—<SEVENTEEN>—

The Price of Knowledge

 

 

Eoforth hurried through the darkened streets of Reikdorf, fear lending his exhausted limbs strength. The streets of the city, once so familiar and reassuring, were now threatening and unknown. Every turn was laden with uncertainty, each step echoing strangely as though this was a city that existed beyond the realms of men, a place forsaken by the natural laws of the world.

A gibbous moon hung low in the sky, casting stark shadows through the empty street. Eoforth knew that thousands of people, refugees from all across the Empire, packed Reikdorf, so the idea that the city could be so empty was surely ridiculous. Thousands of people filled every nook and cranny: refugees from Marburg and Jutonsryk, southern tribesmen and villagers coming up from the Grey Mountains and villagers fleeing the closing net of the dead from the east and north.

Nor were refugees the only people to come to Reikdorf. The city had the feel of an armed camp, with warriors billeted throughout its many buildings. The majority were Unberogen, for they made up the bulk of the population around these parts, but many more were Asoborns and Brigundians fleeing the destruction of their lands.

Eoforth had heard snippets only of the news from across the Empire, for his researches into Nagash’s history had driven him to the point of obsession. His head ached constantly and the aches and pains that plagued him on a daily basis seemed stronger and more insidious than ever before—as though the dread necromancer’s reach was clawing him down into the ancient pages and scrolls gathered on the library’s shelves. His breathing rasped in his lungs and every step sent a spike of pain shooting through his chest. Eoforth knew the eyes of the necromancer were upon him, mocking his attempts to uncover some secret that might give Sigmar and his warriors a means of defeating him. No such secret existed, and it amused Nagash to allow Eoforth to fritter away his time on such fruitless research.

Yet Eoforth had found something…

Not a hidden nemesis by which the necromancer could be defeated, but a character trait that might yet be exploited. He had to take what he had found to Sigmar’s longhouse, yet the street before him seemed to stretch away into infinity. Scrolls fell from the bundle haphazardly stacked in his arms and he blinked stars from his eyes as his heart lurched painfully.

Sigmar had returned to Reikdorf two days ago, and the mood of despair that had settled upon the city had lifted as he rode through the Ostgate with Wolfgart and the Asoborns. News of what had befallen Freya’s army had not dampened the spirits of Reikdorf’s people, but Sigmar had not wasted any time and instructed every smith in the city to sharpen blades, repair armour and bolster the defences of the Unberogen capital.

Every man, woman and child within the city bent their efforts to ensuring the survival of the Empire, carrying armloads of arrows to the walls, establishing makeshift infirmaries for the wounded and doing all they could to help. Not one person or family stinted on their duties, and the sense of brotherhood that stretched from one side of Reikdorf to the other was palpable.

All that would be for nothing if Eoforth could not reach Sigmar’s longhouse.

His moment of epiphany had come as the last glimmers of light faded from the library’s high, lancet windows. Only when the dozen candles with which he surrounded his desk had blown out in the one instant had he realised he was alone.

Eoforth felt the gloom and the unseen whisperers in the darkness close in on him. Glimmers of light drifted from the farthest halls of the library, a host of sibilant voices sighing like distant choirs as they spiralled towards him, laughing in derision at his puny efforts to undo the schemes of their master.

He’d cursed himself for allowing himself to become so engrossed in his work that he’d forgotten the passage of time. He’d allowed the dead to get in and now he was going to pay for it. His heart beat an irregular rhythm on his thin chest, and a painful numbness flowed down his left arm. He flexed the fingers, trying to force the blood to flow. His heart was weak and to put it under such strain was too much for him to bear.

Eoforth rested against a stone building, trying to gather his strength. He heard whispers behind him and spun, clutching the scrolls he’d gathered in the dark before fleeing for the streets. Moonlight bathed the world in cold, heartless light and he saw shadows where no shadows should be. They slid across the cobbles and over the walls of nearby dwellings, stretching and swelling to resemble elongated figures with black, featureless faces, thin, wasted arms and curling claws.

They chattered with the rattle of unseen teeth, clicking their insubstantial claws on the stonework as they closed in on him. Eoforth pushed himself from the wall as they drew near, limping down the road with desperate heaves of tortured lungs rattling in his chest. Though it was cold and his breath misted the air before him, his skin was slick with sweat.

Despite the reek of boiling hops that turned his stomach, Eoforth set off down Brewer Street, weaving like the drunks who clustered around the beer makers’ back doors, hoping for the slops.

The shadows on the walls followed him and he heard screeching laughter from the streets running alongside him, half-glimpsed phantoms flickering at the corners of his eyes. It seemed impossible that no one else could be aware of these spectres, or that he hadn’t yet encountered another person.

Perhaps he walked in the world of the dead now, a living soul that moved unseen by those untouched by mortality. The enemy stalked him, perhaps fearing what he knew and might pass to Sigmar. The dead believed he had found something that could hurt them and that made him pick up his pace, forcing his wretched body onwards.

Eoforth clutched the silver dove pendant around his neck, mouthing a prayer to Shallya that he hadn’t said aloud since he was a youngster.

“Merciful Shallya, meek and mild, watch me now, your helpless child,” he said, feeling the chill of the grave lessen with every word. He fought to remember his other prayers, especially ones to Morr and Taal. Morr for his hatred of the undead, Taal for his joy in life.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to Morr my soul to keep—”

His words were cut off by a feral snarl and Eoforth looked up to see a pack of wolves blocking the road ahead. Filthy, rotted creatures with bone and muscle exposed beneath mangy, dirt-encrusted fur, these were abominable creatures of darkness. They did not howl, but their broken teeth were bared and they stalked forward, limping and ungainly on broken bones and twisted spines. As malformed and broken in death though they were, Eoforth had no illusions as to his ability to outrun them or survive their attack.

He couldn’t make it past them, and looking over his shoulder he saw the chattering shadows easing down the street with their stretched arms reaching out to him. There was no way he could reach the longhouse, and the Gardens of Morr were on the other side of the city walls, so he set off down the Street of Temples, to the only place that might yet grant him sanctuary.

They came after him, but slowly, as though they were afraid to follow him into this place of gods. These divine beings watched over mankind, and the minions of necromancers were their most hated foes, for the dead worshipped nothing.

Still clutching his dove pendant, Eoforth hurried down the street with the wolves padding behind him and the shadow hunters laughing at his feeble attempt to escape. He saw the building he sought, just as a sharp pain stabbed into his chest. Eoforth gasped with the shock of it. He stumbled, losing more of his scrolls, and ground his teeth against the pain spreading down his left side. Eoforth was no physician, but he knew his heart was giving out under the strain.

He cried out as he slammed into the temple door, the pain of the impact spreading through his body as he slid down the stonework.

“Help… me…” he gasped, though he knew no one could possibly hear so weak a cry.

The shadows closed in and the wolves bared their fangs.

“In the name of Shallya, have mercy!” he cried with the last of his strength.

And then, a miracle. A sliver of light filled the street and the shadow hunters fled its touch, retreating to the forsaken corners of the darkness. The wolves backed away from the light, wary of its touch. They waited, uncertain and afraid, the torchlight reflecting in the empty sockets of their eyes.

Eoforth reached out to the light, as greyness smothered his vision.

His chest burned with pain and he fell into the arms of the woman who appeared in the doorway like the beauteous goddess of mercy and healing herself. His heartbeat became an arrhythmic crescendo as the light haloed her head and softened her angular features.

Eoforth had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

“My lady…” he said. “You came for me…”

High Priestess Alessa of the temple of Shallya knelt beside Eoforth and cradled his head. Her eyes swept the street beyond her temple, and the wolves fled from her stern, unflinching gaze. No creature of darkness could face so holy and pure a vision without fear.

He felt himself sliding down into darkness, and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Be at peace, Eoforth,” said Alessa, seeing immediately that he was dying. “Whatever they were are gone now.”

“I must… speak,” he said, as a single tear slid down his cheek. “Sigmar needs to know…”

Alessa brushed it away and said, “Speak to me. Whatever you have to say, I will tell him. I promise. What would you have as your last words in this world?”

Eoforth gripped her shoulder and pulled his lips to her ear. With his final breath he whispered one last thing to the high priestess. As his eyes closed, he saw her face turn cold, and went into Morr’s embrace terrified that she hadn’t understood.

He heard wolves in the distance.

And then nothing.

 

Sigmar knelt beside the body of his counsellor and kept his eyes closed. He gripped Eoforth’s hand and wished he could have been there for his friend’s final moments. This war against the enclosing forces of Nagash had already cost the Empire dear, but that cost had never been harder to bear than now. Friends and allies had fallen to the advance of the undead, but no one who had been as dear to him as Eoforth.

The venerable counsellor lay on Sigmar’s bed at the rear of the longhouse, as though he were asleep and would shortly awaken and demand the honey-sweetened oats he liked so much. Lex, Kai and Ortulf lay curled at the foot of the bed, sensing their master’s sorrow and knowing not to intrude on his grief. Kai yawned and stretched his back paws, looking up to make sure he wasn’t needed.

Eoforth had steered Sigmar through the darkest moments of his rule. He had offered sage counsel and age-tempered wisdom to cool the Unberogen fire in Sigmar’s heart that would otherwise have seen him become no better than a Norsii warlord. Over the years, Sigmar had lost his father, the love of his life, and some of his best friends. It had been a hard road to walk, but he had walked it knowing he could rely on Eoforth’s steady, even-handed advice.

The dead man’s face was at peace, the dimmed lanterns seeming to ease the furrows of care and smooth the lines of pain he had borne with quiet dignity. His pain was now gone, and Sigmar tried to find comfort in that, but all he could think of was that his friend was gone. Elswyth sat on the end of the bed, one hand resting on Eoforth’s shoulder as she awaited Sigmar’s leave to withdraw.

“Well?” said Sigmar.

Elswyth sighed. “His heart gave out, nothing more sinister than that. I know you want another reason to hate Nagash, but I can’t give it to you.”

“You think that’s what I want?” he snapped. “You are the Hag Woman’s successor now?”

The healer scowled at him and leaned forward. “You’ve lost a good friend, so I’ll let that go, but speak to me like that again and it’ll be the last time you see me in Reikdorf.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sigmar, instantly contrite. “I just thought he’d be around…”

“Forever?” said Elswyth.

“Stupid, I know, but yes,” shrugged Sigmar.

“With his heart condition, it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. He wasn’t a well man.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He didn’t want you to. Thought you’d make him retire for good if you did.”

“Maybe I should have. It might have given him more life.”

Elswyth shook her head. “Not Eoforth, you’d have killed him years ago if you’d made him step away from the sides of kings.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Men like Eoforth, men like you, they don’t just fade into the background. What they are defines them and if you take that away, what’s left to them? Like old Beorthyn. When Govannon took over his forge after the old man’s joints inflamed, he was lost and didn’t know what to do with himself. Without purpose, Beorthyn felt like he didn’t have anything left to live for and died a year later. Why do you think Govannon’s not retired, even though he’s mostly blind? He knows he’ll be the same. What would you do if you weren’t Emperor?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Sigmar.

“You’d be a waster, a brigand or a sell-sword,” said Elswyth. “You live for blood and battle, and even though you’re the Emperor and say you want peace, you’re secretly glad you’ll never find it in your lifetime.”

“You have a healer’s heart, but a viper’s tongue,” said Sigmar.

“I say things as I see them,” said Elswyth. “I’ve seen too many Unberogen boys brought to my home with the most horrific battle injuries to believe any warrior who says he wants peace while carrying a sword or axe. Or a hammer. And you know I’m right; else you’d have gotten angry.”

“Maybe you are right,” said Sigmar, “but I can still mourn my friend, can’t I?”

“Of course you can, you fool,” said Elswyth with a smile that made her beautiful. “I never said you couldn’t. You’d be made of stone if you didn’t grieve for this old man. His counsel probably saved more lives than that hammer of yours.”

Sigmar shook his head. Elswyth’s harsh tongue could deliver rebuke and praise in the same breath without a man even noticing.

“Eoforth advised my father and grandfather,” said Sigmar. “I remember him back when I was a young boy. He seemed like he’d always advised the Unberogen kings, and always would. Now that he’s gone, I feel… adrift… like a guiding star that shone above me without me even knowing it was there has been taken away.”

“Eoforth was a good counsellor,” said Elswyth, “but you were always the Emperor. You ruled with him to aid you, and now you’ll rule without him. You have good friends around you, and they will help. Anyway, you know this already, so why I’m wasting time telling you is beyond me.”

“Because that’s what you do, healer,” smiled Sigmar. “You help people.”

Elswyth snorted as she gathered up her belongings.

“Only those that need it,” she said, patting his shoulder as she passed.

 

“It wasn’t some magic of Nagash?” asked Alfgeir. “She’s sure? How can she be sure?”

“She’s sure,” said Sigmar, pacing the length of the longhouse. “I wanted it to be Nagash, but Eoforth was just old. I think we forgot how old sometimes.”

Alfgeir sighed and raised his mug of beer. “He was a good man, and a good friend. I’ll miss him.”

“Aye, we all will,” agreed Wolfgart, also raising his mug.

Everyone in the longhouse raised their drink, toasting the soul of the departed scholar and wishing him a speedy journey through Morr’s gateway to the Wolf God’s halls. Though Eoforth had not been a warrior, he had the soul of a fighter and Sigmar knew the old man would be welcomed as a true son of Ulric.

“To Eoforth,” said Maedbh, keeping one torq-wrapped arm around Wolfgart and the other around Ulrike. “May the foolish fire of youth fill him again as he runs with the wolves.”

Since returning from the east, Wolfgart’s family had been inseparable, as though the terror of potential grief had forged their bond stronger than ever before.

Sometimes it took nearly losing what you had to remind you of how precious it was.

Or sometimes you had to lose it forever, thought Sigmar, touching the golden cloak pin that secured the bearskin at his shoulders.

Worked in the form of a snake curling around to eat its own tail, it had been fashioned by Master Alaric in happier times, and the workmanship was exquisite, with small bands along the length of the snake’s body engraved with twin-tailed comets. Sigmar had given the brooch to Ravenna as a symbol of his love, but it had returned to him all too soon thanks to Gerreon’s betrayal.

Alfgeir offered him a mug of beer. The smell was inviting, but Sigmar shook his head.

“There’s nothing I’d like more than to lose myself in a beer haze,” he said, “but I want a clear head tonight.”

The Marshal of the Reik shrugged and took the mug for himself.

“Probably wise,” said Alfgeir, draining the mug. “But Eoforth was the wise one.”

Like Eoforth, Alfgeir had served Sigmar’s father, and the old man’s death had hit him hard. Losing men in battle was hard, but every man who commanded warriors made their own peace with that fact. To lose friends to something as cruelly banal as a weak heart was, in its own way, harder to deal with. Though they had been opposites in almost all regards, Alfgeir and Eoforth had been true friends and comrades in arms.

Sigmar laid a hand on Alfgeir’s shoulder and continued his circuit of the firepit.

The warrior Maedbh had introduced as Garr stood against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest and his expression hard to read. Sigmar knew the man was wary in this company, and given the identity of the boys he had been entrusted to guard, that was understandable. He had a fierce look to him that Sigmar liked, and his Queen’s Eagles would be a formidable presence when battle was joined.

He had spoken briefly to Garr, assuring him that no one in Reikdorf had any intention of removing the boys he guarded from his custody. The man had nodded, but said nothing, as a perfect understanding flowed between them. Since then, Freya’s boys had not been seen outside beyond their first arrival at Reikdorf.

Master Alaric sat on a stubby barrel of dwarf ale, his armour gleaming in the low firelight, and his axe propped next to him against a bucket of coal. Sigmar had been overjoyed to see his old friend, but thanks to his behaviour on the hillside where they had rescued Maedbh and the Asoborns, he had been forced to endure a stern lecture on the proper protocols on greeting friends. Alaric’s dwarfs lounged around the edges of the longhouse, casting critical eyes around its structure, as though lamenting what men had done to the fine work they had crafted for them.

The Taleuten Red Scythes were represented by their captain, a warrior named Leodan, a man Sigmar had seen ride into the heart of the dead without fear. His skills were prodigious, but there was something missing to him, some part of him that wasn’t entirely normal. At the moment, Sigmar didn’t care whether the warriors he could count on to fight alongside him were normal. That they would fight was enough.

“Elswyth says it wasn’t magic?” said Wolfgart. “So why was the old man running for the temple of Shallya? They were using sorcery on him and he ran for help from the goddess of mercy. Makes perfect sense to me.”

“You might be right,” said Sigmar. “You might very well be right, but I don’t see that it makes any difference right now. Eoforth is dead, and when the priests of Morr have completed their rites, I will take him to a place of honour on Warriors Hill. But right now we have other matters to consider.”

“How close are the dead to Reikdorf?” asked Garr. “You have word from your scouts?”

“I do,” nodded Sigmar. “Cuthwin has seen the wolf packs and the eaters of the dead on the Reik, near the Worlitz mines.”

“Two days’ march,” said Wolfgart.

“About time Cuthwin tore himself from Govannon’s side,” said Alfgeir, helping himself to another beer. “They’ve wasted weeks on that machine, and it still doesn’t bloody work.”

Sigmar nearly said something to Alfgeir, but a slight shake of the head from Maedbh convinced him not to. He glanced over at Master Alaric, but if the dwarf rune-smith knew to what Alfgeir was referring, he said nothing.

“Did the scout say anything about their numbers?” asked Leodan.

“No, none of his men could get close enough,” said Sigmar. “Many tried, but none returned. Nagash will be served by many thousands of revenants, and every day his army will swell with those who have died fighting him.”

“If you had to guess?”

“At least thirty thousand, maybe more.”

Leodan nodded, understanding the sacrifices Cuthwin’s foresters and huntsmen had made in trying to gather information on the enemy. The number was staggering, and Sigmar could see that many of those gathered in the longhouse had trouble even picturing so vast a horde. Such a force had only ever been seen at Black Fire or around the foot of the Fauschlag Rock, and even then, no one really knew how many warriors had been present.

Sigmar saw the controlled anger in the captain of the Red Scythes. He wanted this battle finished so he and his warriors could return to defend their own homeland, for the Taleuten people were undoubtedly besieged within Taalahim.

“Can this city hold against an army of that size?” asked Garr, looking towards Alaric. “The walls look strong and high, but I’m no expert on that sort of fighting.”

“The walls are serviceable,” said Alaric. “Designed by a dwarf, but built by manlings, so who knows if they’re strong enough? I’d need to test them to be sure, but I reckon they’ll hold against what these grave-hoppers can throw at them.”

Alfgeir laughed, a drunken, nasal bray. “Walls? It won’t matter about the walls. We’ve a city filled to bursting point with refugees and warriors, and not enough food to last out the week, let alone a siege.”

“We have grain reserves,” said Sigmar. “We can last a season.”

“And how long can the dead last?” snapped Alfgeir. “They don’t need to eat or drink, they don’t need to sleep, and they don’t need to worry about disease or fear or losing their friends. They don’t even need to fight us. They can just trap us in here and wait for us to die!”

“They won’t do that,” said a soft female voice from the doorway to the longhouse. “And you’re too old to be drinking that much beer, Alfgeir Gunnarson. The enemy is two days away and you’ll still be puking your guts out if you have one more mouthful.”

“What are you, my mother?” said Alfgeir, though he didn’t take another drink as he saw High Priestess Alessa standing in the longhouse door.

“Hardly, but the people of this city need you to fight,” said Alessa, sweeping inside and making her way towards Alfgeir. “Are you going to let them down?”

Alfgeir licked his lips and shook his head, putting the beer down on the table next to him. It was easy enough to shout at fellow warriors, but to snap at a priestess of Shallya would be boorish beyond even what his drunkenness would allow.

Maedbh rose from her seat and knelt before Alessa. The priestess touched the top of her head and smiled warmly, all hint of her irritation vanished. Alessa had blessed Ulrike when she had come into this world, and Maedbh would always be in her debt, for that protection had served her well over the years.

“High Priestess,” said Sigmar. “I hadn’t thought to see you at a gathering of warriors.”

Alessa turned to Sigmar and he was struck by the hostility he saw in her face.

“Nor would you under normal circumstances, but these are not normal times.”

“Then join us,” he said, gesturing towards an empty space on a long trestle bench.

“I’ll stand,” she said. “I do not relish being here, so I will say what I have come to say and then I will go.”

Sigmar nodded. “You said that the dead won’t simply trap us within the city and allow us to starve to death. Why do you think that?”

“It is the crown,” said Alessa. “Nagash is desperate to retrieve it, and he will not wait for you to die from lack of food and water. He will want to break the walls of this place down as soon as he can and kill everyone inside. Eoforth knew as much, they were his last words to me before he died.”

“He spoke to you?” demanded Sigmar. “Why did you not tell of this before now?”

Alessa’s hostile confidence diminished and Sigmar saw the agony of indecision within her. Whatever she had to say to him, it had taken a great deal of soul searching for her to come forward.

“He spoke about the crown I foolishly allowed to be buried beneath my temple.”

“What about it?” said Sigmar, seeing a number of confused expressions around the longhouse. The secret of what he had buried beneath the temple of Shallya was not widely known, and Sigmar would prefer it to stay that way. One look into Alessa’s eyes told Sigmar that wasn’t going to happen.

“Nagash is obsessed with it. It’s the only thing he desires.”

“We already know that,” said Alfgeir. “The blood drinker told us that.”

“But he would not have communicated how the great necromancer is consumed utterly by his desire, how his entire existence is bound to it in ways no mortal can understand. It is part of him, and without it he is less than nothing. To be close to the crown will drive all thoughts of restraint and reason from Nagash. It is his greatest strength and his most terrible weakness.”

“Eoforth told you all that?” said Wolfgart. “He always did use ten words when one would do. Not bad for a dying man.”

“Of course he didn’t,” said Alessa. “He simply said, ‘The crown, tell Sigmar it’s his Ravenna.”

“And you got all this talk of obsession and desire from that?” said Alfgeir.

“That and an understanding of what it means to be near the wretched thing,” whispered Alessa. “You understand what I mean, don’t you, Emperor?”

Sigmar nodded, only now seeing how pale Alessa was, how thin and undernourished. Her hollow cheeks and haunted eyes were a true testament to the insidious nature of Nagash’s crown, a pervasive evil that sapped the vitality of the living by degrees.

“I do,” said Sigmar. “And if we survive this coming battle, I swear I will hide this crown far from the lands of men, somewhere its evil will no longer wreak harm.”

Wolfgart turned to him. “Do you know what Eoforth meant? Does it help us?”

“He does,” said Alessa, bowing her head and clasping her hands as tears flowed down her cheeks. “Shallya forgive me, but I should never have told you.”

“What is she talking about, Sigmar?” said Alfgeir, rising to his feet.

Fear touched Sigmar as he understood the source of Alessa’s reluctance to speak of what Eoforth had told her. They had shut the crown away from the world for good reason. Mortals were not meant to wield such magic, for their hearts were too malleable and too easily seduced to be allowed near such temptations as eternal life and ultimate power.

Sigmar had broken free from the malign effect of Nagash’s crown once before, but could he do it again?

“There is only one way we can fight Nagash,” said Sigmar. “Only one way I can face him with any hope of victory.”

He stood at the end of the firepit and took a deep breath, loath to even say the words, let alone contemplate the reality of what it would mean for the Empire if he failed.

“I have to wear Nagash’s crown again,” said Sigmar.