—<SEVENTEEN>—

Wolves of the North

 

 

They had lost.

Dawn was minutes old, and the army had been on the march for eight hours already. Thousands of warriors in ragged bands of bloodied survivors marched south in the shadow of the Middle Mountains. Sigmar watched each man as he passed, seeing the same sullen disbelief in every face.

They had lost.

The armies of the empire never lost a battle.

It hadn’t quite sunk in.

No one could believe it, least of all Sigmar.

It had been a bright spring afternoon, the perfect day for a battle. Sigmar had felt powerful and invincible as he sat atop his horse and watched the Norsii of Cormac Bloodaxe march out to give battle. Eight thousand warriors of the empire—Udose, Unberogen, Thuringians and Jutones—stood in disciplined ranks on a forested ridge some fifty miles from the northern coast. Each of the tribal contingents was led by its count, and Sigmar had relished the chance to march alongside Otwin and Marius.

The counts had gathered the previous evening to plan the coming battle, and Sigmar found himself missing Wolfila’s garrulous company more than ever, for the Udose chieftain who attended the war council was a dour, humourless man named Conn Carsten. Since last spring, the Udose lands had been riven with skirmishes as the clan lords fought one another to claim the title of count, but the Norsii invasion had put an end to the feuding long enough for them to name Conn Carsten as their war-chieftain.

Hard to like, Carsten was nevertheless a canny soldier who knew the land well. Under his command, the northern clans had slowed the Norsii advance, and given Sigmar time to gather a sword host. But for Carsten, the north would have already fallen.

With plans drawn and the courage of their warriors bolstered by the presence of the Emperor, the army had marched out to victory. Every warrior could taste the sweetness of triumph, the honour and glory that would be theirs. The tales of blood and courage they would tell upon their return home were already taking shape in each man’s head.

But they had lost.

No sooner had the counts taken the field beneath a wild panoply of colourful banners than malformed storm-clouds swelled in the clear sky. They crackled with gleeful lightning, fat with the promise of rain. Howling storm winds blew, and a sour, battering downpour began, like the legendary floods said to have drowned the world in ages past.

Arcing bolts of lightning slammed into the earth as the storm broke, and tremors of fear rippled along the empire line at such unnatural phenomena. Worse was to come.

Sigmar rode with the White Wolves in the centre of his army, and each warrior sought to restore their honour after the war against the Roppsmenn.

The thunder of their hooves was the sound of victory.

Then a shrieking bolt of azure lightning had struck the bearer of the White Wolves banner.

The warrior fell from his horse, his flesh blackened, and the symbol of the Emperor’s Guard afire. The banner fell to the ground, its crimson fabric utterly consumed by blue flames that were apparently impervious to the endless rain. Horrified cries rang from the forested ridge, but it was too late to quell that fear. Torrential rain turned the ground to a quagmire, and the advance became a trudging hell of sucking mud and blinding lightning strikes.

As Sigmar’s warriors floundered, the Norsii attacked with a savage bray of war horns. The host of Norsemen marched out beneath the skull-banner of Cormac Bloodaxe and fought with discipline, courage and, worst of all, a plan. Instead of the usual mass of charging warriors, the Norsii gave battle in imitation of Sigmar’s army. Norsii fighters marched in tightly-packed ranks, moving in formation with a hitherto unheard of cohesion.

Whooping tribesmen with dark skin and short-bows rode horses of black and gold to encircle Count Otwin’s Thuringians and hammer them with deadly accurate blows. Otwin’s advance faltered, and a host of Norsii warriors, mounted upon dark steeds taller than any grain-fed beasts of the empire charged the scattered Thuringians. Led by a mighty warlord in bloody armour, a warrior who must surely have been Cormac Bloodaxe, the Norsii hacked the Thuringians down without mercy.

Jutone lancers drove back the marauding warriors, but not before Otwin had taken a lance to the chest. Marius led the countercharge, and carried the wounded Otwin from the fighting slung across his saddle. Even now, the camp surgeons fought to save the Thuringian count’s life.

Sigmar’s stratagems were met and countered at every turn, his warriors hurled back time and time again. As afternoon waned into evening, he realised the sick feeling in his gut was despair. The battle could not be won, and Sigmar had ordered the army’s clarions to sound the retreat. Only here, at battle’s end, did the discipline of the Norsii finally break down, the tribal champions leading their men in an orgy of slaughter amongst the wounded.

As terrible as it was to leave the wounded to their fate, the vile appetites of the Norsii ensured there was no pursuit, and Sigmar was able to lead his men from the field of battle unmolested. The night march had been cold and cheerless, with the wounded treated on the move or during one of the infrequent breaks from the retreat.

Wolfgart rode alongside him, the flanks of his horse lathered in bloody sweat. Sigmar’s sword-brother had come through the battle unscathed, save for a long slash along his jerkin that had missed cutting his gut open by a hair’s breadth.

“Long night, eh?” said Wolfgart.

“It won’t be the last,” replied Sigmar, “not now.”

“Aye, you have the truth of it, but we’ll get them next time.”

“I hope you are right.”

“Do you even doubt it?” asked Wolfgart. “Come on, man. They’re barbarians, and looking at how many totems I counted, there’s a lot of war leaders there.”

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“Of course,” said Wolfgart. “You put that many barbarian chiefs together, and they’ll fall to fighting each other soon enough.”

“I am not sure, my friend,” said Sigmar, recalling the deadly precision he had seen in the Norsii, in particular a warrior in glittering silver armour, who fought with twin swords. “I swear it was as if they knew our every tactic. We will lose the empire one battle at a time if we think of the Norsii simply as barbarians.”

“You’re giving them too much credit,” said Wolfgart. “I can teach an animal to do tricks, but that doesn’t mean it’s clever.”

“No, but the way they fought… It was as if they had a warrior schooled in the empire leading them, someone who knew how we fight. All through the night, I have gone over the battle, picturing every clash of arms and each manoeuvre, hoping to find some due as to how the Norsii beat us.”

“And what have you come up with?”

“Time and time again, I come back to the same answer,” said Sigmar. “I underestimated them, and my warriors paid for that mistake with their lives.”

“Then we’ll not do that again,” stated Wolfgart, and Sigmar was forced to admire his sword-brother’s relentless optimism. He had faith in Sigmar, even in defeat.

Wolfgart rubbed a hand over his face, and Sigmar saw how tired he was.

Since Sigmar’s attempted execution of Krugar and Aloysis, Wolfgart had spent virtually every waking minute with the Emperor. The two counts had been freed, and Sigmar begged their forgiveness on bended knee. It took the combined skills of Eoforth and Alfgeir to avert what could have been a devastating civil war but, in the end, both Krugar and Aloysis accepted that Sigmar had been under the dread influence of the necromancer’s crown.

Their slighted honour demanded recompense, however, and both counts returned to their castles laden with gold, land and tides. Sigmar could only promise that what had happened would never happen again, for the hateful crown was buried deep in the heart of Reikdorf.

Wolfgart had wanted to hurl it deep into the marsh and be done with it, but Sigmar knew he could not so casually dispose of such a dangerous and powerful artefact. Lifting the crown with a branch broken from a rowan tree, he carried it straight to High Priestess Alessa at the temple of Shallya. With solemn ceremony, the crown was sealed in the deepest vault and warded with every charm of protection known to all the priests of Reikdorf.

Never again would the crown see the light of day, and if its maker ever dared come to claim it, he would find it defended by every warrior in the empire.

 

A contingent of painted Thuringian warriors marched past Sigmar and Wolfgart, each with a twin-bladed axe slung across his shoulders. They were bloodied and angry, having lost many comrades on the battlefield, men and women both. They wore little armour, for these were the King’s Blades, the fiercest and most deadly of all the Thuringian berserkers. They escorted a covered wagon pulled by horses more usually employed to carry Jutone lancers, but which Count Marius had offered to serve the wounded Berserker King.

Sigmar saw a familiar face among the Blades, and nodded to Wolfgart. Together, they rode alongside the tattooed warriors. A berserker woman with long hair pulled in right braids, naked but for a mail corslet and bracers, looked up at them with eyes haunted by defeat.

“How is he?” asked Sigmar.

“Ask him yourself,” said Ulfdar, the berserker warrior Sigmar had defeated when he had fought the Thuringians to secure their king’s sword oath. Her mail was torn and links fell to the muddy road with every step.

“I saw you fight,” said Sigmar. “I lost count of how many you killed.”

“I don’t keep count,” replied Ulfdar. “I remember little of battles. When the red mist is upon me, it’s hard enough to tell friend from foe.”

Sigmar lifted his voice for all the Thuringians to hear.

“Yesterday you fought like heroes,” he said, “every one of you. I watched as the enemy bore down on you, and not one of you took a backwards step. That is iron courage that cannot ever be broken. The Norsii proved a stronger foe than we remembered, but we are better than them. They are far from home and we are defending our homelands. No force in the world can compare to the warrior defending their hearth and home and loved ones.”

The Thuringians marched past without acknowledging him, and Sigmar could not tell whether his words had any effect on them. The wagon bearing Count Otwin approached, and he waited for it to reach him. The Blades parted before him, and a hatchet-faced Cradoc pulled the canvas flaps at the rear of the wagon aside.

“Don’t tire him out,” warned the surgeon. “The lance broke three of his ribs and nicked his right lung. He’s lucky to be alive, though to hear him you’d think he’d just cut himself shaving.”

“Damn it, man,” said Otwin from behind Cradoc. “I’ve been hurt worse after a night on the beer. Come morning, I’ll be back on my feet.”

“It is morning,” snapped Cradoc. “And if you try to stand you’ll die.”

Cradoc lowered himself from the wagon, looked up at Sigmar, and said, “I have others to treat today, so keep an eye on him. And don’t let him up from his bed. If he dies, I’ll blame you.”

“I understand. You have my word he will not leave this wagon.”

The irascible healer nodded, and wearily made his way towards more of the walking wounded. Sigmar walked his horse behind the wagon and looked in at his wounded friend.

Count Otwin reclined on a cot bed, his upper body completely wrapped in linen bandages. The Berserker King’s skin was waxy and pale, his chest rising and falling with shallow hiked breaths. He smiled weakly, and Sigmar saw how close to death he had come.

“I hope you listened to what Cradoc told you,” said Sigmar.

“Ach, surgeons, what do they know about being wounded in battle?”

“Plenty, you old rogue,” said Wolfgart. “Cradoc’s stitched my wounds more than once, and back in his day he swung a sword as well as a wielding a needle and herb bag.”

“Fair enough,” conceded Otwin, “and I heard what you said to the Blades. Good speech, but they’re not big on fancy words.”

“So I saw,” said Sigmar. “But it needed to be said.”

Otwin nodded. “Aye, it did. The damn Norsii handed us a beating and no mistake, Sigmar, so I hope you’re giving that same speech to everyone. The men need to hear how those bastards got lucky and that we’ll drive them back the next time we face them.”

“That’s what I told him,” put in Wolfgart.

“So how many did we lose?” asked Otwin.

“We’ve still to tally the final butcher’s bill, but it looks like we lost close to a thousand men,” said Wolfgart.

“Shallya’s tears, that’s a lot,” cursed Otwin. “And the Norsii?”

“Hard to judge,” said Wolfgart, “but I’d wager no more than three hundred.”

“Aye, a beating,” repeated Otwin, shaking his head. “It would have been more if not for Marius. His lancers and crossbows really pulled our arse out of the fire.”

“That they did,” agreed Sigmar.

The Jutone count had surprised them all with his courage and steadfast resolve in the face of defeat. Mercenary cross-bowmen with pockets lined with empire gold hammered the rampaging Norsemen with merciless volleys of iron-tipped bolts, covering the retreat and preventing it from becoming a rout.

“Who’d have thought it, eh?” asked Otwin with an amused grin. “Bloody Marius. I’ll bet you’re glad I didn’t let you kill him at Jutonsryk, aren’t you?”

“More than you know,” said Sigmar.

Otwin took a drink from a wineskin, grimacing as his stitches pulled tight. He slumped back on his bed, his brow sheened in perspiration, though the day was still chill.

“So what now?” asked Otwin when he had recovered enough to speak. “I trust you have a plan to send these bastards back across the water?”

“I think so,” said Sigmar. “This Cormac Bloodaxe is a clever general, but the very savagery that makes his warriors so fierce was our salvation. Had they been disciplined enough to mount a pursuit, they would have destroyed us. Cormac will not make that mistake again.”

“What about the other counts?” asked Otwin. “Is there any word? We need their strength.”

“I know, but it will take time for them to gather their armies and march to our aid.”

Otwin hesitated before saying, “And you’re sure they’ll come? I mean, after what happened with the Roppsmenn and that… unpleasantness with Aloysis and Krugar.”

“They will come,” said Sigmar, with more conviction than he felt. “If for no other reason than the Norsii will surely turn their axes on them if we fail.”

“There’s truth in that,” agreed Otwin. “So how will you buy the time they need to march?”

“I underestimated the Norsii,” said Sigmar, 'but I will not do that again. We need to draw them to us and destroy them as a surgeon lances a plague sore.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” asked Wolfgart. “They outnumber us by several thousand now.”

“We will retreat to Middenheim,” said Sigmar. “It is the greatest fastness in the empire and it has never fallen.”

“It has never been attacked,” pointed out Wolfgart. “A city on a mountain? You’d have to be mad to attack it. Why would they not just ignore us and push on to Reikdorf? Or any other city that won’t be as impossible to take.”

“Their leaders are thinking like us, and they will know they cannot simply ignore Middenheim,” said Sigmar. “To push further into the empire while leaving an army at their backs would be madness. They will have no choice but to come at us.”

“Then let us hope you are right about the other counts,” said Otwin. “If they do not heed your summons then Middenheim will be our grave.”

 

Pyres burned, pyramids of skulls were built long into the night, and Cormac watched the bloody torture of the prisoners. Their screams were prayers to the Dark Gods, and the forests echoed to the chants and prayers of the Norsii. Drunk on slaughter and victory, thousands of men filled the shallow valley where they had faced the might of Sigmar and prevailed.

Cormac could still hardly believe they had won.

Watching the army of Sigmar upon the hillside, his mouth had been dry and his guts twisted in apprehension. The Emperor had never been defeated, and the men of the empire fully expected to crush the invaders in one great battle.

Though he hated to admit it, Kar Odacen’s plans and the training regime of Azazel, who had spent the last two seasons teaching the Norsii the empire way of war, had borne fruit. Cormac relished the sense of panic that seized their foes when they had seen the Norsii fighting as a disciplined whole. Kar Odacen’s host of shamans had worked their sorceries to bring the heavens down upon the enemy, and their doom was assured.

The slaughter had been mighty, and he had given an equal share of the living plunder to each of his vassal warlords. The Kul had ritually disembowelled their captives, and hunchbacked shamans with gibbering shadows at their shoulders had eaten the entrails. Groups of Wei-Tu riders attached ropes to the limbs of prisoners and rode off in different directions to tear them apart, while Khazag strongmen pummelled their prisoners to death with their fists.

Cormac had fought and killed two dozen warriors in a hastily-dug battle pit ringed with swords. With bare hands and naked ferocity, he had beaten each prisoner down, and drunk their blood as it gushed from necks torn open with his teeth.

The Hung had violated their captives in every way imaginable, and then given their broken, abused bodies to the slaves as playthings. Of all the fates suffered by the prisoners of the empire, this was the one that had offended Cormac the most. Every warrior, even an enemy, was entitled to a death of blood, his skull offered to the brass throne of Kharnath.

Kar Odacen placated him by speaking of the myriad aspects of the Dark Gods and how each was honoured differently. Were not the reeking plague pits of Onogal a means to serve the gods of the north? Though they took no skulls in battle, the shamans who ventured into the madness of the far north and returned twisted and insane with power were just as devoted to the old gods. The pleasure cults of the Hung were no less honourable, elaborated Kar Odacen, though they seemed so to Cormac’s eyes.

Besides, as Azazel had pointed out, Cormac could ill-afford to invite dissent into his army by keeping the Hung from their sport. Its unity was a fragile thing at best, and to single out the worshippers of Shomaal would start a rot that would see the army break up within days.

Cormac threaded his way through the camp, pausing every now and then to watch a particularly amusing or grotesque sacrifice at a makeshift altar. His skin was hot and red from the pyres, for there was plenty of wood to burn. In rime, the empire would be one gigantic pyre, with the skull of its Emperor mounted on a great pyramid of bone and ash.

As he reached the head of the valley, he saw Kar Odacen and Azazel. His mood soured, for he could not look upon them without thinking that they plotted behind his back. A shaman and a traitor to his own kind. Such lieutenants he had!

A brutalised corpse lay at the shaman’s feet, and from the hideous mutilations wrought upon its flesh, Cormac knew that Azazel had indulged his lust for torture. The corpse’s belly was opened, and Kar Odacen’s hands were buried in its intestines. With a wet, sucking sound, Kar Odacen removed a glistening liver and turned it over in his red hands.

“What do the entrails say?” asked Cormac and Azazel only reluctantly tore his eyes from the ruptured corpse. Cormac was about to ask again when Kar Odacen held up a hand.

“Be silent,” said the shaman. “The art of the haruspex requires concentration.”

Cormac fought the urge to take his axe and bury it in the shaman’s head for such disrespect, releasing the iron grip on his weapon. He hadn’t been aware he was holding it.

“It was a good victory,” said Azazel, gazing rapturously at his own image in the gleaming metal of his sword blade. “Hard fought and well won.”

Cormac nodded, unsure whether Azazel was talking to him or the reflection. He forced himself to answer without anger.

“Aye, it was that,” he said. “Many skulls taken and fresh trophy rings for every champion.”

“It is a shame you did not capitalise on it,” said Kar Odacen without looking up from his reading of the dead man’s meat. “Discipline broke down at the end and our enemies escaped us. Now we will need to fight those men again.”

“Then we will fight them again,” hissed Cormac, “and we will defeat them again.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Azazel. “We beat Sigmar’s men because they were not ready for us to fight like them, but they will learn from that mistake.”

Cormac tried not to look at Azazel, and waited for the shaman to speak.

“Did you hear me?” asked Azazel.

“I heard you,” snapped Cormac, finally meeting the swordsman’s gaze. As much as he detested the rites of Shomaal, the dark prince’s powers must surely have shaped Azazel’s features. To raise his voice in anger to such a specimen of perfection seemed abhorrent.

He forced himself to look past Azazel’s glamours to the corruption beneath.

“I thought your training made us their equals in battle?” he said.

Azazel laughed, and such was its beguiling quality that Cormac felt his anger melting in the face of such a wondrous sound.

“Hardly,” said Azazel, flashing him a smile. “We have trained for little more than two seasons. Sigmar’s men have trained and fought together for years.”

“Your army outnumbers Sigmar’s,” said Kar Odacen, “and the power of the Dark Gods makes us invincible.”

“No, it makes us vulnerable,” said Cormac.

“That makes no sense,” hissed Kar Odacen. “My power has never been greater.”

“It is a mistake to think yourself invincible, shaman. Over-confidence will see us defeated. Think like that and we will make mistakes, leave openings for the enemy to exploit. We must assume nothing, and expert that our enemies will come back from this defeat stronger and more prepared. The master of the empire is no fool and will surely learn from his humbling.”

“Then what do you think Sigmar will do next?” asked Azazel.

“He will fall back to Middenheim,” said Cormac. “It is his only option.”

Azazel nodded and said, “I will climb to the heavens and tear him from his lofty perch.”

“No, you won’t,” said Cormac. “At least, not yet.”

Azazel’s expression hardened and his eyes grew cold.

“What?” he said. “Our enemy is within reach, why do we not strike for his throat?”

“Because that is what he will expert us to do,” explained Cormac. “Sigmar must win time for his forces to gather. He will do so by drawing us onto the walls of an impregnable city.”

“Then what do you suggest?” hissed Azazel. “My blades ache for Sigmar’s body.”

“That we do not dance to his tune. We ignore Middenheim and push eastwards. Burn the forests and villages of the empire, and seek out the forces answering Sigmar’s call for aid. Destroy them one by one, and soon tales of our victories will draw more of our kin across the sea. Within a season, we will see the empire in flames.”

“No,” said Kar Odacen, rising from the corpse and holding the liver out for them to see. Its hard, fibrous interior was yellow with sickness. “You are mistaken. That will not happen.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Cormac.

Kar Odacen stroked the liver, stringy ropes of rancid pus dripping from his fingers.

“We follow Sigmar to Middenheim,” said the shaman.

“That is a mistake,” said Cormac. “We can destroy the empire without facing the Emperor in battle until we have taken everything from him.”

“You think this is about the empire?” snapped Kar Odacen, his bitter gaze sweeping over Cormac and Azazel. “It is not. It is about Sigmar. You think you fight for lost lands, for revenge? No, this war is the first of many, and all others will hang upon it.”

“Though I dislike the thought of leaving Sigmar in his mountain city, Cormac’s plan has merit,” said Azazel, and Cormac was surprised at the swordsman’s support.

“Cormac’s plan?” hissed Kar Odacen. “Since when do the tribes of the north heed the word of a mortal man? He is warlord and champion of this host by the will of the gods, and when they speak he must obey!”

“Then what is the will of the gods?” asked Cormac, fighting down his killing urge.

The shaman’s eyes took on a glazed, faraway look, and his voice seemed to echo from a place or rime far distant.

“The Flame of Ulric must be extinguished and Sigmar must die,” he said. “I have seen ages beyond this time of legends to a place where darkness closes in on the world, and the forces of the old gods stand poised to bring ruin upon the world. The final triumph of Chaos is at hand, but one name holds back the darkness, one name of power that gives hope to men and bolsters the courage of all who hear it. That name is Sigmar, and if we do not destroy him here and now, then his name will echo down the centuries as a symbol for our enemies to rally behind.”

Cormac felt a shiver of dark premonition travel the length of his spine as the forests around his army trembled with motion. His first thought was that Sigmar’s army had returned in the night to fall upon them as they gave thanks for their victory, but that thought died as he saw what emerged from the tree line.

Thousands of beasts that walked, crawled and flew stood illuminated in the firelight, completely encircling the north-em army. Blessed by the warping power of the Dark Gods, no two were alike, a glorious meld of man and animal. Armed with crude axes, rusted swords or studded clubs, they had come at the shaman’s call, a host of monsters with the snarling heads of wolves, bears, bulls and a myriad other forms that defied easy identification.

As one, they split the night with their howls, brays and shrieks, and Cormac’s sense of might and power as master of this army retreated in the face of such atavistic devotion to the old gods. Primal and devoid of any urges save to destroy and revenge themselves on a race that hated and feared them, the beasts were ready to tear the throat from the empire.

“These are days of great power,” said Kar Odacen. “The tribes of the north, the beasts of the forest, and a great prince of Kharnath will fall upon Middenheim, and we will baptise this world in blood!”

 

Night was falling, but still they kept coming.

Like a living sea of fur, flesh and iron, the host of the north swirled and flowed around the base of the Fauschlag Rock without end. Sigmar stood at the edge of the city with the wind billowing his wolfskin cloak behind him, while his fellow warriors stood a more prudent distance from the sheer drop.

The last time so many of them had been gathered together was at Sigmar’s coronation, nine years ago. So much had happened since then that Sigmar barely remembered the promise and hope of that day.

Some of those hopes had been fulfilled, some had been dashed.

Friendships had been forged and strengthened. Others had been soured.

The coming war would test which would endure.

Conn Carsten of the Udose stood with his hands resting on the pommel of a wide-bladed broadsword, while Marius of the Jutones simply watched the gathering enemy impassively. Against all advice, Otwin had joined them, held upright by Ulfdar and a Thuringian warrior whom Sigmar didn’t know. The Berserker King’s vast axe was freshly chained to his wrist and would only be parted from him in victory or death.

Myrsa and Pendrag were on his left, with Redwane and Wolfgart at his right. His greatest friends and allies stood with him, and their continued faith and friendship was humbling. Despite everything he had put them through over the years, they remained steadfastly loyal.

“They came,” said Wolfgart. “Just like you said.”

“Aye,” agreed Redwane. “Lucky us, eh?”

“I didn’t think they would,” said Pendrag. “They must know they cannot take this city.”

“I do not think they would have come if they did not expect to defeat us,” said Sigmar.

“They won’t get up the chain lifts, so the only other way in is the viaduct,” said Wolfgart. “With the warriors we have, we can hold that until the end of days.”

Sigmar read their faces. High on this rock, they believed themselves secure and invincible. They would learn soon enough the folly of that belief.

“If the viaduct was the only way into the city I might agree with you,” said Sigmar, “but it is not. Is it, Myrsa?”

The Warrior Eternal shook his head, looking as though he were being forced to reveal an uncomfortable secret.

“No,” he said. “It is not. How did you know?”

“I am the Emperor, it is my duty to know such things,” he said. He smiled, and then tapped the rune-inscribed circlet of gold and ivory at his brow. “Alaric told me how his miners and engineers helped Artur reach the summit of the Fauschlag Rock. He told me that the rock beneath us is honeycombed with tunnels and caves. Some carved by the dwarfs, others made by hands that are a mystery to even the mountain folk.”

“It’s true,” said Myrsa. “We have a few maps, but they are mostly incomplete and, truth be told, I don’t think anyone really knows exactly what’s beneath us.”

“There is another way in to my city and I do not know of it?” asked Pendrag. “You should have told me of this, Myrsa.”

“The city’s defence is my domain,” said Myrsa. “Long ago it was decided that the fewer people knew of the tunnels the better. In any case, our enemies cannot know of them.”

“They will,” said Sigmar. “They will find them and we must defend them.”

They watched the assembling forces of the Norsii in silence for a while, each trying to guess how many enemies they faced, for Cormac Bloodaxe’s force was far larger than before. Inhuman beasts had swelled its ranks, and the sight of so vast a gathering of monsters was horrifying.

“The forests have emptied,” said Otwin. “I never dreamed there were so many beasts.”

“There will be fewer by the end of this,” snarled Conn Carsten.

Though Sigmar could claim no fondness for the Udose clan-chief, he silently thanked him for his defiant words as he saw resolve imparted to his fellow warriors. He returned his gaze to the enemy army, his keen eyes picking out the banner of Cormac Bloodaxe.

Beneath the banner, a towering warrior in black armour and horned helm looked up at the mountain city. Though great distance separated him from his foe, Sigmar felt as though Cormac was right in front of him. If he whispered, his enemy would hear what he had to say.

“You will not take my empire from me,” he said.

Two figures attended the Norsii warlord, a hunched form that reeked of sorcery, and the lithe warrior in silver armour who bore twin swords. The swordsman’s hair was dark, his skin pale, and as he drew one of his blades Sigmar felt a tremor of recognition.

It was impossible. The distance was too great, and though the warrior’s face was little more than a tiny white dot amid a sea of warlike faces, Sigmar was certain he knew him.

“The swordsman,” he said, “next to Cormac Bloodaxe.”

Wolfgart squinted in the crepuscular gloom. “Aye, the skinny looking runt. What of him?”

“I know him,” he said.

“What?” hissed Wolfgart. “How can you know him? Who is he?”

“It is Gerreon,” said Sigmar. Wolfgart sighed.

“This just gets better and better,” he said.