03 - God King (7 page)

The boulder toppled over, and the water breaking behind it surged downriver
with tidal force. The wave slammed into the wolves and broke against them with
enormous power. They were helpless against the strength of the current and all
but two were borne over the edge of the falls by the surging water. Their howls
and the screeching fear of the goblins dwindled as they fell.

Before he could congratulate himself, a goblin arrow ricocheted from the rock
and sliced through his bowstring. Cuthwin took hold of his now useless bow and
hurled it towards the far bank. It was a good throw, and the weapon landed in
the ferns at the edge of the river. He couldn’t move from the rock for fear of
losing Grindan Deeplock, so drew his knife and prepared to fight the last two of
his pursuers.

The wolf was fighting against the current, and before it could reach him in
his sheltered enclave, Cuthwin lunged forward. Keeping one hand braced against
the dwarf, he slashed his blade across the wolf’s snout as the goblin swung its
sword at him. The beast yelped in pain and the goblin’s sword went wide. Cuthwin
plunged the tip of his dagger into the rider’s throat. Blood spilled over his
hand, and the goblin lurched back, yanking hard on the rope reins of its mount.
The creature’s pain outweighed its sense of danger and the power of the river
eagerly snatched it away.

The last wolf had entered the river higher up and used the flow of water to
its advantage. Swimming with the current, it lunged towards him. He hurled
himself back against the rock and its jaws snapped shut an inch from his face.
The goblin stabbed with its rusty blade. Cuthwin swayed aside and Grindan
Deeplock slid away from him, his head sinking beneath the level of the rushing
water.

Cuthwin punched the wolf in the face and rammed his knife into the goblin’s
side. Both tumbled away from him and he twisted the dagger in the greenskin’s
flesh, pulling it out and stabbing it down into the wolf’s skull.

Its yelp of pain was abruptly cut off and the corpses spun lazily away,
disappearing over the edge of the waterfall. Cuthwin let out a long breath and
turned to lift the dwarf from beneath the water. His eyes were closed, and it
was impossible to tell if he were alive or dead. Checking the treeline for more
enemies, Cuthwin hauled Grindan Deeplock over to the far side of the river and
dragged him onto the bank.

He pressed his fingertips to the dwarf’s throat, and was rewarded with a
pulse. Weak, but steady. Cuthwin’s pack was sodden, but the oiled lining had
kept the worst of the river at bay. Stripping the dwarf of his sodden clothes,
he wrapped him in a woollen blanket from his pack and rubbed circulation back
into his limbs.

“Just as well you’re unconscious, mountain man,” said Cuthwin. “Don’t think
you’d be keen on me doing this for you.”

Satisfied the dwarf wasn’t about to die from the cold, Cuthwin swiftly
redressed his wounds, using a healing poultice of valerian and spiderleaf and
binding them with strips of vinegar-soaked linen. The dwarf grunted a few words
in his harsh language. Cuthwin tied the bindings off under the dwarf’s shoulder
and lay back against the bole of a tree, letting the adrenaline drain from him
in a series of slow breaths. There was nothing more he could do for the dwarf,
and they were still some days from Reikdorf.

The dwarf would either live or die on his own terms.

Night was coming, and they needed to find shelter. Cuthwin saw foresters’
marks on a nearby tree and dragged the dwarf further into the woods, following
the signs towards a sheltered overhang of rock and fallen trees. A fire had been
set in this hollow by its previous occupant, a fresh base of kindling and twigs
ready for the next traveller to take shelter here. A stack of firewood lay
bundled and tied with twine beneath the overhanging lip of a hollow tree.

Cuthwin recognised the style of fire that had been set. Though he had never
met the man, he knew him to be a hunter who favoured his right hand and walked
with a slight limp. He was a successful hunter, as his footprints—when Cuthwin
could find them—were always deeper on the way home than on the way out.
Whoever he was, he lived perhaps a day or two from here, somewhere along the
high ridges of the south-east.

Cuthwin pulled out his tinderbox and got the fire going without difficulty.
The hunter had built a good fire, and soon a small blaze was warming their
sheltered hollow. With the fire going, he lay back and rested his eyes. He
wouldn’t sleep though. With only one of them able to stand guard, it didn’t pay
to leave their safety during the night to chance.

Grindan Deeplock grumbled in his sleep, yet amid the unintelligible words of
his strange language, Cuthwin heard a few heavily accented words in Reikspiel.

One was
buried,
and he thought the other was
organ.

That didn’t make any sense. Were these dwarfs selling musical instruments?

Putting the dwarf’s ramblings from his head, Cuthwin set about restringing
his bow and settled down for the night.

The Emperor’s army returned to Reikdorf in triumph, his black steed flanked
by a dozen others, and trailed by two thousand marching warriors. Since arriving
back on Empire soil, his forces had swollen with followers, farm boys eager to
take up a life of the sword and warriors from distant lands wishing to serve
under the Imperial banner.

Though Gerreon had escaped them, the stated purpose of the campaign had been
to strike terror into the hearts of the Norsii, to let them know that they were
not safe in their desolate realm of ice and snow. That task had been
accomplished, and the crowds gathered to greet their Emperor’s return waved
swords and axes high in recognition of his victories.

Bells pealed from every tower that had one and the schoolhouses emptied as
word spread throughout the city. First the arrival of the Grand Knight of the
Empire, and now the return of the Emperor. Truly the city of Reikdorf was
blessed. Thousands of men, women and children lined the streets, cheering and
alternately shouting the names of Sigmar and Ulric.

Conn Carsten and a hundred Udose warriors marched with the Emperor,
grim-faced men in long kilts and baked leather breastplates. Each carried a
long, basket-hilted broadsword over their shoulders and a round leather-covered
shield was slung over their backs. They carried themselves with a rowdy
confidence, utterly sure of themselves and cheerfully scornful of the ordered
ranks of the Unberogen.

Clad in his dwarf-forged plate and silver helm, Sigmar kept Ghal-Maraz held
high. The symbol of his rule, it served to remind his people of the bond of
loyalty that existed between his people and those of the mountains. The Empire
had come close to disaster at Middenheim, and in times of trouble it was good to
remind people of all that stood in their favour. It had been many years since
King Kurgan had visited Reikdorf, and Sigmar longed to visit the mountain hold
of his fellow king and friend someday.

Wolfgart had not returned to Reikdorf. He had ridden south with Sigmar as far
as the castle of Count Otwin of the Thuringians, before heading eastwards toward
the lands of the Asoborns. Maedbh and Ulrike, his wife and daughter, now dwelled
in the lands of Freya, Queen of the Asoborns. No one called Freya a count, no
one dared. Like the Berserker King, she was one of Sigmar’s allies that found it
hard to shed her former title.

Behind the Emperor came an ornate bier, pulled by four white horses, the
finest of Wolfgart’s southern herd. Upon it lay an iron coffin, draped in the
blue and cream of Middenheim. The body of Pendrag lay within, preserved with
camphorated wine and powdered nitre. For his service and friendship, Pendrag
would be rewarded with a place of honour within Warrior Hill. Sigmar rode
through the streets of his city, basking in his subjects’ adulation, the image
of the heroic warrior-emperor his people needed and wanted.

The fires of the longhouse burned fiercely, filling the length of it with
warmth and light. Three wild boars hunted that morning from the forests north of
Reikdorf turned on spits and the smell of roasting pork was making every man in
the great hall salivate. Blessings to Taal had been said in thanks, and serving
maids bearing trays laden with platters of roasted meat and wooden mugs of beer
circulated amongst the celebrating tribesmen.

The Udose drank heavily, singing achingly sad songs of lament to the
wheezing, skirling music of the pipes. Unberogen warriors joined in, though the
singsong language of the northern tribesmen was all but impenetrable to their
southern ears. The mood in the hall was hearty, for both groups of warriors had
fought side by side for the last year. Many oaths of brotherhood had been sworn
between Udose and Unberogen, the kind that lay at the heart of what made the
Empire strong.

Sigmar sat upon his throne, stripped of his armour save for the gleaming
breastplate and a thick bearskin cloak. Two of his hounds, Lex and Kai lay
curled at his feet, while Ortulf—ever the opportunist—circulated through the
longhouse in search of scraps. Conn Carsten sat in the place of honour to
Sigmar’s right, while Alfgeir and Eoforth sat to his left. Though both these men
had helped steer the Empire through some of its darkest hours, Sigmar found
himself missing the earthy counsel of Wolfgart and Pendrag.

This hall had once echoed with Wolfgart’s dreadful singing and off-colour
jokes, but more and more, he was spending time in Three Hills with his family.
Sigmar couldn’t blame him, Maedbh was a hard woman to refuse. As was any Asoborn
woman, thought Sigmar, remembering how he had secured Queen Freya’s Sword Oath.

Conn Carsten had filled the void of leadership left by the death of Count
Wolfila, binding the argumentative clans of the Udose into a fighting force in
the face of the Norsii invasion. But for Carsten’s merciless hit and run raids,
the north would have fallen long before the armies of the Empire could have
marched to save Middenheim.

This night was to honour his courage during the war against the Norsii and
confirm his appointment as Count of the Udose. It should have been an occasion
for great celebration, and certainly was amongst Carsten’s warriors. But since
this night had begun, Conn Carsten had said little and responded to any query
with curt answers. He nursed his beer and seemed content to simply watch
proceedings rather than participate.

Sigmar regarded his newest count’s brooding countenance, his gloom-swept face
having surely seen more than its fair share of hardship. His silver hair was cut
tight to his skull and his beard was similarly trimmed. Where his warriors were
bellicose and roaring, he was quiet and ill-suited to conversation.

None of the other counts were in attendance, nor had Sigmar expected them to
be. After the mustering of their armies for the relief of Middenheim, the tribal
leaders were attending to matters in their own lands. Since his return, Sigmar
had read missives from Freya and Adelhard of increased greenskin activity in the
Worlds Edge Mountains, of warbands of twisted forest beasts in the southern
reaches and increased coordination between brigands and reavers in the north.
Krugar and Aloysis both begged the Emperor’s help in quelling numerous
incidences of the dead rising from their tombs to attack the living, and Aldred
of the Endals reported increased attacks from unknown seaborne corsairs.

Eoforth had once said that winning the Empire had been the easy part. Holding
on to it would be the real challenge. Sigmar was now beginning to see what he
meant. Something so precious would always attract enemies, and the true legacy
of Sigmar’s creation would be how long it endured against the encroaching
darkness.

As much as he found it hard to enjoy Carsten’s company, Sigmar knew this man
was key to keeping his land safe. Better the northern marches were ruled by a
competent, disagreeable man than a gregarious friend who didn’t know one end of
a sword from the other. Yet it sat ill with Sigmar that he could not reach the
dour clansman, as though some unknown gulf existed between them that he could
not cross. He did not expect to be as close to all his counts as he was to his
friends, and as their ruler he knew he ought not to be. Yet to count a man as
his ally and not to know him, that would not stand.

Sigmar turned to Conn Carsten and said, “Can I ask you something, Conn?”

The newest count of the Empire nodded slowly, as though wary of Sigmar’s
purpose.

“This should be a grand day for you,” said Sigmar, knowing that flowery words
or an indirect approach would only irritate the northerner. “You are a count of
the Empire now, a man of great respect and responsibility. Yet you seem
distracted, like you stand at the grave of your sword brother. Why is that?”

Carsten put down his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve.

“I have lost too many men in the last year and a half to celebrate, my lord.
The wolves of the north wreaked great harm on my tribe and devastated our lands.
Every village among the Udose has widows to spare, and the black shawls of
mourning are too common a sight among my people. We are always first to feel the
bite of Norsii axes. That makes it hard to know joy.”

Sigmar shook his head, gesturing at the gathered warriors. “Your warriors
seem to have no difficulty in finding it.”

“Because they are young and foolish,” said Carsten. “They think themselves
immortal and beyond death’s touch. If they live a little longer they will see
the lie of that belief.”

“A grim view, my friend.”

“A realistic one. I have buried three wives and six children in my life. I
once believed that I could have it all, the life of a warrior with its glory and
battles, with a loving wife and family to come back to. But it is impossible.
You of all people should know that.”