[Sigmar 01] - Heldenhammer Read online

  The folk of Reikdorf paused in their labours to watch the procession of warriors, cheering as they welcomed these friends from distant lands. Unberogen scouts rode with the Endals, and the warriors manning the walls of Reikdorf passed word of the arrival of Marbad.

  As the king of the Endals crossed the Reik and began the climb towards the settlement, the gates opened wide, and King Bjorn walked out to greet Marbad, with Sigmar at his side. Alfgeir and the Guards of the Great Hall followed close behind, wolfskin pelts draped over their shoulders and long-handled warhammers held at their sides.

  Sigmar watched the riders with a practiced eye, seeing the discipline in their ranks as the grim-faced Raven Helms kept their hands near their sword hilts, never relaxing their guard, even in this friendly territory. They were powerful men, wolf-lean and tough, though the horses that bore them were thin, and not the equals of wide-chested Unberogen steeds.

  “Damn, but it’s good to see you again, Marbad!” bellowed the king of the Unberogen, his powerful voice easily reaching down to the river. Sigmar smiled at the genuine pleasure he heard in his father’s voice, having found it absent for much of the winter.

  Ever since Trinovantes’ funeral rites had been completed, the fire in his father’s eyes had dimmed, and he had taken to looking at him strangely when he thought Sigmar was not aware of it.

  King Marbad looked up, and his previously grim face broke apart in a wide grin. The king of the Endals had visited Reikdorf many years ago, but Sigmar had only vague recollections of him. The black-cloaked riders made their way to the gates of Reikdorf, and fanned out to halt in a line with their king at the centre. The pipers took up position at either end of the line, while the bearer of the raven banner remained beside Marbad.

  “Good to see you’re still alive, Bjorn,” said Marbad, his voice powerful despite his lean physique. “You’ve been having some hard times of it, I hear.”

  “Wolfgart exaggerates,” said Bjorn, clearly realising where Marbad’s information had come from.

  Marbad swung his leg over his horse’s neck and dropped lightly to the ground, and the two kings embraced like long-lost brothers, slapping each other hard on the back with their fists.

  “It has been too long, Marbad,” said Bjorn.

  “It has that, my friend,” replied Marbad, looking over to Sigmar, “and this cannot be Sigmar! He was but a lad when last I saw him.”

  Bjorn turned, with his arm still around Marbad’s shoulders. “I know! I can’t believe it either. It seems like only yesterday he was suckling at the teat and shitting his cot!”

  Sigmar masked his annoyance as Bjorn marched his sword-brother towards Sigmar. Though it had been years since the two kings had seen one another, both men looked so at ease that it might as well have been a day. As Marbad approached, Sigmar’s eyes were drawn to the sword sheathed in a scabbard of worn leather at his side, the handle wound with bright silver wire, and a blue gem burning with a harsh light at its pommel.

  This was Ulfshard, a blade said to have been forged by the fey folk in ancient times, when daemons stalked the lands, and the race of man had lived in caves and spoke in grunts and howls.

  Sigmar tore his gaze from the weapon, and held himself straight as King Marbad placed his gloved hands on his shoulders, his face full of pride.

  “You have become a fine-looking man, Sigmar,” said Marbad. “Gods, I can see your mother in you!”

  “My father tells me I have her eyes,” replied Sigmar, pleased at the compliment.

  “Aye, well it’s a good thing you take after her, boy,” laughed Marbad. “You wouldn’t want to look like this old man would you?”

  “Just because we are sword-brothers, he thinks he can insult me in my own lands,” said Bjorn, leading Marbad away from Sigmar and towards Alfgeir.

  “My friend,” said Marbad, taking the king’s champion’s hand in the warrior’s grip. “You prosper?”

  Alfgeir nodded. “I do, my lord.”

  “As talkative as ever, eh?” said Marbad. “And where is Eoforth? That old rogue still dispensing his gibberish and calling it wisdom?”

  “He begs your leave, Marbad,” said Bjorn. “He is no longer a young man, and it takes him time to get up from his bed these days.”

  “Ach, no matter, I’ll see him tonight, eh?”

  “That you will, old friend, that you will,” promised Bjorn, before turning to Alfgeir, and saying, “Food and water for the Raven Helms, and make sure their horses receive the best grain.”

  “I shall see to it, my king,” said Alfgeir, who began issuing orders to the Guards of the Great Hall.

  Marbad turned to Sigmar again and said, “Wolfgart told me of Astofen Bridge, but I think I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Maybe this time I’ll get to hear it without all the dragons and evil sorcerers, eh? What say you, lad? Would you indulge an old man in a bit of storytelling?”

  Sigmar nodded. “I’d be happy to, my lord,” he said.

  Once again, the longhouse of the Unberogen was filled with carousing warriors, the ale and roasting meat in plentiful supply. Sigmar sat at the trestle tables with his warriors, drinking as his father and Marbad sat and talked at the end of the table. Serving girls circled the table, bearing platters of succulent meat, skins of wine and jugs of beer.

  The atmosphere was fine, and even the Raven Helms had relaxed enough to remove their armour and join the warriors of the Unberogen as they feasted. Earlier in the evening, Sigmar had spoken at length with a warrior named Laredus, and had found much to like about the Endals.

  Having been forced from their ancestral lands by an influx of Jutone tribesmen driven west by the warlike Artur of the Teutogens, they had carved a home from the inhospitable lands around the Reik estuary.

  Sigmar had never journeyed that far west, but from the description of Laredus, and his father’s tale of the battle against the mist daemons, he decided he had no wish to. The description of Marburg, however, made it sound magnificent, its earthen ramparts built atop a great rock of volcanic black stone that reared above the marshes, and the tall, winged towers of the Raven Hall constructed on the ruins of an outpost of what was said to have once been a coastal outpost of the fey folk.

  Marbad’s pipers filled the hall with music, and though the strange, skirling wail was not to Sigmar’s taste, the warriors in the hall plainly disagreed with him, linking arms and swinging one another around a cleared space in the hall to its rapid tempo. Wolfgart danced like a madman, working his way along a line of young girls, who clapped and laughed at his antics.

  Sigmar laughed as Wolfgart and his latest partner spun into a serving girl, and sent a tray of roast boar flying through the air. Cooked meat rained down, and the king’s wolfhounds bounded into the mass of dancers to snatch up the tasty morsels. Laughing anarchy erupted as the barking hounds tripped dancers, and men and women helped each other to their feet.

  “He never was very light on his feet, was he?” said Pendrag, taking a seat opposite Sigmar.

  Sigmar turned away from the chaos of the dance and said, “Aye, sometimes I wonder how he manages to swing that big sword of his and not take his own head off.”

  “Blind luck, I assume.”

  “There’s something to be said for luck,” said Sigmar, draining the last of his beer, and banging his mug on the table for more.

  “I’d prefer not to rely on it just the same,” said Pendrag. “She’s a fickle maiden, one minute by your side, the next deserting you for another.”

  “There’s truth in that,” agreed Sigmar as a pretty, flaxen-haired serving girl refilled his mug and smiled seductively. As she moved away, Pendrag laughed, and said, “I don’t think you need worry about finding a bed to hop into tonight, Sigmar.”

  “She’s nice, but not my type,” said Sigmar, taking a deep drink.

  “No,” said Pendrag. “You prefer girls with dark hair, yes?” Sigmar felt his face redden, and said, “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, don’t play
the fool with me, brother,” said Pendrag. “I know you only have eyes for Ravenna, it’s as clear as day. Anyway, did you think I’d be so busy teaching old men how to make iron swords that I wouldn’t notice that golden cloak pin Alaric is making for you?”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  Pendrag frowned as though he was deep in thought. “Yes.”

  “My thoughts are filled with her,” admitted Sigmar.

  “So talk to her,” said Pendrag. “Just because her brother is a serpent is no reason to avoid her. I’ve seen how she looks at you.”

  “You have?” asked Sigmar. “I mean, she does?”

  “Of course,” laughed Pendrag. “If you weren’t so hung up on this vision of an empire, you’d see it too. She’s a fine lass is Ravenna, and you will need a queen someday.”

  “A queen?” cried Sigmar. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead!”

  “Why not? She’s beautiful and when she took that shield from you, I think I even fell a little in love with her.”

  Sigmar said, “Oh really?” and reached over the table and emptied the last of his beer over Pendrag, who spluttered in mock indignation and then returned the favour. The two friends laughed and clasped hands, and Sigmar felt a great weight lift from his shoulders.

  He sat back on the bench, and looked over to the head of the table, catching his father’s eye as the king beckoned him from across the room.

  “My father asks for me,” he said, pushing to his feet, and running his hands through his beer-soaked hair. He looked down at his sodden jerkin. “Do I look presentable?”

  “Every inch the king’s son,” affirmed Pendrag. “Now look, when Marbad asks you to tell the story of Astofen, remember to make my part in the battle sound exciting.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said Sigmar, slapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and turning to make his way through the feasting warriors to join the two kings.

  “You know you’re supposed to drink the beer, not wear it, eh?” said Marbad, laughing as he saw the state of Sigmar.

  “My son surrounds himself with rogues,” said Bjorn.

  “A man should surround himself with rogues,” nodded Marbad. “It keeps him honest, eh?”

  “Is that why I keep you around, old man?” cried Bjorn.

  “Could be,” agreed Marbad, “though I like to think it is because of my winning personality.”

  Sigmar took a seat beside Marbad, his eyes once again straying to the sword belted at the Endal king’s side. He longed to see the weapon of the ancient fey folk, wondering how such a weapon would differ from one crafted by the dwarfs.

  Marbad saw his glance, and swiftly drew the blade from its scabbard, offering it to Sigmar. The blue gem in the pommel winked in the firelight, and the reflected glow of the torches rippled as though trapped within the smooth face of the blade.

  “Take it,” said Marbad.

  Sigmar took the proffered weapon, amazed at its lightness and balance. Compared to his sword, Ulfshard was a masterpiece of the weaponsmith’s craft, entirely different, yet filled with the same ferocious power as Ghal-maraz. The blade shimmered with its own internal light, and Sigmar knew that with such weapons nations could be forged.

  “It’s magnificent,” he said. “I have never seen its like.”

  “Nor will you again,” said Marbad. “The fey folk made Ulfshard before they passed from the lands of men, and unless they return, it will be the only one of its kind.”

  Sigmar handed the weapon back to King Marbad, his palm tingling from the powerful forces bound within the blade.

  “Your father has been telling me of your grand dreams for the future, young Sigmar,” said Marbad, sheathing the sword in one smooth motion. “An empire of men. It has a ring to it, I’ll give you that, eh?”

  Sigmar nodded, and poured more beer from a copper ewer. “It is ambitious, I know that, but I believe it can be done. More than that, I believe it needs to be done.”

  “How will you begin?” asked Marbad. “Most of the tribes hate each other. I have no love for the Jutones or the Teutogens, and your people have fought with the Merogens and Asoborns in recent years. The Norsii are friends to no man. Did you know they perform human sacrifices to the gods of the northern wastes?”

  “I had heard that,” nodded Sigmar, “but the same thing was once said of the Thuringian berserkers, and that was just tall tales.”

  Sigmar’s father shook his head. “I have fought the Norsii, my son. I have seen the carnage left in the wake of their invasions, and Marbad speaks the truth. They are a barbarous people without honour.”

  “Then we will drive them from the lands of men,” said Sigmar.

  Marbad laughed. “He’s got courage, I’ll give him that, Bjorn.”

  “It can be done,” persisted Sigmar. “The Endals and the Unberogen are allies, and my father has ridden to war alongside the Cherusens and Taleutens. Such alliances are the beginnings of how I will bring the tribes together.”

  “What of the Teutogens and the Ostagoths?” asked Bjorn, “and the Asoborns and the Brigundians, and all the others?”

  Sigmar took a long drink of his beer and said, “I do not know yet, father, but there is always a way. With swords or words, I will win the tribes to my side, and forge a land worthy of those who will come after us.”

  “You have great vision, my boy, great vision!” cried King Marbad as he clapped a proud hand on Sigmar’s shoulder. “If the gods smile on you, I think you might be the greatest of us all. Now come on, eh? Tell me of Astofen Bridge.”

  ——

  Partings and Meetings

  King Marbad and his warriors stayed with the Unberogen for another week, enjoying the hospitality of King Bjorn and his people, and repaying it with tales of the west and their struggles against the Jutones and the Bretonii. The land around the Reik estuary was a place of battle, with three tribes of men squeezed into an area with only limited fertile land.

  “Why did Marius not stay to fight the Teutogens?” Sigmar had asked one night as he and his father dined with Marbad.

  “Marius was humbled by Artur in their first battle,” said Marbad, “and the king of the Jutones isn’t a man who likes to be humbled. Artur’s Teutogens are fierce warriors, but they’re also disciplined and have learned much from the dwarfs who helped them burrow up through that damned mountain of theirs.”

  “The Fauschlag Rock,” said Sigmar. “It sounds incredible.”

  “Aye,” agreed Bjorn. “To see it you’d think only gods would dare live up so high.”

  “You have seen it?” asked Sigmar.

  “Once,” nodded Bjorn. “It reaches the sky I think. The tallest thing I ever saw that wasn’t a mountain range, and even then it was a close run thing.”

  “Your father has the truth of it, young Sigmar,” said Marbad, “but living up high on that big rock changes a man’s perspective. Artur was once a good man, a noble king, but looking down on the land he became greedy and wanted to be master of all he could see. He led his warriors west and smashed Marius’ army in a great battle on the coast, driving the Jutones south to the Reik estuary. Masons followed in the wake of this victory, and built towers of stone and high walls. Within a few years a dozen of these things were spread across what had once been Jutone land, and Artur’s warriors could attack at will across the forest. Much as I hate to admit it, Marius is a canny war leader, and the Jutone hunters are masters of the bow, but even they could not prevail against Artur’s stratagems. To survive they had to come further south.”

  “Into your lands,” finished Sigmar.

  “Aye, into my lands, but we have the Raven Hall, and they’ll not soon take that from us. We still hold the lands north of the river’s mouth, and we’ll fight to hold the Jutones from taking any more ground for now, but they’ll keep coming. They don’t have a choice, for the coastal region is little more than a wasteland, and few things will grow there.”

  “You have our swords, brother,” said Bjorn, reachin
g out to clasp Marbad’s hand.

  “Aye, and they are welcome,” nodded Marbad. “And if ever you need to call on the Raven Helms, they will ride to your aid.”

  Sigmar had watched his father and Marbad offer their oath of aid, and knew that through such alliances might his grand vision of an empire be realised. It was with a heavy heart that he gathered with the rest of the Unberogen warriors to bid Marbad farewell from Reikdorf.

  The sun was high, and the spring morning was crisp and bright. The last of winter’s cold still hung in the air, but the promise of summer was in every breath. The Raven Helms in their dark armour rode through the gate, flanked by the tall pipers, and the king’s banner was borne proudly aloft.

  Marbad mounted his horse, grunting as his stiff limbs made the task arduous.

  “Ach, I’m not a young man, eh?” he said, settling his cloak over the back of his horse and altering his sword belt to have Ulfshard sit more comfortably at his side.

  “None of us are anymore, Marbad,” said Bjorn.

  “No, but “tis the way of things, brother, the old must make way for the young, eh?”

  “That’s supposed to be the way of it, aye,” said Bjorn, casting a curious glance at Sigmar.

  Marbad turned to Sigmar and leaned down to offer him his hand. “Fare thee well, Sigmar. I hope you achieve your empire some day, though I doubt I will be alive to see it.”

  “I hope you are, my lord,” said Sigmar. “I can imagine no stauncher ally than the Endals.”

  “He’s a flatterer too, eh?” laughed Marbad. “You will go far indeed. Any you cannot defeat with swords, you’ll win over with words.”

  The king of the Endals turned his horse, and rode through the gates to join the waiting Raven Helms. As they rode off, the cheers of the Unberogen, who had gathered to watch their departure, followed them as they began the long journey home.

  The riders crossed the Sudenreik Bridge, past groups of men building new homes and buildings on the other side of the river. Reikdorf was growing, and fresh walls were even now being raised to expand the town across the river.