03 - God King (40 page)

“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.”

As it always was, the air was fresh and cool on Warriors Hill. The stillness
that surrounded the last resting place of the honoured dead of the Unberogen was
a place of solitude, where a man could wander the tombs of his forefathers and
reflect on all that had gone before him and all that had made him who he was.
Sigmar remembered coming here on his Dooming Day, just after he’d broken
Wolfgart’s arm with a smelting hammer.

His father had sent him here to walk through the dead of the tribe and listen
to the whispers of the ancestors. Entering the tomb of Redmane Dregor, he’d made
offerings to Morr before being plunged into darkness. Trapped within the tomb,
he had prayed to Ulric and the wolf god had given him the strength to free
himself from his grandfather’s barrow.

Sigmar circled higher on the hill, the flag-wrapped body of Eoforth held
across his chest as he carried him uphill towards his resting place. The old
scholar’s body weighed next to nothing, and Sigmar was ashamed he had asked so
much of this man, who had already given more than enough to his tribe and his
Emperor.

The priests of Morr had spoken the words of warding over Eoforth’s body, but
even they could not say for sure whether that would be enough to resist the
sorcery of Nagash. The only sure way to keep Eoforth’s remains from rising again
would be to burn them, but Sigmar had balked at the idea of cremation. Eoforth
would be interred within Warriors Hill, with the other heroes who had served the
Unberogen.

Sigmar passed the tomb of Trinovantes and Pendrag, feeling his throat tighten
and his eyes fill with tears as he thought of his lost friends. They had died in
battle, and were drinking, feasting and hunting in the Halls of Ulric. No man
could ask for more, yet Sigmar selfishly wished they were here beside him, fully
armoured and standing ready to give battle against this dreadful foe.

At last he reached the tree-covered summit of the hill and laid Eoforth’s
body down on the stone slab at its centre. He unwrapped the flag exposing
Eoforth’s face, and bent to kiss the old man’s forehead.

“I will miss you, old friend,” said Sigmar. “You kept me honest and true.”

Sigmar knelt and unhooked a small pouch from his belt, removing a bull’s
heart he had cut from the animal himself. He placed it in a bronze bowl set into
the rock and poured a flask of oil across the bloody organ. Sparks from his
tinderbox ignited the oil and the heart began to burn, slowly at first, for the
muscular meat was tough and leathery. Eventually it caught and the heart fizzed
and spat as the fire consumed it. The smell of the cooking meat filled Sigmar’s
nostrils.

“Father Morr, guide this soul to his final rest and watch over him as he
passes from the lands of the living into the realm of the dead. Light his path
through the Grey Vaults and keep the shadow hunters from his back as he makes
his way to the Halls of Ulric. Judge him worthy, for no truer son of the
Unberogen has come before you. Eoforth was a warrior without a sword, but thanks
to his actions the world is a safer place. His peace was won with words and wise
counsel, not with blades and war. Would that we could all be so wise. Guide him
to his last rest, Father Morr, and I will preserve his memory for as long as I
shall live.”

The heart hissed as it was consumed, the fire flickering with a purple light.
The dancing flames lit Eoforth’s face, and Sigmar stood, placing a hand on his
friend’s chest. A tomb had been dug on the eastern face of the hill, and with
the offering to Morr complete, Sigmar bent to lift Eoforth’s body once again.

Cold air brushed past him, carrying the whispers of ancient voices, fleeting
sighs of long dead warriors and the murmur of ghostly war shouts. Sigmar looked
down, seeing that the rune-etched haft of Ghal-Maraz glittered with power. The
hairs on the back of Sigmar’s neck stood erect and he knew he was not alone. His
hand slid down to his warhammer and he spun around, bringing the weapon up to
his shoulder in one smooth motion.

The hill thronged with ghostly warriors, scores of them drifting uphill from
their tombs with axes and unsheathed swords. They converged on the summit, and
Sigmar knew he could never fight his way through so many. Alfgeir and Wolfgart
had counselled against climbing Warriors Hill alone, but Sigmar had denied any
attempt to provide him with a protective escort. It felt like the right thing to
do at the time, but now seemed foolish and arrogant.

The spirits closed in, crowding the summit of the hill, and Sigmar took a
deep breath, flexing his fingers on the textured grip of his hammer. The dead
warriors were translucent, the wavering outline of trees visible through their
immaterial forms. A fearsome Unberogen war cry died on Sigmar’s lips as three
figures stepped from the ranks of the spirit warriors, limned in shimmering
winter’s light.

Armoured in the style of many years ago, some in bronze, some in iron, they
wore Unberogen war helms, and carried long swords that glittered with
frostlight. Wolfskin cloaks hung from their shoulders and though Sigmar knew he
should be afraid, nothing of these phantoms sent any tremors of fear through
him.

The largest of the three snapped up the visor of his helm and Sigmar felt
himself hurled back to his childhood as the stern features of his father were
revealed. King Bjorn looked upon his son with loving, paternal affection, his
lined and bearded face alight with pride.

At his father’s right stood Pendrag, resplendent in the armour he had worn in
the defence of Middenheim. Even the blade he bore was a shimmering likeness of
the runefang Sigmar had commanded him to wield. On Bjorn’s left was a young man,
barely old enough to ride to war, and Sigmar’s heart broke to see the youthful
features of Trinovantes. Twenty-five years had passed since Trinovantes’ death
at Astofen, the first battle they had ridden to after their Blood Night, and
Sigmar was amazed to think he had ever been that young.

Tears flowed freely at the sight of these heroic warriors, friends who had
stood beside him in battle and the father who had set him on the path to
becoming a man. Their legacy was the Empire and their role in shaping him into
the man who would build it was immeasurable. Trinovantes—Ravenna’s brother and
Gerreon’s twin—smiled at Sigmar, and though he wanted to say how much he
missed them all, how much he had loved them, he simply couldn’t. The words
choked him, loss and grief like a powerful hand around his throat.

His father nodded, and he knew they understood.

The spectral army moved past him and he felt their pride in his
accomplishments. They watched over him from Ulric’s Halls and they were at
peace, knowing the lives they had lost in defence of their homelands had not
been given in vain. Sigmar lowered his hammer as the spirits of the dead
Unberogen lifted Eoforth’s body from the rock and moved off down the hillside to
his open tomb.

Bjorn, Pendrag and Trinovantes turned away and began moving off again, their
duty to Eoforth stronger than any dark sorcery that sought to break the chains
of loyalty and duty that bound the Unberogen together. Sigmar had never been so
humbled in all his life. To know that the blood of these great warriors flowed
in his veins was the greatest honour Sigmar could imagine.

One by one, the soul lights of the dead began to dim. Trinovantes faded back
into the mists of memory, and Sigmar raised a hand in farewell. He thought he
saw Trinovantes smile, but couldn’t be sure. Pendrag’s form grew more and more
insubstantial, until he too had vanished.

Eventually only Bjorn remained. He and Sigmar stood in silent communion, and
of all the things that mattered in this world, his father’s pride was the most
important. Bjorn looked down at Reikdorf, and Sigmar saw a wry smile tug at the
corner of his mouth, feeling his proud amazement at the magnificent city that
had arisen from the small settlement he had known in life. His father pointed
towards the city, and turned back to Sigmar.

Know them and understand them, for it will make you mighty.

The words were not spoken, but Sigmar heard them as clearly as though his
father had been standing right next to him. King Bjorn nodded, knowing Sigmar
had understood his message. He moved off into the darkness, and was soon lost to
sight as his shade returned to the realms beyond the knowledge of mortals.

Sigmar sank to his knees, overcome with emotion. Ghal-Maraz dropped to the
ground and he buried his head in his hands. He wept as memories of his father
and friends surged to the fore, but they were not tears shed in grief, but in
remembrance of all the joy they had shared in life. At last his tears were
spent, and Sigmar stood tall as he turned to look at the city below, heartened
by the thousands of pinpricks of light that glittered in the darkness.

In the last month, the population had quadrupled, with thousands coming in
from the countryside ahead of the rising tide of undead. Warriors, farmers and
craftsmen thronged the city’s streets, frightened and cold and hungry, but
unwilling to give up.

Though a black host of the dead waited beyond the city walls, this island of
humanity still stood inviolate. That alone was cause for hope, and as his
father’s last words echoed within his mind, he felt his gaze drawn up and out of
his body, climbing into the sky and expanding to encompass the entirety of the
Empire.

His awareness of the land was complete, and he saw the vast swathes of
forests, rivers and hills. Flatlands and coastline stretched from the towering
mountains of the south and east to the cliffs of the western wastelands and the
frozen, ice-locked shores of the north.

Like a creeping sickness, the armies of Nagash spread throughout the Empire,
hordes of the dead enslaved to the will of the ancient necromancer like war
hounds on a fraying leash. Bound together by a web of dark sorcery with Nagash
at its centre, the armies of the dead jealously strangled the life from the land
of mortals. The southernmost reaches of the Empire were already enveloped in
darkness, but across the Empire, scattered lights of resistance flared brightly
against the encroaching shadow.