03 - God King (32 page)

Maedbh knelt beside the boy, his fair hair plastered to his scalp with sweat.
His green eyes were wide and fearful. Sigulf had the soul of a poet, and though
he had proved himself a capable fighter, Maedbh knew his heart was only truly
free when he was writing music and composing verse.

His twin brother answered him. “Because they have sent us an enemy to test
our courage and the strength of our sword arms.” Where Sigulf was a gentle soul,
his twin was a warrior born and bred. Fridleifr loved to fight, and had made a
name for himself among the Asoborn as a fist-fighter of some repute. Skilled
with sword and axe, he was happiest when the blood flowed and death hung upon
every heartbeat.

Just like his father, thought Maedbh.

“They’ve blessed us because they gave us a beautiful morning, and sent strong
friends to stand beside us,” said Maedbh. “Ulric knows that no warrior should
fight alone, and has sent us the warriors of the mountain holds to fight at our
sides.”

“But we’re going to die,” said Sigulf, his voice quavering. “The dead are
coming to kill us.”

“They’ll try to kill us, but I won’t be dying today, and neither will you,
little brother,” stated Fridleifr. “These are Asoborn lands and we are the sons
of a warrior queen.”

“But the iron men said mother was dead,” said Sigulf.

“Aye, but I’ll not believe it until I see her on a pyre,” replied Fridleifr,
and Maedbh heard the strength and determination of the boy’s father in his
words. Both boys possessed qualities of their sire, but only one man of this age
embodied such greatness combined. “I’ll wager a fist of gold she’ll ride over
the hill and send these bastards over the Worlds Edge!”

The boy’s voice lifted with every word and Maedbh saw his conviction that
they would live through this fight spread to everyone in the battle line. Even
the Queen’s Eagles took heart, and Maedbh was surprised to find that even she
dared to hope he might be right.

A dwarf horn sounded a warning from the end of their formation and Maedbh saw
the blood drinker’s army for the first time. The sky above the enemy army
blackened like dead flesh around an infected wound as a morass of carrion birds,
bats and blood-sucking insects took to the air.

A single vast block of skeletons, two hundred wide and twenty deep, marched
towards the Asoborns in perfect formation, their bodies armoured in scraps of
iron and rusted bronze. Their spears rippled in unison as they brought them
down, serrated tips aimed at the hearts of the mortal warriors opposing them.
The blood drinker rode in the midst of a hundred black-armoured horsemen, his
brilliant white cloak streaming behind him in the cold winds that blew around
the deathly army.

Wolves howled and loped around the dread host, filthy, diseased mockeries of
the noble heralds of Ulric. Exposed muscles and withered meat hung from their
bones and their jaws slavered with rotten saliva. Worse than all of that, was
the fact that many of the dead warriors had clearly once been Asoborns. Everyone
gathered on the hillside had family who had marched to war beside the queen, and
the thought that they might come face to face with a loved one was almost too
much to bear.

Maedbh felt the hope drain away from her people at the appearance of the foe.
The sight of so unnatural a horde, an enemy of life itself, struck at the very
core of what made mortals great. To fight this enemy would test the courage of
even the mightiest warrior, and the Asoborns gathered on this lonely hilltop
were old men and children.

Yet though these people had either hung their swords up years ago or had yet
to be formally blooded, not one moved and not one gave voice to the terrible
fear stabbing up from their soul that told them to run, to flee this battle and
perhaps earn a few precious hours of life. Maedbh had never been prouder to be a
warrior of the Asoborns.

There was no attempt at parley—what would be the point?—and no theatrical
displays of martial prowess. The dead marched to the bottom of the hill and
began climbing towards the Asoborns.

“Do you want me to kill him?” asked Laredus, working the whetstone across the
blade of his sword. “Because I will if you need me to.”

Count Aldred shook his head. “No, though don’t think the thought doesn’t
appeal.”

“It could be made to look like the dead did it,” pressed Laredus. “Or that he
sickened.”

“Enough,” said Aldred, fetching himself a drink of water from an earthenware
jug on the table of what had once been the seaward officers’ barracks of the
citadel. The Raven Hall was no more and his servants had been sent to Reikdorf,
so this was what he was reduced to. Pouring his own drinks and sitting in a
draughty room with no more appointments than a junior officer. Still, it was
better than a great many of the Endals were forced to endure. The barracks were
cold and damp, the sea air having long since warped the wood around the windows
and letting in the clammy dampness of ocean mist.

“I know they’re up to something,” said Aldred, “but I don’t want you to kill
him. Think how it would look if Marius were to die while under my protection.”

“I told you, my lord,” said Laredus. “It could be made to look like the enemy
killed him.”

“No one would believe that, least of all Marika.”

“Does that even matter? You are the count of Marburg. In any case, it’s war,
who’s to say what happens in the midst of a battle?”

“And what of the other Jutones? Do you plan to kill them too?”

Laredus looked uncomfortable with the idea of such mass murder, but he
straightened his back. “If that’s what it takes to keep you and this city safe,
then that can be arranged too.”

“There are three hundred Jutone warriors here, not including Marius’
lancers,” pointed out Aldred. “Even the Raven Helms would have their work cut
out in killing those men. And I rather think we need those lancers to help
defend our city.”

Laredus nodded, though he clearly was deeply unhappy at the idea of relying
on Jutones for anything. Laredus had fought the Jutones on many occasions, and
there was no love lost between the two tribes. Though that was changing. Ever
since Marius had ridden out to rescue him, Aldred had seen the beginnings of
camaraderie between the two tribes. That should have been a good thing, but he
couldn’t help but feel it was the death knell for his city and his people’s way
of life.

Aldred stared into the fire. It crackled with the little wood remaining to
them that hadn’t been commandeered to craft fresh arrows and stakes for the
defences behind the walls. It felt like evening, but the sun had risen only a
few hours ago. The attack of the dead had shifted the diurnal cycle of Marburg,
turning it into a ghost city in the daylight, a furious battlefield by night. He
pulled his cloak tighter about himself, feeling a chill deep in his bones that
had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“You should open your cloak, my lord,” said Laredus. “Let the fire’s warmth
get to you.”

“I know. It’s tiredness playing its part, but I feel the touch of the grave
deep in my heart, you understand?”

“I do, my lord,” said Laredus. “It’s settled in every man’s bones since the
army of the dead sailed into Marburg. And I expect it’ll only lift once we
defeat them.”

Aldred smiled mirthlessly with a shake of his head. “Forced from our homeland
to a scrap of land in the midst of a marsh, our king slain, the pestilence of
the mist daemons ravages our city, and now this. We are not a blessed people are
we?”

“We are the Endals,” said Laredus. “Hardship makes us stronger.”

“Then we will be the strongest tribe of the Empire by the end of this war,”
said Aldred.

Laredus tapped his fist against his breastplate in response and they lapsed
into a comfortable silence, content to simply drink and enjoy this rare moment
of quiet. Aldred wanted to close his eyes, but sleep brought nightmares and
festering thoughts of being devoured by the wriggling creatures beneath the
earth. When sleep did come upon him, he woke scrabbling at his eyes, fearing
writhing masses of worms were feasting upon them.

“You still haven’t said what you want to do about Marius,” said Laredus.

“There’s nothing we
can
do,” said Aldred. “To kill him, you’d need to
slay all his men too, and that will simply hasten our ending. And I still have a
hard time believing Marika would conspire with Marius. She’s my sister.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” replied Laredus.

“That’s just it though, you didn’t hear it.”

“One of my men did, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Who was it?”

“Daerian, one of my scouts. I had him assigned to the princess as a
bodyguard, and he has the keenest eyes and ears I’ve known. He can see a hawk a
mile distant and hear a whisper on the other side of seafront tavern. If he says
they were talking about your death, then I’d wager a ship’s worth of gold it’s
true. She still blames you for what happened with the mist daemons,” said
Laredus. “Even though you weren’t at fault. It was Idris Gwylt skewed your
judgement. She must understand that.”

“I had hoped she would by now,” agreed Aldred. “But that woman can hold a
grudge like no other. She reminds me of it at every turn, like I
wanted
to sacrifice her.”

“You had no choice,” said Laredus.

“No, I didn’t,” said Aldred. “I did what I thought was best for my people.”

“And the people know that, even if she doesn’t,” ventured Laredus.

Aldred caught the hint of something unsaid, something too terrible to be
given voice without tacit permission.

“What are you saying?” said Aldred. “You can speak freely.”

“I’m saying that perhaps we’re looking at the wrong person to kill.”

Aldred looked into Laredus’ eyes, seeing no give there, only a fierce
determination to protect his count. “Marika?”

Laredus nodded. “It’s terrible and unthinkable, but I’m trying to save your
life.”

“By killing my sister?”

“She’s trying to kill you.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” pointed out Aldred.

“Do you want to die to prove me right?”

Aldred said nothing, but the idea had already taken root.

The blood drinker unsheathed his sword and it glittered in the encroaching
darkness with spectral light. Thunder split the sky above the Asoborns, and a
crackling bolt of lightning zigzagged in a bright tracery, arcing downwards to
be captured by the vampire’s sword. The blade swept down and the wolves sprinted
towards the mortal prey at the hilltop. In their wake, the skeletal warriors
began marching uphill.

Maedbh watched them come, her mouth dry and her bladder tight. Sweat
moistened the grip on her bow, and she flexed her fingers. She put an arrow to
the string and pulled back, sighting downhill at the loping wolves. Those
Asoborns with bows followed her lead, bending their bows towards the howling
beasts.

“Remember to aim high,” she shouted, knowing that many archers would send
their shafts into the earth when aiming at targets downhill.

Maedbh sighted on a wolf with a ragged pelt of decaying fur and one side of
its skull exposed. The green corpse light shimmered in its eyes, and she let fly
between breaths, sending her shaft slicing though its jaw. It ran on for a
moment before collapsing in a dissolving mass of bone and rotten meat.

Two hundred arrows slashed downhill, but despite her advice most thudded into
the earth in front of the charging wolves. At least fifty of the creatures were
undone before they could reach the Asoborn lines. A flurry of crossbow bolts
hammered the dead warriors behind the wolves, each one punching through rotten
flesh and bone to slay the warped power at its heart. Every single bolt loosed
by a dwarf crossbow found its mark, yet the dead marched on.

Ulrike’s first arrow struck home as did her second, though her third went
wide of the mark. Maedbh was able to loose three more times before the unnatural
beasts reached them. She swapped to her sword as the wolves crested the summit
of the hill. Snarling and clawing, they leapt with jaws stretched wide. Maedbh
plunged her sword into a wolf’s belly, spilling its decaying entrails to the
earth. It screamed as its body was destroyed.

A wolf snapped at Ulrike, but the young girl ducked and rammed her knife into
the creature’s neck, tearing out the remains of its throat in a welter of grey
meat and bone. Another snapped at her, but Maedbh’s sword swept down and ended
it. Swords and spears flashed in the dim twilight, and wolves died, but a score
of Asoborns were pulled to the ground. Fangs snapped shut on skulls and throats
were torn out with single bites. Rotten claws opened bellies and thrashing
wolves howled as they ate the flesh of those they had killed. Maedbh fought side
by side with her daughter, each protecting the other as though they had trained
as sword maidens for years.

Sigulf and Fridleifr did not fight with bows, but with exquisitely crafted
swords given as gifts to the queen by the dwarfs of the Worlds Edge Mountains.
Long before Sigmar had sworn his oaths of brotherhood with King Kurgan, the
eastern queens had counted the dwarfs of the mountains as their allies. As
different in character as they were, they were alike in skill with a blade,
Sigulf fighting with clinical precision, Fridleifr with furious passion.

The Queen’s Eagles protected the heirs to the Asoborn crown, sweeping forward
and fighting with all the skill that had seen them elevated from the ranks to
become the guardians of Asoborn royalty. Garr fought at their forefront, his
twin-bladed spear cleaving left and right as he hacked wolves down with every
stroke.

The wolves attacked all along the Asoborn line, bounding around the flanks
and punching through to attack the weakest members of the Asoborns. Alaric’s
dwarfs swung around like an opening gate, protecting the flanks and preventing
the wolves from getting behind the battle line. They fought with mechanical
strokes, relentless and merciless, hewing diseased flesh as easily as a butcher
would prepare a bull’s carcass. No claw or fang could penetrate their armour,
and no wolf could pass them. Immovable and impenetrable, the dwarfs anchored the
Asoborn defence.