—<EIGHTEEN>—

The Dead of Reikdorf

 

 

The host of Nagash arrived before the walls of Reikdorf on the leading edge of dark storm clouds. Winter cut the air and the cold winds that blew from the vast horde of the undead carried the stench of mankind’s corpse. Chain lightning flashed in the clouds and rumbles of thunder that seemed to roll out from distant lands echoed strangely from the walls of the city’s temples, taverns and dwellings.

No sun rose on this day, the unnatural darkness covering the land in a bleak shadow from which it could nevermore be lifted, a gloom that entered every mortal heart and filled it with the sure and certain knowledge of the fate of all living things. Skeletons marched at the fore of the army, ancient warriors in serried ranks that stretched from one line of the horizon to the other. Cursed to serve Nagash for all eternity, they wore armour of long lost kingdoms, clutched weapons of strange design, and the grave dirt of far off lands clung to their bones. Heavily armoured champions in heavy hauberks of scale and corslets of iron marched at their head, exalted warriors of the dead whose skill with the executioners’ blades they carried was more terrifying than when they had been mortal.

Where the warriors of bone resembled the army they had been in life, the thousands of bloody corpses dragged from shallow peasant graves or raised back from the dead in the wake of battle were a shambling mockery of life. Limping on twisted limbs and groaning with the torment of their existence, they were a stark reminder that even death in battle against this foe would be no escape from the horror. Hunched things in black robes moved through the shuffling horde of corpses, their fell sorcery directing its mindless hunger.

The sky above Reikdorf blackened with the fluttering wings of bats and every rooftop was lined with black-winged carrion birds. Ravens cawed in anticipation of a feast of flesh, hopping agitatedly from clawed foot to clawed foot, impatient for the slaughter to begin.

Hundreds of dark riders on skeletal steeds caparisoned in black and red and riding beneath banners of skulls and fanged maws took position at the centre and flanks of the army, the stillness of their mounts hideous and unnatural. These dread riders carried long black lances, their tips glittering with a loathsome green shimmer.

Scraps of lambent light billowed like pyre smoke around the horde, wailing with the torments of the damned. Spectres and howling revenants dragged from death, but whose remains were no more, spun and twisted in ghostly wisps, their eyes bright with aching need for the warmth of mortal flesh. Their howling struck terror into all who heard them, and scores of terrified people took blades to their own necks rather than face such an enemy.

Loping ahead of the host, a ragged line of corpse eaters moved on all fours, wretched and debased, with only their monstrous appetites to sustain them. These degenerate monstrosities had once been men, but they had fallen far from the nobility of their former race. Some clutched sharpened bone, others fragments of swords, but most only needed their long, gnarled claws to tear out an enemy’s throat. They gurgled and croaked as they skulked in the shadows, eager for the bloodletting to begin, but fearful to be the first into the fray.

No trace of the land could be seen as the black host spread out before the city, a tide of rotten meat, bleached bone and unquiet spirits. This was an army to end the reign of mortals, to plunge the world into eternal night.

Yet it was the figures at the head of this mighty army that drew the eye, a vanguard of three riders, one in silver plate, and the others in armour of black. Khaled al-Muntasir was easy to identify, but the two warriors alongside him were unknown to the defenders. Each clutched a flag so soaked in blood it was impossible to tell what heraldic devices it had once displayed.

Yet even among such dreadful abominations, the master of this army was clear, a towering column of fuliginous chill that seemed to draw in what little light remained to the world only to snuff it out within his immortal form.

This was Nagash, the Great Necromancer, the bane of life and undying corpse lord who had toppled empires and unleashed the curse of undeath upon the world. His dread form floated above the earth, and where he passed, the ground split apart, withered and destroyed as sable light was drawn upwards and coiled about his armoured and ragged-cloaked form. The creatures of the earth crept from the soil, crawling, buzzing and slithering away from the necromancer as his monstrous power sucked the vitality from everything around him.

Through the roiling miasma of deathly energies that surrounded him, black segments of iron and bronze could be glimpsed, shimmering coils of green light suffusing each plate, rivet and fluted line of beaten metal. A grinning skull of ancient bone loomed from the darkness, massive and long since bereft of flesh, muscle and life.

At Nagash’s side, a towering warrior of brazen iron and ferocity. Broader and taller than even the mightiest tribesmen, Krell bellowed a martial challenge that not even death could contain. The bloody champion of undeath and slaughter brandished his axe, raising it to point at the city before him, as though claiming it as his own.

A wind from the depths of the earth sprang up around these fell lords of sorcery and battle, a chill breath of lifelessness and the withering passage of time. It roiled towards the city, billowing like a desert sandstorm. Where it struck the walls, the stonework cracked and spalled, aged a thousand years in a heartbeat. Wooden gates rotted and crumbled as though split apart by centuries of hoar frost. The cold wind blew through the city with a ghastly whisper heard by every man, woman and child.

It was the Necromancer’s promise and threat all in one.

Man is cattle…

 

Yet Nagash was not the first to reach Reikdorf this day. As the fleeting light of dawn crested the eastern mountains before being smothered by the black canopy of the undead twilight, a ragged band of a hundred warriors limped towards the city’s southern gateway. Led by her sword maidens, Queen Freya returned to the lands of Men, having fought her way through the infested wilds of the southern Empire.

These wounded, exhausted men and women were all that remained of the proud host she had led from Three Hills, warriors whose honour sought redemption by bringing the queen they had failed to safety. Death would be a release for them, should the enemy facing them grant such mercy. Maedbh was overjoyed to see Freya, as were the people of Reikdorf, for her survival was a lone beacon of hope in these grim times. That Freya could survive meant others could too. No sooner had she ridden through the gates than the Queen’s Eagles surrounded her, bringing her sons to her side for a tearful reunion.

The joy that greeted Freya’s arrival was soon tempered by word that the dead were no more than an hour behind them. The gates were sealed and barred, and the warriors preparing to defend the city with their lives manned the walls, clutching swords and axes in hands slick with fear. Though still gravely wounded, Freya took her place with the Queen’s Eagles, and no words of admonition could shift Sigulf and Fridleifr from her side.

There could be no bystanders in this battle for survival.

All would fight, or all would die.

The bell on the temple of Ulric chimed, and the dead came to Reikdorf.

 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said Alfgeir, holding tightly to the reins of his horse as it tossed its head and snorted in fear. “This is madness and you know it.”

“Maybe so,” said Sigmar, “but it needs to be done.”

“I am never one to back down from a foe, but I agree with your Reik Marshal,” said Freya, riding alongside Garr and three of his Queen’s Eagles. As the only one of Sigmar’s counts present in Reikdorf, she had the right to ride out with him, but he found it hard to look at her without picturing the boys that carried his blood.

They rode through the rotted remains of the Ostgate towards the enemy army. Since arriving at the walls of Reikdorf, the undead host had stood in silence, content to let fear worm its way into the hearts of those mortals who would soon be joining their ranks. The only movement had been when the three armoured warriors in the army’s vanguard had ridden forward beneath a lowered banner, the universal symbol of parley.

“Why should we respect this parley?” said Garr, one hand on his sword hilt. “We outnumber them and should cut them down while we have the chance.”

Sigmar looked over at the man, irritated at his foolishness.

“You could try, but these are blood drinkers, and they would kill you before you even drew that blade,” said Sigmar.

Garr swallowed hard and released his hold on his sword.

“Damn, but what I wouldn’t give to be riding out to these bastards with Redwane and a century of his White Wolves about now,” said Wolfgart.

Sigmar smiled. “Aye, that would be most welcome, but Middenheim will have its own problems if I’m any judge.”

Further conversation was halted as the air grew dense and cold. The blood drinkers were ahead of them, blocking the road and silhouetted on the crest of the slope ahead of them. Sigmar felt his skin crawl at their nearness, the very core of what made him a man rebelling at being so close to creatures that so obviously violated the natural order of the world. An aura of freezing air surrounded them, as though warmth was repelled by their very presence.

Khaled al-Muntasir gave an elaborate bow from the back of his dark steed, smiling in welcome as though they were old friends and not mortal enemies. Sigmar’s horse balked at the proximity of the undead, its ears pressed flat against its skull and eyes wide with fear. He heard a jingle of trace and harness as the horses of his companions whinnied and sought to gallop back the way they had come.

“Emperor,” said the vampire, and Sigmar saw the gleam of razor-sharp fangs in the corner of the monster’s mouth. “It is a great pleasure to see you again.”

“I cannot say the same,” he replied.

“No, I expect not,” agreed the vampire, turning his attention to the Asoborn queen with a mocking glint in his eyes. “And Queen Freya, I am gratified to see you survived our previous encounter. I cannot promise you the same mercy I showed you at the river, but as you can see, many of your tribesmen now fight with me. Were you to join them, it would have a pleasing symmetry.”

Freya seethed with fury and hurt, and Sigmar saw it was taking every scrap of her restraint not to hurl herself at the vampire. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

“You defeat my army, but you run from a host of old men and children,” she said, each word a venomous barb. “You are nothing to be feared. You and your kind are leeches, not warriors. A true leader would have died with his army, not run like a gelded catamite.”

Khaled al-Muntasir glared at her, but his angry expression turned to one of polite indifference, as if she had not spoken.

“Death is meaningless to me,” said Khaled al-Muntasir with a dismissive wave of a thin-boned hand. “None of your inferior race can strike down one of my kind. The blood of ancient queens runs in my veins, and I will simply rise from any wound a mortal can deal me.”

Sigmar was studying Khaled al-Muntasir’s eyes as he spoke, and almost missed the lie, so glibly did it trip from the vampire’s mouth.

“I don’t believe you,” said Sigmar, suddenly seeing a crack in the vampire’s self-perpetuated aura of invincibility. “You fear extinction like any mortal. More so. You’ve become so attached to the idea of immortality that just the thought of oblivion terrifies you.”

The vampire turned his gaze on Sigmar, and he felt the full might of his will, a potent force that had sustained his existence for centuries and which had seduced hundreds with its promises of a life undying. Its promises were empty to Sigmar, for he had faced the temptations of a being far older and far more dangerous than a mere vampire.

“I told you that you were not welcome in Reikdorf,” said Sigmar, without breaking the vampire’s gaze and letting him know that the attempt to dominate him had failed. “I said that if you returned that you would be killed.”

The vampire looked hurt at Sigmar’s harsh words and said, “You would not respect the sanctity of the parley? I had thought you a civilised man.”

“What do you want, fiend?” demanded Wolfgart.

The vampire’s tongue flicked out, as though tasting the air like a serpent. He smiled and nodded toward Wolfgart. “You should keep yapping dogs on a leash, Sigmar. They might have their throats torn out to teach them a lesson.”

“Now who’s not respecting the parley?” said Alfgeir. “What is it you want? Speak your offer so we can spit on it and get back to our drinks.”

“Very well,” said Khaled al-Muntasir, more offended at Alfgeir’s disrespect than any notion of the parley being broken. “I came here to offer you one last chance to hand over my master’s crown. Ride out with it within a day and you will be…”

“Spared?” laughed Sigmar.

“No,” replied Khaled al-Muntasir. “Not spared, but you would become exalted champions of the dead, great kings among the host of the unliving. It is a great honour my master does you by even offering you this chance.”

“So why doesn’t he come here himself to offer me this boon, ruler to ruler?” said Sigmar.

The vampire cocked his head to one side, as though trying to discern whether Sigmar was joking. Deciding he wasn’t, Khaled al-Muntasir shrugged.

“My master does not lower himself to treat with lesser races,” said the vampire. “Bring him his crown and your deaths will be swift, your rebirths glorious. Deny him and he will kill everyone in your ridiculous city, and bring your people back from the dead only after their corpses have been violated by the flesheaters. There will be no glorious resurrection for any of you, just mindless hunger and a craving for living meat that can never be sated.”

“Tough choice,” said Wolfgart. “Can we think about it?”

Missing the sarcasm, the vampire said, “You have one day. When the twin moons rise, the end begins.”

“Then we will fight you beneath their light,” said Sigmar, turning his horse back towards Reikdorf. Before he could rake his spurs back, Khaled al-Muntasir had one last parting shot.

“Where are my manners?” said the vampire with mock embarrassment. “How rude of me not to introduce you to my new companions. My brothers, come greet our honourable foes.”

The two warriors accompanying Khaled al-Muntasir rode level with the vampire and raised their visors. Sigmar’s heart lurched with a spasm of grief as he beheld the once-noble features of Counts Siggurd and Markus. Their faces were pale and bloodless, lined with spider-web patterns of empty veins, and their eyes gleamed red with hunger. Sigmar counted these men as his dearest brothers, warrior kings who had marched into the jaws of death with him and emerged victorious.

He had called them to his side time after time, and they had honoured their oaths to him without question. Now, when they had needed him, he had failed them. Their people were enslaved and their heroic lineage had been ended, each man cursed to an eternity of suffering and torment as a soulless blood drinker. They stared at Sigmar with undisguised thirst, fangs exposed and their bodies leaning forward, as though about to leap from their horses and bear him to the ground.

“You must forgive them their ill-manners,” said Khaled al-Muntasir with relish. “They are little more than children, still driven by their own selfish desires and hunger. They have yet to master their appetites when in civilised company.”

“What have you done?” said Sigmar, overcome with anguish at the sight of counts.

“He has given us a great gift,” said Markus. “One that can be yours if you so choose.”

“Gift?” spat Sigmar. “You are both damned and you do not see it.”

He turned away from the vampires, disgusted and ashamed at what had become of them.

These abominations looked and sounded like his counts, but they were not Siggurd and Markus, and he wouldn’t waste any words on the monsters that wore their faces. The brave men who had fought beside him at Black Fire and who had come to his aid at Middenheim were no more, and all that remained of them were memories.

Sigmar and his companions rode away from the vampire counts, each struggling with their emotions at the sight of the newest blood drinkers. Khaled al-Muntasir’s laughter rang in their ears and Markus spurred his black horse forward to shout after them.

“We have been lifted from the mud of mortality,” the former count of the Menogoth tribe cried. “Born anew to higher forms, and if you could feel what I feel, you would beg for my fangs to fasten on your neck!”

No one answered him. No one could.

 

The sound of hammers woke Govannon from a deep sleep, a percussive beat that set his whole room vibrating. It was dark, but that didn’t mean anything. Since the dead had arrived it was always dark. He had thought that the loss of sunlight would not make much of a difference to him; his world was grey and lightless anyway. But even locked in his blind world he felt the crushing bleakness of a world without sunlight.

Though everyone in the city was afraid, including Govannon, he had no trouble in sleeping for his work on the dwarf war machine had driven him past the point of exhaustion. He had yet to discover a workable fire powder compound, and his body was unforgiving in its protests at his treatment of it.

Rolling onto his side, Govannon yawned and stretched his tired muscles. He groped for his bearskin pelt, hanging on a hook beside the bed, and pulled it around his shoulders. The hammering was coming from below, but who would dare break into his forge to use his tools and materials without asking? They’d be in for a hiding, that was for sure. Bysen might have the mind of a child, but he had the right hook of a bare-knuckle fist fighter.

Govannon crossed the room, seeing nothing, but not needing to. The layout of his room was well known to him. He reached down to wake Bysen, but found his son’s bed empty and cold. It hadn’t been slept in for some time, and Govannon’s anxiety grew. Bysen was missing, and in that moment, Govannon was back at Black Fire Pass, desperately searching the infirmary tents for any sign of his boy.

He heard muffled voices from below, and reached for the knife wedged in the gap between Bysen’s bed and the wall. The blade was sharp on both edges and triangular in section, meaning any wound it caused would never properly heal. It was a weapon of spite, but whoever had broken into his forge had more than earned that spite.

Govannon eased onto the stairs that led down to the forge, feeling the heat wash up from below on his skin. A blurred orange glow illuminated the lower level of the building, a glow that told Govannon his forge was burning hotter than it had ever burned before. The voices were punctuated with clangs of hammers on metal and sparks of white fire that penetrated even Govannon’s limited sight. The air tasted of hot metal, burning coal and some nameless, actinic residue he couldn’t identify. What in Ulric’s name was going on down there?

Though he carried a knife, Govannon wasn’t naive enough to believe that he could defend himself from an intruder. Still, his forge was his domain, and anyone who thought otherwise was going to get badly hurt before they cut him down.

He counted twelve steps, made a turn to the right and then counted another ten. The heatwash from below was like nothing he had felt before, a rushing all-enveloping fire that burned hotter than any forge he had ever known.

“Whoever you are, get out of my forge!” he bellowed, mustering as much of his warrior shout as he could. “I swear to Ulric, I’ve a knife I’ll stick in the neck of any bastard who tries to take me!”

Govannon saw two shapes beside the forge, one tall and hunched over, the other short and squat and swinging what looked like a short-handled sledgehammer.

White sparks flew, each like a firefly of light that cut through his blindness in staccato flashes of clarity. The knife dropped from his hands as he saw Bysen by the roaring maw of the forge, lifting a gleaming sword blade from the anvil, where one of the mountain folk stood back with a monstrously heavy-looking hammer casually slung over one shoulder.

The sight faded with the white sparks and Govannon groaned as his vision became blurred and hazy once again. He heard Bysen’s voice over the roaring of the forge.

“Da, you’re here!” said his son, closing the door to the firebox with an iron-reinforced boot heel. “I didn’t want to wake you, da. But the dwarf man said it didn’t matter none.”

The heat in the forge dropped as the firebox door shut, though it was still hot enough to take the chill off the unnatural cold that filled Reikdorf. Refugees clamoured to take shelter in the lee of the forge, as it was one of the warmest places in the city.

“Are you all right, da?” said Bysen. “You need to go back to sleep?”

“I’m fine,” insisted Govannon, walking toward where he had seen the dwarf with the enormous hammer.

“You are Govannon, the blind manling smith?” said a gruff voice, pitched somewhere between irritation and condescension.

“I am,” he said. “Who are you and why are you in my forge?”

“I am Master Alaric, Runesmith to King Kurgan Ironbeard of Karaz-a-Karak, and I am here to reclaim my property. You’re in a lot of trouble, manling.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not making any damn sense,” said Govannon, before the identity of the dwarf hit him between the eyes. “Wait, Master Alaric?

“You’re the smith who made the runefang. And Sigmar’s crown.”

“Amongst other things,” grumbled Alaric in annoyance. “I do make things other than trinkets for manlings, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” said Govannon, moving through the forge with the ease of one who had a perfect memory of its layout. “It’s a great honour to meet you. I’ve admired your work for years. I just wish I could have seen the Runefang Blodambana before I lost my eyes…”

“Bloodbane,” said Alaric. “A good name well earned.”

“Bysen, fetch our guest some beer, the good stuff,” said Govannon.

“Aye, da. Right away, da,” said Bysen, moving past him. The sword blade he carried shone in the light, as clear to Govannon’s sight as if he looked upon it with Cuthwin’s keen eyes.

“Wait,” said Govannon, putting his hand on Bysen’s arm. “What is that?”

“It’s Master Alfgeir’s sword, da,” said Bysen. “The mountain man helped me finish it.”

“He helped you…”

“Finish it,” said Bysen happily. “Now all I need to do is take it to Master Holtwine and he can fit the handle he made for it.”

Govannon had all but forgotten about Alfgeir’s sword, it had been so long since he had begun its forging. Though he had sworn to the Marshal of the Reik he would finish it before the snows, that had been an empty promise, for the work on the war machine had taken all his time and effort.

“Show me,” he ordered.

Bysen obligingly lowered the sword, and Govannon was amazed at the finished blade. Smooth beyond belief, the metal was pristine and etched with angular symbols along its centreline that sparkled with strange light. Though everything around him was as blurred as ever, the sword blade was sharp and clear, a vision of perfection that made Govannon’s eyes wet with tears.

Gingerly, he tested its edges, not surprised to find that both were sharp beyond the ability of any human whetstone to grind.

He turned to Alaric. “You did this?” he said, his voice choked.

“I came for something else, but saw that the blade needed doing,” said the dwarf. “It’s nothing just some simple cutting and keenness runes.”

“I can see them,” said Govannon in wonderment.

“Some things are clearer than others, manling,” said the dwarf cryptically. “Now, as to the matter I came here for. The baragdonnaz.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Govannon, finding it hard to think of anything but this perfect sword blade.

Alaric sighed, as though bored by his stupidity. “The war machine Grindan Deeplock was returning to Prince Uldrakk of Zhufbar. The one to which you have made alterations unsanctioned by the Guild.”

“You mean the Thunder Bringer?” said Govannon, moving to the corner of the forge and removing the tarpaulin covering the war machine. Though he couldn’t see it clearly, he ran his hands over its warm metal barrels. Alaric joined him and prised his hands from the metal.

“Is that what you call it?” said Alaric, shaking his head. “Trust you manlings to call it something so bloody literal.”

“I fixed it,” said Govannon proudly. “It took a while, but I got the metal densities in the end, though it took a lot of trial and error.”

“Fixed it? A bodge job if ever I’ve seen one. More errors than I’d expect from a hundred apprentices,” grunted Alaric, circling the war machine and tapping it with an iron-ringed knuckle. The dwarf listened to the sounds, grunting and harrumphing with each one, until he’d made a full circuit of the machine.

“What’s he doing, da?” asked Bysen.

“I don’t know,” said Govannon, angry that his finest work had been so slighted.

“I’m listening to the metal, manlings,” said Alaric. “Which would be a damn sight easier if you two didn’t keep jabbering on so.”

Govannon could contain himself no longer and declared, “I managed to repair it, damn it, and I’ll wager no other smith in the land could do what I’ve done. If I can just get the fire powder formula to work, then we might be able to shoot it.”

“Shoot it?” gasped Alaric. “You want to shoot it?”

“Of course, what else would we do with it?”

“With an untested barrel made by manlings?” said Alaric, kicking the pile of iron shot stacked beside the war machine. “And irregular shot too. Grungni and Valaya save me from manlings with ideas above their station! Even if I let you shoot the baragdonnaz, you’d likely blow yourself and anyone nearby to a thousand tiny burned pieces.”

“Now just wait a minute,” said Govannon. “A lone Unberogen scout saved the life of the dwarf who hid this machine. Unberogen warriors found it and brought it back here. And an Unberogen smith fixed the bloody thing. The least you could be is grateful.”

“Grateful? For this?” snapped Alaric, squaring up to Govannon and planting his hands on his hips. “Imagine your finest sword was found by a greenskin and then broken in two. Then imagine that greenskin bolted it to a rock he’d just dug out of a troll’s dung pile and called it fixed. That’s what this is to me.”

“Aye, well if I was surrounded by enemies I’d be grateful just to have a weapon in my hands,” snapped Govannon, weary of this dwarf’s constant harping. “In fact, I’d be damn glad of it.”

Master Alaric seemed to consider this for a moment. At last he sighed in resignation.

“You might have a point there, manling,” said Alaric. “Very well, tradition is one thing, but an enemy at our throat is quite another. This is what I’ll do, I’ll make you enough black powder for a couple of volleys, but that’s all. And you’re to tell no other dwarfs of this.”

“So you’ll help us make it work?” cried Bysen.

“I reckon I might,” said Alaric. “Just make sure I’m nowhere nearby when you fire it.”