03 - God King (37 page)

Eoforth gripped her shoulder and pulled his lips to her ear. With his final
breath he whispered one last thing to the high priestess. As his eyes closed, he
saw her face turn cold, and went into Morr’s embrace terrified that she hadn’t
understood.

He heard wolves in the distance.

And then nothing.

Sigmar knelt beside the body of his counsellor and kept his eyes closed. He
gripped Eoforth’s hand and wished he could have been there for his friend’s
final moments. This war against the enclosing forces of Nagash had already cost
the Empire dear, but that cost had never been harder to bear than now. Friends
and allies had fallen to the advance of the undead, but no one who had been as
dear to him as Eoforth.

The venerable counsellor lay on Sigmar’s bed at the rear of the longhouse, as
though he were asleep and would shortly awaken and demand the honey-sweetened
oats he liked so much. Lex, Kai and Ortulf lay curled at the foot of the bed,
sensing their master’s sorrow and knowing not to intrude on his grief. Kai
yawned and stretched his back paws, looking up to make sure he wasn’t needed.

Eoforth had steered Sigmar through the darkest moments of his rule. He had
offered sage counsel and age-tempered wisdom to cool the Unberogen fire in
Sigmar’s heart that would otherwise have seen him become no better than a Norsii
warlord. Over the years, Sigmar had lost his father, the love of his life, and
some of his best friends. It had been a hard road to walk, but he had walked it
knowing he could rely on Eoforth’s steady, even-handed advice.

The dead man’s face was at peace, the dimmed lanterns seeming to ease the
furrows of care and smooth the lines of pain he had borne with quiet dignity.
His pain was now gone, and Sigmar tried to find comfort in that, but all he
could think of was that his friend was gone. Elswyth sat on the end of the bed,
one hand resting on Eoforth’s shoulder as she awaited Sigmar’s leave to
withdraw.

“Well?” said Sigmar.

Elswyth sighed. “His heart gave out, nothing more sinister than that. I know
you want another reason to hate Nagash, but I can’t give it to you.”

“You think that’s what I want?” he snapped. “You are the Hag Woman’s
successor now?”

The healer scowled at him and leaned forward. “You’ve lost a good friend, so
I’ll let that go, but speak to me like that again and it’ll be the last time you
see me in Reikdorf.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sigmar, instantly contrite. “I just thought he’d be
around…”

“Forever?” said Elswyth.

“Stupid, I know, but yes,” shrugged Sigmar.

“With his heart condition, it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. He
wasn’t a well man.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He didn’t want you to. Thought you’d make him retire for good if you did.”

“Maybe I should have. It might have given him more life.”

Elswyth shook her head. “Not Eoforth, you’d have killed him years ago if
you’d made him step away from the sides of kings.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Men like Eoforth, men like you, they don’t just fade into the background.
What they are defines them and if you take that away, what’s left to them? Like
old Beorthyn. When Govannon took over his forge after the old man’s joints
inflamed, he was lost and didn’t know what to do with himself. Without purpose,
Beorthyn felt like he didn’t have anything left to live for and died a year
later. Why do you think Govannon’s not retired, even though he’s mostly blind?
He knows he’ll be the same. What would you do if you weren’t Emperor?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Sigmar.

“You’d be a waster, a brigand or a sell-sword,” said Elswyth. “You live for
blood and battle, and even though you’re the Emperor and say you want peace,
you’re secretly glad you’ll never find it in your lifetime.”

“You have a healer’s heart, but a viper’s tongue,” said Sigmar.

“I say things as I see them,” said Elswyth. “I’ve seen too many Unberogen
boys brought to my home with the most horrific battle injuries to believe any
warrior who says he wants peace while carrying a sword or axe. Or a hammer. And
you know I’m right; else you’d have gotten angry.”

“Maybe you are right,” said Sigmar, “but I can still mourn my friend, can’t
I?”

“Of course you can, you fool,” said Elswyth with a smile that made her
beautiful. “I never said you couldn’t. You’d be made of stone if you didn’t
grieve for this old man. His counsel probably saved more lives than that hammer
of yours.”

Sigmar shook his head. Elswyth’s harsh tongue could deliver rebuke and praise
in the same breath without a man even noticing.

“Eoforth advised my father and grandfather,” said Sigmar. “I remember him
back when I was a young boy. He seemed like he’d always advised the Unberogen
kings, and always would. Now that he’s gone, I feel… adrift… like a guiding star
that shone above me without me even knowing it was there has been taken away.”

“Eoforth was a good counsellor,” said Elswyth, “but you were always the
Emperor. You ruled with him to aid you, and now you’ll rule without him. You
have good friends around you, and they will help. Anyway, you know this already,
so why I’m wasting time telling you is beyond me.”

“Because that’s what you do, healer,” smiled Sigmar. “You help people.”

Elswyth snorted as she gathered up her belongings.

“Only those that need it,” she said, patting his shoulder as she passed.

“It wasn’t some magic of Nagash?” asked Alfgeir. “She’s sure? How can she be
sure?”

“She’s sure,” said Sigmar, pacing the length of the longhouse. “I wanted it
to be Nagash, but Eoforth was just old. I think we forgot how old sometimes.”

Alfgeir sighed and raised his mug of beer. “He was a good man, and a good
friend. I’ll miss him.”

“Aye, we all will,” agreed Wolfgart, also raising his mug.

Everyone in the longhouse raised their drink, toasting the soul of the
departed scholar and wishing him a speedy journey through Morr’s gateway to the
Wolf God’s halls. Though Eoforth had not been a warrior, he had the soul of a
fighter and Sigmar knew the old man would be welcomed as a true son of Ulric.

“To Eoforth,” said Maedbh, keeping one torq-wrapped arm around Wolfgart and
the other around Ulrike. “May the foolish fire of youth fill him again as he
runs with the wolves.”

Since returning from the east, Wolfgart’s family had been inseparable, as
though the terror of potential grief had forged their bond stronger than ever
before.

Sometimes it took nearly losing what you had to remind you of how precious it
was.

Or sometimes you had to lose it forever, thought Sigmar, touching the golden
cloak pin that secured the bearskin at his shoulders.

Worked in the form of a snake curling around to eat its own tail, it had been
fashioned by Master Alaric in happier times, and the workmanship was exquisite,
with small bands along the length of the snake’s body engraved with twin-tailed
comets. Sigmar had given the brooch to Ravenna as a symbol of his love, but it
had returned to him all too soon thanks to Gerreon’s betrayal.

Alfgeir offered him a mug of beer. The smell was inviting, but Sigmar shook
his head.

“There’s nothing I’d like more than to lose myself in a beer haze,” he said,
“but I want a clear head tonight.”

The Marshal of the Reik shrugged and took the mug for himself.

“Probably wise,” said Alfgeir, draining the mug. “But Eoforth was the wise
one.”

Like Eoforth, Alfgeir had served Sigmar’s father, and the old man’s death had
hit him hard. Losing men in battle was hard, but every man who commanded
warriors made their own peace with that fact. To lose friends to something as
cruelly banal as a weak heart was, in its own way, harder to deal with. Though
they had been opposites in almost all regards, Alfgeir and Eoforth had been true
friends and comrades in arms.

Sigmar laid a hand on Alfgeir’s shoulder and continued his circuit of the
firepit.

The warrior Maedbh had introduced as Garr stood against the far wall, his
arms folded across his chest and his expression hard to read. Sigmar knew the
man was wary in this company, and given the identity of the boys he had been
entrusted to guard, that was understandable. He had a fierce look to him that
Sigmar liked, and his Queen’s Eagles would be a formidable presence when battle
was joined.

He had spoken briefly to Garr, assuring him that no one in Reikdorf had any
intention of removing the boys he guarded from his custody. The man had nodded,
but said nothing, as a perfect understanding flowed between them. Since then,
Freya’s boys had not been seen outside beyond their first arrival at Reikdorf.

Master Alaric sat on a stubby barrel of dwarf ale, his armour gleaming in the
low firelight, and his axe propped next to him against a bucket of coal. Sigmar
had been overjoyed to see his old friend, but thanks to his behaviour on the
hillside where they had rescued Maedbh and the Asoborns, he had been forced to
endure a stern lecture on the proper protocols on greeting friends. Alaric’s
dwarfs lounged around the edges of the longhouse, casting critical eyes around
its structure, as though lamenting what men had done to the fine work they had
crafted for them.

The Taleuten Red Scythes were represented by their captain, a warrior named
Leodan, a man Sigmar had seen ride into the heart of the dead without fear. His
skills were prodigious, but there was something missing to him, some part of him
that wasn’t entirely normal. At the moment, Sigmar didn’t care whether the
warriors he could count on to fight alongside him were normal. That they would
fight was enough.

“Elswyth says it wasn’t magic?” said Wolfgart. “So why was the old man
running for the temple of Shallya? They were using sorcery on him and he ran for
help from the goddess of mercy. Makes perfect sense to me.”

“You might be right,” said Sigmar. “You might very well be right, but I don’t
see that it makes any difference right now. Eoforth is dead, and when the
priests of Morr have completed their rites, I will take him to a place of honour
on Warriors Hill. But right now we have other matters to consider.”

“How close are the dead to Reikdorf?” asked Garr. “You have word from your
scouts?”

“I do,” nodded Sigmar. “Cuthwin has seen the wolf packs and the eaters of the
dead on the Reik, near the Worlitz mines.”

“Two days’ march,” said Wolfgart.

“About time Cuthwin tore himself from Govannon’s side,” said Alfgeir, helping
himself to another beer. “They’ve wasted weeks on that machine, and it still
doesn’t bloody work.”

Sigmar nearly said something to Alfgeir, but a slight shake of the head from
Maedbh convinced him not to. He glanced over at Master Alaric, but if the dwarf
rune-smith knew to what Alfgeir was referring, he said nothing.

“Did the scout say anything about their numbers?” asked Leodan.

“No, none of his men could get close enough,” said Sigmar. “Many tried, but
none returned. Nagash will be served by many thousands of revenants, and every
day his army will swell with those who have died fighting him.”

“If you had to guess?”

“At least thirty thousand, maybe more.”

Leodan nodded, understanding the sacrifices Cuthwin’s foresters and huntsmen
had made in trying to gather information on the enemy. The number was
staggering, and Sigmar could see that many of those gathered in the longhouse
had trouble even picturing so vast a horde. Such a force had only ever been seen
at Black Fire or around the foot of the Fauschlag Rock, and even then, no one
really knew how many warriors had been present.

Sigmar saw the controlled anger in the captain of the Red Scythes. He wanted
this battle finished so he and his warriors could return to defend their own
homeland, for the Taleuten people were undoubtedly besieged within Taalahim.

“Can this city hold against an army of that size?” asked Garr, looking
towards Alaric. “The walls look strong and high, but I’m no expert on that sort
of fighting.”

“The walls are serviceable,” said Alaric. “Designed by a dwarf, but built by
manlings, so who knows if they’re strong enough? I’d need to test them to be
sure, but I reckon they’ll hold against what these grave-hoppers can throw at
them.”

Alfgeir laughed, a drunken, nasal bray. “Walls? It won’t matter about the
walls. We’ve a city filled to bursting point with refugees and warriors, and not
enough food to last out the week, let alone a siege.”

“We have grain reserves,” said Sigmar. “We can last a season.”

“And how long can the dead last?” snapped Alfgeir. “They don’t need to eat or
drink, they don’t need to sleep, and they don’t need to worry about disease or
fear or losing their friends. They don’t even need to fight us. They can just
trap us in here and wait for us to die!”

“They won’t do that,” said a soft female voice from the doorway to the
longhouse. “And you’re too old to be drinking that much beer, Alfgeir Gunnarson.
The enemy is two days away and you’ll still be puking your guts out if you have
one more mouthful.”

“What are you, my mother?” said Alfgeir, though he didn’t take another drink
as he saw High Priestess Alessa standing in the longhouse door.

“Hardly, but the people of this city need you to fight,” said Alessa,
sweeping inside and making her way towards Alfgeir. “Are you going to let them
down?”

Alfgeir licked his lips and shook his head, putting the beer down on the
table next to him. It was easy enough to shout at fellow warriors, but to snap
at a priestess of Shallya would be boorish beyond even what his drunkenness
would allow.

Maedbh rose from her seat and knelt before Alessa. The priestess touched the
top of her head and smiled warmly, all hint of her irritation vanished. Alessa
had blessed Ulrike when she had come into this world, and Maedbh would always be
in her debt, for that protection had served her well over the years.