[Sigmar 03] - God King

  A WARHAMMER “TIME OF LEGENDS” NOVEL

  GOD KING

  Sigmar - 03

  Graham McNeill

  (An Undead Scan v1.1)

  To Anita. For everything.

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage

  At the heart of the Old World lie the lands of men, ruled over by the Emperor Sigmar. Once a land divided, it has been united into the Empire, stretching from the Sea of Claws in the north to the Grey Mountains of the south. At Reikdorf dwells the Emperor, the only man with vision enough to see that if men could not overcome their differences and rally together, their demise is assured.

  To the frozen north, Norsii raiders, barbarians and worshippers of Dark Cods, burn, slay and pillage. Grim spectres haunt the marshlands and monstrous beasts gather in the forests. Greenskins plague the land and will forever be the bane of men. Defeated at Black Fire Pass, they gather their strength in mountain lairs, waiting on another chance to invade the Empire.

  But Sigmar does not stand alone against his many enemies. The dwarfs of the mountains, great forge smiths and engineers, are his oath-sworn allies. As a great and terrible evil from the dawn of time arises to lay waste to the Empire, all must stand together, dwarf and man, for their mutual survival depends on it.

  BOOK ONE

  Danse Macabre

  Thus Sigmar wept not for Middenheim

  Nor did he weep for his burned lands.

  But he wept on seeing his brother lie dead

  While all his people wept for themselves.

  From that day upon the Fauschlag Rock

  We did not speak boldly;

  And we passed not either night or day

  That we did not breathe heavy sighs.

  Thus it was that Death carried off

  Pendrag, whose strength and vigours had been mighty

  As it will every warrior

  Who shall come after him upon the earth.

  ——

  Fire and Retribution

  Lord Aetulff was dead, and they carried the body from his village in a long procession through the snow towards the surf-pounded shoreline. Those that had served under him, those despised few who had survived the long flight from the vengeful blades of their enemies, followed the solemn bier with their broken swords carried before them. Their lives were forfeit, but there were few enough men remaining along the coastline to put them to death for their cowardice.

  The chieftain’s favoured huscarls carried the body on a palanquin of broken shields, the body wrapped in a tattered flag brought from the south. The body was light; a wasting sickness had eaten the flesh from his bones upon his return from the disastrous war. Zhek Askah had said it was punishment from the gods, and none dared gainsay him.

  Broken in spirit, Aetulff’s wounded body had lingered six seasons after the defeat before finally succumbing. He had been strong, and he took a long, painful time to die.

  His sons were all dead, slain in battle as the gods decreed, and none now remained to preserve his line. He had died in the knowledge that no living creature would carry his name into the future. He would die unremembered and his bloody deeds would be forgotten in a generation.

  The womenfolk did not follow the body, and his shame was complete.

  The shield bearers followed a path to the water, where a fire burned in a pit hacked into the frozen ground. The waters of the ocean were dark, cold and unforgiving, and a storm-battered ship rose and fell with the surge and retreat of the tide. Sturdily built from overlapping timbers and tar, a rearing wolf’s head was carved at its prow. It was a proud vessel and had carried them through the worst storms the gods could hurl from the skies. It deserved better, but if the last year and a half had taught the people of the settlement anything, it was that this world cared nothing for what was deserved.

  The warriors following the body climbed aboard and turned to help lift the dead chieftain onto his ship. They were strong men and it took no effort to manoeuvre him onto a tiered pile of precious timbers and kindling. One by one, the warriors slashed their forearms with the broken blades of their swords. They spilled their blood over their dead war chief and dropped their useless weapons to the deck. Blood shed and swords surrendered, they climbed over the gunwale, which looked bare without lines of ranked-up kite shields and banks of fighting men hauling at the oars.

  One warrior with a winged helm of raven’s feathers waited until the others had splashed down into the sea before upending a flask of oil over the body. He doused the ship’s timbers with what remained and tossed the flask to the deck. The raven-helmed warrior tugged a tied rope at the mainmast, and the black sail unfurled with a boom of hide.

  He turned and dropped over the side of the ship, wading ashore to take his place with the rest of his forsaken band. Their war chief had died, yet they had lived. Their shame would be never-ending. Women would shun them, children would spit on them and they would be right to do so. The gods would curse them for all eternity until they made good on their debt.

  The freezing wind caught the sail, and the ship eased away from the shore, wallowing without a steersman to guide it or rowers to power it. The tide and wind quickly dragged the ship away from the land, twisting it around like a leaf in a millpond. The treacherous currents and riptides around this region of the coast had dashed many an unwary vessel against the cliffs, yet they bore Lord Aetulff’s ship out to sea with gentle swells. Gulls wheeled above its mast, adding their throaty caws to the chief’s lament.

  The raven-helmed warrior lifted a bow from the shingle and nocked an arrow to the string. He held the cloth-wrapped tip in the fire until it caught light and hauled back on the string. The wind dropped and he loosed the shaft, the fiery missile describing a graceful arc through the greying sky until it hammered home in the ship’s mast.

  Slowly, then with greater ferocity as the oil caught light, the ship burned. Flames roared to life, hungrily devouring the rotten meat of the dead man and setting to work on the oily timbers. Within moments, the ship was ablaze from bow to stern, black smoke trailing a mournful line towards the sky.

  The warriors watched it until it split apart with a sound like a heart breaking. It slid over onto its side and with a final slurp of water vanished beneath the surface.

  Lord Aetulff was dead and no one mourned him.

  From a cave mouth high on the cliffs above the village, a man in tattered furs and a cloak of feathers watched the last voyage of the doomed wolfship. His face was bearded and long hair hung in matted ropes from his head. Once it had been jet black, but it was now so wadded with mud and dirt that its true colour had long since been obscured. The filth of living in a cave encrusted his skin and his arms were rank with sores and rashes that burned and tingled pleasurably in equal measure.

  The villagers called him Wyrtgeorn, though he could make little sense of the word. What he had bothered to learn of their language allowed him only the most basic understanding. A fetish-draped shaman had spat it at him a year and a half ago when he and the wizened immortal stepped from the wolfship that now burned to ashes. Though he did not know its meaning, it was a name to hide behind, a shield to hold before the deeds of his true name.

  The immortal had left the village, imploring him to travel onwards into the northern wastes, but he had refused, climbing the cliff and making this cave his home. He knew he should have gone; his presence here would draw the hunters, but something had kept him from leaving, as though invisible shackles held him here.

  He shook off such gloomy thoughts, and watched the wolfship slide beneath the w
aves. A rolling fogbank crept in from the south, obscuring the horizon and making the air taste of wet cloth. He watched the warriors as they trudged through the snow to the village, all too familiar with the shame they bore for their survival.

  He threw a guilty look over his shoulder, wincing as the wound that would never heal flared with old pain. The immortal had given him a cloth-wrapped bundle as they fled across the ocean, and even without unwrapping it, he knew what lay within. How such a thing was possible was a mystery. He had thrown it away in the wake of defeat, yet there it was.

  He kept it wedged in a cleft at the back of the cave. He knew he should hurl it into the sea, but also knew he would not.

  Something moved in the fog, and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the winter sun.

  A phantom of the mist, or something darker?

  His right hand twitched with the memory of slaughter, and his gaze slid towards the settlement as old instincts and new senses prickled with danger.

  From out of the fog, a dozen ships cut through the water towards village.

  Powerful sweeps of oars drove the ships onward, and their decks were crammed with armed men in gleaming iron breastplates and full-face helms of bronze. They clutched axes and swords and spears, and he sensed their anger, even from high on the cliff. He looked back into his cave, but closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had feared this moment ever since he stepped onto the shore, but now that it was here, he found himself utterly calm.

  The same calm he felt before a duel. The same calm he felt before he killed.

  He watched the ships surge through the crashing breakers and slide up the shingle beach. The village’s few warriors ran to meet them with axes held high over their shoulders, old men and youngsters mainly. Fifty men of sword-bearing age were all that were left to defend the village.

  Nowhere near enough.

  Whooping war shouts echoed from the stony beach as women and children ran towards the cliffs. There was no escape there, just a postponement of the inevitable. These warriors would leave no survivors. They never did.

  Even isolated in his cave, he had heard the recent scare stories of the seaborne raiders, the killers from across the ocean who wiped out entire tribes in their vengeful slaughters. Their crimson and white sails were the terror of the coastline, a sight to drive fear into the hearts of those that had once been masters of the ocean.

  A score of armed men dropped from the lead ship, led by a warrior in gleaming silver armour and a gold-crowned helm. He bore a mighty warhammer and smashed one of the village warriors from his feet with a single blow. More ships beached, and in moments a hundred warriors were ashore. Arrows leapt from the decks of the ships, serrated tips slicing into proud flesh, and flame-wrapped barbs landing amid the tinder-dry homes of the villagers.

  A dozen warriors were dropping into the surf with every passing second. Though the defenders of the settlement were hopelessly outnumbered, they fought with the fury of warriors given one last chance to reclaim their honour in death.

  Lightly armoured men with bows fanned out onto the beach, taking aim at the fleeing villagers and cutting them down with lethally accurate shafts. Iron clashed with iron on the shore as the last of the defenders were overwhelmed. He watched the raven-helmed warrior hurl himself at the leader of these reavers from the sea with his axe slashing down over his head. The warhammer swept up, and the blade slammed down on its haft. Such a blow should have shattered any normal weapon and split the enemy’s skull, but he knew that this was no ordinary warhammer. Nor was the warrior who bore it any ordinary foe.

  The warhammer spun in the warrior’s hand, faster than any weapon of such weight and power should move. Its head slammed into raven-helm’s face, caving his skull to shards and knocking him to the red snow.

  “No pyre for you,” he said as the warriors from the sea advanced into the settlement.

  Its buildings were burning and its people dead, yet the raiders kicked them down, leaving nothing standing to indicate that anyone had once called this bay home. This was no raid for gold or slaves or plunder. This was an attack of destruction.

  The raiders hauled the bodies of the defenders from the sea and began stripping their helmets. One by one, the warrior with the warhammer bent to look at their faces, but each time he would shake his head in disappointment.

  Wyrtgeorn chuckled as the warrior shook his head and hissed, “You won’t find what you’re looking for among the dead.”

  He heard a noise from further down the cliff and pulled back into the shadow of the cave mouth. A slender, hard-faced woman carried a pair of children up the icy cliff paths towards the cave. Her steps were faltering, and he saw a pair of arrows jutting from her back. She saw him and tried to speak, but no words came, only a froth of bubbling blood.

  She reached the ledge before his cave and collapsed onto her knees. Her eyes were frantic. Only seconds of life remained to her and she knew it.

  “Wyrtgeorn,” she said in a language not her own. “Save… my… children.”

  He backed away from her, shaking his head.

  “You must!” she said, thrusting the youngsters toward him. He saw they were twins, one a boy, the other a girl. Both howled with uncontrollable sobs. The woman’s eyes closed and she swayed as death reached up to claim her. The woman’s daughter threw her arms around her mother’s neck and the pair of them fell from the cliff, falling a hundred yards into the sea.

  The warriors on the shoreline saw them fall, their eyes drawn up to the cave on the cliff. He knew he was invisible in the shadows, but the boy stood on the ledge as plain as day. Four warriors ran from the beach towards the cliff paths, and the man cursed. He felt a tugging at his fur jerkin and looked down into the coldest blue eyes he had ever seen. The boy stood with his fists bunched at his sides, and there was pleading desperation in the way he met the man’s gaze.

  “You are Wyrtgeorn,” said the boy in the man’s own tongue. “Why did you not come down and fight them?”

  “Because I have no wish to commit suicide,” he replied.

  “They have killed my tribe,” wept the boy. “Why won’t you kill them?”

  “I will kill anyone who tries to kill me,” said the man.

  “Good,” said the boy. “Zhek Askah said you were a great warrior.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “The shaman who named you Wyrtgeorn. Lord Aetulff wanted you and your friend slain, but Zhek Askah said you were a killer of men and that we should let you live in the cave.”

  “Did he now?” replied the man. “I wonder why. Perhaps it was to save your life.”

  Four warriors were climbing towards them, carefully picking their way along the treacherous path. They carried long knives, eschewing axes on so narrow a ledge. The man watched them come: confident, arrogant and with a swagger that didn’t match their abilities. He’d watched them fight on the shore. They were competent warriors, but no more than that.

  “There is a passage at the back of the cave,” said the man. “It leads through the rock and comes out a few miles north of the village. Wait for me there. I will join you shortly.”

  “I don’t want to run,” said the boy, and the man saw fierce determination behind his fear.

  “No,” he agreed. “You don’t, but sometimes that’s all you can do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” said the man. “It doesn’t matter. But I know now why I did not leave this cave.”

  Before the boy could ask any more, the light at the mouth of the cave was blocked as two of the warriors reached his squalid dwelling place.

  “Get behind me,” said the man, pushing the boy away.

  The first warrior stepped cautiously into the cave, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. A second followed close behind. The blades of their knives glittered in the dim light.

  “What do we have here?” he said, his voice heavily accented. “A hermit and a shit-scared boy. Should be nice and easy, lads.”

>   “You should go and never come back,” said the man, his voice calm and even.

  “You know that’s not going to happen,” said the warrior.

  “I know,” agreed the man, leaping forwards with dazzling speed. Before the warrior was even aware he was under attack, the man slammed the heel of his hand against his throat. Windpipe crushed, the warrior dropped to his knees, already choking to death.

  The man caught the falling dagger and plunged it into the throat of the second warrior. The blade sliced into the gap between his iron torque and the visor of his helmet. He gave a strangled gurgle and toppled to the ground as his lifeblood squirted over his killer and the walls of the cave.

  Lethal instincts returned with a vengeance as the hot stink of blood filled the man’s nostrils. He leapt, feet first, towards the remaining two warriors. His booted feet slammed into a chest encased in a heavy hauberk of linked iron rings, and the warrior was pitched from the ledge, arms flailing as he fell to his death. The man landed lightly as the last warrior thrust a dagger towards his guts. He swayed aside, locking the warrior’s arm beneath his own, and sent two lightning-quick stabs of his purloined dagger through the visor of his victim’s helmet.

  “No glorious sights in the Halls of Ulric for you,” hissed the man, letting the body fall from the ledge to dash itself on the rocks far below. He stood on the edge of the rocky spit of stone before his cave, his arms and upper body drenched in blood. His heart should be racing, yet it beat with a casual rhythm, as though he rested in a peaceful meadow beneath the clearest sky.

  Looking down at the beach, he saw the raiders staring up in horror. Alone of the raiders, the warrior in the gold-crowned helm met his gaze. A dozen men ran for the cliff path with murder in their hearts. The man threw the dagger away and returned to the cave, moving with grim inevitability to the cleft in the rock.