched them, bringing the hidden darkness within them to the surface.

Looking closer, Sigmar saw that the dark shadow seeping into his soul was slithering around the golden crown at his brow. The soothing warmth that quietened his fears and quashed any rebellious thoughts had silenced the shrieking voice of his heart that knew what he was doing was wrong. Every day since the defeat of Morath crowded his thoughts, and he wept to see the passage of days, knowing they were his yet experiencing them as a stranger might hear the tale of a long-lost brother.

“This is not me!” he screamed, watching as the shadow that loomed over his body swelled in anticipation of this murder.

Images flashed before him, and his soul fought against the dark spirit invading him.

Ravenna by the river.

A city swallowed by the sand…

His father in the Grey Vaults.

A murderous enemy with a fell sword…

The kings of men swearing sword oaths with him.

The forging of a mighty crown of sorcery…

The soaring nobility of the race of man coming together as one.

Utensjarl fell from Sigmar’s hands, and the world snapped back into focus as he looked, once again, through his own eyes. The black miasma surrounding him vanished, and Sigmar looked down at Wolfgart, heartsick with grief and horror. He sobbed, and the sound clawed from his throat as though from a great distance.

“Sigmar?” cried Wolfgart. “Is that you?”

He blinked, tears of shame and fear spilling down his cheeks as he felt the awesome rage of something older and more terrible than anything he had ever known turn upon him.

“Gods, brother,” he whispered. “What has become of me?”

Sigmar grasped the golden crown at his brow, but no sooner had his fingers touched the metal than fiery agony exploded inside his head. He screamed as shooting spikes of pain ripped into him, like a choke-chain violently pulled at the neck of a disobedient hound.

He surged to his feet, screaming as his humanity warred with this invasive force that poisoned him with its evil. Wolfgart scrambled to his knees, reaching out to him, but his sword-brother could not help him now.

He had to fight this battle alone.

With a cry of anguish, Sigmar turned and fled into the depths of the marsh.

 

The mist closed around him as he ran blindly through the depths of the Brackenwalsch. He heard alarmed cries following him, but they were soon swallowed by the deadening fog and eerie silence of the marsh. Sigmar ran without care for where he stepped, knowing that at any moment he might wander from the path, stumble into a sucking bog and be lost forever.

He welcomed the thought, but with every stumbling step he plunged deeper and deeper into the haunted fens, driven by the imperative to flee from any he might corrupt with the evil power growing within him.

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

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

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

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

How could he have done this?

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

Are you so sure?

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

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

“Show yourself!” he demanded.

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

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

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

“No! I am a good man!” wailed Sigmar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That name could be yours.

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

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

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

It will live forever. As will you.

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

Then if not for you, perhaps for another.

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

“My love,” whispered Sigmar.

She smiled at him, and his heart broke anew.

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

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

Yes, let the water claim you.

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

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

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

 

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

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

“Is this real?” he asked.

Ravenna turned to face him and smiled.

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

“Ours?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did it all for you,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wasted life, sneered the voice.

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

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

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

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

Sigmar took hold of the golden crown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was something that Sigmar would never do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” he asked.

“Pendrag gave it to Redwane when you parted company at Middenheim, and he carried it south to Reikdorf,” said Wolfgart. “Go on, take it.”

Hesitantly, Sigmar reached out, and slowly wrapped his fingers around the rune-encrusted haft of Ghal Maraz, flinching as the last of the golden crown’s influence was purged from him by the dwarf rune-magic. He smiled as the weapon settled in his grip, just as a well-made cloak which had weathered the harshest winter would feel after being warmed by the fire.

Wolfgart reached into the bag again, and pulled out another gift.

The crown fashioned by Alaric the Mad.

Sigmar took a step back.

He shook his head.

“No, I do not deserve to wear it,” he said.

“Of course you do,” said Wolfgart. “You’re the only man who can. This has been a dark period, but it’s time for you to be our Emperor once again. A fresh start. What do you say?”

Sigmar looked into his friend’s eyes, seeing devotion and forgiveness he did not deserve. Through everything, Wolfgart still believed in him. “I do not deserve a friend like you,” he said.

“I know, but you’re stuck with me,” said Wolfgart. “Now take your crown.”

“No,” said Sigmar, dropping to his knees before Wolfgart. “If this is to be a fresh start, then I want you to crown me anew.”

“I’m no Ar-Ulric, but I think I can manage that.”

Sigmar bowed, and Wolfgart placed the crown upon his head. Like Ghal Maraz, Alaric’s crown welcomed him without reservation or rancour, and the wisdom and love that had gone into its craft filled him with strength he had not realised had drained from him.

He stood and looked out over the marshes. The sun was breaking through the clouds and clearing the mists away. Sigmar felt the sunlight on his skin and smiled. It felt good to be alive, but even as he relished this rebirth he knew there was much yet to be done.

“We must get back, my friend,” said Sigmar at last. “The empire is in great danger.”

“Isn’t it always?” asked Wolfgart.

“There are two counts of the empire I need to set free,” said Sigmar. “I have behaved shamefully towards them, and I only hope they can forgive me.”

“Ach, they’ll be fine,” said Wolfgart. “Krugar and Aloysis know they did wrong, and one thing’s for sure; they’ll not be sending raiders into each other’s lands again any time soon. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

“No,” said Sigmar. “The Norsii return to reclaim the lands I took from them. Hundreds of Wolfships are already crossing the Sea of Claws, and the north is virtually undefended.”

Wolfgart shrugged.

“It was only a matter of time until they came at us again,” he said. “At least I’ll get to put that sword above the fire to good use, though you’ll be the one explaining to my little girl why her father is going to war again!”