03 - God King (24 page)

“Damn you, Marika,” said Aldred, though there was relief in his tone. “You
are the better angel of my nature. I sometimes think it would be better if you
ruled Marburg.”

Aldred took a deep breath and sheathed his sword. He removed his helmet and
met Marius’ gaze, his murderous anger dissipated, yet his hostility intact. It
would take more than her simple, if heartfelt, words to quench his long-burning
hatred of the Jutones.

He extended his hand to Marius and said, “You and your people are welcome in
Marburg, Count Marius. In the face of our enemies, we are one nation. Your
enemies are my enemies.”

Marika saw Marius was genuinely surprised and he nodded, accepting the truth
of Aldred’s words in his heart.

“Thank you, brother,” he said. “A small beginning, but a beginning
nonetheless.”

Aldred said, “Laredus will see that your people are given shelter and food.”

“You have my thanks, and the thanks of my people,” said Marius.

Aldred nodded stiffly and turned away, marching towards the gatehouse that
led into the city of Marburg. A detachment of Raven Helms went with him, leaving
Laredus and Marika with Count Marius.

The Jutone count favoured her with a grateful smile.

“You are an exceptional woman, Princess Marika,” he said.

“In all kinds of ways,” she replied with a smile.

Sigmar stared into the fire, more weary than he could ever remember. His
horse was hobbled with the rest of the mounts, and three hundred Unberogen
swordsmen huddled around their fires with their weapons within easy reach. They
kept tired eyes averted from the flames, looking out into the darkness for their
foes, but hoping not to see them. The night offered no respite from the armies
of the dead, for they marched with hellish vigour and had no need to sleep, eat
or rest.

Count Krugar sat across the fire, drinking from a battered leather canteen.
The Taleuten count had always been a powerful figure of a man, broad of shoulder
and square of jaw, but these last weeks had strained even his formidable
constitution. His left arm was in a sling, and his chest was bandaged from where
a rusted spear had punctured his silver hauberk. Utensjarl was laid across his
thighs, its scabbard torn and dented, yet the blade within as sharp and lethal
as ever.

Since the battle at Ostengard, the combined force of Taleutens, Cherusens and
Unberogen had destroyed five more such hordes, yet it was an unending war. Each
battle cost lives, but no matter how many of the dead they felled, more could
always be brought back to hunt the living.

This camp was within a cratered basin on the edge of the Howling Hills, which
was Cherusen land, though the Unberogens were camped with two hundred riders of
Krugar’s Red Scythes. Count Aloysis had led his warriors north to the Old Forest
Road, where barrows clustered like blisters on the eastern foothills of the
Middle Mountains had disgorged thousands of skeletal warriors to ravage the
countryside. Dozens of villages had been destroyed, their victims dragged from
death to serve in Nagash’s army.

“You’re sure you won’t come with me to Taalahim?” asked Krugar.

“I cannot,” said Sigmar. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“My city is closer than Reikdorf,” persisted Krugar. “It will be safer.”

“If the situation were reversed, would you ride to somewhere safer instead of
your own homeland?” said Sigmar.

“No,” admitted Krugar, “but I’m not the Emperor.”

“Which makes it even more pressing that I return to Reikdorf.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t try to save your life,” said Krugar, passing the
canteen over to Sigmar.

“I’ll be sure it’s remembered,” said Sigmar, taking a drink, and not
surprised to taste the fiery bite of harsh Taleuten corn spirit.

“Ulric’s beard,” said Sigmar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s a wonder you Taleutens are able to stay on the back of your horses
drinking this stuff.”

“Makes it easier to stay on if you’re a little looser in the saddle,” said
Krugar, taking the canteen back with a smile. “Why do you think our horsemen
invented stirrups?”

They lapsed into a companionable silence, neither man wishing to break this
moment of peace amid so dark a time. Count Krugar was preparing to ride to
Taalahim and rally his people to defend their tribal heartland. Over the weeks
of fighting, the army of the dead’s grand stratagem was becoming clear: isolate
smaller villages in a black noose of corpses and choke them. No village could
hold on its own, but gathered together in greater numbers the people of the
Empire might be able to resist this terrible threat.

“Any word from across the land?” asked Krugar.

Sigmar shook his head. “Little, my friend. I have to assume the southern
kings are under attack too. With Markus gone, Henroth and Siggurd are sure to be
next to face Nagash’s wrath.”

“If they haven’t already,” pointed out Krugar. “What about the west? Marius
and Aldred?”

“No,” said Sigmar. “And nothing from the north either. The dead are cutting
us off from one another and denying us our greatest strength.”

“And what’s that?”

“Our unity,” said Sigmar. “The strength that comes from knowing we are one
people who can count on our fellow men to honour their oaths of brotherhood.
Nagash knows this; it’s why he’s forcing us to fight like this, as divided as we
were before I founded the Empire. He’s drawing our forces into battle all across
the Empire, trying to pick us off one by one and keeping us from gathering our
strength.”

“Then you definitely need to get back to Reikdorf,” said Krugar, setting down
the canteen and drawing Utensjarl from its sheath. The blade shone like a sliver
of gold in the firelight. “I swore on this blade that I would fight and die for
the Empire, and I stand by that.”

“Which is another reason for me to go home, for I’ll have no one dying
needlessly. I’m the Emperor and I don’t know what’s happening in my own lands.
If Nagash is half as cunning as the old legends make out, he won’t be attacking
from just one direction, he’ll be pressing hard on all sides. We’ve done good
work here, but it’s time for me to go.”

“It’ll be a dangerous journey,” said Krugar. “Take a hundred of my Red
Scythes with you.”

“Thank you, my friend, but that’s not necessary,” said Sigmar.

“Nonsense, they know this terrain better than anyone, better than the
Cherusens even. They’ve raided these lands more than once over the years.”

“I thought I told you that it was bandits, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” said Krugar. “I forgot. So it was. Look, I’m not offering, they’re
coming with you and that’s that.”

“Very well,” smiled Sigmar, knowing it was pointless to argue. “I will be
glad to have their blades.”

“Damn right,” said Krugar, handing over the canteen once more. “It may be
some time before I see you again.”

“It may indeed,” agreed Sigmar.

“Then drink with me as friends do around a fire. Let’s talk of happier times
when the sun was golden, women were maidens, and old age something that happened
to other men.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Sigmar, taking another swig.

The gates of Reikdorf swung open as Wolfgart led two hundred of his finest
warriors across the Sudenreik Bridge. He glanced at the panels carved into the
inner faces of the bridge, heroic endeavours from the history of the Unberogen
and its greatest heroes rendered by the woodcarver’s art. Master Holtwine had
crafted the latest panels, depicting the heroic defence of Middenheim’s viaduct
and the rout of the Norsii army from the base of the Fauschlag Rock. No panel
depicted the desperate fighting in the tunnels beneath the rock, and Wolfgart
was glad, only too happy to have that terror forgotten.

To see the high walls of his home lifted his spirit in ways he could never
describe. The blue and red flags fluttering from the towers and high buildings
within were a shining light of hope in the long night. To see Reikdorf, it
seemed impossible that darkness could ever truly hold sway.

Though Reikdorf was a welcoming sight, his pleasure at seeing it again
evaporated at the thought of returning to his empty home. Without Maedbh and
Ulrike it was just a hollow structure of stone and timber, without life and
warmth. He missed them terribly, but covered that loneliness by riding to war at
every opportunity. And with the dead rising all across the Empire, there was no
shortage of opportunities.

This latest ride had seen them fighting on the edge of the Skaag Hills, where
the dead had pressed north along the River Bogen. A number of mining settlements
in the hills had sent word of the dead emerging from cairns in the high slopes,
and Wolfgart led yet another band of warriors to fight them.

They had destroyed the host, but with every ride, it seemed the dead were
arising closer and closer to Reikdorf. How much longer would it be before they
were clawing at the walls of Sigmar’s city? The Emperor was in the north, and
though Alfgeir was more than up to the task of defending Unberogen lands,
Sigmar’s presence was greatly missed.

Not least by Wolfgart, for he had left Three Hills in order to fight
alongside his friend.

He and his warriors rode through the gate and into the streets, following a
curving route that led towards the open square of the Oathstone. It never failed
to amaze Wolfgart how the city had grown over the years. He remembered when it
had been little more than a small settlement of timber structures, none taller
than two storeys, huts of wattle and daub, and riverside lean-tos.

Now most of the city was built of limestone and granite, the city’s masons
learning how to shape stone with ever-greater skill from travelling craftsmen
who came down from the fortified mountain holds of the dwarfs.

Wenyld, one of Wolfgart’s battle captains, rode alongside him and said, “This
isn’t the route to the stables.”

“I know,” said Wolfgart. “I want to stop at the Oathstone.”

“Any particular reason?” said Wenyld. “The horses are tired, and the men need
rest.”

Wolfgart wondered if he should even try to explain. Wenyld was only seven
years younger than Wolfgart, but carried a weight of war upon his face. A wide
scar split the left side of his jaw where a greenskin axe had smashed through
his shield, and one eye was covered with a rough cloth patch. The claw of a
ravening ghoul-creature had taken the eye on their last ride, and the wound had
festered. Elswyth had done what she could, but Wenyld had lost the eye.

“I want to touch the past,” said Wolfgart at last.

“What?”

Wolfgart sighed, knowing any explanation would sound foolish to the younger
man. In truth, he didn’t understand his reasoning himself, he just knew he had
to go there.

“Take the men back to the stables then, I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

Wenyld nodded and issued the orders to the armoured horsemen, who gratefully
turned their mounts and rode towards the stables. Wolfgart saw they were
exhausted after the long ride to the west and two major battles. It had been
inconsiderate of him to put his own desires ahead of his warriors’ needs.

He turned his horse and rode away, twisting in the saddle as he heard
iron-shod hoof beats coming after him.

“You should go with them,” he told Wenyld, as the man rode next to him.

“A good battle captain never leaves his commander until the ride is over.”

Wolfgart did not want company, but had not the energy to argue with the
younger man.

“Fair enough, though it’ll be longer until you get to your bed,” he said.

Wenyld shrugged, a few torn links in his mail slipping from his corslet and
falling to the ground. “It’s as far now, whichever way I go. I’ll ride with
you.”

“Suit yourself,” said Wolfgart, riding onwards in silence.

The streets were quiet, the unnatural greyness of the world keeping people
indoors, as though to see so grim a day would remind them of the gathering
threat. Word of what was facing them had spread throughout the city, and though
the temples were busy, little else had the power to tempt people from their
homes. Every doorway was hung with talismans of Morr and every keyhole was
plugged with dried fennel. Those men and women on the streets avoided eye
contact and hurried into side streets and doorways as the armoured horsemen
passed.

“Some welcome home, eh?” said Wenyld. “Don’t they know we’re out there
risking our lives to keep them safe?”

“They know,” said Wolfgart, “but no one likes to be reminded of what we’re
fighting. It’s bad luck to dwell on the dead, and only a fool wishes for more
ill-fortune at times like this.”

“I suppose,” replied Wenyld.

Wolfgart turned his horse into the square of the Oathstone, the hard-packed
earth almost as solid as stone. There had been talk of paving the square, but
Sigmar had refused to allow this ground to be covered.

“If we sever our links to the earth beneath us completely, then we are
doomed. The Oathstone shares its bed with no other slab,” the Emperor had said,
and the matter was closed.

The square was empty save for a few wild dogs fighting over scraps stolen
from a nearby butcher’s slops, and the sound of hoarse bellows roared from
within Beorthyn’s forge. Wolfgart smiled. The old smith had been dead for twenty
years or more, yet still the name stuck. It belonged now to his apprentice,
Master Govannon, a worker of metal considered by many to be a greater craftsman
than Beorthyn had ever been.

“What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” asked Wenyld, as a sooty black
cloud billowed from the iron chimney stack and a thunderous bang echoed from the
walls of nearby buildings. Even over that noise, Wolfgart could hear Govannon
cursing.

“Who knows? Something with that giant thunder bow Alfgeir and Cuthwin brought
in, I expect.”

“Is Cuthwin still in the city?”