03 - God King (11 page)

“He got him here alive is what matters,” said Sigmar. “Now it’s your job to
keep him that way. Can you do that?”

“I won’t promise anything, not even to you, Sigmar,” said Elsywth. “I’ll keep
his wound clean and change the dressing hourly. If he recovers consciousness,
I’ll have him drink a berberry tisane with some sweet balm. That’s all I can do,
and it probably won’t be enough, so you’d best get Alessa at the temple of
Shallya to say some prayers for him.”

“You talk about me like I’m dead already,” croaked the dwarf and they all
jumped.

Sigmar joined Elswyth at Grindan’s bedside. He placed a hand lightly on the
dwarf’s chest. The effort of talking was taking its toll on the dwarf and
runnels of sweat poured down the age lines carved in his face.

“Where am I?” asked Grindan.

“You’re in Reikdorf,” said Elswyth. “Under the protection of Sigmar
Heldenhammer.”

“Ah,” said the dwarf. “So the young lad got me here then…”

“Aye, that he did,” said Sigmar. “He’s a canny one is Cuthwin.”

“I’m in your debt, youngling,” wheezed the dwarf, his eyes screwed up in
pain.

“Think nothing of it,” said Cuthwin.

“Don’t be a damn fool, youngling,” snapped Grindan. “You think the life debt
of a dwarf is given lightly? Bear the tale of my doom to the Deeplock clan and
you and all your line will become Umgilok to them.”

“I’ll do that,” promised Cuthwin.

“It means a man worthy of praise,” said Sigmar, seeing the scout’s look of
confusion.

“You know your Khazalid, young Heldenhammer.”

“Master Alaric has taught me a tiny bit,” said Sigmar. The dwarf’s chest
rasped like a punctured forge-bellow with every word. He looked up at Elswyth,
who shook her head.

“Ah, the Mad,” grunted Grindan. “He toils night and day for you, manling.
Another year and he’ll have a second sword for your kings. Foolish to rush these
things, I say, but it’ll outlast any man it’s given to so I suppose it doesn’t
matter.”

The dwarf’s chest hiked and his eyes widened as a memory returned to him and
he gripped Sigmar’s shoulder urgently. He looked past the Emperor to Cuthwin and
fixed him with a desperate gaze.

“Youngling! Did they get it? The grobi, did they find it?” demanded Grindan.

“Get what?” said Cuthwin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The Barag… the Thunder Bringer…” wheezed Grindan. “We… we were bringing it
home. Prince Uldrakk of Zhufbar… loaned it to the third son of… of Mordhaz, lord
of the Grey Mountain clans, three hundred and seventy-five years ago. We’d gone
there to get it back, but the grobi ambushed us… too much beer and not enough
caution…”

Red flecks sprayed from the dwarf’s mouth as he spoke and his words were
forced out though the effort was killing him.

“Hush now,” said Elswyth. “Don’t talk anymore. That’s an order.”

But Grindan paid her no mind and squeezed Sigmar’s shoulder even harder.

“Promise me!” he hissed. “Go back… find it. We buried it deep, so the grobi
wouldn’t… wouldn’t think to look… the Barag…”

“What’s he talking about?” said Cuthwin.

“I don’t know,” said Sigmar, taking the dwarf’s hand and holding tightly.

“Promise me!” demanded Grindan. “You must or the Deeplock clan will be
disgraced! Heldenhammer, you are oath-bound to my kin… do this thing for a dying
son of Grungni and I will meet my ancestors with pride.”

“Aye,” nodded Sigmar. “I am a sworn brother to King Kurgan, and I give you my
oath that I will find the… Barag.”

Grindan nodded and laid his head back on the bed, satisfied with Sigmar’s
words. His chest rose and fell in jerky spasms.

“The Halls of Grungni,” sighed Grindan, looking off into realms beyond the
sight of mortals. “How grand they are…”

Grindan Deeplock’s last breath rattled from his throat, and his ore- and
fire-blackened hand slid from Sigmar’s grip.

“Go with honour to your rest, friend Grindan,” said Sigmar.

Wolfgart saddled his horse, a fine grain-fed stallion from his herds around
the Barren Hills. The horse’s coat was dappled dun and chestnut, with a long
russet mane. The finest beast in his herds, he’d called him Dregor in honour of
Sigmar’s grandfather, a gesture his friend had appreciated immensely.

He adjusted the blanket beneath the saddle and tightened the girth under
Dregor’s belly, lowering the Taleuten-style stirrups to his preferred riding
style. Wolfgart was a natural horseman and liked to ride low in the saddle,
leaning over his horse’s neck as he fought. He slung his panniers over its rump,
the packs laden with enough food and spare clothing to see him to Reikdorf. He
had a bowstave and string in case he needed to hunt, but hoped he wouldn’t have
to, as his eye wasn’t as sure as it had been in his youth.

He patted Dregor’s flank. “At least you don’t talk back to me, eh lad?”

The horse stared at him with a curious look in its eyes, unused to being
taken from its stables at so early an hour. Wolfgart wanted to be gone before
Maedbh roused Ulrike from sleep. He didn’t think he’d be able to leave if she
was awake. Wolfgart took a deep breath, resting his forehead on the warm, oiled
leather of the saddle.

He didn’t want to leave, but nor could he stay with such a poisonous
atmosphere between him and his wife. Ulrike was already picking up on it, and
the last thing he wanted was for her to see her parents at each other’s throats.
No child needed to see that.

Dregor was stabled with the royal horses of the Asoborns, and they were
powerful beasts: strong and wide shouldered. Bred to pull war chariots, they had
stamina and strength, but little in the way of real speed. Even the least of
Wolfgart’s herd could outpace an Asoborn mount in a straight sprint. But harness
one of his mounts to a chariot and it would baulk at such harsh treatment.

Two hundred horses were stabled here: an underground collection of stalls,
haylofts and exercise yards where Asoborn horse breakers trained the beasts for
a life of war. He’d watched them at work, and while the effectiveness of their
methods was without doubt, Wolfgart preferred to establish a bond with his
beasts instead of bending them to his will.

The air was close and reeked of animals and dung, but it was an earthy
fragrance that reminded Wolfgart of home. Even at this early hour, grooms and
stable boys and girls were busy attending to the tribe’s stock. Animals were
being led over the cobbled floor toward the curved tunnels that led towards the
surface and bales of hay were dropped down chutes cut through the earth of the
hill.

Wolfgart checked Dregor’s bit wasn’t too tight and made a circuit of the
animal, ensuring all was well before mounting. He gripped the saddle horn and
hauled himself onto Dregor’s back, relishing the sensation of owning so fine a
beast.

He touched his spurs to the horse’s sides and walked him slowly towards the
sloping tunnel that led back to the surface. A group of men and women marched
down the tunnel into the stables, hard Asoborn warriors armed with lances and
swords. Clad in iron breastplates chased with silver and black, and
golden-winged helms, these were the Queen’s Eagles, the elite guardians of the
Asoborn royalty.

Wolfgart’s mood darkened further as he saw who they escorted—a pair of
young men, both thirteen summers old and fair haired. One had pale blue eyes,
while the other’s were deep green. Wide shouldered and tall, they were already
men, having ridden out on their first blooding three years ago.

Sigulf and Fridleifr, the sons of Queen Freya.

Wolfgart pulled Dregor to the side as they marched past, and he kept his head
down, not wishing to look upon these boys a moment longer than necessary. Few
outsiders had seen the queen’s sons, for they rarely ventured beyond Asoborn
lands, and were constantly attended by the Eagles. Wolfgart had first laid eyes
upon them at a feast held beneath the Queen’s Hill to honour their first kills
after riding out to battle at the age of ten.

No sooner had he seen the two boys beside their flame-haired mother than he
was catapulted back to the days of his youth and a shocked paralysis had seized
his limbs. The breath froze in his lungs and he felt a gabble of words ready to
spill from his throat.

Maedbh had clutched him and dug her nails into the muscle of his arm.

“Say nothing,” she warned him.

“But Ulric’s balls, they’re—”

“I know,” she hissed urgently. “I warn you, say nothing. The queen has
demanded it.”

Wolfgart had turned to her in surprise. “You knew?”

“All the Asoborns know.”

Wolfgart looked back at the two lads, both laughing and drinking beer as
their proud mother smeared Asoborn war-paint on their cheeks. Freya was a
fearsome-looking woman, all curves and flame, a hellion in form-fitting armour
and shimmering mail that left nothing to the imagination. The years since
Wolfgart had first met her appeared to have left no mark upon her; the queen’s
flesh still war-sculpted and firm, her hair still long and fiery, her breasts
still high and full.

Wolfgart tore his gaze from Freya’s intoxicating beauty and looked back at
her sons.

“By Ulric and Taal, they’re his image…”

“That they are,” agreed Maedbh, “but you’re to say nothing. Do you understand
me, Wolfgart?”

“By all the gods, he has sons!” said Wolfgart. “The man has a right to know.”

“Maybe in Unberogen lands, but Asoborn queens take many lovers during their
reign, and precedent comes from the maternal lineage, not the line of the
father. Give me your word that you’ll say nothing. Do it now or I’ll send you
from Three Hills right now.”

“What? That’s no kind of bargain.”

“It’s not a bargain,” Maedbh had warned him.

Left with no choice, Wolfgart had acceded to his wife’s demand and sworn the
oath she demanded. He’d spent the rest of the night trying not to stare at the
two boys, struggling to contain a strange mixture of joy and sadness at the
thought of all they could represent and what they would mean to their unaware
father.

The Queen’s Eagles and the royal twins passed him, heading towards where
their own mounts were stabled. Wolfgart didn’t watch them go, but rode up and
out of the hill, emerging onto the hard-packed ground in the midst of Three
Hills.

Torches were lit at the settlement’s perimeter and a low morning mist still
clung to the ground. The grass glittered with dew and the stars were visible in
the purple sky. Where Reikdorf was a city that represented the Empire’s
progress, with its stone walls, ornate buildings, many schools, and great
library, Three Hills was a pastoral settlement, without walls or defensible
location. Its security came from its fusion with the landscape, such that any
enemy would find it next to impossible to locate it, so cunningly were its
dwellings crafted in the earth.

Archers watched the approaches from miles beyond its furthest extent and
chariots roamed the wild lands to the east. Three Hills might look undefended,
but the truth was altogether different. An enemy coming against the Asoborns
would be harried by chariots and archers for many miles before they even came
within sight of Three Hills.

It was a wild place, a savage realm of a people equally fierce and lusty.
Wolfgart would be sorry to leave, but he hoped he would come back one day soon.
Perhaps time and distance would allow old wounds to heal, harsh words to fade
and absence to fill cold hearts with love once again.

Wolfgart turned Dregor towards the Reikdorf Road.

“Come on, lad,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Sigmar gathered his knights in the longhouse, twenty men of hardy Unberogen
stock and proven courage. The fires burned brightly, filling the hall with
warmth, for the night beyond its walls was chill, and oppressive clouds hid the
moon. Eoforth studied an unrolled map with Cuthwin, listening attentively to the
scout’s tale of his rescue of Grindan Deeplock.

He sat on the edge of a long trestle table, judging how long it would take
them to reach where the dwarf wagons had been ambushed.

“I reckon four days to get there and back,” said Alfgeir.

“Assuming no trouble,” replied Sigmar. “That part of the forest’s not
travelled much. The beasts and greenskins have grown bold in the south.”

“They’d have to be bolder than I’ve known them to attack twenty knights, plus
you and me.”

“They attacked a convoy of dwarfs,” pointed out Sigmar.

“I suppose,” said Alfgeir with a shrug. “These are my best, and can handle
any trouble that comes our way.”

Sigmar nodded, shivering despite the heat of the nearby fire. He pulled his
bearskin cloak tighter about him. Eoforth stood straight, rubbing the small of
his back with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“Well, High Scholar?” asked Sigmar. “What do you have for us?”

Eoforth scowled at Alfgeir and said, “I think I have a good idea of where
young Cuthwin came upon the goblin raiders, on the old mountain road about two
miles north of the Thaalheim mines.”

A murmur passed through the armoured knights, and it was Orvin who spoke up.
Sigmar had fought alongside Orvin many times, and knew him as a warrior of great
personal courage, quick temper and unpredictable moods.

“Dangerous country,” remarked the knight. “The greenskins we routed were from
around there. I’ll wager they came from under the mountains via the mineworks.”

“More than likely, Orvin,” said Eoforth, and Sigmar caught the tension
between the two men. He knew Orvin’s son to be a source of frustration to
Eoforth, and wondered how much of the father had passed to the son.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard a sudden commotion from the main
doors to the longhouse. His hand flashed to Ghal-Maraz at his belt in
anticipation of danger. His crown grew warm at his brow, a runic warning of fell
sorcery and unnatural powers at work.