—<FIVE>—

Homecomings

 

 

Another arrow thudded home in the straw man hung from the pole, spinning him around with a foot of Asoborn wood protruding from his chest. Wolfgart watched as the black and gold chariot rumbled a weaving course through a long line of stakes hammered in the dry ground. Maedbh guided the two horses pulling the chariot with an expert hand, while his daughter loosed carefully aimed arrows from the fighting platform behind her.

“Only a youngster and already she can handle a bow better than I,” he said.

The chariot turned at the end of the strip of land and came back towards him. Maedbh gave her daughter a hug and Ulrike waved her bow for him to see. He waved back, but inwardly he hated the sight of his little girl with a weapon. Too small to practise with spears, Maedbh had not wasted the year he had been in the north with Sigmar, and Ulrike had transformed from a small girl into a budding young woman.

Maedbh hauled back on the reins and the chariot came to a halt next to the piled logs on which he sat. Situated on the outskirts of Three Hills, this wide strip of land had been used by Asoborn youths to hone their skills with bow and spear and chariot for decades. A huge square of hard-packed earth and stone, the wheels of countless chariots and the hooves of unnumbered cavalry mounts had long since beaten any fertility from the soil.

At the field’s northern end, a group of Asoborns marched back and forth, getting used to the notion of fighting and manoeuvring in ranked-up blocks of sword bands. It wasn’t the usual way Asoborns fought, but after Black Fire had proved its worth, Sigmar had pressed every tribe to master such organised warfare.

Men and women marched together, and Wolfgart smiled. Some of the tribes of the Empire thought the Asoborn armies comprised of only women, but such an idea was ridiculous. Any tribe that sent only its women to war would soon be extinct without mothers to birth the next generation of warriors and farmers.

“Did you see, father?” cried Ulrike as Maedbh brought the chariot to a halt beside him. “I didn’t miss a single one! Even Daegal can’t manage that!”

“Aye, dear heart, I saw,” he said, wondering who Daegal was. “No greenskins will get by you with that bow of yours.”

“I know,” she said, miming the act of pulling the bowstring back. “I’ll kill them all. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh!”

“Our daughter’s a natural,” said Maedbh, stepping lightly from the chariot and lifting Ulrike down. The little girl ran over to Wolfgart and leapt into his arms, curling her own wiry limbs around his neck. She kissed his cheeks and he hugged her back, the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Easy there, Ulrike,” he said. “You’ll squeeze the life out of me like that.”

“Sorry,” she giggled. “I don’t think I could do that. You’re too strong.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right,” he said, squeezing her until she squealed at him to stop.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and Wolfgart hated that he had been away for so long. He had missed so much of her childhood with war calling him from one corner of the Empire to the other. Too often, Wolfgart felt like he was being pulled in different directions. Maedbh had eventually tired of living in Reikdorf and after months of sullen silences and furious rows, she had declared that she and Ulrike were moving back to the Asoborn settlement of Three Hills.

Wolfgart had remained in Reikdorf as one of Sigmar’s Shieldbearers, but had travelled often between Unberogen and Asoborn lands. The times between each visit grew longer as he and Maedbh would often end up arguing, and if not for Ulrike, Wolfgart wondered whether he would come at all.

“When are you going back?” asked Ulrike, and Wolfgart hated that this was always one of the first questions she asked when she saw him.

“Ach, don’t let’s talk about that just yet, lass,” he said, prising her from his shoulder and setting her onto the ground. “Gather your shafts and show me again how good you’ve gotten with that bow.”

Ulrike nodded enthusiastically and ran off towards the gently swaying straw men to pluck the arrows from their abused forms. Wolfgart straightened and sighed as he saw the fiery look in his wife’s eyes.

“Well?” said Maedbh.

“Well what?” he said, though he knew fine well what she was asking.

“You didn’t answer your daughter,” said Maedbh. “When are you going back to Reikdorf?”

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, is that it?”

Maedbh stared at him coldly, and even in such an ill-temper, she was still beautiful. Her fiery red hair was bound in two long scalp locks that fell to her waist and her figure was gloriously curved and full. Desire swelled in him, but one look at her icy eyes quelled it.

“You always have to start a fight, don’t you?”

“That’s rich coming from an Asoborn,” he said, though he knew it would only inflame the situation. “As I recall, you’re the ones who prefer to hit first.”

Maedbh sighed, and Wolfgart wanted to reach for her, to hold her close to him and tell her that he loved her, that he knew she still loved him and that this fighting was stupid. But his pride wouldn’t let him. She was a hellion in war and in the bedchamber, but her viper’s tongue drove him to words he knew were foolish.

“I do not want to fight, Wolfgart, but I need to know you will be here for Ulrike. She misses her father. She needs her father. I need him.”

“I’ll stay as long as I can,” he said. “There’s trouble in the south, and we’re hearing rumours that the forest brigands have banded together in the northern marches. They’ll need rooting out before they become too strong. Not to mention the greenskins coming down from the mountains and the beast raids along the Taalbec.”

Maedbh moved away from him and rubbed the horses’ necks, loosening the bits at their mouths now that they were at rest. He saw the disappointment in her posture and rose from his seat on the logs.

“Look, what do you want me to say? I’m oath-sworn to Sigmar, I can’t just leave him.”

“He is an Emperor,” snapped Maedbh. “You think you are his only warrior, that the Empire will fall if you are not at his side?”

“It almost did once before,” he said. “There was that business with the crown I told you about.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you are his oldest and dearest friend, but you also swore an oath to me, remember?”

“I remember,” he said, taking her hand. “It was one of the happiest days of my life.”

She pulled away, watching as Ulrike plucked the last of her arrows from the straw men.

“She will make a fine warrior,” said Maedbh. “A proud Asoborn warrior woman.”

Anger touched Wolfgart and he said, “Does she have to be?”

“What do you mean?”

“A warrior. She’s my little girl; she shouldn’t be using any weapons at all. It wasn’t so long ago she chided me for wanting to go to war. She said it was stupid, and she wasn’t wrong, but here you are pushing her into the battle lines.”

“As every Asoborn child is,” pointed out Maedbh. “Or is there some reason you think she shouldn’t learn to defend herself?”

“She’s a girl,” protested Wolfgart. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

“She’s a girl,” repeated Maedbh. “Like me, you mean? Unberogen women may not fight, but you are in Asoborn lands now, Wolfgart. And if you don’t like it go back to Reikdorf and stay in your draughty house without us.”

“Aye, well for all the warmth you bring to it, I might just do that.”

Maedbh’s face turned to granite and she looked away as Ulrike returned with her quiver restocked. Wolfgart wanted to take his harsh, thoughtless words back, but it was too late.

“Come on,” said Maedbh, lifting Ulrike back onto the chariot. “Let’s try again, and this time I’ll make it more difficult for you.”

As the chariot pulled away, Ulrike waved to him and shouted, “Watch me! Watch me hit them all again!”

Wolfgart waved back, though a leaden weight settled in his belly.

 

Elswyth knelt by the dwarf’s pallet bed, cleaning the wound at his shoulder, tutting at Cuthwin’s crude application of herbal poultices. Inflamed joints had forced Cradoc to hang up his healer’s satchel, but his apprentice had proved to be no less capable, though her manner was just as abrasive as the old man’s.

“Did he tell you his name?” Sigmar asked Cuthwin, looking at the dwarf’s pallid features.

Sigmar had seen his share of battlefield injuries and though he’d seen many a man and dwarf recover from such a wound, few of them had travelled for six days through the wilderness before being properly treated.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Cuthwin. “Grindan Deeplock. Said he was from Zhufbar.”

“And an engineer by the looks of it,” added Elswyth, lifting the dwarf’s hand. Scarred and callused, the tips were dark with powder burns and the nails were caked with the residue of oils and coal dust.

“He said he was an engineer, aye,” nodded Cuthwin. “Said he worked for the Guildmasters of Varn Drazh. Didn’t say what that was though.”

“It’s a vast lake, high in the mountains,” said Sigmar. “Alaric told me of it long ago. Supposedly a comet fell from the sky and blasted a huge crater in the mountains. Alaric said there’s lots of dwarf settlements nearby, because the rock around the lake is rich with iron and precious metals.”

“Really, Cuthwin, were you trying to help this dwarf to die?” cut in Elswyth. “This wound is so dirty and infected that I don’t know if anything I can do will halt it. You might as well have packed the dressing with nightshade.”

Cuthwin shrank from the healer’s sharp words, and Sigmar hid a smile. Though many considered Elswyth a fine looking woman, few dared attempt to court her, for her tongue was well known amongst Unberogen men, though for all the wrong reasons.

“We were on the run from greenskins,” protested Cuthwin.

“They were only goblins,” pointed out Elswyth.

Cuthwin’s face darkened. “I didn’t have time to redress his wound. It looked fine.”

“Did you check? Or did you just drag him here through all the muddy, stagnant pools of water you could find?”

Cuthwin looked set to lose his temper. Sigmar smiled and put himself between the scout and the healer before violence ensued.

“He got him here alive is what matters,” said Sigmar. “Now it’s your job to keep him that way. Can you do that?”

“I won’t promise anything, not even to you, Sigmar,” said Elsywth. “I’ll keep his wound clean and change the dressing hourly. If he recovers consciousness, I’ll have him drink a berberry tisane with some sweet balm. That’s all I can do, and it probably won’t be enough, so you’d best get Alessa at the temple of Shallya to say some prayers for him.”

“You talk about me like I’m dead already,” croaked the dwarf and they all jumped.

Sigmar joined Elswyth at Grindan’s bedside. He placed a hand lightly on the dwarf’s chest. The effort of talking was taking its toll on the dwarf and runnels of sweat poured down the age lines carved in his face.

“Where am I?” asked Grindan.

“You’re in Reikdorf,” said Elswyth. “Under the protection of Sigmar Heldenhammer.”

“Ah,” said the dwarf. “So the young lad got me here then…”

“Aye, that he did,” said Sigmar. “He’s a canny one is Cuthwin.”

“I’m in your debt, youngling,” wheezed the dwarf, his eyes screwed up in pain.

“Think nothing of it,” said Cuthwin.

“Don’t be a damn fool, youngling,” snapped Grindan. “You think the life debt of a dwarf is given lightly? Bear the tale of my doom to the Deeplock clan and you and all your line will become Umgilok to them.”

“I’ll do that,” promised Cuthwin.

“It means a man worthy of praise,” said Sigmar, seeing the scout’s look of confusion.

“You know your Khazalid, young Heldenhammer.”

“Master Alaric has taught me a tiny bit,” said Sigmar. The dwarf’s chest rasped like a punctured forge-bellow with every word. He looked up at Elswyth, who shook her head.

“Ah, the Mad,” grunted Grindan. “He toils night and day for you, manling. Another year and he’ll have a second sword for your kings. Foolish to rush these things, I say, but it’ll outlast any man it’s given to so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

The dwarf’s chest hiked and his eyes widened as a memory returned to him and he gripped Sigmar’s shoulder urgently. He looked past the Emperor to Cuthwin and fixed him with a desperate gaze.

“Youngling! Did they get it? The grobi, did they find it?” demanded Grindan.

“Get what?” said Cuthwin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The Barag… the Thunder Bringer…” wheezed Grindan. “We… we were bringing it home. Prince Uldrakk of Zhufbar… loaned it to the third son of… of Mordhaz, lord of the Grey Mountain clans, three hundred and seventy-five years ago. We’d gone there to get it back, but the grobi ambushed us… too much beer and not enough caution…”

Red flecks sprayed from the dwarf’s mouth as he spoke and his words were forced out though the effort was killing him.

“Hush now,” said Elswyth. “Don’t talk anymore. That’s an order.”

But Grindan paid her no mind and squeezed Sigmar’s shoulder even harder.

“Promise me!” he hissed. “Go back… find it. We buried it deep, so the grobi wouldn’t… wouldn’t think to look… the Barag…”

“What’s he talking about?” said Cuthwin.

“I don’t know,” said Sigmar, taking the dwarf’s hand and holding tightly.

“Promise me!” demanded Grindan. “You must or the Deeplock clan will be disgraced! Heldenhammer, you are oath-bound to my kin… do this thing for a dying son of Grungni and I will meet my ancestors with pride.”

“Aye,” nodded Sigmar. “I am a sworn brother to King Kurgan, and I give you my oath that I will find the… Barag.”

Grindan nodded and laid his head back on the bed, satisfied with Sigmar’s words. His chest rose and fell in jerky spasms.

“The Halls of Grungni,” sighed Grindan, looking off into realms beyond the sight of mortals. “How grand they are…”

Grindan Deeplock’s last breath rattled from his throat, and his ore- and fire-blackened hand slid from Sigmar’s grip.

“Go with honour to your rest, friend Grindan,” said Sigmar.

 

Wolfgart saddled his horse, a fine grain-fed stallion from his herds around the Barren Hills. The horse’s coat was dappled dun and chestnut, with a long russet mane. The finest beast in his herds, he’d called him Dregor in honour of Sigmar’s grandfather, a gesture his friend had appreciated immensely.

He adjusted the blanket beneath the saddle and tightened the girth under Dregor’s belly, lowering the Taleuten-style stirrups to his preferred riding style. Wolfgart was a natural horseman and liked to ride low in the saddle, leaning over his horse’s neck as he fought. He slung his panniers over its rump, the packs laden with enough food and spare clothing to see him to Reikdorf. He had a bowstave and string in case he needed to hunt, but hoped he wouldn’t have to, as his eye wasn’t as sure as it had been in his youth.

He patted Dregor’s flank. “At least you don’t talk back to me, eh lad?”

The horse stared at him with a curious look in its eyes, unused to being taken from its stables at so early an hour. Wolfgart wanted to be gone before Maedbh roused Ulrike from sleep. He didn’t think he’d be able to leave if she was awake. Wolfgart took a deep breath, resting his forehead on the warm, oiled leather of the saddle.

He didn’t want to leave, but nor could he stay with such a poisonous atmosphere between him and his wife. Ulrike was already picking up on it, and the last thing he wanted was for her to see her parents at each other’s throats. No child needed to see that.

Dregor was stabled with the royal horses of the Asoborns, and they were powerful beasts: strong and wide shouldered. Bred to pull war chariots, they had stamina and strength, but little in the way of real speed. Even the least of Wolfgart’s herd could outpace an Asoborn mount in a straight sprint. But harness one of his mounts to a chariot and it would baulk at such harsh treatment.

Two hundred horses were stabled here: an underground collection of stalls, haylofts and exercise yards where Asoborn horse breakers trained the beasts for a life of war. He’d watched them at work, and while the effectiveness of their methods was without doubt, Wolfgart preferred to establish a bond with his beasts instead of bending them to his will.

The air was close and reeked of animals and dung, but it was an earthy fragrance that reminded Wolfgart of home. Even at this early hour, grooms and stable boys and girls were busy attending to the tribe’s stock. Animals were being led over the cobbled floor toward the curved tunnels that led towards the surface and bales of hay were dropped down chutes cut through the earth of the hill.

Wolfgart checked Dregor’s bit wasn’t too tight and made a circuit of the animal, ensuring all was well before mounting. He gripped the saddle horn and hauled himself onto Dregor’s back, relishing the sensation of owning so fine a beast.

He touched his spurs to the horse’s sides and walked him slowly towards the sloping tunnel that led back to the surface. A group of men and women marched down the tunnel into the stables, hard Asoborn warriors armed with lances and swords. Clad in iron breastplates chased with silver and black, and golden-winged helms, these were the Queen’s Eagles, the elite guardians of the Asoborn royalty.

Wolfgart’s mood darkened further as he saw who they escorted—a pair of young men, both thirteen summers old and fair haired. One had pale blue eyes, while the other’s were deep green. Wide shouldered and tall, they were already men, having ridden out on their first blooding three years ago.

Sigulf and Fridleifr, the sons of Queen Freya.

Wolfgart pulled Dregor to the side as they marched past, and he kept his head down, not wishing to look upon these boys a moment longer than necessary. Few outsiders had seen the queen’s sons, for they rarely ventured beyond Asoborn lands, and were constantly attended by the Eagles. Wolfgart had first laid eyes upon them at a feast held beneath the Queen’s Hill to honour their first kills after riding out to battle at the age of ten.

No sooner had he seen the two boys beside their flame-haired mother than he was catapulted back to the days of his youth and a shocked paralysis had seized his limbs. The breath froze in his lungs and he felt a gabble of words ready to spill from his throat.

Maedbh had clutched him and dug her nails into the muscle of his arm.

“Say nothing,” she warned him.

“But Ulric’s balls, they’re—”

“I know,” she hissed urgently. “I warn you, say nothing. The queen has demanded it.”

Wolfgart had turned to her in surprise. “You knew?”

“All the Asoborns know.”

Wolfgart looked back at the two lads, both laughing and drinking beer as their proud mother smeared Asoborn war-paint on their cheeks. Freya was a fearsome-looking woman, all curves and flame, a hellion in form-fitting armour and shimmering mail that left nothing to the imagination. The years since Wolfgart had first met her appeared to have left no mark upon her; the queen’s flesh still war-sculpted and firm, her hair still long and fiery, her breasts still high and full.

Wolfgart tore his gaze from Freya’s intoxicating beauty and looked back at her sons.

“By Ulric and Taal, they’re his image…”

“That they are,” agreed Maedbh, “but you’re to say nothing. Do you understand me, Wolfgart?”

“By all the gods, he has sons!” said Wolfgart. “The man has a right to know.”

“Maybe in Unberogen lands, but Asoborn queens take many lovers during their reign, and precedent comes from the maternal lineage, not the line of the father. Give me your word that you’ll say nothing. Do it now or I’ll send you from Three Hills right now.”

“What? That’s no kind of bargain.”

“It’s not a bargain,” Maedbh had warned him.

Left with no choice, Wolfgart had acceded to his wife’s demand and sworn the oath she demanded. He’d spent the rest of the night trying not to stare at the two boys, struggling to contain a strange mixture of joy and sadness at the thought of all they could represent and what they would mean to their unaware father.

The Queen’s Eagles and the royal twins passed him, heading towards where their own mounts were stabled. Wolfgart didn’t watch them go, but rode up and out of the hill, emerging onto the hard-packed ground in the midst of Three Hills.

Torches were lit at the settlement’s perimeter and a low morning mist still clung to the ground. The grass glittered with dew and the stars were visible in the purple sky. Where Reikdorf was a city that represented the Empire’s progress, with its stone walls, ornate buildings, many schools, and great library, Three Hills was a pastoral settlement, without walls or defensible location. Its security came from its fusion with the landscape, such that any enemy would find it next to impossible to locate it, so cunningly were its dwellings crafted in the earth.

Archers watched the approaches from miles beyond its furthest extent and chariots roamed the wild lands to the east. Three Hills might look undefended, but the truth was altogether different. An enemy coming against the Asoborns would be harried by chariots and archers for many miles before they even came within sight of Three Hills.

It was a wild place, a savage realm of a people equally fierce and lusty. Wolfgart would be sorry to leave, but he hoped he would come back one day soon. Perhaps time and distance would allow old wounds to heal, harsh words to fade and absence to fill cold hearts with love once again.

Wolfgart turned Dregor towards the Reikdorf Road.

“Come on, lad,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

 

Sigmar gathered his knights in the longhouse, twenty men of hardy Unberogen stock and proven courage. The fires burned brightly, filling the hall with warmth, for the night beyond its walls was chill, and oppressive clouds hid the moon. Eoforth studied an unrolled map with Cuthwin, listening attentively to the scout’s tale of his rescue of Grindan Deeplock.

He sat on the edge of a long trestle table, judging how long it would take them to reach where the dwarf wagons had been ambushed.

“I reckon four days to get there and back,” said Alfgeir.

“Assuming no trouble,” replied Sigmar. “That part of the forest’s not travelled much. The beasts and greenskins have grown bold in the south.”

“They’d have to be bolder than I’ve known them to attack twenty knights, plus you and me.”

“They attacked a convoy of dwarfs,” pointed out Sigmar.

“I suppose,” said Alfgeir with a shrug. “These are my best, and can handle any trouble that comes our way.”

Sigmar nodded, shivering despite the heat of the nearby fire. He pulled his bearskin cloak tighter about him. Eoforth stood straight, rubbing the small of his back with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“Well, High Scholar?” asked Sigmar. “What do you have for us?”

Eoforth scowled at Alfgeir and said, “I think I have a good idea of where young Cuthwin came upon the goblin raiders, on the old mountain road about two miles north of the Thaalheim mines.”

A murmur passed through the armoured knights, and it was Orvin who spoke up. Sigmar had fought alongside Orvin many times, and knew him as a warrior of great personal courage, quick temper and unpredictable moods.

“Dangerous country,” remarked the knight. “The greenskins we routed were from around there. I’ll wager they came from under the mountains via the mineworks.”

“More than likely, Orvin,” said Eoforth, and Sigmar caught the tension between the two men. He knew Orvin’s son to be a source of frustration to Eoforth, and wondered how much of the father had passed to the son.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard a sudden commotion from the main doors to the longhouse. His hand flashed to Ghal-Maraz at his belt in anticipation of danger. His crown grew warm at his brow, a runic warning of fell sorcery and unnatural powers at work.

“To arms!” he shouted as the doors to the longhouse burst open and a swirling gale of icy wind blew inside. The fire was snuffed out in an instant, its fitful embers glowing dully with all the heat that remained to them. Frozen gusts of dead air flew around the longhouse like poisonous zephyrs, carrying with them the scent of death and far off lands that baked beneath an oppressive sun.

A lone figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, a tall warrior in silver and gold mounted upon a hellish black steed with rippling flanks and eyes of smouldering red. Stinking steam like marsh gasses gusted from the beast’s flared nostrils. The rider walked his nightmarish mount into the longhouse, its iron-shod hooves sparking from the flagstones like heavy hammer blows.

He dismounted with easy grace and folded his arms across a gleaming breastplate. His manner was confident to the point of arrogance and a white cloak flowed like snow from his shoulders. The knights drew their swords and roared in anger, moving to surround the elegant warrior, his long dark hair swept back over his ears and his swarthy complexion cut from a cruel mould. His eyes were black and without pupil, his mouth twisted in a malicious grin of spiteful mischief.

Alfgeir took a step towards the intruder, but Sigmar held him back.

“No,” said Sigmar. “This man is death.”

“Your Emperor is a wise man,” said the warrior, his voice liquid and seductive. “I have heard that about him. You should listen to him, for I would kill you before you could even swing that lump of pig iron in your hand.”

“You talk big for a man surrounded by twenty warriors,” said Alfgeir.

“Then that should tell you something about how good I am.”

Sigmar stepped towards the warrior, his hand tight on the grip of Ghal-Maraz. Everything about this warrior sent pulses of anger and hate from the ancestral hammer of the dwarfs into his hand. The weapon longed to be unleashed, but Sigmar kept his urge to fight in check. He knew this man was no ordinary foe.

“I am Sigmar Heldenhammer, Emperor of these lands,” he said. “By what right do you come before me into my longhouse?”

The warrior bowed elaborately. “I am Khaled al-Muntasir, and I bring a message to you, Sigmar Heldenhammer.”

“A message from whom?”

“My master, the lord Nagash,” said Khaled al-Muntasir.

“You lie!” hissed Alfgeir, making the sign of the horns over his heart. “There’s no such being; he’s just a story to frighten children. You can’t scare us with old ghosts.”

“Can’t I?” laughed Khaled al-Muntasir. “I beg to differ.”

Sigmar had heard the tales of Nagash, there were few in the Empire who had not. No two stories were the same, lurid tales of walking corpses, fallen warriors stirring from their tombs and legions of the living dead marching to the howls of carrion wolves as darkness covered the land and the living cowered in terror.

But all the tales agreed on one thing. Nagash was the supreme lord of the undead, an evil king from an ancient land far to the south where a world-spanning empire had once risen from the desert sands. That empire had been destroyed in an age long forgotten, and only dusty tales and half-remembered legends survived from those times.

Sigmar knew from bitter experience that the dead could indeed rise from their graves. He and his warriors had destroyed a sorcerer of the undead many years ago, but if even half the tales of Nagash were true, then his power dwarfed that of the necromancer of Brass Keep.

“You are not welcome here, Khaled al-Muntasir,” said Sigmar. “So deliver your message and begone.”

“No threats?” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “No promises of a swift and brutal death?”

“I sense you are not a man cowed by threats.”

“True, but that doesn’t stop the foolish from making them,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. He gave Sigmar an elaborate bow and threw his cloak back over his shoulder. The knights tensed, but made no move against the warrior, as a blade that shimmered with dark power was revealed at his side.

“You have something that does not belong to you,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “A crown forged by my master over a thousand years ago. You know this crown belongs to another, yet you keep it from its true lord. It will be returned to him.”

“I know this crown can never be allowed to fall into the hands of evil men.”

“I was not offering you a choice.”

“The crown remains where it is,” said Sigmar. “If your master wishes to try and take it back, he will find all the armies of the Empire ranged against him.”

Khaled al-Muntasir smiled, a winning smile of pristine white teeth. Sigmar was not surprised to see two sharpened fangs at the corners of his mouth. His heart beat a little faster as he knew he faced a vampire, a creature of the night that fed on blood and murder.

Sigmar saw the monster’s eyes widen a fraction and knew it could sense the increased flow of blood around his body. The hunger was upon this creature—he could no longer think of Khaled al-Muntasir as a man—and the danger of every one of them dying within the next few moments was very real indeed.

“You cannot stand against my master,” said Khaled al-Muntasir.

“Others have said similar things, yet the Empire endures.”

“Not against the legions of the dead it won’t,” promised Khaled al-Muntasir. “Your friend Markus, king of the Menogoths, is already dead. He and his family and his tribe have swollen the ranks of my master’s army and more will follow.”

Sigmar sensed the furious shock of Khaled al-Muntasir’s revelation sweep through his knights. They badly wanted this warrior dead.

“Hold!” cried Alfgeir, also seeing the angry urge to attack in the faces of his knights.

Sigmar’s voice was colder than the Norscan ice as he met the blood drinker’s gaze.

“Get out,” he said. “And if you return you will be killed. This is the word of Sigmar.”

Khaled al-Muntasir turned and vaulted onto the back of his terrible steed. Its eyes flared brightly and it reared up onto its hind legs. He rode from the longhouse and Sigmar’s knights ran after him with Alfgeir at their head.

No sooner was the vampire beyond the walls of the longhouse than a pair of wide black wings of impenetrable darkness unfolded from the steed’s sides. The beast leapt into the air and its wings boomed with the sound of a mainsail catching a stormwind. It rose swiftly into the night sky, a bat-like slice of darkness against the black vault of the heavens.

Alfgeir watched it vanish over the hills and treetops, his face pale and fearful.

“Do you think he was lying?” he asked. “About Markus, I mean.”

Sigmar shook his head. “I fear not, my friend.”

“Damn,” whispered Alfgeir. “The Menogoths gone…”

Sigmar turned and re-entered the longhouse, barking orders as he went.

“Bring every scribe and runner in Reikdorf here,” he said. “I want word of this on its way to every one of the Empire’s counts before sunrise. Eoforth, search every scroll in the library for tales of Nagash. Sift what facts you can from the legends. We’re going to need to know what we’re up against. Draft orders for sword musters to be gathered in every town and village from the Grey Mountains to the Sea of Claws. I want to be ready for these monsters when they come at us.”

Alfgeir nodded. “I’ll make it happen,” he said. “I take it we’ll not be heading south now?”

“I cannot, but you must lead these knights and Cuthwin to find what the dwarfs buried. Find it and bring it back here. I swore an oath and I mean to see it kept, even if I cannot do so myself.”

“I’ll see it done, my Emperor,” promised Alfgeir.

“And Alfgeir?” said Sigmar. “Be swift.”

“The crown is really that important to Nagash?” asked Alfgeir.

“You have no idea,” said Sigmar.